For one who didn’t like to see women on the stage, his royal highness seemed rather entranced.
Was he plotting her demise? Or her seduction? He might find his charms fell flat where she was concerned.
I must keep my mind on my performance. No doubt this royal prince was not interested in her other than in a superficial way, so there was no reason to feel flattered. He did not even know her.
The one thing he does know about me, he does not hold in regard.
Which is, coincidentally, the thing that matters most to me in this world.
And the one possession which no one, prince or pauper, would take from her!
Nicolette curtseyed, threw a kiss to the audience, and retreated backstage with Caruso amidst a whirlwind of flowers falling from the sky while the audience roared.
They embraced backstage, where a photographer snapped their picture.
Her grandparents were waiting in the wings to greet her. Lady Elaina and Dr. Jonathan Stanton, who had traveled from London for her opening night performance, embraced her.
“Sensational, my dear,” Lady Elaina pronounced breathlessly. “I have never seen or heard anything to equal it.”
“We are so proud, Nicolette.” Dr. Stanton kissed her cheek.
“It was the most glorious experience of my life.” Nicolette's lips formed a trembling smile even as she attempted to control her racing heart. “Is Ma-ma feeling better?”
“Much, but unfortunately your father had to stay with her and missed your performance. You have only us for dinner,” explained Dr. Stanton.
Nicolette hugged them. “How can I feel anything lacking when you are here?” Naturally she was disappointed her parents had not been able to attend her debut, but she was delighted her grandparents had made the journey. And her parents would catch one of the other performances.
“You gave an incredible performance, Enrico.” Nicolette turned to her tenor, Enrico Caruso. “Without you, I would not have sung nearly so well. You are my lucky talisman.”
“Without me?” Caruso laughed as he bowed. Despite his enormous talent, there was a humility and openness about him which surprised her in an artist of his genius. “You are the greatest bel canto soprano I have ever heard, Signorina Nicolette. And the coloratura—molto bello.”
“The Marchesi demands it. She insists one be a coloratura specialist.”
“A coloratura soprano adds ornamentation to the written music, requiring much in the way of fast scales and cadenzas,” Lady Elaina explained to her husband, nudging him.
“Ah, yes.” He nodded in understanding. “And the Marchesi? Is she your voice teacher?”
“That or the Kaiser’s chief military advisor.”
Caruso chuckled. “Her rigorous training has paid off for you Signorina.”
“And you will join us for dinner, Enrico?” Nicolette asked.
“Of course, if you will have me.” He looked very pleased, not having in family in Paris, though Enrico was never short of friends.
“We would be delighted,” Lady Elaina added.
“And were you nervous, Nicolette, dear?” Dr. Stanton asked, his sapphire blue eyes intent upon her, especially vivid against his greying temples. In his black evening wear, he looked to be more the gentleman of leisure than a world-famous scientist.
“Nervous?” Lady Elaina laughed, her auburn coiffure bobbing. “Nicolette performed like a seasoned singer. She was in complete control from start to finish. She controlled herself, the audience, the mood, everything.”
“Control? No. Far from it.” Nicolette shook her head. “I felt myself to be the water when the dam burst.”
“Water? What an interesting analogy, my dear,” Dr. Stanton mused.
“You are not the water, Lady Nicolette.” Caruso gave her a sideways glance. “You are the bull, eh? Ready to kill the matador? Or, the tenor, in this case?”
“You are in no danger from me, Enrico.”
“Bellissimo.” Caruso kissed his fingertips. “Sopranos with your range—the infinitesimal few who have it—have light, small voices.” He wrinkled his nose in disdain. “Yours is at once sultry and rich. However did you develop your unique voice, Signorina?”
“It is a grave secret.” Nicolette’s voice had been influenced by the drama and angst of youth, a parent’s perceived cruelty, societal limitations, and an extraordinarily unusual set of circumstances which she was reluctant to share, even with someone as dear to her as Enrico.
