Secrets of a Soprano (2 page)

“The stage porter gave them to me. From your admirers.”

“Already? Let me see if there’s anything promising.”

While Sofie and Sempronio dissected the inadequacies of the other singers in the multilingual babble that was the common currency of their cosmopolitan group, she unfolded the notes, glancing at the signatures, looking for a particular name to leap from the bottom of a page. This was her first visit to England, her father’s native land. When she had agreed to come, inevitably she had thought of the ardent young Englishman who had been her first love. Perhaps her only love. She knew he had belonged to a prominent family and her first appearance in London had attracted the avid attention of the newspapers; the cream of society would attend such an important opening at the opera house. She’d imagined him coming to see her, sorry for his desertion, eager to renew their acquaintance, still in love with her.

How foolish she was. Max Hawthorne had certainly forgotten her in eleven years. He probably never gave her a second thought after he departed Oporto without a word, leaving her shivering in a churchyard waiting to keep their appointment.

“These are both invitations to supper tonight,” she said. “But of course it doesn’t mean these gentlemen—” She glanced at the signatures again. “—Allerton and Somerville aren’t married.” Of course it didn’t. She was well acquainted with the ways of the nobility all over Europe and had no reason to believe the habits of English lords were any different.

The door opened again, heralding the arrival of the florid figure of Bartholomew Mortimer, manager of the Tavistock Theatre and her current employer.

“Madame Foscari,” he cried, seizing her hand and kissing it with fervent lips. Tessa withdrew it gingerly from his grasp and gave it a shake to dispel the lingering dampness from his touch. She’d had her doubts about Mortimer when he’d visited her in Paris and enticed her with guarantees of badly needed money. His repellent behavior since her arrival at the Tavistock increased her doubts about accepting his offer, however desperate her financial straits.

“You were magnificent!” the manager continued, emitting a trace of spittle in his enthusiasm. “All of London will be at your feet.” He looked significantly at the correspondence in her hand. “Already the offers are coming in.”

Tessa didn’t like the implication of his statement. “I am anxious,” she said with emphasis, “to find lucrative singing engagements to supplement my performances here. Tell me what you know of Allerton and Somerville. What kind of men are they?”

Mortimer rubbed his hands together. “Ah,
madame
! The Marquess of Somerville. A very wealthy man.”

“Is he married? Does his wife host receptions?”

“A bachelor, very charming and a great patron of singers. An excellent association for you.”

Tessa could imagine exactly how this charming bachelor liked to patronize singers. From the look in his eye, the oily Mortimer would be delighted to act as her pander. She’d had enough of that from Domenico, her late and unlamented husband.

“And Allerton?” she asked. “Is he, too, a great patron of singers?”

Mortimer continued to smile but his gaze shifted sideways. “I would strongly advise you to favor Somerville. A much more advantageous connection.”

Sofie, who had been following the exchange in silence, chimed in. “Lord Allerton is the primary investor in the Regent Opera House and one of the richest men in England.”

“He sounds an excellent connection,” Tessa said. “Is
he
married?”

“Allerton’s playing at running an opera house but he doesn’t know what he is doing, for all his money bags. Let me remind you,” Mortimer continued, leaning over her with an undercurrent of threat, “that you are promised to the Tavistock for the entire season. You should read your contract carefully.”

Tessa could smell spirits on his breath and see black dots disfiguring his bulbous nose. Familiar panic clawed at her chest and she scrambled to her feet, scattering correspondence on the floor, and sidestepped the manager, eager to put some distance between them.

“We have a few minutes, my dear
madame
. I wish to discuss adding more performances to your schedule.”

“You must excuse me,” she said through clenched teeth, “it’s almost time for the next act and I need to prepare.” Even more, she needed to escape from Mortimer, whose proximity brought on the flash of heat through her body and the dizzy sensation in her head that made her want to scream.

“Not now,” she ground out. She stepped backward but he followed her. “When? Tonight after the performance?”

“I shall be tired.”

“I must insist.”

“If you don’t leave me alone now I shan’t be able to sing.”

Mortimer didn’t budge. She had another challenging aria coming up and needed time to recover her equilibrium. Looking around wildly, she couldn’t think of the words to drive him out, only of the discordant buzz in her head. Then Sofie, blessedly reliable Sofie, caught her eye and held out a teacup.

Grasping the lifeline, Tessa hurled it with all the strength she could muster. It whisked by Mortimer’s ear and hit the wall behind with a satisfying crash. Her head began to clear.

“Madame Foscari! That is unnecessary! I merely wish to make an appointment for a discussion of business.” She breathed deeply and reached for more ammunition. “Very well,” he said, “I bid you good evening but I insist we speak soon.”

Mortimer backed out of the room and Tessa collapsed onto the sofa. Angela brought her a glass of water, but her entourage knew better than to speak when she was like this. After five minutes or so Sempronio ventured to ask if she needed to test her voice. A couple of quick vocal exercises reassured her and she was calm enough to check her appearance in the mirror and make sure her wig was straight.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she said with self-disgust. “I’m trying to give up melodramatic fits. Next time, Sofie, keep the china away from me.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sofie said. “People expect it of you. They like you for it.”

Tessa didn’t like herself for such behavior. What had started long ago as a means of gaining attention for a young singer, had become a habit and more recently a necessity. She wanted to stop—stop throwing things and most of all stop suffering the attacks that were soothed by the smashing of breakable objects. She’d failed at the first test.

“I’d prefer to be known for something other than throwing china.”

Sofie gave her a chiding look and Tessa laughed briefly at the absurdity of the exaggeration. Still, not a single newspaper account of Teresa Foscari’s extraordinary career failed to mention the flying crockery that had become part of her legend.

