My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  Her face remained frozen in an expression of polite astonishment, one delicate dark brow raised ever so slightly. Chagrined, he turned to leave the room with what little dignity he had left when he caught a glimpse of an enchanting dimple quivering in the corner of her mouth. His own eyebrows rose questioningly. “Mademoiselle?”

  Isobel could not help it; she broke into laughter. “Monsieur, you look so funny, as though I were going to shout at you or scold you.” In truth, she had been ready to scold him and then sweep from the room in an offended hauteur, but his awkwardness had been totally disarming. She could see that he was a man accustomed to charming women. His very presence in the music room was proof enough of that, for he would have known from their previous encounter that she would be annoyed to find him there. Quite obviously he had counted on being able to talk her out of that annoyance and had begun the conversation with a most flattering apology. When she had resisted him by refusing to accept it readily he had faltered in some confusion and proceeded with an awkward earnestness that was rather enchanting. Indeed, she liked him better for it. There had been a touch of the pedantic in this speech about Catalani that seemed out of place in a dashing war hero, but that had made it all the more intriguing and had convinced her of his genuine appreciation.

  Christian grinned. “Well, you were frowning like a thundercloud, and in someone as intensely serious as you, a frown is a fearsome sight.”

  “Now you are funning.” Isobel smiled. “But have you truly seen Catalani? I never have, but I long to. One day I...” Isobel stopped. Whatever was she doing confiding her most cherished dream to someone who was practically a stranger, someone who, if half the tales his nieces told about him were true, was never serious about anything except his thirst for adventure and excitement.

  “One day you ...”

  “Ah, one day I hope to see her perform,” she finished lamely.

  But Christian was not going to let her get away with it that easily. He had observed the delicate wave of color wash over her cheeks, had seen the momentary confusion in the deep blue eyes and knew that there was more to it than that. “No, you cannot fob me off so easily, mademoiselle. You were about to say something else. I am more than seven, you know. What were you about to tell me before you thought better of it?”

  He was quick, there was no denying that, and there was also no denying the accuracy of his assessment. His eyes were fixed on her with an intensity that made dissembling impossible; in fact, it almost felt as though there were no need to speak at all, so well could he read her thoughts. Isobel’s chin rose defiantly and she drew a deep breath. “I was going to say that one day I plan to be another Madame Catalani.” There, she had said it. She gazed out at the garden and waited for the derisive laughter. Anyone else would have been horrified by such a revelation from a gently brought-up young lady.

  “Bravo.” Though his expression was amused, his voice was serious and warm with approbation.

  Isobel looked at him in surprise. While she had not expected outright disapproval from a man who seemed to lead a somewhat unconventional existence himself, she had not expected support of her crazy dream.

  “And how do you propose to accomplish this feat? And it will be a feat if you succeed even in competing with the divine Angelica, much less rivaling her.”

  A faint flush tinged Isobel’s cheeks. He did not express horror at her aspirations as being the road to social ruin, but clearly he was not entirely convinced of her ability to succeed, in spite of his previous flattering remarks. To be sure, she had sounded rather arrogant, as if becoming the equal of the world’s greatest singer was nearly a fait accompli. “I shall work very hard.” Isobel’s chin rose a fraction of an inch higher.

  A slow, appreciative grin swept over Christian’s face. “I am sure you will, but it will take more than hard work, you know, to bring you to the notice of the world. We must find you a sponsor, a patron, someone who can give you the opportunity to demonstrate your undeniable talent.”

  “We?” Isobel’s voice was frigid. Though she was grateful that he had not dismissed her dream with well-bred dismay or, worse yet, laughed at it, she certainly did not appreciate his appropriating it. Part of the happiness she derived from her dream was that it belonged to her alone and to nobody else. She certainly did not want some brash soldier thinking he could be more effective in making it come true than she could. He might have more worldly experience than she did and he might be a man, but she knew music and singing and she could manage very well without him.

  “Yes, we. I can help you find such a sponsor.” Christian spoke with quiet assurance, but he was casting about frantically in his mind for the right person to help her achieve her goal.

  “That is most generous of you, and though I naturally appreciate your kindness, I believe that your brother, who values my talent and skill enough to offer me employment, is eminently qualified to help me himself.”

  “Albert? Qualified?” Christian almost hooted with laughter. “Albert does not know the difference between a soprano and a baritone and has even less interest. Why I should be surprised if he had ever sat in the family’s box at the opera. Certainly I cannot remember his ever being there and I go whenever I am in London.”

  “Nevertheless, it would be most improper of me to accept...”

  “Improper? A young woman who wishes to become an opera singer, even the premiere opera singer in the world, lectures me on propriety? No, mademoiselle, that is doing it much too brown.” Christian shot a keen glance at her. Isobel’s fingers knotted and unknotted the short sash of lilac sarcenet that tied the front of her morning dress, accenting the gentle curves under the striped muslin. The flush tingeing her pale complexion deepened.

  He was in the right of it. To announce boldly that one aspired to a career that no true lady would even remotely consider and then refuse help on the grounds of propriety was quibbling indeed. Isobel had no ready response. She stood there fiddling with the strip of lavender in her hands, wishing desperately that he would go away and leave her alone.

