Secrets of a Soprano (16 page)

“Be so good as to pack them up for me,” she managed with a semblance of calm. “I am sorry for wasting your time.”

On her return to the Pulteney, she found Monsieur Escudier, the French-born proprietor of the hotel, his manner conspicuously devoid of the caressing flattery he’d lavished on his famous guest at every opportunity.

“Madam,” Escudier said, “I must request that you depart from this establishment at your earliest convenience, whether you are able to settle your account or not. Your behavior is upsetting the sensibilities of our English patrons.”

The worst was not over. The manager’s departure coincided with the sound of another arrival in the vestibule, Angela’s protestations overborn by masculine rumbles in a voice she recognized only too well.

“I must see Madame Foscari.”

She rushed to slam the doors through which Escudier had just passed but she was too late. Eyes ablaze, Max stood on the threshold, while Angela tugged fruitlessly at his arm.

Tessa wasn’t in the mood for another “apology.”

“Kindly refrain from bullying my maid and leave at once,” she said, arms stretched wide and ready to drive him from the suite if necessary. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“I have something to say to you.” He shook off Angela’s restraining hand without effort.

“Ange—”

“If you think your maid can throw me out of here you are much mistaken.”

“You don’t know what my maid can do. She’ll do anything to protect me.”

“I can assure you, madam, that you’re not in any danger,” he said. His voice softened as he removed his hat and bowed. “I beg only that you hear me out. And answer a question.”

She pursed her lips and gave the shadow of a nod. She didn’t want Angela hurt again. “I will give you five minutes.”

Max glanced at the maid. “What I have to say is of a private nature.”

“Angela understands little English. And I would prefer not to be alone with you.” She murmured a few words in Italian and Angela perched on a chair in the corner of the room.

“Well?” She refused to offer the unwelcome visitor a seat, or even a chance to shed his outer garments. Instead she stood with hands on hips, cocking her head with a derisive air, and tapped her foot. “What is this question?”

He met her gaze, looked away, bit his lip, then returned his eyes to her face. “Tessa,” he said finally, “ever since I left you in the hotel this morning I’ve been wondering if I made a terrible mistake.”

“Of course you did. You ruined my reputation and livelihood in London.”

“Not that. I must know. Did you or did you not accept two thousand pounds?”

“That sum again! I don’t understand you.”

“Mr. Eldon—do you remember Mr. Eldon?”

She wrenched her mind from the disastrous present and recalled the name. “Your clergyman companion in Portugal.”

“Mr. Eldon paid your guardian, Mr. Waring, two thousand pounds. In exchange you agreed to relinquish any claim to my hand in marriage, to release me from any promise.”

“Impossible. I never heard such a thing. You never even mentioned marriage. You asked me to be your mistress.” Despite all the indecent proposals she had received since, the memory of the proposition from the young man she had adored so madly still had the power to pierce her with shame. So innocent had she been, it had never occurred to her then that a man would offer anything but marriage.

“Mr. Waring said you had agreed to the settlement and the money was to be used for your future dowry.”

“This is the first I ever heard of it. You’re lying.” He had to be. Yet his voice rang with the candor she’d once admired in him.

“No. Waring accepted the payment on your behalf.” He stepped forward to stand only a couple of feet from her and met her eye to eye, the intensity of his stare demanding the truth. “How can you not have known? Didn’t you receive the money?”

Tessa’s mind reeled and she could barely remain on her feet. She couldn’t believe it. She didn’t want to believe it. “Why would I accept a paltry amount?” she asked, gathering her indignation and coating it with sarcasm. “You’re one of the wealthiest men in England, in Europe for all I know. Surely the adventuress you believe me to be would have demanded more to renounce such a prize.”

“I didn’t think you knew how wealthy I was.”

His simple words deflated her. “No. I had no idea. I knew you weren’t poor, I suppose, but I never thought of money.” She blinked hard. “Only of how much I loved you.”

“Good God, Tessa.” He extended a hand as though to come to her, but she shook her head. “Apparently your guardian knew who I was. The typical English tourist couldn’t raise such a sum on short notice and Eldon said Waring negotiated hard on your behalf. He said you complained that I had insulted you and would accept no less.”

“I never said a word to Mr. Waring about your proposition.”

The truth flickered into her mind. “Joshua,” she said, hardly aware she spoke aloud. She sank down, just catching the edge of a sofa.

“Joshua?”

Staring at the floor she reached back into the past. “Mr. Waring’s son. I told him.”

She’d come home starry-eyed that night and told Joshua, who was the same age and her closest friend, that she and Max were in love and she expected him to offer her marriage at their next meeting. But Joshua’s indiscretion hardly mattered now. The elder Waring, her guardian who was supposed to care for her interests, had deliberately ruined her chance to make an advantageous marriage.

Max crouched down and reached for her hand, cold in his warm, firm grasp.

“Why wouldn’t Mr. Waring have wanted us to marry?” The question was more to herself than to Max. She feared she knew the answer. She had been aware that Waring’s port wine export business had been in difficulties, but soon afterward the company had prospered due to a new influx of capital. An “investment,” she had no doubt, from the deep coffers of the Hawthorne family.

“I can’t answer that.” He looked down and ran a forefinger over the back of her nerveless hand. “I wasn’t of age. It would have been difficult to find a Protestant clergyman in Portugal who would wed us without my mother’s permission.” He spoke with hesitation, as though examining the question in his own mind. “I was too naïve to realize it, but I’m sure Mr. Waring was not. He must have thought it a safer bet to take the money Eldon offered.”

Was their parting, then, the result of a misunderstanding brought about by her guardian’s greed? Waring had later proven eager to exploit her talent for his own profit, and thereby driven her to elope with Domenico. Yes, she could credit his duplicity.

