56
The weeks flew by.
The Theater had successfully completed a production of Pygmalion, and The Taming of the Shrew was on its last night.
Katrina stood in the wings, watching as the last lines were delivered and the curtain, or rather the folding screen, was carried out to conceal the stage. George leapt to his feat, cheering.
Jones leaned over her shoulder to glimpse his employer's reaction, and nodded, smiling. "He's getting money back now. All's well that turns a profit."
Before Katrina could compute that statement, she and Jones were out taking their single bow as directors.
The next item was the school Thanksgiving performance, which would be a free event. In George's eyes, it was advertising as well, and it never hurt to have community rapport. Yet, he would be there judging Katrina's work, and that annoyed her. At least Erik had the power of underground tunnels and a brooding aura of mystique to his advantage. She could count on one hand the times he had not gotten his way with a production.
She would do her best, and threaten to hang George if he became unreasonable.
The cast party was held around the stage after the public had left. It was modest, only hot cocoa or tea and cookies, but the group really enjoyed their time together. Katrina had discovered that conversation was as much a commodity in America as cloth or beans. In Paris, it was an integrated part of the day, but here, it was sought after. 'Neighboring' was an art form.
She smiled as George came up to shake her hand. "Well done, well done. Our first year may not be a triumph, but I would call it a modest success."
"Ah, you are speaking French! I have missed being fluent in a tongue. Yes, Monsieur Jones pours his heart into the work. I fear I have not been much help outside of costumes."
"He tells me that you have helped. I think you two need to match your stories. Either way, I am pleased. The Thanksgiving event should be more to your taste. How is it going?"
"Much better. The children are learning, progressing. Carl is taking care of the recitations, so all that is left next week are dress rehearsals."
"Excellent." Someone came up just then, and spoke to George, so Katrina was left to her own thoughts once more.
The next week brought about the usual cleaning and putting away after a play, and the rehearsals for the students began.
As promised, it went better.
George and Jones slipped in one afternoon to watch how things were going. Carl was patiently drilling one tiny boy in his lines about Chief Powhatan, and Katrina was assigning final spots to her choir members.
The minister's wife placed her fingers, and asked calmly, "Are you ready, Miss Lefevre?"
"Oui, oui, play." Katrina stood to one side, listening critically to the young voices. After the song, a girl cried out that she had done it wrong, and would never learn.
"I learn your speech, you learn my song." Katrina retorted.
"But I make an awful sound in the second verse! I can't sing! I've no gift!"
"No one has a gift, they have work! Tuck your chin, you raise it and it hurts you. Tuck it!"
George shook his head and laughed. "Hard to believe how quiet she was in Paris. I could have sworn she was almost passive. But she can sing, I heard her once, checking an arrangement with the conductor. Never heard a voice like hers before nor will we after she passes."
Jones scratched his nose. "No one here has heard her sing. Even the children say she never sings while teaching them, just works."
A jubilant shout from the girl made them quiet. "It worked! I did it!"
Katrina smiled and clapped her hands. "Brava, do so always."
The rest of the rehearsal finished, and Katrina discussed some changes with the pianist. George and Jones stood and walked down.
"You sounded like your Uncle Jacques today, he would have been proud." George said, grinning. He spoke in English for Harry's sake.
"Oui, I suppose."
"I must say, you have pulled good students out of this area. Who's the soloist in the Doxology?"
"Tim O'Reilly. They are good workers."
"Harry says you've never sung, perhaps at the program this Thursday?"
"No, it is too soon. It is not right."
"I insist." George's smile widened.
"You do not understand, this is for the children. I will not sing to shame them. So they would think, so it would be. I will not sing, Monsieur Folks."
His face hardened, but she raised her chin, and repeated, "I will not sing."
"I heard you." He shrugged and put his hat on his head. "Someday, perhaps, you'll agree?"
"Someday." She nodded. He left.
Jones laughed. It started soft, raised to a snort, and then a full belly roar. "Good show, Lefevre, I'll back you for style."
"Monsieur?"
