‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I also know Franz. There are things he wouldn’t do.’ It was cold comfort to be so sure that he would stand by her even more fiercely because of the central failure of their marriage.
‘I wish he would come home,’ Tafur said. ‘And I think you should read his brother’s letter. And what in the world are we going to do about poor Cristabel?’
‘Let’s see tonight’s performance first. I wonder if Lodge and Playfair propose to attend it.’
‘Yes, they do, they told me so. Art before sport, they say. They are longing to hear Cristabel once more, now that she is an established diva. They had obviously heard the talk about her. Longing to hear her fail, I think. If only there was something one could do.’
‘I almost wish now I had not asked for the performance. How I hate all this tittle-tattle rumour!’
‘Part of the fierce light that beats upon a throne, I am afraid.’
‘I sometimes think I hate that too. Franz and I could have been so happy –’ She stopped, appalled at what she had said. ‘Yes?’ with some relief, to Anna, who had scratched at the door for admission.
‘There’s a messenger come, highness, from Prince Max, with apologies for the delay, but he hopes to be here this afternoon.’
‘Prince Max? Apologies?’
‘I told you you should read his letter,’ said Tafur.
‘I don’t need to now. But I shall have to tell him about Cristabel.’
‘I hope that proves the greatest of your problems.’
‘Max! It’s good to see you.’ Prince Maximilian had left Lissenberg right after the wedding the year before and had been hard at work on his opera in Vienna ever since, so it was the first time the two of them had found themselves exploring their new relationship as brother and sister-in-law. It seemed very strange to Martha, and stranger still to be so passionately aware, now, of the likeness to Franz she had never noticed before they were discovered to be twins. This was partly because Max had aged a good deal; new lines on his face echoed the ones a hard life had etched on her husband’s. ‘But, your opera? Daughter of Odin? What of it?’
‘A disaster. The first night was last week. The only night. They hardly heard it to the end. I thought it so timely, the German theme, the build-up to a new war against France, maybe an alliance with Prussia … They say my music is incomprehensible, worse than Herr van Beethoven’s. I’m a failure, Martha. I’m only grateful that Lady Cristabel did not find it possible to play my heroine, as I had hoped, and so is not involved in my disaster. How is she? How did the tour go? I thought her in tremendous voice when I heard her in Vienna this summer.’
‘She’s married.’ There was no easy way to break this.
‘Married? I don’t believe it!’ He had gone very white, the new lines more sharp-cut than ever. ‘Not … Not to that Irish tenor?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ What could she say? ‘It happened on the journey back … They got separated from the rest of the party … He felt he had compromised her.’
‘Dear God! And she married him? Madness. There are stories about him in Vienna … Why did you allow it?’
‘I told you. It happened on the journey. They were man and wife when they got here. What could I do?’
‘Something. Anything! No, it’s not fair to blame you. I do see that. Ah, poor Cristabel, what a disaster. If only Franz had been here. When do you expect him? I have urgent messages for him.’
‘I wish I knew. I’ve heard nothing since he reached Paris. Oh, Max, I am so sorry about your opera, but I cannot tell you how glad I am that you have come. I’m worried to death about Franz. Count Tafur says our letters are probably being intercepted. There’s talk – had you heard – that Napoleon wants him to divorce me and marry Minette de Beauharnais? You’re laughing?’
‘I’m sorry, but you must see it has its comic side. First me, now Franz. And I don’t need to tell you he won’t do it, Martha. Do I?’
‘Of course not.’ She was not going to cry. ‘But I’m afraid for him if he refuses. As he will.’
‘This needs hard thinking.’ He was prowling around the room now, everything else forgotten in the face of his twin’s predicament. ‘He left you in absolute charge here, I take it?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘So I must deliver my message to you, in his absence. The Austrians are mobilising for war; they ask for an undertaking that all Lissenberg’s mineral exports this year will come to them and to their allies.’
‘An undertaking which, you must see, I cannot give. Not until Franz returns safely. And then it will be his decision.’
‘You’re right, of course. Don’t look so anxious, Martha. Napoleon is not Bluebeard. Franz will be home any day now, with his tale to tell us. And I shall stay until he comes. It’s only a few weeks, after all, until the anniversary of your wedding and crowning; he’s bound to be here for that.’
