Song of Promise

By Golden Gulli Henning - Memoir

Song of Promise documents history through a chaotic period of Americas growth, accenting the Confederate South and European realm.

Set in the late 1800s, the novel follows Rachel, a strong-willed heroine of fair skin who is unaware of her bi-racial birth. Rachels southern prominent grand parents, unable to accept an ethnic scandal, force their daughter, Bluebell (Rachels mother), from their ancestral home.

Homeless and alone, Bluebell is attended by runaway slaves and succumbs giving birth in an abandoned cabin in the southern wilderness. Orphaned, Rachel is cared for by slaves fleeing their lawless owners in the turbulent south, a dangerous place for a small white child, where vigilante slave hunters are rampant and merciless. At age eight, Rachel is fostered by a caring clergy family who recognizes and helps develop her gifted voice.

The saga covers three years of action-packed historical and emotional drama. Amid catastrophic civil war repercussions, social and ethnic issues expose raw, painful, and unjust incidents, keeping readers anxiously alert. A Negro attorney, hired by Rachels family, unravels her mysterious birth, culminating in startling twists of fate.

As history affects us all, this compelling read forces self-judgment, guilt, praise, and determination and proves that no matter what ones beginning may be, through discipline, perseverance, and hard work, one can always reach the top! Never give up!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jun 16, 2004
• ISBN: 9781469112268

Golden Gulli Henning - Memoir

Born in Sweden 84 years ago, Ms. Henning immigrated to the US in 1924. She finds life exciting, full, and challenging and has worked in many facets--from business to entertainment where she still frequently travels to San Francisco (a 240 mile round trip) for interviews and work in films, TV--commercials and series--radio and print. Ms. Henning’s mother instilled the wisdom of not wasting time or life, so in later years she has immersed herself in writing while enjoying her 25 member family, including 11 great-grandchildren. Her philosophy is: A productive mind and body is a happy, active soul, proving that age is of no consequence.

Book preview

SONG OF PROMISE

Golden Gulli Henning - MEMOIR

Copyright © 2004 by Golden Gulli Henning - memoir.

1973 Funk & Wagnalls.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or

transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and

retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright

owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either

are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously,

and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or

locales is entirely coincidental.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

