But, with the exception of these lessons, Isobel’s life had been quiet in the extreme and she longed to know the world beyond the green fields of the Barford estates. In spite of Jane and Emily’s teasing her for her bluestocking tendencies, she devoured the books in the library at Barford Court, but voyages of the imagination could not replace the real thing and she envied the worldly experience of her own brother Auguste, and Robert, Jane and Emily’s elder brother. Whenever either Auguste or Robert was at Barford she would listen with rapt attention to their tales of schoolboy pranks, trips to London, or a day at Newmarket watching the races.
To Isobel, anything beyond the tidy flint cottages in the village or the rolling hills around the estate was new and exciting, but she alone of all Barford Court’s residents felt this way. The earl and countess, imbued with the ancient sense of a landowner’s responsibility toward land and tenants, a responsibility that passed from one generation of Barfords to another, had no wish to indulge in the delights of the fashionable world and therefore remained in Buckinghamshire even during the height of the Season.
The Duc de Montargis, who spent most of his days at his desk immersed in correspondence or his memoirs, was too wrapped up in the glories of the past to wish to learn anything more about the present, and his wife, exhausted by years of travel, and worn out by anxiety for the safety of her loved ones, was too fragile to do much more than work on her exquisite embroidery or take the occasional walk in the countess’ rose garden.
So Isobel, born with a passionate soul and an inquiring mind, was left to her own devices to satisfy as best she could longings that were more appropriate to an adventurous lad than to a gently born young lady. It was not unusual for her to wish that the Duchesse de Montargis had provided Auguste with a younger brother instead of a sister. However, it was not in her nature to complain, and for the most part, she submitted to the dullness of her fate with good grace and a certain degree of wry humor, channeling all her energies into her school lessons and her music.
It was her music, however, that truly brought meaning to Isobel’s life, providing an outlet for her abundant energy and an opportunity to pour all the passion of her vibrant soul into her singing. She would spend hours seated at the pianoforte in the music room at Barford Court going over a particular passage again and again, straining to reproduce the perfect pitch and rich timbre in her voice that she heard in her head. This search for perfection in her music was the only challenge to which she could devote herself in a way that satisfied her craving to do something extraordinary in her life, to be something greater than herself, much the way her noble ancestors had sought glory on the field of battle. Her father never tired of recounting the valiant deeds of the de Montargis who had been winning honor for their name since the time of Charlemagne, distinguishing themselves from Tours to Jerusalem, even at the disasters of Agincourt and Crecy. Isobel had sat at his knee listening to these stirring tales and longing with all her heart to be part of this noble quest for fame and glory, but there was nothing heroic about life around Barford. No particular skill or daring was required for country walks with Jane and Emily, and the only bravery she was asked to demonstrate was to endure the stifling boredom of the hours spent trying unsuccessfully to learn the delicate needlework of which her mother was justly proud.
It was only in her music that Isobel could strive after something grand, something that lifted her above her mundane existence, and she threw herself into it with her entire being. It was only her music that allowed her to dream of making a life for herself that was very different from the one that either the inhabitants of the genteel, pastoral world at Barford Court or the closely knit group of noble émigrés in and around London could possibly conceive. There was no one who would understand or sympathize with these dreams, especially her dearest dream of all, that of becoming an opera singer. No one she knew could have conceived of the notion that a well-born young lady would wish to become an opera singer, even a singer of the caliber of Catalani. But Isobel’s dreams extended even further than that, for she aspired not only to rival Catalani, but to surpass her, to have not only London, but all of Europe, at her feet. She knew very well that her parents, especially her father, would expire with horror at the notion of having a daughter on stage. The entire émigré community would disown her. If they had divested one of their poverty-stricken members of his Order of St. Louis simply because desperation had driven him to become a servant in order to support himself, what would they say of a woman who displayed her talents in public in order to earn a living? The Duc de Montargis and his coterie would sooner condemn her to a life of aristocratic penury than have her become an actrice de l’opéra, but Isobel, who had never derived any benefits from her aristocratic heritage except a life of exile and dependence on the kindness of others, did not agree with this philosophy. To her, being able to support oneself by one’s skills was far more honorable than relying on the glories of a past lost beyond redemption to win pity and support from the sympathetic English.
Supporting herself and her family had become Isobel’s goal, and to that end she had devoted herself to her studies so that she could become a music teacher as Monsieur Verbier had done. She had been right to do so, for just at the time when Emily and Jane had begun talking about their come-outs the Duchesse de Montargis had succumbed to the wasting disease that had plagued her for so long and the duc, who had only accepted the Barfords’ charity for his wife’s sake, had insisted on moving to London to be near the rest of the émigré community. However, his pension from the British government had barely allowed them to survive and Isobel, forced once again to accept the aid of the Countess of Barford, had been most grateful for her suggestion to her cousin Lavinia, Duchess of Warminster, that Isobel de Montargis would make an ideal music teacher for the duchess’s daughters, Augusta and Sophia.
