Secrets of a Soprano

by Miranda Neville

  “I didn’t mean to do that,” she said with self-disgust. “I’m trying to give up melodramatic fits. Next time, Sofie, keep the china away from me.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Sofie said. “People expect it of you. They like you for it.”

  Tessa didn’t like herself for such behavior. What had started long ago as a means of gaining attention for a young singer, had become a habit and more recently a necessity. She wanted to stop—stop throwing things and most of all stop suffering the attacks that were soothed by the smashing of breakable objects. She’d failed at the first test.

  “I’d prefer to be known for something other than throwing china.”

  Sofie gave her a chiding look and Tessa laughed briefly at the absurdity of the exaggeration. Still, not a single newspaper account of Teresa Foscari’s extraordinary career failed to mention the flying crockery that had become part of her legend.

  “Holy St. George! What a dreadful man Mortimer is.” She shuddered, sinking back onto the chaise, skirts puffing out around her in a cloud of satin brocade. “Did you hear how he tried to pimp me?”

  Sofie looked at her thoughtfully. “The Marquis of Somerville is said to be handsome as well as rich,” she said.

  “Really? How did you come about that scrap of knowledge?”

  “Nancy Sturridge hopes to come under his protection.” Trust Sofie, a genius at picking up backstage rumors, to know.

  Tessa sighed. “Even if I were interested, which I am not, I don’t need any more difficulties with Sturridge.”

  “She wanted to sing the Countess tonight,” Sofie said. “The stage manager told me.”

  Why couldn’t people be content with what they had? Nancy Sturridge was a natural soubrette, with the light voice and flirtatious personality that such roles required. And musically Susanna was an adorable part. Tessa had been sorry when she gave it up to graduate to the heavier role of the Countess.

  “Sturridge can keep Lord Somerville and I wish her joy of him. Allerton merits further investigation.”

  Allerton’s motives in inviting her to supper could be amorous or professional, or both. In any case, it wouldn’t hurt to make him wait. “I’ll tell them both I am too tired to go out tonight. Better still, you write the letters. La Divina doesn’t write to just anyone, even if they are wealthy and titled. Have a footman deliver them during the fourth act. We’ll keep them wondering till then.”

  *

  Max had no reason to linger after the performance, but he found himself ordering his coachman to wait. Slipping around to the side of the theater, he joined the small crowd at the stage door, not his usual haunt. The men thronging the entrance were of a poorer class than the denizens of the green room where he was accustomed to meeting singers with whom he was involved. Regretting his impulse, he almost walked away, but curiosity held him.

  Ever since he’d first heard of Teresa Foscari, and through all the reports of her genius and her exploits, he’d wondered. There was the name, but Teresa wasn’t an uncommon one, in either France or Italy. The age was about right and the height. The hair color and features had been unidentifiable on stage. As for the voice, it would have matured in eleven years. A sense of familiarity had tugged at his senses throughout the performance, but he couldn’t be certain.

  A dozen times, since the end of war on the continent, he’d considered making the journey to one of the European opera houses to find out, but had resisted. He really didn’t want to see her again. The heartbreak and betrayal suffered by his nineteen-year-old self were behind him. He was a grown man, for God’s sake.

  But suddenly he had to be sure. So he stood in the shadows of a mean alley near Covent Garden, waiting to see La Divina Foscari in the flesh.

  A murmur ran through the crowd as the door opened and a woman emerged on the arm of a gentleman. An indefinable air of magic surrounded her, an aura that sent a rustle of excitement through the ranks of the waiting gallants. She wore a black velvet cloak embroidered with gold thread and trimmed with sable, more of the luxuriant fur swathing her neck to protect the golden throat from the April night air.

  He couldn’t see her face beyond an intriguing hint of a straight nose, but he had no trouble identifying the gentleman whose arm guided her: it was the Marquess of Somerville. While the diva settled into the waiting carriage, the marquess looked around, caught Max’s eye, and winked.

  Max had lost women to Somerville before. His own fortune was the greater, but the mercenary ladies of the demimonde weren’t immune to the lure of high rank. And Max didn’t fool himself that his dark complexion and harsh features could compete with the depraved-angel charm of Somerville’s countenance.

