Woman of Influence (Pemberley Chronicles)

by Rebecca Ann Collins

  "We certainly do; I am sure we shall all enjoy The Marriage of Figaro. Jonathan has seen it before in Paris, but it's the first time for me," she confessed.

  "It is for me, too, and I am looking forward to it very much. Now, don't let me keep you from your guests, my dear, believe me, I am perfectly happy staying in," said Becky.

  Anna went, having urged her cousin to ask the servants for anything she needed and promising to be back in a couple of hours. But Becky knew better; ladies shopping, especially in a group, never returned in a couple of hours. She expected to have most of the morning to herself, unless she had a caller, of course.

  However, although she waited in all day, knowing that Jonathan had said he would send a note round in the morning, Aldo Contini neither came nor was there any written acknowledgement of her response. It was quite disconcerting.

  By the time the ladies returned, it was afternoon, and Becky had begun to wonder if Mr Contini had changed his mind. She considered whether she should ask Jonathan in what manner he had conveyed her answer, but decided against it. She hoped she had not seemed too eager and worried that he may have misunderstood her answer.

  But, if he had, there was little she could do to remedy it, which led her to shrug off her disappointment and decide to enjoy the rest of the evening.

  After tea, which was served downstairs, Anna came upstairs to Becky's room to say that their party would leave for the theatre at seven.

  The Darcys had arrived at Portman Square, Anna said, and would be joining them at the opera. Boxes had been reserved for the entire party, she explained. "Emma, James, and you will be seated with us, while Cassy and Richard will join Lizzie and Mr Darcy," said Anna, who then expressed a wish to see Becky's gown.

  Nelly had already laid it out, together with the selected accessories and jewels for the evening.

  "Will it suit?" Becky asked, a little tentatively. It was some time since she had been to Covent Garden.

  "It most certainly will, Becky; it is very elegant indeed," Anna replied, "and the colour is just perfect for you."

  Anna's good taste in just about everything was well known, and Becky was pleased to have her approval.

  The gown was of a deep blue velvet, with an overskirt of lace, a design that had been very fashionable a year ago. Becky had not worn the gown in a long while and had brought it to London at Nelly's insistence, with the theatre party in mind.

  She bathed and dressed slowly, and when Nelly arrived to help her with her hair, she too was full of praise for the gown.

  "Oh ma'am, it's grand… and you do look lovely," she said, and Becky, although she knew Nelly's judgment was not entirely impartial, could not help feeling pleased.

  When she went downstairs, the others were waiting.

  Arriving at Covent Garden, they were escorted to the reserved boxes in the magnificent new theatre.

  Becky had not been to the opera since the old theatre had been destroyed by fire some years ago. The new edifice was a superbly designed structure, where everyone who was anyone attended the opera, not always to see and hear, but quite often to be seen and heard.

  Seeing the elaborate gowns and splendid jewelry of the ladies preening themselves under the chandeliers, Becky felt a little underdressed.

  "Upon my word, I have not seen so many diamonds in one place in all my life," she declared as they took their seats, and Jonathan's riposte was apt.

  "I believe it is claimed, by those who know something of these matters, that a lady's knowledge of the opera is usually in inverse proportion to the value of the gems she wears to the performance."

  Both Anna and Becky protested that he was being unfair, but were glad indeed that neither of them were overly decked with jewels.

  They were soon joined by Emma and Mr Wilson, and moments later, the conductor entered to begin the overture. It was a very special moment, and there was a hush in the theatre. As the curtain rose, Becky saw Anna Bingley whisper something to her husband and point with her fan in the direction of a box some distance from theirs and one tier above them.

  Jonathan looked and whispered something very quickly to his wife, just as the first act was starting.

  Becky could not hear what he said; she thought she had heard the name "Contini" but could not be sure. From her seat she could not see out across to the other side of the vast hall, and in any event, the intoxicating power of Mozart's music and the fine voices soon swamped her senses.

  At the end of Act One, Becky joined with enthusiasm in the applause. She was enjoying this far more than she had anticipated.

  Between the acts, Anna and Becky left their seats to walk in the long, richly furbished vestibule, where many other patrons of the opera were parading, some rather volubly giving their companions the benefit of their opinions on the performance so far.

  One woman thought the tenor was superb; another disagreed, he was not handsome enough to be right for the part. Still others had already decided that the maid Susanna was the star of the show.

  A little bemused, Becky accompanied Anna as she walked towards the stairs, while Jonathan, having left the ladies to their own devices, went swiftly up the stairs and was soon out of sight.

  When it was time to return to their seats and he had not reappeared, Becky was concerned, but Anna was not.

  "He has probably gone round to the Darcys' box or the Continis'—he will be back soon enough, but we had better not wait for him, or we shall miss the opening of Act Two," she warned.