“I love secrets. I find them very useful.” Enrico’s expression was mischievous. He was a master trickster.
“No, Enrico, this is a secret for the confessional,” Nicolette protested. She was not Catholic, but she knew Enrico was. Even though she felt no shame, she dreaded Enrico thinking any less of her.
“My favorite type of secret.”
Nicolette was not one to hide who she was from her friends. If they could not like her for who she was, the friendship was not a true one.
“Very well, I shall tell you, Enrico.” She glanced at her grandparents who appeared uncomfortable. “When I was thirteen years of age, soon after we arrived in Paris, I begged my father to allow me to begin voice lessons that I might become an opera singer. He forbade it absolutely, saying he would not have a daughter on the stage.”
“Lord Ravensdale is an earl, after all,” Lady Elaina interjected. “He had a distinguished military post and a new diplomatic position which could be negatively impacted by such a connection.”
“Oh, yes. I understood this. But it only added to my resolve: I could see it was hopeless. And I did not want to live if I could not sing.” Nicolette sighed. “I still don’t.”
“Mamma Mia!” Enrico exclaimed. “What foolish thing did you do, Stellina?”
“You must know I was very passionate and impulsive as a child.”
“I don’t believe it,” Enrico murmured.
“It is true. I saw a bottle of iodine stored in the medicine cabinet as a treatment for influenza. In a moment of abandon, I swallowed it.”
“Santo Cielo!”
“It was the worst pain I have ever known.” Nicolette shuddered at the memory. “My throat was on fire. It was as if all the demons of Hell were having a celebratory bonfire in my throat.”
“It was terrible,” Lady Elaina gasped. “She was barely more than a child, screeching and wailing like a banshee with all the power left in her voice. Everyone in the household, family and servants alike, rushed to where Nicolette was.”
“Even now I recall the terror in their eyes despite my tears and blinding pain. My father especially. He was shattered.”
Dr. Stanton coughed. “In the end, his lordship determined a daughter on the stage was better than a dead daughter.”
“To be sure. But it did not ruin your voice…” Caruso was puzzled.
“Bizarrely enough, my now blackened throat has an improved depth of range.” She shrugged. “It is not a method which I recommend.”
“It strikes me that both you and Caruso have voices which can be described as sultry and rich,” Lady Elaina considered.
“Grazie.” He bowed graciously. “Signorina Nicolette’s combine two voices into one: the alto and the soprano. She is like me. I was a baritone and by force of will made myself into a tenor.”
“You are a tenor. Only this, Enrico,” Nicolette objected.
“Here! Here!” seconded Dr. Stanton.
“And a brilliant performer: you have a rapport with the audience which makes them feel they are on the stage with you.”
“But you were on stage with me Signorina Nicolette. Don’t you recall?”
“We all felt that way.” Lady Elaina suppressed laughter, looking like a schoolgirl in Caruso's presence.
“It occurs to me, Enrico, that you are the greatest tenor the world has ever known. Besides a great friend.” Nicolette kissed him on the cheek, and, at that moment there imposed privacy came to an end. A photographer rushed forward and snapped their picture.
&
nbsp; “Though you try to outshine me, you hide your intention well, Signorina Nicolette,” Caruso murmured in hushed tones with a wink.
Nicolette stared at him aghast. “We can only add to each other's countenance, Enrico.”
“Signorina, do you recall the night of tenor John McCormack's London debut?”
“Of course,” she nodded somberly, particularly feeling the excitement and angst of one’s debut.
“What happened?” Dr. Stanton raised his eyebrows in concern.
“John naturally moved forward to take his bow with Melba on the stage—”
“The soprano?” Dr. Stanton asked.
“Yes,” Nicolette nodded. “Melba literally shoved John behind her, saying, ‘In this house, no one takes a bow with Melba.’”
“Oh, dear.” Lady Elaina placed her gloved hand on her lips. “Not very professional—or ladylike.”