  Max was never sure if Somerville meant to torment him. If so, for the most part he failed. What Max sought in his operatic mistresses was different from the other man’s uncomplicated requirements. Somerville would have no use for the combination of vocal brilliance and indefinable inner beauty that Max had found just once in his life. Whenever Somerville came out the winner in their unacknowledged contest Max moved on. There was always another opera singer willing to accept his attentions and his money.

  But he’d promised Simon Lindo that he would speak to La Foscari, so he’d call on her the next day. Strictly for business reasons.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “The Opera House will be full this evening on account of the attractive powers of FOSCARI, who appears in London for the first time at the Tavistock Theatre.”

  The Morning Post

  Captain James Storrs, ensconced in the private sitting room of his family home, read aloud from The Morning Post. “The soprano is famous for her high notes, her exorbitant fees and an artistic temperament that leads her to smash crockery when her displeasure is aroused—”

  His brother, the Earl of Storrington interrupted him to address his wife. “There’s no question, Jacobin. Teresa Foscari is your cousin. Breaking china must be a family trait. We’ll have to hide the Sèvres when she comes to the house.”

  “I don’t see why you have to keep bringing that up, Anthony,” the countess replied with a toss of chestnut curls. “I only once threw the good china at you, and you deserved it.”

  James lowered the newspaper, prepared to wait while his brother and sister-in-law indulged in the flirtatious banter that had been going on since before Anthony shocked the ton by marrying his pastry cook. Apparently he’d underestimated Lady Storrington’s eagerness to discover all she could about her new-found cousin. “Go on, James,” she said. “What else does it say?”

  “Madame Foscari, known throughout Europe as La Divina, has been delighting operatic audiences for almost a decade. Her voice and her beauty have attracted the admiration of the highest born of many lands, including, it is rumored, the intimate attentions of the Tsar of Russia and the former Emperor of France—”

  “My cousin,” Jacobin interjected, “would never have the bad taste to have an affair with Napoleon!”

  “What about the Tsar?” James asked. “He was our ally. Is it acceptable for your cousin to have conducted a liaison with him?”

  “Quite acceptable,” replied his sister-in-law. “I hear he’s a very handsome man, and tall.”

  “Jacobin isn’t attracted to short men,” her own tall husband explained gravely.

  “Don’t be absurd, Anthony. That’s not why I don’t like Bonaparte. Besides, I haven’t met him since I was twelve years old and far too young to be interested.”

  “I’m relieved to hear you won’t be taking ship to St. Helena to join him.”

  James continued reading. “La Divina’s antecedents are mysterious. Some say she is Italian, like her late husband, a scion of a noble Venetian family. Other reports maintain that Madame Foscari is of French, Spanish or Austrian origins—”

  “And only I know the answer to that!” Jacobin said smugly. “She is half French and half English, just like me. My father and her mother, Suzanne de Chastelux, were first cousins. Their fathers were twins.”

>   “I wish I’d known before there were twins in the family,” Lord Storrington complained. “It wouldn’t have been such a shock when Augustus appeared to join Felicity here.”

  Storrington looked over at his heir, sleeping peacefully in his mother’s arms. Augustus slept a great deal, not yet recovered from the exhausting experience of sharing a womb for nine months with his elder sister. The Storringtons’ infant daughter was wriggling in her father’s arms. She’d already drooled on his shoulder, leaving a white mark on his otherwise pristine coat. His starched neckcloth was the worse for the efforts of her tiny hands. She was currently engaged in trying to amputate his forefinger with toothless gums while beating on his forearm with her small fist.

  “I never met my cousin or her parents,” Jacobin went on. “They left Paris before I was born. Papa’s cousin married an Englishman, Jonathan Birkett. When the revolution came they moved to Portugal. I had forgotten about them but I was so happy to receive a letter from Tessa. And it’s very exciting to discover my long-lost cousin is famous.”

  “How can you be sure Teresa Foscari really is Tessa Birkett?” James asked. “She might be an imposter.”