  Becky knew then she had heard right; the Continis were at the opera, and Jonathan had gone round to their box. When Act Two began, she could not concentrate on the performance, and each time the curtains moved behind them, she was distracted, until finally, Jonathan returned to his seat.

  Puzzled, she wondered what had occurred. Had he met Mr Contini?

  The others of the party were clearly enjoying the opera, but Becky wished Act Two would end. When it did, it was she who rose quickly and went outside first, wanting to get away from the closeness of the box, hoping her disappointment did not show on her face.

  Neither Jonathan nor Anna made to follow her.

  As she stepped out into the vestibule, standing just outside their box was a tall, familiar figure who moved forward to greet her.

  "Mrs Tate, good evening," he said, and Becky almost jumped, but caught herself in time to avoid the clear embarrassment of looking either too shocked or too pleased to see him there.

  She responded quickly, "Mr Contini? I did not expect to see you here."

  He smiled, a self-deprecating smile, just the sort of smile she remembered well, and said softly, "My aunt is here. She is totally devoted to the opera. Unfortunately, my uncle was unwell and could not come tonight, so it was my privilege to accompany her."

  When Becky said nothing, he continued, "But then, my friend Jonathan Bingley told me that you were here with their party, and I thought I must seize the opportunity, so to speak, and see you; so here I am."

  Becky raised her eyebrows and asked, "You did not wish to wait until the performance was over? You must have missed quite a lot of Act Two?"

  His answer was unequivocal. "No, because then there would be a great crowd of people in the vestibule… I wished most particularly to see you alone. As for Act Two, I am familiar with Figaro. I have seen him many times."

  Becky felt her face flush as the blood rose in her cheeks. He was exactly as she remembered him—direct, charming, open—exasperatingly so. No pretensions, no idle flattery; Aldo Contini had not changed at all, except there was a little more grey in his hair than she could recall. She said nothing at first, just nodded and smiled.

  Then she decided to ask, "Did you receive my answer?"

  "Yes, most certainly, the very next morning, and I must thank you for it, I am very grateful. I would have called at the house today, but my aunt required me to escort her when she went to call on an artist in Chelsea. She wishes to buy a picture and asked for my opinion. So I had decided to call on
you tomorrow, but when Jonathan informed me you were here, I had to see you. You do not object?"

  "Of course not; I am very happy to see you," she replied lightly, and he smiled as though her answer had given him very special pleasure.

  They had walked a fair way along the corridor, making light conversation, mostly about the opera and its complicated plot. When it was time to return to their seats, he walked back with her to their box, and as they entered, Jonathan rose, greeted his friend, and for the rest of the performance stood with Aldo Contini at the back of the box. Though she heard nothing of their whispered conversation, it became clear to Becky that the two men were firm friends. The intimacy and general ease of their association was unmistakable; she was quite certain they would have exchanged confidences.

  Afterwards, when the audience had applauded until their ears were ringing with the sound and the final curtain call had been taken, they rose to leave, and Anna Bingley invited Mr Contini to join them at supper.

  He would be delighted, he said, and thanked her, but he must first escort his aunt home. He was assured that would present no problem, whereupon he beamed with pleasure, kissed the hands of all the ladies, and left.

  On the journey back to Grosvenor Street, neither Jonathan nor Anna made any comment on the unheralded appearance of Mr Contini at the opera.

  However, Becky was certain they must have had some discussion of the matter; it was simply not credible that Anna knew nothing of it.

  On reaching the house, Becky went directly to her room, attempting to avoid questions and trying to rest her feet and eyes as she lay on the couch. Nelly, ever anxious for her mistress, keen to ensure she had everything she needed, brought her a drink of water and, when she was ready to go downstairs, fussed around her, making certain her gown and hair were just as they should be.

  Aldo Contini arrived at the house some half an hour later, apologising for his lateness, and was assured by his host and hostess that all would be forgiven, if he would promise to entertain them with a song after supper.

  As he entered the room, Becky, sitting to one side of the doorway, saw him look around the company, his eyes searching until he found her. He then walked directly across to her, bowed over her hand, and seated himself beside her. Thereafter, there was so much to talk about, that it seemed to Becky they had hardly stopped speaking except to partake of supper, and even then, the food, though excellent, did not appear in any way to diminish their desire for conversation.

  They had not met in more than two years, not since the year of Josie's death, when Becky, left to her own devices in London while her husband plunged deep into his business interests, had met Mr Contini again and found in him a companion who had offered her something more than the poor consolation of mourning her child while keeping a stiff upper lip.

  With him, she had been able to express some of the deeply felt emotions she had hidden from most of her family and friends. He had been neither embarrassed nor uneasy when she, while speaking of Josie, had wept. Explaining gently that he too had known the heart-wrenching loss of a young sister some years ago, he had comforted her. At the time, it had made for a bond between them more intimate and precious, Becky felt, than if they had been lovers.

