The Golden Sparrow

by Samantha Latshaw

  I shrugged with forced carelessness. “I suppose not.”

  That made Mimi grin wider and I looked away, feeling strangely embarrassed.

  When she finally finished her drink, Mimi got to her feet, saying, “Let’s get you home. You’ve got a meeting to go to tomorrow and I’m sure you’ll mother will be worried.”

  She had me dropped off at home by a taxi after she took me back to her house to help me return to normal. My lips were still stained slightly from the lipstick, but I was hoping Mama would be in bed by the time I returned and, therefore, wouldn’t see the scandalous makeup she so strongly abhorred.

  I smelled of stale tobacco and alcohol and sweat, but by the time I made it up to my bedroom, my feet were dragging across the floor and every single limb was weighted down with exhaustion. Though I knew I should wash the night off, I was simply too tired to do it. I barely managed to change into my pajamas before sleep tugged my eyelids down.

  It wasn’t quite eleven yet, but I felt as though I had spent the whole night at the speakeasy.

  The whole place had been loud and exhausting and hot but, either to my dismay or pleasure, it had been fun. I had secretly enjoyed every second I had spent dancing and sitting at the tiny table with Mimi.

  I was genuinely impressed by how unaffected she was by it all, but I reminded myself that she most likely spent a great deal of time at that club, drinking and dancing until the early hours of the morning.

  As I finally crawled under the cool covers, I marveled over the speakeasy, at how much fun I’d had. I wondered if Mimi had noticed and, most importantly, if she would take me back.

  “Ye best hurry up, Miss Hazel,” Danielle said as I hurriedly stuffed my feet into my shoes. She was standing in the doorway to my bedroom, watching me anxiously. “Your mother left aboot an hour ago, but she said she’ll be home round three.”

  “Wonderful.” I got to my feet and quickly brushed past her. “I’m late, Danielle. Can you imagine how that’ll look for me? My first time I’m meeting this Mr. Carrow and I’m late!”

  She followed me down the stairs and through to the foyer before taking my coat off the rack and holding it out for me to slip into.

  Danielle had been our maid since I had been two years old. There was no memory of a life before her and I couldn’t imagine it any other way.

  Her dark hair, which was graying slightly at the temples, was pulled back, as it always was, into a severe bun at the base of her neck. Her face was just beginning to betray her age, though I still imagined her as the thirty-year-old maid who brought me hot cocoa when I was ill as a child. And she still wore the long skirts of the previous decade, too afraid, I supposed, of the shorter cuts.

  “Gie oan wi’ ye, Miss Hazel,” Danielle urged as I pulled on my gloves and hat. She offered me a broad, encouraging smile. “An’ guid luck.”

  I rushed through the streets, cursing myself for not ordering a taxi as I pushed my way through the crowd. But by the looks of the streets, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference. Now that cars were becoming so common, the streets were getting more and more crowded by the day and I would have most likely have been stuck in the traffic.

  When I finally skidded to a halt before the grand music hall that loomed over me, its boxy exterior dazzling me, I couldn’t muster up the courage to open the doors. Instead, I hung nervously back as people passed by me in a rush, jostling me a little until I moved to stand nearer the doors.

  A bitter wind snapped at my coat, stinging my face and making my eyes water when, finally, I resolved to swallow my anxiety and marched in.

  The door was heavy, but once I was inside and out of the cold, I felt my worries slip away as the warmth of the Hall enveloped me.

  I took in the lobby, with its white plaster, arched openings, and Corinthian pilasters. There was a tall, reedy man with wispy, tan hair standing under one of the arches and, at my entrance, he looked up at me.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, his tone disdainful as he looked down his bulbous nose at me. He was dressed simply but shabbily.

  “Yes, sir.” I reached into my handbag and withdrew the letter from Mr. Carrow. “My name is Hazel MacClare. I was told to come here today to meet Mr. Carrow? I’m supposed to be performing in a concert at the end of the summer.”

