Singing Montana Sky (The Montana Sky Series Book 7)

by Debra Holland

  But still, the idea of bartering for the doctor’s bill stuck in his craw. The man was a competent professional who was willing to drive miles to his patients. Dr. Cameron deserved hard cash for his services and medicines.

  Another quote drifted into his mind, this one by Frederick Douglass. “Man’s greatness consists in his ability to do and the proper application of his powers to things needed to be done.” The words of the former slave stirred up his thinking, and an idea came to him. Railroad ties.

  If he could teach himself to cut the tie left handed and use a regular axe instead of the big, heavy broad-axe normally used for squaring up the sides, he could get fifty cents a tie from the Cobbs at the mercantile. The shopkeepers would turn around and sell each for sixty-five cents to the railroad. But then again, I have transportation problems….

  When he and Pa cut firewood for the Dunns, they used deadwood on the edge of the forest near Green Valley Ranch, both to not ruin the beauty of the woods around them and so they could easily load up one of the wagons. Kael supposed he could do the same with railroad ties. But he’d need another man to help lift them into the wagon, drive him into town, and unload. He’d have to pay one of Tyler’s ranch hands in cash, maybe ten cents a tie, thus reducing his profit.

  He could cut some firewood to exchange for use of the wagon and team, even though he knew Tyler would be glad to lend them. Kael thought of Pa’s ailing condition and what could happen if he worsened, or God forbid, he died.

  He rubbed his chest but the ache didn’t ease. His mother would need to rely more heavily on their neighbors, especially when Kael was away at the logging camp.

  Sadness turned his heart into a heavy stump of wood. The time might come when we can’t help but be beholden to the Dunns.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Chicago

  Eleven Days After Opening Night

  The day after Dr. Hamb’s visit, Sophia lay on the chaise lounge in her bedroom, a novel propped open on her lap. She couldn’t concentrate. Her attention wandered, forcing her to read each paragraph a couple of times.

  Finally, she gave up and leaned her head back against the cushion. Ever since the doctor’s pronouncement, a creeping sense of malaise had left her mind as dull as the lethargy that weakened her body. She longed for respite from her feelings, from the memory of her humiliating collapse on stage, from the loss of her beauty, and from the pervasive concern about her future.

  If I’m not an opera singer, who am I?

  Her father tapped on the frame of the open door, came in, and walked over to the bed, his eyes shadowed, his expression drawn. “Dearest, I have bad news.”

  Her stomach clenched. What more could go wrong?

  “I went to visit Fritz today, but when I arrived at his house, the windows were draped in black, and the door knocker was wrapped. Nevertheless, I knocked, and the butler told me….” Papa took a shuddering breath. “Fritz passed away last night. After he returned home from his visit to you, Fritz rapidly went downhill.”

  Sophia stared at her father in disbelief. No! She wanted to cry out her denial. All she could do was shake her head, tears welling in her eyes. I didn’t have a chance to say good-bye.

  He reached for her hand and squeezed. “Two things give me comfort. Our dear friend is no longer suffering and, before he passed, Fritz knew you were on the road to recovery and had a chance to visit. I think he held onto life until he could see you.”

  She nodded, more because her father seemed to need the acknowledgment than from any feeling, for the numbness in her mind had only intensified.

  Papa drew an envelope from his vest pocket. “This was on Fritz’s desk, and the butler passed it along for you.”

  Sophia recognized Fritz’s stationery.

  “The butler also passed on his best wishes for your recovery and stated the staff has been praying for you.”

  Sophia dipped her chin in thanks and took the letter.

  Papa leaned over and kissed her forehead. “I’ll leave you alone to read his last words to you.”

  She nodded, and, not having the strength to go to her office for the letter opener, slid her fingernail under the wax seal and drew out several sheets. She looked at the date and saw it was several days after her collapse. The handwriting was shaky, and several blots marred the pages.

