[Eleanor]: 668.Amelia.Chapter IX

IX.

The weeks passed, one day following another full of pots, boiling water, laundry and ladles. Amelia seemed to be back to her old self, singing as she worked and going out with the girls on their evenings off. One day the master sent the same silent servant as before to bring her before him and his wife. With them was a slightly stooped, older man who regarded her speculatively, as though assessing the weight of a cartload of potatoes. Amelia stood in front of them with downcast eyes and waited. 

“Emily,” the master began, “you have too beautiful a voice to stay hidden in the kitchens all the time. We want you to take some lessons and perform when we have guests. Lorenzo, our family’s music master, is a fine harpsichordist, and would be more than able to coach you and prepare you for concerts. You shall spend an hour every day under his tutelage. I’m sure Mistress Roach will forgive your absence for that long. You can always catch up on your work afterward.”

Amelia noted that she was not being asked if she wanted this sudden shift in her employment. She suddenly felt trapped, like a deer surrounded by hunters with notched arrows. The master simply assumed that she would comply. But if it meant getting away from the hot kitchen for an hour every day to sing and learn more about music, she would not argue, even if she had to work extra to finish her scouring.

“Thank you, sir,” she responded with a slight bow. “When will I begin my lessons?”

“You and Lorenzo and Mistress Roach will have to work that out,” answered the master. “Find a time that is mutually convenient and use it well. Our daughter just gave birth to a little girl and we are celebrating her christening here in two weeks, and would like you to have something prepared for then. Lorenzo will choose the repertoire.”

With that, Amelia suddenly found herself dismissed. Back in the kitchen, Bess and Louise wanted to know why she had been summoned upstairs. “They want me to take singing lessons and perform at their parties,” said Amelia, wonderingly. “I can’t believe it. It’s just so…,” here she trailed off as she looked for the right word. “…providential,” she concluded. 

Bess hugged her in her powerful embrace. “That’s marvellous!” she cried. “You’ll become quite the star and much too good for us, you know,” Louise teased.

“Oh, no!” Amelia responded warmly. “I would never do that!”

The very next morning Mistress Roach informed Amelia she would be spending the first hour after breakfast of every work day cloistered with Lorenzo in the music room for at least the next two weeks. If Lorenzo felt his student was progressing rapidly enough, they could then space the lessons farther apart, but Amelia would still have to find time to practise on her own. The master had been very clear on that. He wanted professionalism when he presented her to his guests. 

Amelia obediently trotted upstairs and found the indicated chamber, getting lost once or twice and having to ask a cleaner for directions. For the first time, she had a good look at her singing teacher, a stooped, once-handsome man of past middle age, with a neatly-trimmed, white beard and curly grey hair. Lorenzo was already seated at the harpsichord, a sheaf of music in front of him. There was a music stand set up next to his keyboard with one page on it. He looked his student up and down and let out a deep sigh.

“Two weeks they give me to turn you into a singer. What are they thinking? This will be like spinning nettles into silk,” he complained in a deep voice with a heavy accent. “Can you even read, pot girl, let alone read music?” 

Amelia did not move. “My name is Amelia,” she said carefully, feeling a spurt of anger start to burn inside her, “and yes, I can read music. If you call me ‘pot girl’ again I will go back to scouring them and refuse to cooperate with you.” They glared at each other over the music stand until Lorenzo suddenly burst out laughing. 

“Amelia it is then, and you will call me Lorenzo. Let us begin.” 

The moment Amelia opened her mouth and started to sing, Lorenzo’s attitude changed completely. Where he had expected dross, he heard gold, and was determined to polish Amelia until she dazzled their employers. None of the children of the house whom he had taught music to had ever exhibited half the talent that had just emerged from the kitchen.

At first Amelia found her singing lessons arduous and was often near tears as Lorenzo tried to make her do things differently than she had done all her life. He explained that her voice was simply an instrument—like a flute or a horn, albeit housed within her body—that she must learn to manipulate and train so that it responded to her will. Whereas her grandmother had demonstrated how to hold the harp and shape her fingers to pluck the strings, her voice was not so easily approached. The music master could not very well reach into her mouth with his fingers to change the shape of her tongue. He patiently explained what he expected of her, and then used images and fanciful descriptions to get her to achieve the desired end. When that didn’t work, he found a mirror for her to look at so that she could see the differences following his instructions made. 

