Chasing the Sun (3 page)

He almost smiled.

Daisy made a shooing motion. “Lead on. I’ll follow.”

Muttering under his breath, he continued down the hall. Stepping over ropes and cables coiled on the floor beside the stage curtain, he stopped and motioned her forward. “It’s all yours. Go out there and sing like you did for me.”

Daisy peered past him at the brightly lit stage and the endless expanse of empty seats stretching into the darkness beyond the light. “Is there any accompaniment?” she asked, surprised by the tremor in her voice.

“You don’t need any. Just sing.” He turned.

She caught his arm. “In case—if I don’t—if this doesn’t work out, Mr. Markham,” she finally managed in a rush, “I just wanted to thank you for giving me this chance.”

That almost-smile again, quickly covered with a stern look. “Don’t disappoint me, missy. That’s all the thanks I need.” He nudged her past the curtain. “Now go break a leg.”

On wobbly knees she walked into the light, her footfalls echoing loudly in the stillness. The stage seemed huge, as broad as a city block, the planked floor covered with odd markings and scuffed by hundreds of feet that had trod across it through the years. A sense of unreality swept her, and for a moment she feared she was dreaming and would soon wake up to find herself back in the Silver Spur.

Halfway across, she stopped and stood uncertainly, nearly blinded by the light from the lamps along the front edge of the stage.

Then a figure emerged from the darkened rows. “Miss Etheridge, is it?” A short, round man with muttonchop sideburns bustled down the left center aisle toward the orchestra pit.

Daisy answered with a nod, afraid her voice would betray her nervousness if she spoke.

“I’m Bernard Bridgeport, the musical director here at the Elysium. You’ve heard of me, no doubt.”

“Ah ... yes, sir,” Daisy lied, figuring a little flattery wouldn’t hurt.

“Excellent. Myself and the owner, Mr. Langdon”—he motioned over his shoulder to a man Daisy could barely see, who was seated in the shadows twenty rows back—“will be listening to your audition. What will you be singing?”

“What would you like?” She clasped her hands tightly behind her back so he wouldn’t notice they were shaking.

“Your choice. Perhaps a medley of your best pieces?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Whenever you’re ready, my dear.” Turning, he walked back to his seat beside the owner.

Daisy took a deep breath and slowly let it out. Then another. She closed her eyes as a calmness stole over her. With it came a heightened awareness of the openness all around her, the musty odor of the heavy curtains, the sharp scent of burning kerosene, the beat of her own heart. And out in the darkness beyond the two men in the center row, far in the shadows at the back ... she sensed a presence. Someone watching. Someone waiting for her to sing.

So she sang.

She sang as if her daughter’s future depended on it, as if this might be her only chance to perform on a real stage, as if every hope and dream she carried within her heart rested on this one moment in time.

Which it did.

The acoustics of the hall were extraordinary, magnifying the scope and intensity of each sound, sending the notes out and back again, louder and fuller than when they left, until her voice filled all the empty spaces and she stood surrounded by glorious music.

She sang the songs Mama had taught her—romantic sonatas, bel canto arias by Rossini and Verdi, lilting Irish melodies, and sad ballads of lost love. Then when her throat grew tired and her lungs began to burn, she brought the sound back down with the haunting French lullaby her mother had sung to her every night of her childhood.

When the last notes faded away into silence, she opened her eyes and waited. For what seemed like a long time, there was no sound or movement. Then far in the rear of the theater, she saw a shadow move. A moment later, a figure stepped out of the back row and slowly made its way down the aisle toward the stage. A bent figure. A woman.

As she passed the row where the director and owner sat, Mr. Bridgeport rose. When he started to speak, she waved him to silence, and continued her halting steps toward the front, her attention fixed on the stage.

Daisy watched her approach, her nervousness returning as the woman drew near.

She was quite old, her white hair pulled severely up in a tight knot perched on top of her head. Her back curved at the shoulders and she used a cane, her wrinkled hand clutching it so tightly every tendon showed.

