The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (34 page)

‘Now, Anna, as you know, the run of
Peer Gynt
is about to come to an end. I will be organising a summer soirée here at the apartment in June, to which I
will invite the great and the good of Christiania to come and hear you sing. Finally, we will set to work and begin to launch your career. And the beauty is that the “ghost voice” will
at last be able to reveal itself!’

‘I see. Thank you, Herr Bayer.’

‘Anna.’ He paused with a frown as he studied her expression. ‘You seem uncertain.’

‘I am just tired. But I am very grateful for your attention.’

‘I understand that the last few months have been somewhat difficult for you, Anna, but rest assured, many musical acquaintances of mine are privately aware to whom Solveig’s
beautiful voice really belongs. Now, take a rest, Anna, you really do look quite pale.’

‘Yes, Herr Bayer.’

As Franz Bayer watched Anna leave the room, he understood her frustration, but what else could he have done? Her anonymity had been a part of the deal agreed with Ludvig Josephson and Johan
Hennum. But now that was almost over and the arrangement had served its purpose. The lure of meeting the owner of the mysterious voice who had sung Solveig so exquisitely would be enough to bring
all the influential members of Christiania’s musical community here to his apartment for the soirée. He had big plans for young Anna Landvik.

Jens was feeling particularly low as he awoke at home a week after the run of
Peer Gynt
had come to an end. And although Hennum had promised him a permanent place in
the orchestra for the visiting opera and ballet companies that required one, there was no more work to be had for a month until the new season started. On top of this, having attended a maximum of
half a dozen lectures since the start of
Peer Gynt
, Jens was completely unprepared for his final examinations at the university. He knew without a doubt that he’d fail his
degree.

Last week, before the penultimate performance, he had plucked up the courage to show Hennum the compositions he’d spent hours writing down when he should have been studying. After
he’d played them, the conductor had pronounced them ‘derivative’, but good for a beginner.

‘May I suggest, young man, that you go away and study at music school. You have talent as a composer, but you must learn how to “hear” the tune you have written as it will be
played by each instrument. For example, does this piece’ – Hennum indicated the music – ‘open with a full orchestra? Or maybe . . .’ He played the first four bars on
the piano, which even to Jens’ biased ears sounded like an homage to Herr Grieg’s ‘Morning Mood’. ‘Or perhaps a flute?’ Herr Hennum gave him an ironic smile and
Jens had the grace to blush.

‘I see, sir, yes.’

‘Then, when we come to the second passage, would this be played by the violins? Or perhaps a cello or a viola?’ Hennum handed the sheet music back to Jens and patted him on the
shoulder. ‘My advice to you, if you are serious about wishing to follow in the footsteps of Herr Grieg and his eminent composer friends, is that you go and learn how to do this properly, both
in your head and on paper.’

‘But I can’t do it here, for there is no one in Christiania to teach me,’ Jens said.

‘No. Therefore you must go abroad, as all our great Scandinavian musicians and composers have done. Perhaps to Leipzig, just as Herr Grieg did.’

Jens had walked away, cursing his naivety. And knowing that, if his father carried out his threat to cut him off if he chose to follow a musical path, there would be no money forthcoming to fund
any attendance at a music school. He’d also begun to realise that his natural musical talent had seen him through so far, but now, this was no longer enough. He had to learn the proper
techniques if he wished to become a composer. He had to
work
at it.

As Jens entered the stage door, he castigated himself for the healthy allowance he’d frittered away over the past three years. If he hadn’t spent it on women and alcohol, he could
have saved it for his future. Now, he thought miserably, it was almost certainly too late. He’d blown his chances and had no one to blame but himself.

Despite his determination not to fall back into his old ways once
Peer Gynt
was over, Jens had a splitting headache. Last night, in desperation, he’d taken
himself off to Engebret to drown his sorrows with any musician he knew who happened to be there.

The house was silent, which told him it was mid-morning and his father had already left for the brewery, while his mother had no doubt departed to take coffee with one of her acquaintances.
Ringing the bell for Dora – he needed coffee urgently – he waited for her to arrive. Which she did, after a pointed interval. Following her knock, he bade her enter and she came in
sullenly and set the tray down on his bed with an unnecessary clatter.

‘What time is it?’ Jens asked.

‘A half hour after eleven, sir. Is there anything else?’

He looked at her, knowing she was sulking because he’d given her so little attention recently. Debating whether he should expend the effort on placating her, just to make his life in the
household easier, he sipped his coffee, thought of Anna, and decided he could not.

‘No thank you, Dora.’

Averting his eyes from her stricken face, he picked up the newspaper from the tray and pretended to read it until the maid had left the room. When she had gone, Jens put it down and sighed
heavily. He was thoroughly ashamed of himself for getting drunk the night before, but he’d felt so low and directionless that he’d simply wanted to forget. And Anna Landvik hadn’t
helped his mood either.

