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Elegy

Written by David Carrico

 

Magdeburg, April 1635

 

Andrea Abati moved down the hallway with a light step. This was one of Marla Linder’s lesson days, and he didn’t want to be late.

Working with Marla was such a joy to him. As a gentilhuomo—or castrato, as he and those like him were more vulgarly known—his life in Italy had been one of performances mixed with adulation, a certain amount of scheming in the papal court, and frequent dalliances with ladies—often married—who enjoyed both his notoriety and the fact that an unanticipated pregnancy would never complicate their lives. In his early thirties, his voice fully mature and in the prime of his singing life, he had not yet begun to teach. But then he came to Magdeburg and met Marla Linder.

Andrea’s friend, Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, called Marla’s voice golden. Andrea thought that the maestro was guilty of an understatement. The young woman’s voice surpassed his own in range, and was fully the equal of his in timbre. What she lacked was technique. And she awoke in him the hunger to teach, the desire to take a younger musician in hand as a gardener might take a sapling, to nurture the raw talent, help to shape it and grow it, until full maturity was reached. And as that hunger grew, Andrea’s life began to change.

Il Prosperino, Andrea had been called in Italy. The name literally meant “The Prosperous One,” but was usually meant to say “Little Prospero.” It had actually been bestowed on him because in his early days in Rome he had been somewhat of a protégé to Prospero Orsi, an artist and fellow citizen of Norcia, Andrea’s home. Some wit had said, “Look, here comes Prospero and his Prosperino,” and the name had stuck. He hadn’t minded—in truth, he had been a bit smug about it. The name was appropriate, because he had indeed prospered in almost every way.

If musical talent was the cornerstone of Andrea’s fame in Rome, flamboyance had certainly been the keystone. Flamboyant speech, flamboyant dress, and definitely flamboyant liaisons with the ladies. Yet here in Germany, exposed to the music found in Grantville, the uptime instruments and works and harmonies, bit by bit the flamboyance began to drain from him. That alone had shocked him when he realized it was happening. But to find it replaced with a desire to teach, when he had always looked down on teaching as the refuge of those who either could not perform to his high standard or those who were past their prime, that had been an even greater shock. But before long, Il Prosperino had been replaced by Master Andrea.

Andrea smoothed a hand down the front of his short-waisted black velvet jacket, and grinned to himself. Of course, he had not given up all culture and appearances, but now it was somewhat different. Now he did not seek to shock or titillate or over-awe; he demonstrated instead . . . what was the French phrase Marla had told him . . . oh yes, savoir-faire. Andrea was now a “class act.”

Marla had been his first student. He had many more students now, including several girls from the Duchess Elisabeth Sofie Secondary School for Girls. He enjoyed teaching every one of them, but Marla was still his favorite. He smiled. Her passion for the music may not have exceeded his own, but it was certainly equal to it.

Music wafted down the hall; piano, then flute. Marla must be practicing the flute piece for the concert as well. Andrea opened the door just a moment after the music stopped in mid-phrase.

“It still doesn’t sound right.” Marla sounded determined. Andrea smiled. Determination was a frequent state of mind for Marla.

“I think it sounds fine.” Hermann Katzberg spoke from where he sat at the piano.

The Steinway grand that Marla had escorted to Magdeburg in late 1633 was still the reigning queen of keyboards in the city. It had somehow become the property of the Imperial and Royal Academy of Music in Magdeburg. Andrea still wasn’t sure just how Master Carissimi, the head of the academy, had managed to bring that about, but he had. In addition, no less than three of the Bledsoe & Riebeck pianos, built with hardware salvaged from old up-time pianos, had made their way from Grantville to Magdeburg in the last two years. The academy had managed to acquire one of them, which was now the principal practice piano.

“It’s not right,” Marla insisted again.

“What’s not right?” Andrea asked.

“This passage.” She pointed to the music on the piano.

Andrea studied the passage in question, then straightened.

“Play it again.”

Marla raised the flute, licked her lips, and nodded to Hermann. He began the accompaniment part; she entered moments later. Andrea listened attentively, but also observed Marla’s physical actions.

At the end of the phrase, she stopped, making a face as if smelling something rancid. She turned to Andrea and waited.

“You are breathing in the wrong places. You don’t have enough diaphragm support.”

“But that’s where my flute teacher told me to breath!”

