The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (27 page)

‘My kjære Anna, last night I finally received the music I have been waiting for from Herr Hennum! And we will set to work with it this minute.’

Although she had no idea what the music might be, Anna could see her mentor was buzzing with excitement as he took his seat at the piano.

‘To think that we have a copy of this in our own hands! Come, Anna, stand by me and I will play it for you.’

Anna did as she was asked, and stared at the music with interest. ‘“Solveig’s Song”,’ she murmured, reading the title of the music written at the top.

‘Yes, Anna. And you will be the first ever to sing it! What do you say to that, eh?’

Anna had learnt that this oft-repeated phrase of Herr Bayer’s meant she must always answer in the affirmative.

‘That I am very happy.’

‘Good, good. It was hoped that Herr Grieg himself would be travelling to Christiania to help the orchestra and the singers with his new composition, but sadly, both his parents have died
recently, and he is still in mourning. Subsequently, he feels unable to make the journey from Bergen.’

‘Herr Grieg wrote this?’ she gasped.

‘He did indeed. Herr Ibsen asked him to write the music to accompany his forthcoming stage production of
Peer Gynt
, which will be premiered at the Christiania Theatre in February.
My dear young lady, both Herr Hennum – the man you met some weeks ago who is the revered conductor of our orchestra here – and I believe it is you who should sing Solveig.’

‘
Me?
’

‘Yes, Anna,
you
.’

‘But . . . I have never stood upon a stage in my life! Let alone the most famous stage in Norway!’

‘And that, my dear girl, is the beauty of it. Herr Josephson, the director of the theatre and of this production, has already cast an actress of renown in the part of Solveig. The trouble
is, as Herr Hennum put it recently, she may be a great actress, but when she opens her mouth to sing, she sounds like a scalded cat. So, we need a voice of purity, someone who will stand offstage
and sing as Madame Hansson mimes the words to this song and one other. Do you see, my dear?’

Anna
did
see, and couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment that she
wouldn’t
be seen. And that the actress with the scalded-cat voice would pretend that
Anna’s singing was her own. However, the fact that the conductor from the famous Christiania Theatre thought so much of her voice as to lend it to Madame Hansson was a huge compliment. And
she did not wish to seem ungrateful.

‘It is indeed a wonderful opportunity that has been presented to us,’ Herr Bayer continued. ‘Of course, nothing is definite yet. We must have you perform in front of Herr
Josephson, the director of the play, to see if he believes your voice conveys the true spirit of Solveig. There must be such emotion, such feeling in your rendition of the songs that no one in the
audience is without a tear in their eye. In fact, Herr Hennum told me that your voice will be the last thing the audience hears before the curtain drops. Herr Josephson has agreed to see us on the
afternoon of the twenty-third of December, just before he departs for Christmas. He will make his decision then.’

‘But I am leaving for Heddal on the twenty-first!’ protested Anna, unable to stop herself. ‘And if I must wait here until the afternoon of the twenty-third, I will not be able
to return home in time for Christmas. The journey takes almost two days. I . . . can Herr Josephson not see us another time?’

‘Anna, you must understand that Herr Josephson is a very busy man, and the fact he has granted us even a moment in his presence is an honour in itself. I fully understand it will not be
your pleasure to stay here with me over the festive season, but equally, this may be the best opportunity you ever have to alter the entire course of your future. There will be many Christmases
ahead of you with your family, but only one chance to secure the singing role of Solveig, in a piece in which Norway’s most prominent dramatist and composer have combined their skills for the
first time!’ Herr Bayer shook his head in a rare moment of frustration. ‘Anna, you must try to see what this could mean for you. And if you can’t, then I suggest that you return
home immediately and sing to your cows, rather than to a first-night audience at the Christiania Theatre, in a premiere that will surely go down in history. Now, will you try to sing this, or will
you not?’

Feeling as small and ignorant as he’d intended her to, Anna nodded slowly. ‘Yes, Herr Bayer, of course.’

That night, however, Anna cried herself to sleep. Even if she was ‘making history’ as Herr Bayer had said, the thought of not being with her family at Christmas was simply too much
for her to bear.

Christiania

16th January 1876

‘Jens! Are you still alive?!’ Jens Halvorsen was woken abruptly as his mother’s voice came ringing through his bedroom door. ‘Dora has told me she
thinks you may have died in your sleep, for she has had no response from you all morning!’

Sighing, Jens climbed off his bed and studied his dishevelled – and still fully clothed – reflection in the looking glass. ‘I will be down for breakfast in ten minutes,’
he replied through the door.

‘It is luncheon, Jens. You missed breakfast altogether!’

‘I will be there.’ Jens peered in close as he did every morning to check if his mane of wavy mahogany hair had collected any grey hairs. At only twenty years of age, Jens knew this
was something he shouldn’t worry about. But given that his father’s hair had apparently turned white overnight at twenty-five – probably due to the shock of marrying his mother
that same year – Jens woke with trepidation every morning.

Ten minutes later, dressed in a fresh set of clothes, he appeared in the dining room as promised and kissed Margarete, his mother, on the cheek before taking his place at the table. Dora, their
young housemaid, began to serve lunch.

‘I do apologise, Mor. I had a terrible headache that kept me in bed this morning. I still feel quite bilious.’

Immediately, his mother’s expression of irritation changed to one of sympathy. She reached across the table to touch his forehead. ‘Indeed, you are a little warm. Perhaps you have a
fever? My poor boy, can you face luncheon, or would you rather Dora bring you a tray in bed?’

‘I am sure I can manage, although you must excuse me if I don’t eat much.’