“I see no reason to humiliate your co-star on the stage, man or woman,” Dr. Stanton said.
“Melba is a great talent, but so is John. It was very shabby indeed.” In Nicolette’s heart she thanked the heavens for someone who had made her opening night a success: tonight would determine her future. She had never been so happy. All nineteen of her years had been lived for this moment.
* * *
With Lady Elaina in attendance, Nicolette proceeded to her dressing room to change before joining her entourage for dinner.
“I love the role, Grandmamma.” As Nicolette sat at her Rococo style gold gilt dressing table staring into her mirror, she re-lived the deafening applause. Her eyes rested on the bouquets which filled her dressing room and she took in a deep breath, wanting to memorize the fragrance of this moment.
“The role loved you, Nicolette.” Lady Elaina fluffed her gown of mauve peau de crepe trimmed with gathered chiffon ruchings about her while lounging on a lovely cream-colored fainting couch, her face lit by the light from an Etienne glass lamp. With auburn hair, aquamarine eyes, and a lavender cloud-dress, she was definitely not one to fade into the background. Something in common with her granddaughter.
“Carmen lives by her own rules, courageously, absolutely true to her heart. In the end, when she is facing death, she does not flinch, and she will not apologize, even when it might save her. There is no falsity about Carmen.”
“And she amuses herself with men as if they were her personal play things,” Lady Elaina remarked absently, thumbing through the playbill. She glanced up momentarily. “Not unlike you, my dear.”
“Grandmamma! Imagine using men to fulfill one's fantasies and then tossing them aside. I assure you I have never done any such a thing.”
Lady Elaina raised her eyebrows and then returned to her playbill without comment.
For a moment Nicolette thought of the prince she had met earlier. She had felt something all-consuming when she met him.
She shrugged. He was merely breathtakingly handsome.
Why should I care?
Why indeed? She had seen his true colors. And, besides, by now he had realized his error and would have nothing more to do with her.
Nicolette felt a tinge of sadness when she should have felt amusement.
She suddenly realized her grandmother had spoken. “Oh, pardon me, Grandmamma, what did you say?”
“I will excuse your inattention on this day, my sweet. Most understandable. I was merely remarking that, thus far, men have written all the great operas. If there is a sensual woman who has power over men in opera, she will die. Guaranteed.”
“Hmm…” Nicolette tried in vain to think of an exception. “You are right, Grandmamma.”
“Of course I am right. In opera or literature, a man who has power over women might at times be forgiven, even allowed to resume a normal life as if nothing had happened, but a powerful woman will not be allowed to see the light of day.”
“As if killing off her character will purge men of their lust.”
“Men want their lust. They have no intention of giving it up.” Lady Elaina set the playbill next to the Etienne lamp.
“Let us make the most of the night then,” Nicolette sniffed from the various jars of perfume on her dressing table, wondering which to wear after her bath. This day was the turning point of her life and she had had the audience eating out of her hand. Of what possible interest could an arrogant prince be to her? “Which perfume should I wear Grandmamma?”
“I favor Jacinthe Blanche.”
“There is no complexity to it.”
“True, it smells like violets with no undertones. It does not suit you,” Lady Elaina pronounced. “Unlike the reserved and demure girls who typify today's fashionable woman, you hold nothing back. Especially for the audience.”
“How could I?” Nicolette sighed. Her course of breaking with the feminine ideal of the day had, surprisingly, paid off for her.
“I hope you know how very fortunate you are, Nicolette. Few women are allowed to pursue their dreams.”
“Fortunate and tortured. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to not be so compelled. It's as if I have no choices in life. Every moment of every day is pre-determined.”
“And meaningful.”
“Yes. Some people never know a moment of pure bliss in their lives. I know what it is with every performance.” Nicolette began placing pins in her hair, attempting to tame the wild, but calculated, disarray all about her shoulders. “I must give that same experience of rapture to my audience. Though great displays of emotion are frowned upon, on the stage they are well received.”
