PHANTOM IN TIME (5 page)

Feeling
miserably self-conscious, Bella stood and flashed a frozen smile as the company
broke into applause. Although the principal singers seemed pleased by the
accolades, Bella hated moments such as this, when she was being lauded for her
family's accomplishments rather than her own.

“Thank
you,” said Litchfield. “Today, all of you will be assigned your singing roles,
issued your scores, and measured for your costumes. Tomorrow you'll meet our
choreographer, Clyde Arrons, and we'll begin full rehearsals. Opening night
will be July 4
^th
—actually, three weeks before the original
production debuted, but our board felt a holiday launching would be more
successful. Questions, anyone?”

There
followed a long question and answer session, followed by the issuing of scores
and schedules and copies of the 1896 program. Finally, after appointments with
the costume mistress were announced, the group dispersed for lunch.

As
Bella stood, the girl next to her smiled and offered her hand. “Hi, I'm Dixie
Bennett, one of the summer interns. It's such an honor to have a real De La
Rosa in the company.”

Shaking
Dixie's hand, Bella noted she was petite and pretty, with an oval, freckled
face and short, curly brown hair. “Good to meet you, Dixie.”

“I
think we're going to be sharing a dressing room.”

“Really?
That's great. Are you from the city?”

Dixie
shook her head. “I'm a voice major at Juilliard, like my pal, John Randolph.
We're just here for summer stock. As a matter of fact, I've sublet an apartment
on Dauphine Street for the summer, and I'm looking for a roommate. Interested?”

Bella
gave her an apologetic smile. “Sorry, but I can't help you out. I'm staying
with my grandmother.”

“Ah,
I see.”

A
handsome young man with blond hair and blue eyes walked up to join them. At once
Bella recognized him as the one who had made several wisecracks.

He
winked at Bella. “Well, Dixie, so you're speaking with a real De La Rosa.”

Dixie
laughed. “Bella, this is John Randolph, Victor Daly's understudy. He's also our
resident comedian.”

“So
I've noticed.” Bella extended her hand. “How do you do?”

John
firmly shook her hand, his blue eyes roving over her. “I'm doing great now that
I've met you, Bella. Heard your parents perform once at the Met. I was only
twelve at the time, but I'll never forget them.”

“Thank
you,” Bella replied.

“Why
aren't you singing a principal role?” he asked.

Bella
felt herself growing flustered. She was struggling for a reply when Dixie
mercifully intervened. “Why aren't you minding your own business, Randolph?”

He
smiled sheepishly. “You're right, I'm too much of a busybody. Hey, ladies, join
me for lunch? It's on me. There's a great little diner on the corner.”

Dixie
rolled her eyes at Bella. “We must accept, you know. If stingy John is offering
to buy lunch, this is too good an opportunity to miss.”

“Sounds
like fun,” Bella agreed. “But I'm supposed to wait here to meet Mr. Mercer. Why
don't you two go on, and I'll join you in a few minutes.”

Extending
an arm toward Dixie, John feigned a woebegone look. “She's just letting us down
easy, don't you think, Dixie? De La Rosas don't associate with peons like us.”

Bella
laughed. “I said I'll be there and I will.”

John
chuckled. “Fine, Bella. Just go out the front door, turn right, and head for
the corner. Can't miss the diner.”

“Thanks.
I'll be right along,” Bella promised.

Watching
them leave, Bella mused that Dixie and John seemed very likeable. She was eager
to make friends among the troupe, perhaps forestalling some of the petty
jealousies that often plagued opera companies. Her experience on the production
could even be fun—as long as she remained an anonymous member of the chorus.

But
she couldn't make Gran happy until she transcended her own crippling fears and
sang lead. The painful reality brought a tense frown rushing to her brow.

The
last members of the troupe sauntered offstage, and Bella was alone. She picked
up her score and smiled as she perused some of the sheet music—”After the
Ball,” “Love's Old Sweet Song,” and “A Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.” The
quaint Gay Nineties melodies played across her mind.

She
glanced at a photocopy of the old program from July of 1896, admiring its
elegant script. She shivered as she saw Jacques LeFevre listed as lead tenor.
Glancing down the page, she became arrested by the phrase, “And the
kaleidoscope revolves . . .”

