Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7)

by Debra Holland

  Regardless of what most people thought, Emma believed a closed, dark room wasn’t healthy for an ill person. She cracked open the window, although not enough for Dr. Hamb to notice. He wasn’t a proponent of fresh air in a sick room.

  Mavis took Emma’s place at Sophia’s bedside. She was of middle age, with a square face and graying reddish hair. She possessed a placid temperament that Emma had never seen shaken. But today, the maid showed signs of strain about her brown eyes. After undressing Sophia last night, Emma had sent Mavis to bed so she could get some sleep and take a shift today while Emma and Blythe rested.

  Mavis reached for a dry cloth, dipped it in the bowl of water, wrung it out, and folded the linen smooth before replacing the one resting on Sophia’s forehead. “She never woke up?”

  Emma shook her head.

  Mavis’s expression crumpled. She took a breath and pressed her lips together.

  Out in the hallway, Emma heard the sounds of ponderous footsteps. The doctor and her father, she surmised and went to open the door.

  The two men walked inside.

  The maid stood and moved to the corner.

  Dr. Hamb, short and stout, nodded a greeting.

  Her father no longer wore his evening clothes, but he looked as weary as she felt, with bags under his eyes and deep lines folded into his skin.

  “There was no change throughout the night,” Emma told them, aiming for a professional tone. “Sophia never regained consciousness, and her fever hasn’t abated. Sometimes she seemed restless and agitated. The medicine seemed to calm her.”

  The doctor moved to the bedside to examine Sophia, taking her pulse and listening to her heart and lungs with his stethoscope.

  Emma’s fingers itched to try the instrument. She knew from already having asked during Dr. Hamb’s visit last night after they brought Sophia home, that the physician would not permit her to use his stethoscope. I’ll have to buy my own.

  Frustrated with the doctor, with Sophia’s lack of progress, and with her own helplessness, Emma left the room. To stretch her legs, she walked to the other side of the upstairs landing and stood at the window, watching the silent crowds gathered in the street below waiting for word of their Songbird.

  At the sight, her throat closed and tears came to her eyes. I should have taken Sophia’s concerns seriously about playing Brünnhilde. I knew how hard she was working, the pressure she was under. Why didn’t I intervene?

  Burdened with guilt, she turned and walked back toward Sophia’s bedroom, meeting Papa and the doctor as they emerged. She moved to her father’s side and took his arm, as they waited for Dr. Hamb’s prognosis. Emma didn’t need to hear what the physician had to say, for she already knew Sophia’s life was in danger.

  “Her fever is dangerously high,” Dr. Hamb said in ponderous tones. “If we cannot bring it down, I fear for her life.”

  Blythe, who’d just left her room to join them, gasped.

  “What are you saying?” Papa demanded, his expression fierce. “Sophia was fine. My daughter’s barely been ill a day in her life. She possesses an extraordinarily healthy constitution. You’ve said so yourself before. How can she be at death’s door?”

  “She wasn’t fine, Mr. Maxwell,” Blythe said, clutching her hands in front of her. “The rehearsals, and the bickering….” She shook her head. “The pressure to perform in such a demanding role took a toll on her. Sophia’s been exhausted, yet not sleeping well. Working too long, pushing herself. Picking at her food.” She raised her hands in a helpless gesture. “I’ve worried, nagged her to eat, and only sometimes succeeded.”

  Emma’s guilt intensified. I should have known. I could have helped.

  Doctor Hamb frowned. “Such a physical and mental state leaves a body vulnerable to illness. Anyone without Miss Maxwell’s healthy constitution would have succumbed long before this. But I am not without hope. She must continue to drink the horehound syrup I’ve brought—two tablespoons three times a day. In addition, we must take more drastic measures to cool her head and bring down her temperature.”

  Emma hissed in a breath, suspecting what might be the next step. “What are you suggesting, doctor?”

  He reached up to fiddle with the chain of his watch, as if he wanted to draw it out and check the time.

  Time to leave, Emma thought sarcastically.

  Dr. Hamb lowered his hand. “We must do what is essential to save Miss Maxwell’s life. You must cut off her hair to cool her head and help lower her fever.”

  Blythe made a low sound of protest. Her hand fluttered to her chest. “As soon as Sophia wakes up, she’ll be so upset.”