  The man took the letter and read through it quickly before handing it back. I could read his distaste easily and held my tongue. He wasn’t the first one to question the legitimacy of my getting in on a concert and I knew he wouldn’t be the last.

  “Of course.” He handed the letter back and I stowed it quickly away. “If you’ll just wait here?”

  I watched him retreat then turned slowly on my heel, taking in the magnificence of the Hall and letting the excitement at the prospect of playing there soon ripple through me, humming like a prolonged note.

  Ever since I had been a child, I had longed to perform the piano on stage in front of the crowds. I loved the piano and I loved performing even more. My mother had stubbornly refused to get me a trial for years, though. I wasn’t sure what had made he finally concede the month before, but I was certainly glad that she had. I was so close to achieving my dreams that I could almost taste it.

  It took several long minutes of impatient waiting for the man who had greeted me to finally return, another, slightly older gentleman at his side.

  Where the first man was shabby, the second was pristine. His suit fit him perfectly and his graying, wavy hair was parted to the side with precision. He had a curled gray mustache and a tiny goatee just below his bottom lip. His lips were wide and plump, his eyes a steel grey. Had he been younger, I found myself idly thinking, he would have been quite handsome.

  “This is Hazel MacClare, sir,” the man announced as they approached me.

  I stuck my hand out but was surprised, instead, by the gentleman giving me a slight bow.

  Letting my hand fall lamely back to my side, I curled it into a fist and said, “Good afternoon, sir.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss MacClare,” he said, his British accent thick and pleasant. The once-handsome man turned back to his companion. “Thank you, Levinson, that will be all.”

  The man named Levinson dipped his head slightly, turned a sneer to me, then turned on his heel and stalked off.

  Turning back to me, the gentleman said, “I am Alastair Carrow, the director. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  I smiled awkwardly back but didn’t say anything.

  “The concert has been rescheduled,” he went on and I felt my heart skip a beat with fear. “We had to move it to the fifteenth of September. I trust that won’t be a problem?”

  “Oh, no, sir,” I said quickly. “Not all.”

  “Good.” Mr. Carrow nodded then asked, “Have you chosen your pieces? You will need to fill up your two hour slot.”

  “Yes, sir. I have my pieces selected.”

  “Good,” he said. “I have heard you spoken highly of my mutual acquaintance.”

  I frowned, unsure of whom he could be speaking of. I certainly had never met Mr. Carrow before and I couldn’t imagine he spoke to many people in my social circle.

  “Mr. Weeks,” Mr. Carrow went on and I nodded once. “Your old tutor says you have real talent, Miss MacClare.”

  I swallowed compulsively as he looked me over, as if he could read my abilities by simply looking at him.

  I would have to pick an advanced piece, something that would prove, not only to Mr. Carrow, but to everyone, that I wasn’t just another society girl who could only play the piano moderately well. I wanted to prove that I wasn’t given a slot at Carnegie Hall because my mother bought it for me.

  “He also said you compose,” Mr. Carrow and I felt a bit of panic rise in me.

  Clearing my throat, I said, “I haven’t in a while, sir. And I’ve never completed any of my compositions.”

  “Ah.” Mr. Carrow sniffed with disdain then said, “Well, come back if you any questions. Good afternoon, Miss MacClare.”
>
  I watched Mr. Carrow walk away, leaving me alone under an arch.

  An advanced piece, I thought as I turned towards the door. What piece would impress the most?

  “Sonata Number Twenty-Nine,” I said softly to myself, my hand reaching for the door. The Hammerklavier by Beethoven. I could prove my worth with that piece, I knew I could. And I would. I would show everyone that I could be a concert pianist.

  Chapter 2

  It took me a whole week to even muster up the courage to purchase the music for the Hammerklavier and another to begin learning it. And when my oldest friend, Florence Bergman, telephoned and asked to meet, I jumped at the opportunity to take a break to give my hands—and sanity—a reprieve for even a few hours.