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23707

Contents

Chapter I

Rude Encounter

Chapter II

Society Recital With Mayor Waldron

Chapter III

Meeting Grey and the Operetta Offer

Chapter IV

Thom Joins Slave Underground

Chapter V

Rachel’s Arrival

Chapter VI

Meeting Important Operetta Sponsors

Chapter VII

Carriage Ride

Chapter VIII

The Operetta

Chapter IX

Sandy Cove

Chapter X

Father Karl Seeks Thom

Chapter XI

Father Karl and Jacob’s Journey and

Meeting Pastor Jensen

Chapter XII

Sandy Cove: Grey’s Love Confession

Chapter XIII

Nanna Arrives

Prologue to Chapter XIV

Chapter XIV

First Line on Thom

Chapter XV

Find Thom

Chapter XVI

Cul’s Assistant

Chapter XVII

Thom’s Rescue and Flight

Chapter XVIII

Train Ride

Chapter XIX

Grey Proposes

Chapter XX

Bumpy Carriage Ride to Sandy Cove

Chapter XXI

Thom’s Homecoming and Tragedy

Chapter XXII

Dan’s Information of Rachel’s Search

Chapter XXIII

Thom’s Health

Chapter XXIV

Opera Opening: Grey’s Dilemma

Chapter XXV

Trent as European Guide

Chapter XXVI

Rachel’s Last Day Home

Chapter XXVII

Leaving for Europe

Chapter XXVIII

Arriving in England

Chapter XXIX

Palace Message

Chapter XXX

Back to England

Chapter XXXI

Grey Returns Home

Chapter XXXII

Traveling to France and Other Lands

Chapter XXXIII

European Tour Continued

Chapter XXXIV

More News from Dan

Chapter XXXV

Wedding Canceled

Chapter XXXVI

Bonds of Love

Chapter XXXVII

Paris Performance

Chapter XXXVIII

Trent Proposes

Chapter XXXIX

Letter to Rachel

Chapter XL

Cul’s Story

Chapter XLI

New Family

Chapter XLII

Uncle Daniel

Chapter XLIII

Nanna’s Trunk

Chapter XLIV

From the Beginning

Chapter XLV

Trip to Virginia

Chapter XLVI

Nanna’s Burial

Chapter XLVII

Start Towards the Wedding

Chapter XLVIII

Return Home

Chapter XLIX

The Wedding

Chapter I

Rude Encounter

Rachel’s velvet eyes turned from the window of her swaying carriage to the cryptic message in her hand . . . . April 18, 1896—URGENT! Come at once. Culver Courtson.

Just ahead loomed New York’s majestic St. Patrick’s Gothic Cathedral, a short distance beyond, Courtson Law Offices, the attorney commissioned to solve the mystery of Rachel’s birth, her summoned destination.

Clattering hooves faded to a halt; her small gloved hand nervously checked an oversized hat perched precariously atop her ebony hair.

Rising, as the carriage door opened, she modestly lifted folds of peau-de-soi, extending a dainty French shod foot to the narrow step below.

Without warning, the carriage lurched forward, throwing Rachel into the path of an oncoming carriage. Horses whinnied, people gasped, amidst muffled screams. The gentleman driver of the oncoming carriage, trying to avoid a collision, pulled hard on the reins. His horse reared, twisting the carriage to one side, swerving the seat from under him, and he joined Rachel on the street with a loud thud as horse and carriage continued down Fifth Avenue.

Surprise, pain, and anger spread across Grey Changrell’s face as he proclaimed irrately, Women, the root of all evil! Why do they not stay home tending house and babies where they belong!

Amidst the confusion of an aborted catastrophe, Rachel, shamefully embarrassed, watched the victim jump to his feet, struggling to control his rage, as others offered her assistance.

In disbelief, she watched his anger rise, with no concern for her, only himself. Damn! he hissed, brushing the dirt from his costly attire.

Finally, as if in afterthought, he addressed her, tartly, I am glad to see you are not seriously hurt, Mademoiselle, but with added sarcasm, if you had been more careful, I would still have my horse and carriage!

This was too much; his rudeness, vulgarity, disregard for her well-being were more than she could bear. ‘The nerve! The unmitigated NERVE!’ she fumed silently. ‘I could have been killed and he is chastising me!’

Sir, she bristled, I am a lady, or I would advise you too on being careful. She stretched her five foot two inches, one hundred two pounds to look into the massive bulk towering above her, and continued, not only in handling a horse, but on showing a gentleman’s bad manners as well!

As color flushed her tawny cheeks, she tucked a wayward lock of her waist-length hair into the now askew bun, somewhat grateful for the obscurity of the disheveled look.

Gathering her scattered belongings, she smoothed her ruffled skirts, as well as emotions, buttoned the popped button at the tiny waist, then with a deliberate voiced huff, walked across the street to her attorney, a highly respected negro barrister, Culver Courtson.

Courtson law offices were impressive. Paneled walls, thick, ruby brocade drapes hung from ceiling to floor over large windows, revealing New York’s growing skyline. A hardwood floor of light oak supported several well appointed furnishings, evidence of the occupant’s good taste. The outer office, equally attractive, sheltered Courtson’s secretary, Grace Goodclift, alerted now to Rachel’s entry.

Good afternoon, Miss Damien. Oh dear, is something wrong? You seem harried.

Good afternoon, Miss Goodclift. No, thank you, she clipped. I am fine, but please excuse me while I adjust myself. May I use the cloakroom a moment?

Of course. I will tell Mr. Courtson you are here.

Rachel turned to leave, hesitated, then turned back. I am sorry, Miss Goodclift; yes, in truth, there is something wrong. I will tell you about it upon my return. I am not injured—just furious at some people’s rudeness. Especially men! Rachel continued to the cloak room.

