by Megan Chance
She said calmly, “Your pimp loves you, as does your whore of a friend. You got the voice of an angel. You ain’t living in a gutter, and you got friends who go to church every Sunday. You’re lucky, Marguerite. And you ran away from your old life, so it couldn’t have been that good. Stop pretending it was.”
I stared at her, startled by her words, by the truth of them. I turned away from her and took a breath to calm myself. “How did this conversation even begin? All I wanted was for you to keep coming to church with me.”
She said, “And I will. A little longer. But don’t ask me to do what I can’t. Robert Marsdon’s got to know the truth about me sooner or later. It’d be kinder to be sooner.”
“I think he’ll manage to withstand it whenever he knows,” I said bitterly.
“Kinder for me,” she said.
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY, I watched as she smiled softly and shook her head at Robert Marsdon after practice. He walked away, his disappointment showing in every line of his body, and I thought of her words and how I should not require this of her, of how selfish I was. It was unkind, and the fact that it had never occurred to me until she’d said it sobered me. Just as it sobered me to think of the other things she said. She was right, and I knew it. I had run away and made a new life here. I was Marguerite Olson. I had found a measure of happiness I’d never thought to have again. The choir filled so much of that emptiness inside of me that I wondered: if I could just hold on to the joy I took in those hours, could I spin them into something new—a whole cloth where before there had been nothing but separate threads?
I was quiet and contemplative as we went back to the Palace.
“You all right, Marguerite?” Charlotte asked.
“No,” I said. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t make you come to church when it troubles you so to see him.”
She gave me a puzzled look.
“You don’t have to come with me anymore. And … tell him the truth the way you want.”
“Tell him the truth?” Now she looked stunned. “But … what about Johnny?”
“Let me worry about Johnny.”
Charlotte hesitated. “Are you sure?”
“I am.” I hid my apprehension in a quick smile.
She smiled back, but it was uncertain. “I think I’ll keep coming to church, if you don’t mind. And I won’t say anything to Dr. Marsdon.”
“But I’ve just told you—”
“I know what you told me. And I’m glad. But now that it’s my choice, I think I’ll just keep on for a while.”
“Not because of me. Please.”
This time her smile was real. “Hell, the sermon’s good for my soul, and I like to hear you sing. And I guess … Dr. Marsdon’ll get tired of me eventually. There ain’t no need to embarrass him.”
“If you think so.”
“I do,” she said.
IT WAS A few days later that the letter came from San Francisco. I was in Johnny’s room, and he came inside, holding it, and said, “Got an answer from Tom at the Luxe.”
I stopped in the middle of unhooking my corset, and he smiled and said, “Don’t stop that on my account.”
“What does he say?”
“My, my, such curiosity.” He glanced over the words, as if reading them for the first time. “Let’s see now. First, that he don’t know nothing about you.”
I sank onto the bed, my worst fears realized and relieved in the same moment. “I thought I told you not to mention me.”
“I was curious.”
“You promised not to ask anything more about my past.”
He came down beside me. “That was after I’d already sent the letter.” He undid the last hooks of the corset, and he eased it aside. His hand was very warm. “You can’t fault me for that. Don’t you want to know the rest?”
I tried to smile away my discomfort. I lay back, pulling him with me. “Tell me.”
“He’s got an interesting idea. He wants to set up a circuit. The Luxe and us and a theater in Portland. One or two others, maybe. That way, we got more to offer any touring companies. It ain’t a bad idea.”
“No, it’s not,” I agreed.
“He’s going to make a few inquiries.”
“Good,” I said. “That’s … good.”
“It’s happening just like we hoped,” he said with satisfaction, kissing me. “We’ll be the most famous theater north of San Francisco, just see if we ain’t. You and me are something together, Margie.”
And if those words held an uncomfortable echo, I told myself not to listen. I told myself it didn’t matter. I kissed him back and let him keep me up into the morning and remembered what Charlotte had said. I told myself this was the life I’d chosen.