Marla sounded somewhat offended. Andrea looked at her with his best Master Andrea frown. “Marla, breathing is breathing, whether you play a flute, a pennywhistle, one of those molto grande tubas, or sing. I know breathing. And I tell you, you are breathing in the wrong places.”

He pulled a pencil from his jacket pocket, leaned over the music, and made two marks. “Breath here and here, and firm your diaphragm, just as if you were singing the high notes.”

Her expression skeptical, Marla raised the flute and played the phrase again, Hermann following her lead. Andrea listened with head cocked to one side, nodding. She finished with a bit of a flourish, then gave her teacher a nod.

“You were right, Master Andrea. It does sound better that way.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he growled. He was unable to keep the smile from his face as her skirling laughter filled the room. “As Franz would say, play it again to prove you know it.”

Again the flute notes sounded; again he observed.

“Excellent!” Andrea applauded. “Now, can we begin the songs we are supposed to be rehearsing today?”

“Yes, Master Andrea.”

 

May 1635

 

Maestro Giacomo Carissimi, the head master of the Imperial and Royal Academy of Music in Magdeburg, settled into his seat next to his good friend, Girolamo Zenti, proprietor and master craftsman of the instrument crafting firm of the same name.

“Good evening, Girolamo.”

“Good evening, Maestro.”

Giacomo wanted to shake his head. Even though they had been friends for several years now, Girolamo would always speak to him with utmost respect in public. He started to chide his friend, but in the end just sighed and held his tongue. They had had this conversation before. He doubted that anything would change if they rehearsed it one more time. He looked at the programme instead.

Franz Sylwester, the dirigent—or conductor, as the Grantvillers would have it—had established a theme of “Songs Without Words” for tonight’s concert, declaring that only up-time works would be performed. There were six works on the programme: three orchestral works, two voice solo works accompanied by the orchestra, and a flute solo accompanied by piano. Giacomo ordinarily would have attended most of the rehearsals, but his schedule of late had been so burdened that he had been forced to set that pleasure aside. As a consequence, he was truly looking forward to tonight’s performance.

The orchestra had quietly been warming up for some time. Matthaüs Amsel, the concert master, now strode out to the front of the orchestra. He bowed to the polite applause from the audience, then proceeded to tune the orchestra. Once they were tuned to Matthaüs’ satisfaction, he took his seat.

This was the first concert of the year for the Magdeburg Symphony Orchestra, and everyone who was anyone in Magdeburg was present. Giacomo had seen Hoch-Adel by the dozens when he entered, as well as members of the government and various influential members of the community. Even the Committees of Correspondence were represented . . . or at least he thought he had seen Gunther Achterhof in the back of the room. And of course, Mary Simpson and her coterie of ladies he had heard Marla refer to as the “music mafia” were present in full force.

Franz Sylwester strode through the side door and out to the podium, where he bowed to the audience. Giacomo watched as his friend stepped onto the podium, gathered the eyes of the orchestra, and raised his baton.

The soft flute opened over the ripple of the piano chords; Vaughan Williams’ Fantasia on Greensleeves was begun. The strings came in singing the melody in the lower strings with a descant in the violins. So simple, yet so beautiful.

Giacomo would always have a fond spot in his heart for Ralph (pronounced “Rafe” for some unknown English reason) Vaughan Williams. Despite the fact that the man was a professed atheist, he had written some of the most beautiful hymns and songs Giacomo had ever heard. And his orchestral writing! Remembering the performance of Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis from last year’s summer concert, Giacomo shivered.

This other fantasia, he had to admit, was much lighter, although still exhibiting Vaughan Williams’ deft orchestrations and lush string sounds. He knew that Franz regretted having to substitute piano for the harp part, but there just had not been time to have craftsmen experiment in building a full concert pedal harp from the descriptions and pictures found in various books in Grantville.

Ah, here was the transition of the piece, where for contrast the composer brought in another air, another folk song from England entitled “Lovely Joan.” Melodically darker, moving somewhat quicker, written in what was almost a driving style, until it grounded out into the solo flute line again, and returned to a final statement of the original theme. So light, so airy, almost as if it were sung instead of played. The violins lilted the final statement of the theme, and quietly decrescendoed to fade away.

The audience was rapt for a moment, then applause broke out. It was more than simply polite, but not as fulsome as Giacomo expected to hear later this evening. Franz took a bow, then left through the door.