  But Christian was not about to leave the young lady to her own devices. He had been thinking about her far too much since their last encounter, had laid his plans to be in the music room when she finished her lessons with his nieces far too carefully to give up so easily. In order to establish these plans, he had been forced to be extremely circumspect, enlisting the aid of his own family’s most trusted retainer in order to obtain an accurate picture of Mademoiselle de Montargis’ routine. Grinstead had known Christian since he had been in short coats and any obvious questions about Sophia and Augusta’s lovely instructress would have immediately aroused the butler’s suspicions. Therefore, it had taken several seemingly casual questions about the household in general and a good deal of listening to Grinstead’s lament about the recent decline in the quality of servants in particular before Christian had been able to establish the hours that Mademoiselle Isobel was most likely to frequent the Duke of Warminster’s music room.

  “Forgive me, mademoiselle, for teasing you, but it was irresistible, you know.”

  “Non, monsieur, you are absolutely correct to say such a thing. I know that I must accustom myself to such remarks, but indeed, I have no need of assistance.” Unconsciously Isobel straightened proudly and squared her shoulders.

  Christian’s eyes twinkled. So it was not the impropriety that upset her, but his interference that she feared. Very well. As someone who prized his own independence above all else except perhaps his honor and his country, he respected that, but he was also well enough versed in the ways of the world to know that success in anything depended as much, if not more, on influence than it did on talent. The challenge was to provide her with that influence without undermining her fierce pride. Having decided that he was going to help Mademoiselle Isobel de Montargis become as widely acclaimed as Angelica Catalani, Christian was not about to be hindered by such trivial details as Mademoiselle’s own resistance to the idea.

  “I
would never be so bold as to suggest that you are in need of assistance, mademoiselle. I merely wish to assure you that you may command mine at any time. I am a soldier, as you know, and I am therefore accustomed to fighting for a cause when I see one. If I have overstepped the bounds, I beg your pardon, but I assure you it was only meant as a compliment to your considerable talent and to your ambition.”

  Isobel eyed him cautiously, but there was no hint of dissembling in his expression. She was inured to elegant speeches filled with fulsome praise and no action; in fact, she had spent a lifetime listening to them, but this man seemed to be in deadly earnest. The eyes fixed steadily on her never wavered. Instead, they seemed to gaze deep into her heart, honoring what he saw there. It was an entirely new experience for her to be taken seriously, somewhat unsettling at first, but Isobel found that all in all, she rather liked it. “Thank you, my lord. I did not mean to sound ungrateful, but...”

  “But our dreams belong more to us if we can achieve them on our own than if we are forced to rely on the help of others. I understand, mademoiselle, believe me, I do, and I have no wish to deprive you of that. Now tell me how it is that you have conjured up this dream of yours? Surely as a noble daughter of France you are not being encouraged in such a pursuit by your family or your friends. I would expect that it is quite the opposite case. And if I were to hazard a guess, I should say that even acting as an instructress to the daughters of the Duke of Warminster is rather frowned upon and that marriage to some young man of ancient and illustrious lineage is being urged on you.” The sardonic expression on his face and the raising of one mobile dark brow conveyed a rueful sympathy and understanding that gave Isobel the oddest feeling that she had found an unexpected and unlooked-for ally in this irreverent intruder. No wonder the rigidly proper Duke of Warminster had looked uncomfortable at the mention of his brother’s name the other day, for Lord Christian Hatherleigh seemed to have a cynical attitude toward all that was constraining and confining in a system to which his brother unquestioningly and rigorously adhered.

  “You could be correct in that guess, monsieur, but fortunately for me, the financial aspects of the situation work to my advantage. Though Papa receives a small pension so generously donated by your government as well as the occasional token of appreciation from Monsieur, I mean, the Comte d’Artois, he does not have enough to support our household, nor does the young man of ancient and illustrious lineage and therefore, I am compelled to do what I can to contribute to our welfare.”

  Christian chuckled. Mademoiselle Isobel, her eyes dark with anger or flashing with conviction, was certainly lovely enough to make a man catch his breath, but with a mischievous smile on her face and a naughty twinkle in those eyes, she was utterly enchanting. “You are fortunate indeed to be so poverty-stricken as to be forced to ‘sing for your supper,’ as we English say.”

  Again he seemed to understand something about her that no one else she had ever encountered had been capable of recognizing, much less comprehending. Unwillingly, Isobel found herself warming to the man who kept interrupting her treasured moments of solitude with the pianoforte and her music.

  This moment of mutual appreciation was broken by the arrival of the duchess, who swept into the music room clutching a cream-colored note in one had. “Mademoiselle, I was wondering if... oh, Christian, whatever are you, I mean, Grinstead did not inform me that you were here. How remiss of him. I cannot think why he would be so neglectful. It is most unlike him.” Lavinia frowned and shook her head slightly.

  “Grinstead did not announce me as I expressly asked him not to. I wished to listen to Mademoiselle Isobel’s artistry without interruption from solicitous relatives.” He smiled teasingly at his sister-in-law, daring her to reply.