  “Hair grows back,” Emma said, matter-of-factly. Back in control of her emotions, she tried to sound like a nurse. “Better Sophia be alive and angry than….” Her chest pinched, and she couldn’t bring herself to say the words. My sister can’t die.

  Her father shaded his eyes with a hand and took a shuddering breath before lowering his arm and giving Emma a direct look. “Do what must be done.”

  Touched that Papa had given her the order, rather than the doctor, Emma nodded, her throat too tight to speak.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Putting ice in a cloth instead of using damp cloths may also be effective. See that you continue to get the medicine down her. If Miss Maxwell becomes restless—tries to speak—do not let her do so. Admonish her to strict silence.” He wagged a finger at Emma. “We must avoid further damage to her vocal cords. I’ll return this evening, unless I am needed before then.”

  The young kitchen maid hurried up the stairs.

  They’d kept her busy running errands for Mr. Roth, the butler, who remained the guardian at the gate. He had his hands full with answering the door to receive the flowers and gifts delivered by Sophia’s well-wishers. He also denied entry to all callers, no matter how close their relationship to the family.

  Only Fritz had been allowed inside. But due to his own ill health, he’d been unable to stay long.

  The maid was new, about twelve years old, and Emma hadn’t met her before. She was a homely little thing, too thin, with arms and legs like matchsticks. She had drab brown hair and eyes.

  The child stopped in front of Papa. “Mr. Roth, he’s the butler, said to tell you Ray Burwell is here for news of Miss Maxwell to take with him to Mrs. Dunn in Sweetwater Springs.”

  “Thank you, child. I’ll meet with him. Have Roth show him to the library.” Papa turned toward Emma. “I’ll write to Lily. Burwell will deliver it faster than the post office. I don’t want her to hear the news from someone else or read it in the newspaper.”

  “Give her my love,” Emma said and reached for Blythe’s hand. “We’ll be in Sophia’s room.”

  Blythe squeezed Emma’s hand and, together, they walked back to Sophia.

  Her sister possessed a bedroom fit for a queen. An elaborately carved bed with violet and silver damask hangings and bedcoverings dominated the space. Two massive wardrobes held her gowns. An oversized purple velvet fainting couch in one corner was her sister’s favorite lounging spot.

  Emma loved the room—a perfect setting for her sister. She’d often teased Sophia that she was going to move in and take over, because the colors would suit her just as well. Please, dear Lord, may we soon be able to laugh together.

  Sophia lay in the middle of the bed, her skin as pale as the crisp, white sheets, and her eyelashes dark against her cheeks. Robbed of her customary charm and animation, she seemed as still as death.

  Don’t think that way.

  Mavis rose from the chair next to the bed. She waved them closer. “My poor, sweet lady hasn’t stirred. I’ve kept switching out the cold cloths. Her skin heats them up so fast.”

  “Next we’ll try ice. But first…” Emma put a hand to the top of her own head and used her thumb and forefinger to indicate an inch. “The doctor wants us to cut Sophia’s hair down to this.”

  “No!” Mavis jerked back, and her eyes welled with tears. “Miss Sophia’s beautifu
l hair, so thick and lustrous.” She swallowed and straightened her shoulders. “Very well, whatever we must do to keep her alive,” she said, her tone determined. “Let me fetch my scissors.”

  Emma moved to the bed. She reached over to feel Sophia’s forehead. Dry and hot.

  Mavis bustled into the room, carrying scissors and an enameled trash receptacle, decorated with irises, which she must have taken from Sophia’s study, for it usually stood next to the desk. The maid placed the can by the bed, leaned over, and lifted a long strand from the top of Sophia’s head. With a sharp inhale, she snipped it off and bent to drop the hair in the trash receptacle.

  “Wait.” Emma extended a hand in a stopping motion. “Let’s save some locks. One for Sophia to keep. Me, Papa, and Lily—” She looked in askance at Blythe.

  Blythe dipped her chin, indicating she wanted one. “Fritz, too.” She glanced at the maid. “Mavis, would you like a keepsake?”

  Mavis straightened. “Oh, yes, Miss Blythe. More than anything.” She laid the length of hair on the nightstand next to the bed.

