Secrets of a Soprano (19 page)

“I am here because Max requested it,” he said. “He is distressed about what he did to you.”

Foscari’s face hardened. “I hear the Regent has been playing to full houses lately.”

“I can’t deny that we have benefited from your misfortune. Max wishes to see you restored in the public estimation. This evening is his attempt to help, as I’m sure you have guessed.”

She tilted her head in consideration. Then her lips twitched. “If I hadn’t, it became clear to me once I deduced Lady Clarissa’s astonishing lack of enthusiasm for hearing me sing.

“I too owe you an apology, for it was my idea to spread the word of your refusal to sing at our benefit. I hope you will forgive us both and accept my assurance that we are doing all we can to set matters right.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I bear you no animosity, Mr. Lindo. I accept that there was nothing personal in
your
actions. I’d like you to meet my répétiteur, Sempronio Montelli.”

*

From the beginning
of the evening, Lady Clarissa kept Max supplied with marriageable girls to entertain. It could have been worse. He’d expected to loathe every moment he spent fulfilling his side of the agreement with his mother but he was surprised to find the youthful beauties—every one of them well-born and well-endowed—quite tolerable. Learning that Tessa truly had loved him had adjusted his view of all women. No longer certain that he saw the reflection of gold in avaricious eyes, he found that suitable young ladies could be perfectly agreeable. They even appeared to like him.

Perhaps he should look for a wife after all. But not, he swore, until the Regent was turning a profit. He wouldn’t allow his mother to think she’d won their battle.

Besides, his interest in any one of the ladies was negligible. From the moment Tessa made her entrance, stunning in ivory and gold, he’d been constantly aware of her location in the saloon. Rushing over to greet her arrival, he’d been driven off by Lady Clarissa and forced to converse with Miss Bellamy, a complete widgeon, and her ghastly mother. Miss Bellamy he might acquit of mercenary intentions; Lady Caroline Bellamy was most assuredly guilty.

With only half his mind on the conversation, he noted Tessa leaving the room with Simon Lindo. Simon? Surely not. As far as he knew, Simon, a widower, had nothing to do with women. On the other hand, he was still a handsome man and they seemed to have become friendly rather quickly. By the time his mother moved into an adjoining room, he was ready to eat the carpet.

Finally he could make his escape.

It took a while to extract himself from Lady Caroline’s talons, but at last he made it to the door through which Tessa and Simon had disappeared, and followed the sound of mirth into the smaller of the mansion’s two music rooms. Tessa’s laugh, which his ears singled out from a group of merrymakers, fed his sense of urgency.

“And then,” Simon Lindo was saying, “his foot hit the horse dropping and his voice hit the rafters. I swear the fellow had never achieved a higher C.”

“One should never perform with animals,” Tessa asserted through a chuckle. “One time in Bologna they put hens on the stage for
La Finta Giardinera
. One of them laid an egg, which wouldn’t have mattered except I trod on it and the bird nipped my ankle.”

“Did you stay on key?’ The question came from Lady Storrington.

“Of course,” said Tessa with a careless wave. “I always stay on key. I did not, however, stay on my feet. I delivered the rest of the aria from a sitting position.”

A shout of laughter arose from her audience of Simon, Sempronio Montelli, Lord and Lady Storrington, a couple of the latter’s friends and—damnation—his mother! It was infuriating that he’d been obeying her wishes and being bored to death by respectable young ladies while she was swilling champagne and trading stories with the theatrical set—which was supposed to be his milieu. A set of people she professed to despise. She was leaning on the piano, at which Montelli was seated. The Italian lent occasional punctuation to a dramatic point with a fanfare on the keys. A footman had been commandeered to keep their glasses full and the whole party was obviously having a fine old time. Not one of them even noticed his entrance.

“Tell me,
madame
,” asked Lady Clarissa. “Have you ever appeared in an opera featuring a shipwreck?”

His thoughts softened at the sight of his mother’s face, alive with amusement and without a trace of the discontent that often dressed her features. Was it possible that she had spent the past decade as bored as he had been?

But he hadn’t come here to see his mother, and his eyes were drawn irresistibly to Tessa and something shifted into focus. For the first time he perceived neither the seventeen-year-old girl nor the avaricious prima donna. In the curve of the piano stood a woman, a great beauty, yes, but also a woman of maturity and intelligence. A woman who held an audience in her grasp, not because she was playing a part on stage but through the allure of her own personality and wit. A woman of character. Yet the delineation of that character was a mystery to him. He wanted to know the adult Tessa.

He walked up behind Simon, standing on the periphery of the gathering, and tugged on his arm. “Distract my mother,” he said quietly.

Simon turned and threw him a quizzical look. “And how am I to do that?”

“I’m sure you can think of something to say. You’re not afraid of her, are you?”

“I am not afraid of her. Though I can see why some people might be.”

“Damn you, Simon. Don’t look at me like that. Just do as I ask.”

