Wessingham Awaits (Book 1, Music) (4 page)

“Can you hear me?” Dr. Talmage snapped his fingers in front of my face.  “Course she can hear you,” the Duchess said. “She merely wants to ruin my life, the vengeful little harlot.  Don’t you Lizzie? You’ve always
hated
your mother haven’t you?” She peered into her glass. “What is this, hog piss?  Garcon!” She pulled the bell string and fell to her knees. “Where’s that little monkey boy with my ice?”

“Mary.” My father jumped from his chair and helped her to her feet. “You’ve had enough to drink.”

“Don’t you correct
me
, doctor. You’re as
clueless
as they come.”

“If only Lizzie had the nerves,” Dr. Talmage said. “I shouldn’t have pressed her.”

“Tisk, tisk,” Follensbee said, cleaning his eyeglasses. “Shall we not dazzle them with ‘Grandfather’s Clock’ and be done with it?”

“We don’t have to sing the solos, Lizzie.” Dr. Talmage said. “Hup hup, everything’s like it was. Henry’ll be next to you every moment.”

“But it’s not,” Henry said. “Something’s wrong.”

I was so scared of bleeding to death, so embarrassed, that I absently hid my face in his chest and started to weep. Hesitantly, Henry placed his arm around me and started humming the sweetest, simplest tune.  “I have something to share with you,” he said. “Alone.” He led me up and into the next Pullman, begged our pardon, and locked the sliding door behind us. The Duchess, unappreciative of such secrecy, banged the glass, but Henry merely slid the velvet curtains, blocking her from view, and sat in front of me, holding my hands. “The melody,” he said. “It’s called ‘Wessingham Awaits.’”

Henry:

If I could try impart

The truth within my heart

And make a fact from a feeling inside,

Then I would ere proclaim

That you would feel the same

And we would be in love.

It spoke directly to my best self, my most courageous one, and allowed me to forget, at least for a while, my impending death.  It also seemed to inspire great hope, if not outright excitement, as we arrived at the train station, met our carriage, and drove to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. I was armed with a tremendous song, one that I knew would be well-received if I had my way. The liaison directed us straight to the grand ballroom or “East Room,” incandescently donned in a white Corinthian Order, accessorized with garland spiraling up columns, edged in gold cornice and matching woolen carpet, accented with grandiose golden frames of unfathomably large mirrors and life-size oils depicting our republic’s first President and wife. At the center of the room, a gas chandelier hovered over a circular burgundy couch, now being lifted and removed by a team. At the far side, musicians gathered on risers to form a small chamber orchestra.  Dr. Talmage greeted the conductor and handed him a scored copy of “Wessingham Awaits,” the one Henry had transcribed on the train as we approached Washington.

Henry:

If I could dare describe

The beauty in my mind

And build a world from the way it should be,

Then I would make a plan

That you would take my hand

And we would be in love.

Pinching his waxed mustache, the conductor examined the piece, instructed his first violinist to play a few bars, and hailed a lackey.  “We need thirty-seven copies in an hour. Can it be done?”  The lackey answered in the affirmative and whisked the music away. For the next couple of hours, we and the orchestra rehearsed the evening’s program beginning with the duet “
Libiamo ne'lieti calici!”
and ending, finally, with my new signature solo, “Wessingham Awaits.” Afterward, in a hotel across the way, we dined, bathed, powdered, dressed, and waited to be introduced to the President of the United States of America.  It was during this period that I reflected on my time alone in the Pullman car with Henry. “What exactly is Wessingham?”  I had asked him.

Henry:

If love is another wonderland,

I’ll live in fantasy.

If love is another Wessingham,

Then that is where I’ll be.

For I dream of Wessingham,

For this is who I am,

A boy of hope for places unseen.

And if the choice is mine,

One day we’ll surely find.

A place to be in love.

“Once upon a time there was a great king,” Henry said. “The king lived in a great castle.  The castle was in a great and mountainous kingdom. And yet this kingdom was hidden from rest of the world. This kingdom was hidden somewhere in the United States of America. The way it’s been described to me, Wessingham is a fortified city hidden somewhere deep in the Appalachian Mountains.”  It is commonly compared to the city of
El Dorado
or the isle of Atlantis.  Elusive and enchanted, fraught with beauty and mystery, chivalry and magic, filled with waterfalls and gardens, fields and forests, bridges and towers, gold and ancient treasure, Wessingham is believed to be one of the most romantic places on earth.  Similar to ancient Athens or Sparta, it considers itself an independent state, but rather than being governed by citizens, a hardy “mountain king” reigns supremely.  According to legend, anyone who attempts to find Wessingham—that is, “Anyone who wishes to find heaven on earth must first go through hell to get there.” At nightfall, whenever a wayward traveler approaches the walls of Wessingham, an evil wraith dislodges itself from the wind. Some say it’s the ghost of a mountain king, others say it’s a dreadful “demon,” while still others say it’s Lucifer himself. Whatever this spirit is, it’s a horrible, vengeful, jealous one, and “it will stop at nothing to kill you” before you reach the tower gates.  Without fail, the wraith materializes as a “black knight on a warhorse,” first coalescing into a strange flesh, then cladding itself in armor.  To this day, Appalachian folk swear that an uncle or brother or cousin went looking for Wessingham and never came back. Whether they found it or the “Black Knight,” or simply became lost and died, no one is certain.

