Chapter One
Philadelphia, Pennsylvania February 1850
Come home. STOP. Quickly. STOP.
I have been clutching this telegram in my hands since I received it two days ago. The paper is wrinkled and sweat-stained now from my nervous handling. But how can I not be anxious? The telegram orders me home as fast as I can travel. Yet there are no details as to why I should rush home from my precious singing lessons in Buffalo—the ones Miss Lizbeth procured for me on the strength of a favor from a friend. The lessons that are mostly unavailable in my hometown because I am black.
Yet, no matter how necessary my lessons are, I booked passage on the first steamship I could take out of Buffalo Harbor to Erie, Pennsylvania. Then three days in a packet boat down the Erie Canal until now.
My knee bounces along with my trembling hands as I peer out of the tiny grime-encrusted window of the covered carriage. This is the final piece of transport to take me to the only mother I’ve ever known, but the driver does not appear to be in any rush.
More than anything my worry stems from the fact that this telegram came not from Miss Lizbeth herself, but from her nurse, Sarah. When I departed for my lessons six months ago, Miss Lizbeth was in her regular state of frailty—she is nearly one hundred years old, after all—but she was not sick. Every morning, she rose before I did and had our tea and biscuits ready before I was dressed. She could send her own telegram before I left home for my lessons.
“Here is the address,” I say to the driver who has nearly passed our brownstone.
The carriage halts so suddenly that I must stretch my arms forward to keep from being thrown from the seat. If I was a more slender girl, I would have been. I give silent praise for my heavy bones, healthy appetite, and for never having missed a meal.
Of course, my dear friend Lucien is waiting for me in front of our three-story brick house on Arch Street. I had sent word of my travel before boarding the stagecoach, but there was no way of knowing when I would arrive. He could have been standing here for hours, dressed in his church jacket and pants, his smile stretching from one ear to the other.
Lucien is tall and wiry, with sandpaper-colored skin and a friendly disposition. His kind nature makes up where he’s lacking in looks. Separately, his features aren’t ghastly: large widely set eyes, a broad and flat nose that takes up too much space, and large heavy lips which he can never seem to properly moisturize – they’re either too moist from him licking them, or too dry from the elements. The collection of these features is not exactly what most women consider handsome, but with his physique, chiseled from hard work, and a little confidence he would still manage to turn many heads. Unfortunately, confidence is not something Lucien possesses, and he tends to slouch, making himself smaller and less threatening.
When the carriage slows to a complete stop, Lucien rushes forward to take my bag and help me down the two steps, making me feel like a lady for a change. The carriage speeds off without a goodbye as payment was required when I boarded.
“Lucien,” I say while he encircles me with his arms. Lucien gives the best hugs, warm and sincere, like his personality. “Have you spoken to Miss Lizbeth?”
“She is not well, Eliza. It’s good that you’re home.” I hear the concern and worry in his tone, and it makes me feel anxious to see Miss Lizbeth.
Not wanting to go inside to Miss Lizbeth with a melancholy expression, I hold back the flood of emotions I feel. I know how old she is, so perhaps I shouldn’t have gone so far away to take my lessons.
“It isn’t your fault,” Lucien consoles me as if reading my thoughts. “The doctor says it’s pneumonia. She’s taken to her bed.”
“And have you seen her? Talked to her?”
Lucien takes my arm with his free hand and helps me up the snow and slush covered stairs. I am grateful for this, because the wind is whipping so that I’ve already stumbled twice since climbing out of the carriage. It is late February, but there is no hint of spring in the air, only blustery winds, overcast skies, and a cold that chills to the bone.
“I have not seen her,” Lucien laments. “Sarah keeps her hidden away from the world, or maybe just from me.”
I believe this. While Sarah is an excellent nurse, she is not as fond of black people as Miss Lizbeth, although she would never say as much around the other Quaker members of our closely knit community. I have seen her cast envious glances in my direction, especially once I entered adulthood. Perhaps, I was less threatening to her as a little girl, and a former slave. But at twenty-six, and with Miss Lizbeth still doting on me as she gave birth to me herself, I may be a problem for Sarah. She would probably do away with me if she could, so I am sure she has no use for Lucien.
I use my key to open the door and am overwhelmed by the odor of sickness in the air. It smells of medicine and decay. Of a long life nearing its end.
“Lucien, will you take my bags to my room? I want to go directly in to see Miss Lizbeth.”
Sarah emerges from Miss Lizbeth’s bedroom with her lips pressed together in a grim expression. She looks neither happy nor surprised to see me, but I stretch my arms toward her anyway. She barely embraces me, and there is no love in the motion.
