Apparently he was not so affected. He looked down at her with maddening self-assurance.
“Mrs. Foscari and I have met,” he said in a voice that would freeze morning chocolate.
“Really?” Jacobin asked. “You didn’t say so, Tessa. Or maybe she doesn’t remember you, Allerton.” Her tone was teasing then her smile faded. Apparently she noticed the frigid atmosphere.
“It’s been many years,” Tessa said softly. It took all her courage to speak at all, let alone with any degree of calm. “He was Mr. Hawthorne then.”
*
Max knew he’d have to meet her and he was ready. He’d decided not to acknowledge their previous acquaintance unless she did. He had not counted on the potency of Tessa’s presence. La Foscari’s presence, rather. The press of guests around them made the distance between them a mere yard or so. The room’s chatter faded from his consciousness, as did every soul in it. When Lady Storrington introduced them he managed to utter a few words with little idea what he was saying.
“Of course you know Madame Foscari, Allerton.” Sir Henry Waxfield was speaking now. “You’ve been abroad often since Waterloo and must have caught her in some opera house or other.” Having settled the question to his satisfaction, the pompous baronet addressed his next question to the guest of honor. “Must have been awkward, madam, traveling around Europe during all the years when Bonaparte was always at war with some country.”
“Sometimes it was troublesome,” she replied coolly, obviously not a whit discomforted by Max’s presence, while he was agitated by the discovery that her speaking voice, soft and sweet, hadn’t changed. Suddenly she was Tessa.
“Were you ever in danger?” Lady Storrington asked.
“Fortunately not,” Tessa replied, “though one time I was almost caught between the lines of the Austrian and French armies. The coachman had taken the wrong road and we didn’t know where we were until he heard gunfire.”
“By Jove,” Waxman said. “How did you escape?”
“I came through safely due to the chivalry of soldiers. A troop of Austrians on reconnaissance stopped my carriage and the officer recognized me.”
She laughed. She and Max had shared a great deal of laughter as they explored the old streets of Oporto together. Now there was a brittleness to her mirth, a false note that had probably always been there but he had been too naïve and besotted to detect.
“He offered to escort us under flag of truce,” she continued. “The Austrian, a very handsome man of excellent family, was also acquainted with my companion Signora Montelli.”
Two or three others crowded around them to hear the diva’s tale, which she delivered with dramatic effect. As he listened Max took the opportunity to examine her unobserved. She was tall for a woman and as capable of commanding a drawing room as she did the stage. Trying to observe her dispassionately, he wondered if the kind of glamour she cast over her surroundings was due to her fame. Would she seem as fascinating if she were unknown? The latter, he fancied. God knew he’d been equally struck when he first met her. One look at Tessa Birkett and he’d been head-over-heels and painfully in love. Except there had been no pain, only blinding joy when he thought she returned his feelings. The pain had come later and his heart ached anew as he’d hoped it never would again.
“After several miles, we approached the French line and we were terrified,” Foscari went on. “A small platoon came out to meet us, muskets raised. Would the truce hold or would we be met with a barrage of bullets?” She held the audience in the palm of her hand.
“What happened?” someone asked amid several gasps.
She shrugged. “Nothing. Rien de tout. My Austrian gallant explained to the French captain that I was Teresa Foscari and had been admired by the emperor. He kissed my hand and rode away, leaving us under the protection of the French. The capitaine took us to the French camp where he served us wine. We drank a toast to l’empereur and the art of music, then he sent us on our way to Paris.”
“What a marvelous story,” Lady Storrington said. “And was the French officer as handsome as the Austrian?”
“But of course, and just as charming.”
“It’s wonderful that appreciation of great art transcends the conflict of nations.”
Great art, my eye! Max didn’t believe a word of it. Teresa Foscari had surely been given safe conduct on the French side because she was known to be the emperor’s mistress. Quite possibly she’d given herself to the Emperor of Austria too. Why stop at two emperors when she could have three? His chest tightened and his head threatened to burst. God damn her to hell.