  My dear Sophia,

  If you are reading these words, and indeed I hope and pray you have recovered enough to do so, then you will know I have passed through the pearly gates and made my way to that balcony seat in the sky to observe heaven’s opera.

  First of all, my dearest friend, I must apologize for pushing you into taking the role of Brünnhilde—using guilt as a motivation. I was selfish and wrong to do so. Now you lie at death’s door, your career destroyed, all because of me. If I could go back in time to the night of your birthday, I would urge you to follow your own reasoning, to resist Warwick’s arm-twisting and trust that the role of Brünnhilde would come to you when the time in your career was right.

  I cannot make up for the past. I can only encourage you to follow your own instincts in the future—about your career, about your life—and let no one, no matter how beloved, gainsay you.

  As I write this, my heart is heavy with fear for what will become of you. My own death approaches, and I welcome it. Once on the other side, I hope to persuade the Almighty to touch you with His healing hands. I also intend to ask Him to send comfort to my dear Adolphia and ask that she soon shed her earthly bonds and join me.

  In my will, I have left you the train car. I have also left you my percentage of the Canfield-Prendergast Pavilion, although those may soon be worthless. I leave both you and Emma a thousand shares of railroad stock that would have come to you upon your marriages. Blythe and Lily have already received theirs.

  In addition, I’ve set aside the funding for the European tour that we’ve talked about and planned for in the future. I’d hoped to accompany you for part or all of it, but such is not to be. If, as the doctor tells us, you will never sing again (which I refuse to believe) use the money for whatever will give you pleasure.

  Please do not think I leave you these bequests from guilt. I amended my will several years ago, so these are longstanding gifts.

  Emma has given me a lock of your hair, and I’ve requested I be buried with it in my vest pocket, along with one of Adolphia’s and that of my son, as well as the young daughter who preceded me into heaven before you were even born. I never told you about her. We named the baby after her mother and called her Dolly. We lost her just before her third birthday, and I have missed my sweet child ever since. Now, as my time on earth draws to a close, I look forward to reuniting with my Dolly and once again seeing her smile and hearing her call me Papa.

  As I’ve told you before, Sophia, you’ve been the daughter of my heart and have brought me such joy, especially brightening the darkness caused by my beloved wife’s failing senses.

  I will send you whatever love and healing and support is possible from heaven.

  Yours,

  Fritz Von Braun

  With shaking hands, Sophia folded the letter and tried to slide the paper inside the envelope, needing several attempts to accomplish the simple task.

  Oh, Fritz, dear Fritz. I hope you’re enjoying your reunion with Dolly. Sophia remembered his belief that he’d hear her sing from heaven, and she wished desperately to give him that gift. But such was beyond her power. A wave of grief melted the numbness in her mind.

  Sophia pressed the envelope to her chest and wept.

  * * *

  The next day, Sophia sat in a chair by the bedroom window, looking into her garden. An unaccustomed feeling of loneliness lay heavy in her chest, one she’d never felt before. With her rich, busy life, she’d had no opportunity to feel lonely. Or at least, not this lonely. She leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Would I feel this way if I had a husband?

  Perhaps. For he might have reacted to my changed appearance in the same way Fritz
did, and every time he looked at me, I’d feel hurt.

  But maybe, a husband would see her with eyes of love as Emma and Blythe did, as Mavis and Fanny did. What if he were here, right now, holding my hand and giving me comfort? Or, maybe, he’d have his arm around me, and my head would rest on his shoulder.

  With a deep sigh, Sophia closed her eyes and imagined the scene, even if she couldn’t place the man’s face.

  Then suddenly, she could—a fleeting image of the man at the Norton’s wedding reception at the hotel in Sweetwater Springs, the handsome one who’d hauled a wing chair over to her because he’d noticed she was tired. Sophia remembered the caring look in his dark eyes. Yes, he’d do just fine as her imaginary husband. She saw them sitting on the chaise, her head on his shoulder and his strong arms around her.

  His name was an unusual Irish one. She thought for a moment, trying to remember. Kael Kelley, that’s it.