  Emma walked around the bed to the other side so she could be out of Mavis’s way yet closer to her sister. She sat on the bed and took Sophia’s unresponsive hand. Even knowing better, she’d hoped that the feel and sound of the scissors chopping off the hair would magically bring Sophia awake uttering Brünnhilde’s famous battle cry.

  But she didn’t stir as Mavis cut the strands one by one, leaving behind ugly, uneven stubble.

  A sense of wrongness made tears well in Emma’s eyes and spill over. She looked across the bed, and her gaze met Blythe’s.

  Moisture sheened in Blythe’s pale eyes.

  “I’m supposed to be professional,” Emma said softly, so as not to disturb her sleeping sister. “To nurse my patients in a calm, dispassionate manner, no matter the severity of their illnesses or injuries.” She let out a sob. “But I can’t. I’m terrified. I might not be cut out to be a nurse.”

  “Sophia’s not your patient, Emma,” Blythe said firmly. “She’s your sister. Your family has always had a closeness I’ve envied and have felt blessed to be part of. I’d be concerned if you were calm and dispassionate now, as we see her being shorn like a sheep—”

  “Sheep!” Emma interrupted. “How she’d hate that comparison!” She placed the back of her hand to her mouth to stop the sobs that pushed to spill out.

  “Knowing Sophia, she’ll set a new style,” Blythe continued in her gentle, teasing way. “She’ll have every woman in Chicago cutting her hair, and we’ll probably have to do likewise.” She picked up the fall of her hair, which she wore long and loose, defying convention, and let out an exaggerated sigh. “My hair is my only beauty. Peter will probably be appalled. But sacrifices must be made in the name of love and friendship.”

  “And sisterhood.” Emma couldn’t help but smile at Blythe’s attempts to lift her spirits. “And, indeed, if I thought chopping off my hair would help Sophia get well, I’d take a razor to my head.”

  “Don’t you worry about Miss Sophia’s hair!” Mavis said fiercely. “It will grow back even thicker and more curly, to boot. You’ll see. I’ll coif her hair in the most beautiful styles.” Her voice broke.

  The young maid entered carrying a fresh set of cloths and a bowl of ice, which Papa must have ordered.

  Blythe glanced over. “Ah, Fanny, good. You’ve brought the ice.”

  Mavis snipped off the last strand and tossed it into the trash receptacle. “There. That should help cool her. I hope the loss of her hair makes my sweet lady so angry she’ll come back just to scold us.” The maid handed the can to Fanny. “You can dispose of this.”

  “Yes, Miss Bratton.” The girl took the can and left the room.

  Blythe made a shooing motion at Emma, moving her toward the door. “You sat up with Sophia all night. Go rest, now. I’ll administer the ice and take a nap later.”

  Instinctively, she rebelled. “I can’t leave her,” Emma said fiercely.

  “Be sensible,” Blythe chided, rubbing Emma’s back. “We don’t know how long Sophia will be ill. We’ll have to take shifts to make sure we all get our rest. I need to be especially careful, if I’m to play for Die Walküre every night. We can’t help her if we fall ill, too.”

  Emma knew Blythe was right, but she was reluctant to leave her sister’s side. What if she dies while I’m in the other room? She bit her lip and glanced over at the fainting couch. “I’ll sleep there, so I’m right here if Sophia needs me.”

  Suddenly feeling tired, Emma moved around the bed to pick up one of the locks of hair on the nightstand. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and coiled the strand inside. Clutching the small packet like a talisman, Emma went to the couch and made herself comfortable on the soft velvet cushions.

  Her father entered the room and glanced toward Emma. “I don’t think the street can hold any more people. When the doctor left, they started shouting for news of Sophia’s condition.” Papa shook his head. “Good thing her bedroom is at the back of the house, and the fence is too high for the curious to climb into the garden. Although, I wouldn’t put it past some desperate or enterprising fellows to use ladders.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’ll have to hire some security.”

  Papa walked to the side of Sophia’s bed and stared down at her. “My poor darling. I almost don’t recognize you.” He bent and kissed her forehead. “But nothing can take away from your loveliness.” His voice thickened. “We are here waiting for you, dearest, just as soon as you’re ready to return to us.”

  He turned and lumbered over to the chaise lounge, moving as if he’d aged twenty years overnight.

