Ruffling Society

by Kay Moser

  “I’m never going to eat potatoes for breakfast,” Juli declared. “I’m going to be just like Miss Victoria.”

  “You can’t be,” Ceci said. “You don’t have red hair.”

  “It’s gonna turn red when I get big. Isn’t it, Mama?”

  “Anything is possible.” Christine stood and addressed Sarah. “We’ve certainly learned that, haven’t we?”

  Sarah nodded. “Changing blonde hair to red shouldn’t be a problem for God.” She looked down at Juli. “But you know, Juli, you don’t have to have red hair to be like Miss Victoria. It’s really all about character and courage.”

  “You are so right,” Christine agreed. “And now she’s awake and waiting to see us. Shall we go?”

  ***

  Sarah’s heart thrilled at the sight of Victoria reclining on a chaise lounge, her hand flying across her sketch pad. Her returned vitality was so obvious, Sarah felt the chains of months of anxiety loosen and fall away. She’s really on the mend!

  “Miss Victoria!” Juli shouted with glee as she ran to the chaise lounge.

  “Shhhh,” Victoria shushed her as she pulled her up beside her. “Remember, you’re not supposed to be here.”

  Juli giggled. “I think it’s fun to sneak in.”

  “Only fun if you don’t get caught,” Christine cautioned as she sat down and patted the chair next to her for Sarah. “You look wonderful, Victoria.”

  “And I feel well. I’m sleeping too much, but I guess that’s what’s needed.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Christine answered. “And since you’re doing so well, I think I’ll accept Sarah’s invitation and take the girls up to Texado Park tomorrow. We’re all so eager to see where Sarah is living and studying.”

  “She lives in a tent,” Ceci exclaimed.

  “What’s a tent?” Juli asked. “Do we live in a tent, Mommy?”

  “No, darling. A tent is a small house made out of fabric, very heavy fabric.”

  “Look here, Juli,” Victoria said. “I’ll draw you a picture of a tent.”

  Juli watched as Victoria quickly sketched. “Oh … oh … I see.”

  “I wouldn’t want to live in a tent,” Ceci declared. “The rain could come in and ruin the piano.”

  Juli looked up into Victoria’s face. “Would you live in a tent, Miss Victoria?”

  “I think it would be fun for a little while, especially if it meant I could live in a wild place and paint all the things I saw.”

  “Then I’m going to live in a tent too, ’cause I’m going to be a painter.”

  Christine held out a sketch book to Juli. “Perhaps this would be a good time to show Miss Victoria the drawings you made this morning.”

  While Juli raced to her mother and hurried back to Victoria with the book, Ceci pulled on her mother’s skirt. “Mommy, can we get a piano for our little house?”

  “No, dear, we have to be content with the furniture we have.”

  “But you promised to teach me, and Miss Victoria is going to teach Juli how to paint.”

  Christine laughed. “Thanks, Victoria. See what trouble you’re getting me into.”

  Victoria looked up at her friend, her face suddenly serious. “How quickly our ‘problems’ have lessened.”

  Christine reached over and took Sarah’s hand. “Yes, thanks be to God and this wonderful young woman who listened to Him.”

  “I’m glad you’re coming to Texado Park tomorrow,” Sarah said. “Madame Makarova has made me promise to bring you to meet her.”

  “The Russian pianist you wrote about in your letters, Sarah?” Victoria asked. “Oh, Christine, promise me you will take advantage of every opportunity you are offered.”

  Christine’s face shadowed as her eyelids drooped and her lips turned down. “I am afraid it is too late for me. If the War had not limited my studies when I was a child … It is too late now, and that is that. Besides, you mustn’t forget I am in mourning.”

  Victoria gently pushed aside Juli, struggled to her feet, and took the few steps to Christine’s side. “Now, you listen to me, beloved friend. It is never too late when you place your future in God’s hands. As for the traditions of mourning, we’re not in Riverford; we are on a vacation of sorts, so we can be freer here. I don’t ask you to don bright clothing, but promise me that you will embrace the chance God is giving you to meet this brilliant pianist. It is no accident that she is here and is so eager to meet you.”