“Holy St. George! What a dreadful man Mortimer is.” She shuddered, sinking back onto the chaise, skirts puffing out around her in a cloud of satin brocade. “Did you hear how he tried to pimp me?”

Sofie looked at her thoughtfully. “The Marquis of Somerville is said to be handsome as well as rich,” she said.

“Really? How did you come about that scrap of knowledge?”

“Nancy Sturridge hopes to come under his protection.” Trust Sofie, a genius at picking up backstage rumors, to know.

Tessa sighed. “Even if I were interested, which I am not, I don’t need any more difficulties with Sturridge.”

“She wanted to sing the Countess tonight,” Sofie said. “The stage manager told me.”

Why couldn’t people be content with what they had? Nancy Sturridge was a natural soubrette, with the light voice and flirtatious personality that such roles required. And musically Susanna was an adorable part. Tessa had been sorry when she gave it up to graduate to the heavier role of the Countess.

“Sturridge can keep Lord Somerville and I wish her joy of him. Allerton merits further investigation.”

Allerton’s motives in inviting her to supper could be amorous or professional, or both. In any case, it wouldn’t hurt to make him wait. “I’ll tell them both I am too tired to go out tonight. Better still, you write the letters. La Divina doesn’t write to just anyone, even if they are wealthy and titled. Have a footman deliver them during the fourth act. We’ll keep them wondering till then.”

*

Max had no
reason to linger after the performance, but he found himself ordering his coachman to wait. Slipping around to the side of the theater, he joined the small crowd at the stage door, not his usual haunt. The men thronging the entrance were of a poorer class than the denizens of the green room where he was accustomed to meeting singers with whom he was involved. Regretting his impulse, he almost walked away, but curiosity held him.

Ever since he’d first heard of Teresa Foscari, and through all the reports of her genius and her exploits, he’d wondered. There was the name, but Teresa wasn’t an uncommon one, in either France or Italy. The age was about right and the height. The hair color and features had been unidentifiable on stage. As for the voice, it would have matured in eleven years. A sense of familiarity had tugged at his senses throughout the performance, but he couldn’t be certain.

A dozen times, since the end of war on the continent, he’d considered making the journey to one of the European opera houses to find out, but had resisted. He really didn’t want to see her again. The heartbreak and betrayal suffered by his nineteen-year-old self were behind him. He was a grown man, for God’s sake.

But suddenly he had to be sure. So he stood in the shadows of a mean alley near Covent Garden, waiting to see La Divina Foscari in the flesh.

A murmur ran through the crowd as the door opened and a woman emerged on the arm of a gentleman. An indefinable air of magic surrounded her, an aura that sent a rustle of excitement through the ranks of the waiting gallants. She wore a black velvet cloak embroidered with gold thread and trimmed with sable, more of the luxuriant fur swathing her neck to protect the golden throat from the April night air.

He couldn’t see her face beyond an intriguing hint of a straight nose, but he had no trouble identifying the gentleman whose arm guided her: it was the Marquess of Somerville. While the diva settled into the waiting carriage, the marquess looked around, caught Max’s eye, and winked.

Max had lost women to Somerville before. His own fortune was the greater, but the mercenary ladies of the demimonde weren’t immune to the lure of high rank. And Max didn’t fool himself that his dark complexion and harsh features could compete with the depraved-angel charm of Somerville’s countenance.

Max was never sure if Somerville meant to torment him. If so, for the most part he failed. What Max sought in his operatic mistresses was different from the other man’s uncomplicated requirements. Somerville would have no use for the combination of vocal brilliance and indefinable inner beauty that Max had found just once in his life. Whenever Somerville came out the winner in their unacknowledged contest Max moved on. There was always another opera singer willing to accept his attentions and his money.

But he’d promised Simon Lindo that he would speak to La Foscari, so he’d call on her the next day. Strictly for business reasons.

“The Opera House will be full this evening on account of the attractive powers of FOSCARI, who appears in London for the first time at the Tavistock Theatre.”

The Morning Post

C
aptain James Storrs,
ensconced in the private sitting room of his family home, read aloud from
The Morning Post
. “
The soprano is famous for her high notes, her exorbitant fees and an artistic temperament that leads her to smash crockery when her displeasure is aroused—”

His brother, the Earl of Storrington interrupted him to address his wife. “There’s no question, Jacobin. Teresa Foscari is your cousin. Breaking china must be a family trait. We’ll have to hide the Sèvres when she comes to the house.”

“I don’t see why you have to keep bringing that up, Anthony,” the countess replied with a toss of chestnut curls. “I only once threw the good china at you, and you deserved it.”

James lowered the newspaper, prepared to wait while his brother and sister-in-law indulged in the flirtatious banter that had been going on since before Anthony shocked the
ton
by marrying his pastry cook. Apparently he’d underestimated Lady Storrington’s eagerness to discover all she could about her new-found cousin. “Go on, James,” she said. “What else does it say?”

“
Madame Foscari, known throughout Europe as La Divina, has been delighting operatic audiences for almost a decade. Her voice and her beauty have attracted the admiration of the highest born of many lands, including, it is rumored, the intimate attentions of the Tsar of Russia and the former Emperor of France—”

“My cousin,” Jacobin interjected, “would never have the bad taste to have an affair with Napoleon!”

“What about the Tsar?” James asked. “He was our ally. Is it acceptable for your cousin to have conducted a liaison with him?”

“Quite acceptable,” replied his sister-in-law. “I hear he’s a very handsome man, and tall.”

“Jacobin isn’t attracted to short men,” her own tall husband explained gravely.