My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  Lavinia sighed. “It is the merest veneer, I assure you. Give them the countryside and they will revert immediately to their hoydenish state you recall so well.”

  “Perhaps their music teacher can contrive to teach them the proper airs and graces. She is a most rigidly proper young lady indeed, and frighteningly elegant.”

  “Oh, Mademoiselle Isobel. She is a treasure indeed and, yes, she does have the French talent for fashion which gives her an air of elegance no matter what she is dressed in. As far as being rigid, I cannot say. Certainly the girls adore her. Perhaps you put her off.” Lavinia quirked a teasing eyebrow at him. “You can be rather bold you know.”

  “I? Bold? I am shocked, Lavvy. I am as well brought up as the next gentleman. Albert did not get all the respectability in the family, you know. I would never be so disrespectful to a young lady as to be bold.”

  “Bold may not be precisely correct, direct, might be more accurate, or forthright. She is French, you know, and accustomed to French conversation. The French quite abhor our plain way of speaking.”

  “Then I shall make a mental note of it to be less direct, more gallant, the next time I see her.”

  “Ah,” was all Lavinia replied, but her dark eyes took in a great deal more than her brother-in-law suspected. So he had been intrigued by Isobel. Lavinia had rather thought he might be, but then, Christian was intrigued by any beautiful face. A far more interesting question was how Isobel had reacted to him.

  Chapter 6

  At the moment, the young woman in question was surrounded by the brilliant conversation to which Lavinia had alluded. Isobel had accompanied her father to one of Madame de Sallanches’s salons, though she would have infinitely preferred to remain at home in order to read through some music she had just purchased and prepare for the lesson she planned for tomorrow; however, the duc would not hear of it.

  “You cannot refuse an invitation from Madame de Sallanches, ma fille. Only the most distinguished are invited to her salons and it would be an impolitesse of the worst kind to ignore such an invitation. Now, do not forget the candles; you know she has so little to live on that she is most appreciative of anyone who brings some extra light. Let us, at least for this evening, help her to have rooms as brightly lit as those she used to grace.”

  “Very well, Papa.” Isobel had meekly gathered up a few extra candles and accompanied him as he made his slow progress toward the door.

  As always, there was a crowd at Madame de Sallanches’ but upon their arrival, their hostess immediately broke away from the group surrounding her and came over to greet them, her hands outstretched. “Mes amis, que je suis enchantee de vous voir! Isobel, ma chere, you are more beautiful than ever. I do hope that you will be so kind as to charm us with your singing, that is, if your papa will permit it. Have you seen the new arrangement of our favorite old song “Ah vous dirai-je Maman?” According to Madame de la Tour du Pin, it is reviewed in Ackermann ‘s Repository this month. She saw it at her aunt, Lady Jerningham’s, house. But come”—she took the duc’s arm—“my cousin is here and is longing to talk to you. She arrived from Hamburg a few days ago with news of the Comtesse de Neuilly and many of the others. She is over there talking with Maman about the old days.” Madame de Sallanches led them over to the corner where Madame Foudron was deep in conversation with Madame de Sallanches’ aunt, Madame de Saint Veran.

  Seeing that her father was occupied, Isobel made her way to the fireplace, where she lit her candles and placed them next to the others brought by appreciative guests. Before she could rejoin the duc she was accosted by a slender young man with an elaborately tied cravat and shirt points so high he could barely turn his head. “Isobel, my goddess,” he exclaimed, bending low over her hand. “I hope you will complete my joy at seeing you by allowing me to accompany your singing with my flute. Of course I could not hope to do justice to your exquisite talent, but I would die for the honor of making music with you.”

  Before Isobel could draw the breath to reply he had launched into a recital of the Due de Berri’s latest efforts to secure a suitable wife. “It is of course difficult to find someone worthy to be allied with royal blood, and so many of those whose birth and upbringing make them a proper match are Protestant. Ah, mademoiselle, you have no idea how he suffers.”

