THIS IS A SHORT STORY INSPIRED BY THE CAROL:
The Twelve Days of Christmas
On the twelfth day of Christmas,
my true love sent to me:
Twelve drummers drumming
Eleven pipers piping
Ten lords a-leaping
Nine ladies dancing
Eight maids a-milking
Seven swans a-swimming
Six geese a-laying
Five golden rings
Four calling birds
Three French hens
Two turtle doves, and
A partridge in a pear tree
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Polly
Mrs. Dunkel
The Maestro
Teresia, “The New Soprano”
Vicenzio, “The Valet”
Raphael, “The Olympian”
The Four Tenors
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
Dear Reader,
Welcome to Tuscany. This is not a typical Christmas Story. There is infidelity, poison, and scheming. Enter at your own risk. Can you identify the murderer before the twelfth day?
POLLY
Mrs. Dunkel looks like my uncle.
I frequently played this game, rhyming insults with Mrs. Dunkel’s name, while scrubbing out pots and pans. My forearm strained as I scoured steel wool against the black, crusty grime that was bonded to the bottom of the dish. Partridges left the absolute worst scum on Pyrex, although we didn’t call it Pyrex yet. Pyrex wasn’t invented until 1915, and the year was only 1907.
In twelve days, it would be dinner for twenty, but tonight it was just the Maestro and his orchestra’s new soprano. For dessert, Mrs. Dunkel and I had prepared a pear pudding. I made the crust, but when I had tried to help with the filling, Mrs. Dunkel sent me away. It was the afternoon then, and the Maestro and the new soprano were taking rest. As I made my way to the empty dining room to dust the shelves, I placed bets on if they were in shared or separate rooms.
The house was silent.
Deathly silent.
It was a bit unnerving. Despite listening as a hard as I could, I couldn’t hear a thing but my own flat shoes against the hardwood stairs.
Definitely asleep in separate bedrooms, I concluded. The castle walls were quite thin.
I entered the dining room, unsure of what I would find. This particular culinary stage hadn’t been set for six years. How strange, I thought, that the Maestro had suddenly found himself in a mood to entertain, after all this time alone.
Swipe, swipe, fluff.
I dusted the shelves while my thoughts wandered from the regular to the bizarre. When I was a little girl, my mother would take me to the town center for a bizarre event by another name – the Christmas Bazaar. It was like a winter fair. There were caramels and cookies and piping hot cocoas. Dreaming of the creamy chocolate and sweet steam, I was startled when I sensed another presence in my peripheral.
Vicenzio, the valet, rushed hurriedly downstairs.
Bizarre, indeed, I thought. Then I continued dusting.
THE NEW SOPRANO
The Maestro and I were dining alone at the long, weighty walnut table. The room was painted a color somewhere between aubergine and red velvet, and on the walls hung several portraits of the Maestro’s mother. I’ve been told this was her favorite room in the Tuscan villa.
Feeling like a monster, I pushed the partridge around with my knife, playing with its carcass as though it were paint and my plate the canvas. I’ve never been any good at art, except for singing. I slid the meat to the opposite edge, aimed my fork at it as if preparing to take a bite, but then rested the utensil against the plate and reached for my glass of wine instead. I couldn’t bring myself to eat, nor could I bring myself to look up from the roasted carnage and meet the shadowy brown eyes of the Maestro. When the candles in the center of the table flickered, a dark light reflected in them, sending a chill between us over the long dining table. A rush of cold hit my wrists and exposed collarbone like the draft of a ghost exiting the room, reminding me of Dante. The deepest layer in Hell was frozen, too.
THE VALET
The Maestro cut through the partridge with fervor, scratching the silver audibly against the gilded china.
“Would you care from some pudding, sir?”
I lowered the dessert tray towards the Maestro, who was a most peculiar specimen in this Italian countryside. First, there was the fact that he absolutely detested the orchestra. And yet, it was his life’s work. His mother made certain it would be. To be fair, the Maestro wasn’t the only man in that position. I abhorred my boss, and yet here I was serving him seconds.
Even more puzzling, was the Maestro’s personality. He led the orchestra through silent influence and intimidation. Never fully revealing himself to anyone, except through his gaze. On most days it was quite menacing, but every once in a while, it inspired a violinist to excel. That’s what I’d heard anyway. I never attended their performances. To me, the Maestro was an enigma. A short, stout enigma, with a thick neck and bushy eyebrows that nearly converged into one.