The Duc de Montargis was horrified at the idea, but necessity was a stern taskmaster and he was able to assuage his injured pride somewhat with the thought that even though his daughter was perilously close to holding a servant’s position, it was in the household of one of England’s most respectable families and she would be consorting with persons of the highest quality. Still, this did not keep him from shaking his head sadly every time Isobel returned home from giving lessons.
The duc would have preferred her to earn a living in the company of others of her kind working in the ateliers along with the Comtesse de Sallanches, the Marquise de St. Veran, and other noble ladies who spent their days bent over fine needlework, but Isobel had no skills along those lines, for which she was immensely grateful. The idea of spending her days listening to the gossip of these former aristocrats chatting of bygone days and the doings of their own narrow circle was stifling in the extreme and she constantly blessed her fingers, so clumsy at embroidery and so skillful on the pianoforte, for saving her from this restricted little society.
She continually promised herself that she would break away from it all. She would fulfill her dream to become a singer of incomparable renown, so sought after and so admired for her voice that none of her society’s petty rules would apply and she would be free to live her life as she wished, to travel and bring music to admiring audiences all over the world.
Isobel was thinking of this dream now as she hurried down Duke Street toward their lodgings in Manchester Square. She was late, having allowed herself to be beguiled by Lord Christian’s stories of the Peninsula, and now her papa would be wondering what had become of her. It had only been the strident chime of the music-room clock and the appearance of Sophia and Augusta’s governess that had brought them all back to the present, so immersed had they been in descriptions of the rugged Pyrenees, beautiful Spanish senoritas, bold Portuguese guerrillas, long marches over impossible terrain, and daily life in camp.
Lord Christian had a gift for making it all come alive, reminiscing about curious characters and local color in a half-mocking, half-humorous tone that made it all seem like a glorious adventure. The litt
le girls had been spellbound, and Isobel, too, had been drawn in to it all, but she was drawn for entirely different reasons. There had been an undercurrent of pain that occasionally crept into his voice, a sorrow that darkened his eyes. His words had spilled over one another in such a way that Isobel sensed that the telling of it all somehow released him from an unbearable pressure that he had been suffering. What had caused that pressure, what memories were behind that pain? She could not help wondering at it, at the contrast between the teasing ironic gentleman with the rakish airs who had intruded into her practice session and the indulgent uncle who regaled his nieces with stories, between the dashing soldier and suffering man she had sensed under that handsome, bold exterior.
Rounding the corner into Manchester Street, Isobel pushed these intriguing thoughts from her mind, slowed her vigorous stride into the smooth graceful pace demanded of a well-bred young lady, and composed her features into the quiet, submissive expression of a dutiful daughter; not those of a young woman who had been relishing visions of herself performing before adoring crowds or who enjoyed an invigorating walk from Grosvenor Square, and certainly not one who had traded gibes with the dashing and impudent uncle of her pupils.
Chapter 3
The Duc de Montargis was to be found, as usual, at his desk in the corner of what he called the drawing room, though its size more nearly resembled that of a small sitting room. The duc had debated with himself for some time over the placement of the desk, for by rights it should have been in the room below and at the back of the house, which had clearly had been designed for that purpose. But in the summer the windows of the drawing room afforded him a glimpse of green and trees in the center of Manchester Square. Even now, in the pale January sunlight it offered a vista more similar to the one from his own library at the Hotel de Montargis in the Faubourg Saint-Germain, and it allowed him to forget from time to time that he was no longer looking out over his own beautifully tended formal gardens in his beloved Paris, but a square in a foreign city. Steeped in tradition as he was, he had even felt the need to defend this unusual arrangement to his daughter, but she had laughed indulgently at his concerns, pointing out that all of their neighbors, the Comte d’Artois, the Duc de Berri, were making do with vastly reduced spaces themselves and were not likely even to notice that he was putting the room to such unconventional use, and even less likely to call attention to it. “You must sit and write in the spot most conducive to your inspiration. Papa,” she had replied, planting a kiss on his worried brow.
So it had been settled and the desk had been placed in the drawing room, but the duc still suffered the occasional pang at having his working space taking up a room that should have been devoted to purely social gatherings until Isobel had had the brilliant notion of asking the Duchess de Gontaut to paint a screen that could hide the offending area from the rest of the room whenever guests were invited.
“Bonjour, Papa.”
The duc looked up to see his daughter, bonnet dangling in one hand, illuminated by a weak ray of sunlight slanting through the window. With her exquisite features, the finely chiseled nose and chin, the beautifully sculpted lips, the delicate dark brows, she was almost as lovely as her mother had been, and the image of all that was grace and feminine beauty. She should have been the doyenne of her own chateau by now, or at the very least, the focus of a group of admiring courtiers. Instead she was here in this poor excuse for a drawing room, her music tucked under her arm, checking on her papa before going below stairs to help Marthe with the preparation of their plain, but nourishing dinner.
The duc sighed and laid down his pen. He knew he should be grateful that he was alive, that his daughter was alive, that his son—the duc stifled the thought. He would not think of Auguste now. He never thought of Auguste anymore if he could help it.
“How is it going, Papa?”