  Isobel, whose only true luxury was attending the opera whenever some kindhearted soul invited her, had witnessed the Duc de Berri falling under the spell of the actress, Amy Brown. She said nothing, but in spite of her effort to remain impassive, her expression betrayed her incredulity.

  “Non, mademoiselle, I know what you will say, but the duc has a warm heart. It is his passionate nature that often makes difficulties for him, but if he were to be assured of the love of a wife, why all would be well. It is so difficult these days. He is a man born for court, a man whose wit and charm are wasted now, as are yours. It is a crime that such beauty and grace is confined to these humble walls when you should be adorning the ballrooms of Versailles or the Tuileries.”

  Isobel glanced desperately around her looking for someone, anyone, to stem the tide of her companion’s conversation. The Comte de Pontarlier was a nice enough young man, always impeccably attired and endlessly gallant, but his entire life was so wrapped up in his tailor, the Due de Berri, the Comte d’Artois, and their entourages that he could speak of nothing else, nor could he imagine that everyone was not as fascinated as he by every nuance of the royal family’s existence.

  Help, of a minima, kind, arrived in the form of Madame de Colignac, who laughing gaily, broke in on the comte. “What, Hippolyte, you have not found a bride yet for your royal master? Shame on you. For a man whose diplomacy and courtliness are known far and wide, you have been strangely lacking in success. Did you not find someone suitable when you visited at the court of King Gustave? Truly you are most unlucky.”

  “But Madame knows that there are so few Catholic ladies of a lineage noble enough for the duc that it is most difficult to find a suitable wife for him. Truly it has been a task fort exigeant, madame.”

  “Ah, Hippolyte, for a man of your politesse, the task should be simplicity itself.”

  “But these days even the most revered titles of France do not command the homage and respect they once did, madame, as you well know.” The comte sighed sadly and shook his head. “That the flower of the French monarchy should be reduced to searching for a wife; it is too distressing.”

  “Mon ami,” Madame laid a comforting hand on the young man’s shoulder and Isobel took advantage of the moment to slip away. She had heard it all so many times before, the commiseration, the mourning of lost glories, with no thought, no plans for the future. It was all so pointless that from time to time she found herself wanting to scream at them. Forget the past! But for her father’s sake, she contained her frustration as best she could. He was too old to change and his health was not so good as it once had been. With his wife dead and his son just as good as dead to him, he had very little to live for except his memories and the friends who kept those memories alive for him.

  “Isobel, ma chere.” Madame de Sallanches touched her on the shoulder. “Would you be so good as to delight us with your music? We should be most honored if you would.” Saved from further mindless conversation, Isobel hastened to comply. As always, she was able to lose herself quickly in her singing and push everything from her mind but the music as she tried to share its beauty with her listeners. Knowing her audience, she chose the tunes they had known and loved before their enforced exile, even the tunes that had been sung to them in the nursery such as “Si le roi m’avait donne,” and she was rewarded by the rapt silence around her, the tears trickling down faded cheeks or welling up in the eyes of those too young to remember much more than attic rooms in Soho and Marylebone.

  “Thank you, ma chere,” her hostess whispered in a choked voice after she had finished her last song. “Your singing brings us all so much joy.”

  Looking at the tearstained faces in front of
her, Isobel was inclined to dispute that, but she said nothing. If they enjoyed recalling what was lost forever and could never be again, then, yes, she had brought them some measure of happiness. But it was easy enough to move those who were disposed to be moved. How well could she reach a real audience? Would she be able to touch the hearts of perfect strangers? That would be the true test of her skill and oh, how she longed for the opportunity to try.

  Accompanying her father on their slow walk home, Isobel wondered if she would ever have the chance to try her talents anywhere else. In her most despairing moments, tired out by the lessons and the household chores, she sometimes feared that life would never change and that she would spend her days in the dwellings in and around Manchester Square listening to the same old stories, condemned to live among people who only existed in the past. It was not that she did not care for them; indeed she loved the poor, brave hardworking Madame de Sallanches dearly, and she admired the energy and tenacity with which she supported her family and the determination with which she entertained her friends, but Isobel still could not help feeling stifled by the tight little circle of friends who clung so desperately to one another for support. She longed to move among people with ideas, with plans for the future, with interests that extended beyond the search for a bride for the Due de Berri.