The new soprano declined my offer for more pudding. She had hardly touched her first portion. Perhaps the woman is homesick. I considered this as I removed her food. I’d eat it later when the house was asleep. The soprano bestowed a look of gratitude on me, as I pulled the dish away. She had just arrived in Tuscany for the latest rendition of La Traviata.
“I need to keep my figure for the run of the show,” she said, smiling weakly. Her hands went to her lap, and finally she looked up, towards her dinner companion, the Maestro.
A forced grin spread across his face.
MRS. DUNKEL
No one in the village was sure where the new soprano came from. She appeared one day as if from nowhere, a turtle dove, carrying a mysterious message that would soon be revealed. The town could sense it, and the Maestro was determined to find out just what that message was. That’s what he told me, anyway, when I enquired why he was spending so much time with the new soprano. Even asking her to dine.
I am Mrs. Dunkel, and I’ve worked for the Maestro for many years.
Last night, I watched his plates come back empty, except for the bones, which I put in my mouth and tasted, sucking out the marrow one by one.
The Maestro lives in an old stone palace, with tall, thin spires protruding from its tiled roof. The palace itself looms on the hillside overlooking the great blue-green lago. Beneath lies a small village, mostly populated by farmers. I make Valet drive me down to the market once a week for eggs from The French Hens. I only serve the best eggs to the Maestro. That’s one reason why I’ve lasted, and why the valet is known simply to me as “Valet.” He, they, never last long enough to be worthy of a name. I have a new helper downstairs, too. She looks like a horse with a broad forehead and a flat flared nose. I call her “Dear” but I don’t mean it. It’s just easier than knowing names.
“Valet, stop here,” I said as we arrived in the village.
“My name is Vicenzio.”
“Good for you.”
I went into the small shop and handed my basket to Frieda, who fetched the eggs. When I came back outside, Valet was gone. The bastard. The Maestro would hear about this. Picking up my gray linen skirt, I began the winding walk back to the villa through the olive and cypress groves. Winter was upon us. The sky was a menacing shade of gray, like spoiled meat.
By the time I arrived back at the house, both the Maestro and the soprano were awake. They sat sprawled in the living room, flipping through newsprint with leisure. I watched through a gap in the door.
“Another cup of tea, sir?” Valet asked the Maestro.
“No, thank you, but where is Mrs. Dunkel? Teresia must be starved,” he said.
So, the soprano had a name. That was not a good sign.
“Positively, I could eat three French hens,” she said. I glanced at the eggs in my basket. I’d tell Valet that Frieda was out today.
“And I could eat two turtle doves,” this from the Maestro.
“Let me go see what Polly can put together while we wait for Mrs. Dunkel,” said Valet. “Perhaps we have some partridge left from last night.”
“Oh, I was only kidding, Vicenzio. But now that you mention it, any pear pudding that’s still downstairs would be splendid.”
That afternoon, the opera’s tenors showed up for tea. I was not pleased. Stefano was svelte and had a mustache I’d love to have tasted, but the other three were fat and balding. I sent Dear down the mountain for more provisions and told Valet to go forage for some mushrooms, or he would never eat again. When they were gone, I cracked the French Hen’s eggs on the counter and worked them together with flour until they were wholly disguised as fresh tagliatelle.
The four tenors, the soprano and the Maestro were congregated in the great hall, which sits in the East Wing of the villa. I went up to serve them, since Valet was still out foraging. The great hall has twenty-foot ceilings and a sweeping view of the village. One can practically see all the way to the concert hall from there. When I wasn’t pouring tea, I busied my gaze trying to spot its roofline, while listening intently to the chatter over my shoulder.
“Teresia, what did you make of the performance last night?” The fattest tenor called out to the soprano as he sank into the green velvet sofa.
“I thought it was fabulous,” she said. I could see her reflection in the window. The red chiffon of her dress caught the afternoon light and threw it around the room without apology.
“Modest, are we?”
“No. Honest.”
At that, Stefano let out a scoff. I too had heard enough. I knew now how the tenors were feeling about the village’s intruder.