But her eyes were fiercely alive. Black as pitch, they seemed to take in the lamplight and reflect it back, making it appear they were lit from within. Probing, ancient eyes that left Daisy feeling vaguely exposed.

The woman stopped at the front of the stage and for several moments stared up at Daisy with unblinking intensity. Then she nodded as if she had seen something in Daisy’s face that pleased her. “You have the gift,” she said in a rusty voice with a thick Italian accent. “Now you must learn how to use it.”

Before Daisy could ask what that meant, the woman turned and walked slowly back up the aisle. When she came to the row where the men sat, she paused only long enough to say, “I will take her,” then continued her slow progress. A few moments later sunlight flashed as the front door opened then closed.

As if abruptly released from a frozen state, the owner and director leaped to their feet. After conferring excitedly for a moment, the owner followed the old lady out while Mr. Bridgeport hurried toward Daisy.

“Excellent, excellent,” he cried, clapping exuberantly. “She loved it. Just loved it. You’re one lucky girl.”

“She, who?” Daisy asked.

“You didn’t recognize her? No, no, of course not. You’re just a child. Markham, where are you?”

Mr. Markham stepped out of the wings on the left.

“Tell her who that was,” Mr. Bridgeport ordered with a flutter of his fingers.

“Sophia Scarlatti.”

“
Madame
Sophia Scarlatti,” the director corrected archly. When Daisy still offered no reaction, since she had no recollection of the woman or the name, Bridgeport sighed dramatically. “She doesn’t know. Lord help us, she doesn’t know. Tell her, Markham.”

Mr. Markham might have rolled his eyes, but in the smoky light Daisy wasn’t sure. “The Sicilian Songbird.”

Realization finally struck. “Oh my gracious. The Sicilian Songbird? You’re jesting. That was really her?” Daisy had thought the woman long dead.

The Sicilian Songbird was only the most famous soprano who had ever lived. Daisy had never heard her sing, but her mother had been fortunate enough to do so. She had declared the woman had the voice of an angel, a voice so beautiful, grown men had wept to hear it. “I sang for the Sicilian Songbird?”

“And impressed her,” Bridgeport added smugly. “She has graciously consented to train you.”

“Train me?”

“As she is no longer able to sing, she helps others learn the craft. Under her tutelage, you can become the greatest soprano of your time.”

“Me?” Daisy was too stunned to do more than stutter. “But—But—”

“You will join a handful of chosen apprentices,” the director went on as if she hadn’t spoken, his gestures growing more flamboyant with each word. “Together you will travel to the famous opera houses of the world as her special theatrical company. Meanwhile, she will teach you how to read music, how to project your voice, how to breathe properly, and how to perform before an audience. Then once you are trained, she will present you to the crowned princes of Europe. Just think of it, little one. The world will be your stage!”

“B-But I have no money,” Daisy said, afraid she might burst into tears. “How would I pay for all that?”

Bridgeport gave a tittering laugh. “You silly little thing. She pays
you
! Tell her, Markham.”

Crossing his arms over his barrel chest, Mr. Markham recited in a bored voice, “She pays for everything until you’re presented. Then for three years after, she gets fifty percent of whatever you earn. And she also gets seventy-five percent of whatever the tour brings in while you’re being trained. After expenses. The other twenty-five percent is split between the members of the troop. It’s not much, but since everything else is paid for, it’s free money.”

Daisy stared at him, still not daring to believe. “This isn’t a joke, is it, Mr. Markham? Tell me this isn’t a joke.”

This time his smile was real. “It isn’t a joke.”

“Sweet heaven.” For a moment Daisy felt dizzy, her mind soaring with all the possibilities. Then reality brought it crashing back down. “What about Kate?”

“Who’s Kate?” Bridgeport asked.

“My daughter.”

The director glared at his stage manager. “You didn’t say she was married.”