“Miss Elizabeth is resting,” Sarah says coldly. “You will have to visit with her later.”
“I will sit next to her while she sleeps.” I push past Sarah to open the door. “Excuse me, please.”
Sarah narrows her eyes in my direction but does not object. She knows better than to do that. I may be black, but I am still her employer’s daughter.
Though I try to be as quiet as possible, as I step into Miss Lizbeth’s bedroom, her eyes flutter open when I close the door behind me. A weak smile teases her lips, and I force myself to smile back.
“Eliza, you’re home.” Her voice is dry and raspy and barely above a whisper, but I can still hear her joy at seeing me. She pats the chair at her bedside. “Come and sit. Tell me about your lessons.”
I fight back tears at her wasted state. She looks so tiny in her sleeping dress. Mostly she seems old and tired, and though she’s been in the winter of her life since I was born, she never appeared so. Miss Lizbeth has always been full of vigor. This pneumonia has stolen that from her.
I sit and fold my hands across my lap, the way Miss Lizbeth taught me. Even with her education on etiquette, I am never sure how I will be judged by even the friendliest of white people. I know that my robust size and my very dark complexion cause some to believe I am a brute, no matter how genteel my behavior.
“Lucien asks about you,” I say, not wanting to remind her of the lessons that kept me far away when she fell ill.
Miss Lizbeth opens her mouth to speak, but she is overcome by a fit of coughing. She reaches for the glass of water on her nightstand, and I rush to hand it to her. Luckily, she is propped up on a mound of pillows and able to drink without incident.
“Why hasn’t he visited? I would’ve enjoyed seeing him over these past few months.”
“And he you. But Sarah would not allow it.”
Miss Lizbeth’s eyebrows shoot up at this offense from hired staff. “Sarah does not allow nor disallow anything in my home. I will speak to her.”
“No need,” I say, taking the glass of water from Miss Lizbeth and returning it to its place on the nightstand. “I am here now, and so Lucien will get an audience.”
“No need to be so proper my dear. You are home,” she says, patting my hand and calming me. “Lucien will visit, and we will laugh as we always do.”
“We will, but first we have to get you better.”
Miss Lizbeth’s heavy sigh does not match her smile, but I wait for her to elaborate. “I just bet Lucien was waiting for you when the carriage arrived, wasn’t he?”
So, we’re not going to discuss her health. Or her getting better. There is a sinking feeling in my belly at what I suspect is the true nature of this illness. A person cannot live forever, but I cannot fathom my world without Miss Lizbeth.
“He was. He is such a loyal friend to me. Always there when I need him.”
“Well, he desires more than friendship. You know that.”
I look away from Miss Lizbeth’s knowing gaze. This is a difficult subject for me.
Everyone believes that Lucien wants to court me, but I don’t have the same feelings for him. I also do not have any other men inquiring after me, so there’s a small voice inside me that nags at me not to discourage Lucien so hastily. “He has not said as much, and I will not broach the topic myself. I quite enjoy our friendship.”
“Lucien never changes. He is a good man.” Even in her whispery voice I can hear the compassion Miss Lizbeth has for Lucien.
“I do enjoy his company, but I sometimes fear there’s an additional motivation for his attentions. I don’t know what will become of us if he makes these motivations plain.”
There are times when I let myself dream of something more than a life with a husband and children. But then other times I think I might welcome the security of a marriage, because what choice is there really, other than spinsterhood?
Still other times I wonder if it’s the idea of marriage that gives me pause or if it’s Lucien. Because would I want children and a quiet life if it was with someone other than Lucien? Someone who makes my toes tingle if that is a possibility. I have never felt le tingling from Lucien.
“His actions are clear, Eliza. To anyone with eyes, his motivations are plain,” Miss Lizbeth says knowingly.
Hearing this oft-repeated message from Miss Lizbeth has made me anxious. I no longer wish to speak of this. Not today. Today, I only care about spending time with Miss Lizbeth.
“I don’t know about Lucien, but I do know I’d like to tell you about my lessons.”
Miss Lizbeth closes her eyes for a long moment, hopefully accepting my clue to turn our attentions somewhere other than Lucien, at least for now.
“And I want to hear about your lessons,” she finally croaks after coughing for an extended amount of time. “How is Bella?”
I cannot think about Miss Bella without wanting to adjust my posture and breathe from my diaphragm. The tiny Italian woman is well into her eighties but has the energy of a woman decades younger. Even miles away, I can almost hear her cane tapping in my head, keeping the tempo for me as I sing.