‘That’s what I thought. But, Max, there is another thing. If you are here as Austria’s emissary, who do Lodge and Playfair represent?’
‘They’re here? Those two trouble-makers! On what pretext?’
‘For the hunting, they say. We thought, Count Tafur and I, that it must be an excuse to visit your father at Gustavsberg and assumed they had messages for him from Austria.’
‘If they have, no one told me about them. And that I find hard to believe. So, no, it must be trouble of their own that they are brewing. Or someone else’s. I think I had better pay a visit to my father, much though I dislike the idea. He still has Countess Bemberg and her brood of bastards living there, I suppose.’
‘Yes. The boy is thriving, they say.’
‘Franz should have locked our father up. I told him so at the time. But what’s the use of talking? I’ll go tomorrow. I must stay for the opera tonight.’
‘Of course you must.’ She thought she would spare him her anxieties about Cristabel’s voice.
Her good friend Ishmael Brodski came to see her that afternoon, bringing the news of the Austro-Russian alliance. ‘I cannot imagine why we have not heard of it sooner. I think you should look to the arrangements at your frontier, highness.’
‘Yes, I had been thinking that too. I have not heard from my husband either, since he got to Paris, and that’s more than two months ago now.’ How strange it was to remember that not much more than a year ago, Ishmael Brodski had been urging her to go back to America with him, marry him there.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. You should have let me know. I’ll have some enquiries made at once.’
‘Thank you.’ She knew and respected the network of communication that he and his banker friends the Rothschilds had woven across Europe. ‘I have been hoping to see you. It’s a long time since you came.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid I thought it best to keep away.’
‘Best? But why?’
‘It’s more than time the prince got back, highness. It makes one wonder if Napoleon is detaining him on purpose. I don’t much like the feel of things in Brundt, and even in Lissenberg there is beginning to be dangerous talk. Grumbles about petticoat government, I’m afraid. I am sure I don’t need to spell it out for you.’
‘No, you don’t. I’ve noticed it myself. I’m ashamed to tell you how glad I was to see Prince Max today.’
‘Yes, that is good news. We must just hope that he will have a steadying influence on his countrymen, who are an unpredictable lot at the best of times. I have to tell you, highness, that there are some who don’t much like the things you have done for their womenfolk. Giving them ideas above their places, they say. Have you seen Frau Schmidt lately?’
‘No, I’ve been missing her as I have you.’
‘And I have no doubt she has been staying away for very much the same reasons. Women and Jews are always vulnerable at times of crisis.’
‘But Frau Schmidt is Franz’s –’ She was going to say grandmother, changed it to foster mother. ‘I always thought her position impregnable.’ She had a vivid memory, as she said i
t, of Frau Schmidt angrily dispersing a hostile crowd that had gathered around Ishmael Brodski himself. ‘What have I been letting happen?’ she asked now.
‘Don’t blame yourself. I think there has been a very skilful campaign of slander and vilification.’
‘Based on Gustavsberg?’ She was tempted to tell this good friend about her frightening encounter in the vineyard.
‘I’m afraid so. Now, that really was a mistake, if we must talk in terms of blame. To leave Prince Gustav free, that was the cardinal error.’
‘I’m afraid I agree with you. But it all seemed such a miracle at the time. That instant, bloodless revolution; everything Franz had worked for fallen into his lap. How could he mark it by a first act of old-fashioned oppression? By imprisoning his own newly discovered father.’
‘No thanks to his father he was alive to make the decision.’
‘Oh, I know! You don’t need to tell me of Prince Gustav’s wickedness. He was poisoning his own wife, remember! But he seemed such a broken man that night, publicly disgraced, led away by his own guard, not a scrap of fight left in him.’
‘He’s a very clever man, Prince Gustav. Never forget that.’
‘You mean he was thinking ahead already?’
‘I’m sure of it.’
Chapter 4
Martha’s messenger found Cristabel on stage with the whole company in a last minute rehearsal of Franzosi’s Barber of Seville. He was not happy about the way it was going, and had just stopped Cristabel in mid-aria when the man from the palace appeared at the back of the house.
