Mary Ann and Miss Mozart (11 page)

“Oh, Grandmama, it was such a wonderful occasion!” Mary Ann broke in without thinking. “I do so long to perform like Miss Mozart!”

Mrs. Causey’s expression changed. “I hope you do not think of performing in public, Mary Ann?”

“Oh! No – of course not…” Mary Ann lowered her eyes modestly and was silent.

“It is not necessary, or even desirable, for a lady to excel,” said her grandmother. “Tell me, Mary Ann, what
do
you consider to be the purpose of your education here?”

Mary Ann knew she had to give the right answer. Her fate might depend upon it.

“To acquire ladylike accomplishments and learn how to converse and behave in society.”

“To what end?”

“To make a good marriage.”

“Indeed.” Her grandmother scrutinized Mary Ann’s face, as if suspecting her of wanting more. Then she turned to her daughter. “Well, Susan, I have no wish to see my granddaughter disadvantaged by her father’s folly. I shall be pleased to pay for her education at Mrs. Neave’s school for as long as necessary.”

“Oh!” Mary Ann thought she had never felt so happy. There were smiles and thanks all round, and even as she stammered out her own genuine gratitude she saw how her grandmother relished this moment of power.

“Let me make clear,” Mrs. Causey said sternly, “that there must be no talk of performing on the stage – nowhere more public than the school concert or a friend’s drawing room. Your singing is intended to be an ornament, Mary Ann, not a calling. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Grandmama,” said Mary Ann.

All her friends were delighted with Mary Ann’s news. That evening, as they sat and chatted in the dormitory, Mary Ann pulled out the charity concert ticket from its hiding place in the panelling, and gazed at the picture. She still loved Ranelagh, in spite of her last experience. She thought of those singers in their silk gowns and powdered hair, and of Maria Anna Mozart. One day, she thought, I’ll sing there, in the Rotunda. I’ll be on that stage, under those glittering chandeliers, and the applause will be for me.

“Lights out, girls!” called Mrs. Corelli.

Mary Ann pushed the ticket back into its place – but this time it slipped right inside, out of reach! She picked at the edge of it with her fingernail, but only succeeded in pushing it further in. She hunted for a hairpin.

“What’s the matter?” asked Sophia.

“My Ranelagh ticket. It’s gone into the panelling.”

Sophia produced tweezers, but it was no good. She had lost it. The ticket was visible, but quite out of reach.

Like my ambition to sing at the opera, thought Mary Ann. Perhaps one day…but for now she knew she must keep her dreams secret.

Chapter Fifteen

Many Voices

Dear Sis,
wrote George
. What excellent news! Fancy the old girl coming up with the money like that! I wonder how long she and Mama will stay friends? She is quite a dragon, I recall (better burn this after reading). Papa must be furious. I wish I’d been at home when Mama told him what she’d done! I suppose by the time he found out, it was too late to prevent it. He never mentioned it to me in his last letter, but it seems he has become involved in another likely venture, so his mind will be on that. Perhaps this time he will make our fortunes, and then Hatty can find another suitor and spurn the odious Mr. Browne.

What is this escapade of yours that you hint at? Is it really so dreadful that you can only whisper the details to me when next we meet? Surely not?

Alas, dear Sis, much as I’d love to hear you sing, I shall be in the midst of examinations on that date. Greek and Latin call. Be good – and remember me to Grandmama.

Your loving brother,

George

Dear George,
wrote Mary Ann
. Really you should not be so rude about Grandmama. I believe that at heart she is kind, and probably also rather lonely. As she lives nearby, in Kensington, she has promised to call occasionally on a Saturday and take me out. I shall introduce her to the Bun House; and she says she may take me to see the royal tombs in Westminster Abbey.

Harriet writes with good news. Her friend Elizabeth Dunn is travelling with an aunt to Paris, where they will stay for six weeks, and Harriet is invited to go with them! She is hugely excited and glad to be away from all the gossip about her and Mr. Browne. She says she would not have Mr. Browne now if he were to beg her on bended knee.

I should be jealous of Harriet’s good fortune were I not so happy here. We are busy practising for our concert, and we also go outside often in the fine weather. And, George, you will never guess! The Mozart family are staying here, in Chelsea – quite near us, in Five Fields Row – and Sophia and I saw them in the street while we were out walking: Mrs. Mozart, that is, and Wolfgang and Nannerl! We were so very delighted! I am much taken with Nannerl’s looks. She is of a height similar to mine, and fair, like me, but much prettier. I am trying to do my hair in the same style as hers; Sophia helps me. Mrs. Corelli heard that Mr. Mozart has been ill and so they have taken lodgings here because the air is fresher than in London; but they have given no concerts for several weeks and none is planned till he recovers. Mrs. Corelli says it is a chancy profession. I think she intended that remark as a warning to me.

Mary Ann paused, and put down her pen. She had also seen someone else she knew that day, while walking back to the school. It had been market day, and the voices of the fruit, vegetable and flower sellers competed with each other in a tangle of sing-song calls:

“Buy my sweet lavender!”

“Plums! Juicy plums! Fresh picked today!”

“A rose, sir? A red rose for your sweetheart?”

And then Mary Ann had heard another voice – one she knew well: “Apples! Ripe red apples! First of the season!”