Knocking on Mr. Courtson’s door, Grace Goodclift listened for his come in.

She is here. Shall I send her in?

Yes, of course.

Culver glanced at his watch, thinking, ‘Good, I will have time to pre-empt her, put her in the proper frame of mind before springing the surprise on her. It could very well change her entire life.’

Returning to Miss Goodclift, control resumed and familiar surroundings taking the edge off her irritating experience, thoughts turned to the matter at hand.

Thank you, Miss Goodclift. I feel much better. My upset was an unfortunate event I would just as soon forget. Quite stupid, in fact.

You certainly made a startling recovery, she replied. You are more like yourself now.

You may go in; he is waiting for you. Rachel entered Culver’s office. Miss Goodclift had barely seated herself at her desk when the outer door burst open admitting a frenzied Grey Changrell. His usual well groomed six foot three frame was mussed and dirt streaked.

Hat in hand, he tried unsuccessfully to brush the blonde tousled hair from his eyes. With none of his usual flattery, he questioned if he was very late, mumbling something about retrieving a runaway horse.

Continuing to the cloak room and glancing over his shoulder, he stated he would be back in a moment, that he could not go in looking as he did, then promptly disappeared through the door.

Culver Courtson rose, greeting Rachel.

Nice to see you. Appreciate your promptness.

Crossing to Culver, she shook his hand. Still shaken, she asked fearfully, What is wrong?

Nothing is wrong. I’m sorry if I worried you by making the message urgent, but I had to be certain you would come.

Nothing wrong?! You mean this could have waited?

Oh no, on the contrary. This could not have waited, but, on the other hand, it is not bad news—only very good.

Culver gestured her to a chair as he returned to his. She accepted his offer, sinking into the soft cushions.

Cul, I frankly cannot see any news good enough to call me away from rehearsals—with exception of my heritage. Madame Varconi was furious I had to leave in the middle of my session. You remember, Mayor Waldron will be at the musicale tomorrow.

Cul rose, leaning over his shiny desk, narrowed his eyes as he stared into hers, mocking, If you make a good impression in the next few minutes, President McKinley may very well be at your next musicale!

President McKinley? her eyes widened unbelievably.

Not only President McKinley, but the King, or Kings some day!

Now he had gone too far, being flippant.

Please, Cul, I am in no mood for levity.

He continued, Seems you have an admirer. A wealthy influential gentleman with knowledge of music and business as well.

He allowed a few seconds for comprehension. This admirer was at Mrs. Werrington’s musicale last week, and though late, after you had gone, she and others gave such a glowing report of your musical talent and charm, he wanted to meet you for a very special reason. A friend of his has written an operetta in which he would like to consider you for the lead, consequently arranging this meeting today.

At these words, the remaining barbs of her jagged nerves melted, unveiling the picture Cul had presented.

Could this truly be happening? Is it finally here?

Happiness flooded her mind. That which she had worked so hard for all these years, was it finally coming to fruition? Had she finally earned a place of respect and prestige for herself? ‘But,’ she thought, ‘I better not get too excited yet.’ Still, she could not control the quiver of excitement which shook her body.

Her hand rose to her hair, wishing she had given a little more attention to its repair. Thanks goodness she had worn her new blue peau-de-soi gown, even the slight rumpling could not distract from its style and fine fit.

Well, if this ‘Mr. Important’ were interested in her voice, he would certainly overlook a little smudge here and there.

‘I will just have to be more gracious and charming,’ she rationalized, silently praying, ‘Oh, please, may I make a good impression!’

Rachel’s heart fluttered as she realized the importance of this meeting.

Hearing a tap on the door, Cul strode around the desk to the door behind Rachel. That is him now . . . . Come in, he called.

Hello Cul. Sorry if I am late. Lowering his voice and leaning over to Cul’s ear, he whispered, Some addle-patted woman shied my horse.

