The Storm Sister (The Seven Sisters #2) (30 page)

‘Did you hear that?’ Jens said to Simen, who was already packing his violin away, ready to move swiftly out of the pit and across the road to the Engebret Café before last
orders. ‘I didn’t know Madame Hansson had such a beautiful voice.’

‘The Lord bless you, Jens! What we just heard is indeed a beautiful voice, as you say, but it does not belong to Madame Hansson. Couldn’t you see that she was miming? The woman
can’t sing a note, so they had to bring in the voice of another to give the impression that she can. I’m sure Herr Josephson will be pleased that his illusion has succeeded.’
Simen chuckled and patted Jens on his shoulder as he left the pit.

‘Who is she?’ he called to Simen’s departing back as he disappeared under the stage.

‘I think that’s rather the point,’ came the reply over Simen’s shoulder. ‘She is a ghost voice and no one has any idea.’

The owner of the voice that had so moved Jens Halvorsen was currently sitting in a carriage being driven home to Herr Bayer’s apartment. Feeling conspicuous in the
national costume that he’d said she should wear for her ‘performances’ so that she looked like the other ladies of the chorus who were clad in the same, she was glad to be alone
for the journey home. It had been another long, exhausting day and she was grateful when Frøken Olsdatter opened the door to her and took her cloak.

‘You must be very tired, Anna
kjære
. But tell me, how do you think you sang?’ she asked as she gently ushered her charge towards her bedroom.

‘I really don’t know. When the curtain came down, I did as Herr Bayer told me: went to the stage door and got straight into the carriage. And here I am,’ she sighed as she let
Frøken Olsdatter help her undress and get into bed.

‘Herr Bayer says you are allowed to sleep in tomorrow morning. He wants you and your voice to be fresh for the opening night. Now, your hot milk and honey is there on the
nightstand.’

‘Thank you.’ Anna picked up the glass gratefully.

‘Goodnight, Anna.’

‘Goodnight, Frøken Olsdatter, and thank you.’

Johan Hennum appeared in the pit and clapped his orchestra to attention. ‘So, everyone is ready?’

The conductor looked down at his orchestra fondly, and Jens mused how different the atmosphere in the theatre was compared to this time yesterday. Not only was the orchestra in full evening
dress rather than their usual motley collection of street clothes, but the first-night audience, buzzing with expectation, had entered and taken their seats in the auditorium. The women unwrapped
their furs to reveal an array of stunning gowns adorned with sumptuous jewellery, which sparkled in the soft glow of the ornate chandelier hanging from the centre of the ceiling.

‘Gentlemen,’ Hennum continued, ‘tonight we are all honoured to be taking our place in history. Even though Herr Grieg cannot be present, we intend to make him proud. And to
give his wonderful music the rendition it deserves. I’m sure that one day you will all tell your grandchildren you were part of this. And Herr Halvorsen, tonight you will play the first flute
part in ‘Morning Mood’. Right, if we are all ready . . .’

The conductor stood up on his plinth to indicate to the audience that the performance was about to begin. There was a sudden hushed silence, as if the entire auditorium was holding its breath.
And in that moment, Jens sent up a prayer of gratitude that his most fervent wish had been granted.

No one waiting backstage during the performance knew quite what the audience was thinking. Anna walked slowly to the wings to perform her first song, accompanied by Rude, one
of the young boys who performed in the crowd scenes.

‘You can hear a pin drop out there, Frøken Anna. I’ve watched the audience from a hidden spot in the wings, and I think they like it.’

Anna took her position at the side of the stage, hidden by the flats of scenery, but placed so that she could still see Madame Hansson, and she felt suddenly frozen with fear. Even if she
couldn’t be seen and her name had only been put in the programme under the long list of ‘Chorus’, she knew that somewhere out there, Herr Bayer was listening. As was every
important person in Christiania.

She felt Rude’s small hand squeeze hers. ‘Don’t worry, Frøken Anna, we all think you sing beautifully.’

He left her alone then, and Anna stood watching Madame Hansson and listening carefully for her cue. As the orchestra played the first bars of ‘Solveig’s Song’, Anna took a deep
breath. And thinking of Rosa and her family back in Heddal, she let her voice soar.

Forty minutes later, as the final curtain fell, Anna was standing in the wings once more, having just sung ‘The Cradle Song’. There was a stunned silence from the audience as the
rest of the cast assembled onstage for the curtain call. Anna had not been asked to take a bow, so she remained where she was. Then, as the curtain rose again to reveal the cast, she was almost
deafened by the sudden tumultuous applause. People were stamping their feet and shouting for an encore.