In the resulting moment of quiet murmuring, Giacomo quickly perused the programme. Yes, his memory had not failed him. The flute solo Marla was to perform came next. Marla and Andrea had talked of little else for days, until they were both happy with both the notes and the musicianship.

And speaking—all right, thinking—of Marla, it was as if she had been summoned. She appeared in the side door, holding her silver flute as if it were a standard, and marched to stand in the curve of the grand piano which was placed in front of the orchestra. She bowed to acknowledge the substantial applause—it was no secret that she was the darling of the patrons of Magdeburg—as Hermann Katzberg settled himself at the keyboard. Marla nodded to Hermann. With a single chord from the piano she launched herself into what sounded as if it were a tour-de-force.

According to the programme, this was the Sonata “Undine” by Carl Reinecke, a composer who was not extremely well-known in the up-time. Marla said he had written some lovely pieces, and this sonata was apparently well known among flutists.

The first movement had a passionately stated theme that passed back and forth between the flute and the piano. The piano part was so lush it was almost made the work a duet. The tone darkened momentarily, flute and piano both working as if under a cloud, then returning to the lighter tonality.

The second movement was an allegretto in a most vivacious manner. Marla played incredibly rapid passages. Just as Giacomo began to worry about her ability to breathe, there was a brief interlude where the piano played solo, but all too soon the flute returned to recapitulate the original theme of the movement.

There was a very brief pause for a spurt of applause and a buzz of whispers in reaction to the bravura performance of the second movement. The audience hushed as Marla raised her flute again.

The third movement was aptly marked andante tranquillo. Tranquility was indeed its hallmark, and even more than the first movement this was a duet between the two instruments, calling back and forth to each other, then meeting to harmonize, then fading away.

The fourth movement was the most passionate of the work. You could hear the passion in the music, but you could also see it in Marla. That tall, almost regal figure in a white Empire gown—her favorite style—was bending and swaying—now slightly, now slowly, now deeper, now faster—in time with the music. Much as one of Frau Bitty’s dancers would move in the dance on stage, so Marla moved in the dance of the music in the air. Even Hermann was caught up in it, hunching forward as his hands rushed up and down the keyboard in places, in others leaning back almost languidly.

The ending was a complete surprise, as all of the storm and passion seemed to fade away to a calm, almost placid theme, with both musicians playing lightly, lyrically, to a final soft chord.

Applause began as soon as Marla lowered her flute. She stood, smiling that brilliant smile that lit every corner of the room. After a moment, she bowed two or three times in response.

Giacomo could see that his friend was breathing deeply. Despite her apparent facility with the instrument, she had worked very hard to play this piece. To his perceptive eye, it showed.

Marla waved her hand to Hermann. He stood at the piano keyboard to take his bow. She bowed one final time, and together they left.

Once again there was a brief moment between the performances. Giacomo leaned over to his friend. He had no need to glance at the programme; he knew well what the next work was.

“Wake up, Girolamo.”

“You slander me, maestro, if you think I would dare to doze off now.”

The side door opened again. Their mutual friend Master Andrea Abati strode forth confidently—as if he could walk any other way—followed by Franz Sylwester. As Franz assumed the podium, Andrea bowed to the applause. The corners of Giacomo’s mouth bent upwards in a smile. Despite his changes in outward appearance and demeanor during the last year or so, Andrea still bowed as if he were a king acknowledging the fealty and praise of his subjects. Some things might never change.

Andrea looked to Franz. The music began.

A vocalise, Giacomo remembered from the conversation with Marla when the concert programme was developed, was a vocal exercise sung on an open syllable. But when Marla or Mary Simpson said “the vocalise,” they referred to a work by one of the greater composers of the up-time twentieth century, a Russian named Rachmaninoff. It was titled simply “Vocalise” and was on the programme tonight at Mary’s personal request. In fact, it was the first piece chosen, thus determining the theme.

After two chords from the accompaniment, Andrea opened his mouth and the melody began. Within six notes of the beginning he had everyone’s rapt attention. Quiet, contemplative, not quite mournful, the sound of his voice lifted quietly, ebbing and flowing.

Giacomo closed his eyes, listening to one of the two finest voices in Germany—in the known world, for that matter. Andrea’s voice had always had that classic castrato silkiness, a timbre that just wasn’t found in a woman’s voice. Tonight, however, without words to get in the way, without the baroque ornamentation that pre-Ring of Fire music required, he was free to pour all of his art, all of his passion, all of his being into realizing a powerful melody. It was as if he was a living flute, equal to that which Marla had played early, but warm with life, fountaining song forth from his heart and soul.