“Ah, I did not feel up to working on it today. I had no heart for it, ma fille, so I have been writing instead an article for the Courrier d’Angleterre which Monsieur Fauche-Borel assures me is distributed on the Continent so that all the world can see what we suffer at the hands of those regicides who call themselves Frenchmen. Naturellement I do not hold Monsieur Fauche-Borel in high esteem, for no one who was a true gentleman would act as an agent for any government, but if Lord Grenville, who is a gentleman, has convinced the British government to pay for the printing and distribution of the paper then I feel I must do all I can to support the endeavor.”
“And I can think of no one who could write more convincingly for the cause than you, Papa. Did you attend Monsieur’s drawing room today?” Sensing her father’s melancholy mood, Isobel did her best to turn his mind to a more cheerful topic. The Comte d’Artois’ weekly receptions for the few surviving members of the court, though a poor substitute for the elaborate functions he had once held at Versailles, never failed to restore her father’s dedication to the members of the royal family and to rekindle the hope that one day they would again all be gathering at Versailles or the Tuileries.
“Mais certainement. I should never miss attending one.”
“No, of course not. And who was there?”
“Oh, the usual, Uzes, Choiseul, Castris, FitzJames, though, now that I think of it, FitzJames was not there. I believe he and the duchesse were visiting the Conde at Wanstead.”
“Yes. The other evening at Madame de Sallanches’ the duchesse mentioned that they would be going to the country. And now. Papa, I leave you to your writing for I must go help Marthe.”
Her father sighed. “I wish you would not. It is not fitting that a daughter of the house of de Montargis ...”
“I know, Papa.” Isobel hastily stemmed the lament she knew was about to begin. “But I like being useful. I know that Marthe can prepare dinner by herself, but I have nothing in particular to do and I like to help. It makes the task that much quicker and easier for both of us.”
“Useful! A lady is not supposed to be useful—charming, yes, and decorative, absolument, but useful?” The duc shook his head and went back to his writing. His daughter was right; they had been over this many times before and she always overruled him. She had inherited the strong will of her grandmother, the Duchesse de Chalet-Gonthier, and the pride of the de Montargis which, in spite of her gentle manner, made her a force to be reckoned with, but who could have thought that these patrician traits, passed through the blood of generations of aristocrats, would have manifested themselves in a desire to be self-sufficient and self-supporting? It must be the cold, damp air of England that was responsible for this odd state of mind, otherwise there was no accounting for it. It was a strange climate, to be sure, and only the strong survived. His sainted Louise had struggled against it for her children’s sake, but in the end she had succumbed to its unhealthy fogs and incessant rain.
The duc had no doubt that the weather was somehow to account for his daughter’s insistence on dragging herself to Grosvenor Square every day all for the sake of a few sous when she could have remained at home living on the pension he received from the British government. To be sure it would be rather a restricted living, for their rent was seventy pounds a year and his pension as a former senior officer in the army a mere ten guineas a month, but it would have been possible to survive gracefully enough as all their friends were.
There was simply no explaining his daughter’s passion to be doing something except the climate which had made the English themselves into such a dull, industrious race. Of course her exposure to the Barfords had also contributed to it, for if one had not known that they were the owners of Barford Court and much of the surrounding countryside, one would never have guessed that the Earl and Countess of Barford belonged to the nobility, so hard did they work at tasks that should have, in the duc’s opinion, been turned over to an able steward. Nor did they participate in court life or evince the least interest in it; instead they demonstrated an almost unnatural concern for local affairs, engaging themselves in the most pragmatic manner by writing letters in
support of various causes or journeying to Parliament to speak to certain issues and then returning immediately to the country without spending any time in London. There was no wit, no dash, no spark of gallantry in their conversation or their lives and sadly, his daughter seemed to have absorbed this same mania for being productive rather than decorative.
To be sure, Isobel, graceful and lovely as she was, always attracted a crowd of admirers at the weekly salons held at the lodgings of one or another of their acquaintances, but all too often she would try to beg off an invitation, complaining to her father, “All they do is talk, Papa, and I would so much rather be doing. If only they would talk about something useful I should not mind it, but they talk of nothing at all. They do not wish to convey ideas in their conversations as much as they wish to demonstrate their own cleverness. I would so much rather stay at home and read a book; at least that way I would learn something.”
And when he in distress would protest, “But, ma fille, how will you ever find a husband if you shut yourself up at home?” she would only laugh.
“And what would a husband bring me,” she would ask, “more faded glory and a smaller pension than the one on which we now live? You see, Papa, it is far better for me to stay at home and practice my singing so that I might become a better music teacher. That would do more for me than a husband would.”
The duc would shake his head in resignation. He knew there was no changing her. Even as a child Isobel had been the serious one, working doggedly at her lessons or whatever task she had put her mind to. She could not be distracted until she had completed the particular project to her satisfaction. It was his son, Auguste, who had shown the natural sparkle of a courtier, who had flourished in their small, select society and had distinguished himself among the young gentlemen of his coterie for his gaiety and wit. Given the opportunity to join in a social occasion, he had no difficulty in laying aside whatever he was doing in order to take part in the merriment. Yes, Auguste could be counted on to seek out other gallants in any group and become the most gallant of them all. But, he told himself, he would not think of Auguste.
My Lady Nightingale Page 2
