Everyone was excited and I had a particular reason to be so, for I was to be present at the feast. Yes! In the sala. Not at the table, of course, but my mistress wanted me in attendance, so I was to take a seat near Pietro behind the screen near the door to the kitchen. The carving of the screen was very ornate and there were plenty of places through which we would have a good view.
Pietro liked me, mercifully. He said I reminded him of his dead little sister. It wasn’t the most flattering compliment I’d ever received; but I thanked him as best as I could manage. He was powerful amongst the servants and although the Palazzo was grand, we were in far closer quarters than in the castle back at Gesualdo.
Don Carlo played the lute after the first and second course. I glanced sideways at Pietro but if he thought anything untoward, his face did not admit it. The idea that we might have to listen to him play between all eighteen courses was not a happy one. It seemed to me that the long solos, and the having to listen so carefully, lowered the spirits of the guests.
The tables had been put together in two rows, with one table to join them at the top for Don Carlo, Donna Maria and his very special guests. Directly in my view was Don Giulio Gesualdo, Don Carlo’s uncle. He had come to the castle on many occasions. I couldn’t quite see who Donna Maria was next to. She was obviously very pleased with the person because she smiled often and bent her head repeatedly in that direction.
During yet another lute interlude, when we all had to sit so quietly and still, Don Giulio’s face passed through many expressions. At first, I wondered if he might be in pain but then I saw where he rested his gaze and it was as I thought. Had I not said that all eyes would be upon her?
‘Laura … Laura!’ I whispered loudly to her as she passed us on her way back to the kitchen. All the servants had been pressed into waiting at the tables. She ducked behind the screen and Pietro and I helped ourselves to a pigeon breast each. Probably the skinniest, as they’d been left, but we were very happy with them.
Of course, it was while I had a mouth full and grease slicked my lips and chin that my mistress turned and called my name. Stupidly, I found myself with no cloth so I wiped my mouth on the hem of my petticoat and hurried from my chair.
‘Ah, Silvia.’ Donna Maria beckoned that I should lean close to her. ‘I need a handkerchief,’ she whispered. ‘Something fine. And I’d like it dipped in flower water, rose, I think, but orange blossom will do.’
Now I knew perfectly well that Donna Maria already had a very fine embroidered handkerchief in the pouch that hung from her waist because I put it there myself, so I was a little surprised as I hadn’t seen her make use of it at all. When I took in the features of the guest next to her, however, her request made sudden and awful sense.
In the linen chest there was a pile of handkerchiefs, newly pressed by Laura only the day before. I chose one that had some rather fine cutwork in each corner. I unfolded it, sprinkled it with rosewater then folded it back up again, taking care to align with the previous creases. As I was doing so, the face of the man sitting next to Donna Maria remained clear in my mind. That he was the handsomest man in the room was without question. I did not know his name but I did know the name of the look in his eyes when they dwelt on my mistress. I had seen it before, in Salvo’s eyes the day I left Gesualdo.
I had not been forced to make any response then, but being flattered by Salvo’s attention, my hand had found the little almond and with its spinning through the air into his hand, I had seeded a hope in his mind.
The earnestness of Donna Maria’s voice when she asked for the scented handkerchief filled me with dread. I remembered Salvo’s bitter response to my remark about Don Carlo’s virtue. He may have been right about a Prince having no need of virtue, but what about a Princess?
Down in the sala, the courses kept coming. The heat, wine and excitement had reddened the faces of nearly all the guests, so the pink spots that so attractively adorned the cheeks of my mistress were not revealing of her feelings. To me, though, they were clear.
‘Ah, Fabrizio,’ she said to the moon when we were finally alone at almost the hour before dawn. She said it once, twice, ten times after that as well. I was very glad that everyone was exhausted and Don Carlo had gone to his own chamber, for Donna Maria was quite beside herself. I slipped the nightgown over her head and she shivered with pleasure, but it wasn’t for the touch of silk, I was sure. In her mind another’s hand caressed her flesh.