To Giacomo, Andrea’s pride had always been forgivable. To be able to sing with that voice—ah, what a gift.

He opened his eyes again and watched as Andrea sang, his hands before him, body and hands moving slowly as if in a dance. As Marla had done before him, the passion of the music flowed through Andrea as well. It could well have been a study for the ballet, watching the minimal movements of that tall slim figure clad in black velvet that nonetheless evoked so much in partnership with his voice.

Chills chased up and down Giacomo’s spine as he listened to trills that were so fast they seemed indeed to be played on a flute. He seemed to float like an eagle, soaring higher and higher, riding currents of song until a final pinnacle was reached where for a timeless moment he seemed released from the bonds of earth.

After the barest of pauses, there was a slow descent to a final syllable that faded to infinity. Franz closed his hand—the orchestra stopped. Andrea was frozen in his final position. No one moved—it seemed that no one breathed. Giacomo watched as Andrea, timing by an internal clock, finally broke his position, which instantly triggered a massive applause from the audience. Hoch-Adel were on their feet, clapping as fervently as any of the burghers and guildsmen. Some of the stolid Germans were roaring as loudly as the excitable Italian standing to his right.

Andrea gave bow after bow, grinning widely. At length he stood to one side and waved to the orchestra. Franz stepped from the podium to give a bow. In turn, he gestured to his players. As one, they stood to receive their just acclaim.

Franz stepped forward once more. Joined by Andrea, they gave one more bow, then exited through the side door.

Giacomo and Girolamo dropped back into their seats.

“God and all his angels.” Giacomo mopped his brow. “I am as limp as a wet rag, my friend.”

“Not me, maestro,” Girolamo declared. “I quiver like a bell that has just been sounded.”

“Well, it is a good thing for both of us that we have reached the Intermissio. Perhaps we can regain our composure before they begin again.”

“We had better,” Girolamo intoned. “Marla has yet to sing. Mind you, I don’t see how she could do better than Master Andrea. But by all that is holy, if she equals him, I will be in a state of grace for weeks.”

Giacomo laughed. “I somehow doubt that the Holy Father would agree that hearing heavenly music will forgive your sins and pay your penance. Not that I disagree with your opinion of the quality.”

“Well, he should. I think he would if he only heard what we will hear tonight.”

“Enough! You border on sacrilege.” Giacomo’s smile belied his words. “If you would earn merit, go find me a glass of wine, for I am as dry and dusty as the Via Appia in high summer.”

“At your command, maestro. Just see to it that you mention this to Saint Peter.”

The intermission concluded just after Giacomo received his wine. Ushers walked through the throng waving gold and silver fans on high, signaling everyone to be seated.

Girolamo settled at his side with a sigh, and whispered, “When do we hear Marla sing?”

“Shhh. After the Pastorale. Minutes only.”

Franz returned to the podium and took his bow. The orchestra began the performance of the Pastorale from Messiah, by Georg Friederich Händel. An international programme indeed, Giacomo thought, with works by an Englishman, a Russian and two Germans having been played, and works from a Frenchman and a German of Jewish descent yet to be heard. Hmmm, no Italian. How had that slipped by him? He’d have to have words with Franz about that, he thought with a smile, before returning his attention to the music.

The Händel piece was almost soothing. It came from a time not too far in advance of their own and by now should sound familiar to the audience, as it had received two other performances in the last ten months. It opened with a very formal stately theme, almost a processional, which came to a moment of pause, then entered into a fugal section that had a joyful feel to it. The various string sections passed themes back and forth with a verve and élan that was . . . refreshing, Giacomo decided. All too soon, the Pastorale was completed. There was reasonable applause from the audience, after which Franz left the room again.

Giacomo waited, knowing what to expect but still scarcely daring to breathe. Finally, Franz reentered from the side door, his wife Marla on his arm. The applause began the moment she was seen, and crested as he handed her off to stand before the audience alone. She bowed again, smiled that illuminating smile of hers, then stood expectantly. Giacomo sat immediately, going to so far as to lay a hand on Girolamo’s arm to encourage him to sit also. The remaining audience caught on. Within moments the room was almost as still as a mausoleum. Marla looked to Franz. He caught the regal nod, and began.