  “I saw you speaking with the Comte de Pontarlier,” her father’s voice broke into her thoughts. “He is a fine young man, such an ancient and illustrious family. An alliance with the de Pontarliers would be a most excellent thing.”

  “And why is that. Papa?” Isobel did not bother to hide the exasperation in her voice.

  “Because, my child, there are few families left who are suitable matches for ours, and even fewer have sons of marriageable age.”

  “Papa, there is no need for me to be married.”

  “No need? Who is talking of need? I am speaking of what is right and proper.” The Duc de Montargis paused, and then with an expression of distaste, as though he had bitten into a lemon, continued, “ And, naturally, though I do not regard these things, he would bring the addition of another pension to the family.”

  Isobel snorted. “A pension that is spent entirely on his tailor, which is to say, no pension at all.”

  “That is the response of a bourgeoise, not the daughter of a de Montargis.”

  Isabel bit her lip. “I am sorry, Papa.” She tried unsuccessfully to sound meek. “But I am a bourgeoise. I do earn my living, after all.

  The duc was too overwhelmed with it all to reply. He shook his head sadly and trudged along in silence for some time. “It is being a gouvemante and going among les Anglais that has made you this way. If only you could do the needlework your mother did, you would still be able to, ah, sustain yourself, but you would be able to join Madame de Sallanches and the others in their atelier. At least then you would spend your days among your own kind, people of gentility and culture.”

  “The Duke and Duchess of Warminster are hardly barbarians, Papa.”

  Her father did not bother to dignify this piece of nonsense with a reply. Everyone knew the English had no culture. One had only to taste their food—dreadful overcooked mush—to know that. The mere fact that they continued to make their home on this fog-bound island was enough to convince anyone that the Duke and Duchess of Warminster had no taste, and it was almost certain they had no conversation; none of the English did. If they talked of anything at all, it was of their horses and dogs. How was his daughter going to be protected from losing her gallic espieglerie and charm if she were forced to spend her days among such people?

  Truly, the only thing to do was to find her a husband, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to do these days. So many young men had gone to join the armies of the Allies fighting Bonaparte and others had returned to France to reclaim their heritage, so that there was hardly anyone left that was a suitable candidate. Something had to be done, but what? The duc resolved to call on the Comte d’Artois the very next day and ask for a private audience. Surely he might have some suggestion. Monsieur was nothing if not a man of exquisite taste and refinement and he would sympathize with a father’s worries. Though the Comte de Pontarlier was obviously not to Isobel’s taste, there might be someone known to Monsieur who would be suitable, someone that he himself might have overlooked or forgotten.

  Comforted by this thought, the duc mounted the stairs to his own drawing room and accepted his usual nightly glass of milk from Marthe in a happier frame of mind. The evening at Madame de Sallanches’ had not been entirely disappointing. It had been good to see Madame Foudron again and to learn that many old friends were still alive and well in Hamburg.

  Chapter 7

  The duc would not have been quite so optimistic perhaps if he had known that his daughter, in preparing for her lesson the next day, wondered more than once if she would encounter the unsettling Lord Christian Hatherleigh again. It hardly seemed likely, she reassured herself, for her presence in Grosvenor Square was confined to the music room, a place he probably had little reason to visit. No sooner had Isobel arrived at this conclusion than she found herself feeling just the slightest bit disappointed. True, he had been both rude and provocative, but his appearance had brought a momentary dose of energy and adventure into her otherwise confined existence.