  Jacobin gesticulated indignantly, eliciting a squeak of complaint from her son. She soothed him and he quickly relapsed into slumber. “Why would she lie? How would anyone else even know of our connection? No James, as soon as I read her letter I felt such kinship. She even mentioned meeting my father when she was a young child. I cannot wait to make her acquaintance.”

  James exchanged glances with his brother and set aside his concern. Anthony would make inquiries and ascertain that Jacobin, in her delight at finding a relative to call her own, didn’t fall prey to an unscrupulous charlatan. James picked up The Morning Post again.

  “All of fashionable London will be in attendance tonight at the Tavistock Theatre to hear Madame Foscari in The Marriage of Figaro. Members of the beau monde wishing to view the phenomenon at closer quarters, must wait till next month when, it is reported, she will make her first private appearance at a soirée in the home of that ornament of society, the Honorable Mrs. Charles Sackville.”

  The Countess of Storrington rose to her feet, eyes ablaze. “We must leave for London at once!”

  “It’s too late to attend tonight’s performance,” her husband argued. “Even if it weren’t, I doubt we could get a box.”

  “I don’t care about tonight’s performance! My cousin is not going to give her first recital at Lydia Sackville’s house. Over my dead body!”

  *

  “Who was that?” Tessa looked up from the seat of the Broadwood piano she’d hired for the duration of their London visit. “The door hasn’t been still all day. I could hardly concentrate for the noise. And there’s a wobble in my mezza voce.”

  Sempronio raised his eyes to the ceiling. “How many times must I tell you? You were perfect.”

  Tessa trusted Sempronio’s assessment of her voice and she never had the least difficulty attending to her singing. Her devotion to her craft was the constant that had kept her sane through times she preferred not to remember. But distress at conditions at the Tavistock had made her edgy. She was still upset about last night’s encounter with Mortimer and she couldn’t stop thinking about Max Hawthorne. How foolish to dwell on an eleven-year-old affair simply because she and Max now occupied the same island.

  “I’ve had a delightful afternoon,” Sofie said, “being entertained by your callers.”

  “Better you than me,” Tessa said, still fretful.

  Sofie ignored her ill temper. “No truly. Both Somerville and Allerton are charming gentlemen though not at all happy that you refused to receive them.”

  “Hm, Somerville. That one is pure trouble. And he thought to impress me, ambushing me at the stage door and insisting on accompanying me home. I hope you told him the lilies he sent this morning make me sneeze.”

  “Allerton brought red tulips.”

  “I like tulips. Were other flowers delivered? Any white roses?”

  “No one in London knows your favorite flower yet,” Sofie said. “I shall drop a hint into a few ears.”

  She was being silly again. Even if Max Hawthorne still loved opera it didn’t follow that he had been at the opera house last night. If he had, he wouldn’t send her flowers the next day. And he certainly wouldn’t remember that first bouquet of white roses with which he’d come calling on her backstage at the Oporto Opera. There was no reason for him to connect Teresa Foscari with Tessa Birkett, none at all. And if he did, he wouldn’t seek her out.

  Perhaps he no longer enjoyed the opera. He’d claimed to adore it but it might have been a lie to beguile her. More than likely considering what happened later.

  “Tell me about Allerton,” she said, determined to be sensible. “Is he as good-looking as Somerville?”

  “At first I thought not,” Sofie said thoughtfully. “He’s tall, very dark, straight hair, almost black eyes, sculpted features like one of those medieval Flemish portraits. At first he seems grim, but he’s quite different when he smiles.”

  Sofie’s sketch brought another man to mind, a much younger man who’d once answered to her companion’s description, the man she had to stop thinking about. That man had always smiled at her.

  Perhaps he lived in the country.

  Or perhaps he was dead. She shouldn’t care. She didn’t much care. He was nothing to her, only a distant memory of a few happy weeks. Why did everything conspire to make her think of Max Hawthorne? Max Hawthorne who had not, and would not, send her white roses.

  She distracted her unruly mind by teasing Sofie. “I can see you like Lord Allerton, Sofie. Sempronio had better take care.”

  Sofie’s husband looked up and gave them a tolerant smile, then returned to his task of sorting through a pile of musical scores.

