Secrets of a Soprano (5 page)

“Disappointed, Max?” Somerville murmured beneath the roar of applause that greeted the end of
Caro mio ben
.

“Not at all, Somerville. She’s exactly what I expected.”

*

Refusing a third
encore, Tessa braced herself to greet the horde waiting to engulf her. The praise and fond embrace of her cousin might have eased the familiar tension engendered by crowds of strangers, but the presence of the one person she was determined to avoid roiled her stomach with dread.

“Do you need any refreshment?” Jacobin asked.

“A glass of champagne would be agreeable, cousin, but nothing to eat. I always sup late.”

“Call me Jacobin,” Lady Storrington replied. “May I call you Tessa?”

“Please do. No one does any more. It reminds me of my childhood.”

And of Max. Max had always called her Tessa.

“And I hope I can tempt you to taste a little pastry,” Jacobin went on. “I make them myself.”

“How unusual. I wasn’t aware that peeresses were in the habit of preparing food for their guests.”

Jacobin laughed. “They’re not. But I was a pastry cook before I became a countess and I like to keep my hand in. I’m very good, you know. I can assure you I won’t poison you.”

Tessa smiled, warming to her cousin and hostess. She was beginning to feel guilty about her fee. Sofie, displaying an unexpected flair for extortion, had demanded a princely sum for the evening, expecting to come down in price. Lady Storrington had agreed without a murmur.

“Just one, then,” she said, “but only one. It wouldn’t do for La Divina to become La Rotunda.”

“You can afford at least two,” the countess replied. “Your figure is much better than Catalani’s.”

“Angelica,” said Tessa gravely, “doesn’t watch her diet as carefully as she should.”

“Is there anyone in particular you’d like to meet?”

Tessa tossed down her glass of champagne in a single gulp to give her courage. While she was here she might as well take care of some business.

“Pray present me to Lord Allerton,” she requested. Anything to avoid Max Hawthorne, whom, out of the corner of her eye, she could see in conversation with the Marquess of Somerville and another gentleman.

Her hope that Allerton was on the other side of the room was dashed. Jacobin led her toward the paunchy older man who stood chatting with Hawthorne. Of course he had to be chatting with Hawthorne. Such was her luck.

Jacobin stopped behind Max and tapped on his black-clad shoulder.

“Excuse me for interrupting,” she said. “Please allow me to present you to my cousin, Signora Foscari. Tessa, this is Lord Allerton. Also”—indicating the other two—“Lord Somerville and Sir Henry Waxfield.”

Tessa wasn’t sure how she managed to retain enough self-assurance to curtsey. Only years of experience in the public arena prevented her from gaping like an idiot at the discovery that the enormously wealthy impresario of London’s new opera house was also her former love. Panic seized her throat and she doubted she was capable of uttering a single word.

Apparently he was not so affected. He looked down at her with maddening self-assurance.

“Mrs. Foscari and I have met,” he said in a voice that would freeze morning chocolate.

“Really?” Jacobin asked. “You didn’t say so, Tessa. Or maybe she doesn’t remember you, Allerton.” Her tone was teasing then her smile faded. Apparently she noticed the frigid atmosphere.

“It’s been many years,” Tessa said softly. It took all her courage to speak at all, let alone with any degree of calm. “He was Mr. Hawthorne then.”

*

Max knew he’d
have to meet her and he was ready. He’d decided not to acknowledge their previous acquaintance unless she did. He had not counted on the potency of Tessa’s presence. La Foscari’s presence, rather. The press of guests around them made the distance between them a mere yard or so. The room’s chatter faded from his consciousness, as did every soul in it. When Lady Storrington introduced them he managed to utter a few words with little idea what he was saying.

“Of course you know Madame Foscari, Allerton.” Sir Henry Waxfield was speaking now. “You’ve been abroad often since Waterloo and must have caught her in some opera house or other.” Having settled the question to his satisfaction, the pompous baronet addressed his next question to the guest of honor. “Must have been awkward, madam, traveling around Europe during all the years when Bonaparte was always at war with some country.”

“Sometimes it was troublesome,” she replied coolly, obviously not a whit discomforted by Max’s presence, while he was agitated by the discovery that her speaking voice, soft and sweet, hadn’t changed. Suddenly she
was
Tessa.

“Were you ever in danger?” Lady Storrington asked.

“Fortunately not,” Tessa replied, “though one time I was almost caught between the lines of the Austrian and French armies. The coachman had taken the wrong road and we didn’t know where we were until he heard gunfire.”

“By Jove,” Waxman said. “How did you escape?”

“I came through safely due to the chivalry of soldiers. A troop of Austrians on reconnaissance stopped my carriage and the officer recognized me.”

She laughed. She and Max had shared a great deal of laughter as they explored the old streets of Oporto together. Now there was a brittleness to her mirth, a false note that had probably always been there but he had been too naïve and besotted to detect.

“He offered to escort us under flag of truce,” she continued. “The Austrian, a very handsome man of excellent family, was also acquainted with my companion Signora Montelli.”

