by Megan Chance
I teased him that I would prefer to start one with Lucca, and he said Kellogg was the better choice, as she did not yet have Lucca's status. Pauline Lucca is ambitious and would hurt my career if she could, because she is jealous of my talent. I told him it wasn't my talent she was jealous of, and he said if that was the case, it was better that he flirt with her. "Keep your enemies close," he said.
I told him that I would scratch her face off if she touched him. He kissed me and asked did I think he cared for her at all? It was for me he would flirt with her, because Lucca would do her best to keep me from having a rich patron like August Belmont or Leonard Jerome. I don't care about such old men, but he asked did I see the jewels Adelina Patti wore in all her photographs? Did I not remember that Jerome had a private theater built for her? Did I not want such things myself?
I told him again I didn't care and he whispered that I must flirt with one of them for us, just as he must distract Lucca for us, that we all must do things we didn't like to make our fortune. And then he began to move his fingers upon me again until I could not think, and said, "You'll be more famous than any of them when we're done," and I gasped and said yes yes yes.
So I have agreed. But now the idea troubles me and I think I must tell him I cannot flirt with one of those men when I am in love with him, and that I want him to have nothing to do with Pauline Lucca either.
DECEMBER 3, 1872--I would like to kill Pauline Lucca!!!! Yesterday I came out of the dressing room to see her giggling with Gideon in a corner behind one of the scene flats, and they were far too close and he was bending to whisper something in her ear. They looked so intimate--oh, I could stab her heart out!!!
So last night, when I was onstage, I looked directly for the Jerome box, and while I couldn't see exactly who was there through the footlights, I sent them my most brilliant smile and did not look away as I sang.
This morning I received a dozen pink roses. I put them in a vase in my dressing room, and when Gideon came in and asked who they were from, I told him Leonard Jerome and hoped he would be jealous. But he only smiled, so I turned back to the mirror and quite deliberately asked where Barret was, because I needed my manager to pick up my pay at the intermission, even though Gideon has been doing that for months now.
Then I did see the anger I wanted, and I felt a little satisfaction. But it didn't last long, because Gideon brushed his lips against my bare shoulder above my gown, and when I shivered, he whispered, "When you punish me, you only hurt yourself, Bina."
He left then, and his words made me even more angry, and I thought of how Lucca had pressed close to him. I threw the vase of roses on the floor so the water and shards of china and flowers went everywhere, and then I stomped on the flowers too for good measure.
When I returned to my dressing room after the performance, it was all cleaned up, and there was another vase on my dressing table, with more pink roses, as if my temper had never happened at all.
CHAPTER 8
Seattle, Washington Territory--March 1881
T he night of the performance of Faust, I dressed in the black widow's weeds I'd first worn to Seattle, still serviceable, though rusty and a bit musty smelling. I had not worn the gown or the veil since, and it felt strange to put them on again, to remember the woman I had been then.
When I walked into the Palace, Charlotte put her hand to her mouth in surprise. "Damn, I never would've recognized you. I don't guess society'll turn up their noses at you now."
I wanted to laugh, remembering how this same dress had not kept me from being thought a whore. But I'd been a lone woman then, stinking of desperation. On Johnny's arm, in Squire's Opera House, it would look respectable enough.
Wryly, I said, "Oh, they wouldn't dare snub us in any case. It's businesses like the Palace that fill the treasury, you know. Without us, they'd have to tax themselves."
She glanced past me, toward the stairs. "My, who knew Johnny dressed up so good?"
She went back into the crowd with a smile, and I turned to see Johnny. He looked so the respectable Society man that I was startled: his coat was dark and well brushed, his vest gold and black striped, and he wore a hat and a tie. The girls on the floor fawned over him as he approached, and he smiled at their compliments and shrugged them off.
"Don't you look the proper widow, honey," he said when he finally got to me. "You look like you did the first time I saw you. You should have told me you needed a new dress."
"This one does just fine," I told him, though I didn't say it was the veil that made it so. I didn't quite trust my disguise among society; better to be half hid. "But you ... you could almost be a stranger."
"Haven't had occasion to wear it in a while. I'd almost forgotten how to knot the tie. You like it?"
"I don't know. I feel I hardly know you."
He leaned close to brush his lips against my ear. "I feel sure familiarity will come to you before too long. Let's go before we're late."
He took my hand and settled it in the crook of his arm, and then he called out a good-bye to Duncan, who nodded an acknowledgment. "I hope nothing happens tonight beyond Duncan's capabilities," Johnny said as we went out the door. "I don't like leaving him alone."
"Paul will help if he needs to," I said.
"If he can get down from the orchestra in time." Johnny patted my hand. "I'm going to try not to think about it. You suppose this Fabrizi Company is any good?"
"I doubt it."
He laughed. "So do I."
