The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren

by Hollingsworth, Suzette

  “I am Nicolette Genevieve Huntington, daughter of Lord and Lady Ravensdale.”

  “Technically Lady Nicolette.”

  “I suppose the British dictum of taking one’s title as one’s name helped me somewhat, the system being inherently confusing, as my father—”

  “Valerius Huntington.”

  “—became Lord Ravensdale when he inherited the title and my last name is Huntington. Still, as an added precaution, I took as my stage name ‘Nicolette Genevieve’.”

  “Very wise. Your middle name.” Lady Elaina thumbed through the paper, ignoring her once again, much to her aggravation. “Here's one, my dear. Alejandro de Bonifácio, the crown prince of Spain, was asked his opinion of the performance set in his native land. Prince Alejandro replied, ‘Magnificent. I have never been as impressed with anything I have seen or heard in Paris. I was enraptured throughout the whole of Mademoiselle Genevieve's performance.'”

  “Impressive, my dear.” Lady Elaina smiled widely, dropping the newspaper into her lap and looking like the proverbial cat who had swallowed the canary. “The Prince of Spain. This royal's opinion may very well have just saved your career, as well as setting back Renault's and Le Strange's.”

  Lady Elaina chuckled as she held the newspaper out to Nicolette. “Look, Nicolette, here is a picture of the prince in his full regalia beside his remarks. He is dashingly handsome, is he not?”

  “Oh, no!” Nicolette gasped.

  “No?”

  “I mean, yes, he is.” Nicolette stared at her grandmother as she felt the color draining from her face.

  If the damage others inflict on me does not instigate my demise, I have a gift for stepping in where they leave off to complete my own obliteration.

  “What have you done, Nicolette?” Lady Elaina raised her eyebrows as she scrutinized her.

  “What have I done? Oh, Grandmamma, I have merely destroyed my lifeline! I am now and thoroughly cast out to sea!”

  19

  What’s your answer?

  “Pray have pity

  On a man in his condition!

  He’s awaiting your permission,

  You just send a little note

  And he will hasten to your side,

  Yes, he will hasten here to your side,

  What’s your answer?”

  - Lindoro, “The Barber of Seville”

  by Gioachino Rossino

  The air was less than celebratory at the Palais Garnier's rehearsal following Nicolette Genevieve’s debut. Uncharacteristically, Nicolette had difficulty in giving her best to the practice, but she forced herself to do so anyway.

  I am not going down without a fight.

  Though she began to think she had won the battle only to lose the war. Or maybe it was lose the battle and the war.

  But something kept nagging at her memory. Nicolette couldn’t forget the roar of the audience.

  I know I have something to offer.

  Nicolette wanted to know the extent of who she could be. And she wanted to perform before thousands.

  “Monsieur Beaumaris must see you at once, Mademoiselle Nicolette.” As she hastened to her dressing room following the rehearsal of the first act, Monsieur Beaumaris' secretary pursued her behind the stage, waving frantically. “Proceed to his office immediately.”

  It was not a request.

  Apprehension filled her as she observed the secretary's brusque manner. Terror struck her heart as she wondered if her singing career was over, as she had a thousand times since last evening.

  I will go to Vienna…or London. Her thoughts were racing. She could live with her Grandmamma in London. I will start over. It would be difficult, but what choice did she have?

  Sadness engulfed her as she thought of singing in the chorus for two more years before earning another chance at a leading role.

  But why should I then expect a different outcome? I gave my best.

  Her heart shuddered in her chest. It was getting more and more difficult to maintain her resolve to fight this.

  Melancholy surrounded her, suffocating her. Moving past the Grand Staircase which split in the middle to veer off into interweaving corridors, alcoves, balconies, hidden rooms, and Greek columns, all lit by chandeliers and candelabras, Nicolette felt as if a ghost were watching her. She thought of the underground lake and its black fish and shuddered.