  Emma curled up her legs and patted the cushion, inviting him to sit on the end.

  With a sad exhale, Papa lowered himself beside her. He leaned to kiss her forehead. “I never thought to be grateful you’re attending nursing school. But you’ve proven me wrong, Emma, my stubborn darling. I’m comforted knowing you’re the one taking care of Sophia rather than a stranger.”

  She kissed his cheek. “I’m just as helpless as you are, Papa.”

  “Shhh.” He gave her a faint smile. “Spare me my illusions.” His expression sobered.

  “I had a note from Fritz. He’s quite unwell and is unable to visit, but sends his regards.”

  “Fritz is in a fragile state.” She placed a hand on his arm. “This is a blow, Papa. He loves Sophia so. I fear her collapse will make him worse.”

  “As do I.” Her father pulled his handkerchief from a pocket and wiped his eyes before blowing his nose. He folded the handkerchief and tucked it away. Looking over at Sophia, he sighed and turned back to Emma. “You’re fated to nurse your sisters through serious difficulties. I depend on you more than you know. I’m sorry I was so stubborn about your vocation. I won’t make that mistake again.”

  Emma summoned a laugh. “Nonsense, Papa. As soon as one of us does something you don’t agree with, we’ll hear about it.”

  “If Sophia makes it through this illness, I swear, I’ll be the most amenable of fathers.”

  Torn between laughter and tears, Emma reached over to squeeze his hand. “When, not if! And I’ll keep you to that promise, Papa.” Please, Lord, make it so!

  * * *

  On the verge of tears, twelve-year-old Fanny Prete carried the trash receptacle down to the kitchen. She’d only been working for Miss Maxwell for two weeks and, until last night, had rare opportunities to see the rest of the house. She even slept in a cubbyhole off the kitchen. Whenever she was sent above stairs, she liked to walk as slowly as she dared, her eyes feasting on such treasures as she’d never imagined. She always hoped to catch a glimpse of the mistress, whom the staff often called Lady Songbird. Our mistress is as beautiful as a princess in a fairytale.

  Fanny had fallen in love with Miss Maxwell the minute she’d set eyes on her. The way her heavy heart lifted when she caught glimpses of the mistress helped ease the ache of homesickness, the sorrow for the loss of her father and
the little home where she and her eight-year-old brother Kent and her parents had been so happy.

  Pa had worked as a clerk at a law office and done additional bookkeeping after hours to save some money to send her brother to boarding school. Kent, her father had often said, was as smart as a whip and needed a better education than could be had at the neighborhood school. Reverend Wallaby ran a reputable one where Kent was slated to begin in the fall.

  “The extra bookkeeping work—” Ma had confided to a neighbor when she thought Fanny was sleeping “—had been the death of him.”

  Pa’s hard-earned funds had gone for his illness, burial, and to help support the family. After his death, the three of them had moved into a rented room, where her mother took in sewing.

  Overnight, it seemed, Ma’s cheeks lost their color, and lines fanned out around her eyes and mouth. Sometimes, Fanny heard her muffled crying in the night. The last of Pa’s money ran out, and Fanny had gone into service so she wouldn’t be a burden to Ma. Her small income helped her family to survive. She dreamed, however, of finding a way to fulfill Pa’s plan for Kent.

  She stopped at the bottom of the staircase to wipe the tears off her cheeks with her sleeve, then sniffed, setting down the can to pull a tattered handkerchief from her apron pocket and blow her nose. She stuffed the sodden cloth back into her pocket and bent to pick up the can, then froze at the sight of the contents.

  Her knees folded until she knelt in front of the can. With one finger, she reverently touched a silky brown strand of the lady’s hair and then plucked one. Fanny hadn’t seen the bracelet Miss Emma Maxwell made for the Lady Songbird’s birthday. But she’d heard Miss Bratton describe it to the cook.

  I can make a bracelet for myself. I’m not stealing this hair if they’re throwing it away. Indeed, hadn’t the cook allowed Fanny to take scraps of paper that Miss Maxwell and Miss Robbins had thrown away, in order to practice her penmanship on her half-day off? She tucked the strand into her pocket. But as she went to pick up the can, another idea came to her. She remembered Ma had cut off her hair and taken it to the wigmaker’s, who’d paid her ten dollars.