  “I … I don’t know. I must think of Richard’s memory. What would he say?”

  “He would tell you to live. All I ask is that you remember that God has not finished providing miracles and consider the possibility that you may be meeting another one tomorrow, a pianist from Russia.”

  Christine nodded. “I can’t imagine what her story might be.”

  “I can,” Sarah said. “She has shared it with me. I hope she will do the same with you because you will be astounded and challenged and inspired.”

  Christine’s face filled with longing. “Do you think, Sarah … Is there any possibility that she might take me on as a student?”

  Victoria gave a quiet laugh. “Oh, Christine! When will you understand how talented you are?”

  “Oh, but I have so much to learn, and I want to learn! There is no limit to how much I want to learn.”

  “I want to learn too, Mommy,” Ceci cried out.

  Christine looked at Victoria and Sarah and nodded vigorously. “I’ll take advantage of every miracle God sends my way, for Ceci and for me. I promise.”

  ***

  In Christine’s dream, so vivid it seemed real, Richard walked into the tiny garden of the cottage, and without saying a word, took her by the hand and led her to a carriage. They rode toward the mountains, the early morning air, cool and invigorating, brushing softly against her cheek. She had no idea where she was going, but with her beloved’s arm around her shoulders, she felt safe, content.

  As the carriage climbed up the hill, the mountains dominated the horizon ahead of her. They grew larger … ever larger … ever grander. A swirling, crisply cool wind rushed down the slopes and lifted the carriage from the ground. She heard her own voice … laughing softly … chanting … oh my love, oh my love. Richard smiled down at her, love beaming from his face, and holding her securely, he raised his other arm and pointed to the base of the mountains. She saw tents. Rows and rows of tents. A box wrapped as a gift, its fluffy pink bow dancing in the wind, appeared in his extended hand.

  Oh, Richard, what is it? Is it for me?

  He lifted his arm from around her shoulder, placing the box in her lap. She laughed, the magic of it delighting her. When Richard clapped his hands, the bow untied itself, and the lid came off the box. She laughed again and looked up to smile at him. His eyes held hers as he lifted both her hands, kissed each of her fingers, and lowered her hands into the box.

  Smooth ... solid ... flat. What is it? What is the gift? She pressed the object. Exquisite, soft music filled the carriage. She pressed harder. The music expanded, lifted itself out of the carriage, flew to fill the valley, then hovered over the tent city below her. Shocked, Christine unlocked her eyes from Richard’s and looked down into the box. Her hands rested on a piano. How can this be? Richard! How can this be?

  She looked up, and he was smiling. Her fingers had taken on a life of their own, flying across the keys, growing the music into a magnificent, soul-wrenching crescendo. She could not stop them; she did not want to stop them because she knew that it was the music that was holding Richard there in the carriage with her.

  Waking suddenly, Christine sat up, her hair tumbling across her shoulders, her eyes filled with happy tears. She left her bed and hurried to the window to look out into the garden. No Richard. She leaned against the sill and placed her hand over her heart. Here ... and in the music. Yes, in the music. She looked up to the top of the garden trees and saw the mountains looming in the distance. “Today I go to Texado Park. Today Richard’s gift will be delivered. I
know it. I don’t know how I know … but I believe!”

  CHAPTER 35

  When Christine entered the dining hall in her widow’s dress and veil, followed by Frances and two little girls dressed in white, every diner stopped to stare, and the usual clatter of the room stopped.

  “You’re here,” Sarah exclaimed as she rushed forward and hugged her. “I can hardly believe this is happening. Madame Makarova is waiting for us up at the auditorium.”

  “I am so very eager to meet her,” Christine answered, “and to meet all your friends here.”

  “Are we going to eat dinner here in this big room?” Ceci demanded.

  “Can we have ice cream?” Juli asked.

  “Hush!” Nancy commanded as she raised her own chin a notch. “Remember who you is.”

  Juli frowned up at her, then ran to Sarah and grabbed her hand. “I know who I am, Miss Sarah. I’m Julia Gibbes Boyd, and I’m going to be an artist when I grow up. Can I have ice cream now?”