*

Simon shrugged. He
couldn’t identify the undercurrent between Max and his mother but it had something to do with La Divina. Max hadn’t confided in him, but perhaps her ladyship would respond to subtle questioning.

She was an extremely handsome woman. And she looked like the sort who gave short shrift to subtlety. “My lady,” he said, raising his glass to her. Her attention was drawn away from Teresa Foscari who had moved on to reminiscences of Paris. “My compliments on your magnificent hospitality.”

“Are you speaking ironically, Mr. Lindo? If I’m not mistaken, one of my guests insulted you earlier.” He was right. This was a woman who didn’t beat about the bush.

“I don’t see it as a slur to call me a Jew. It is what I am. The insult was in Sir Henry’s mind.” Keeping his tone mild he added. “Perhaps you are in agreement with him.”

She regarded him with interest. Not used to getting an argument, he guessed. “I’m not sure I’ve ever met a Jew,” she said in accents that reeked of self-confident entitlement. “How can I know if I agree with him?”

He bowed. “I am pleased to be able to enlarge your ladyship’s experience.”

“Now I’ve met you, that makes one. Not enough, I think, to form a favorable opinion of the entire race. Or an unfavorable one either.”

He laughed. “An ambiguous statement.”

“Precisely,” she replied with a gleam in her eye. She moved away from the piano and came close enough to rest a hand on his arm. A little tremor of awareness ran through him. It must be the shock of finding himself in such close proximity to sapphires the size of the Bank of England.

“Walk with me a little,” she said, her voice commanding but with a hint of enticement. “How did you make Max’s acquaintance?”

“We fell into conversation outside Covent Garden one night and ended up supping together. At that time I was assistant manager at the Tavistock and he had conceived his plan for a new opera house.”

“You must tell me all about the theatrical business.”

“And why would you want to know that, my lady?”

“Why, Mr. Lindo, it’s my son’s greatest passion. Everything that concerns him concerns me.”

*

Max had rid
himself, at least temporarily, of his mother’s interfering presence and maneuvered Tessa away from the rest of the company. Now he found he couldn’t think of a thing to say. An intimation of gardenia tickled his senses and his eyes focused on the intricacies of braids and curls entwined around a double-gold filet, gleaming through the rich gilt of Tessa’s hair. He felt as shy as the youth who’d plucked up courage to present himself at the stage door of the Oporto Opera House.

“Unusual for a singer to drink wine before a performance, isn’t it?” he managed after a few moments’ charged silence.

She raised her glass. “Water.”

He was behaving like an ass.

“But don’t worry, my lord,” she continued. “My voice should be able to meet the demands of my hostess.”

Acquaintance with his mother’s tolerance for music restored his balance. “Excessive are they?” he inquired with a faint smile that elicited a relaxation of Tessa’s defensive posture.

“I believe Lady Clarissa would be happy if I confined my performance to a single nursery rhyme. And happier still if I remained silent.” She met his gaze in amused accord.

“What are you going to sing?”

“I was considering
Abscheulicher
.”

He gave a crack of laughter. The opening section of Beethoven’s aria addressed the villainous Don Pizzaro as “Monster.”

“In honor of the success of
Fidelio
at your opera house,” she added, lowering her eyes demurely.

“Are you calling my mother a monster?”

“I wouldn’t be so bold.” Her laugh found an answering warmth in his breast. Sharing a joke felt as intimate and precious as a kiss. “But seriously, it’s a noble piece, one of the most beautiful I know.”

“I would love to hear you sing it,” he said, wondering if her choice had any significance beyond the artistic. The aria developed into an anthem to the power of marital love and fidelity. Not what she was known for.

A footman appeared, bearing tea and slices of lemon on a salver. “You see,” she said. “I do know how to take care of my voice. A warm drink to loosen the vocal cords, even for a nursery rhyme.”

While the business of pouring tea was accomplished, Max thought about their last meeting and came to a decision.

“Tessa—”

“Max—”

They spoke simultaneously. He gestured her to continue.

“No, you go first,” she said.

He paused, formulating a speech that had run through his head for a day or two. “When we last spoke I tried to apologize.”

“Yes.” Her face turned stony.

“I don’t think I did a very good job.”

Her expression was an eloquent assent. “You said you were sorry for what I had become,” she said with awful calm. “I believe I can live without such condescension. Not to mention your unmitigated arrogance in believing you played such a significant role in my life.”

“Let me try again. I apologize for spreading a lie about you.” He lowered his voice though no one else was near enough to hear. “And for leaving you to wait for me in the churchyard in Oporto.”

“Did you know it rained? That I spent three hours getting wet when I had a performance that night?” The tremor in her voice contradicted the indifference she had claimed at their last confrontation. He found the fact perversely pleasing. Not only had she cared for him then, but the memory had the power to upset her.

“I must confess the weather wasn’t uppermost in my thoughts as I climbed into the carriage to leave Oporto.” Her expression told him his feeble attempt at humor was not appreciated. He sought the words to tell her what he’d thought without insulting her again. “I wished then that what I believed was untrue. And I wish now I’d never believed it.”