The Morning Post
Max hurled the newspaper onto the desk in the manager’s office, scattering Simon Lindo’s neat piles of paper. “She is not English. To my knowledge she’d never even set foot on these islands till a month ago. We’re the ones with the English soprano.”
A review of the receipts had painted a worsening picture at the Regent. Musicians, craftsmen, and attendants had to be paid, but the money wasn’t coming in. If things didn’t change soon there wouldn’t be enough in their accounts to meet expenses. Accustomed to writing a bank draft for whatever he needed, Max found his financial restrictions strained a temper already severely frayed by another disastrous encounter with Teresa Foscari. He’d like to wring the soprano’s lovely neck, and his mother’s too.
“Goddamn it!” he exploded. “Why don’t they come?”
“Patience, Max,” Simon said. “The new opera was well-received by the audience.”
Max dismissed the offered consolation. “Much good that is when the house is half empty.” His lovely Regent, which he’d designed with such care and lavished with every amenity, had been rejected and he took it personally. He had intended to make London appreciate what opera could be when done to the highest standards, to share with them his pleasure in the most sublime of all theatrical arts.
London showed every sign of not giving a damn.
Max folded his arms and glared at the newspapers. The Examiner was even worse than The Morning Post. “I can’t believe what that idiot Mount Edgcumbe wrote.”
“But you must admit,” Simon said, “that his reservations about our soprano are not without justification.”
The influential reviewer had opined of Miss Lucinda Johnston’s coloratura that “it were to be wished she was less lavish in the display of her powers, and sought to please more than to surprise.” The fact that he was quite correct in his assessment of Miss Johnston’s tendency toward excessive vocal ornamentation did nothing to make Max feel better.
Max couldn’t tell Simon what really troubled him. He knew why Lindo was so serene in the face of the depressing box office receipts. Without precisely promising unlimited funds, Max had always given the impression that he would carry the Regent financially until the new house got onto its feet. Simon assumed that if there was a temporary problem meeting bills, Max would step in and advance the cash.
And he would have but for his wager with his blasted interfering mother.
“I shall continue my efforts to drum up interest,” he said. “I see that Mrs. Sackville has paid for her box. And I fancy Lady Storrington will be persuaded to purchase one.”
Simon leaned forward with an arrested look. “Lady Storrington attended The Barber of Seville with Madame Foscari. It was gracious of La Divina to patronize us.”
Max almost growled. “I don’t see why. She should be grateful for the opportunity to see a superior performance of a great work in a magnificent opera house.”
The manager lowered his voice as he did when he had a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “I’ve heard that Mortimer might accept an offer for Foscari’s contract. Gambling debts, so the rumor goes.”
“Surely he’s making a fortune, filling the house every time she sings.”
“The expenses of running a house as large as the Tavistock are very high. He might not be able to resist the temptation of a large sum in ready money.”
Max said nothing, refusing to take the bait. He couldn’t explain why it was impossible for him to try and buy the contract, and Simon wouldn’t ask him point blank.
After a brief pregnant silence the manager realized his partner wasn’t going to offer his millions to the cause. “If we can’t hire La Divina, let’s at least try to get her onto our stage. If she’d agree to sing at the Chelsea Hospital Benefit we’d be assured a full house. It would give those people a chance to see how superior the Regent is. I’d like to see a little of her luster rub off on us. Would you ask her to lend her services for the night?”
Please God, no! “Why don’t you ask her?”
“I know my strengths, and tact isn’t one of them. You are already acquainted with the lady.”
“The lady doesn’t like me,” Max said curtly.
“You mean the episode at Mrs. Sackville’s house?” Of course Simon’s gossip network wouldn’t have missed that. “Nothing to worry about. Merely prima donna histrionics. I know all about them, and in the end a singer will always pursue her own best interest.”
Yes, indeed! Max was sure Teresa Foscari would do that. He had his doubts that she would regard singing without payment as worth her while.
“We will ask her to set aside the rivalry between our houses for a good cause,” Simon added. “As a man of importance, she’ll be more receptive to you than a mere theater manager.”
Despite a deep reluctance to ask Tessa for a favor, Max had to admit Simon’s idea was a good one. They had to do something to save the Regent.
When he’d let Lady Clarissa goad him into that foolish bet, Max had had no idea how ignominiously he might lose, or how soon. He could find himself betrothed to a horse-faced duke’s daughter by the end of this season.
The choice was easy though not painless. He would rather face a thousand former loves than give Lady Clarissa the satisfaction of seeing him surrender.
*
After a few weeks in London, Tessa was a famous figure, her portrait available in the print shops, her every move detailed in the newspapers. Her carriage and hired footmen were needed because she had only to set foot out into the street to be mobbed by the curious, anxious to share the reflected glory of the London Season’s most celebrated visitor. Even a quiet visit to Hatchards bookshop had attracted stares and rude inquisitiveness about the books she was buying. She ended up smiling graciously at her fellow shoppers and leaving the selection of reading matter to Sofie.
