The Songbird's Overture Read online

  I smiled and nodded, saying all the things I should, but my mind was wrapped up in irritation with itself. Why couldn’t I be satisfied with what I had? Why did I want more when I knew that leaving would hurt those I loved?

  The Girards said their goodbyes, and I silently watched them trot up the road on their horses, Fleur trailing along behind.

  “What do you have planned for the rest of your afternoon?” my father asked. “Your sister said she’s doing the rest of your chores as a birthday gift.”

  I smirked at Joss’ white lie, but didn’t out her. She was chasing my pony around the field in a fruitless attempt to catch him, so I suspected a lot of my chores would be waiting for me the following day. But my amusement didn’t last. I considered the options available to me, including stealing my pony back and riding to town to visit my best friend Sabine, trekking up to the pond to see if I could catch a trout, or sneaking over to the outskirts of the rockslide to see if I could find a glint of gold. On any other day, all three would be appealing, but I was reluctant to undertake anything that would take me away from the farm. What if she came while I was gone? What if she left because I wasn’t waiting?

  My father raised one eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Things,” I replied, hoping my tone suggested I had something better in mind than waiting in the ditch until dusk. Holding up my new long skirts, I started down the road.

  “Cecile!”

  I turned to look over my shoulder at him.

  “She don’t wake much before noon. Will be a few more hours yet before you can expect her.”

  I wandered through the trees of the forest, always making certain the road was within sight. There was only one way she could pass, and I wasn’t willing to risk missing a moment of her visit. Anticipation kept me moving, and I danced through the trees, singing random notes and attempting to imitate the birds flying overhead. My voice echoed through the woods, and closing my eyes, I imagined how it would sound in a theatre, what it would be like knowing the right songs to sing. What it would feel like having an audience listening.

  Finding a patch of springy moss, I lay down, watching the clouds pass over the treetops through eyelids that grew heavier as the sun passed over the sky.

  I don’t know how long I slept before the sound of cantering hooves and jingling harness startled me awake. Scrambling to my feet, I sprinted toward the road, heedless of the branches clutching at my hair and dress. Through the trees, flashes of grey and brown were visible, the carriage moving much faster than was advisable on the rough dirt track. I stumbled out onto the road just after the horses passed, and the coachman gave me an angry glare though none of the animals had spooked.

  “Wait,” I called out.

  But the carriage kept moving. I stood stock-still in the center of the road, certain they would stop. Certain that my mother had seen me or sensed my presence, and that the door would open, one slender hand emerging to beckon me inside. But the horses plowed onward, slowly disappearing into the distance.

  “You been waiting in the bushes all day, im-beCecile? Good thing I got here before dark, or the trolls might have snatched you up for dinner. Not that you’d make much of a meal.”

  I turned round to glare up at my older brother, who sat slouched in his saddle. “Hardly. I spent the morning doing your chores.”

  “Aren’t my chores anymore.” Fred dropped a stirrup for me and I swung up behind him, cursing my long skirts when they caught. “Bloody stones and sky.”

  “Gran will wash your mouth out twice with soap if she hears you talking that way,” Fred said, starting down the road at a slow walk.

  “You going to tell?” I asked, although I wasn’t really paying attention. The carriage was already out of sight. I dug my heels into the horse’s side, trying to urge it faster, but Fred checked the reins. The animal

  sidestepped, ears pinned back, so I left off the effort.

  “Nah,” Fred replied. “She’d probably say you’d learnt it from me and wash mine out for good measure.”

  “Probably.” I leaned around him, considering whether I’d be better off hopping down and running on my own two feet. “Could we go a little faster?”

  “Ain’t I good enough company?” Fred turned around and grinned at me. He’d gotten taller in the intervening months, although no wider. Holding onto him was like holding onto a broomstick.

  “Clearly we’re the ones who aren’t good enough company,” I retorted. “You haven’t been back once.”

  The smile slid from his face and he turned back around. “It’s hard to get leave.” His voice was dark, the tone indicating to me that there was more to the story than just an overbearing commander.

  “Maybe they think you’re coddled enough without time off, living with your mother and all,” I teased.

  “I don’t live with her!”

  I flinched, startled by the venom in his voice. “But I thought…”

  “Well you thought wrong. I live in the barracks now, and frankly, I’d rather sleep on the streets of Pigalle than spend another night under the same roof as her.”

  My chest tightened and a million questions sprang to my mind. But before I could say a word, Fred laid the reins to his horse’s shoulders and we were galloping full tilt down the road. I almost toppled off the back, but it wasn’t the first time he’d pulled such a stunt on me so I’d unconsciously been holding on. And anyway, I was far more concerned with the anger he’d directed at our mother than with the prospect of falling off a horse. What had she done?

  As we tore down the lane towards the farm, I leaned around him to get a better look at the carriage. It was stopped. The coachman had secured the reins and was climbing off so he could open the door. My father stood a few paces away from the carriage, shoulders managing to be slumped and tense all at the same time.

