“When I was très jeune. Thérèse was already the prima donna.” He implied was that she by far his elder, and Tessa resented it. They were, in fact, the same age, but her career had blossomed earlier than Delorme’s. She had been an established luminary when she’d noticed his talent in a small role and asked the Paris management to engage him to sing opposite her.
He took her gloved hand in his and gazed soulfully at her. “It ’as been too long, Thérèse, since we sing together. I ’ave missed you. Quelle tragédie that we sing now for different ’ouses.” He leaned in and she smelled the mint lozenges he sucked to keep his breath sweet. “I am désolé to ’ear of your difficultés in London.”
Like hell he was. An embryo of panic formed in her chest but she fought it. Even the thought of her breathing exercises was enough to arrest it stillborn. Buoyed by her success, she smiled tolerantly.
“I have been generally received in London with great éclat. This little contretemps will pass soon.” Dear Lord, she hoped so. “Doubtless we will appear together again someday. Perhaps in Vienna or St. Petersburg.”
Maybe China. If she had her choice it would be when they performed opera on the moon, and not a day sooner.
“Why not tonight?” Simon Lindo’s voice broke in. “It would place the cap on our hostess’s superb hospitality to have the two most admired singers in London appear together.”
Lady Clarissa’s eyes lit up. “A brilliant idea, Mr. Lindo! Madame Foscari, Monsieur Delorme, please honor us by performing a duet.”
Like Lindo, veteran showman that he was, Tessa instantly perceived the benefit to herself in an event that would cause so much fascinated comment. Could she get through an hour in Delorme’s company?
“I think we presume too much.” This came from Max. “It is hardly fair to Monsieur Delorme to sing unprepared.”
Why was Max against the idea? Her suspicions of his motives resurfaced. Despite his handsome apology they were still rivals for the attention of the London audience. If Max was against it, she should say yes. She ought not to have a problem with Edouard as a singing partner. Well, not much.
She nodded graciously to Lady Clarissa. “I will be delighted to sing with Edouard. If he feels that his voice is ready.”
“I am always ready.” Delorme struck a pose, a hand to his well-developed chest.
Tessa watched as the room emptied. Lady Clarissa had Max’s arm in a firm grip and appeared to be addressing him with some vigor. His departure left her a little forlorn. She had warmed to his company, even found herself confiding in him. Now he was returning to his own world, that of marriageable aristocratic virgins whom no breath of scandal had ever touched. And she must return to hers, that of the professional performer. She and Delorme had half an hour to prepare and Sempronio remained at the piano to assist them.
Tessa needed to take control of the situation immediately.
“We shall sing the duet from Cosí fan tutte since we’ve done it before.”
Delorme nodded. She knew he’d be pleased, since the scene involved him seducing her.
“And beforehand, I shall sing ‘Per pietá.’”
He pouted, also as expected. The beautiful and exceedingly difficult aria would overshadow his relatively simple task.
“This is my recital,” she continued, before he could argue. “If you have any objection I shall sing alone, as originally planned. But if you wish, you may deliver a short address at the beginning. Since we shall be singing in Italian and not everyone in the audience will be familiar with the opera, both scenes should be explained.”
“You know my English is not good enough,” he said sulkily.
“Oh dear! I shall have to do it myself if you don’t feel equal to the task. But do not worry, Edouard. You will be on stage at the end.”
Predictably he was satisfied. The man had the inflated self-esteem of…well, of a tenor.
*
Max loathed Edouard Delorme. Before, he’d merely found the tenor’s posturing and overweening vanity annoying. But when those disgustingly handsome features had slobbered over Tessa he’d discovered an unsuspected bent for violence.
“Don’t think I didn’t notice you with Madame Foscari,” his mother said with a hiss, clasping his arm in a steely grip. “You promised.”
“And I promised to be polite.”
“You’ve been quite polite enough. You will come with me to find Lady Mary Greville and escort both of us to the ballroom for the recital.”