And if the birds were calling for dinner as well, Dear and I better get to work.
POLLY
The Olympian, freshly returned from Athens where he competed beneath five golden rings, turned up at the villa at twilight. He had the broadest shoulders I had ever seen. I admit, I was quite taken by his biceps and pectorals, pressing hard against the seams of his shirt. The Maestro looked like an old cypress branch compared to him. If I were a betting girl, I’d have wagered that the soprano would not belong to the Maestro for long. Indeed, the woman in red was standing a touch to close the newest guest. Perhaps she was the reason he was here.
“So, a silver at the last games?” the Maestro asked the Olympian.
“A shame really, I could do better.”
“I thought you did beautifully,” said the soprano. Her voice really was lovely. No sharp notes, awkward pronunciations, or arrogance in the way she spoke. I was still working on reducing my Irish accent, and I knew then that I’d practice imitating the soprano for days to come. The new soprano was becoming a muse for more than just the Maestro.
The Olympian raised his glass of champagne towards her, and the others soon took their seats around the hall. The soprano stayed standing, as did Vicenzio and I, unseen. We were hiding behind the dense velvet curtains so we too could hear the performance. We took care not to let our toes show out from underneath the gold fringe that lined the heavy hem.
Then the soprano started to sing.
THE VALET
With force, I grabbed Polly’s hand. Be quiet, I told her through my tightening grip. The stupid girl had started to cry, and no matter how hard I squeezed she showed no signs of stopping.
I put my hand to her mouth, but that was no use either.
We must not be caught!
I was desperate. So, I pretended Polly was the partridge and that I was the Olympian, with large biceps flexed between five golden rings.
“Oh, good heavenly day!” cried the soprano.
The real Olympian rushed to Polly, who had just fallen to the floor. I stayed hidden behind the curtains, watching through a small hole in the fabric, where a moth had eaten through.
“Is she breathing?” asked the oldest tenor, struggling to get up as the rest of the birds flocked to the goose who lay sprawled out on the parquet.
“She’s breathing, yes.”
“Good, then she can tell us what the Hell she was doing behind there when she wakes up.” This, from the Maestro. He had stayed put across the room, unmoved by the chaos.
“You can’t be serious,” said the Olympian, staring at him in disbelief.
“I’m dead serious,” The Maestro said.
MRS. DUNKEL
I scurried to the kitchen, where a goose of a different feather was ready to be pulled from the oven. Valet had become bored while foraging earlier, but had thought ahead and brought his bow. So, they would eat goose and tagliatelle tonight.
I pulled the goose from the oven and struggled not to drop it as I moved it to the butcher block in the kitchen. Valet usually helps me with these tasks, because my frame is so slight.
“Oh, there you are,” I said this, not to Valet, but to the Maestro, who had just come downstairs to tell me that Dear was laying in the great hall and could I please gather her before dinner. He didn’t know that I had been watching it all.
“Of course,” I said.
Then the Maestro bent towards me, kissed me long and hard with his hand on the small of my back. Pulling myself away, I waited a few moments as he turned and made his way back upstairs. I followed shortly after, just as Valet arrived through the porter’s entrance. He had a great grin on his face and I flushed as I realized how close we had come to getting caught.
THE NEW SOPRANO
I stood out in front of the great house. Seven swans pedaled softly under the bridge that spanned the pond, which stretched between the grand entrance and the driveway, connecting palace and lake. No, not the lake. Here, it was the lago. From where I stood, the driveway appeared infinite, like a portal, or perhaps, a black hole. Things were going so poorly, I wondered if I would ever see its other side again.
The Olympian, who I knew as Raphael, had shown up last night, which surprised everyone except me. What shocked me, was when that poor girl fell. Thankfully, the dear survived the ordeal. Mrs. Dunkel, the woman who runs the kitchen, seemed to be taking good care of her.
A doe tip-toed across the lawn, which was still covered with frost. I pulled my cashmere shawl tighter for warmth, and spinning around, took in the villa itself. The window panes with their harsh black trim. The gray stone with ivy crawling up. And the brick red roof tiles.
What was that? There, in the great room.
The Maestro. I recognized those skinny shoulders. He was looking back at me. How long had he been watching?
In case I was mistaken, I looked away and then back towards the hovering beast. He raised his cup of tea to me, not breaking eye contact.