  I had met Florence at Mildred Finch’s School for Young Ladies in the Upper East Side when we were ten, but it wasn’t until after she had dunked Sylvia Dane’s hair into an inkwell for tripping me in front of the entire class that we became close friends. Recently, however, I had noticed that some distance had sprouted up between us. I spent a great deal more time with Mimi than with Florence and I was certain that the preference stung.

  Florence wasn’t at all like Mimi. Where Mimi was brazen and outgoing, loud and charismatic, Florence was subdued and prim. She rarely raised her voice, was entirely too punctual, and was never spontaneous. Unlike Mimi, she could never be persuaded to do anything illegal or “too fun”. As I approached the park, where we were to meet, I shuddered to think of what she would say if she ever found out that I had gone to a speakeasy.

  Florence embraced me tightly when I finally reached then surprised me with a blueberry muffin, which I accepted gratefully.

  “I told Mrs. Featherstone that I was seeing you today and she gave me that,” Florence said as I bit into it.

  “I do so love her muffins,” I said. “Mrs. Brandt is a fabulous cook, but baking is not her strong suit.”

  Florence laughed at that. “And Mrs. Featherstone could probably do with an afternoon learning something from Mrs. Brandt.”

  “Goodness, it feels like it’s been ages since I last saw you,” I remarked as I nibbled the muffin.

  “The Miller’s anniversary dinner,” Florence recounted and I nearly smirked at her precise memory.

  “Five years, isn’t it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Florence said, “though I can’t imagine Pauline’s too happy with him at the moment.”

  “Why?” I asked, frowning. “What’s happened?”

  As far as I remembered, Pauline had been positively radiant as she stood beside James Miller, accepting everyone’s congratulations as they walked through the doors.

  Shooting me a sly look, Florence said, “There’re rumors going around that Mr. Miller had an illegitimate child.”

  My eyes widened with surprise. “Really? And after only five years? That’s awfully fast. I don’t suppose they’ll last long after all.”

  “The child is six now,” Florence replied. “I believe she was some sort of maid or something. I think she worked in a hotel. And, if I have my information correct, then she only revealed the truth after she lost her job and needed money.”

  “James’s indiscretion is his own fault,” I said bluntly. “He ought to pay for it however the woman deems fit. It is still his child.”

  We let the subject drop and fell into a companionable silence. After I polished off the muffin, brushed my hands clean on my coat then asked, “Was there anything in particular you wanted to do today?”

  Florence shook her head. “Not really. I just thought it would be nice to see you, that’s all.”

  A blistering wind was beginning to pick up, but rather than suggesting we duck into a café to get into the warm, Florence said, “Shall we walk?”

  “Sure,” I said though I certainly didn’t want to. Winter wasn’t quite ready to let go of New York City yet no matter how much I wished it would.

  As we walked, I felt as though Florence wanted to tell me something. It simply wasn’t like her to telephone out of the blue. She would usually write and set a predetermined date aside, plans for the day already set and would meet me precisely at the time she suggested.

  After walking in silence for several long minutes, finally, she spoke.

  “There’s something I wanted to tell you,” she said, dragging her feet a bit in the gravel path. “It’s quite important and… well…”

  She was twisting her small, gloved hands, squinting against the bright sunlight that streamed through the bare branches and down onto the hard, frozen earth.

  “Do you remember how, at the Brown’s Christmas Ball, I met Jacob Hunt?” she asked, looking nervous. I nodded and began to have a sense of where the conversation was headed, so I simply waited for her to gather her courage and tell me. “He was so terribly handsome, of course, and so very nice. We danced quite a bit.”

  “I remember,” I said. “I don’t think you danced with anyone else that night, though I’m sure there were plenty of men asking for you.”

  Florence turned pink at that.

  “You looked wonderful together,” I added sincerely. It had seemed as though no one else in the world existed except them. I had been briefly jealous that she had seemingly found someone whom she could exist with forever so easily.

  “Thank you,” Florence said bashfully. Then she cleared her throat, her cheeks still a delicate shade of pink, and went on. “Well, Jacob and I had begun to see a bit more of each other at dinner parties and such. We even went out to a restaurant together.”