He took a last reluctant look back at Tessa, who had joined Delorme and Montelli at the piano. The tenor had arranged himself in a graceful pose, designed, like everything else he did, to show off his figure. His mother would like that, Max thought dourly and half expected to find her ogling the Frenchman. Her attention was elsewhere.
“Tell me about Mr. Lindo. He’s a most interesting man.”
“You spoke with him for some time. What was the subject?”
“He told me the most fascinating things about the opera and theater business.”
“I’d prefer it, Mama, if you would keep out of my affairs.” God only knew what she’d managed to winkle out of Simon. He didn’t trust her expression, which was one she wore when she had mischief in mind. And since he strongly suspected that mischief concerned him he was not amused.
“Whatever can you mean, darling? I merely spent an enjoyable quarter hour or so while you, I should mention, were entertaining that woman. Is Mr. Lindo married?”
“He’s a widower, with two sons.”
“Quite a good-looking man. I wonder he hasn’t remarried.”
Could his mother be looking around for a husband for Tessa, as insurance? Max didn’t like the idea one little bit.
“By the way, I’ve decided I shall introduce Madame Foscari and Monsieur Delorme myself,” she added. Now he was certain she was up to something.
Half an hour later Lady Clarissa stood between the two famous singers on a raised platform at one end of the ballroom. The trio was framed by a pair of Corinthian columns arising from marble palm trees, in keeping with a palm motif in the whole room, one of the mansion’s most insane in Max’s opinion. The vast room was packed and few of society’s influential members were absent. If all went well, Tessa would regain her standing as an artist among the London cognoscenti and even enhance it.
If all went well and his mother didn’t have a little surprise up her sleeve.
“My friends,” Lady Clarissa began. “I promised you the pleasure of hearing a performance from one of the most admired operatic sopranos in Europe, Madame Teresa Foscari.” She nodded graciously at Tessa who responded with a curtsey and a smile.
“But Madame Foscari is not the only great singer honoring us in London this season. Monsieur Edouard Delorme has been delighting us at the Regent Opera House.” Delorme made an extravagant bow accompanied by a sweeping arm gesture. As though he were Sir Walter Raleigh at the court of Queen Elizabeth and not a guest in a private house in the year 1818.
“I have persuaded these two great singers to appear together in London for the first time—perhaps the only time—for the diversion of my guests.”
An intrigued rustle passed through the crowd. Lady Clarissa had her own flair for drama and the audience well in hand.
“And,” she raised her voice and paused until the whispered comments subsided. “And in honor of this notable occasion, and to show my appreciation to Madame Foscari for consenting to share the stage, I shall donate one thousand pounds to the Royal Hospital, Chelsea.”
The room erupted into applause as Lady Clarissa stepped forward, nodding her head to the adoring multitude. A pity she was an aristocrat without a musical bone in her body. She’d have made a superb prima donna.
“That was brilliant, Mama, quite brilliant,” Max whispered when she returned to his side, relinquishing the attention to Tessa.
“I know,” she said modestly.
“Why did you do it?”
Lady Clarissa’s eyes widened
with a look of innocence completely foreign to her character. “For you, Max. Why else? You asked me to save Madame Foscari from the consequences of your indiscretion. I believe I have succeeded tolerably well.”
Max couldn’t argue with that.
“The audiences will flock back to the Tavistock Theatre whenever she appears.”
How true. Now Max thought he guessed his mother’s motivation. The renewed popularity of La Divina threatened the success of the Regent and his own independence. He couldn’t but admire her while simultaneously wanting to strangle her. The fiend!
“Lady Mary.” Lady Clarissa turned to the young woman at Max’s side. “Are you fond of opera? If not, my son will explain it to you.”
“Hush, Mama,” Max hastily interpolated. “Madame Foscari is speaking.”