As a result, Tessa had learned to take her exercise early when she could go out without being recognized and accosted. In the morning, her fellow walkers in Hyde Park were, for the most part, nursemaids and their charges. None of them had any idea that she was La Divina and wouldn’t have cared if they had. She and Angela might as well be alone.
“Signora Foscari.”
Not quite alone. She walked on, refusing to turn because she recognized the voice. But, as she well remembered, Max Hawthorne had a long stride and no difficulty catching her. Though she continued at a brisk pace, he walked alongside her without effort.
“Good morning.” At least he’d addressed her with respect and his tone was perfectly civil.
“Good morning, Lord Allerton,” she responded cautiously.
“A warm day, is it not?”
Covertly she examined his face while maintaining her pace. Though inscrutable, his expression didn’t seem hostile. “Are we going to discuss the weather?” Then, unable to prevent a ghost of a smile from crossing her lips, she said, “How very English.”
“Since I read in the papers that you are the pride of our country, the greatest English singer since Mrs. Billington, I assume you have adopted tea-drinking, fox hunting, and the ability to discuss the daily minutiae of our climate for hours at a time.”
Tessa turned the words over in her mind, considering if this light-hearted speech contained an insult. As far as she could see it did not, so she replied in kind. “Fox hunting I’ve never practiced. Tea and prognostications of rain? Why not? Despite the warmth the sky looks threatening. I fear it may pour later this morning. Luckily I always walk early when I haven’t performed the night before.”
“So my spies tell me.”
Suspicion that the meeting wasn’t coincidental hardened to certainty. She found she was…not displeased…that he’d troubled to discover her habits. Yet she couldn’t imagine he’d have anything to say to her after their last encounter.
He offered his arm. “May I join you?”
She ignored the gesture. “It appears you already have. I warn you I’m not in the habit of strolling idly. When
I exercise I mean business.”
“I can keep up.”
“You always could.” During that brief time, so many years ago, they’d walked miles around the old town of Oporto and the surrounding countryside. At the time she’d been grateful for her guardian’s casual attitude towards chaperonage. It had never occurred to her that Max would take advantage of the laxity. She’d believed him the perfect gentleman in every way, until she had discovered otherwise.
She thrust aside that thought and its attendant bitterness. It was pointless to remain angry about an eleven-year-old incident. Her own bad behavior was recent and needed to be addressed. She hated herself for throwing that glass at Max even more than she hated him for provoking her. Swallowing her pride and summoning her courage, she murmured a few rapid Italian phrases to Angela and the maid drew several paces back.
“The other night,” Tessa began, “I owe you an apology—”
He cut her off. “There’s no need. My own behavior has been far from perfect. May we put the incident behind us and agree to say no more about it?” She wasn’t sure from his tone of voice that he was really so forgiving, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Very well,” she replied.
Why didn’t you meet me at the churchyard? Why did you leave without a word? The questions were on the tip of her tongue but she held back. If she spoke to him about the misery he’d caused her she’d never be able to maintain a façade of indifference.
“I would like to make something clear,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as him. “Whatever happened between us before was long ago. We were little more than children. It is foolish to go on resenting the sins of the very young.”
His expression held no trace of regret. Had he ever even wondered how she’d felt, waiting for him on another cloudy day in a different country?
They strode on in silence, pausing only to avoid two little boys who ran across the path in pursuit of their ball. Keeping her eyes on the way ahead, she was keenly aware of his presence at her side, his relaxed but purposeful gait, the lithe figure towering over her. So reminiscent of the past, yet different. He was no longer Max Hawthorne, a charming youth with a deceptive air of diffidence. It was a grown man beside her, with a man’s muscular body and the confidence of his years and status: Viscount Allerton, one of England’s richest citizens.
“I always wondered about you, whether Tessa Birkett was, in fact, La Divina.” There was a new timbre to his voice, less guarded than before. She looked up and met his eyes. The breeze had blown a lock of straight black hair across his forehead and his expression matched that informality.
It was humiliating to find herself pleased that he’d thought of her. “Why did it take you so long to discover it? I’ve learned you are one of the greatest connoisseurs of opera in England. Didn’t you ever think of coming to hear me?” She didn’t intend to sound conceited, let alone offended, but her head was at sixes and sevens.
“Once the war ended I visited some of the European houses. Unfortunately for me, I never happened to be where you were singing.”
His polite response enabled her to reply with more civility. “Your opera house, the Regent, is very fine. It reminds me a little of La Fenice.”
“I’ve never been to Venice but I studied plans of La Fenice as well as several others. I wanted to emulate the smaller size and superior acoustical qualities of the European court houses. And their artistic standards. In England orchestra, chorus, and staging are not always of the best. The Tavistock, for instance, is so very large that only the largest voices can be heard to advantage.”
She turned her neck sharply. “Are you suggesting that my voice is too negligible to be heard properly there?” She was joking, but only half. He still made her skin and her attitude prickly.
“I’m suggesting nothing of the kind, as you must know.” He paused, as though to consider his words, with an air of gravity that added weight to his opinion. “Even when I first heard you, your resonance was extraordinary, not that I understood what that meant. You were always good and I don’t need to tell you how great you have become.”