‘Don Giulio was very much looking in your direction, my lady,’ I said.
‘Don Giulio?’ She looked at me as if I were mad, then scoffed. ‘Oh, he always does.’
Once she had taken to her bed – which wasn’t for a while, despite the moon and me not being very conversational – I took her clothes out into my own chamber and put aside the sleeves and undergarments for washing. The fan and pouch I removed from the jewelled girdle and laid them in their right places. When I drew the handkerchief with the floral embroidered border from within the pouch, I found it untouched. Of the other, there was no sign.
Chapter Nine
The next morning, I asked Robert about the blot on the cover.
‘Blot?’ he said, without looking up from checking the invoice against the contents of a large parcel of violin music.
‘Yes, I wondered if you’d noticed how many there were.’
‘How many? I don’t remember any.’
‘What none?’
Then he looked up. ‘Why?’
I opened my mouth to tell him, but was thankfully ambushed by the tinkling bell of the door opening. Just as well, because the more I thought about it, the dafter it seemed.
‘Hello, you two.’ Sophie stood in the doorway. ‘I thought I’d be cheeky and see if you’d got the coffee pot on.’
How I wish I had Sophie’s style. Daniela might be all straight lines and polish but Sophie was theatre. It was hardly surprising as her job was wardrobe mistress at the theatre, but I did wonder if half of the costumes ended up in her own wardrobe. Today she was wearing Aladdin’s harem pants in lime green and a maroon velvet topcoat straight from something by Oscar Wilde. Not an obvious combination but she looked stunning.
Over coffee we chatted about the madrigal.
‘Is it just me that finds it so difficult?’ I asked. ‘I can sing my part perfectly okay when I’m on my own, but when we’re together, I keep doubting myself.’
They both nodded vigorously and we were all relieved to find we’d had the same experience.
‘Well,’ said Sophie, ‘we’ll have to look convincing on the night even if we aren’t, otherwise the audience will think we’re singing wrong notes all over the place.
‘Jon’s all for talking to the audience first,’ I said, ‘and singing a selection of madrigals from the period that aren’t so hard on the ears.’
‘Good idea,’ said Robert. ‘Especially now we’ve got Daniela.’
Sophie and I sipped our coffee and exchanged glances across the top of our mugs.
‘Imagine living in those times,’ I said.
‘Fabulous clothes,’ said Sophie. ‘Valuable too. Everything got re-made several times.’
‘I think,’ said Robert, ‘we should all thank our lucky stars we’re alive now and not then. We’d probably all be dead of the plague.’
‘Yes, or come to one of a number of sticky ends,’ I said. ‘Jon and I were reading up on the life of Gesualdo last night. Tut, tut.’ I shook my head. ‘Henry VIII wasn’t the only one with wife trouble at the time. Maria D’Avalos was having her way with reputedly the most handsome man in Italy, Fabrizio Carafa, the Duke of Andria, right under Gesualdo’s very nose.’
‘Oh dear.’ said Sophie. ‘What happened?
I was about to say, when the shop clock announced it was midday by playing the opening bars of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony.
‘Oh heck,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to wait. I’ve got to go. The school choir will be waiting.’
My stomach churned with more ner
ves than if I was about to walk out in front of a few hundred paying punters, not twenty ten year olds. I was determined to keep it simple and be pleased with everything they did, however rough.
I had filled in the DBS form but the school had yet to receive a response so Miss Price would have to be in the room with me. Part of me was glad. One child vexed me often enough. Who knew how I’d be with twenty?
In the event, the half hour I imagined standing in front of them, was more like twenty minutes. I had no idea that moving small chairs could be so effortful and lining them up in two rows of ten almost impossible. What a good thing I hadn’t decided on three. Miss Price introduced me. They all knew that I was Mollie’s mum but even I didn’t know that I was so famous or, indeed, related to Gareth Malone. Mollie appeared cheerfully determined in her guile.
‘Hello, choir,’ I said, once the shuffling had died down. A bad start. The shuffling increased at once. ‘Hi, guys!’ I yelled almost at the top of my voice. Silence. In the front row a small round-faced girl with a red hairband began to cry.