  I’d feel warm and cherished, as if the loss of my beauty, voice, my career—none of that matters because Kael makes everything all right.

  Sophia shook her head at her own wishful fantasy. As if any mortal man had such power.

  But maybe one would come close.

  A knock sounded on the door. “Sophia,” Emma called.

  Sophia rose and went to the door, grateful that she was finally steady on her feet, at least for the distance from one end of the room to the other.

  Only yesterday had her sister and father felt confident enough in Sophia’s recovery to leave her and return to their own home.

  She opened the door to see Blythe and Emma, both wearing walking dresses, although Blythe’s version was as flowing as all her other gowns. She carried an unusually large reticule made of navy blue velvet.

  “That mob is still out there.” Emma pulled the pins from her hat and then leaned in to kiss Sophia’s cheek. “They wouldn’t let me pass until I gave them news. I called out that you were well enough for me to leave your side, had become strong enough to walk very short distances, and was grateful for all their love and prayers. You should have heard them cheer.”

  “And they want to know when you’ll resume Brünnhilde. Not that it matters with the opera closing in three days, although that’s not public knowledge yet.” Blythe wrinkled her nose. “A few yelled some scathing things about Judith’s performance.”

  Selfishly, Sophia couldn’t help feeling glad Judith was struggling with the role. With a wave, she beckoned Emma and Blythe over. She picked up the pad of paper and pencil and sat in the middle of the chaise lounge, her feet on the ground. She patted the cushion on either side of her. When they sat, she wrote the question she’d been wondering but hadn’t been quite ready to know the answer to. What happened on stage after I collapsed?

  Blythe read the note and then looked up. “Lorenzo carried you off the stage. Most people who weren’t familiar with the opera thought your collapse was part of the plot. That is until Judith Deal grabbed your shield and spear. She stepped up on the rock to take your place, as if nothing had happened.”

  “When the audience finally realized she’d usurped your role, they booed,” Emma said in smug satisfaction.

  “And her ‘ha, ha, ha’ did have a screechy sound,” Blythe added with a grin. “If I hadn’t been so concerned for you, I would have enjoyed hearing Judith make a spectacle of herself.”

  For the first time since that debacle of an opening night, the memory didn’t knot Sophia’s stomach with shame.

  “I couldn’t see much from the orchestra pit,” Blythe continued. “We were so confused when the conductor halted the music, and we heard the gasps and exclamations of the audience. What seemed like a minute later, I heard Judith singing your part. The conductor had us leap forward a few measures, and the orchestra caught up with her. But the whole time I was playing, I worried about you. Trapped in the pit, playing as if nothing was wrong, was so horrible. I longed to go find you and learn what happened.”

  Sophia reached for her hand and squeezed.

  “The box office receipts have been dreadful.” Blythe shook her head. “No one is attending the performances.”

  “That’s because they’re all in the street in front of our house,” Emma said tartly. “They must hope you’ll come to the window so they can catch a glimpse of you.”

  Sophia released Blythe’s hand.

  “The flow of flowers to your house is unending,” Emma continued in an exasperated tone. “Your poor, beleaguered butler is sneaking the bouquets out the back door and seeing they’re delivered to the hospital and distributed to the patients who don’t have any comforts. You’ve brightened the days of quite a few sick people.”

  I’ll bet that was your idea, Sophia wrote on the pad. She smiled and held it out so Emma could see. You’re always concerned with helping those who are ill.

  Emma returned the smile. “I like the thought of flowers given to you because of your illness being able to raise the spirits of other sufferers.”

  Blythe touched Sophia’s arm. “Why don’t you go to the front window and wave?”

  Sophia shrank back against the chaise and shook her head. She reached for the paper and pencil. Word will get out about how I look. I don’t want anyone to see me looking like this. Nor do I want to be an object of pity.

  “Sophia, they’ll be seeing you from a distance,” Emma coaxed. “Since most of them don’t know what you look like anyway, especially up close, the slight differences in your appearance won’t matter.”