Rachel’s skin tightened at the nape of her neck.

That voice! . . . . Had she not heard it just a few moments before? . . . No! It could not be . . . but . . . it was so distinctive, so deep and commanding.

The voice came closer. She raised her eyes.

Rachel Damien, offered Cul, this is Mr. Grey Garrison Changrell.

She sat glued to her chair. Their eyes locked in electric currents, casting invisible sparks. Color rushed to her cheeks as she stammered in icy control. I believe we have MET!

The dislike was mutual. Indeed we have! Changrell icicled, as he scrutinized her. Has anyone ever told you how to properly alight from a carriage and from which side?

And you, sir! Has anyone every told you how to handle a horse?

I was only responding to the situation! he huffed.

The word is more like aggravating the situation! she snapped.

Sensing he was about to retract his offer—trembling and at the verge of tears—rising, Rachel spoke defensively. I am afraid, Mr. Changrell, that under the circumstances, I am not interested in any offer of yours, and as I was called away from a very important rehearsal, I shall ask to be excused to return there. Good day gentlemen!

Struggling for control, she readied to depart.

Cul puzzled at this repartee, tried to dissect and understand the drama. Perhaps Rachel had not understood this was the man who could change her life.

Rachel, he tried not to sound admonishing, Mr. Changrell has thought of using you in the lead of a new operetta.

A faint glimmer of hope enveloped her, but Mr. Changrell’s steely blue eyes continued to glare as he made no attempt to acknowledge Cul’s statement.

Unable to accept another rejection, Rachel tried to steady her voice. I am certain Mr. Changrell can find someone more to his liking. Sorry if I have wasted your time. Again, good day gentlemen!

She dared not look into his eyes as she started to the door.

Mr. Changrell’s irritation drew forth a sympathetic ray as he watched her struggling to contain her composure, but could see no reason to humor her arrogance.

I am sure I can, Miss Damien, he volunteered to her back as she was leaving. There are many who would like such an opportunity. Good Day!

Reaching the door, Rachel felt her cheeks on fire, not only with the humiliation of the encounter but losing such a grand opportunity. As soon as the door shut behind her, she could no longer control the hot tears. Afraid Miss Goodclift would see her dilemma, she dashed by to the outer room.

Now what? wondered Grace as she heard Rachel hurridly disappear down the hall.

Suddenly, voices rose from Mr. Courtson’s office. The door opened. Talk about short tempered prima donnas, Grey Changrell groaned. She can certainly add her name to that roster. But, I will try to do as you suggested, Cul. After I bathe my ruffled feathers in a large brandy, I will think it over and perhaps arrange another meeting. Until then, au voir!

Grace Goodclift, shaking her head, sat in confusion, trying to decipher this strange drama. My, my, my, oh my was all she could offer as she stared at the door.

Chapter II

Society Recital With Mayor Waldron

Night ebbed, scattering its ebony blanket, as dawn flung ribbons of vibrant hues across an awakening sky. Slumber gently released Rachel to the new day. She lay caressed in soft down, relishing the extravagance of her sumptuous boudoir, a luxury promised herself from memories of lonely sleepless nights on cold makeshift cots, overwrought with uncertainties.

Shiny pink satin graced windows and bed, bouncing rainbows of sunlight about her. Moments such as these gave credence to extended cost and care lavished on her room.

Life’s hardships seemed easier surrounded in beauty. Yes, one could dream big dreams, and life could be beautiful; it was wonderful to be alive, especially today.

Her nostrils filled with pungent spring fragrances—flowers in bloom, budding trees, even New York with its own scintillating smells stirred hopes and dreams.

Determination, hard work, despite her suffering, had been worthwhile, and yesterday’s melee was to be accepted as a closed chapter—another lesson in life—an unnecessary aggravation, endured and forgotten.