It was Andrea’s idea, actually. After agreeing to perform the Vocalise, he had insisted that Marla should sing also. Giacomo put it down to the master teacher being protective of his stellar student. Of course, when that student was as popular as Marla, not including her might have caused a riot. Passionate music lovers had done stranger things, he had learned from the history of the future.

But it was also Andrea who suggested what she should sing, something a little on the radical side. He recalled an up-time orchestral piece that evoked in him some of the same feelings as the Rachmaninoff, insisting that Thomas Schwartzberg arrange it as a vocalise. And then he drilled her on it, over and over and over again, until she reached even his standard of acceptability.

The low strings began their pizzicato plucking of strings. After two measures the beautiful melody of Gabriel Fauré’s Pavane was heard in the room. Marla’s golden voice was almost sirenesque in how it reached out and enticed everyone to follow her in what was truly a dance. Lilting, soaring, at times leaping, everyone danced with her—orchestra, patrons, guildsmen, burghers and all. As she swayed on the stage, they swayed with her—as her voice rose and fell, they would sit taller or relax. More than a few of them, from what Giacomo could observe, would unconsciously move their hands slightly in imitation of her arm movements.

It wasn’t a long work; it soon began to slow. It was as if the dancers were dropping out one by one, leaving Marla and only a few attendants to complete it. Gracefully, gracefully, she sang the final phrases, holding tones out for what seemed like an impossibly long time, to the last few notes—the last steps of the dance, as it were.

Hers was not the bravura performance that Master Andrea had delivered, Giacomo decided as he stood and applauded with everyone else. But her warmth, her style, her grace had involved everyone in the room in a way that made them feel a part of the music. Andrea had performed; Marla had given them a gift of love.

Giacomo quit analyzing and shouted “Brava! Brava!” along with Girolamo. He beat his hands together until they hurt.

The final work on the program was almost an anticlimax: The Hebrides overture, by Felix Mendelssohn. It was a new work for the orchestra. Of course, as new as the orchestra was, almost everything was a new work for them, Giacomo admitted.

It was a lyrical work, in some ways, working the string sections very melodically, especially the low strings. He closed his eyes again to listen. Images of the sea were evoked. He remembered trips to the shore in Italy, watching the waves rolling in without ceasing, sun glinting from the blue water.

The following section was laden with brass and was more tumultuous, as if a brief storm had blown across the sea. The storm was indeed brief, and the music returned to the lyrical mode.

As he rode the waves of sound, Giacomo mused. The wind players were continuing to improve, he noted. Marcus Wendell, the Grantville band director, had estimated it would take a year for down-time musicians to grow proficient with the new and changed wind instruments: the metal transversal flutes, the clarinets, the saxophones—all new forms. Oboes and bassoons, vastly different than their ancestors. The valves available for the trumpets and their cousins, the very different mouthpieces. Yes, it had taken every bit of twelve months for the players to first learn their instruments, and then to learn to play together. But the result . . . oh, the result was well worth Giacomo’s wait and their travail.

To hear this music in a hall, with the ambience and the harmonics unfettered, that was bliss. To hear the players proving that they could measure up to standard of the up-time music was emboldening. And to see young Franz—Giacomo blithely ignored the very slight difference in their ages—a down-timer himself, leading them in their work with style, grace and panache was a confirmation. Now, now he knew for certain that the music he was beginning to hear in his head would be realized.

The music began to grow in intensity, drawing Giacomo from his thoughts. The final section began to echo the themes and treatments of the storm. The rush to the finale was on.

The orchestra arrived at a grand chord . . . and then Herr Mendelssohn played his little joke. Just as everyone was prepared for the piece to end, the clarinet restated the opening theme—surprise!—making the audience think that there was more to come, just before it died away.

The moment of silence that followed had an air of uncertainty, of “are they really done with it,” but finally the applause began. Giacomo was smiling as he began clapping his hands. The more he considered the composer’s little prank, the funnier it became, until he started laughing. Noticing that Girolamo was looking at him with a quizzical expression, he shook his head.

After Franz had shaken his hair back and taken his bows, and after the orchestra had taken their bow, voices began to be heard calling from the audience.

“Die Sänger!”

“The singers!”

“I cantanti!” came from burly Girolamo at Giacomo’s side.

The calls grew both in volume and in frequency, until after a few moments there was a constant roar above the applause. Franz held both hands up in surrender. Smiling, he beckoned to the side door.

The room erupted as Marla entered, followed by Andrea and Hermann, who was carrying . . . a chair? Now Giacomo was truly intrigued.