In truth, Jens was starving. Last night, he’d met up with some friends at a bar, and they’d ended up at a bordello down by the docks, which had provided a very satisfying finale to
the evening. He’d drunk far too much aquavit and only vaguely remembered the carriage bringing him home, and how sick he had been in the ditch by the house. And subsequently, due to the
freezing snow that lay tightly packed on its branches, his many failed attempts to climb the tree that abutted his bedroom window, which Dora always left open for him if he was out late.

Therefore, he reasoned with himself, his story wasn’t exactly a lie. He
had
felt quite dreadful this morning, and had slept through Dora’s timid attempts to wake him. He
knew the maid was in love with him, which was why she colluded in his pretences whenever he needed her to.

‘It was a shame that you were out last night, Jens. I had my good friend Herr Hennum, the conductor of the Christiania orchestra, here for supper.’ Margarete interrupted his
thoughts. His mother was a loyal patron of the arts, using his father’s ‘beer money’, as the two of them privately called it, to fund her passion.

‘And was it an enjoyable evening?’

‘Yes, it was indeed. As I’m sure I’ve already told you, Herr Grieg has written a wonderful musical score to accompany Herr Ibsen’s marvellous
Peer Gynt
poem.’

‘Yes, Mor, you have told me.’

‘The premiere will be held in February, but sadly, Herr Hennum tells me that the current orchestra is not up to Herr Grieg’s expectations, or in fact his own. The music compositions
are apparently complex, and must be played by a confident and proficient orchestra. Herr Hennum is looking for talented musicians who can play more than one instrument. I’ve told him of your
skills on the piano, the violin and the flute and he has requested that you go to the theatre and play for him.’

Jens took a mouthful of the catfish brought in especially from the west coast of Norway. ‘Mor, I am currently at university studying chemistry, to fit me out to take over the family
brewery. You know very well Far would not allow me to leave to play in an orchestra. In fact, he would be furious.’

‘Perhaps if it was a fait accompli, he may relent,’ she said quietly.

‘You are asking me to lie?’ Jens felt suddenly as sick as he’d pretended to be earlier.

‘I am saying that when you reach the age of twenty-one, you will be a man, and may make your own choices, whatever others may think of them. You would receive a wage from the orchestra,
albeit not a large one, which would give you some modicum of financial independence.’

‘It is seven months to my birthday, Mor. For now, I am still dependent on my father and under his control.’

‘Jens, please. Herr Hennum will hear you play at the theatre at one thirty tomorrow. I beg you, at least meet him. You never know what may come of it.’

‘I am unwell,’ he said as he stood up abruptly. ‘Forgive me, Mor, but I’m returning to my bedroom to lie down.’

Margarete watched her son march across the room, open the door, then slam it behind him. She put her fingers to her forehead, feeling her own temples throbbing. She understood what had
engendered Jens’ departure and sighed guiltily.

Since her son had been little more than a toddler, she had sat him on her knee and taught him the keys of the piano. One of her most pleasant and abiding memories from his childhood had been
watching his fat little fingers fly across the ivories. It had been her greatest wish for her only child to inherit her own musical talent, one she had not used to its full potential, due to her
marriage to Jens’ father.

Jonas Halvorsen, her husband, was not an artistic soul, and was interested only in the amount of kroner on the ledgers of the Halvorsen Brewing Company. From the start of their marriage, he had
seen his wife’s passion for music as something to be discouraged, and even more vehemently, that of his only son. Still, when Jonas was out at his office, Margarete had persevered with
developing Jens’ talent, and by the time he was six, he was effortlessly playing sonatas that would challenge a student three times his age.

When Jens was ten, defying her husband’s disapproval, she had organised a recital at their house and invited the great and the good of the Christiania music establishment to attend. Every
one of them who had listened to her little boy play had been enthralled and had predicted great things for his future.

‘He must go to the Leipzig Conservatory when he is old enough and expand his knowledge and his skills, for you know that the opportunities here in Christiania are limited,’ Johan
Hennum, the newly installed conductor of the Christiania orchestra, had commented. ‘With the right training, he has great potential.’

Margarete had said as much to her husband, who had responded with a cruel chuckle. ‘My dear wife, I understand how much you long for our son to become a famous musician, but as you well
know, Jens will join the family business when he’s twenty-one. My forebears and I have not spent over one hundred and fifty years building it for it to be sold on my deathbed to one of my
competitors. If Jens wishes to tinker with his instruments as he grows up, then of course I am happy for him to do so. But it is no future career for a son of mine.’

Margarete, however, was not to be deterred. For the next few years, she had continued to teach Jens to play the violin and the flute as well as the piano, knowing that to join any orchestra, a
musician must be accomplished on more than one instrument. She’d tutored him in German and Italian, both of which she felt would help him tackle complex orchestral and operatic works.

Jens’ father had continued to resolutely ignore the beautiful sounds which emanated from the music room and echoed throughout the house. The only time that Margarete could force him to
listen was when Jens played the
hardanger
fiddle. She would sometimes encourage him to play to his father after dinner, and would watch as Jonas’s features – aided by several
glasses of good French wine – relaxed into a dreamy smile as he hummed along to a familiar folk song.

Yet despite her husband’s indifference to Jens’ talent, and his insistence that it could never become a career, Margarete continued to believe that a way forward could be found when
Jens was older. But then, the little boy who had worked so diligently at his music lessons began to grow up, and Jonas had taken him into his own hands. Instead of the two hours a day of music
practice, Jens trailed behind his father at the brewery as he oversaw production or the preparation of the accounts.

The situation had crystallised three years ago, when Jonas had insisted his son go to university to study chemistry which would, he said, fit him out for the brewery, even though Margarete had
gone down on her knees to beg her husband to allow Jens to go and study at the Leipzig Conservatory.