Rachel snuggled deep in her warm refuge, returning to euphoria between sleep and awareness, drifting into a montage of yesterday’s events. In a dreamy trance, she saw his eyes, intensely blue, almost sapphire. He was tall, extremely tall, remembering he had towered over her. Ruggedly handsome, with a beautiful voice, deep and resonant—maybe a singer. Tanned skin, shaded by light tousled hair. No doubt of Viking stock. A gentle smile began to tug at her lips . . . .

Suddenly, reality pierced her fantasy, shameful guilt burned her cheeks, her skin flushed, magnifying her humiliation. Anger flared at his intrusion, even if it were only in a day dream.

Determined to shake away this absurd play of thoughts, she jumped out of bed, slipped into her peignoir, and hurried to the window. Opening it, she leaned into the fresh air, releasing a cascade of ebony tresses, catching the golden glow of dawn which trapped copper sparks from the sunrise. Then, as if to clear her mind of a threatening nightmare, she leaned further and shaking her head vigorously, releasing the silken tresses to the sun and breeze.

Feeling purged of his irritating mental intrusion, she raised her head, tossed her hair over her shoulders and scanned the sleepy city. With fresh thoughts, she returned to the day ahead.

An important day. She was to sing at Society’s Charity Musicale. Guests would include Mayor Waldron and other important and influential contacts that would bring her closer to her goal.

GOAL—that vital GOAL! Her heritage! Who was she? Where did she come from? What was her background?

She was compelled by a driven force to unravel this mystery, clear away the foreboding cloud of uncertainty. This soul-wrenching agony burned deep in her soul, hovering sinister, suppressing the future, and alluding happiness. This goal had to be fulfilled to ease her anguish and gain a respected place in life.

Before coming to the Andreasons’ eleven years ago, barely eight years old, her life had been hard and humiliating, steeped in thankless hard work, hunger, sleepless nights, and ridicule. Never once did her young mind waver in her desire or efforts to strive for a better life or seek her background.

With love and help of these kind, adopted parents, she had put all hope of reaching this goal in her God-given voice and musical ability.

Her voice—rich, strong,and vibrant, along with perfect pitch and a true ear for tone—was her spring-board to success. A wedge to pry away agonies of being unwanted, poor, tainted, and a nobody . . . her path to the throne of respect and abundance.

The tarnished phase of the arts had to be overcome, and she would climb to the heights of respected greats such as Jenny de Gallin and Lina Luccini. Nothing could stand in her way. She, too, would be great by work and sacrifice. This was her cross to bear and someday, joyfully cast aside.

Inspiration restored, she closed the window and prepared her bath. Filling the tub with hot water, scented lightly with rose-attar, she slipped the lace chambray night-dress from her shoulders, contented as she glimpsed her firm, trim body reflected in the long beveled glass mirror.

Knotting a mountain of glossy hair atop her head, she dipped a toe into the welcome warmth before slipping slowly into pampered luxury. She lay mellow in the sweet smelling water, a parade of tiny goose bumps dancing on her tawny skin.

Completely relaxed, her heart quickened as she contemplated the day ahead, humming lightly songs for today’s soiree.

In a surge of elation, she broke into a refrain from All My Hopes Are Bound To Be, followed by a run of scales ending on high C, trilling as a bird warbles his morning song.

Smiling, she thought confidently, ‘I am in fine form and shall do well today. Imagine, two musicales in one week, singing in lovely homes for cultured guests and . . . . Mayor Waldron!’

She was glad Madam Varconi had chosen the aria from Coronetta as she was secure in its range.

Lathering the scented soap, she rinsed and hummed, occasionally breaking out in tune or lyric, scrubbing her hands with the fine nail brush, till the fingers shone pink—hands were important for expression in song.

She winced in pain as the bristles caught tiny abrasions inflicted in the carriage fall yesterday. Why did she have to be the one to cross his path? ‘Here he is again—that crude person invading my privacy.’ Reliving the humiliating incident found her so irritated as to talk aloud to herself. ‘Imagine! Imagine blaming me for his stupidity and in front of all those people! He could have shown concern or remorse—Oh the cad, the ultimate cad! I hope I shall never run into him again!’ Irately striking the water with her hand, she sent suds flying into the air. ‘Stop it,’ she said aloud to herself. ‘Keep him out of your thoughts or he will ruin your day.’ Hurriedly, she jumped from the tub.