From the Journal of Sabine Conrad
NEW YORK CITY, OCTOBER 13, 1875—Gideon has leased the Opera House for the season, but he is not happy because subscriptions are down. He says it is that way all across the city, and I believe him, because one sees broadsheets advertising new auctions for the possessions of bankrupts every day. Tramps are camped out in every doorway, and Gideon has forbidden me to go about without an escort.
In spite of this, we’ve had respectable enough audiences. Gideon has told me that he is thinking of adding Die Zauber-flaute, if I feel I could do the Queen of the Night, which is very demanding, and which I have not attempted before, because I have always done Pamina. Gideon says Amelia can do Pamina, and as I am the prima donna of the company, the Queen is right for me, even though it means I will be playing Amelia’s mother when she is older than me! Gideon wants it for the impresario from France to hear, and he thinks it will boost subscriptions if I can be ready by January, so I have agreed, and we’ve set about practicing it. But Gideon is at his most unpleasant right now, and practice is my least favorite part of the day, if only because it so obviously illustrates how much his affection for me has changed.
I know much of it has to do with his worries over money. The orchestra’s pay is going up & etc. etc. When I asked him again about buying a house he told me not to mention it to him again, though of course we are still staying in the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and so I think we are not as desperate for funds as he pretends. He says that financially everything depends now on getting to Europe and that it is our best hope for the future. I hope he is right. I begin to despair that things can ever be good between us again, and I can’t help but think that if we could be apart from the rest of the company—and that wretched Leila—in a place that was just our own, perhaps everything would be better. So I am determined to be the most lauded Queen of the Night ever, and to persuade this impresario beyond all doubt that I am the best prima donna in America, and worthy of the Theatre Italien.
NOVEMBER 8, 1875—Tonight Leonard Jerome came to the performance. I had not seen him since we returned, though I heard rumors he was squiring about the new soprano performing at Steinway Hall, and I admit I was relieved that he’d found someone to replace me, as I was afraid if he had not, I would have to take up with him again because the money is so very helpful. But when Leonard came backstage after, I was very glad to see him. He is as charming and handsome as ever, and he brought me a gift of pink roses, which he knows I love, and he sat on my chaise and I gave him champagne and we laughed for some time. He told me I must feel free to use his theater for practice, as he so particularly loved to hear my voice within it, and then he asked me—oh, so very casually, as if he thought I wouldn’t notice it—about Leila.
At first I was jealous, but then I thought how well this could avail me. Europe is not settled yet, and who knows when it will be? So I told him of her and intimated that she was looking for a protector of her own. “She’s so very young, you know,” I told him, “and quite naive.” And then I said I thought she would benefit from a wise man’s mentoring, in the same way I had benefited so well from his.
He said nothing more about it, but I feel quite certain he will act upon my hint, and though I feel a little guilty over it, it is not too much.
NOVEMBER 19, 1875—Leonard sent Leila flowers after the performance Thursday night—white roses, oh how charming! As if she is as innocent as she pretends—and sent me pink ones too, of course, because he does not wish to offend. This morning I told Gideon I wished to practice the Queen at Leonard’s theater, because the sound was so very good there, and that perhaps Amelia and Leila could come along to practice as well (which is of course the whole purpose, though I didn’t tell him that).
He said I didn’t need Jerome any longer, and that he’d prefer I didn’t see him, and I said we were just friends now, and he’d offered the theater and I saw no reason not to take advantage of it. It took me an hour to convince him, which I was glad to do, because it means he is jealous and that means he still loves me. Finally, he agreed, because with Amelia and Leila there it was quite obvious I had no intention of a private tête-à-tête.
As I anticipated, Leonard was there to watch, and he was just as taken with Leila as I meant him to be, and she with him—especially after I told her how happy I was to see him, and how intimate our relationship had always been and how I hoped for it to be that way again. She will do anything to thwart me. She spent the afternoon flirting with Leonard, and he was very receptive. My only fear was that Gideon would notice, but he kept closer to me than he has in some time, as if he thought I might sneak away with Leonard while he wasn’t looking.
Afterward he told me that I was not to go there again, because Leonard had already done everything we needed for him to do and he had been amply repaid for his investment.