The sheet of paper on her music stand was a set of exercises Lorenzo insisted she do daily. They consisted of scales and arpeggios rising to the top and falling to the bottom of her range on different vowel sounds. He explained how she was to breathe, making optimum use of the space in her ribcage for expansion of her lungs, and how to compress the air so that it didn’t all leak out at once. Although Amelia had been singing all her life, for the first time she did it consciously and was pleasantly surprised at the control she was able to exert over her instrument. 

Every morning she met with Lorenzo for the specified hour. She sang through her exercises for him and then he added something new to her growing knowledge of technique. He gave her sheets of printed music to memorize: the songs they would be performing at the granddaughter’s christening party. Amelia learned quickly. Instead of humming and singing her old tunes while she worked, she practised the new ones and Lorenzo was pleased at the speed with which she progressed. After two weeks he declared that she was ready to sing for their employers again to show them what they had been doing in their allotted time.

It was the day before the party and Amelia was quite nervous. But as she sang, she was transported elsewhere, lifted out of her life of drudgery into a realm where sorrow and pain could not touch her. The singing was effortless; all her practising had prepared her for this moment, the body taking over while the mind floated free. It was with regret that she brought herself back to earth when Lorenzo played the final chords.

Once again there were tears in the mistress’ eyes. The master applauded enthusiastically and clapped Lorenzo on his back. “Well done!” he cried. “You shall be the jewel of the party tomorrow.” His wife wiped the wetness from her face and said, “But we must do something about your appearance, dear. You can’t wear that mask. You look like a condemned criminal. I’ve asked my maid to see to your dress tomorrow. She’ll figure something out.”

The master and mistress turned and left the room, leaving the two musicians alone. Amelia turned to Lorenzo. “Thank you,” she said, “for everything.”

“No,” he responded with a smile. “it is I who thank you. I have never had such a talented pupil before. You have been a joy to teach. Until tomorrow, my dear lady.” Lorenzo stood and took her hand, red and rough from scouring pots, and kissed it. Amelia blushed.

She arose early the next morning. Even though she was to sing at the party that evening, she still had to perform all her scullery jobs, warm up her voice and attend upon the mistress’ maid so she could find a more elegant way to hide her face. The mistress had also made it clear that Amelia was to wear a dress; her trousers would not do in front of their guests.

The kitchen was already preparing for the feast to follow the ceremony. Amelia got busy carrying water to the fire where Bess was pumping the bellows so that the flames rose to lick the bottoms of the pots. Louise was sharpening the knives she would use to chop vegetables for soup and stews. It was the world Amelia had become accustomed to; even though she had to work hard every day, it was comforting in its warmth and routine and the friendships she had made. Although Mistress Roach had impeccable standards, she also treated the younger women like her own daughters. A sense of longing lodged itself in Amelia’s chest and throat, a feeling that she was about to leave the safety of this environment she knew so well. ‘It’s only one performance,’ she told herself. “I’m not about to become a star. Bess is wrong. Nothing will come of this. I will sing for the guests tonight and then I’ll still be scrubbing pots tomorrow.’

After she hung up the last of the ladles, Amelia went looking for the mistress’ maid. Again she took several wrong turns before finally finding the chamber she sought. The mistress was dressed for dinner in a heavily-beaded gown of beige brocaded silk. Her maid was in the process of doing her hair, pinning up her grey curls with pearl-tipped pins, and bade Amelia sit and wait until she was done. Finally pleased with the outcome, the mistress sniffed disapprovingly at Amelia’s trousers and mask, and left the room in a cloud of scent. As the maid closed the door behind her, Amelia sneezed.

“Yes, she lays it on quite thick, doesn’t she?” commented the maid. “I’m Elsa. You must be Emily. The mistress says I’m to work my magic on you and make you presentable. She says we’re not to allow anyone to see your face, that it’s quite the horror under there. So, how are we going to do this, do you think?”

“I don’t know,” answered the masked girl. “She doesn’t like my trousers, either. But I don’t have any dresses.”

“Don’t you worry none about the dress,” Elsa chided. “There are plenty that the young miss left behind that’ll fit you just fine. She’d never get into them now, so someone should wear them. With every baby she puts on more weight, and now she’s bigger than her mum. Now you just take off that mask and we’ll see exactly what we have to hide.”

“Oh,” gasped Amelia, “I can’t!” She pressed the leather to her face. 