  Resolutely thrusting Lord Christian from her mind, she blew out the candle and climbed into bed, but she lay awake for quite some time staring up at the ceiling in the darkness. This evening at Madame de Sallanches’s had forced her to confront much of her life which she managed to keep at bay during her lessons and her practice. Now it all came crashing back around her. Would she be forever condemned to seeing the same people time after time, to discussing the same past glories and lost way of life until she thought she would go mad? Isobel felt the panic rising within her as she thought of her father’s determination to find her a suitable match, a match that would place her more firmly than ever in that shadowy world where the past was more real than the present. Her brother, at least, had escaped. Lucky Auguste. Even long marches and night after night in an uncomfortable tent would be preferable to the monotony she was forced to endure. At least he must feel alive, no matter how uncomfortable.

  I will escape, she muttered to herself. Closing her eyes resolutely, she pictured herself on a brilliantly lit stage acknowledging the tributes of an audience gone wild with enthusiasm. This vision never failed to calm her, to give her hope. She knew she had talent; all she lacked was the opportunity, but that would come. She would make it come.

  Inspired by this dream, Isobel practiced even harder the next morning in Grosvenor Square after giving her lesson. Alone in the Duke of Warminster’s elegant music room, she went over her scales again and again, throwing herself into the songs that stretched her range and challenged her vocal agility. She even returned to the music room in the early afternoon after having given the girls their French lessons to practice some more. At last she could sing no longer. Her voice was beginning to weaken and her fingers were becoming cramped over the keys of the pianoforte. It was not until she rose, indulging in a most unladylike stretch, that she caught sight of the top of an auburn head leaning back against the sofa that faced the French doors overlooking the garden.

  Shutting the cover of the pianoforte with a bang, Isobel was opening her mouth to demand an explanation from the clandestine listener when he rose, forestalling her. “Thank you, mademoiselle.” Lord Christian bowed ever so slightly. “I cannot tell you how much this has meant to me. It has been a long time since I have been able to enjoy such a moment of peace and beauty.”

  Isobel shot him a suspicious glance, but there was not a trace of guile in his face. The gray-green eyes looking down into hers were serious, in fact, his entire expression was one of great gravity. “I see that you do not believe me, most understandable after our introduction, but you are ... you ...” He broke off in frustration. “There is no excuse for our first introduction. I behaved badly, and, with your perm
ission, mademoiselle, I should like to wipe the memory of our first meeting from our minds and begin again. Allow me to present myself. I am Lord Christian Hatherleigh. Lieutenant Colonel in the Kings Own Third Dragoons, lately arrived from the Peninsula—a barbaric soldier, perhaps, but one who appreciates music of any sort, particularly when it is so exquisitely performed. Again I see that you are skeptical, for what could a man of war know about opera? I will have you know that I have attended more of Madame Catalani’s performances than most people, for I first saw her in Lisbon before she made her debut in London. I know whereof I speak and I say that you are on your way to being a serious rival. You do not yet have her control, but your taste is infinitely better than hers and your interpretation adds to the impressiveness of your performance. Control can always be learned; taste, however, is a different matter altogether. In time I believe you could surpass her, certainly in tragic roles, which are not her forte.”

  The astonishment that succeeded the initial blank look on Isobel’s face told Christian that the young lady now considered him a perfect idiot as well as a barbarian. Damnation! He had been babbling like a schoolboy. What had come over him? Christian had never before been at a loss for words with a lady. Even before going to university he had been famed for his address. Be it barmaid or dowager, he had been able to capture them all with his ready smile, quick wit, and bold assumption that women were as interested in him as he was in them.

  But this girl with the serious eyes was different. She practiced with an intensity of purpose that made such things as coquetry and flirtation seem almost sacrilegious. Her obvious dedication to her art commanded a respect from him that he felt for very few men, much less women. He wanted, in the space of a sentence, to assure her of this, to let her know he appreciated the drive and determination that kept her going over the same notes again and again. He wanted to prove to her that he was knowledgeable enough to recognize her skill and that his words were not idle flattery. And he wanted this so intensely that he had babbled on like a witless fool. Christian ran a hand distractedly through the thick auburn hair. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, for rattling on. I just wanted you to know, I mean, I, well, thank you.”