Lizzie
:

No matter what it takes,

If Wessingham awaits,

Yet hides itself from the cowardly kind,

Then I will ride all night

And fight if I must fight,

And we will be in love.

“As for the song ‘Wessingham Awaits,’” Henry said, “It’s about an Appalachian boy,” the son of a beekeeper who meets the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.” He sells her a jar of honey, and she returns each week for another.  Eventually, they talk of marriage, and though the girl loves the boy, she cannot, will not, marry him nor tell him why. When, at last, the boy insists, the girl disappears, leaving behind a letter in which she claims that her father, “the King of Wessingham,” cannot, will not, condone her marriage. Undeterred, the boy sings aloud to the Princess of Wessingham, wherever she may be, and vows to find her, or die trying.

Lizzie:

If courage takes its toll,

And strikes a deadly blow,

At least you’ll know why I ventured this far.

For Wessingham, my love,

Is what I’m dreaming of,

A place to be in love.

“Does he ever find the Princess?” I asked, to which Henry replied, “He disappears in the mountains, never to be seen again.”  Immediately, I was transfixed, both by the song and story. “I shall sing it,” I said. “I shall sing it for the President.” Whatever the cause for the bleeding might have been, I prayed for the strength to delay my death until I had fulfilled my purpose on earth. After three consecutive, praiseworthy renditions without error, the next evening I sang “Wessingham Awaits” before the world.

Lizzie
:

If love is another wonderland,

I’ll live in fantasy.

If love is another Wessingham,

Then that is where I’ll be.

For I dream of Wessingham,

For this is who I am,

A girl of hope for places unseen.

And if the choice is mine,

One day, we’ll surely find,

A place to be in love.

President Cleveland was the first to stand and applaud. The others, including the King of Morocco, followed suit.  “Breathtaking” was the accolade of choice among the journalists in attendance—among almost everyone except our very own Vernon Follensbee, who had apparently been elsewhere during rehearsals.  “Where did you find that song?” he demanded.

“It’s an Appalachian ballad,” Dr. Talmage said.  “I have no idea who wrote it.” 

And neither did anyone else, for shortly thereafter, an investigative reporter from
The Washington Post
published an article entitled “The Legend of Wessingham” whereby he unearthed the story of a heavenly city guarded by the ghost of a murderous knight.  The report concluded that no record of the song could be found “prior to Miss Bowyer’s inspiring performance.”  Similarly,
The New York Times
,
Boston Herald
, and
Chicago Tribune
all gave treatments of Wessingham, with one reporter going so far as to interview families of eastern Kentucky and West Virginia.  A few had heard of Wessingham, even fewer believed in it, and none were familiar with the song in question except a Melungeon man who worked at a livery stable and said it “sounds kind of familiar.” Inevitably the trail led back to Dr. Talmage, then me, and finally “Mr. Henry Godwin,” who could not, would not, grant an interview at the request of his parents.

9

After the Presidential Performance and subsequent newspaper articles, requests for our presence were relentless, many with the condition that I sing “Wessingham Awaits.” Invitations came from several notable venues, including the Metropolitan Opera House, London’s Covent Garden, and the
Palais Garnier
of Paris. Clearly, an international tour was in order, and although the Duchess was ready to withdraw me from school come fall, the Godwins could not, would not, commit to any such thing. Furthermore, they outright forbade Henry’s participation in any program that included “that horrible song.”

“Why?” Dr. Talmage asked Follensbee. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It is their wish,” Follensbee said. “Henry’s studies will continue as they were before this presidential blowup.”

“You’re ruining his future.”

“His future is of no concern of yours.”

“I insist on meeting the Godwins,” Dr. Talmage said. “They can’t understand what they’re throwing away.”

“You will not meet with the Godwins. You will give Henry music instruction on Thursday night and no more. You will respect the wishes of his parents and be grateful for their patronage.”

“No,” Dr. Talmage said. “I will not be teaching him on Thursday nights. Or on any other night.  If the Godwins wish to remain aloof and eccentric and squander the talent of their son, so be it. This fall I’ll be on tour with Mrs. Bowyer and her exceptionally talented daughter.  Henry will have to find another instructor.”

With vitriol in his eyes, Follensbee snatched his hat and departed. Of course, when these events were at last related to me, I refused to go on tour without Henry. The Duchess promptly slapped me and bemoaned her fate, and I, in turn, in a wretched state of despair, fell mute once again. I lost weight and I did not start school nor attend church with Helen.  My parents argued continually until, one rainy morning, I woke up in the convalescent room and saw, through the transparent mirror, Henry Godwin, more handsome than ever, smiling at me. I jumped from my bed and came inches from his face, and though he could not see me through the tinted glass, he winked, so certain of my presence on the other side. The others were in the parlor, too: Dr. Talmage, the Duchess, Dr. Bowyer, Mr. Follensbee. A compromise had been reached.  Henry and I, as a couple, would practice once a week through the school year, perform at local venues once a month, and then, come summer, steam abroad for Europe.  What’s more, the Godwins no longer objected to “that horrible song,” or that is what they led us to believe.