It was Jenny. She stood behind a stall piled high with fruit, singing out her wares in that clear, musical voice that Mary Ann remembered. She was a queen among the stallholders: tall, dark-eyed, fine-looking even in her simple dress and coarse apron. There was an older woman on the same stall; not her mother – her employer, Mary Ann supposed. Jenny was clearly good for trade with her voice and good looks. She saw Mary Ann, caught her eye, and smiled, widening her eyes in surprise.

Mary Ann approached the stall.

“You’re still at school, then, Miss?” Jenny said.

“Oh, yes! My grandmother –”

But it was impossible to talk. Jenny turned away to serve a customer, filling a bag with apples.

“I’m sorry,” Mary Ann said, when Jenny turned back to her. “I tried to tell Mrs. Neave…”

Jenny shrugged. “I prefer the market – not so many rules! And I wait tables at the Duke of York and sing there some evenings. All I want now is better lodgings. Yes, sir? Can I help you?”

She smiled and moved away, and Mary Ann left and returned to her friends. She felt great relief. Jenny didn’t blame her for what had happened. And she had found work, despite not being given a reference by Mrs. Neave. Mary Ann didn’t care what others said about Jenny; Jenny had been a good friend to her, whatever else she’d done. She, Mary Ann, was the one who had let her friend down and caused her to be dismissed…

She continued her letter to George:
The programme for our concert will be printed tomorrow. I am to be on first, after the choir have sung “Nymphs and Shepherds”. Think of me before you go in to your examination – and I’ll think of you.

With love, your sister,

Mary Ann

“I need the privy again,” said Sophia.

It was the day of the concert, and the girls were in the dormitory, making sure they had handkerchiefs and fans, that there were no holes in their stockings, no scuff marks on their silk slippers. The privies were two flights down, in the back yard. They had all been queuing there earlier, for a long time.

“It’s only nerves,” said Lucy. “You can’t join that queue again.”

She and Phoebe were more relaxed, as they merely had their work on show and were not performing.

“The audience are starting to arrive,” said Phoebe. She led them out to look down through the central drop in the stairwell to a narrow segment of chequered hall floor far below. No visitors were visible, but Mary Ann could hear their voices: a hum of pleased anticipation.

“We’ll be called down soon,” said Phoebe.

Sophia clutched herself. “I
have
to go again!”

“Use the pot,” said Mary Ann. “We’ll wait out here.”

Sophia darted into the dormitory.

Mary Ann felt the same mixture of nervousness and excitement. I wonder if professional performers feel like this, she thought; or do they get used to it?

Earlier that day they had seen the two downstairs front rooms transformed for the occasion. The dining room was full of tables draped in white linen on which were displayed the best examples of the girls’ work in writing, French composition, sewing, drawing and painting. Across the hall, the front classroom had been cleared of its globe, wall displays and desks, and set out with chairs for both audience and performers. The harpsichord from the dining room had been brought in and placed near the window. Both rooms were full of flowers, and the smell of roses, mingled with the visitors’ perfumes, floated up the stairwell.

The girls all wore pale summer gowns, and Mary Ann and her friends had arranged each other’s hair. Mary Ann hoped hers looked like Nannerl Mozart’s. Mrs. Corelli had briefly inspected them all earlier and given her approval.

Sophia came back. They looked down the stairwell, but saw only the heads of other girls also looking down. The sounds from below were fainter now. The audience must all be seated. Mary Ann felt light-headed with nerves.

Then came the sound of Mr. Ashton playing the harpsichord. That was their signal. Mrs. Corelli appeared on the stairs, and they followed her down and joined the girls from the first floor. They all filed into the concert room to take their places, either with the choir or along the sides of the room.

Mary Ann, Sophia, and the other soloists sat in the front row of the choir. Sophia gripped Mary Ann’s hand. “I shall faint!” she whispered melodramatically.

Mrs. Neave stood up to speak to the audience. Mary Ann heard scarcely anything of what she said; she was too nervous and too busy scanning the audience for her family. Heads, hats, feathers, flickering fans…
There
they were, in the centre: Mama, Grandmama, Harriet – and Papa! She was surprised to see her father – especially with Grandmama, whom she knew he disliked. Perhaps Mama had talked him into coming. Dear Mama, she thought, she has been so kind to me; she must have hated going to Grandmama for help. And yet the two of them were chatting and smiling together now, and even Papa appeared to be at his most amiable. She caught her sister’s eye and gave a little wave, and Harriet waved back.

And then Mrs. Neave finished talking, and moved to one side, and Mr. Ashton began to play. The choir stood up to the introduction to “Nymphs and Shepherds”.

Singing with the choir calmed Mary Ann’s nerves; there was safety in the mingled voices:

“
Nymphs and shepherds, come away,

Come away…
”

When the song was over the audience applauded warmly, with smiles and cheers; and a plump, magnificently red-haired lady who could only be Sophia’s mother, called out, “Bravo!”

Then the clapping died away, and Mrs. Corelli nodded to Mary Ann, who stood up and walked out in front. From the harpsichord came the introduction to Galatea’s air. Mary Ann sang:

“
As when the dove

Laments her love,

All on the naked spray;

When he returns,

No more she mourns,

But love the live-long day…
”

She heard the notes in her head, and they came out as she heard them: perfect. She relaxed, and forgot her nerves, and sang for the joy of it.

When she sat down, and the applause began, she thought: I shall always have this. Even if I don’t sing at Covent Garden, don’t become famous; no matter what happens to me I shall have the music and it will always make me happy.

But she would not give up her dreams – not yet.

She looked out at her family and smiled.