*
Max hadn’t spoken a word during her recitation, for which Tessa was profoundly grateful. The story was one she’d told dozens of times. She knew it as well as any operatic role and could have delivered it in her sleep. It was always well received and she never spoiled it with ugly truths about war: the ruined farmland and wretched peasants, mostly women and children; the constant cannonades, out of sight but audible all the way; the bodies of soldiers along the roadside and the groans of the wounded in the French camp. Why ruin a pleasant evening?
Unfortunately someone else had the power to do just that.
Jacobin turned to Max. “Where did you and Madame Foscari meet?” she asked. “Didn’t you go to Vienna last year?”
“We met in Portugal,” Max said. Tessa couldn’t read his mood but had no reason to think his clipped tones friendly. “Miss Birkett, as she was then known, performed at the opera house there. I don’t recall which role.”
“Despina in Cosi fan tutte,” Tessa said.
“Madam, it appears that your memory is better than mine.”
“Since it was my operatic debut, it isn’t an occasion I’m likely to forget. I’m sorry it made so little impact on you.” How could he have forgotten? At the time he had told her she had dazzled him with her talent and her beauty. Only two weeks later he had declared his eternal love, a love she had discovered later was nothing but lust. Now, as she stared at the cold black eyes of the older Max, she realized, to her humiliation, that she wanted him to admire her still, secretly hoped he regretted the past.
“Of course I knew little of opera then and cared less.” True enough, at least the first part. He’d pelted her with questions about her roles and her craft, seemed endlessly fascinated by tales of life on and behind the stage. New to the theater herself, she’d done her best to satisfy his voracious curiosity.
“How fortunate,” she rejoined with a touch of sarcasm, raising her chin and holding onto her poise by a slender thread, “that the insipidity of the occasion didn’t spoil you forever for the art.”
“Since those days,” Max said, “I’ve learned to appreciate it.”
Vaguely aware that others were avidly observing this byplay, she tried to silence the ominous buzz that wanted to take possession of her brain.
Waxfield, whose eyes had scarcely wavered from Tessa’s bosom since the moment of introduction, laughed. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “There’s not a man in London knows more about opera than Allerton. Or opera singers.” He gave Max a little nudge. “Doubt if he’s ever seen a singer to equal you, though.”
Max seemed to give the innuendo consideration. “You may be correct, Waxfield. It’s rare to find beauty combined with vocal talent. A beautiful heroine adds to the veracity of the drama. But the voice of the singer is more important than her appearance. Where both are present opera achieves the perfect marriage of music and drama. That is what we hope to accomplish at the Regent. But the music comes first.”
Tessa could hardly argue with an opinion in complete accord with her own. And surely Max wasn’t implying her own talents were lacking in musicality. She decided to take his comment at face value and make polite conversation. Small talk she could manage.
“All London is talking about your new opera house,” she said.
“No,” he said, his face harsh, “all London is talking about La Divina, who sings at the Tavistock.”
She was prepared to accept this compliment graciously and had begun to incline her head in recognition when, in a voice dropped low but still perfectly audible to his companions and his hostess, Allerton continued. “You are too high priced for our humble venture. Somerville, perhaps, is better able to afford you.”
The Countess of Storrington drew in her breath in surprise. Tessa felt every inch of her skin flush, horrified by Max’s attack. The implication that she earned her fees for more than singing was all too clear. She longed to offer a reply that would hurt him as deeply as he had wounded her. But then, he had no heart. She knew that from bitter experience. Before she could think of a clever retort, Allerton spoke again.
“I will leave you to enjoy your evening’s triumph, Mrs. Foscari. No doubt this success will yield other lucrative engagements.” He sketched a bow in a manner almost mocking—as if he did not feel she merited such nicety—and moved off directly. Beyond rational thought, Tessa sought relief from the fearful noise in her head before she had to scream. She groped for a porcelain bowl sitting on a side table.