Bath completed, patting the moisture with a soft towel, she reached for her peignoir and loosely draped it around her.

Now for the wardrobe. She studied the array of gowns, her fingers gliding lightly over silks and satins. A peach taffeta, banded in ecru lace and sutash braid, caught her eye. Subtle, yet elegant in style and color, both complimenting. Peach taffeta it would be, accessorized with cream kid footwear, matching long gloves, topped by a jaunty bonnet of the same fabric. A confident choice!

One hour and forty minutes of meticulous effort were rewarded as she studied her reflection in the mirror. Happy with the results, she gave the sculptured coiffure a final pat . . . . She was ready!

Twenty minutes remained before the Werrington carriage would arrive, time enough to run through scales and lyrics.

Mother Lotte was about to call Rachel, when she appeared at the top of the stairs. Ah! The sound of an angel’s voice had floated from above.

How pretty you look dear. With your lovely voice to match, I know you will be warmly received.

Thank you, Mother Lotte, she replied as she descended the stairs. I do feel prepared and will do my best, but it is not without qualms, however. See, my hands tremble. Such a momentous occasion, and I want them to know by doing my very best just how grateful I am for this opportunity.

Dear little Rachel, Lotte replied. You are so humble and kind; it is they who should be grateful to hear a voice as clear and beautiful as yours.

Lotte Andreason had softened much hurt for this humble child—since she and her husband Karl had rescued Rachel from a slave family unable to care for her—and accepted her as their daughter. She understood Rachel’s past treatment, and with the Andreasons’ help watched her emerge and blossom into this confident, lovely human.

There had been trying times, but the good far outweighed them, recalling Rachel’s first church solo when she froze in terror, running from the sanctuary, later refusing to participate in activities for many weeks. Then accomplishing her first successful solo, in triumph, her spirits and confidence soared.

Rachel’s scarred childhood memories lay deep within her, and she gratefully accepted the love and kindness of her adopted family to replace many tortured memories. Rachel knew it was not an easy time for the Andreasons, eleven years ago when Rachel had come to them. They had just come from a small southern town to bustling New York City and accepted a call to St. Luke’s parish, a small, poor church. Adding Rachel to their already tight budget, which barely cared for their family of three, including ten year old son Thomas, was difficult, but God’s love had provided and in years to come showered them with untold blessings with the growth and prospering of his church. One of these blessings had grown into this loving, self-assured young woman—the daughter Mother Lotte and Father Karl Johann had prayed for.

Lotte touched Rachel’s cheek lovingly. God’s blessing, she whispered.

The clatter of hooves rang from the street; Rachel hurried to the window, drawing aside the curtain. The carriage is here. Are you coming soon? Is Father Karl ready?

Assuring her they would follow shortly, Lotte watched the swirling taffeta, carried by feet light as a doe, disappear into the carriage. Smiling, she returned the wave from the window.

Stroking the rich velvet rust colored seats, which complimented her soft peach gown, Rachel thought of the Werringtons. They were endowed with such lovely things, and surrounded in this luxury made her feel like a queen. Now if only she would sing to this merit, perhaps, she, too, one day would have a carriage as fine as this. ‘No!’ she admonished herself. ‘As Father Karl has taught me, I must be confident: I will have a carriage such as this. I must have faith and only think positively. Yes, I must have faith, and I shall have a fine carriage.’

The lull of the rhythmic hoof beats was soothing. Her mind wandered, and she wondered if his carriage was as elaborate. Cul had said he was very wealthy.

Good heavens! She once again found herself thinking about that rude person and bad experience. What had come over her? Here she was on the way to an ever so important event and cluttering her thoughts with such nonsense. How dare he!!!!!