  Fred pulled his horse to a sliding stop, spraying mud everywhere and earning a frown from our father. I jumped off before he could push me off, and barely managed to smooth down my skirts over my woolen stockings before she stepped out of the carriage.

  She didn’t look old enough to be my mother. Her skin was pale and smooth against the dark purple velvet of her gown, blue eyes startlingly bright even from paces away. Before the sun had a chance to even kiss her skin, she snapped open a black satin and lace parasol, holding it above her head as she brushed her hair back over her shoulder. With one hand, she lifted up her skirts, revealing high-heeled brocade shoes that were slowly sinking into the mud.

  My father took a few steps towards her, then paused, seeming uncertain of whether she wanted assistance or not. “It’s good to see you, Genny.”

  “I’ve told you not to call me that.” Like my own voice, hers carried well on the air, and I grimaced at her rejection of my father’s familiarity. Seeing them in close proximity, it seemed barely possible they could be acquaintances, much less a pair married fifteen years. My father, the dirty, weatherworn farmer, and my mother, the sparkling opera star, A more incongruous pair I’d never seen. Time changed people, but either one or both of them must have been completely different when they first met. What had they been like, I wondered, and what had made them change?

  “Papa, where’s Joss?”

  Fred’s voice startled me, but my mother’s frowning inspection of her shoes didn’t waver.

  “In the barn brushing the pony, I reckon.”

  “I’ll go get her,” Fred said. “You do want to see Josette, don’t you, Genevieve?”

  I looked up, surprised to hear him call her so.

  “I’m sure I’ll see her at some point,” she replied, either used to him calling her by name, or not caring that he did. And clearly not caring whether my little sister made an appearance or not. Given everything that had happened today, a dull burn of anger seared through my guts at her casual dismissal of Josette. I snapped my face around, ready to put her in her place, but the full force of my mother’s gaze stopped the words in my throat.

  “My sweet little bird.”
She tilted her face slightly to the side, lips blossoming into a smile. “I’ve missed you dreadfully.”

  It was absolutely the most perfect thing she could have said to me. My anger disappeared as though it had never existed, and I started towards her, arms outstretched. But she didn’t mirror the motion, and I ground to a halt. Awkwardly, I lowered my arms and took a step back, aware that both my brother and father were looking anywhere but at us. “I’m going to find Joss,” Fred muttered, dragging his horse towards the barn.

  Of course hugging her would be inappropriate. It was far too familiar. And while I might have started the afternoon off clean, Fred’s horse had left sweat stains on my dress and out of the corner of my eye I could see a twig stuck in my curls. “I missed you too, Mama.”

  Her smile brightened, and with one hand, she reached out to cup my cheek. “My darling Cecile.” Her fingers were soft and smelled of flowers. “Come, come. Let us go inside before the sun puts any more freckles on your face. We’ve much to discuss.”

  She took my arm, and I slowly helped her across the yard towards the house, wondering the entire time why she had worn such impractical footwear. No amount of scrubbing would get the mud out of the brocade. I steered her around the puddles, taking small steps so that I wouldn’t splash water onto her skirts, but she didn’t seem to care that she was wrecking her fine things.

  “How was the journey, Mama?” I asked, helping her onto the steps.

  “Dreadful, as always,” she replied, waiting for me to open the door for her. She didn’t bother to knock the worst of the grime off her feet before going inside, and I winced as she tracked mud across the wooden floor.

  Neither she nor Gran acknowledged each other, but that wasn’t anything new I pulled out a seat for my mother, and only quick action on my part got it back underneath her in time as she sat without looking. Hurrying to the fire, I poured steaming water from the kettle into the teapot, placing the chipped tea service with fresh cream and honey on the table in front of her. I could feel both their eyes on me as I sliced a few thick pieces of the fresh loaf Gran had baked, smeared them with butter I’d churned myself, and put them on the table with the tea. Then I cautiously sat down on the chair between them, careful to cross my ankles properly rather than pulling them up underneath me as was my habit.

  My mother poured the tea for both of us, adding a generous amount of honey to both cups. I didn’t like mine sweet, but I was afraid to argue.

  She took a small sip of the steaming liquid, eyes fixed on me. What important things did she want to talk about? Had something happened? How did it involve me? A thousand questions leapt through my head, but underneath my curiosity, hope was growing.

  “Sing.”

  The demand managed to be expected and surprising at the same time. Tea slopped out of my cup onto my hand, and I had to bite my lip to keep from yelping at the pain. I’d imagined this situation more times than I could count, but now that it was upon me, I had no idea what to do. In my imagination, I’d always known the perfect song to sing, but in reality, I’d never learned anything beyond what we sang at festivals. I cast an imploring look Gran’s direction, but she only rested her chin on crossed fingers. She wouldn’t help me in this.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I leapt into the song everyone always asked me to sing at dances. It was enthusiastic and joyful, but I barely made it through the first few lines before my mother flung up a hand, choking me off. “Stop. Please stop.” Her brow was creased with a scowl, her eyes cold as the winter sky. “Any talentless wretch could manage that.”