  I pretended to be shocked. “My Florence, going out with a young man all alone?”

  Florence laughed then her smile went away, the sun going with it to duck behind large, gray clouds that promised rain later.

  “Well, it didn’t take me long to fall in love,” she told me, her tone matter-of-fact. “I was certain the feeling was mutual, too.” She paused, took a deep breath, then rushed on. “He asked me to marry him last week. I said yes.”

  I squealed with delight and grabbed Florence into a tight hug.

  “That’s wonderful news!” I exclaimed, releasing her and stepping back. To my surprise, I had tears in my eyes, which I brushed away quickly. “I’m so happy for you. Truly, I am!”

  She was beaming widely, her round, blue eyes sparkling with delight and her round cheeks were rosier than ever.

  “Have you decided on a date?”I wondered.

  She shook her head as we continued to walk. “No. I wanted to summer, Jacob wanted autumn.” She let out a sigh, though her smile was still in place. “We’ll figure it out.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” I replied as the sun came back out to warm us.

  Lifting my face to the sky, I closed my eyes and slowed my pace so that I didn’t run into anyone or anything.

  “I can’t wait for you to find someone like Jacob,” Florence said and I lowered my head, opening my eyes slowly as she turned to meet my gaze.

  I could feel my face turn red, with shame and embarrassment. Why must everyone push marriage on me? It wasn’t 1898 anymore. I didn’t have to marry the second the clock struck midnight on my eighteenth birthday.

  Florence was several paces ahead of me, her blonde hair peeking out from under her pink cloche hat. Her expression was open and sincere, but when she spotted my red cheeks, she flushed pink, looking abashed, and dug the toe of her shoe into the dirt path.

  “Well, it’s only that, since I’m so happy, I want everyone else to be happy.” Florence spoke quickly, eyes on the ground and stumbling over her words as I closed the distance between us. “You can’t really blame me, can you?”

  I maintained my silence until Florence looked back up at me and then I surprised her by saying, “Have you been talking to my mother?”

  Ever since I had turned seventeen last year, my mother had been on me about marriage, bringing it up any time she thought I would listen. At dinner parties she hosted, she sat me between the most eligible young men who would also inherit the largest fo
rtunes. She would insist that I dance every dance and never with the same partner. But while I always complied, I never took any of them seriously and couldn’t bear the idea of marrying a single one. No matter what I told my mother, no matter how many times I said I wasn’t ready, still she persisted. It was maddening.

  Florence hurried to catch up with me and caught my arm, pulling me up short.

  “No,” she said, but she looked determined. “But you do need to start thinking about your life outside of music. You can’t play in concert halls forever. You need to settle down and figure out how you’re going to live.”

  Shaking my head in disbelief at her, I pulled my arm free and walked on.

  “I will marry if—and when—I want to,” I said in a hard voice over my shoulder to Florence, who I knew was hot on my heels. “I can live in a boarding house until I do. Not everyone has the same priorities as you, Florence. I’m sure even Sylvia Dane hasn’t even thought about marriage yet.”

  “Actually, she’s getting married next spring,” Florence told me, making my footsteps falter. “She isn’t like she used to be. We write one another sometimes. She just wants a quiet life, Hazel, as do I. Don’t you want the same?”

  Yes. “Not today,” I said, “and not tomorrow. I doubt even next month or next year.” I turned back to her and saw that she had a pitying look on her face, which only made me angry. I had the sudden and stunning urge to slap the look off her face. Instead, I said, “It’s as I said. Not everyone has the same priorities as you.”

  I started walking again and, this time, I didn’t hear Florence coming after me.

  Feeling bitter that our reunion had been brief and sour, I left her behind and began to head home only to stop halfway back through the park and make, instead, for Trinity Church Cemetery instead.

  It wasn’t any special day, but I felt the overwhelming urge to visit my father’s grave. The sun was still shining brightly and there was the hint of spring ripe in the air as undertones of warmth were hidden by a chilly breeze. The grass was beginning to turn green and a few trees had buds forming on their branches.