‘No need for that, Emily,’ called Miss Price from the back of the classroom.
Emily continued to wimper.
‘First of all,’ I said, ‘we’re going to sing the one song we all know off by heart. Do you know what that is?’
A voice from the back said loud and clear: ‘Can You Feel The Love Tonight?’
‘No, Mollie. Not everyone knows The Lion King. Miss Price,’ I went on, without leaving pause enough for a reply, ‘has already told me that it’s Toby’s birthday today, so what do we sing?’
‘Can You Feel The Love …’
Everyone laughed including me. Note to self: never patronise children again.
I played the last line of Happy Birthday on the keyboard just to get us going then stood up to sing with them. It was a bit all over the place but not terrible. ‘Great,’ I said. ‘Now let’s give Toby a second helping and this time, we are going to clap once at the end of each line.’ I gave them a quick demo, played the chord on the piano to put them in the vicinity of the correct note and began again.
I was hoping the clapping would show up those whose sense of rhythm wasn’t strong, but it turned out there was only the slightest of stutters at the end of each line. Everyone sang approximately in tune. Hooray!
It wasn’t until the evening that I realised my mobile was still on silent.
‘Give me a ring as soon as you get this.’ I listened to Mum’s phone message again. She didn’t say what it was about, but I detected excitement.
‘We’re going to Italy,’ she announced, when I rang her back. ‘Sorrento. Can you think of anywhere more romantic?’
Of course, she wasn’t meaning me when she said ‘we’. Thomas was my mother’s new beau and the reason why she’d upped sticks and gone to live in Glastonbury. ‘Umm …’
‘And he said we can go to Capri, and Pompeii. The Amalfi Coast. I’ve heard they have lemons the size of grapefruits there.’
‘And G and T’s to match?’
She wouldn’t be visiting at half-term. Mollie was going to her father’s and I would be all on my own. For a whole delicious week.
When I switched off the phone I began planning. London for a couple of days or more. I could even do some decorating. Less than a minute later, the phone rang again.
Michael.
‘I’ll come straight to it, Lisa,’ he said, without even a how are you. ‘Greta and I have been offered tickets for the Bayreuth Festival at the end of October. We’d like to make it a proper break.’
‘Oh, that’s nice,’ I said. ‘I expect Mollie will really enjoy that.’
He coughed. He didn’t have a cough, I could tell, but he coughed anyway. ‘Err, no,’ he said. ‘Not Mollie. That’s why I’m ringing. I was hoping she could stay with you at half-term. Perhaps I could have her the week after?’
‘When she’s back at school.’
‘Yes.’
I sensed a semblance of contrition in his voice. A trip to Bayreuth. Lucky bastard. Even though Wagner wearied me there were certain places and performances in the musical canon that would be impossible to turn down. ‘Can I think about it?’
I could hear him frowning. ‘I’ll phone you tomorrow, we have to book the flight.’
Poor Michael. Greta would harangue him for not getting a definite answer. Being a lawyer specialising in international law gave her clout in most social situations, but I couldn’t help being a bit pleased when I had the chance to wield my smidgeon of power.
Mollie was watching The Princess Bride again, which gave me some quiet coffee time. I picked up the book about Gesualdo, but I hadn’t even opened it before the phone rang yet again.
‘Hi, Lisa, I’m so glad you’re in.’ Sophie sounded rather flustered.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, yes, fine. I‘m just a bit excited.’
‘Oh?’
‘Listen,’ she paused and I could hear her swallow something so I drank some coffee of my own. After another swallow, she carried on: ‘I’ve bought the most amazing thing. It’ll be perfect.’
‘What will? Perfect for what?’
‘For the publicity shot.’
‘Oh! Are we having one?’