  “Really,” Sofie said earnestly, “he was most agreeable. He talked to me and sounded as though he were interested in what I had to say.”

  “Oh, oh! Sempronio. This is serious. Lord Allerton likes Sofie,” Tessa teased.

  “Then he has excellent taste in women,” said the cherub-faced pianist, regarding his wife warmly. “And I hear his musical taste is just as good. This new opera house of his is going to be magnificent. No expense spared to make it ideal for the art.”

  “Very well, we are agreed,” Tessa said, getting to her feet. “Allerton is a paragon and I should be singing in his company. Too bad I’m pledged to the disgusting Mortimer and the filthy Tavistock for the season. Now Sofie, are you too tired after your entertaining afternoon, or shall we go shopping? I know you’re dying to see the famous Bond Street just as much as I am, even if we can’t afford to buy much.”

  “Shouldn’t you answer Lady Storrington’s letter first?” Sofie asked. “It sounds like your cousin has done well for herself. A very useful connection.”

  “Yes, of course, cousin Jacobin. She wants me to sing at her house next week, any day I name. I wonder how much I should charge her. We could use a handsome fee right now.”

  “Does she get a family rate?” Sempronio asked.

  “No,” Tessa replied. “No family rates. We can’t afford it. Holy Saint George! I don’t even know how much to ask for a private recital. Let me see, what did Domenico always say? Ask for twice what you want because they will make you accept less.”

  “You’re such a tough bargainer.” The little Italian spoke with affectionate and warranted sarcasm. Domenico had also complained that she overpaid shopkeepers if he wasn’t with her.

  “You’re right.” Tessa swung around. “You shall conduct the negotiation, Sofie.”

  “I, Teresa? I don’t know that I could. I’ve never had much to do with business.” Before she eloped with Sempronio in Vienna, Sofie’s life had been even more sheltered than Tessa’s. An amateur singer of good birth and mediocre talent, she’d come to Tessa for lessons and fallen in love with the pianist.

  “Then it’s time you started. God knows I hated the negoti
ation with Mortimer. Seriously, I think you should take charge of our financial affairs.”

  Sofie looked alarmed. “But Teresa, I know nothing. Think of the way I was brought up. The daughters of Austrian counts are taught nothing about managing money. I’m sorry to be so useless.”

  Tessa moved quickly to give Sofie a hug. “You aren’t useless. You’re my dearest friend. You’d think, since my father was a merchant, that I’d have some idea how to conduct business. Negotiating contracts was the one thing Domenico was good for.”

  And, because thinking about her late husband only made her depressed, she held out a hand to Sempronio while keeping an arm around Sofie’s waist. She didn’t know what she’d do without the Montellis, and Angela too. She owed them all so much.

  “Sempronio,” she said in a rallying tone. “How about you? Will you talk to my cousin about the fee?”

  Sempronio was not to be drawn. He merely grinned and looked more like a gray-haired angel than ever. “Forget it, cara, I’m just a musician.”

  “I’ll do it,” blurted Sofie with a determined gulp. “I’ll learn. Shall I call on Lady Storrington?”

  Dear Sofie, Tessa thought, embracing her again. “Thank you, my love. I know you’ll do a splendid job. Now, let’s go and buy some clothes.”

  “We shouldn’t be spending money now!” Sofie wailed.

  Tessa laughed. “I can tell you’re going to be very strict and that’s a good thing. But Mortimer tells me every performance is sold out for the next month, and I have my cousin’s and Mrs. Sackville’s soirées. I think we both deserve a little treat.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Madame Foscari’s vocal exertions were much beyond anything we ever heard in this country before, and the public appeared so enraptured with her performance, that she sang amidst a continued scene of universal applause and admiration.”

  The Times

  Society musicales were hit-or-miss affairs and Max tended to avoid them. But they didn’t often feature an attraction as potent as La Divina. New arrivals packed the hall of Lord Storrington’s Upper Brook Street house more quickly than their predecessors could make their way up the stairs. As Max inched his way across the black and white marble floor, he was greeted by a diminutive redhead with a smile like the smallest drizzle of honey on lips that tasted only vinegar.