Setting
down her sheaf, Bella strolled toward center stage and gazed up at the huge
chandelier. Even badly yellowed, the myriad prisms danced with light. The
chandelier would surely become a masterpiece when properly cleaned and oiled.
She could almost imagine it slowly turning, could almost see colored beams
bouncing off it, creating a fairyland of flickering light and shadow . . .

Especially
a hundred years ago, when Jacques LeFevre had dominated this very stage . . .
and had been murdered here.

“
Bella
,”
called a soft voice.

Bella
whirled toward stage right. “Mr. Mercer?” she called. “Is that you?”

Bella
felt a subtle motion on the air, an eerie quiver dancing along her spine. Then
as she watched, captivated, the ghost of Jacques LeFevre once again glided
onstage. She gasped, her eyes huge. A vibrant presence glimmering on the air,
he stared at her with his riveting, dark brown eyes. Extending a hand, he
smiled.

“
Come
to me, Bella,
” he whispered.

Bella's
heart pounded with excitement and longing. She did not even wonder how he knew
her name, or why he was beckoning her now in his soft, sexy voice. She only
knew she was drowning in his hypnotic gaze, his beautiful smile. She wanted to
go to him—wanted it so badly! Like one mesmerized, she glided toward him.

Then,
in the merest flicker, Jacques LeFevre was gone . . .

Chapter Four

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“Clear
the stage, everyone!” yelled Lesley Litchfield from the front row of the
auditorium. “We'll rehearse 'Lola's Song' next. Then, since our 'kaleidoscope'
is now functional, we'll try our first go at it, and on to 'A Bicycle Built for
Two.' Afterward we'll take a break while Clyde runs the dancers through their
ballet of 'A Waltz Dream.'“

Three
days later, standing in the wings, Bella watched the mezzo-soprano, Emily
Throckmorton, take her place at center stage to practice her solo from
Cavalleria
Rusticana.
The pretty blond singer was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and
the stage was bare except for a small, weathered cart filled with hay—the only
evidence that the vignette would eventually become a rustic Sicilian scene. At
stage right, Sophie Crawford launched into a refrain on the piano. Lesley
Litchfield had said that in three more weeks the company would begin rehearsals
with the full orchestra. In honor of the July 4
^th
debut, the
orchestra would play a John Philip Sousa mini-concert at intermission.

The
past several days had been busy and strenuous for Bella, a whirlwind of
rehearsals, fittings, memorizing material, and vocalizing. She had welcomed the
activity, as well as being a member of the chorus, out of the limelight. She'd
made friends with several among the troupe, including Dixie Bennett and John
Randolph. Any guilt she felt for leaving her grandmother each day was assuaged
by the joy Gran took in knowing Bella was rehearsing with the company. Indeed,
Gran seemed to have perked up considerably.

So far,
Bella had not again encountered the ghost of Jacques LeFevre—or of Mr. Usher.
The scuttlebutt going around the troupe was that perhaps all of the frantic
activities at the St. Charles—noisy renovations and full-scale rehearsals—had
“spooked” the ghosts. But Bella couldn't deny that she felt rather disappointed
not to have sighted her handsome phantom.

Hearing
Emily Throckmorton sing a powerful crescendo, she smiled with bittersweet
emotion. Being exposed to so much beautiful music each day had affected her
more deeply than she'd expected. The mezzo's singing painfully reminded Bella
of her own inadequacies.

The
varied and exciting repertoire of the show reinforced her longings: songs from
the Gay Nineties era vied with vignettes from
Rigoletto,
Samson et
Dalila,
and
Romeo et Juliette,
poignant Stephen Foster melodies, and
spirited patriotic tunes. Bella had been assigned two nonsinging roles she
found interesting—posing as one of four Valkyries while the orchestra played
the climactical music from the Wagnerian opera, and hanging aloft as “A Bird in
a Gilded Cage” while Victor Daly sang her a serenade. Bella had learned that “A
Bird in a Gilded Cage” actually postdated the original production, since the
song hadn't been published until 1900. But because Litchfield had refused to
include the maudlin “She Is More to Be Pitied Than Censured” from the original
production, “Bird” had been substituted.