‘A note for Lady Cristabel? From the princess? Oh very well,’ Franzosi grumbled. ‘Things can’t go much worse, and we are interrupted already.’ And then, as Cristabel read it and let out an exclamation, he said, ‘What is it? The prince has come? We can postpone the performance?’
‘Yes! No. It’s Prince Maximilian. He’s just arrived. He will be coming tonight.’
‘Then we had better get back to work. From the beginning, Lady Cristabel, and your heart in it, please. You have fallen in love with the handsome stranger and long to know who he is.’
‘She wishes it was her husband.’ The voice from somewhere in the thick of the chorus got a furious look from Franzosi.
Desmond Fylde had indeed suggested, once again, that morning, that he should change roles with the Lissenberg tenor who sang Count Almaviva, but had got short shrift from Franzosi. ‘Madness, at this late date, and you know it, Herr Fylde. If you cannot sing comedy, and Lady Cristabel decides she cannot sing opposite anyone else but you, we will just have to think again about the composition of the company, will we not?’
‘He was actually threatening me. Threatening us!’ Desmond had entered Cristabel’s dressing-room without knocking. ‘What’s the matter?’ She was sitting gazing into the glass, tears running down her cheeks.
‘Nothing. Everything. He’s right to talk of making changes. How can I face Prince Max tonight? He will hear the difference; he is bound to. Everyone else has.’
‘Nonsense. You are imagining things again, my queen.’ He moved forward to put masterful hands on her shoulders. ‘Oh, yes, you’re a little tired, who wouldn’t be? Just married, with a whole world of delight opening before you. And to be worked so hard … Franzosi’s a fool and I’ve told him so. Of course he should have given you time off. What’s the use of talking of the Grassini, the Billington, Mrs Jordan … Experienced ladies, all of them, what have they to say to a green girl like you?’ He bent to kiss the back of her neck. ‘How can you be everything your husband’s heart desires, as you are, and queen it on the stage as well? It will pass, my angel. Don’t fret, and it will pass. And you’ll find yourself a greater singer for it, I promise you. It’s but to get over these girlish vapours and I’ve a remedy for them.’ He ran a hand over her breast to reach the little watch she wore round her neck. ‘Half an hour to curtain up, and your dresser will be here any minute. What you need is to forget your troubles, relax, think only that you are Rosina, Bartolo’s captive ward.’ He let go of her and moved away, leaving her still sitting, listless, gazing into the glass. Then, ‘Here, drink this. It will put heart into you.’
‘What is it?’ She took the glass and looked at it thoughtfully.
‘A specific of my own, my angel. Handed down, father and son, through a line of Irish princes. For the eve of battle, for the moment of crisis.’
‘But I never take anything before I go on. How do I know?’ She sniffed at it.
‘Because I tell you, my love. Many a first night it has seen me through, and me with the hangover on me like death in the morning.’
‘It smells good.’ Doubtfully.
‘It is good! Here,’ he took a sip. ‘Our loving cup, my queen. Drink it, and I promise you Prince Maximilian will be on his knees to you in the morning, poor fellow. I only hope he doesn’t decide to call me out.’
‘Call you out?’ She looked at him for a moment in honest surprise.
‘Fool of a girl, do you notice nothing? Mad for you, he was. Why do you think he left straight after the wedding last year, but that he couldn’t stand it? Seeing me; seeing you; seeing us!’
‘But he’d never call you out. He’s a prince.’
‘And so am I, have you forgotten? Come, drink,’ he held the sweet-smelling cordial to her lips.
She had forgotten. No; she had stopped believing it. She was so surprised at this realisation that she drank the sweet brew down.
‘Not a failure.’ Prince Maximilian summed it up the morning after. ‘But you wouldn’t call it a resounding success either.’
‘Partly the opera itself, don’t you think?’ Count Tafur and Prince Max had met three years before in Venice and greeted each other like old friends. ‘A dull treatment of a not very interesting theme.’
‘And suffering from the inevitable comparisons with Mozart’s Figaro,’ said Martha. ‘I’m a little puzzled that Franzosi decided to rework that old story.’
‘Particularly since his lead tenor is so significantly weak in comic parts,’ said Tafur.