“So I concluded that you must have been aware of the difficulties.” Max leaned forward and his eyes were dark and warm, as she remembered them. One part of her wanted nothing better than to sink into his embrace and forget everything that had kept them apart for so many years. “I believed you preferred to get what you could from our acquaintance.”

She snatched away her hand and snapped to her feet, almost knocking him to the floor. “A fine opinion you had of the girl you claimed to love.”

“I didn’t want to believe it, but how could I deny the evidence?”

His excuse dispelled any urge to throw herself into his arms as he stood upright. “By meeting me as we had arranged and asking.”

“You came to the churchyard? It never even occurred to me that you would.”

“Of course I did. I thought I loved you.” She folded her arms to fend off his attempt to take her hand again. “But don’t concern yourself. I didn’t pine for long. How could I regret the loss of one who treated me so?”

“I was a stupid young fool. I’m sorry, Tessa.”

“You may address me as Madame Foscari,” she said, raising her chin and curling her upper lip.

“Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you? Forgive you? What good is forgiveness now?”

“I can’t bear to think how I misjudged you. I need your forgiveness.”

His plea plucked at her heart but she resisted. It wasn’t as though they could turn back the clock to that time of perfect joy. Summoning her powers as an actress, she immersed herself in the role of wronged woman. “The past perhaps, I might ignore,” she said with ice in her tone. “By now what happened in Oporto is a matter of supreme indifference to me. But I can never forgive what you have done now, in London.”

“I am not proud of myself, but can’t you see? That’s why I did it. Because I believed you to be heartless and mercenary.”

She curtsied. “Thank you so much. I can’t tell you how much better that makes me feel.”

She thought of everything that had happened since the day Max had left her: her own quarrel with Mr. Waring, her marriage and its series of betrayals, the fact that the world regarded her as an immoral adventuress, and now as a selfish, cold-hearted monster.

“I feel responsible for what you have become,” he said, uncannily echoing her thoughts. “If you were entirely innocent then, I share the blame for the course of your life.”

She knew exactly what he meant. He had the unbelievable gall to refer to her supposed amorous history and the condescension to imply that said history was somehow his business. Any part of her rage that was an act became real. She wanted to hurl every vase and ornament in the room at him.

She wouldn’t do that and confirm his low opinion. Closing her eyes, she took several deep breaths. When she looked at him again, he stood before her, tall, stiff, unyielding. Whatever had happened in the past, he was no longer the boy she had loved but a grown man and her enemy. In the present.

“We have nothing more to say to each other,” she said, with all the dignity she could muster. “There is only one thing you can offer me, and that is the restoration of my reputation which you have destroyed by your lies.”

Arranging her skirts with a flourish, she spun on her heels and stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

*

Defiant of contracting
Sofie’s infection, Tessa visited her friend’s room.

“Teresa,” Sofie croaked. “Is everything well? Have you been able to stop the lies?”

Lovingly Tessa bathed Sofie’s brow with lavender water. “All is well, my dearest. In a day or two we shall be back to normal. You mustn’t worry about anything but getting well.”

She didn’t even have the satisfaction of paying off the Pulteney’s proprietor with the last of her funds and seeking other lodgings that very afternoon. Sofie was too ill to be moved and Tessa had to suffer the humiliation of begging the manager to let them stay. Besides, she had no idea how to find inexpensive but respectable rooms in London, especially with almost no money. Did one have to pay rent in advance? So sheltered had she been from practical considerations, she had no idea.

Her sleep that night in the Pulteney’s luxurious bed was restless, visited by nightmares she’d hoped never to repeat. “Angela, help me!” she screamed in her dream, feeling the weight on her chest, struggling against her bonds.

She awoke to find herself in Angela’s arms. “
Va bene, signora
,” crooned the maid. “
Qui che sono, Angela.
”

“Madame Foscari, who lately refused to sing for the benefit of the Royal Hospital, now would have us believe that she was unaware of the nature of the occasion, that she would otherwise have accepted the invitation. Her donation of twenty pounds, this from a woman who earns thousands a year, tells us how much to credit the singer’s claim of liberality.”

The Times

M
ax left the
hotel with a flea in his ear and confusion in his soul. Irked that his heartfelt expression of regret had won such a frosty reception, he reviewed the exchange with Tessa and came to the unwelcome conclusion that he’d invited her scorn. It was hardly the action of a gentleman to throw her amorous past in her face, even by implication. But the thought of the other men she’d bedded was a dagger to his spirit. His sweet, lovely Tessa, mauled by half the men in Europe.

The very sight of her sent him into an agony of longing and repulsion. He wanted her, yes, but he wanted her as she had been, not as she was now.

Though not a rake by Somerville’s standards, Max had enjoyed his share of women and none of them had been models of purity. He neither expected not desired his mistresses to be virgins. He didn’t understand why he cared so much about Tessa’s experience. Not that she was his mistress, nor ever likely to be so. She hated him.

Max was close to hating himself too. Or what had happened to him since the day she had returned to London. A man of honor and good sense, a trifle reserved perhaps, but affable and friendly to his fellow humans, had turned into an irrational imbecile who went around ruining inconvenient women for reasons that weren’t only specious but downright unacceptable.

Approaching St. James’s Church, he saw a bill advertising Delorme’s next performance as Don Giovanni at the Regent gracing a wall, along with a number of other playbills, including one for the Tavistock. Across the name Teresa Foscari, rendered in large letters, someone had scrawled an unprintable word. Max ripped it from the wall, crumpled it into a ball and stamped it into the gutter, but he couldn’t stamp the ugliness of the obscenity out of his head.