The Werrington’s stately mansion came into view, impressive and a bit overwhelming and frightening. Already guests were pulling up to the entrance. Grooms were taking carriages to the carriage house . . . . Just think—The Mayor!

Using the steadying hand of the coachman, she stepped carefully from the carriage, mounting the large scrubbed stone steps leading to massive tall golden oak doors which opened to reveal the opulent foyer, more awesome in its splendor than Rachel recalled from her previous rehearsal visit.

Large rococo urns, bursting with colorful blossoms, stood on gleaming inlaid oak floors. An ornately carved balustrade ascended on each side of the foyer leading to the upper floor, meeting in a balcony above in front of her. Directly below the balcony was the archway to the grand ballroom. There large floor-to-ceiling windows flooded sunlight into a vast room festooned with handsomely carved furnishings, covered in brocades, velvets, and satins. Gilt-framed mirrors and pictures reflected sparkling crystal sconces and chandeliers, all flanked by a myriad of floral bouquets.

Rachel was certain that kings could have no finer.

Seats were arranged with a focal point to the piano, harp, and music section.

Suddenly, Rachel realized that focal point was where she would be standing. Her nerves tingled with elated anxiety, but before she could realize the full meaning, a cheery hello sounded somewhere behind her.

Mrs. Winifreda Werrington emerged from a side door and greeted Rachel warmly.

Good afternoon, Rachel. You look lovely. Then noting Rachel’s interest in the room, she added, Do you approve of the ballroom arrangement? We tried to place the furnishings so you would have the best acoustics.

Oh, yes, Mrs. Werrington; it is perfect. I was only studying the beauty and size of the room and am overwhelmed.

From what I heard of your lovely voice at the last recital, we are the ones to be overwhelmed, remarked Mrs. Werrington.

You are very kind; I do hope I can warrant your faith. Thank you.

If you wish, we can go to your room upstairs where you may wait and run through your music. There is a harpsichord there.

I would like that. Thank you.

Climbing the shining oak stairs, Rachel studied the portraits and paintings along the wall, sliding her trembling hand on the smooth ebony balustrade railing.

Passing one room, Mrs. Werrington opened the second door, tall and equally ornate and heavy, which lead to a large boudoir in soft French blue and gold décor. Thick pale blue carpet intensified the French blue drapes of moiré taffeta edged in heavy silken fringe which hung before the high arched windows. Commodes, dressers, plump, soft down chairs, and setees were all in Louis XIV, hand painted in detailed renaissance scenes, covered in exquisite silks, petit point and satins.

Two handsomely painted, gold leafed half-opened doors led to the harpsichord room.

‘Breathtaking,’ Rachel gasped to herself, hoping she would have enough breath to sing.

Informing Rachel that she had time to relax and practice, Mrs. Werrington motioned to the bell cord, noting if she wished anything to ring. The tea is hot, she said, lifting the lid of the gleaming server. I will send word when it is time for you to come down. Until then . . . .

Alone, Rachel remained standing motionless, absorbing the moment. Tempting fragrant steam escaping from the silver server, which was perched atop a small gilded table, wafted lazily upward, drawing her eyes to the Italian veined marble fireplace. Above it hung a family portrait, beautifully painted, reminding her of someone.

She lowered herself into cloud-soft down on the settee, poured brisk tea into a tiny porcelain cup. Pondering her choice of assorted petit-fours, she finally settled on a puffy concoction of butterscotch and whipped-cream. Savoring this moment, both visually and gastronomically, she allowed herself as much dream time as she dared. Then finishing the delicious tidbit with a sip of tea, it was time to give attention to her reason here.

Retrieving her portfolio, she took out her music, entered the harpsichord room, and seated herself on the brocade-covered stool. Running her fingers over the ivory keys, admiring the pure tone, she hummed a chromatic scale in soft voice, a harmonizing scale, finishing with several bars from Coronetta.

Her voice sounded clear as a bell, and the dulcet tone of the instrument echoed her vitality and joy, creating a magical combination—hypnotizing.