  Nicolette had never before felt ill at ease in this intimidating structure, however magical and mysterious it might appear to others. The world's most beautiful music was performed here. It was the venue for masked balls, ballerinas in tutus conversing with guests, and chance meetings with royalty. She had always found it to be glorious.

  And now it is the means by which my life will be taken away from me.

  “Mademoiselle Nicolette. Please be seated.” As she inched into his office, the Director of L'Opéra National de Paris presented her with a forced smile. This cannot be a good sign.

  Monsieur Georges Beaumaris was in his early fifties, handsome and distinguished with styled blonde-grey hair, a moustache, and golden brown eyes. He was trim, on the short side of average height, and he wore crisp, well-fitting suits. He was debonair, smiled often, and spoke little. When he did speak, there was content to it.

  “Monsieur,” she curtseyed before taking a seat.

  Monsieur Beaumaris had the rare gift of being able to work with the most temperamental of artists. He was not temperamental himself, and he rarely displayed emotion. He was kind-hearted, but he was a successful businessman who understood that his business was volatile.

  “Bon. The good news is that your performance last night was magnificent.”

  “Merci, Monsieur Beaumaris,” she replied cordially, her hands shaking, feeling no comfort in his words. She could see from his expression that the worst was yet to come.

  “The bad news is that the critics hated it.”

  “Yes, sir. But the audience…”

  “It is not sufficient.” He shook his head. “They do not have articles in the newspaper. And some of the audience was scandalized as well—particularly the ladies.” He cleared his throat.

  “Isn’t that the way ladies are supposed to feel watching Carmen? It seems I played my part.” Oh my goodness, did I really say that?

  “The relevant point is they did not like you, Mademoiselle. A singer cannot be a star if she is not liked. And I do not employ singers who are not stars.” He frowned. “And for those in the audience who did like you, they will begin to form the opinion they are told to believe, forgetting their original reaction to follow those they believe to be smarter and to know better.” He shook his head. “The human she is very fickle.”

  She braced herself for the worst. Oh, please, please don't say you're going to replace me.

  “However, all is not lost.” He tapped his fingers on his desk, clean except for two neat piles. A bookcase behind him was filled with music scores arranged alphabetically. Photographs of the world's most talented singers lined the walls. It was a simple office. A working office.

  “Yes?” she gulped. Why did Monsieur sit there staring at her as if she weren't there? Of all things, she was not accustomed to feeling invisible.

  I do not like it.

  “You have an admirer, Mademoiselle Nicolette.”

  “An admirer? As in one?”

  He frowned. “You have one admirer who might be able to help you to save your career. As well as many who can do nothing for you. I thought I made that clear, Mademoiselle?”

  She nodded, biting her lip.

  “Bon. A very important patron with influence.” For the first time there was a glimmer of hope in his eyes as he spoke. “The crown prince of Spain, to be precise.”

  She swallowed hard. She used to have an admirer. “When did you see the prince?” she managed to mumble. For a woman with such a grand voice, it felt very small at the moment.

  “A few minutes ago,” replied Monsieur Beaumaris. He pointed to her chair, as if to indicate the princ
e had only just sat there.

  “A few minutes?” Nicolette managed to repeat, her heart racing. “And the prince was cordial?” she asked hesitantly. She wanted to ask if it appeared his royal highness was carrying a deadly weapon or intended to strangle her but thought the better of it.

  Georges Beaumaris laughed, suffusing the heavy air which a touch of lightness, or delusion as the case may be. “If the desire to have lunch with you is a sign of cordiality, then oui.”

  “Lunch?” she asked incredulously.

  “The prince is quite devoted to you, Mademoiselle Nicolette, I congratulate you.”

  “Indeed?” she asked, her eyes opening wide. Devoted to his own pleasure. Her mind was spinning as she considered the director's words.

  “He wishes a private performance.” Georges Beaumaris' smile faded slightly.

  “Yes, he told me as much himself.” She kept her eyes glued to Monsieur Beaumaris, not believing he could stoop so low, her friend of so many years.