“I’m not. Not really.”

“He’s in Australia,” Mr. Markham told Bridgeport, neatly covering for Daisy’s omission. Then to Daisy he added, “He won’t be a problem, will he, missy?”

She read the warning in his narrowed eyes. “No, he won’t be a problem. But I can bring Kate, can’t I?”

“Don’t be tiresome.” Bridgeport made an offhand gesture. “Leave her here. Surely there’s a relative or someone you can leave her with. It’ll only be for a year or two, after all.”

A year or two?
Neither of them would survive it.

“There’s no one,” Daisy said in a strained voice. And even if there were, she didn’t think she could leave Kate behind. An idea came to her. What if she found a way to bring Kate with her? “How much would my salary be during training?” Maybe it would be enough to hire a nanny to come too.

Markham must have read her thoughts. A sad look crossed his face. He shook his head. “Not enough.”

“You either stay behind with your daughter like a good little mommy,” Bridgeport said with impatient sarcasm, “or come with us and be a star. It’s your choice. But you’d best decide soon. The company meets in New Orleans in two months’ time, then we sail for Rome.”

Two

New Mexico Territory

SISTER MARIA ELENA RAMIREZ SHIFTED ON THE BUGGY seat, trying to ease the ache in her damaged hip. She had been traveling for the last five days, by train, then coach, and now hired buggy out of Val Rosa, and she was beginning to wonder if the pain was God’s way of suggesting she shouldn’t have made the trip.

But what choice had she? She was nearing the end of her years as a novice, and next month she would go into retreat to prepare for her final vows. If she was ever to explain her decision to the Wilkins family, or forgive her brother for the heartache he had brought them all, this was her last chance.

The buggy bounced over a rock. She bit back a gasp of pain and glanced at the driver beside her, wondering if he was asleep. Or blind. Or simply in league with
El Diablo.

An unworthy thought. She would have to say five
Pater Nosters
to cleanse her soul. Perhaps ten. Trying to focus away from the pain, she studied the landscape rolling past as they began the long descent into RosaRoja Valley.

Spring had come early this year. Already the native plants were starting to green, and under a lingering coat of morning dew, the broad valley glistened like an emerald in the sun. Twice they slowed to pick their way through shallow, fast-moving water that cut across the road. Fed by the last of the snow melting on the high peaks, it rushed down the slopes to overflow the creek that bisected the valley floor. Birds darted through the trees that crowded the canyons. Newly budded aspens shivered in the gentle breeze. Cattle littered the flats, greedily munching the green shoots pushing through the dirt and growing heavy with the calves they would drop soon.

She smiled, breathing in the sweet scents of damp earth and new grass, lulled by the music of birdsong and trickling water, and enjoying the clean, cool breeze after three years of foggy, sooty air in San Francisco.

Nowhere else did spring bring such a dramatic rebirth of life and hope and energy as it did in this starkly beautiful place. She reveled in it, committing each glorious scent and sound to memory to sustain her through the long years ahead. The cycles of RosaRoja Rancho had been born and bred into her, and she loved them almost as much as she loved God.

The road began to level off. She saw they were approaching the southwest boundary line, and being so close to the place where she had lived for most of her life made her heartbeat quicken with both anticipation and dread.

Should she have told them she was coming? Would Jack be there? Would the Wilkins family understand her decision, or had the brothers left all the destruction behind and moved on?

When she had left three years ago hoping to have her crippled hip repaired, everything had been in chaos. The feud between the Ramirez and Wilkins families had finally ended, but at a terrible cost—the rancho nearly destroyed by fire, her brother dead, Jessica and her son sent back to England by Brady Wilkins, while he and his brother, Hank, struggled to start over again. Throughout the long months of her recovery after surgery, she had prayed for each of them every night, these generous people who had been dearer to her than her own blood kin. Would they welcome her now, after the anguish she had caused the youngest brother, Jack?