An Angel's Voice

Spring 1898

As the Spring rains came, Frans and Marigold found themselves sitting in the sitting room feeling slightly bored. Marigold gazed out the window as Frans sat at the pianola, slowly drumming his fingers across the keys. Erik was busy in his workshop and Christine was tending to the horses in the stables.

Marigold softly hummed along with the tune that Frans was playing. Frans listened intently.

"I heard your parents are very good singers. Do you think you might be a singer as well?"

Marigold turned her attention to Frans. "I don't know. I tried once when I was little but I don't think I'm as good as mother. When I hear her and Papa sing together, I wished I could sing just as good. But I haven't tried since. At least, not in front of anybody."

"I bet you can. Sing to this," he said. He played a simple tune and waited for her to respond.

Marigold closed her eyes and remembered how her mother sounded as she sang. Then her voice vocalized to match until she couldn't believe her own ears when she heard herself. She sang as though her soul had left her body and soared. Then, Erik's voice broke her out of her reverie.

"Christine?" he softly called. But then he stared at his daughter in amazement as though he couldn't believe what he heard.

"Was that…you?" he asked Marigold. Marigold shyly nodded.

"Frans, play that again," he implored and Frans did so, also intrigued. He then instructed Marigold. "Now, sing," he said. Marigold sang again, vocalizing higher and higher as the song intensified. Her soul felt like a flame growing brighter. Her father's gaze was deep as he stood in near disbelief at the sound of his daughter's singing.

This voice, he thought. She sings like Christine and yet, she sings like me as well. As though our voices merged to make a heavenly voice.

"Sing for me! Sing!" he urged. Marigold sang higher until it was as though he remembered first hearing Christine sing. His heart raced as he listened to his daughter sing with every urge and vibrancy growing. His head spun as her singing intensified with every note. Until finally, she stopped, gasping from the strain. Erik stood there, unable to believe what he had just heard.

Marigold tried to process what had happened. She felt as though her voice was not even her own as she became lost in the moment. She looked at Erik who simply just stared at her.

"Papa? What's wrong?"

"N-nothing, sweetling. It's just for a moment…I thought that you…"

"That I what?"

Erik simply smiled to reassure her. "Nothing is wrong."

Erik had to think more on this. The thought began to cross his mind that his daughter had inherited both his and Christine's musical abilities. When he heard her sing, her voice was like Christine's, only not quite the same either. He also heard a little bit of his voice in her as well. Could it be possible that he could train her to sing, like he did Christine?

All throughout the evening, he sat lost in thought in his study. It was until later that evening, when he heard Marigold quietly knock on the door and enter the study.

"Papa? Am I interrupting?"

"No, not at all. Actually, I was hoping to have a chance to speak to you. Sit down."

She sat down in a chair across from his desk as he leaned back a little in his chair. "Earlier today, when I heard you singing…I thought I was hearing your mother. But when I saw that it was you, I…could hardly believe it. You've hardly shown much interest in singing before. Where did this lovely voice come from?"

Well, I..I didn't want to show it at first because I thought I could never be as good as Mother. I tried once when I was ten, but I thought I sounded awful. I watched how you taught when she would sing at your theatre and I tried to teach myself a little. Then when I sang to Frans, I almost couldn't believe that was me. I didn't want to tell you and Mother before because…I didn't think I could ever be as good a singer as she is," she said, forlornly.

"But I think you can, my dear…if you let me teach you, just like I taught your mother. When I heard you singing, you sounded just like her but you also sounded a little like me as well. You have the same melodic sound as her, yet you have the same technique as I do."

"Mother's voice is very beautiful. Your voice is also beautiful, Papa. Especially when you sing to me. It's an angel's voice."

"Face of a demon yet the voice of an angel. I sometimes think God was just playing a cruel joke on me," he scoffed, almost laughing a little. "And yet, perhaps he didn't when he gifted me an angel for a daughter."

He stood up and walked over to the piano. His fingers glided across the keys. "Come, let me hear you sing." He began to softly play a scale and hum to it. Marigold walked over to him and tried to repeat after him as each scale escalated. First, she was nervous as she sheepishly vocalized with each scale.

"Don't be nervous. You can do it. You have it in you," he reassured her.

With every passing scale, Marigold slowly found her determination growing as she continued to vocalize. Fervently, Erik felt intensity building up within him as he listened to his daughter sing. Her voice was resounding as it began to echo with the memory of when he taught Christine. Then with the final note, Marigold let out a final note as Erik concluded the song.

"Yes…just like your mother," he whispered. He turned around and took Marigold's hands into his. "You have the same passion and potential to be a great singer. It shouldn't surprise me that you would inherit our musical abilities. But you mustn't think that you will never be as great a singer as your mother. I believe you can be, if you will let me help you."

"You…would teach me? Like you taught Mother?" she said, looking elated.

"Oh, indeed. And I think one day, you could even sing at the theatre as well."

"Oh, Papa… I…it's sounds like a dream. Yes. Teach me."

Several months had passed as Erik spent many evenings instructing Marigold in her vocal lessons. To his surprise, she was learning at a much faster rate than Christine had. With each lesson, her voice was sounding more mature and graceful.

"Now I want to you begin softly and gradually build up a slight crescendo with a little determination," he said, as he began to play. Marigold took a deep breath.

Think of me,

Think of me fondly, when we said goodbye.

Remember me,

Every so often, promise me you'll try.

"Good. Now build the crescendo a little," said Erik.

On that day, that not so distant day,

When you were far away and free,

If you ever find a moment, spare a thought for me.

"Magnifique! Now, let's look at the ending. We need to work on the last part where you vocalize."

Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade,

They have their seasons, so do we.

But please promise me that sometimes,

You will think…of me!

Erik concluded the song and smiled at his daughter. "Wonderful, my dear 've shown much improvement in the last few months. Perhaps you feel ready to sing in front of your mother and Frans now?"

"Sing in front of Mother and Frans? But what if I sound horrible and they laugh at me?"

"Your mother would never laugh at you and I'm quite sure Frans would not either. I could tell you that your mother felt the same way, just before she was to audition for the company. She was terrified that the company and all of Paris society would laugh at her but they did not. I knew that she would astound everyone and I know you will do the same one day. You don't know what a legacy you carry."

Marigold stared into space, thinking of how it would be like if she stood on the stage like her mother singing to the audience. The sound of applause, the thrill of performing.

"Will I ever be ready for the theatre, Papa?"

"Oh, my darling. I know you will be one day. I had faith in your mother and I have faith in you."