POLLY
I woke up feeling funny. My head hurt, and so did my right shoulder. It was as if I had been sleeping on my side for days. Was that a bedsore on my elbow? No, it couldn’t be, could it? Glancing towards the window over the foot of my bunk, I realized the sun was up. If that was the case, I was very late. The Maestro liked his first tea before sunrise, and it was my duty to light the kettle.
I stood up too quickly and immediately fell back down on the bed. I hadn’t felt like this since, well, come to think of it, I’d never felt like this. Something was off. I needed to move cautiously.
When I finally managed to get myself to the servants’ quarters, walking with a lean against the wall for stability, I was feeling a bit steadier. Getting out of my room seemed to help. Alone, I took in the empty dimness of the kitchen. It was nice without Mrs. Dunkel. I figured no one could see me, so I walked around to the stove and stood with pride, as if I were in charge of the kitchen, as if I were Mrs. Dunkel. Although I’d never be Mrs. Dunkel, Mrs. Dunkel was one of a kind.
“I am Mrs. Potter,” I said, using my own surname instead. I was acting like a little girl, playing house. “I am Mrs. Potter and you are?” I asked an imaginary character across from me.
“Maria,” I answered, playing the part in a different voice.
“Maria, what a sweet name. Come here and let me show you how to make that pear pudding the Maestro loves so much.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Potter, you are so kind.”
“Kindness is the secret ingredient,” I said, pretending to stir batter in a bowl that Mrs. Dunkel had left on the counter.
“Dear!” The gravelly voice erupted from the dark hallway. I dropped the bowl. The metal clanged against the cold tile and the spoon skittered across the room to where Mrs. Dunkel stood. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
Mrs. Dunkel never cared to ask how I felt before. And here I was, totally late and playing around.
“Fine, Mrs. Dunkel.” I was too afraid to tell the truth, to be sent back to my room. If I went back there, who knows how long I would sleep for.
“Good. Seek out Valet and have him drive you into town. We’re out of milk.”
“But I’ve never been to town on my own before,” I said.
“Do you not want to go?”
“I, no, I mean. Yes, I want to go.”
“Be gone then.” And with that, Mrs. Dunkel left the room.
MRS. DUNKEL
Our affair started in 1901, the eve before Christmas. Snow fluttered down from the gray skies, snow skies as I called them. I stood downstairs by the stove, listening to the click of heels stepping through the grand entrance to the palace upstairs. Some may have found it unnerving to have an estate speak through its creaks and groans, but I liked it. Though I was downstairs, it made me feel a part of it at all.
Suddenly, there was an enormous crash.
It was as if a chandelier had fallen. Or worse.
I threw off my apron and raced upstairs before I had time to worry that I was not welcome there.
“What are you doing up here, Mrs. Dunkel?” The Maestro, dressed in black, stood before me, blocking my way.
“I, I heard a crash. Is everything alright?” I tried to see around his shoulder, but I couldn’t. I was even shorter than he was.
“Everything’s fine. Mrs. Dunkel, take a step back.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because I want to look at you in the soft light. There” he said, gesturing.
Slowly, I stepped back into the golden flicker of candlelight in the hallway. The way the Maestro was looking at me was so entrancing that for a moment, I forgot about the crash. It was like he was memorizing my eye color, or the side that I parted my hair on.
“Forgive me, Mrs. Dunkel, I’ve never really looked at you before. You are something to behold.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“You’d flatter me if you’d walk with me to the back terrace.” His words were tender, but his voice was dark. It was not an invitation. It was instruction. Before I could answer, the Maestro’s arm hooked through my elbow.
“Yes, Maestro,” I said. As if I had a choice.
Yes, that was the evening when the affair began between myself and the Maestro. But for another houseguest, an affair ended. Six years ago, nine ladies came to dance at the palace, but only eight maids returned to milking cows in the village. I knew the Maestro’s secret. What I was unsure of, was between the two of us, who had the upper hand.
THE VALET
I hid, crouched on the upper overhang and beneath the banister. From there, I could see Polly coming up the stairs under her own power. So, I hadn’t killed her then. That was lucky.
“What are you doing?” It was the Olympian speaking.
Thinking fast, I replied, “Looking for you, sir.”
