1635: Music and Murder (55 page)

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 anytime, 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 pot 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 program.

"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 program. 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 program, 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 program, Franz must be ready to start exploring the symphonic works." Mary raised her eyebrows.

"You mean he hasn't told you yet?" Marla was surprised.

"No." Mary smiled. "But then, he has had a lot on his mind lately,"

Marla laughed again. "He decided recently that he wants to work through the symphonies of Beethoven, do one, maybe two a year. And Marcus has miniature study scores for each of them, so we don't even have to have them transcribed from recordings. Some of Marcus' students are copying out the first symphony score and parts now."

"Surely he'll do more than that?"

"Oh sure, both down-time and up-time. But Beethoven's first symphony will be the first one they do."

Mary started to say something else, but at that moment Franz emerged from the side door. The applause began.

****

Marla sank back into the seat of the carriage. Her feet hurt. Her feet hurt clear up to her hips. Or she assumed it was her feet that were hurting—her lips quirked—she hadn't had a good look at them in weeks. She rested her hand on her abdomen, and giggled for a moment. Dressed in a forest green gown, her belly looked like an overly ripe Black Diamond watermelon. Then she wished she hadn't thought that, because watermelon sounded really good, and she knew what her chances were of getting any in October in Germany. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

Between her feet aching and junior deciding to perform gymnastics in time to the music, Marla had been somewhat distracted from the concert.