A knock sounded at the door. Madam Varconi entered.

Good evening, Rachel, she offered breathlessly. Superb! Glorious! I heard you as I came up the stairs.

Thank you, Madame. I feel quite confident. Do you wish I run through again?

Madame, nodding, thumbed through the music pulling out a particular sheet. From here, she pointed, we’ll run through to the last measure.

Madam Varconi’s musical skill, blended with Rachel’s voice, was inspiring; both lived and felt their music. It was as if Heaven opened, liberating music of angels.

As the last note faded, they lingered in quiet reverie, Madame obvious in her approval and admiration.

Bella, bella Rachel, sing like that for the musicale and they will fall at your feet.

Madame glanced at her gold neck-chain watch—ten minutes until program start. Tenderly cupping Rachel’s chin in her hand, looking into her sparkling eyes, she whispered, Sweet, sweet child. God has blessed you. Then added, Shall we go?

A final glance in the mirror, a pat on each cheek to bring color, a swish at the rustling taffeta, gloves drawn, music in hand, Rachel gave an affirmative nod, Yes, Madame, I am ready.

They descended the stairs and walked across the foyer to the arched entrance of the ballroom.

Seeing them, Mrs. Werrington informed the maestro they were taking their places and were about to begin.

The harpist drew her fingers across the strings; a quiet hush fell over the capacity-filled room. Mrs. Werrington turned to the guests, announcing Rachel and Madam Varconi, Rachel’s accompanist and teacher. The guests applauded politely as Madame and Rachel glanced through the sea of bouffant skirts, perfumed ladies, and formally attired gentlemen.

Rachel placed herself beside the concert grand while Madame seated herself and arranged the music. Silently glancing around at the expectant faces, Rachel guessed the gentleman directly in front with the heavy gold watch chain across his rather portly abdomen, stiff in starched collar, was the celebrated guest of honor—Mayor Waldron.

She nodded and curtsied to him, the guests, Mrs. Werrington, and finally to Madame to begin the lead-in.

With a deep breath, she started to sing the lovely ‘Tis the Summer’s Last Bloom. She enjoyed singing it and did so perfectly. The audience was pleased, too, applauding before the last note faded. It was a success.

Next the deep and sensitive, Holy and Great My Lord. That, too, went well. Finally, the complicated aria from the opera, Coronetta.

It was over; the guests broke into tumultuous applause, rising in admiration. Mayor Waldron, with outstretched hands, praised her.

Young lady, you have been blessed with a most beautiful voice. Not this small group alone should hear you sing, but the entire world. I shall be looking forward to the next musicale and wish you a great future. Then turning to Madame, the mayor continued, Seems you have a young musical protégé under you wing; let me know if I can help in her progress. I would deem it an honor.

The mayor stepped away as the crowd pressed toward Rachel. This was the time for personal tribute and the accolade was extremely assuring and kind. Madame Varconi, obviously pleased, placed a kiss on her cheek. It was a wonderful feeling to know she had done well.

The lovely tea, served by prim maids in starched uniforms, soon ended, and Rachel made her way to the upstairs room to collect her bonnet and portfolio.

Her bonnet secure, portfolio in hand, she stepped onto the balcony leading to the descending stairs, where Madame, Mrs. Werrington and guests were waiting below.

She had just passed the first door at the top of the stairs, when suddenly the second burst open, striking Rachel full on her back throwing her off balance, toward the gaping stairwell. Muffled sounds of alarm echoed in the foyer as she struggled to adjust her momentum. Suddenly, strong fumbling arms grasped her gyrating form until finally she was held solidly against a strong powerful chest. She remained breathless, locked in his embrace, easing her shock and regaining composure. Her heart pounding wildly, she rested her head against him. Everything seemed to come to a standstill, like people in a photogravure.

Then . . . . softly: Are you hurt? . . . . THAT VOICE! That same deep resonant voice! It couldn’t be!

She twisted away, turning her head to meet those same sapphire blue