Bella is short for Isabella Antonacci, and she moved to America as a young woman. Her story changes almost every time I ask, but from what I gather, she had a promising career ahead of her as a prima donna and was trained by her cousin Tonio who was a composer and one of the last castrati—young men who were castrated at an early age simply to preserve their soprano voices for the stage.
She says her career was ruined, and she hints at the reason, but I can never quite pinpoint the exact story. I believe it had to do with her exquisite beauty. If the portraits hanging in her studio are accurate depictions, she was stunning, with lush dark hair, blue eyes, full lips, and a buxom figure.
“Miss Bella is as fiery as ever,” I say. “Still teaching her young students too.”
“The small children? Is she mad?” Miss Lizbeth manages to sound amused between a few weaker coughs.
Weak not because there’s less congestion because I can still hear the loud rattle, but I think because she’s growing even more tired. I hate to leave her side, but I may need to heed Sarah’s advice and allow her to rest.
“Miss Bella says she will continue to teach them singing and Italian as long as she has the energy. But lately, she has started to use her walking stick all the time.”
Miss Lizbeth now simply shakes her head in wonder. She motions to her tumbler of water, and I quickly give her a drink. Some of the water dribbles onto her nightgown, and she does not look refreshed, but she gives a tiny smile that makes her look peaceful.
“Show me what you’ve learned,” she asks.
“Well, I am learning an aria, but I don’t think it’s good enough yet.”
“I’m sure it is better than you think. Learning from Bella is the next best thing to being educated in Europe. She may even be better. Let me hear it.”
Another soft smile and a hand squeeze are all the encouragement I need. I push away the thought that this may be the last time I sing for Miss Lizbeth, but her chest continues to rattle with every breath, and the pale wrinkled hand that covers mine is weak.
I swallow to moisten my throat. It isn’t enough, but I will not sing in full voice, and I will pull back on the high notes—things my teacher has instilled in me, things I didn’t know to do before. Miss Bella says my voice, my range, will not last forever and that I must do all I can to preserve them.
Miss Lizbeth shudders when I open my mouth to sing the first melancholy note. This aria, from La sonnambula, is a sad one, perfect for this occasion.
All the grief I feel at the sudden thought of losing Miss Lizbeth comes rushing out over the notes as I sing the words. My parents, formerly owned by Miss Lizbeth, but now manumitted, went to the freed slave colony in West Africa called Liberia when I was five years old. My father wanted to go back to his native land, but my mother was born here. Miss Lizbeth says they left me in America, because they did not know what they might encounter in Liberia, and she promised she would spare no expense educating me.
What I remember of them is in bits and pieces. My mother’s soothing voice and her long, heavy hair that she wore in a long braid that came past her bottom. I recall her being much shorter than my father, and I recall his laugh. It was loud and booming and seemed to go on forever once he got going.
I never questioned their decision to leave me behind until now, because when Miss Lizbeth dies, I will have no protector.
Of course, I will have Lucien, who may have his heart set on marriage and family. He would perhaps relish being able to step in to protect me, but that protection would accompany his promise of forever. Only Miss Lizbeth’s love comes without strings.
Tears stream down Miss Lizbeth’s face as I hit the last note and perfectly trill as Miss Bella has taught me. The aria, while melancholy, is beautiful and haunting.
“The words,” Miss Lizbeth says after another coughing fit, “what do they mean?”
“I’m sure my Italian pronunciations are imperfect, but it begins with I had not thought I would see you, dear flowers, perished so soon. That is the translation.”
“I wouldn’t know if it was correct or not, since I don’t speak Italian.”
We both laugh, though singing the words properly is part of my education. Miss Bella teaches me more than the rudiments of singing. She also teaches me how to stand, how to hold my hands, and how to look elegant and gracious while making my voice accomplish nearly impossible feats. And, of course, she tries her best to teach me Italian, so that if I become a prima donna one day, I will be able to visit Italy and learn from greater teacher than herself.
“Miss Bella says I should honor and cherish each syllable,” I explain. “But it’s so hard, because I only know some of the words until I hear the translation. In Italian they are mostly sounds with music notes attached.”
“I have confidence in you, my dear Eliza. You will learn as much as you can from Bella, and then you can receive more training in Europe.”
“You are surer of these things than I am, Miss Lizbeth. Please do not leave me. I am not ready to be in this world without you.”
There. I’ve spoken the words in my heart. I am afraid of what comes next without her.
“Everyone, everything is temporary, but when we’re gone, we must leave the world better than when we entered it, yes?”
I nod, digesting Miss Lizbeth’s often spoken words. She is a fear-inspiring and phenomenal woman who has long navigated this world without a husband or protector, though she was married twice.