“Come now,” coaxed the maid, “it can’t be all that bad. I’ve seen some terrors in my day. I used to help my mother, the mid-wife in my old village, when she was called to see to the men who had accidents in the mine, or the smithy, or at the mill. There were some awful scenes, I can tell you. Nothing you can show me will be worse than those, for sure.”

Amelia said in a very small voice, “Elsa, will you promise, will you swear not to tell anyone what you see when I take off my mask? You have to or I’m simply not taking it off.”

Elsa put her hand on her breast. “I promise, Emily, that I won’t tell a single solitary soul what I see when you take off your mask.”

“Especially not the mistress,” added Amelia, waiting for the other woman’s added promise.

“On my great grandmother’s bones, I especially won’t tell the mistress,” said Elsa. “Now, show me what great horror dwells under that piece of cowhide.”

Slowly Amelia undid the ties that held her mask on and pulled it off her head. Her short auburn hair stood up in spikes as the hood came away. Elsa gasped. For a long moment neither one spoke. At last the maid let our her breath and said, “Well, I wasn’t expecting that, was I? Now would you be a good girl and tell me what’s going on here?”

Amelia took a deep breath and, for the second time since she left home, told the truth, that it wasn’t a deformity that had made people shun her, but the very perfection of her face which had been her bane. Elsa listened patiently, all the while wondering how she was going to arrange a veil so that it hid the glorious visage in front of her. Anything she contrived would scarcely mask the singer’s radiant beauty as well as her actual mask did. She would have to do more than her usual “magic”. She put a finger under the girl’s chin and looked at her critically. “How would you feel about a scar, or a disfiguring burn mark that would just peek out from beneath the veil? I’m pretty handy with the paint brush, if I say so myself. Let’s see what we can afford to expose.”

Elsa pulled out a makeup case from the mistress’ dressing table and opened it, sorting through pots of lip rouge and eye shadow, until she found what she was looking for. She lifted a palette from the bottom of the case and poured a small amount of water in it from the jug on the table. Then she started mixing colours like a master artist until she had something that resembled the skin of an aubergine. Beckoning Amelia to bring her chair closer, she started painting the girl’s peerless cheek with her brush, pulling back every so often to appraise her work. She then dipped her brush in various pots and continued dabbing until she was satisfied with the result. Silently, she handed Amelia a mirror.

Amelia choked back the sudden desire to scream. One side of her face was covered by an angry purple mark that ran from her left forehead to just above her jawbone, leaving her eye untouched. It actually looked painful. She resisted the impulse to touch it, knowing that she would just smear the paint. 

“Now for that dress and a veil,” said Elsa. She left the room and returned shortly with three gowns in different colours. Amelia tried each one on, unused to the feeling of skirts swishing around her ankles. They settled on a mauve dress with long sleeves and a high neckline that seemed to make the mark on her face more livid. It was too big and too long, so Elsa quickly sewed pleats in the back to take up the slack, and pinned the hem so Amelia wouldn’t trip over it. Then Elsa fashioned a short veil from a length of tulle which Amelia could see through well enough but hid the top part of her face. When Amelia opened her mouth to sing, the very edge of the purple mark showed under the veil, just enough so that no one would ask why the girl’s face was hidden. Pleased with the results of their collusion, Elsa led Amelia to the music room where Lorenzo was already waiting for her to do her vocal warmups.

“You are ravishing, my lady,” he said, bowing deeply, “as beautiful as your singing.” Amelia smiled and curtsied. Tonight was as much a test for the music master as it was for her and she did not want to disappoint him. 

The diners had finished eating when Lorenzo and Amelia entered the hall. The guest of honour, the master and mistress’ baby granddaughter, was sleeping peacefully in an ornate cradle next to her mother, an extremely overweight woman in blue silk. She exclaimed loudly when the two musicians appeared, “Isn’t that my old dress? I don’t think I could get that over one arm now!” and exploded in peals of noisy laughter. Amelia smiled demurely and waited to be introduced.

The master stood up and spoke. “My dearest friends and family, I have a delightful surprise for you this evening. You all know Lorenzo, who has been with us for many years. He is joined tonight by Emily, a young woman of immense talent who has been hiding in my own kitchen. They have prepared some small entertainment for your pleasure. I hope you enjoy it as much as mother and I do.” He resumed his seat and the musicians took their positions. 

