Rock of ages, cleft for me
Let me hide myself in Thee, in Thee.
She finished and opened her eyes.
The crowd was completely silent. She held her breath.
Did their silence mean she had messed up? Her mind raced as her eyes darted to Mr. Voss who was looking less than pleased.
Perhaps their silence wasn’t because they were captivated by her voice. Her confidence faltered. She never wanted to sing in public, but she knew better than to rouse Mr. Voss’ anger by telling him no. Whenever he said that something would happen, it happened.
To her great relief, the audience began to clap. Polite applause that brought a relieved smile to her lips.
Mr. Voss sat quietly and watched her, not joining in the applause.
***
The carriage bounced over the pebbles as the horses' hooves beat their course back to the farm. Rosaline’s heart was light from the applause, yet her gut told her that a reckoning was coming. The crowd had seemed pleased with her singing, but the look on Mr. Voss’ face let her know that he was not happy with her performance.
“What happened to the song we had discussed?” he asked, his voice calm as he examined his gold-tipped cane.
She cringed under his gaze and shrunk back into the seat. She knew not to trust that tone of voice. “I couldn't remember the words,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
His face darkened. He could fly into a rage at a moment's notice if you didn’t tread lightly. “If you weren’t singing those insipid hymns all day, you might have remembered the words,” he snapped as his tone took on a warning.
“I might if I had more time to practice…” she said quietly before she could stop herself. The evening had been long and she wasn’t thinking properly.
The rage in his eyes made her realize her mistake.
“What did you say?” His tone was icy as he grabbed her wrist. “You dare speak back to me, girl?”
“I’m sorry.” She winced as his grip turned into a vice. “I didn’t mean it.” She cowered and slunk back further into her seat.
He let go of her wrist and flung her arm onto her lap. “Ungrateful wench!” he spat vehemently. “I’ve clothed and fed you for eight years, and what do I get in return? Ungrateful remarks from a petulant child who doesn’t know her place. It seems you have forgotten what happened the last time you disobeyed me,” he warned. He straightened the golden cufflinks at the end of his sleeves, shaking his head and cursing under his breath he lay back in his seat.
She looked at the hand he had thrown into her lap as the carriage bounced along the road and traced the scar that ran the length of her palm. She remembered how it had happened as if it had been yesterday.
She had been at the ranch for six years at the time she had gotten the scar. Mr. Voss had flown into a white-hot rage because she dared utter a word he did not like. “No.”
The day had started simply enough. She had awoken at dawn, made all the fires, and carried on with her chores. Singing Hymns to herself as she worked. Just as her mother had done when she was a child. The hymns would always lighten the loud of her chores as she worked.
Mr. Voss had summoned her to his study that afternoon. She had hesitantly entered the room, wringing the hem of her dirty apron in her hands, not daring to pass the edge of the Oriental rug. The high ceilings of the farmhouse made her feel small and insignificant.
“I heard you singing on the stairs this morning,” he had barked at her from behind his mahogany desk, not looking up. His pen continued to across the letter he was writing.
“Yes... Sir. I’m sorry if I was making a noise, Sir.” She stammered at his tone.
“You will wash and comb your hair. Mrs. Voss will give you a clean dress to wear and you will sing for my guests this evening,” he decreed as he sorted through the papers. “You are not an exceptional singer, but I need entertainment for my guests and you will have to do. Make sure that you pin back that hair properly. None of those ridiculous loose strands.”
Her head had snapped up in surprise. “But sir, I can’t possibly do that…”
“What did you say?” He had jumped out of his chair, scattering the papers on his desk.
She had stumbled back in surprise as her foot had hooked on the carpet. and her hands had grasped at the vase that stood next to the door. It had shattered into a million pieces and sliced her palm in the process.
“Never say no to me.” He had hissed at her cowering figure before she had fled from the room.
She had performed that night with her hand bandaged and held behind her back so that the guests could not see. She had sung the hymns that brought her comfort, the hymns her mother had taught her.