“And when I am gone, you will cleave unto your sister, Mary. She will be a comfort for you.” Miss Lizbeth delivers her words with certainty and finality, and without hysterics.
But my head reels with hysteria.
“I am not ready for instructions on what to do after you’re gone. I do not wish to think about that.”
But you must think about these things. I don’t have much time left.” This is punctuated with a hacking cough that does nothing to clear the moist sounds in Miss Lizbeth’s chest. I pretend not to notice the blood-tinged spittle at the corners of her dry lips.
“You have had illnesses before, and you have recovered.”
“This one will finish me, and you are what I leave behind,” Miss Lizbeth says. “You must pursue your gift.”
What a heavy burden to lay at my feet when she will not be here to endure the suffering that is sure to come with this pursuit. How can I be the thing she leaves behind? I am her namesake, and it is true that she has nurtured and cared for me my entire life, but she cannot bequeath unto me the one thing that will make cultivating this gift possible.
“Pursue singing as a profession?” I ask the question because the Society of Friends does not encourage singing or the arts in general.
“Why not?” Miss Lizbeth scoffs.
“The Friends…”
One side of Miss Lizbeth’s mouth rises in her familiar lopsided grin. “Come now, Eliza. Don’t you try to convince me that you will follow the Quaker way of life when I’m gone. I can barely get you to visit our meetings. You and Mary have your Baptist church.”
“We do.”
“And last I checked, the Baptists are quite fond of music and singing.”
“Yes, but I am…” I search my mind for the word that will best fit this sentiment. “Limited.”
Miss Lizbeth shakes her head. An adamant no. “You are gifted.”
“Yes, but there are limits to what I can achieve. I am too black to be seen as delicate in this world. People don’t expect beautiful music to come from my mouth. They must always be convinced. I must always prove myself.” I feel my explanation is rambling and emotional, but she must listen to me.
Though it seems like it should be impossible for her to do so, Miss Lizbeth rises from her mound of pillows. She grips my hand with a strength that she doesn’t appear to have, and she gazes directly into my eyes.
“Believe this. Every gift comes from God. Promise me you won’t waste it.”
“I—”
Miss Lizbeth’s frail body shakes with terrifying coughs. What little color that remains drains from her face as more blood trickles from the corners of her mouth. I try not to scream, but I do let out a yelp that brings Sarah bursting into the room. She pushes me away from the bedside.
“Eliza, she must rest,” Sarah hisses. “Can’t you see that with your own eyes?”
I grit my teeth but allow Sarah space to do her work. Miss Lizbeth might be her charge, but she is my guardian, and she is slipping away.
“Promise me Eliza,” Miss Lizbeth whispers as Sarah gently lowers her head back into the rearranged pillows.
“I promise.”
Miss Lizbeth’s eyes close as I give my uncertain response, and she falls into a restless sleep. Her body shudders with every rattling breath. Though I am unsure about where this gift will lead me, I am certain that Miss Lizbeth will not be here to witness the outcome.
Sarah tucks the blankets high around her neck, though it looks uncomfortable, and then turns to glare at me.
“I told you she was tired, but you disturbed and excited her,” she says in a tone that is not only unpleasant, but disrespectful as well.
She does not deserve an answer, so I don’t give her one. Sarah resumes her station next to Miss Lizbeth’s bedside, and I leave the room.
Lucien is waiting outside the door, with his hat in his hand, a look of worry on his face. Seeing his concern unleashes my flood of tears. I allow him to wrap me in the warmth of his strong, muscled arms, no matter how he may interpret my closeness. If nothing else, I feel safe with Lucien. I look up at his face, his smooth skin and kind eyes, feeling sorrowful that I don’t have a love attraction for him. And as I gaze, I question if I could ever feel attracted to him.
“It won’t be long,” I say after abruptly pulling away from the hug, when Lucien tried to hold on a little longer than was welcome. “She can barely breathe without coughing, and there is blood in her spittle.”
“She has lived a good long life. Don’t be sad.”
But it is not sadness that I feel. It’s concern and trepidation. I have made a promise to Miss Lizbeth, and I am bound by duty and by love to honor it. More than this, I want to believe in the greatness that Miss Lizbeth sees in me. I will continue my lessons and see what unfolds.
Hopefully, my friendship with Lucien will survive unscathed even if I don’t want to bear his children and cook his meals. There are many women in Philadelphia who can do these things for him.
None of these women, however, can sing La sonnambula.
Click HERE to place your PREORDER for THE UNEXPECTED DIVA. It will be available everywhere books are sold on January 7, 2025.