Then he took me to bed and was very attentive—much more so than he has been recently. And though I know he will not like at all my plans for Leila, in the end he will see it’s for the best. And once we are in Europe, none of it will matter anyway.
DECEMBER 2, 1875—Tonight after the performance, Leila said very loudly to Taddeo while I was standing there that she was on her way to a private dinner with Leonard Jerome. Of course she meant for me to hear, and I saw her watching me quite surreptitiously and I pretended to be very dismayed, but it was all I could do to keep from dancing back to my dressing room.
DECEMBER 18, 1875—Today Yuri told me that Mr. Mulder was auditioning for a mezzo-soprano. So I wrote a note to Leonard telling him that, as Leila’s friend and supporter, I felt that Gideon was favoring me at her expense, and so she was not perhaps getting the stronger mezzo roles she deserved. I suggested that, as her very special friend, perhaps he would be so kind as to mention to her that the Mulder-Fabbri Company was auditioning. I asked him not to tell Leila that I had said so, beause if Gideon found out he would be angry. I also told him I had some experience with Mr. Mulder and Mme. Fabbri, and I knew they would be especially kind to her.
JANUARY 18, 1876—Gideon and I had a terrible fight. Today Leila told him that she was leaving the company for Mulder. I, of course, could not help my joy over it, and I suggested we go out to celebrate, which was exactly the wrong thing to say, because he was furious. I told him there were a hundred mezzos to be had, and he said Leila had the perfect tone to complement my voice, and where would he find another like her? I said that was a pretty thing to say, and why not just admit he missed fucking her since she’d taken up with Leonard Jerome.
For a moment I thought he would hit me, and I stepped back, and when he saw it he grew even angrier and asked how I could possibly be afraid of him, when he’d dedicated his whole life to me. Then he accused me of deliberately managing things to send Leila away, which I admitted I’d done because I hated her and I’d been asking him for more than a year to get rid of her, and how could he say he’d done everything for me when he had not done the one thing I most wanted?
He slammed out of the room then, and I have not seen him since.
I do feel a bit guilty over it. But what else was I to do?
FEBRUARY 1, 1876—Gideon has found a mezzo to take Leila’s place, though he says Sarah does not match me as well. But I like her better because she is married and unaffected by Gideon’s charm.
Gideon is still consumed by the business affairs of the company. I think my getting rid of Leila surprised him—it makes me wonder how he did not see my misery before. God knows I made no secret of it. He comes to me more often now, yet sometimes he seems so far away I cannot reach him, and my yearning for Europe and escape from all the cares that surround us now is so great I wonder that I can bear another day with the company.
I am growing to dislike my room very much. I am there too much, and I’m often lonely. Gideon does not like me spending time with the rest of the company, and there is no Barret and no Leonard to squire me about town. I am not to go out alone because of the tramps and the too-ardent attentions of those who love me. The only adoration I see is in the evenings when I sing, and it is not enough—not when I am used to so much more. I have even been extending my practice times—which is saying a great deal, because I have never liked practice. But it gives me time with Gideon and I am so desperate for his attention that it is the only way to have it, even if he is mostly lost in his playing and not paying much heed to me.
I think I would do almost anything to have my life as it used to be before the company. Oh, to take these worries from him and make him happy again …
When will that damn impresario from France arrive?
FEBRUARY 14, 1876—Today Gideon gave me a beautiful card of gold tissue with quilled paper roses that said: “To My Valentine, who holds my heart,” and he had written below: “Even when all of Europe is at your feet, her devotion will not come close to measuring the depth of mine.” He also gave me a strand of pearls interspersed with rubies. It is very, very beautiful, and I liked it so much that I put it on and took off everything else to thank him, and he was very appreciative. It was almost as it used to be, and afterward we ordered up a private dinner and ate it in bed. When I teased him over his good humor, he said the French impresario, Alain DeRosier, is due to arrive in the city next week. We will open Die Zauber-flaute in his honor.
FEBRUARY 29, 1876—Last night I met Alain DeRosier. I think I will see Paris at last!