The gas streetlamps had been lit, and as we approached Commercial Street, there began to be carriages--not the kind I would have seen in New York, with their crests and liveried footmen, but beaten, ancient broughams splashed with dried mud, and one or two open landaus, their wheels caked with sawdust and manure and their sectioned tops fastened back though the night was cool and moist. There were even a few wagons. Women in satins and laces, and men in frock coats and morning coats stood waiting on the boardwalk, top hats gleaming darkly in the blaze of light falling from the opera house windows.
Many of them greeted Johnny as we came upon them, and I bent my head and huddled nervously into his side, trying to seem inconspicuous. It was true what I'd said to Charlotte. Johnny, for all that he ran a business down on the sawdust, was well known in the city and respected. God knew the Palace contributed more than its fair share to the city coffers. But I had not really realized how much attention he would gain tonight, and I ducked my head and murmured hellos, glad for the veil that softened and blurred my features.
"Don't be shy," he murmured to me at one point. "It's about time they knew who you were."
The doors opened, and we joined those going inside, past the closed doors of the dry goods store on the bottom floor, and up the stairs. I had supposed Squire's would be a small theater, and as shabbily built as most of the other buildings in Seattle, though from the outside it was nicely appointed. But it was much grander than I'd expected. It seemed Seattleites had high aspirations after all--the stage was very large, and the house must have seated near to six hundred, with twelve boxes on either side.
The footlights rimming the stage had been lit. I smelled gas and perfume and the faintly mildewed scent of the heavy green velvet curtains separating us from the stage as the heat from the lamps shone upon it. In a narrow pit, the members of the orchestra began to tune their instruments. Talk and laughter filled the auditorium as the audience entered. There was the usual shuffling of feet and the rustle of satin and taffeta and the quick swish of fans, the creak of seats straining to accommodate. I felt a sharp anticipation.
I had no illusions--I knew I would not see an unparalleled performance coming from a company willing to trek to the outpost that was Seattle--but I craved the sound of that music, the romantic story, the battle between good and evil where the stakes were high and the moral easy to identify, so unlike real life, where those fights were subtle and small and you never realized you'd fought them until they were over.
Beside me, Johnny leafed through his pr
ogram, his top hat settled on his knee, his hair shining golden in the reflected light. "Now here's something I'd forgotten. It's your namesake here."
I glanced down at the page, at the character name I knew already perfectly well.
"Your ma an opera lover?" Johnny asked.
"I don't know how she came up with the name," I said stiffly.
"Well, let's hope you don't share this Marguerite's fate." He closed the program and glanced around. "Looks to be a full house tonight."
"It seems Seattle's growing hungry for culture."
"Maybe it's time to contact some of my old friends in San Francisco. What kind of show d'you think would go up here?"
I shrugged. "Anything by Verdi. No one dislikes Verdi."
I knew the moment the words were out of my mouth that I'd made a mistake. Johnny's gaze sharpened. "Verdi? You know something about opera?"
I scrambled for safety. "Everyone knows Verdi."
He looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and I wished I'd kept quiet. I turned away, looking up as the bejeweled and best of Seattle society took their seats in the boxes, and when the lights flickered off their opera glasses, I looked away and down, my excitement and anticipation fading in anxiety. I had been a fool to come.
But then the lights went dim and my nervousness slipped away as everyone quieted. I held my breath, waiting for the first notes. The orchestra began the overture. The music was mysterious and eerie, and I found myself on the edge of my seat, leaning forward, my breath caught as the curtains opened with a swish, revealing Faust at a table, preparing the poison he was about to drink, and from the moment he called out for the devil and Mephistopheles appeared in a showy burst of smoke, I was lost in sensation and words and music and a story so compelling I forgot where I was, who I was with, everything but the opera, which seemed to climb into my throat and lodge there, urging me to sing it.
For three years I had kept away from this. Now the intensity with which I'd missed it hit me like a blow. My soul drank the music, and when the intermission came and the curtain fell, I blinked my way back into time, bewildered, for a moment not remembering where I was, and I could not speak for the weight of my memories. My face was wet with tears I hadn't realized I'd shed. Surreptitiously, I wiped them away.
But Johnny saw them. Of course he did; he noticed everything. When I turned to him I saw how he watched me, the puzzlement that was in his expression, and I tried to smile and said, "It was very moving, wasn't it?"
I waited for him to comment on my tears, to say something like Charlotte would have said, to disarm me with his notice, but he only said, "I'm waiting for Valentin to die. One of the most well-deserved deaths I know."
"Well deserved? But he was only defending his sister's honor."
"Well deserved for damning her to hell. She was stupid, but stupid ain't a crime. Not yet, anyway. A bit over the top, old Valentin."
"I didn't realize you had such a soft heart," I said.
Johnny gave me a wry smile. "Don't fool yourself. Why don't we get some lemonade, or whatever the hell else they're serving in the salon? I don't suppose I can count on whiskey."
He rose, holding out his hand, helping me to my feet.
The crowd was hard to get through, and the talk was loud, and I could see little beyond Johnny's broad back. When he stopped short just within the salon, I almost plowed into him.