  They’ll see my hair, Sophia scribbled. She could only imagine the snide remarks of Judith Deal and her other detractors once they learned about her situation.

  Blythe straightened. “I thought that’s what you’d say, and I’ve prepared a defense,” she exclaimed, her eyes sparkling with humor. “I brought home a brown wig from the theater that closely matches your color.” She reached down and tugged open the strings of her reticule, lifting out a wig that looked somewhat worse for wear, given the headpiece had been squished into a bag. “Once you put this on and Mavis arranges the hair in your usual style. Voila.” She kissed her fingertips at Sophia, in the French gesture of appreciation. “As usual, the crowd will fall at your feet.”

  Her attention caught by Blythe’s description, Sophia thought the idea through, and then nodded and scribbled, Brilliant! In that moment, she felt a bit like her old self, happy to play a role.

  Emma bounced off the chaise. “I’ll get Mavis to help.” She raised her skirts a few inches and flew out the door at an unladylike pace.

  But that’s Emma. Sophia had to smile, feeling good that her younger sister’s usual boisterous spirits had returned.

  A few minutes later, Mavis bustled through the door. “Miss Emma has gone to warn your father and Mr. Roth about what is about to happen.”

  Sophia handed her the wig.

  “Oh, dearie me,” Mavis said, frowning as she examined it. “What did you do with this, Miss Blythe, drag it through the hedgerow?”

  “Doesn’t matter if I did,” Blythe said pertly. “Not that we have hedgerows in Chicago. You’ll make it lovely. You always do.”

  Mavis didn’t often style Sophia’s wigs. That was Nan’s job at the theatre. But sometimes, Sophia was contracted for a personal paid performance, or she donated an appearance for charity, in which case, she dressed in costume at home. But those wigs were powdered white. She also had one of red curls, and another of flowing blonde locks. None in her natural color, though.

  Carrying her paper and pencil, Sophia took a seat in front of the vanity.

  Mavis tugged the wig onto Sophia’s head. “I say, this is certainly easier than fitting one over all your thick hair.” She paused, her mouth and eyes rounding. “Oh, I’m sorry,” her maid gasped out. “I shouldn’t have said so.”

  Sophia smiled at Mavis in the mirror, then picked up the pencil and wrote. At least something good is coming from this.

  Mavis leaned over Sophia’s shoulder, her lips moving as she read. She relaxed. “More go
od will come. You’ll see.”

  The maid went about her work, heating curling tongs on the small stove in the corner of the bedroom and brushing out the wig. Then her fingers magically set to braiding and curling the hair into one of Sophia’s favorite coiffures. Once she’d finished, Mavis stepped back, looking at Sophia in the mirror. She nodded in approval.

  Emma clapped her hands. “Only with close scrutiny could someone tell.”

  As much as Sophia appreciated her sister’s support, the sight of herself in the mirror made her heart sink. Is this what I’ll have to wear for the next few years? She tried not to show how much she disliked her appearance—her thin face, dull complexion, and hair that didn’t quite look natural. With effort, she called upon her acting skills to keep a serene smile on her face.

  Now for my war paint. Sophia reached for the pot of rouge, brushed some over her cheeks, and used the tip of her finger to dab the paste onto her lips. She wiped off her hands on a small towel and examined herself in the mirror. Yes, when seen from my window, I’ll appear as my regular self. She picked up the pencil and wrote: Showtime!

  Hooking an arm through Blythe’s elbow and another through Emma’s, she pulled them through the door, sashaying across the landing to the window on the other side of the house. The brief exercise left her breathless, and she had to lean against the wall for a moment.

  Emma bustled over and threw up the sash.

  Sophia inhaled a deep breath and leaned out the window. Even though she’d been told several times, Sophia was startled by the size of the massive crowd packed into the street below. My poor neighbors. I’ll have to write them all apologies.

  A shout went up. “Songbird!” one man called and pointed. He grabbed his hat and waved for her attention.