Gideon told me DeRosier was planning to be at the performance, so I sang particularly well (though I don’t think the Queen of the Night is my best role—she is not in the opera very much, and she is very regal and icy, and I am much better suited to the warmth of Pamina, but the role does better showcase my skill, so I know Gideon was right to choose it). The audience would not allow me to leave the stage until I’d sung “Der Hölle Rache” three times, though Amelia and Taddeo and Adriano sang the good-bye trio four.
I was backstage in my dressing gown, taking off my makeup, when Gideon brought M. DeRosier back. He carried such a large bouquet of lilies it hid his face, and when I took it from him I was quite struck by how handsome he is. His hair is darker than Gideon’s and he wears it rather long, so it brushes his shoulders, and his eyes are a strange sort of greenish brown that is very pretty. He is a little taller than Gideon, but they have much the same form, both slight and athletic, though M. DeRosier is a bit of a butterfly in his style—his clothes are very well cut and close-fitting, with a great deal of color. His vest was all greens and golds and his necktie was a great swath of golden silk and his watch chain was adorned with tiny keys, some with jeweled heads and others with strangely elaborate pins—one had the shape of a bird. When I asked him what they opened, he smiled quite prettily with very even white teeth, and said, “Why, I hope they open your heart, mademoiselle.” Which of course made me laugh.
After I’d dressed, we went to dinner, just the three of us, to Delmonico’s. M. DeRosier and Gideon are very like kindred spirits, I think—I have not seen Gideon so relaxed or laughing so much for a very long time, which made me happy too, and as a result I was quite animated, and I saw that look in Gideon’s eyes that makes me grow warm.
M. DeRosier said he means to go to Chicago and Boston too in search of singers to bring to Paris. He intends to base himself in New York for several months—bu
t he said that if I am any indication, perhaps it will not take him so long as he thought.
I found him so charming, though he is a little too familiar, as handsome men are when they know their attentions are not unwelcome. When dinner was over, we all three went back to the hotel and had some more wine until I said I truly must go to bed or I would be unfit for singing tomorrow, and he asked what he and Gideon would do without a beautiful woman to look at? But his appeal did not dissuade me.
I think we shall all be a great deal in each other’s pockets. I only wish Barret were here to see it—he could not be at all unhappy over this, when it was what he so often urged me to do.
MARCH 22, 1876—Tonight Alain wished to go gambling, so Gideon and I took him to Vons on Twenty-eighth Street. I had never been there before, but Gideon had. It was the most luxurious place I could have imagined. From the front, it seemed to be any large mansion, though its blinds were drawn, but when we went inside it fairly dazzled the eye with mirrors and cut glass and gilt everywhere.
Gideon was doing quite well; Alain not so much. He asked me to sit beside him and bring him luck, and when I did he drew me close and whispered that everything had changed for him since he’d met me. At one point he touched me beneath the table, and I could not help glancing to Gideon to see if he’d seen, but I don’t think he had, though his mouth was very tight and he would not meet my gaze, and so I knew he was angry but would not say anything because too much depends on Alain.
Then Alain began to win, and Gideon to lose, and after he lost his fourth round he slapped his cards onto the table and rose, saying he needed some air, and left me and Alain alone. He was no sooner gone than Alain leaned to whisper that I had beguiled him, and he nuzzled my ear. I should have slapped him away, I suppose, as it made me rather uncomfortable, but it is always lovely to have the attention of a handsome man, and Gideon would tell me to be nice to him, and so I smiled and let him do it and leaned closer to encourage him. I said, “I cannot imagine I should capture you better than your French mademoiselles,” and he said it pierced his heart that I should think him so fickle, and that the women in France were nothing compared to me. I told him I was looking forward to seeing for myself. I hoped he would tell me then when he planned on our departure, but he only smiled and said, “Here comes your watchdog now,” and I saw Gideon coming across the room. I told him Gideon was not my watchdog and that I was a free woman who could do as she liked, and Alain said he was glad to hear it. But he moved away from me when Gideon came near, and I know he did not believe me. In truth I did not believe myself, but his words made me remember Barret and the strange dream I’d had in San Francisco, and I was uncomfortable and troubled until I made myself forget it.