‘What is wrong with you?’ Simen had asked him last night. ‘Women trouble, no doubt?’

‘It’s the girl who sang Solveig. I can’t stop thinking about her. Simen, I truly believe I’m in love for the first time.’

At this, Simen had thrown back his head and laughed. ‘Jens, can you not see the truth?’

‘No! Why is this funny?’

‘She is the only girl who has refused you! And that is why you believe you are “in love” with her! Yes, perhaps you are entranced by the idyll of her pure country ways, but
surely you can see that in reality she would be completely unsuitable for an educated city boy like yourself?’

‘You are wrong! Whether she is an aristocrat or a peasant, I would love her. Her voice, it is . . . the most exquisite sound I have ever heard. And she has the face of an angel
too.’

Simen had glanced down at Jens’ empty glass. ‘And that is the aquavit talking. Trust me, my friend, you are merely suffering from your first experience of rejection, not
love.’

As Jens sipped his lukewarm coffee, he wondered whether Simen had had a point. Yet, the memory of her face, and her heavenly voice, still haunted his dreams. And at present, with all the other
dilemmas he was facing, he wished to God that he’d never set eyes on Anna Landvik. Or heard her sing.

‘The soirée will be held on the fifteenth of June, the date of Herr Grieg’s birthday,’ Herr Bayer said to Anna when they met in the drawing room a few
days after the last night of
Peer Gynt
. ‘I will send him an invitation to meet his very first “Solveig”, but I believe he is abroad. We will arrange a programme that
encompasses some of his folk songs and, of course, those from
Peer Gynt
. Then “Violetta’s Aria”, from
La Traviata
, then a hymn – perhaps “
Leid,
Milde Ljos
”. I wish for everyone to hear your wonderful range.’

‘Will I still be able to return home to Heddal for my brother’s wedding?’ Anna asked him, thinking that if she did not breathe some fresh country air soon, she might well
suffocate.

‘Of course, my dear. You can leave for Heddal soon after the soirée and spend the summer there. Now, we begin in earnest tomorrow. We have one month to make you and your voice
perfect.’

To prepare her for this task, Herr Bayer had lined up a number of tutors he thought appropriate to provide expert guidance on the songs she would sing. Günther returned to concentrate on
the operatic arias, a choirmaster from the cathedral arrived with his bitten nails and shiny balding head to share his expertise on the hymn and Herr Bayer himself spent an hour a day coaching her
on her vocal technique. A dressmaker arrived to take measurements and provide her with a wardrobe of beautiful clothes fit for a budding young star. And best of all, to Anna’s delight, Herr
Bayer began to take her out of the apartment to concerts and recitals.

On one such evening, before a visit to the Christiania Theatre for the first night of Rossini’s
Il Barbiere di Siviglia
by a visiting Italian opera company, Anna walked into the
drawing room in one of her exquisite new evening gowns, fashioned from midnight-blue silk.

‘My dear young lady,’ said Herr Bayer, rising as Anna entered and clapping his hands together, ‘you look positively radiant tonight. That colour becomes you very well. Now,
allow me to enhance it a little further.’

He presented her with a leather box, inside which lay a sapphire necklace and matching drop earrings. The gleaming, multi-faceted stones were suspended by intricate gold filigree work, the mark
of a master craftsman. Anna stared at the jewellery, hardly knowing what to say.

‘Herr Bayer . . .’

‘They were my wife’s. And I would like you to wear them this evening. May I help fasten the necklace for you?’

Anna could hardly refuse, as he was already taking the necklace out of its box. She could feel the touch of his fingers on her neck as he fastened it.

‘They suit you well,’ he declared in satisfaction, standing close enough so she could smell his stale breath. ‘Now, let us sally forth and present ourselves at the Christiania
Theatre.’

Throughout the following month, Anna did her best to concentrate on her musical studies and enjoy her sojourns in Christiania. She wrote to Lars regularly and said her prayers
fervently at night. However, thoughts of Jens Halvorsen the Bad, as she had named him, hoping it might help teach her treacherous heart a lesson, continued to arrive like clockwork in her head.
Anna only wished she could speak to a friend about the affliction. Surely there must be a medicine to stop it?

‘Dear Lord,’ she sighed one night, rising from her prayers, ‘I believe I am very, very sick.’

As the fifteenth of June approached, Anna could see that Herr Bayer was in a state of high excitement.

‘Now, my dear,’ he announced on the day of the soirée, ‘I have engaged a violin player and a cellist to accompany you. With myself on the piano, of course. They will
both be here this morning to practise with us. Then this afternoon, you will take a rest in preparation for your big night.’

At eleven o’clock the doorbell rang, and Anna, who was waiting in the drawing room, heard Frøken Olsdatter open the door to greet the musicians. She stood up as they walked into the
room with Herr Bayer.

‘May I present Herr Isaksen, the cellist, and Herr Halvorsen, the violinist,’ he announced. ‘They both came highly recommended by my friend Herr Hennum.’