Two or three others crowded around them to hear the diva’s tale, which she delivered with dramatic effect. As he listened Max took the opportunity to examine her unobserved. She was tall for a woman and as capable of commanding a drawing room as she did the stage. Trying to observe her dispassionately, he wondered if the kind of glamour she cast over her surroundings was due to her fame. Would she seem as fascinating if she were unknown? The latter, he fancied. God knew he’d been equally struck when he first met her. One look at Tessa Birkett and he’d been head-over-heels and painfully in love. Except there had been no pain, only blinding joy when he thought she returned his feelings. The pain had come later and his heart ached anew as he’d hoped it never would again.

“After several miles, we approached the French line and we were terrified,” Foscari went on. “A small platoon came out to meet us, muskets raised. Would the truce hold or would we be met with a barrage of bullets?” She held the audience in the palm of her hand.

“What happened?” someone asked amid several gasps.

She shrugged. “Nothing.
Rien de tout
. My Austrian gallant explained to the French captain that I was Teresa Foscari and had been admired by the emperor. He kissed my hand and rode away, leaving us under the protection of the French. The
capitaine
took us to the French camp where he served us wine. We drank a toast to
l’empereur
and the art of music, then he sent us on our way to Paris.”

“What a marvelous story,” Lady Storrington said. “And was the French officer as handsome as the Austrian?”

“But of course, and just as charming.”

“It’s wonderful that appreciation of great art transcends the conflict of nations.”

Great art, my eye
! Max didn’t believe a word of it. Teresa Foscari had surely been given safe conduct on the French side because she was known to be the emperor’s mistress. Quite possibly she’d given herself to the Emperor of Austria too. Why stop at two emperors when she could have three? His chest tightened and his head threatened to burst. God damn her to hell.

*

Max hadn’t spoken
a word during her recitation, for which Tessa was profoundly grateful. The story was one she’d told dozens of times. She knew it as well as any operatic role and could have delivered it in her sleep. It was always well received and she never spoiled it with ugly truths about war: the ruined farmland and wretched peasants, mostly women and children; the constant cannonades, out of sight but audible all the way; the bodies of soldiers along the roadside and the groans of the wounded in the French camp. Why ruin a pleasant evening?

Unfortunately someone else had the power to do just that.

Jacobin turned to Max. “Where did you and Madame Foscari meet?” she asked. “Didn’t you go to Vienna last year?”

“We met in Portugal,” Max said. Tessa couldn’t read his mood but had no reason to think his clipped tones friendly. “Miss Birkett, as she was then known, performed at the opera house there. I don’t recall which role.”

“Despina in
Cosi fan tutte
,” Tessa said.

“Madam, it appears that your memory is better than mine.”

“Since it was my operatic debut, it isn’t an occasion I’m likely to forget. I’m sorry it made so little impact on you.” How could he have forgotten? At the time he had told her she had dazzled him with her talent and her beauty. Only two weeks later he had declared his eternal love, a love she had discovered later was nothing but lust. Now, as she stared at the cold black eyes of the older Max, she realized, to her humiliation, that she wanted him to admire her still, secretly hoped he regretted the past.

“Of course I knew little of opera then and cared less.” True enough, at least the first part. He’d pelted her with questions about her roles and her craft, seemed endlessly fascinated by tales of life on and behind the stage. New to the theater herself, she’d done her best to satisfy his voracious curiosity.

“How fortunate,” she rejoined with a touch of sarcasm, raising her chin and holding onto her poise by a slender thread, “that the insipidity of the occasion didn’t spoil you forever for the art.”

“Since those days,” Max said, “I’ve learned to appreciate it.”

Vaguely aware that others were avidly observing this byplay, she tried to silence the ominous buzz that wanted to take possession of her brain.

Waxfield, whose eyes had scarcely wavered from Tessa’s bosom since the moment of introduction, laughed. “Yes, indeed,” he said. “There’s not a man in London knows more about opera than Allerton. Or opera singers.” He gave Max a little nudge. “Doubt if he’s ever seen a singer to equal you, though.”

Max seemed to give the innuendo consideration. “You may be correct, Waxfield. It’s rare to find beauty combined with vocal talent. A beautiful heroine adds to the veracity of the drama. But the voice of the singer is more important than her appearance. Where both are present opera achieves the perfect marriage of music and drama. That is what we hope to accomplish at the Regent. But the music comes first.”

Tessa could hardly argue with an opinion in complete accord with her own. And surely Max wasn’t implying her own talents were lacking in musicality. She decided to take his comment at face value and make polite conversation. Small talk she could manage.

“All London is talking about your new opera house,” she said.

“No,” he said, his face harsh, “all London is talking about La Divina, who sings at the Tavistock.”

She was prepared to accept this compliment graciously and had begun to incline her head in recognition when, in a voice dropped low but still perfectly audible to his companions and his hostess, Allerton continued. “You are too high priced for our humble venture. Somerville, perhaps, is better able to afford you.”