  In his company, she had enjoyed also a level of intelligent discourse that had almost disappeared from her social life. Mr Contini's knowledge of matters artistic and his genuine interest in her views had combined to enhance her appreciation of the time they had spent together. She had looked back upon it as a period when every aspect of her existence had been enriched by his friendship.

  She recalled their many conversations on subjects as arcane as Mr Darwin's theory of the origin of species and as ordinary as the closure of Hyde Park on account of public rioting in London. On every topic, they had debated, discussed, and resolved their respective views to their mutual satisfaction, all in the course of the Summer of 1866.

  Becky remembered some conversations as though they had occurred a day or two ago. They had been chiefly about Josie and Becky's own feelings of guilt at having persuaded her daughter into what was to become an unhappy union, and he had understood and acknowledged them, like no one in her family would.

  Since then, Mr Contini had returned to Italy, and back in Derbyshire, Becky had made a determined effort to put that exceptional Summer out of her mind, but without much success.

  Meeting him again had resurrected every precious memory.

  Clearly, he remembered too, she thought, but was being discreet, probably believing that she would not wish to be reminded of a time that, for all its passing pleasures, had been filled mostly with her grief at her daughter's death.

  After a few moments silence, she, feeling the need to make conversation, said casually, "You have not changed much, Mr Contini."

  His reply surprised her, "No? But you have, Becky, remarkably," and when she looked somewhat disconcerted, he added, "You look much younger today," and to her disbelief, continued, "You are a little happier now, yes? Or just a little less melancholy, perhaps?"

  Becky found it difficult to respond to this suggestion; she had no swift answer to his question. Instead, seizing upon his earlier reference to the opera, she asked, "You said you were familiar with Figaro?"

  "Indeed I am, very familiar. You see, I spent much time in Paris trying to study art, and Figaro was a great favourite with the French at the time."

  "But it is a German opera!" she said.

  "Ah, but the original story of Figaro, the play by Beaumarchais, was French and performed soon after the French Revolution," he countered. "It was used to ridicule the stupidity and pretensions of the old aristocrats—those they had sent to the guillotine! I think the French like to remind themselves of that period from time to time. As a student in Paris some fifty years after the revolution, I confess I enjoyed it too."

  Becky was astonished that he knew so much, yet behaved with so little presumption or arrogance. He told it as though it were common or garden information, available to all and sundry.

  Her own knowledge of music was slight, and while she had known he had an interest in art and music—indeed it had attracted her to him when they first met—he had never given any hint that he had been a student of art.

  "And was your study of art successful?" she asked, and he laughed.

  "Alas, not to the extent I might have wished, but it was fun, and I did learn to sketch quite well, so it was not a complete waste of my time."

  She did recall that he seemed to like scratching at a drawing pad with a stick of charcoal, but she had not thought it a serious pastime.

  "And do you continue your interest in art?" she asked.

  "I do, I sketch and draw for my own pleasure, mostly slight pieces; I am unlikely to be invited to hang my work at the Uffizzi or the Louvre."

  There it was again, that sardonic self-deprecation that he was wont to engage in and that she had found so diverting after the company of persons who took themselves so seriously.

  She smiled. "Perhaps not, but may I see some of it?" she persisted.

  "Certainly, if you wish it. I do not have any of my work here in London, but if you will let me, I shall demonstrate my efforts for you. I shall make a drawing of you, and then you can be the judge of my talent."

  Becky laughed and said she didn't think there'd be enough time for that, but added that she would very much like to see his work one day.

  They talked for a while about family matters until supper was over and the room was rearranged for the entertainment that was to follow.

  Anna Bingley approached them.

  "Now, Mr Contini, I must hold you to your promise," she said, and he, without fuss, begged that Becky would excuse him and went to join Anna at the pianoforte. And, with the kind of unaffected ease that was so typically Italian, he sang, taking Becky back to the time many years ago, when she and Mr Tate had visited Italy and heard the young boatmen sing at dusk, songs that seemed to come from the heart. She had not heard such spontaneous sing
ing ever before. The song brought back memories, which she had thought were buried in the past.

  Now, it was all returning, confronting her, demanding her attention.

  There was a burst of applause and calls for more, but he bowed and smiled to acknowledge the gathered audience, graciously kissed the hand of his accompanist, then returned to Becky's side.

  "That was very good indeed, Mr Contini; if your drawing is as acceptable as your singing, you are being far too modest about it," she said, and he looked genuinely pleased but said no more.

  Coffee, tea, and chocolate were being served in the adjoining room, and Becky suggested that they go in and help themselves, but Mr Contini offered to go himself. He recalled that she took tea and brought her a cup of tea with no milk and two lumps of sugar, before helping himself to black coffee. Becky smiled and thanked him; it seemed there was not a lot he had forgotten.