  “Do not look at me so, Lady Nicolette.” Monsieur Beaumaris leaned back in his chair and stroked his moustache. His lack of concern with her reaction further alarmed her.

  The small room seemed to be shrinking. “We do this type of thing all the time. This is a standard request among wealthy patrons—of far less influence than the crown prince of Spain! If you wish to be a star, I strongly advise you to meet his small request and to encourage his patronage.”

  “You wish me to…encourage…him?” Inflamed now, she sat up straight in her chair. “Monsieur Beaumaris, let me understand. You are making it a requirement of my profession to compromise my virtue?”

  “Certainly not! I had the same suspicion and told the prince you are a respectable young lady.”

  “You told him of my family connections, then?”

  “I did not. There was no need.” Beaumaris seemed to quake. “Believe me, I was shaking in my boots when I made my objections to so illustrious of a personage. I was as surprised as you to learn his intentions are honorable. His royal highness assured me his interest is of a purely professional nature.”

  “He would say that,” she murmured.

  “I count myself a good reader of men, Mademoiselle. And they usually make no effort to hide their intentions from me. And why should they? There are many who are willing, desiring a rich benefactor.”

  “Naturally you knew I was not of that number.”

  “Naturally.”

  “What is his specific request then?” she demanded.

  “Let me reiterate that no one is asking you to compromise your virtue, Mademoiselle Nicolette,” he replied quietly but forcefully. “And I would strongly advise you against it.”

  “You do not deny that there are liaisons between certain of the cast and wealthy patrons, Monsieur. I cannot fathom how you imagine this request to be different.”

  “I do not condone that, nor do I forbid it.” He shook his head. “It is out of my hands and beyond my control. That type of thing will never happen to someone who does not wish it. Take along whoever you like as a chaperone to be seated in an adjoining room. I will provide you with a bodyguard myself, s'il vous plait.”

  She stared at him, shocked. She thought she knew this man.

  “Bien.” He crossed his arms over his chest, indicating that his stance was non-negotiable. “The more you can be seen with the prince, the better for your vocation.”

  “What are you saying precisely, Monsieur Beaumaris?”

  “Vous ne comprenez pas, Mademoiselle Nicolette. Unless we can rectify the damage done by the critics, I am sorry to say your singing career will be finis before it begins.”

  “I need to be certain I understand you, Monsieur Beaumaris.” Nicolette's heart fluttered violently in her chest but she brought all of her acting ability to the forefront. All her life Nicolette had felt herself to be powerful, a person in control of her own destiny, and suddenly she was at the mercy of a man she had only just met, a man whom she found utterly revolting.

  “That is best.”

  “Are you telling me that, if I do not have lunch with this stranger, a man I know nothing about, and do not give him a private performance, that I will no longer be a soloist with the opera?”

  “Oui, that is very likely, Mademoiselle.” He tipped his chin.

  She could not believe what she was hearing.

  “The roles will always go to the most popular singers. I cannot cast you if no one wishes to see you. And no one will wish to see you if you have only negative publicity.”

  She knew this to be absolutely true—the very thoughts she had been entertaining—but it sounded obscene coming from her director’s lips. The implications were almost immoral, and certainly demeaning.

  “Mademoiselle Nicolette, you need this acquaintance.” Beaumaris smiled, his expression suddenly tender. “His royal highness can do you a great deal of good. He may be a stranger to you, as you put it, but the rest of the world knows of him, and that is the relevant point.”

  “Why is it necessary when I have already done the work, Monsieur Beaumaris? I have never groveled before anyone, even when I had so much to learn. Now that my talent is fully developed, I must do so.”

  “This is not about groveling, Mademoiselle Nicolette. This is about the realization of your dreams, nothing more.”

  Her stomach twisted violently and she wondered if she might become ill. She asked softly, “Then why do I feel I am compromising myself?”