  The teachers closest to them laughed and returned to their food.

  “Nancy means you have to remember your manners,” Ceci hissed at her little sister. “We’re here to meet a great pianist, not to eat ice cream.”

  “But I’m hungry!”

  Sarah took over the conversation as she grabbed Juli’s hand. “And I have a solution for that. Madame Makarova has arranged an elegant picnic for us at the auditorium.” She turned to Christine. “Madame thought the girls would enjoy an outdoor event, and they could play or nap later while you two visit.”

  “Madame is a wise woman,” Christine said, “and obviously has the specialized wisdom that only motherhood can give.”

  Sarah laughed. “Shall we go?” She led the way out the door.

  As they rounded the corner of the dining hall, Christine saw the auditorium for the first time. “What an enormous structure,” she exclaimed. “Look at the towers and the flags flying, girls.”

  Juli’s mouth fell open. “Are we going to eat there?” She began to jump up and down with excitement.

  Nancy groaned. “We sure gotta feed you somewhere soon, else we ain’t gonna hear the end of this.”

  “Is that where they keep the big piano, Miss Sarah?” Ceci asked.

  “Yes, it is. There’s a big stage inside and more benches than you’ve ever seen in one building. A thousand people can sit in there.”

  “Really?” Ceci demanded. “Does Madame play the piano for all those people at the same time?”

  “She does, and she’s going to play again on Friday night.” Sarah glanced at Christine. “I hope you’ll be able to come.”

  “Right now I just hope to make it up this hill,” Christine murmured as her heart raced. “I’m afraid I’ve made little, if any, adjustment to the higher altitude.”

  “What’s altitude?” Juli demanded of Nancy.

  “It’s what be making me huff and puff. That’s what it be.”

  “I’m not huffing and puffing.” Juli proved her point by running ahead and turning in circles.

  “Lawd have mercy!” Nancy hurried forward and grabbed her hand. “What’s these folks gonna think of us with you acting like that? We come all this way to meet a grand person, and you’s misbehavin’.”

  “And there she is,” Sarah said as she pointed up to the top of the steps. “Isn’t she regal?”

  Christine looked up and saw a tall woman with a mass of dark curls piled on top of her head, clad in a flowing, black-and-white striped silk dress. “She is indeed regal!” Madame Makarova smiled at her and began to descend the steps. “Nancy, keep the girls here, please,” Christine murmured as she began the climb to meet the pianist. Sarah followed.

  As Madame Makarova descended the last two steps, she held out her hands to Christine, and Christine clasped them as the two pianists met at the landing. A surge of energy that passed along her fingers and into her very being surprised Christine. Her spirits rose so dramatically she gasped with delight. What is this? I feel as if I have turned a corner. This woman understands ... In her mind’s eye, she saw Richard smiling.

  “Welcome, my dear Mrs. Boyd,” Madame said in a voice deeper and more heavily accented than Christine had expected.

  Christine recovered herself enough to answer. “I am most honored to be received by you.”

  “It is you who honor me, Mrs. Boyd. Sarah has told me so many wonderful things about you, about the ways you have helped her family, indeed have elevated Sarah herself in life.”

  Christine felt herself blush. “She has, no doubt, exaggerated.”

  “I don’t think so. I am an immigrant myself, you see. I know what life-changing power one good-willed person can have in one’s life.”

  “I assure you that Sarah has done the hard work herself.”

  Madame Makarova nodded. “Of course, but one can work very hard indeed but still be refused success by society if one does not have a champion. Come, let us go up. I have arranged a table for us and blankets for the children. No doubt your girls are as hungry as my son.”

  “Your son is here?”

  “Yes, he is eager to meet you. His name is Fedor. He is ten years old and plays the violin.”

  “How wonderful! I want to meet him too.” Christine began to move forward, but Madame Makarova remained in place, still holding Christine’s hands, peering into Christine’s eyes.