‘Unless that’s the reason,’ suggested Max. ‘But what in the world has happened to Cristabel? She used to act as well as she sang. Last night, oh – she sang like an angel but she moved like a puppet.’
‘She wasn’t getting much help in the acting from Fylde,’ said Tafur. ‘He really is hopeless in comedy, that man. If that is what Franzosi intended to demonstrate, he has succeeded. A problem in such a small company.’
‘Yes,’ Max agreed. ‘It has always been one of Cristabel’s outstanding gifts that she is equally brilliant in serious and comic opera. What a disaster if this husband of hers is going to drag her down.’
‘What a disaster,’ said Martha, and all three were silent for a while.
‘I’ll call on her, of course, on my way to Gustavsberg,’ said Max at last.
‘Do, and give her our congratulations. Invite her to dine the day you get back, would you Max? You won’t stay long at Gustavsberg?’
‘Not a minute longer than I must. And send for me at once, please, if Franz returns.’
‘What am I to do about the Austrian ultimatum if he does not come?’ And then, before either of them could answer, ‘What he would, of course. Reject it. But it would come better from him.’
The last time Prince Max had visited the artists’ hostel beside the Lissenberg opera house it had been to smuggle his near-dying stepmother in through the tunnel that led down from the palace. It was strange to remember this now as he was ushered up to the star’s apartments. The receiving-room he had known so well when Cristabel shared it with Martha and her aunt had changed slightly but significantly. What was it? Lady Helen’s embroidery frame was gone from the corner by the window and there were no piles of books on the tables. And instead of pot pourri, the room smelled faintly of cigars.
‘I’m sorry to have kept you waiting.’ Cristabel looked exhausted, drained. ‘I’m ashamed to confess that I overslept this morning. It’s so
good to see you, Max.’ She held out both hands to him. ‘Tell me I wasn’t a total disaster as Rosina.’
‘Nothing of the kind.’ But it fretted him that she had used the word they had. ‘You sang it beautifully, as you must know.’
‘But I don’t. I was so tired … I don’t seem to remember … I’m so glad to see you, Max. I needed to ask someone how it went, and you’re the very person.’
‘The person for what?’ Desmond Fylde appeared behind her in the doorway. ‘Greetings, prince. I take it you are come to congratulate our prima donna on the way she shone in that dull piece of work.’ He was dressed, Max saw with distaste, in an elaborate velvet frogged coat that, on a woman, would have been described as a négligée. ‘We are treating you quite as an old friend, you see.’ He must have noticed Max’s look. ‘These late nights at work are hard on a young couple like us.’ He gave Cristabel a Turkish look.
‘And I am sorry to disturb you so early,’ said Max, very formally, knowing it was nothing of the kind. ‘But I am on my way to Gustavsberg.’
‘Ah, the wicked prince of the fairy tale. I trust you will find him suitably contrite – and adequately guarded. But, forgive me, I quite forgot that he is also your father.’ He turned to Cristabel. ‘We must offer Prince Maximilian some refreshment, my queen, if he is off on his travels already. I hope you have been able to comfort the princess, prince, in her husband’s mysterious absence. We miss him sadly here. Petticoat rule does not suit these Lissenberg boors. But, shame on us, we are quite forgetting! Your great opera, Daughter of Odin. Has it been greeted, in Vienna, with the acclaim I am sure it deserves?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ Why was Max so sure that Fylde knew already that his opera had failed disastrously? ‘My only comfort in my failure,’ he turned to Cristabel, ‘is that you were not involved in it.’
‘Oh, Max, I am sorry! But – I can’t believe it. Everyone said you were set for a great success.’
‘Everyone was wrong. And, to tell you the truth, Cristabel, I don’t quite know what the trouble was – why they hated it so.’ Warmed by her sympathy, he hardly noticed that he had used her Christian name, as in the old days when they were childhood friends. But then he had called her Bella. If only Fylde would leave them, he felt sure that Cristabel, who had worked with him so long, was such an old friend, would help him to understand why he had failed so lamentably. But it was brutally evident that Fylde had no intention of leaving them. Why should he? He was Cristabel’s husband. Max rose to his feet, civilly refused the offer of refreshment and took his leave.
Leading Lady Page 4