“Cousin, I beg you won’t,” Jacobin said softly and removed the bowl from her grasp.
Convulsively clenching her hand, Tessa stared at Max’s receding back, appalled at what she had nearly done.
“I fully understand your sentiments,” her cousin murmured. “If you will but wait a moment I’ll have a footman bring you something. Do you have a preference for Sèvres or Meissen? Or Chelsea, perhaps. It would be easier to replace. But I cannot allow you to destroy my husband’s favorite Song dynasty bowl.”
The tension inside Tessa abated. She took a deep breath and managed a rueful laugh. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”
“I do,” Jacobin replied wryly. “I too occasionally have the urge to throw china.”
Panic retreated further at her cousin’s sympathy, replaced by gratitude that Jacobin’s light-hearted intervention had prevented the kind of scene Tessa would rather avoid. In London she wished to avoid the notoriety she’d achieved in Europe, to find a degree of comfort and serenity in the land she regarded as her own, despite never before setting foot in England.
She owed Jacobin an explanation as well as an apology. “It’s an unfortunate habit I’ve acquired to hide my discomfort in company, particularly when I’m faced with…awkward situations. My husband advised me to do it when my nerves become unsupportable.” She didn’t add that Domenico had originally suggested the famous tantrums to enhance his diffident wife’s reputation as a temperamental goddess of the stage. Or that his own actions had triggered the genuine attacks of panic that now beset her.
“I’m sorry to have endangered your porcelain,” she continued. “I should have better control of myself but I really wanted to smash something on Lord Allerton’s head.”
“And I don’t blame you a bit. I can’t imagine why he was so rude.” Jacobin’s face was avid with curiosity. “He’s not usually like that.”
“Is he not? Our acquaintance was slight.”
“Beneath that forbidding exterior he’s one of the kindest men in London. I always enjoy talking to him because he really listens, and appears interested. Not like many men I could mention.”
Tessa murmured something noncommittal. She had no argument with her cousin’s assessment of the charms of Max’s companionship. All too well she recalled the joys of his conversation. In light of her experience, however, she’d have to dispute that he was “kind.”
“And I’ve always thought him so attractive,” Jacobin continued. “Especially since he’s completely unaware of it. Those serious dark looks, like a knight of old ready to charge into battle on his lady’s behalf. Except there never has been a lady, as far as I know. There’s hardly a woman in London, married or unmarried, who wouldn’t welcome his advances—and not just because he’s so rich—but he’s oblivious to them all. He seems only to be attracted to opera singers.” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “Oh Lord! I shouldn’t have said that.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’d say he’d made it quite clear he isn’t attracted to me.”
Jacobin’s eyes kindled with curiosity. “I wouldn’t say that.”
*
The Marquess of Somerville caught Max’s arm as he strode toward the door. “Hardly the best way to woo a singer, whatever your interest.” Somerville spoke with his usual mockery but something in his face suggested that even he had been taken aback by Max’s behavior.
“I’m no longer interested in that woman in any way. She’s all yours, Somerville, and I wish you good fortune—or rather large fortune.” He laughed harshly. “You’ll need it.”
He stamped away and struck out blindly for the exit. He needed to get out of here at once. He knew he’d behaved badly and didn’t regret it a bit. Or rather he regretted making a public scene in Lady Storrington’s house. He wished he could have spoken privately. Sweet Tessa, he reflected bitterly, deserved everything he’d said to her and more.
“Max!” Oh, good Lord Almighty. His mother again.
“Yes?” he barked.
Lady Clarissa had too much strength of mind to be deterred by her son’s obvious ill temper. “It’s her, isn’t it? The one from Portugal.”
He didn’t deign to reply. He was as furious at her as he was at Tessa.
“Keep away from her, Max, I warn you. Don’t forget what she is. I’ll buy her off again if I have to.”
“I assure you, Mama,” he replied through clenched teeth, “that I’d rather be stretched on the rack than see that woman receive another farthing from either you or me.”