‘Sing “Solveig’s Song” again, Madame Hansson!’ she heard someone shout, a request which the actress graciously refused with a shake of her head and an elegant wave
of her hand. Finally, after Herr Josephson had appeared onstage to pass on apologies from both Ibsen and Grieg for their absences, and the last bow had been taken, the curtain came down for good
and the cast began filing off the stage. Everyone ignored Anna as they walked past her, full of adrenaline and chattering excitedly about what seemed to have been a resounding success after so many
weeks of work.

Anna went back to her dressing room to collect her cloak and said goodnight to the children, whose proud mothers were helping them change out of their costumes. Herr Bayer had said the carriage
would be waiting for her outside and she must leave directly after the performance. As she made her way down the corridor towards the exit, she bumped into Herr Josephson as he emerged from Madame
Hansson’s dressing room.

‘Anna, you sang quite beautifully. I doubt there was a dry eye in the house. Well done.’

‘Thank you, Herr Josephson.’

‘Safe journey home,’ he added with a nod and a small bow before turning away from her to knock on Henrik Klausen’s dressing room door.

Anna walked to the stage door and reluctantly left the theatre.

‘So, who is the girl who sings “Solveig’s Song”?’ asked Jens, scanning the crowd in the foyer. ‘Is she here?’

‘I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen her,’ commented Isaac the cellist, who was already the worse for wear. ‘She has the voice of an angel, but may look like a hag for
all we know.’

Determined to find out, Jens cornered the conductor.

‘Well done, my boy,’ Hennum said as he clapped him on the shoulder, clearly in a euphoric mood after the success of the evening. ‘I’m glad my faith in you was not
misplaced. You could go a long way, with some practice and experience.’

‘Thank you, sir. Pray tell me, who is the mystery girl who sang the words of Solveig so beautifully tonight? Is she here?’

‘You mean Anna? She’s our real-life Solveig from the hills. I’d doubt she has stayed behind for the party, though. She’s Franz Bayer’s ward and
protégée; very young and not used to the city. He keeps a tight rein on her, so my guess is that your Cinderella has scurried home before the clock strikes midnight.’

‘It is a shame, as I wished to tell her how her voice moved me. Also,’ Jens continued, seizing the opportunity, ‘I am a great admirer of Madame Hansson. Is it possible that you
can introduce me so I can compliment her on her performance tonight?’

‘Of course,’ Herr Hennum agreed. ‘I’m sure she’d be delighted to make your acquaintance. Follow me.’

The next morning, ‘Cinderella’ was sitting opposite Herr Bayer in the drawing room. They were drinking coffee as he looked through the review of last night’s
performance in
Dagbladet
, reading out any titbits he thought she might enjoy.

‘
Madame Hansson proves a delight as the long-suffering peasant girl Solveig, and her pure, sweet voice was extremely pleasing to the ear
.’

‘There.’ He looked up at her. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’

If it was
her
name written in the newspapers this morning, Anna thought, and
her
voice whose virtues they were extolling, she would indeed think a lot of it. But as this
wasn’t the case, she didn’t think much of it at all.

‘I am glad that they like the play and my voice,’ she managed.

‘Of course, it is the musical score by Herr Grieg the critics found particularly inspiring. His interpretation of Herr Ibsen’s wonderful poem was simply sublime. So, Anna, as there
is no performance today, you will take a well-deserved rest. My dear young lady, you should be most proud of yourself. You could not have sung more beautifully. Sadly, this is not a day of rest for
me and I must be off to the university.’ He stood up and walked towards the door. ‘When I return tonight, we will celebrate our success over dinner. Good day to you.’

Once Herr Bayer had left, Anna finished her now lukewarm coffee, feeling deflated and strangely irritated. It was as if everything for the past few months had been leading up to last night. And
now that it was over, nothing had changed. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected to change, but she couldn’t help feeling that something
should
have done.

Had Herr Bayer known about the need for a ‘ghost’ singer when he had found her in the mountains last summer, Anna wondered? And was that the reason why he had brought her to the
city? She was fully aware that everyone at the theatre wished her to be invisible so that her voice could be attributed to Madame Hansson.

Picking up one of the newspapers, she stabbed her finger at the mention of the actress’s ‘pure’ voice.

‘It’s
my
voice!’ she cried. ‘
Mine
. . .’

Perhaps from the sheer build-up of pressure that had been released last night, like a cork popped from a bottle of Herr Bayer’s French champagne, she threw herself onto the sofa and
wept.

‘Whatever is wrong Anna,
kjære
?’