The two singers arrived in the center, joined hands and took a bow. Andrea then held up his hands and motioned for everyone to hush and be seated, while Marla beckoned to Franz to come join them. He did so with a very bemused expression on his face.

“Thank you for coming tonight,” Marla said to the audience. “We had hoped you would enjoy our offerings enough to ask for an encore.” Laughter sounded all around the room. “And indeed, we have one planned. However, there has been a slight change in the plan.” More laughter as Franz’s expression went from bemused to surprised to suspicious in that many moments.

“Today is my husband’s birthday.” Applause. “He has reached the advanced age of twenty-seven.” Laughter and applause. “And so, with the connivance . . . I mean the cooperation of our friends . . .” Marla turned and waved at the orchestra, who waved back. “I have a song I would like to sing for Franz.”

She tugged on Franz’s arm. For a brief moment he resisted, a mutinous expression on his face, but only for a moment. Then he smiled—a bit forced, Giacomo judged, but graceful nonetheless—and suffered himself to be led to the chair that Hermann had placed at the front of the audience.

Marla returned to the center, and clasped her hands in front of her. “The song I’m about to sing is from the future, but it isn’t one of the grand works that you typically hear from me. Nor, for those of you who come by The Green Horse tavern on certain nights is it one of the Irish songs I sing with my friends.

“For all that, it is a classic in its own way. I offer it to you, but I sing it to my husband. Unchained Melody.”

Marla bowed her head for a moment. Giacomo was impressed with how quickly the room became quiet. When she raised it again and looked at Franz, Hermann began the introduction. After four measures of quiet piano, Marla began to sing.

Unlike the previous vocal pieces, this one had lyrics in English. Giacomo had heard Marla practicing this song several days before. The lyrics weren’t what he would consider immortal poetry, but when mated with the music . . . ah, they became truly memorable.

Quiet, oh so quiet Marla’s voice, but it filled the room as she sang to her love, her darling, as she sang about hungering for him. Giacomo knew without looking that everyone could hear, that everyone had once again been enraptured by the young woman’s talent. But now, now there was something—a tone, a timbre, an emotion—something that he had never heard in her voice before. The low notes positively throbbed.

Another voice joined Marla as she began the second verse. Giacomo’s eyes opened wide and his head snapped to focus on Andrea Abati. He was standing two paces behind Marla, mirroring her posture and position. Shadow to her glory, his eyes closed, he poured his voice out to complement hers. Singing descant, he followed Marla’s lead as she mourned the passage of time and questioned whether her love still responded to her.

They two had sung together before. And they both were called angel voices, yes. But this . . . ai, Dio, que bellisima! It was enough to tear the heart from a statue, the quiet passion of Marla supported by the pure fire of Andrea.

The twined voices swelled on the first line of the chorus, surging to a peak as Marla poured forth her need, then beginning to fall off of it. Each successive line dwindled, until the last two words were sung in the same quiet intensity of the beginning.

Marla sang the opening lines of the interlude, voice floating, the lower register of her voice just so resonant, so full, the intensity so quietly overpowering that Giacomo forgot to breathe. The music evoked the image of flowing waters that the words described.

Andrea re-entered, still with the higher descant harmony, perfectly partnering Marla’s voice. In one little corner of his mind, Giacomo was amazed at how perfectly they matched—it was as if one throat was producing two tones. The final phrase swelled as Marla called her love to wait, leading to the return of the verses.

Now the full voice was unleashed, now Marla was unfettered, now the passion was totally unveiled. And Andrea kept step, note by note, singing around her voice, somehow blending, yet still it was Marla’s song.

The climax of the entire song arrived with the first line of the chorus. The tempo slowed, and the singers crested on the word “need,” seemingly holding the note forever, although Giacomo knew that it was barely the four beats of one measure. At last, they descended, repeating the pattern quieter and at a lower pitch for the second line.

Andrea dropped out for the final line. Marla broke her pose as she began the phrase, holding her hands out toward Franz, sustaining the word “love” for a long moment, allowing the briefest of pauses, and then very softly singing the final two words “. . . to me.”

Her voice just seemed to hold that note forever, until Giacomo realized with a start that he couldn’t hear it any longer.

There was a long moment of silence.