  “I don’t know any others,” I whispered, feeling a tremble in my voice. Do not cry, I screamed at myself. Don’t you dare cry.

  “Why am I not surprised.” She sipped a mouthful of tea. “Cecile, you will repeat after me.”

  She sang a few lines, her voice lovelier than I’d remembered. “Now you.”

  I imitated her, hesitantly at first, but then with more confidence. She’d sing, and I’d repeat, trilling like a songbird mimicking a flute. My father walked in during the middle of it, the smile on his face sad and proud at the same time. I beamed at him while I stretched my voice to match the higher and higher notes my mother sang, meeting each and every one of them. It was the most exquisitely wonderful moment of my life.

  She stopped singing as abruptly as she’d begun. Taking a mouthful of tea, my mother smiled. “Well done, Cecile. Well done.” Then she turned to my father. “I’ll take her when she’s seventeen.”

  “No!” My father looked as surprised as anyone that he’d spoken. “No,” he repeated, more quietly this time. “You ain’t taking her, Genevieve. I need her here. And besides, this here is her home.”

  “She’s wasted here!” There was heat in my mother’s voice.

  My father opened his mouth, looking ready to argue, but she jerked a hand up, cutting him off. “She’s strong, clever, and once she’s grown out of this awkward stage, she’ll be fair enough. And her voice is divine.” Her eyes gleamed. “She’s wasted out here in the country where no one would know talent if it kicked them in the face. I’ll arrange for tutors to come out to Goshawk’s Hollow to teach her — I’ll not have her arriving with the manners of a milk cow.”

  “She knows plenty,” my father retorted. “More than most her age. She can keep house and farm, work the land, and hunt for game. She’ll make a good wife.”

  “As if that’s all she’s good for,” my mother spat, rising to her feet. “Why should she limit herself to becoming a farmer’s wife when she can be so much more?”

  My father went pale. “There was a time you thought becoming a farmer’s wife was a mighty fine thing.”

  “And look how well that turned out!”

  “Enough, both of you!” Gran’s voice filled the kitchen, drowning them both out. “This is Cecile’s decision.”

  The tips of my fingers tingled as I looked from her, to my father, and then to my mother. I was equal parts astonished and terrified to hold my future in my own hands. My mother was offering me everything that I had ever dreamt about on a silver platter, but at what cost? My departure would not only leave my father short-handed on the farm and burden my grandmother with more chores, it would hurt them. Joss, too. I’d be doing exactly what she feared I would —leaving her. They’d think I was choosing my mother over them, when that wasn’t it at all.

  No, a dark little voice whispered inside my head, you’ll be choosing your own selfish desires over the good of your family.

  “It won’t be only music you learn,” my mother said softly. “You’ll learn to read. You’ll have a proper education.”

  I could hear the persuasion in her voice, but it was entirely unnecessary. I already wanted those things —that wasn’t the problem. “The pigs need me,” I said, my voice sounding tight in my own ears because it wasn’t really the pigs I was talking about.

  Nobody said anything for a long time.

  “Don’t make this decision about the pigs,” Gran finally said, and I knew she wasn’t talking about the animals either. She was all but telling me to follow my heart, to do whatever it was that I wanted to do. If only I could be certain what my heart really desired. I wanted to go to Trianon. I wanted to be with my family. But I couldn’t have both.

  Choose.

  I swallowed hard. “I’m sorry, Papa,” I whispered. “But I have to know what it’s like.”

  His face tightened, but it seemed like he’d known what my choice would be even before I did. “I’ll make arrangements for the folks you send to stay at the inn,” he said to my mother. Then without another word, he turned around and left. Gran rose and went after him.

  As soon as they were gone, my mother flung her arms around me, squeezing so tight my ribs creaked. Then she kissed me on both cheeks. “You made the right decision, darling. I knew you would.” She unclasped a golden pendant from her neck and fastened it around mine. Leaning down, she whispered in my ear, “Beauty can be created, knowledge learned, but talent can neit
her be purchased nor taught. And you’ve talent, my dearest girl. When you stand on stage and sing, the whole world will love you.”

  Her words repeated over and over again in my head as I watched her pull back and away from me. “I cannot linger here, my love; I’m needed in Trianon tonight.” A soft laugh erupted from her throat. “I wish I could take you with me now, but it’s better if we wait. You need to be ready so that everything will be perfect.”

  I watched her retreat to her carriage, my mind whirling with elation, fear, and excitement. I had four years to practice. Four years to learn. Four years to prepare.

  And when I turned seventeen, I’d be ready to take on all the world had to offer.

 

 

  Danielle L. Jensen, The Songbird's Overture

 

 

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