Amelia looked at the dozen or so faces in front of her and suddenly became intensely nervous. Her mouth was dry and her throat closed and she couldn’t remember the beginning to the first song. ‘Breathe,’ she told herself. ‘Relax.’ She shut her eyes and imagined her grandmother next to her, a warm, friendly presence. She opened her eyes, turned to Lorenzo and nodded. 

As Lorenzo played the first notes of the music, Amelia opened her mouth, inhaled, and started singing. Almost immediately she was carried to that place where music always took her, where she and Lorenzo alone existed, singing and playing, weaving melody and accompaniment together. They finished one song to furious applause and then began another until they had exhausted their small repertoire. When they were done, Amelia allowed herself to gaze once more on the faces in front of her.

The mistress was dabbing at her eyes, the daughter had a look of rapt wonderment, and the master beamed with pride. The other guests were equally impressed, and the son-in-law called out, “Encore!” Amelia looked at Lorenzo, and he nodded. The two reprised the first song of the evening, and it was even better the second time. When she and Lorenzo came to the end, he rose and bowed, she curtsied, and they slipped out of the dining room amid the applause and bravos.

“Amelia,” Lorenzo said when they were back in the music room, “thank you.” He kissed her hand. “I would not be surprised if you are scouring fewer pots and spending more time practising after this.” Amelia blushed and hugged Lorenzo quickly before rushing from the room, afraid her tears would blind her to her path back to the mistress’ chamber where Elsa helped her out of the mauve dress and back into her trousers and mask.

“How did it go?” asked the maid, shaking out the creases and putting the gown on a hanger.

“It was amazing,” answered Amelia. “I have never felt so liberated! I wish you could have heard it.”

Elsa smiled slyly. “Actually,” she confided, “I did. The mistress always likes to have me nearby, so I was in the hallway and I could hear from there. I never get to see anything, mind, but I already know how you looked.” She finished folding up the length of tulle and put it away. “Well, my dear, until next time, and judging from the amount of applause they gave you, there will most definitely be a next time.”

“Thank you Elsa,” bubbled Amelia, “for everything!” Then she was gone, hurrying back to the servants’ quarters where she locked herself in her room. Her participation in the concert had not excused her from scouring pots and she knew that eventually she would have to go back to the kitchen and finish her work. But for the next little while, she wanted to relive the experience she had just had. Amelia lay on her bed, eyes closed, and thought of the moment when she invoked the memory of her grandmother and how she had suddenly felt calmed; more than calmed, she had felt centred. ‘Thank you, Nana,’ she thought.

A knock at the door roused Amelia from her revery. Reluctantly she got up and opened it to Louise.

“So, tell me all about it!” cried Louise. “What did you wear? Did they like you?”

Amelia laughed and hugged her friend, still redolent of onions and garlic. “It was wonderful,” she laughed. “Everyone loved me. I wore a lavender dress that used to belong to the mistress’ daughter when she was still thin, and it was still too big, so Elsa had to take it in and pin up the hem. Oh, and Elsa made a veil for me out of tulle so I didn’t have to wear my mask.”

“Well,” said Louise, “Mistress Roach wants to see you. It seems you have pots to scour, but not that many. Bess washed some for you so you wouldn’t be up till midnight scrubbing.”

“Sweet Bess,” said Amelia. “I’d best do that then. Thanks, Louise. I’ll see to you tomorrow.”

Amelia hurried off to see Mistress Roach and get her instructions. Luckily, Bess had done most of the washing up and there was very little left for the masked girl to finish. She carried the pile of dirty laundry to the wash house and left it there for the morning. When she finally got back to her room, locked the door and removed her mask, she was totally exhausted.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long time, Elsa’s angry purple mark puckered from the dry paint which was starting to peel off. It really was frightening looking. Amelia touched it with her fingertip, loosening more of the pigment which fell in powdery flakes into her wash basin. ‘What would it be like to be truly scarred like this?’ she wondered. She tried to imagine her face permanently marred and found it eerily easy. Having been shunned for her perfection, it would not be so different being horrendously disfigured. ‘Neither should make a difference,’ she thought.  ‘After all, it’s not the rind of the fruit that matters, but the pulp underneath.’ As she lay in bed waiting for sleep to come, she wondered why others didn’t see it that way. They would accept a person completely if he hid his deformity behind a veil, but could not see past a beautiful face to the soul it concealed.