“Make sure you hold to that resolution. And come and see me in the morning. I have something important to discuss with you.”
Inwardly damning all parents, he took a last glance across the room to find Somerville bending intently over the singer’s hand, then favoring Lady Storrington with a melting smile. The man never stopped flirting with anybody in petticoats.
Storrington had noticed too. The earl walked casually across the room to join the group, careful, Max noticed, to stand between his wife and Somerville.
Max couldn’t resist waiting to see how the rascal would handle the confluence of a ravishing, if greedy, prima donna, a beautiful countess, and the beautiful countess’s husband. Not a whit discomfited, Somerville kissed both ladies’ hands—again—before heading in Max’s direction, a look of satisfaction glittering in his blue eyes.
“Still here, Allerton?” he asked. “I thought you’d had enough. But never mind. I have discovered something very interesting.”
Max raised his brows and the marquess continued. “I was already fairly certain, but a good look at that bracelet confirmed my suspicions.”
“A gift of the Tsar, payment for services rendered,” Max muttered with a sneer.
“Either the Tsar of all the Russias is a pinchpenny,” Somerville said softly, “or La Divina’s visited the pawnbroker. Those diamonds are made of paste.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“Miss Johnston has too much appearance of self-enjoyment and good living, to accord with our ideas of a tragic heroine, who is generally doomed to endure all the vicissitudes of life, in a perpetual round of starvations, imprisonments, swoonings, and all the train of operatic miseries. This lady however makes no pretensions to acting, and being more skillful perhaps in wielding a knife and fork than a dagger, wisely avoids attempting what must appear ridiculous, and contents herself with walking on the stage or off, lifting occasionally an arm or an eye, and frowning or smiling as in duty bound.”
The Examiner
When he presented himself in his mother’s small drawing room, days later than promised, Max’s mood was no better, though for a different reason. The first night of opera at the Regent had enjoyed a full house, but the debut performance in England of Beethoven’s sublime Fidelio had been received with what Max could only describe as muted rapture. The opinion of the newspapers was equally tepid.
Lady Clariss
a was alone, without any of the hangers-on who normally surrounded the heiress, or the elderly female relative who resided with her as a matter of propriety but was rarely seen. She reclined on a Sheraton sofa and waved one of these offensive journals at him as he entered the room that was small in name only, almost the size of one whole floor of Max’s house.
“My poor Max,” she said jovially, without further greeting. “I’ve just finished reading the Examiner’s account of your first night. It’s very wicked but has Miss Johnston’s appearance precisely right. Wielding a knife and fork! Yes indeed! She really shouldn’t be permitted to appear in male attire. How came you to engage such a—large—female for a breeches part?”
“When I saw the lady last year there was rather less of her,” Max admitted. “But,” he continued bravely, “her voice is very fine.”
His mother gave him a look that said he hadn’t fooled her and turned back to the newspaper. “The only defect in Miss Johnston’s voice,” she read, “is a piercing shrillness in her upper notes, which produces rather an unpleasant sensation in the ear.”
Damned with faint praise, and unfortunately the reviewer was absolutely correct.
“You know, dear boy, I would have enjoyed the evening more if there had been elephants.”
“Elephants?”
“Yes. Or perhaps a bear or two.”
“The Regent is an opera house, not Astley’s Amphitheatre.”
“Such a pity. What about a shipwreck? I always enjoy a good shipwreck.”
“Since Fidelio takes place in a Spanish prison one is hardly likely to encounter elephants, bears, or a shipwreck.”
“No wonder it was so boring!” she concluded triumphantly, waving her newspaper for emphasis. “No elephants. And it’s in German.”
Apparently having had enough—for the moment—of torturing him, his mother set aside the paper. “Delorme is quite another matter. The man is as handsome as sin!”
“Unfortunately he is only too well aware of the fact,” Max replied. “Insisted on appearing in a spotless shirt and perfectly arranged hair though his character was supposed to have spent two years immured in a filthy dungeon.”
Secrets of a Soprano Page 4