Songs of love were not uncommon. Street music, art music, they could be heard almost any time, anywhere. But tonight, tonight had been different. Tonight a woman had bared her soul in truth, unheeding of the public who witnessed it. Tonight a love had been declared, had been poured out like a drink offering on the altar of God, in so selfless and unmannered a fashion that Giacomo marveled. Truth to tell, he was somewhat uncomfortable with observing it, as if he had unwittingly committed an act of voyeurism. Perhaps everyone felt something of that, for the silence held.

Finally Franz stood and stepped to his wife. He claimed Marla’s hands and raised them to his lips. At that moment, the silence shattered as the wildest applause of the night broke free.

****

“I am not worthy of you,” Franz murmured as he kissed Marla’s hands, ignoring the uproar behind him.

Marla simply smiled and shook her head.

“You knew—everyone knew—you were going to do this, and nobody told me.”

“Nope.” The smile grew larger.

“You change my life and my plans at your whims.”

“Yep.” Marla’s eyes began dancing

“And there is nothing I can do but love you.”

“You just remember that, because the changes are just beginning.”

Marla giggled as Franz’s expression wavered between alarm and curiosity. Curiosity won.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be a father.”

****

Just when Giacomo thought the noise was beginning to taper off, Marla melted into Franz’s embrace for a passionate kiss. The audience just exploded with applause and cheers.

 

Magdeburg, May 1635

 

Dear Aunt Susan—and you too, Jonni, I know you’re reading this

Boy, do I miss email. I Hate writing letters!!!!!!!!!!! (sigh) But I promised I would keep you up to date on stuff, and I can’t afford the telegraph very often, so here I am scribbling on paper.

First news is, I’m pregnant. And yes, I’m sure. I’ve missed my second period, and I’ve always been like clockwork before now.

x o x o x o x o x o x o x (kisses and hugs)

Okay, are you guys through celebrating? Seriously, this is really going to put a crimp in some things. My best guess is it happened in early February, so we’re pegging the due date in early November. I was supposed to sing in the anniversary concert for the Battle of Wismar like I did last October. I’ll probably be as big as a whale, so it looks like I won’t be doing that. Even if I wanted to appear on a stage like that—which I don’t!— my diaphragm will probably be pushed up to the bottom of my lungs. I’ll be doing good to breathe, much less sing.

Our first big concert of the year happened a couple of nights ago, and everything went really well. I played my flute in one song, and sang in two more. Everyone seemed to like them pretty well. Mary Simpson was very complimentary. I don’t know why some people think she’s a real hard case. She’s never been anything but nice to me and Franz.

I told Franz he was going to be a father after the concert. I thought he was going to pass out on the spot!  He’s been treating me like a porcelain doll ever since. He keeps trying to make me sit down, and doesn’t want me to do anything. I don’t know who’s more scared, him or me.

Yeah, I’m scared. I’d be nervous if we were still in the USA, I’m sure. I’m really nervous now. I mean, if something goes wrong, we don’t have the doctors or the hospitals or the medicines or the tools or . . . I’d better stop that before I start crying again.

I am excited, too. I think I’ll like being a mom. But if you’ve got any advice for me Sis, or you too, Aunt Susan, I really want to hear it.

That’s all for now.

Love to you and all the kids.

Marla

x o x o x

Magdeburg, August 1635

 

Dear Aunt Susan,

Me again. Thanks for sending me the nursing bras. I’ve really started putting on weight (wonder why?), and I’m enough larger already that these feel more comfortable.

I’ve been really lucky—the whole morning sickness thing wasn’t much of a problem. That’s good, since I don’t puke easily. I did twice, though. Turns out Franz’s stomach is a little sensitive. I looked up from the first time, and he was positively green. I started laughing, and he started to get mad, then he got a funny look on his face, and before I knew it he’d pulled the bowl away from me and added his supper to mine. Afterwards, he laughed with me, but the next time it happened I made him leave the room.

Well, we’ve finally settled on names: Paul Otto if it’s a boy, after my brother and his father; and Alison Wilhelmina if it’s a girl, after my mother and his mother. Franz kept wanting to dump these huge German names on the kid, and I told him no way. He finally came around to my way of thinking.

Franz surprised me yesterday. Gunther Achterhof put him in touch with a woodcarver, and he brought home a cradle. It’s beautiful! It’s not very big, but it will do for a few months, anyway, and it’s hand carved out of oak, with musical notes and stuff on the head and foot boards. I cried.