“Here?”
“Yes,” I said, “I had checked all the obvious places.”
“Well, then. Here I am.” He stood with his arms wide.
“Can I fetch another glass of champagne for you, sir? Lady Teresia was concerned you were thirsty.”
“No, no. But could you see to dinner? I’d rather eat before the next games.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll see to it right away.”
The Olympian walked down the stairs with heavy steps, and I winced as though it were my own vertebrae creaking underneath the houseguest’s weight. When we reached the bottom of the stairs, we stood together, eyes wide.
“Good lord, they certainly came out of the woodwork, didn’t they?” said the Olympian, staring at ten men in tuxedos who had gathered in the foyer, chatting with the tenors.
“Indeed,” I said, shaking my head at the crowd.
“Will you have room at the table?” the Olympian asked.
“Oh yes, tomorrow we’ll have twenty for dinner, so these extras aren’t a problem.”
“Feeding an orchestra, are we?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time, sir. Although it has been a while.”
I peered past the percussionists, and in the hallway, saw the Maestro with Mrs. Dunkel. They were arguing. I could tell by the way Maestro leaned over her, and the way she flung her hands so expressively. The last time I’d seen her that animated was when Polly –
Oh, Polly. I’d better go and check on the dead. Oops. Dear. I meant dear.
Leaping over the cello, I descended into the servants’ quarters.
POLLY
Finally, it was Epiphany, and all around the lago, villagers woke to a world covered in snow. Mass was at ten, so the Maestro, the soprano, and Mrs. Dunkel gathered the orchestra, the Olympian, Vicenzio and myself. Together, we descended from the villa, down the hill towards town. At the entrance to the village, pipers emerged from shop windows, lining the road. The music was enchanting, and it reminded me of home. Walking all together through the small village shops, it was almost as if we were processing in a wedding.
Both Mrs. Dunkel and the soprano were dressed in all white.
The Maestro was in his finest tux.
The cathedral before them had flying buttresses and windows that glowed colors from their stained glass. I stopped for a moment, outside the tall wooden doors, taking it all in. The soprano yielded next to me. It made me a bit nervous, standing so close to her. The familiar divisions between upstairs and downstairs were invisible.
“Don’t take communion today, Polly.”
I knew that beautiful voice, whispering, just loud enough for me to hear.
Why the new soprano had saved me, I wasn’t sure. But as I watched the Maestro, Mrs. Dunkel, and even Vicenzio fall asleep in their pews, I was grateful to have heeded the warning.
When would the town realize they weren’t sleeping?
THE NEW SOPRANO
Back at the palace, I turned to Polly in the foyer.
“Dear, what shall we call you?” I asked her.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, as head of the kitchen, you need a name more specific than Dear. And I doubt you’d wish us to continue calling you Mrs. Dunkel.” Polly looked from the Olympian, who was grinning widely, back to me.
“I, uh, you can call me Mrs. Potter,” she said.
POLLY
By this point, I was just going through motions as I watched this new world unfold around me, moment by moment.
“Excellent,” said the new soprano, “Mrs. Potter, we’ll take our dinner in the dining room as soon as it’s ready. Perhaps you can make some more of that pear pudding. I finally have my appetite back.”
Feeling ill, I retreated to the kitchen. Had this all been planned? Dare I say, orchestrated?
Because Vicenzio was gone, I served the dinner myself. In the dining room, the atmosphere was markedly cheerier than it had been during the days past. Candles were lit in all corners of the room. The soprano was smiling. And she was, in fact, eating her food.
Just when I was starting to feel at ease, a drumbeat erupted in my chest. Where the Maestro’s mother’s portrait once hung, a small painting of a milk maid, had been placed.
“Mrs. Potter, are you alright? You like quite pale,” said the Olympian, with a mouthful of goose.
“I- uh, did you change the painting?” I turned towards the new soprano.
“Yes,” she said, almost singing. “That young girl is my sister.”
I looked again at the painting, moving closer to the canvas. The resemblance was striking. The same angular cheekbones. Identical smiles.
It took twelve heartbeats for me to calm down enough to leave the dining room. Again, leaning against the wall for balance, I made my way downstairs, and out the back door.
So that was it, then. The soprano’s secret message. There was not one turtle dove, but two.