“For those unfamiliar with the plot of Mozart’s opera, Cosí fan tutte,” Tessa was saying, projecting through the crowded ballroom so that every word could be heard without her appearing to raise her voice, “I do not propose to explain it in every detail. Suffice it to say that my character, Fiordiligi, is betrothed to a soldier who is away at war. In his absence she has been wooed by another man. The attraction is great and she fears for the fidelity of her heart. In the aria ‘Per pietá’ which I shall sing first, she prays for the strength to resist her seducer. Later she decides to run away, disguising herself as a soldier, and join her promised husband. But her other suitor—” She indicated Delorme who stood at her side with a smirk on his face. “—interrupts her flight and threatens to kill himself if she will not stay. It will be clear even to those who do not understand Italian whether he persuades her to yield.”
While Delorme retreated behind the piano, Montelli played a few chords and La Divina’s voice, pure and strong, began the stark prayer for resistance, then glided into the swoops that made the piece a vocal challenge. Every precise note, every articulated syllable, conveyed her anguish. “My courage and constancy will sever my wicked desire,” she sang.
Did she also resist when first tempted to betray her husband?
“I will forget these thoughts that fill me with shame and horror.”
Shame and horror? Were those her feelings about her many infidelities?
Montelli’s playing brilliantly evoked the horns of the full orchestral accompaniment, a device Mozart used to comment on faithlessness—the cuckold’s horns.
The conclusion to the aria found Tessa—no, Fiordiligi—strong, determined and rewarded with a storm of applause. A decent shower of floral tributes made their way onto the platform, torn from gentlemen’s buttonholes or their ladies’ corsages. La Foscari was back in the esteem of London’s most influential audience.
But the clamor subsided in obedience to the soprano’s gesture for silence. The gathered ton was eager for novelty, the pairing of Foscari and Delorme.
She began the duet the picture of determination. That didn’t last. As soon as Delorme stepped forward her resistance crumbled. “With these looks and words I begin to weaken.” Her looks and words expressed an overwhelming yearning.
“She begins to weaken,” sang Delorme.
Although he knew the outcome, Max found himself urging her on. Don’t believe him, he thought, as the tenor, his voice like creamy honey, mimed the drawing of his sword and bade her stab him. Don’t believe him. Delorme’s gaze was hot enough to melt the stoniest female heart.
“Surrender, beloved.”
“Gods, help me!”
“Delay no more, my adored one!”
He’s using you. Run! And though in his head Max spoke to the character of Fiordiligi, on some deeper level he addressed Tessa herself.
The soprano and tenor voices, surely the most beautiful sounds in the world, entwined in both harmony and opposition until…
“You have won, cruel man. Do with me what you will.”
Tessa crumpled into Delorme’s arms and the music was all harmony, an expression of love and urgent passion. The duet reached its triumphant climax, the piano accompaniment faded away and Delorme, instead of releasing his leading lady to take his bow, tightened his embrace and kissed her on the lips, fully, ardently, and at length.
Max wanted to rush forward and rip her out of Delorme’s arms. Instead he made himself a promise. If she could kiss that preening snake then she could damn well kiss him too!
*
“Your gown is torn. Would you like to slip away and repair it?”
Max’s whisper tickled her ear from behind. Given the jostling of enthusiastic guests offering her compliments Tessa was unsurprised to look down and find a piece of the gold lace on her bodice hanging loose from her left shoulder.
She was worn out. Exhausted from two hours of smiling and chatting until her teeth ached. Two hours of ignoring the too-frequent presence of Edouard Delorme who kept suggesting she slip away with him, for purposes only too obvious. Two hours of somehow knowing, despite the throng, exactly where Max was and with whom. And that whom was always a woman—a young, comely, and no doubt eligible woman. Going apart with him was probably a stupid idea, but she needed to escape.
With relief she sank into the cushions of a comfortable sofa in a room that was, by the standards of the Piccadilly mansion, small. The arrangement of quite ordinary furniture was graced with evidence of a cheerful untidiness: a mahogany sewing table had a couple of pieces of cloth and several ribbons protruding from the lid; the corner escritoire was scattered with letters; next to the fire a ragged basket appeared to be the sleeping quarters of an absent, and sharp-toothed, dog. A room that was lived in but not, Tessa guessed, by her formidable hostess.