Speaking of crying, how long will I be so emotional? And don’t tell me 20 years! I mean, when my hormones finally settle down, will I get back to normal again? I know it’s a dumb question, but this is my first time, remember?

Umm, I know it’s asking a lot, but if you or Jonni could see your way clear to coming to Magdeburg around November 1 and staying until after the baby is born, I would really appreciate it. There are several Grantville women in town now, but they’re not family. You know—it’s not the same. Let me know if you can.

Gotta go.

Love.

Marla

 

Magdeburg, October 7, 1635

 

“You are sure you will be fine?”

Marla swatted her husband on the arm with the programme.

“Will you get backstage where you belong? I’m fine. I’ll be fine. And I’ve got Mary here watching over me.”

Mary Simpson leaned over Marla. “She’ll be fine, Franz. I’ll take care of her. Go.”

Franz stood by Marla’s chair for a moment more, then slowly turned and headed for the door, looking back over his shoulder more than once. He straightened up just in time to avoid walking into the doorframe.

“Men!” Marla snorted. “He thinks I’m totally helpless.”

“Actually, dear,” Mary smiled, “the problem isn’t that he thinks you’re helpless, it’s that he knows he’s helpless. Whatever happens with you and the baby, he’s already made the only contribution he can make, and men aren’t wired for patience and helplessness. Are they, John?” She poked her husband.

“Not for that,” John Simpson said. “Mary was lucky. I was gone a lot with the Navy while she was carrying Tom. I’m sure I'd have driven her crazy.”

“Oh, heavens.” Mary laughed. “You'd have been there every morning, clipboard in hand, taking statistics and measurements, figuring out if I was behind the optimum health curve, laying out exercise plans and diets. I wouldn’t have had a moment’s rest.”

Mary patted John’s hand. Marla didn’t miss how his much larger hand curled around her small one. She’d never believed that John Simpson was quite as stoic and hard-shelled as everyone said he was. After Mary’s adventures last year, she had noticed that he seemed a little more . . . demonstrative, maybe. He certainly smiled at her more in public than he did before.

“Anyway, be patient with him, dear. It’s much better than a husband who doesn’t care, and he’ll level off after the baby’s born.”

There followed several moments of conversation, until someone on the other side of John Simpson claimed Mary’s attention. Marla sat back and fanned herself with the programme. Early October notwithstanding, at eight months pregnant she was hot almost all the time. She felt as big as a house, and about as maneuverable as one of the Admiral’s ironclads on the river. Please let this kid get here soon!

To take her mind off her condition, Marla started reading the programme, although she knew it by heart. Franz had been rehearsing the orchestra for weeks.

Wellington’s Victory – Ludwig Beethoven.

Lament for a Fallen Eagle – Giacomo Carissimi

1812 Overture – Piotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky

All music associated with battle and victories, two from the up-time and one from the present. Appropriate for the concert commemorating the second anniversary of the Battle of Wismar.

“Does it feel strange to be sitting here instead of singing the lament tonight?”

Marla looked up to see Mary focused on her again.

“Yeah, a little. I really wanted to sing the duet version of it with Master Andrea like we did last year.” She laid a hand on her swollen abdomen. “But junior here kind of got in the way.”

Marla had sung the first performance of the lament back in December of 1633 in Grantville. It had been arranged for the instruments that were available, which weren’t many. She still remembered Maestro Carissimi muttering about barbaric villages beyond the bounds of civilization when he discovered there was no orchestra available. So, for the first anniversary of the battle, when he was asked to have the work performed for the first time in Magdeburg, the maestro had gleefully re-orchestrated the music to take full advantage of Magdeburg’s orchestra. He had also, after discussing it with Marla and Master Andrea both, re-scored the vocal part to be a duet. It had been Marla’s first opportunity to sing with someone of Andrea’s calibre and it thrilled her. She had been looking forward so much to singing it again this year. Sigh.

“So, how is the orchestra going to do the cannon shots for the overture?”

Marla laughed. “They’ve got several shotguns loaded with blanks, and they’re firing them into a fifty gallon oil drum with one end cut out.” Mary’s eyebrows climbed. “I don’t know if it sounds like a cannon, but it makes a big sound. They only got to rehearse it once, so Franz is a little nervous about that.”

“Since the cannon blasts aren’t exactly timed to the music,” Mary mused, “if one of them doesn’t quite hit the mark, no one would know.”

“That’s what I told him.”

“From the looks of the programme, Franz must be ready to ...