  “Yes.” Madame Makarova answered, “but not now, I think.” She turned to Sarah. “Sarah, will you introduce the children and give them some lunch? I want to show something to Mrs. Boyd.”

  “Of course,” Sarah agreed.

  “Come with me.” Madame Makarova’s eyes sparkled as she tugged Christine forward. “I want to share something with you.”

  Christine followed Madame up the remaining steps, past the prepared picnic, and through the door of the massive auditorium. Immediately the massive structure’s high, vaulted ceiling dimmed the brightness of the outdoor light. Rows and rows of benches stretched out in front of Christine, but a single object that dominated the stage claimed and held her attention. Madame took Christine’s hand again and led her down the long aisle, up a short flight of stairs, and onto the stage. She seated Christine at the grand piano and placed her hands upon the keys.

  “Play,” Madame softly commanded.

  Stunned, Christine gazed up at the elegant, composed woman. “Now?”

  “Now. This is the only moment you know you have. Use it. God has not brought you to this piano for no reason. Play. Play for God. Play to lift the world.” Madame raised her hand and pointed to the open side of the auditorium. “Look at the magnificence of those mountains. Respond to that glory.”

  Christine’s gaze followed Madame’s gesture, and without removing her eyes from the mountain peaks, she began to play Chopin’s “Ballade in A Flat.” The first notes were quiet, lyrical, like a gentle wind teasing the listener in. As the piece grew in its urgency, Christine took her eyes off the mountains and joined herself with the piano, which rewarded her with deep, rich, resonant tones. The sound she heard thrilled her. For the first time, her music was not confined to a drawing room; it grew and lived in a cavernous concert hall.

  As the ballade climbed to its climax, the sound growing louder, crisper, dominating, Christine forgot the presence of Madame Makarova. She forgot where she was. Enticed by the potential of the sounds she could make, she reveled in the promise of making great music. Oh what a sweet, new union had come her way! Her fingers, her soul, the ivory keys, the vaulted ceiling.

  Oh, Richard! Oh, my beloved. Can you hear? She soared on the music, flying with Richard as she had in her dream. And he was smiling. Yes, he was smiling!

  When the notes stopped, the ballade ended, Christine touched her face, shocked to discover it was wet with tears. Madame handed her a handkerchief, pulled another piano stool close, and sat down. “Let us not mince words, my dear Mrs. Boyd. You belong on a concert stage.”

  Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Madame shook her head and
waved away her comment before she could utter it.

  “I know about these things,” Madame asserted. “After all, this has always been my life. Sarah told me of your talent, but clearly she did not have the ability to express the depth of it. You should be playing for large crowds of music lovers, of people who yearn to experience beauty, who need beauty. You play with your soul more than with your fingers. You have a grand soul, built, I think, on suffering and great love. I beg you to free it from the confines you are placing on it. I beg you to see that the world needs your music more than your propriety.”

  “I have obligations …”

  “Yes, you do, but to your children, not to a suffocating decorum. Your children need you to be whole, and you will never be so until you free your talent.”

  Christine turned and stared at her. “How is it possible that you know me so well?”

  “Because I know myself. I am fighting the same battles as you. I am widowed, with a son to raise. I am a woman who lives in a culture and in an era that limits women, but I am also an artist who yearns to be free to practice her art, who, indeed, cannot survive without her art. This is you, yes?”

  “Yes, you have described me perfectly. But there is another pressing matter ... I just recently discovered that my daughter, Cecilia, is quite gifted on the piano.”

  “Ah … then it becomes even more urgent that you—that we artistic women—fight for our rightful place in the world. We have a mission that reaches far beyond our own lives.”

  Christine nodded. “Yes, a mission. Such missions give purpose to life, don’t they?”

  “They do.”

  The two women fell silent, each lost in her individual thoughts.

  “Excuse me,” Sarah called from the front of the auditorium. “I could not resist coming in when I heard Christine playing.”

  “How did you know I was the one playing?” Christine asked.

  Madame Makarova laughed. “Oh my dear, you have a distinctive style, a beautiful touch.”

  “She does,” Sarah agreed, “but I want you, Madame, to play for her now.”