It was Wednesday, and opening night was two days away. Sir Charles had attended the dress rehearsal the night before, and had proclaimed the production excellent, in spite of the fact none of his original cast remained. Alfred helped me with plausible stories about the remaining players' defections, which Sir Charles took in stride. The run of the opera was to be the last three weekends of September after initial celebration of Labor Day, and Alfred was nervous about the rest of his season of concerts, his first as director of the Choral-Symphony Society. I assured him his patrons would understand, and would be generous in evaluating his entire First Season in St. Louis.
The rehearsal was going smoothly, too smoothly, until the penultimate scene when Andromeda is chained to the rock. The soldier's costumes were still not quite right, and as they left, a sharp bit of one tore Andromeda's costume off her body, exposing her naked form almost completely. She began screaming and wailing, struggling with her bonds, which were too real to let her go easily. The reactions of the other cast and crew were varied: the other leads on stage stood stock still, amazed at what had happened; several members of the orchestra turned to stare at her huge breasts with big brown nipples while others began laughing hysterically; a couple of stage hands started mooing and the chorus ran off stage at high speed as if they were in danger of sudden revelation. Alfred started screaming from the podium for wardrobe and shortly a wardrobe mistress emerged with a blanket for the poor woman.
Tears were welling in my eyes, and several voices called out marriage proposals. Magda, the poor disrobed singer, couldn't bear it and wept uncontrollably as she left the stage under the protection of a piece of cloth. I was wiping tears from my face when a hand prodded my shoulder. "Mr. MacLeod, Mr. MacLeod you must come back now. Something dreadful has happened." I looked to find Connie standing next to me with a worried look on his face; clearly something was very wrong at Olympia. I leapt to my feet and following him out, pausing to tell an usher that I was leaving to attend to an emergency and would in touch with Alfred as soon as I could.
Max was waiting in a carriage outside the door, and he tipped his cap as I approached. "Good evening, Mr. MacLeod," his rich baritone voice intoned. "Something has happened to Sir Charles, we fear for his life. Don't have time to get your bags, get in and we're off." I jumped into the seat with Connie on the other side, and with a crack of the whip we were navigating the streets of the city outward.
The boys were very quiet, unusually quiet, during our journey, focused on maintaining speed without exhausting the horses or getting the attention of the police. Once we left the city, there was little light, which slowed our progress as well, but around nine o'clock we pulled up at the entrance of Olympia. Maurice met us at the top of the stairs: "It's Sir Charles, he was out hunting for rabbits early this morning with Gus and Max, and he had some kind of heart attack or episode. The boys brought him in unconscious and he's remained that way all day. Doctor Uhrlacher is with him, as is Lady Alice, however the younger women could use reassurance. They're in his study upstairs."
She conducted me there, where I found Pearl and Penny sitting on chairs almost at opposite ends of the room. Penny jumped out of her seat and came quickly to me, touching my arm in supplication: "Thank you for coming, Mr. MacLeod. Is there any new news?"
"No, I've just arrived. Maurice gave me the short version of the story."
Turning away and wringing her hands, she sobbed: "Oh, he thought rabbit for luncheon would be so delightful today, so he went out with the lads to find some. The dogs flushed one from a thicket near the bluff's edge, but he was a little out of position to shoot and ran over a couple of hillocks to get a shot off, and then he collapsed holding his chest."
"Father has never been particularly athletic," Pearl added, staring out the window, "Always thought his constitution would carry him through, as well as his genes. His father is still alive at 87."
"How old is he, exactly?" I said.
"Forty seven," Pearl replied. "Not young and not old. Almost the Earl of Kent's age in _King Lear_" My Shakespeare was rusty and Penny looked lost, so Pearl continued from memory:
'Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor
so old to dote on her for any thing: I have years
on my back forty eight.'
Opal brought in a tray with appetizers and pots of coffee and tea, setting it down on the study's sideboard, and giving me a solemn look before she left. Penny nervously took a plate and loaded it; Pearl remained at her station, staring out the window. I sat between them on a couch and crossed my legs, many things running through my mind. There wasn't enough information and my thoughts chased each other randomly. It was a time to wait, and nothing would hasten it.
"The boys brought him here in good order, strong lads they are and able to conquer the world someday, I guess," Penny rambled, "And after they brought him upstairs, they went off to fetch Dr. Uhrlacher. We knew you were busy with the rehearsal tonight, so we waited to see if he would rally before we sent Max and Connie to fetch you, waited until. . .until. . ."
"Until we were sure his life was in danger," Pearl finished in a calm voice.
"And who knows what will happen if he dies," Penny wailed, "what will become of us?"
"You'll be fine, Penny," I said.
There was a silence as Penny resumed her tea, and went back to the tray for more. Pearl began to recite the Twenty Third Psalm out of the blue, which seemed to mollify the other young woman for the moment and helped calm me. After finishing her repast, Penny suddenly ran from the room, crying again, and slammed the door behind her.
I went over to Pearl and laid hand on her shoulder; she was still staring out the window toward the lake she swam in every morning with her half-sister Opal and watching the last flickers of light in the West. She covered my hand with hers but otherwise did not respond. "How are you, Pearl?"
"I'm all right," she began in a distant voice. "My father and I were never close, which is not unusual for a father and a daughter, I imagine. I remember flickers of kindness and joviality when I was small, but none after I reached the age of eight. Mother didn't pay much attention to me, either, they sent me to a boarding school. They sent Opal as well, so I wouldn't be lonely. When we came back, all there was for me was the library. Needlepoint never interested me, but ideas always have. Father taught me to sing so I could sing his wretched songs for him. It's said a Father is a rock of a child's life, a provider and protector. I've never felt that, and I wonder if it really will be different when he's gone."
I kept my hand on her shoulder, standing behind her, watching the stars come out. She squeezed my hand and kept it there, the one indication of her inner struggle and her need.
After a lifetime of waiting, there were footsteps on the stairs, and Maurice stuck his head in to announce that the Vicar had arrived, and we should all gather in the Master Bedroom for prayer.
Lady Alice sat on the bed beside her husband, holding his hand in hers and crying. Penny had taken up a position next to her, also weeping, and Mrs. Edwards stood in a far corner, also lost in grief. The six other servants, all his children though never acknowledged, stood in order from oldest to youngest, holding their hands in front of them, their heads bowed and their faces solemn. Maurice took his place beside Opal, as head of the house servants, her face drawn and somber. Pearl went to stand at the foot of the bed, still keeping my hand on her shoulder, and I took my place behind her.