He laughed until tears formed in his grey eyes, and rolled into his sandy beard. "Oh, oh, oh, the look on his face! He's a good enough man, but so hard handed. And you, you just burst that bubble of importance he's always in. Well done, mademoiselle, well done!"
"Merci," she replied, confused. The minister's wife was laughing also, and as she left, she patted Katrina on the back.
Harry calmed down, and snapped his coat. "Well, two days and this'll be a memory. What's for Christmas?"
"Hymns and carols. I have no time for an oratorio. There are so few orchestra, we need bigger for that as well."
"Will you sing then? I'm curious to hear you now." Harry started to chuckle again.
"As long as I am not important to it, I will not sing. It would be wrong."
"I agree. You've got manners, and that's a blessing. But come, it's getting late. We'd better hurry, or Mrs. Jenkins'll have you for dinner."
The Thanksgiving program went well. Many of the parents were thrilled at the skill their darlings had shown.
The O'Reilly's were dually welcomed, and Katrina considered that the real achievement. George had the good grace to overlook her insubordination, and be cheerful.
It was snowing heavily a few days after that, George had gone to New York. Katrina was snuggled into a window seat with another book her grandmother had sent. The door burst open and Tomino let out a grouchy bark to remind them the air was cold.
Jones stomped his boots clean and shook his wraps before hanging them. "It'll bite, that wind." He observed. Katrina stood, and found a mug to pour some coffee in. Mrs. Jenkins kept some on the fire at all times in winter.
Noting the carpet bags he had set down, she asked why. He nodded at the snow. "No one's going anywhere for a few days. I always shut down my little hut and come here when it gets like this. I'm not alone, and I'm one more hand to help if it hangs in here for a week."
"In Paris, it never snows like this."
"Don't worry, we'll teach you to survive it." He smiled and sat down in the sturdy rocking chair. "What were you reading?"
"Poetry, Grandmamma sends me books."
"'When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night,
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls all silvered o'er with white:
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd
And summer's green all girded up in sheaves
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard:
Then of thy beauty do I question make
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow,
And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence
Save breed to brave him, when he takes thee hence.'"
Katrina listened, mesmerized, as he spoke each word carefully. His voice was not smooth, nor polished, but he linked each, made the meaning clear. It made the dreaded English language alive, bejeweled, and full of possibilities. It did not flow in the sense that French or Italian did, but it held emotion. Her attention seemed to amuse him.
"You've never heard Shakespeare? My father can really recite him, knows all the sonnets, each is a special production. If you've ever got the chance make him say one for you."
"I think you do yourself a disservice, Monsieur Jones. You are good for Shakespeare."
He laughed and shook his head. Leaning forwards, he gave Tomino a belly rub.
As predicted, everything stopped.
When the snows and winds abated, they spent two days tunneling out. Harry was going to be there for the duration, however. Grubb had left to see family, and the giant took his room.
The Christmas program arrived, and was splendid in its simplicity. Katrina had arranged small evergreens and holly around the theater, and had lighted everything with candles instead of gas or limelight's. She was both glad and sorry George had been sowed in at New York through the holiday.
Afterwards, cider and tea were served, with cakes and breads. As a gift, the theater had arranged for large packets of roasted glazed nuts to be handed out to everyone. The people left, calling out Merry Christmases to anyone in earshot.
The boarding house looked so cozy when they returned. Clara sat down at the little pump organ and began to play. "No need to stop just because the party's over." She remarked.
Mrs. Jenkins wavered out The First Noel, and Carl joined in. The next song, Good King Wenceslas, brought in Harry. Tomino even added something and Katrina brought her violin.
They spent another two hours there, before they stopped. As the others walked upstairs, Katrina put her violin away; she stroked the inlayed initials Erik had selected. My first love, my true love.
She had mailed her gifts to them weeks before. She remembered that first year with Erik, the years that followed. It was a bitter medicine to take, her first Christmas away.
But, there were other in that house, others, who were away from those they loved. She could be cheerful for them. Yes, for them.