  “Oh.” Lavinia glanced from Christian to Isobel and back again. There was a devilish gleam in her brother-in-law’s eyes, while the young lady remained cool and composed; however, Lavinia could not help feeling that Isobel was resolutely avoiding his gaze.

  “At any rate, mademoiselle, I was hoping you could alter the time of tomorrow’s lessons as Mama has written that she is recovered from the cough that was plaguing her and is most anxious to see Sophia and Augusta.”

  “But of course, madame. I shall be happy to attend them at your convenience. When would you like me to come?”

  “Hmm. Perhaps an hour earlier and then ... no, for Mama will undoubtedly expect... er, let me think. Perhaps we should forego tomorrow’s lessons altogether. Yes, that is better I think.”

  “Very well, madame. Then I shall see them the next day at the usual time. Now, if you will forgive me, I must be going for Papa will be wondering what has become of me.” Grateful for the duchess’s interruption of a conversation that had become almost too intimate, Isobel hurried from the room before anyone could detain her.

  Chapter 8

  Isobel might have escaped further contact with Lord Christian the next day and even the day after that, but she was unable to avoid him for very long. No one who knew him would have expected Lord Christian Hatherleigh to ignore any lovely woman, but it would have been entirely impossible for him to resist seeking one out who was not only exquisitely beautiful, but who sang like an angel as well.

  In fact, Isobel expected it herself, though she would not admit to herself whether or not she wished for him to do so. Thus it was that she was not at all surprised to see him when she entered the music room to practice two days later. However, this time he seemed less inclined to talk than to listen as he sat quietly, his chin resting in his hand gazing unseeingly out into the garden beyond. Even when she had finished running through all her exercises and had sung two arias to her satisfaction, he remained silent, lost in thought. A nod in her direction was the only indication that he was aware of her at all.

  Isobel told herself that she was grateful for this forbearance as later she negotiated her way carefully through the press of traffic as she crossed Oxford Street, but in fact she was just the tiniest bit disappointed that he had not wanted to converse with her, even the slightest bit, not even a comment on the remarkably fine weather they had enjoyed for the past few days. He had been silent to the point of being taciturn, a marked contrast to the previous glib encounters. Again she was impressed by the sadness in him that she had sensed at their first meeting. What was it? Where did it come from? Not even among her fellow émigrés, even those who had lost husbands and wives to the revolution, had she felt the deep sorrow that she felt in this man, and it made her more curious than ever about him.

  In spite of herself Isobel found herself wishing to know more. However, she was not prepared to discuss him with the duchess, nor was she acquainted with anyone else who knew him so there was nowhere to turn for information except the man himself. But how did she begin without seeming either brazenly forward or intrusively inquisitive?

  Fortunately, Lord Christian provided her with just such an opportunity several days later. Isobel had just finished working on Iphigenia’s hymn to Diana from Gluck’s Iphigenea en Tauride when Christian, who had again been staring silently at the garden, spoke, as if in an afterthought. “That has always been one of my favorite operas. Mark’s as well.”

  “Mark?”

  “Yes, Lord Calvert. He was a splendid fellow, up for anything, and ready to stand by one though the worst of it without a murmur.”

  “And?” Isobel held her breath, hardly daring to ask, but wanting to know. “What happened?”

  “A ball in the chest at Vitoria. We were the terrors of our regiment, like Gluck’s Orestes and Pylades.”

  Isobel, who had risen from the pianoforte, walked slowly over to the sofa and sank down on it opposite him. “Tell me about him.”

  “We met the day I joined the regiment and though he was younger than I, having bought his commission right out of Eton while I joined after university, we became friends. Everyone loved Mark. He had a talent for amusing that I have never seen equaled. Even in the most uncomfortable of situations he could bring a
smile to men’s faces with his stories, yet he was the bravest of the brave, always out in front leading everyone on. He was always saying ‘Come on lads, it is not so bad as you think.’ And naturally, once he had said that, it was not. He was doing just that in the thick of the fray at Vitoria when his luck ran out. I grabbed his horse as soon as he was hit and pulled them out from the first charge, but he would have none of it, told me if I insisted on taking him back to safety he would finish himself off with his own pistol. So I took his place. I told one of the other lads to look after him, but it was too late. Another thing he always said was “That’s the way I want to go, Chris, at the head of a charge, none of this becoming an old stick hanging around the clubs boring young men with stories of my youth. I want to be the one they tell the stories about.’ And we do, we do.” Christian’s voice trailed off. He remained for some time staring at the floor, chin in his hands, the dark brows drawn together in a frown of such intensity that Isobel knew that what he was seeing in front of him was not the pattern of the Aubusson carpet, but the smoke and carnage of battle.

  Now she understood where the sorrow came from; it came from the horrors of war and the loss of beloved friends. She wanted to offer comfort, but what comfort was there for memories like his, and what could she, a woman who lived the most circumscribed of lives, say that could possibly be of any solace? “I...” Isobel hesitated. Perhaps it was best not to intrude, not to say anything at all. But on the other hand, she could not bear the bleakness in his face. “I... I wish I could help you to ... to forget it, or to ...”