“More than well received. It thrills. It delights.”
“I cherish my existence, Grandmamma. While I am in the music I am being one with Something glorious.” She smiled at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. “I feel it and the audience feels it. We are one in this experience, in the moment when beautiful music is created.”
She took all the pins out of her hair and resolved to start over. She began brushing her long black hair, and Lady Elaina moved to take over the intimate chore. Lady Elaina gently brushed as Nicolette grew lost in her reverie.
“Grandmamma, this is my first leading roll and my debut with the Paris Opera House. In this capacity, I feel myself to be fully realized. I cannot imagine being happier.” She closed her eyes momentarily. “And yet I harbor no delusions. It is absolutely critical I succeed in this role, or there will be no other. I have to be marvelous, but that is not enough. The audience has to love me.”
“That was certainly accomplished,” Lady Elaina murmured. “How could they do anything else? And although waiting these two years tested the absolute limits of your patience, you see now why is was best you were forced to fully develop your talent.”
“I do comprehend it now, I must admit. If I had peaked too early and fallen on my face, my vocation—and my life—would have been over.”
Her hair brushed, Nicolette stood and, without any words spoken, Lady Elaina began painstakingly removing the black silk almost plastered to her curvaceous figure.
“Ouch! Grandmamma! I believe you have stuck me with a pin.”
“What shall you wear to dinner tonight, Nicolette?” Lady Elaina ignored the outburst.
“The emerald green silk?”
“No, I gave that to Désirée, Grandmamma.” Nicolette moved behind an antique white mirrored dressing screen and began wiping herself off with a wet washrag dipped into a white porcelein wash bowl painted with blue roses. There was not room for a full bath in her dressing room, so the sponge, soap, wash bowl and pitcher of warm water would have to do. It was effective enough if more laborious.
“Désirée? Who is this young lady and why should she need your emerald silk?” Lady Elaina asked in raised tones.
“She is in the chorus. The gown became her so much, and she has no money for such things.”
“The gown became you as well.”
“It was too green. It needed a hint of blue to match my eyes. For this evening, I think the apricot silk and the pearls will be perf
ect.” Her wash completed, Nicolette dried herself off and put on her drawers and her chemise.
“You are an odd type of prima donna, my dear,” Lady Elaina observed under her breath.
“I live to sing, nothing more.” Nicolette put on her stockings, moving from behind the screen to request assistance with her corset.
“I know very well you adore the attention, my dear, so none of your Banberry tales for me,” Lady Elaina stated, tying the corset threads. “An odd thing to be giving away your finery with your disposition.”
“My disposition? To what do you refer?” She took a deep breath in. “Ouch! Not so much, Grandmamma.”
“You were made to be before an audience, my dear.”
Her corset in place, Nicolette powdered and perfumed herself. “I merely wish to be the one being watched instead of the one doing the watching.” She gurgled as she cast a sly glance upon her grandmother. “That I am well able to accomplish with or without my finery.”
A knock on the door interrupted their outburst of laughter. Nicolette quickly slipped on her wrapper and moved to open the door.
“Nicolette! You are barefoot!”
En route Nicolette slipped her feet into her boudoir slippers.
To say she was surprised upon opening the door was an understatement. There before her stood the servant who had accompanied the prince that evening, a subtle masculine scent of carnation, cardamom, and oak moss accompanying him.
He bowed with much more aplomb—and agility—than had the prince.
The page handed her a note which Nicolette hurriedly read. It was from Prince Alejandro asking her to dine with him at Le Meurice on the private terrace of his suite—the Belle Etoile!—that evening.
It was all Nicolette could do to keep from dropping the note. She was tempted to pinch herself so she did not stand there reading it over and over like a gaping toad.
She swallowed hard and looked up. Clearly the page was awaiting her reply.
It is astonishing. A private dinner with a prince. Learning her identity had not deterred his royal highness. She was very aware of the honor he bestowed upon her.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren Page 12