‘Of course! We absolutely must now there are five of us. I had an idea the other day, and then I saw it. The scythe. It’s fantastic. Not one of those little sickle things. This is huge! You could swish your way through a field of wheat in no time—’
‘Hang on a minute,’ I interrupted. ‘You’ve lost me, Sophie. Why on earth—’
‘Don’t you see?’ she interrupted back. ‘It’s for the Grim Reaper.’
‘Right … are we expecting him?’
It was meant to be a joke.
When I switched off the phone, I sat with it on my lap trying to imagine why Sophie could possibly think a scythe was a good idea. She wouldn’t say, but I was to meet her the next day and she’d show me.
Without thinking, I slid the Gesualdo madrigal out from the heap of music on the table and opened it. There was the Grim Reaper leaning on his scythe and right by the point of the blade cavorted a band of devilish figures. The room was dim as I’d only got one lamp lit but when I held the frontispiece closer to the light I thought the group were perhaps the damned, forced to dance on hot coals. It was difficult to tell. I did notice a new figure though; next to the group stood a young man holding an instrument that resembled a lute. He appeared to be playing, but then I saw that all the strings were broken, and his face was stricken.
Chapter Ten
Napoli 1589
I was dressing myself the day after the banquet when Laura sidled round the door of my little room.
‘Silvia? Can I ask you something?’
‘That depends on what it is.’
She looked uncomfortable, even more mournful and pathetic than usual.
‘I’m not sleeping.’
‘Well, that’s not news, Laura. When did you ever?’
‘It’s worse here. It’s too hot and the others don’t like my coughing.’
‘Are you sure it’s just that? I heard they didn’t like the way you kicked the cook’s cat.’
She looked at me and said nothing.
I sighed. ‘Have they been mean to you?’
‘Very mean,’ she said, sniffing. ‘I thought perhaps maybe,’ she hesitated, then said all in a rush. ‘Please, Silvia, please will you let me sleep here?’
I looked at her. Was she mad? I swept my hand round the room. ‘Where exactly were you thinking of, Laura? Were you planning to sleep standing up?’
‘There’s enough room on the floor. I’m not very big.’
Having Laura next to me was nearly the worst thing I could think of, but I have to say I was touched to be asked. How desperate must she be? Even so … ‘It’s not up to me, Laura. Donna Maria said I should be near her, not you.’
‘But can you ask her if it would be all right?’
‘I—’
/> ‘Please, Silvia.’
‘I’ll see.’
Donna Maria met my request for Laura to come and sleep in with me with surprise, but she did agree. In respect of the coughing, Laura was a little better for living by the sea so I hoped her sleeping might have improved too.
‘Can’t you at least try not to snore, Laura?’ I said, after the first night.
‘I can’t help it if I’m asleep.’
‘Don’t sleep on your back then.’
‘But I don’t mean to.’
‘Pity your husband,’ I said. ‘It’s like sleeping in a sty of suckling piglets.’ The chance of Laura finding a husband was about as likely as a snuffling piglet dying of old age. She knew that as well as I.
‘Here’ I said, taking one of the lavender bags from the closet. ‘Put this under your pillow. It might help.’
I meant it kindly, and she thanked me, but as usual, I felt mean. As if Laura was the cook’s cat and I’d kicked it.
In the days following the feast, I reported to Pietro that my mistress was unwell with a malady that required several trips to the nessessario every night. The half-truth had the required effect and we saw nothing of Don Carlo in his wife’s bedchamber. The fact was that if Donna Maria rose in the night, it was with love-sickness, and she had that very badly. So what with Laura’s snoring and Donna Maria’s loud and lengthy sighing, my own temper frayed worse than the stupid piece of silk I was edging with lace.
The months passed, spring became summer and a hot one too. I missed the cool of the hills. Outside, the piazza was a furnace. Eventually we became prisoners, shut in the dark. The shutters were closed through the day of course, but still the heat would seep through the slats so we could do nothing but wait for evening. I couldn’t sew anything of merit as the needle slipped about in my fingers and the only beading I could manage was from the droplets of my own sweat. A smell of bad eggs rose from the ground and lodged in the back of the nose. Everyone was bad tempered.
Secret of the Song Page 6