“This is my cousin Sarah’s sitting room,” Max said. “She lives with my mother but she won’t mind us using it. No one will look for us here.”
Tessa raised her eyebrows.
“I thought you’d like to be alone for a while. Can I find you some refreshment? Knowing Sarah, she has a bottle of Madeira tucked away somewhere. Or I could ring for tea.” This last suggestion was spoken with very little enthusiasm.
“Nothing, thank you. But I would like to sit for a few minutes.”
“Put your feet up.” He reached for a footstool and positioned it in front of her. Gratefully she raised her feet and relaxed, enjoying the sensation of being cared for. Not that Sofie and Angela didn’t pamper her, but it was, after all, their job to do so. Domenico’s concern for her comfort had been strictly the protection of a valuable investment. She might as well have been a gold bar in need of regular polishing.
“Are you tired from your performance?” he asked, taking the seat next to her. When he’d said she wanted to be alone, he apparently meant alone with him.
“Hardly,” she replied, staring at her golden slippers and trying to ignore the fact that eighteen inches of air separated her bare arm from his dark evening coat. “Not as I would be after a full opera. But making conversation is weary work. I don’t enjoy it, at least not in large crowds. In fact I don’t much enjoy assemblies of any kind.”
“Your reputation says otherwise.”
“My reputation says many things,” she replied.
“I hope now it has been restored, at least as far the guests in this house are concerned. The newspapers and the rest of the public should follow.”
She managed a wan smile. “Thank you. Perhaps now the other stories will cease too. I should do something about this lace.”
“You can use Cousin Sarah’s sewing things.”
“Unless I remove the dress,” she said with a reproving look at his interested expression, “I can’t do it myself. Perhaps you should find Cousin Sarah.”
“Cousin Sarah is much too busy running around doing whatever a lady’s companion does when a lady is giving an entertainment. I couldn’t possibly tear her away from her duties.”
“Someone else then. A housekeeper? Your mother’s dresser?”
“I could help you.” He edged a little closer.
She looked at him askance.
�
��I can sew,” he assured her.
“What an unusual accomplishment for a gentleman.”
“My nurse taught me. I was a careless little boy and tore my clothes a lot. She used to complain about the piles of mending and one day I offered to help. In this instance I’m glad I had no brothers to laugh at me, nor sisters either.”
“Didn’t your parents object?” she asked, intrigued by this peep-show view into Max’s childhood.
“I don’t imagine they ever knew. My father had nothing to say in my upbringing.” His relaxed features stiffened for an instant. “As for my mother, what she might or might not approve of remains unpredictable to this day.”
“And are you a skilled seamstress?”
“I believe I can manage to stitch up that lace as a temporary measure. If you don’t find my skills adequate you can get your maid to do it again later.”
“Very well. I place myself—or rather my lace—in your hands.”
“Let’s see if we can find a needle, and thread of the right color.”
He rummaged through Cousin Sarah’s workbox, examining and discarding several spools and a rat’s nest of embroidery silks. “What about this?”
“Close enough.”
Max reclaimed his seat next to her, uncoiled and snapped off a length of dull yellow silk with an air of competence, then licked the end. Holding a needle at about half an arm’s length, he aimed the thread at the eye with exaggerated concentration. The awkward way he attempted to jab the strand through the tiny slit dispelled any illusion of proficiency. The intent eagerness on his harsh features made her see not the grown man but a small boy, determined to succeed in an unfamiliar task.
“Uh, Max,” she said, suppressing a grin without much success. “When did you last sew anything?”
“I think I was about seven,” he replied, “but I’m sure it’s not something you forget. There!” He held up the threaded needle with a triumphant flourish.
“You seriously expect me to let you come near me with that?”
“It’s hardly a lethal weapon.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“I won’t prick you.” His voice and the atmosphere grew thick.
Secrets of a Soprano Page 15