  Beaumaris rose from his chair and began pacing, his expression severe. “You might be the worst singer on earth, Mademoiselle, but if you are seen about town with the prince of Spain, people will come to the opera just to see what all the fuss is about.”

  “So I must cater to gossip mongers?”

  “Precisement! Now you comprendre! And, once they are here, you show them precisely what the fuss is about.” He moved forward to look intently into her eyes. “You give them the show of their lives, Mademoiselle.”

  “I believe I already did that. It is what put me in this mess to begin with.”

  Beaumaris sat up stiffly in his chair. “You decide what is most important to you, Mademoiselle Nicolette. I can find another singer, it is up to you.”

  You will not find another singer who will sing the role as well as I did.

  “I do this for you, I do not need to do it for myself. I am willing to give you this chance, Mademoiselle.”

  It is astonishing how easily I can be discarded. Her head was swimming. She was growing dizzy, but another question of importance occurred to her. “And what of Enrico? Is his future secure?”

  “I would not worry, Mademoiselle. In fact, Caruso has just received an offer to sing at The Metropolitan Opera in New York City, America. He will begin after he has completed this season.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. “But why was he so much better received than myself?”

  “Because he is a man. He did not awaken those feelings which make both men and women uncomfortable. And your answer is?”

  Monsieur Beaumaris was no longer engaged in conversation. His eyes softened, but he would not waver from his decision. She knew him that well, at least. Either she agreed now, or someone else would be cast in the role.

  Her role.

  She was offered a solution in the person of the prince of Spain. Like it or not, Prince Alejandro was her greatest hope of a future. Nicolette might find his methods despicable, but the fact remained he was the answer to her problems.

  I must do as I have always done: smile, take life by the horns, and become the star of every room I enter.

  “Where am I to meet the prince for lunch?” she managed. Once set on a course, Nicolette grew unwaveringly tenacious. She would do whatever was necessary to save her singing career.

  But it will be on my terms. No one, not even the prince of Spain, will back me into a corner.

  “Bon.” Monsieur Beaumaris smiled. “His royal highness has an escort and carriage waiting for you outside the Palais Ga
rnier to take you to lunch in precisely one hour, Mademoiselle Nicolette. The opera's wardrobe is at your disposal in the event you have nothing appropriate to wear.”

  “But what of our practice?” She gulped, wondering what outfit he would consider appropriate if not what she was wearing.

  She decided not to ask.

  “You do not need any more practice, Mademoiselle Nicolette. What you need is a miracle.” Beaumaris sighed. “And that you have.”

  “Monsieur Beaumaris. Did I understand you correctly? Did you happen to mention my birth—my relations—to the prince?”

  “Mais non,” he nodded with refinement. “I am not engaged in chit-chat with the crown prince of Spain. He speaks, I listen.”

  Excellent.

  She felt a slow smile came to her lips.

  20

  I’ll Get my own sweet way

  “I am quite well behaved

  As sweet as honey

  My disposition

  Is bright and sunny.

  For I am gently bred

  When I am gently led,

  It all depends on what you do.

  If you push me ‘round

  Then I will stand my ground

  The final joke will be on you

  I’ll get my own sweet way”

  —Rossina, The Barber of Seville by Gioachino Rossini

  “Mademoiselle, please follow me.” The maître d'hôtel motioned to Nicolette to follow him.

  She was escorted past Louis XVI crystal chandeliers, antique beveled mirrors, and large bay windows framed in rare marbles. Le Meurice’s interior was lavish in cream, olive green, and light blue. Pink roses were everywhere. The smell of dark French coffee, buttery pastries, pâté, roses, and caviar filled the air.

  Surprisingly, the quiet elegance increased Nicolette’s anxiety level, accentuated by the sound of her shoes clicking noisily on the white and black marble.

  Her heart pounded with the knowledge that a complete stranger had control over her dreams and her future. Her life.

  A stranger whom I have no reason to believe I can trust.