He was shaking some man's hand, a man I didn't recognize, who was about Johnny's age, but dark haired, and wearing the impeccably cut flash of the nouveau riche. On his one side stood a young man who was nearly a copy and obviously his son, and on the other another man with a broad expanse of shining forehead and dark hair curling over his large ears. Johnny turned, pulling me up beside him to introduce me to Mr. Bartholomew Perkins and his son, Theodore.
"Charmed, Miss Olson," Mr. Perkins, senior, said, bowing perfunctorily over my proffered hand. I felt like an imposter, such a shabby copy of my old self that I was embarrassed.
"And this is Thomas Prosch," Johnny said. "You've heard of him, no doubt. Owner and editor of the Intelligencer."
"Co-owner," Prosch corrected.
I had to resist the urge to turn and run. A newspaperman. It was all I could do to smile, to say how pleased I was to meet him. I pulled nervously at the veil, wishing it were longer, thicker, hoping it blurred my features enough.
"Well, what do you think of it?" Perkins asked.
"A sight above what I expected for these parts," Johnny said.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a connoisseur," Prosch confessed--and I was relieved.
Perkins said, "The orchestra is not the best, of course, and the tenor playing Valentin is only adequate, still ... the Siebel is delightful, don't you think? One doesn't expect to find a mezzo of that quality in a troupe like this."
Johnny looked bored. "She's a bit throaty for my taste."
"I was just telling Father that it does one good to hear something better than fiddle playing in this place at last," said the son earnestly.
"Seattle ain't about to get the best companies. But the fact that they're here at all is something."
"A man of your experience ought to know," Perkins said. He turned to Prosch. "Will there be a piece about it in tomorrow's paper?"
Prosch tapped the pocket of his suitcoat. "That's why I've brought my notebook. You can all rest assured I shall use your comments quite unashamedly."
They laughed. I managed a close enough approximation; at least I hoped no one noticed how strained it was.
"Well, it doesn't compare to the best," Perkins said with a sigh. "I once saw the most sublime production of Faust. It's been several years ago now, of course. In Philadelphia. The girl who played Marguerite was quite the most stunning soprano I'd ever heard. At the time I thought her better than Adelina Patti, though she was still so young. Just a child."
My fingers tightened on Johnny's arm. When he glanced at me, I forced my hold to loosen.
"Of course, she grew up to be the renowned Sabine Conrad, so it turned out I was quite right."
Johnny said, "Quite a talent. I saw her once in San Francisco. So many damned people there I couldn't get close enough to look at her, but I'll never forget that voice."
I was stunned. Johnny had heard Sabine Conrad.
Prosch said, "Can you imagine if she ever turned up again?"
Johnny snorted. "Just let it be on my doorstep. Hell, the tickets I'd be able to sell ... It'd turn the Palace legitimate overnight."
"Why is that?" the young Perkins asked.
Prosch said, "The whole city would pay to see her, no matter where she sang. No one knows what happened to her. She disappeared after the scandal."
"Scandal?"
I squeezed Johnny's arm again, feeling faint. "The heat is really too much--"
Prosch went on. "A terrible thing. It's been ... what? Three years? Four? And, you know, people still talk about her. I know someone who hired a man just to look for her. And a reporter friend of mine in San Francisco has dedicated his career to finding her again."
This time, I tugged hard and insistently on Johnny's arm, and when he looked at me with a frown, I managed, "My head ... Forgive me, but--"
"Pardon me, gentlemen," Johnny said politely. "But the lady requires some lemonade."
"Of course, of course, we hardly meant to keep you," Perkins said. "Enjoy the rest of the performance."
Johnny pushed through the crowd, and I was relieved when we left Perkins and his son behind. But before we could get to the lemonade, the ushers were calling people back to their seats.
"They're starting again," I said, turning back, pulling Johnny with me.
"You don't want the lemonade?"
"I'm feeling much better already."
"You sure about that, honey? You looked ready to swoon."
"I was overcome for a moment. I'm all right now."
He nodded, and though I don't think he completely believed me, he led me back to our seats. I was grateful whe
n the lights faded and the music started up again. But Mr. Prosch's words stayed with me through the rest of the opera, and I never again regained my sense of wonder as it went on. The music seemed full of false notes, banal and sentimental suddenly, and the tenor truly was unbearable, the soprano playing Marguerite seemed too brightly innocent and sweet--there was no nuance to her at all, and her embellishments during the Jewel Song were too ornate and rather silly, her despair as she lingered in prison, condemned for killing her child after Faust deserted her, almost hysterical. Only Mephistopheles felt real to me. His fiendish bass lingered in my ears when all else fell away, and when Marguerite sang her song of redemption to the angels, and they carried her to heaven as Mephistopheles and Faust cowered before them, I realized the ending for what it was: a fantasy of the basest kind. I knew already: angels did not redeem women like Marguerite.