His praise, though no more effusive than she had heard a thousand times, soothed her and she lowered her defenses. Her heart warmed at the compliment from Max, of all people.
A wave of regret swept over her, not for the brief period she’d spent in his company so long ago. More a wistful recollection of her youth, when things had been uncomplicated, and all she’d cared about was her music. Before Domenico Foscari came into her life and brought her dazzling success and profound misery.
They drew to a halt in the tree-lined path and he regarded her, grave as ever. Max had never been flirtatious in his manner.
“Thank you,” she said. “I am gratified. You always had excellent taste.” And because she suddenly feared she might cry, which would never do, she smiled at him.
*
A fist slammed into Max’s chest when, for the first time, she tilted her head and gave him a full view of her face, unobstructed by the brim of her headwear: a perfect oval with flawless skin, as yet unmarred by years of stage makeup; arched brows a few shades darker than her golden hair; a straight, firm nose whose prominence had always raised her countenance above conventional prettiness; the full, pink mouth designed for the emission of ravishing sounds. And those blue eyes.
For a long moment their gazes meshed and there lay a hint of melancholy behind the smile, as though shadows had darkened a life once filled only with sunlight and hope.
Not melancholy, he corrected himself. Cynicism. It was cynicism her eyes reflected. As well they might, given her character and history.
Not wanting to be fooled again by Teresa Foscari’s deceptively angelic beauty, he examined her from head to toe. Her costume was designed to draw attention to her figure. The pale blue walking dress topped by a satin spencer in a darker azure was simple on the face of it, yet embellished with fiendishly intricate pleats that molded to her bosom. Its skirt was narrow enough to offer tantalizing hints of her legs as she walked. This ensemble, like every garment he’d seen the diva wear, spoke eloquently of Paris.
Paris. Where the woman had bedded the emperor and Lord knows how many other men, all with one thing in common: deep pockets.
Yet he couldn’t repress a curiosity to know something about her advancement from merchant’s daughter to operatic luminary. A curiosity perfectly consistent with his role as a patron of her art.
“Tell me how you came to leave Oporto?” he said.
Her cheeks flushed a little. “Soon after my debut, I was offered an engagement in Lisbon. That’s where I met Domenico Foscari who said I would never make anything of myself in Portugal. He persuaded me to go to Italy with him.”
“Reports say that you eloped.”
“Yes. My guardian, Mr. Waring, didn’t approve of our marriage.”
The name brought to mind his own final interview with Josiah Waring. There was a kind of bitter satisfaction in learning that she had parted ways with the family. When thieves fall out…
“And then?” he prodded.
She described how she started in the Italian opera houses, winning bigger and better roles, and continuing with acclaim in Vienna, Paris, and St. Petersburg. She spoke of her preferred operas and the theaters where she’d performed them. Caught up in her obvious devotion to the art, her manner lost any remnant of constraint and she talked as though to an old friend. Max reciprocated, trading stories and opinions about his favorite topic.
“Did you sing with Edouard Delorme in Paris?” he asked.
“Many times. Early in his career, less early in mine. His is a remarkable voice.” The words were approving but her tone reserved.
“We were lucky to secure his services. Aside from the voice, what do you think of him?”
“He likes to flaunt his good looks,” she said, then flushed a little. “That’s unfair. We all do that.”
“All of you with the looks to flaunt. We�
��ve encountered some…recalcitrance from monsieur when it comes to the selection of costume.”
He didn’t add that to his and Simon’s profound relief Delorme had at least agreed to perform his most recent role fully clothed, up to a point.
“He likes to display his attributes,” Tessa said with a little laugh. “Holy Saint George, I thought he would burst out of his breeches last week. I’m sure he succeeded in impressing the ladies.”
“You still say Holy Saint George,” Max said, all thought of the French tenor and his breeches blown away.
“What? Oh yes, I do. It’s a foolish oath.” She dropped her eyes. They both fell silent, the atmosphere thick enough to slice.
It came back to him, vividly as though it had been yesterday. They’d been walking around Oporto’s old quarter. Max, always interested in history, told her of a medieval treaty between England and Portugal that included a clause by which Portugal adopted England’s patron saint as its own, as a symbol of friendship between the two nations. Tessa for some reason found the tale hugely amusing. Infected by her laughter, they’d both almost doubled up with mirth and had to slip into an alley to recover their breath. Where he’d rather desperately wanted to kiss her and hadn’t been able to summon the courage. That came later.
For so long he had assumed he meant nothing to her, yet she still used their oath. He halted and grasped her elbow. “Tessa…” he began, hardly knowing what he wanted to ask.
She brushed him off, kept walking, and interrupted him in a bright voice. “Anyway, despite his tendency to preen, Edouard is a fine artist.”
“You didn’t ever sing Rosina, did you?” he asked, referring to the lead role in The Barber of Seville, the Rossini work just debuted at the Regent.
“Not on stage, though I studied it in Paris just before I came here. It’s a little low for me but within my tessitura.” She threw back her head and trilled a few measures from the opera’s most beautiful and difficult aria. By God, she had a spectacular voice!
Secrets of a Soprano Page 7