The
final strains of Emily Throckmorton's aria brought Bella to attention, ready to
take her place in the chorus for the next selection. Since this was the
company's first run “through the kaleidoscope,” she did feel a bit nervous at
the prospect of navigating through a veritable fountain of spewing light.

Emily
Throckmorton took a bow, and Sophie Crawford launched into a soft, spooky
rendition of Molloy and Bingham’s “Love's Old Sweet Song.” Bella watched the
lights go dim, and then she heard the old chandelier crank into motion, the
tinkling sounds of hundreds of prisms jostling together. At once soft red, blue,
and yellow spotlights were bounced off the myriad small spears of crystal.
Cascades of light ricocheted across the stage. The effect was dazzling,
hypnotic.

As
other members of the chorus glided toward their places like spectral figures,
Bella cautiously entered the stage amid a fairyland of light. Flickers bounced
off the floors, the curtain, the backdrop. She felt as if she were suspended
among an explosion of Roman candles. It was dizzying, electrifying,
exhilarating . . . so much whirring light, so much shifting shadow!

Bella
practically collided with two stagehands who were wheeling off the hay cart.
She muttered an apology and wobbled toward stage left. Then she felt a hand
brush against her shoulder—a distinctly pleasurable sensation. Her nerve endings
came alive with sensual perception.

“Careful,
Bella,” whispered a spooky, familiar voice.

“Jacques!”

Certain
she had just heard the ghostly LeFevre's voice, Bella whirled, only to become
mesmerized by a new eruption of light. She froze on the spot, disoriented and
confused. Her phantom was nowhere in sight!

All
at once the kaleidoscope stopped. The lights were raised, and Bella found
herself standing at front center stage. Behind her on a bicycle built for two
were perched Anna Maria Bernard and Victor Daly, both of whom were scowling in
annoyance to have a chorus girl upstage them. At the back of the stage—where
Bella was supposed to be, stood the other members of the chorus, and most of
them were snickering at her.

Out
in the auditorium, an angry Litchfield popped out of his seat and tore off his
glasses. “Miss De La Rosa, kindly take your place! Unless you're prepared to
sing lead soprano—now!”

Red-faced,
Bella scampered off to her place. As the pianist played a lively refrain, she
struggled to control her racing heart and frantic breathing.

Jacques
LeFevre had touched her! The phantom had actually brushed his hand across her
shoulder. The rascal had rattled her so badly, she had frozen like a pillar of
salt!

***

Bella
became determined to learn more about the amorous phantom who was now her
fascination. Late that afternoon, she drove to her neighborhood branch library
on St. Charles Avenue. A volunteer brought her the indexes of the local
newspapers. Flipping through, she soon found a reference to a 1930s
New
Orleans Herald
article on the “haunted” St. Charles Opera House. Minutes
later, sitting before the microfiche reader, Bella was stunned to watch an
old-time picture pop up of the very ghost who had haunted her. She gasped, her
gaze riveted on Jacques LeFevre’s sexy dark eyes, his captivating smile. In the
photograph, he was standing next to a gilded velvet bench, one booted foot
propped on it as he grinned at the camera. He was dressed in a flowing white
shirt and dark trousers, quite similar to the outfit she had spotted him
wearing!

Eagerly,
she read the caption: “Jacques LeFevre, who has haunted the St. Charles Opera
House for almost forty years, was murdered in August of 1896, perhaps by the
jealous husband or sweetheart of one of his many female conquests.”

Bella
scanned the article, which told of how LeFevre had dazzled all of New Orleans
with his performance in
Carmen
, the production staged prior to
Kaleidoscope
.
Then, just as Litchfield had said, Jacques had been murdered during a scene
change of
Kaleidoscope.

Shuddering,
Bella continued to read. An exhaustive investigation had never netted the
murderer, particularly since no one had actually witnessed the foul deed being
performed. LeFevre had haunted the theater ever since, and was still trying his
best to seduce the ladies; he reportedly loved to abscond with their personal
effects, such as fans, gloves, or wraps.

Turning
off the reader, Bella felt perturbed. Although seeing the picture of Jacques was
thrilling, the article had told her little more about his mysterious death than
she already knew.

But
one thing was for certain. The ghost of Jacques LeFevre
was
real. And
Bella felt more fascinated by him than ever.