My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  He was silent for a moment, then nodded begrudgingly. “Not a bad answer, signorina. Come, then, tell me what you wish to sing for me and I shall accompany you.”

  “There is no need for that, monsieur. I am perfectly capable of accompanying myself, which will give you a better opportunity to concentrate all your attention on evaluating my performance.”

  He rose and waved his hand toward the bench he had just vacated as he took his position in a chair close to the fire. “Very well. Your patron tells me that you do a creditable job of performing ‘Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen.’“

  “He is not my patron,” Isobel stated flatly, settling her skirts around her as she took her place at the pianoforte. “But yes, he has heard me sing that.”

  The music master did not miss the dismissive tone of voice nor the defiant lifting of the chin. She had pride, this one, an honest pride, which was not a bad thing in a performer. “Very well. Begin.” He watched the hands gliding over the keys as she played a few bars of introduction. They were long-fingered, capable hands that moved with assurance over the keys. There was no nervousness, no unnecessary flourish, nothing to distract the observer from the music itself. He was still thinking about her quiet poise when the first notes of the aria poured forth. Those first notes, clear, true, and perfectly modulated made him forget that he was there to advise and to criticize, but instead he found himself being swept away by the beauty of the song itself.

  Isobel finished and glanced anxiously at him, but Signor Bartoli’s face remained utterly impassive as he sat there, head back and eyes closed. She was not at all sure of what she should do next. Had he closed his eyes because it was so awful he could not bear to look at her? Should she tiptoe quietly out and forget that the entire scene had ever happened? She sat there for some moments staring at the hands she was twisting in her lap and trying to decide what to do next.

  Slowly Signor Bartoli opened his eyes and, seeing his visitor’s bowed head, took advantage of the opportunity to observe her closely, the rich brown hair was pulled back smoothly and gathered in a cluster of curls at the back of her head, emphasizing the exquisite oval of her face, the long slim neck, and the elegant shoulders. At last she looked up, the sapphire eyes serious, but unwavering under the delicately arched brows. She had courage this one, the courage to look an irascible old man straight in the eye and wait for an answer. His habitually stern expression softened, smoothing out the sharp lines that ran from the beak of a nose to a surprisingly sensitive mouth. “Occasionally I forget what a truly gifted composer Mozart was.”

  Isobel’s heart plummeted to the toes of her jean half-boots. Her singing must have been such a disappointment that he could not even bear to comment upon it. She rose quietly, gathered her gloves and pelisse. “I thank you for your time, monsieur.”

  The music master rose also and shuffled over to her. He laid a fatherly hand on her arm. “You misunderstand me, signorina. I am so familiar with Signor Mozart’s work that only a true artista can make it fresh and new again for me. And that you have, signorina, the soul of an artista. It flows through your fingers as well as from your throat.” He lifted his hands and raised his shoulders in an expansive shrug. “The voice, it could use more power on the high notes, more power from here”—he pounded his nonexistent stomach—”but that is to be expected. You are young and we will work on these things, but the soul, that a music teacher can do nothing about—one either has it or one does not. La Catalani, I tell you very frankly, she does not—drama yes, she has drama, but l’anima, no.”

  “Does that mean ...”

  “That I will make you greater than Catalani? Possibly. That I will make you one of the most sought-after singers in London? Sicuramente...”

  “Ah, monsieur.” Isobel blinked back the tears that would well up in spite of her best efforts.

  “Now you run along, drink hot tea, eat well, not this dreadful English food that has no taste, but some true French cooking and come to me tomorrow. We will begin then, no?”

  “Mais oui,” Isobel breathed. She pulled on her pelisse and gloves as if in a trance and turned toward the door. “But, monsieur, the fee ...”

  “Has been taken care of, signorina.” The music master was amused by the sparkle of anger in those magnificent eyes and the proud lift of the head. Yes, she had pride, the little one did, and with any luck and some help from him, she would go far.

  There was nothing to say, but Isobel resolved to pay back every penny of her lessons to Lord Christian Hatherleigh if it took a lifetime. It was bad enough that with one brief visit he was able to enlist the aid of one of the most powerful figures in London’s musical world. She swallowed hard and made her way to the door. “Then thank you, monsieur. I shall look forward to seeing you tomorrow.”

  Signor Bartoli opened the door for her and followed her down the stairs. “And I shall too. Good day to you, signorina.”

  Once outside, Isobel heaved a sigh of relief and glanced around her before walking briskly toward Oxford Street. The gray winter clouds had lifted and here and there patches of blue were showing through. She wanted to shout with joy. It was true then and not just an empty dream born of her desperate wish to do something with her life. She wanted to turn back in and throw her arms around Signor Bartoli. She wanted to run to Grosvenor Square and tell Lord Christian.

  The thought made her stop in her tracks. Tell Lord Christian? Why should he be the first person to pop into her mind? Resolutely she pushed the thought aside. There was no Lord Christian in her life now and she was glad of it. His regular appearance in Grosvenor Square had been disturbing enough and his showing up in Manchester Square had been disconcerting in the extreme, but now that his goal had been accomplished—he had apologized and made amends for his brother’s behavior and made sure she was introduced to Signor Bartoli—there was no likelihood that he would ever intrude into her life again. Odd how this thought, which should have relieved her, left her feeling so empty.

  Ruthlessly she shoved these reflections aside as she turned the corner into Oxford Street, concentrating on the scene around her so as not to be distracted again by such unwelcome thoughts. She was glad that she had not told Marthe about leaving the Duke of Warminster’s because now she could proceed with her lessons, secure in the knowledge that everyone in Manchester Square would simply assume that she was going to Warminster House instead of to Signor Bartoli’s.

  By the time Isobel had reached Bond Street, she had completely cleared her mind of all thoughts of Lord Christian and was concentrating instead on the many questions she wished to pose to Signor Bartoli. There was so much she wanted to know and it had been so long since she had had anyone to help her with her music, not since she and her father had left Buckinghamshire and Barford Court six years ago.

  On impulse she turned down Bond Street rather than heading straight home. She usually did not linger on the fashionable thoroughfare because she never purchased anything from any of the establishments there, but today she decided to allow herself the luxury of strolling along imagining what she would purchase if she could command the fabulous sums that Madame Catalani did.

  She was wrapped in such a pleasant haze of speculation that at first she did not hear her name being called.

  “Isobel! I vow you have gone deaf from all the noise in this town,” said a voice at her shoulder.

  Isobel jumped and turned around to discover two ladies dressed in the height of fashion draped in nearly identical dove-colored Austrian shawl cloaks trimmed with sable and wearing Circassian turbans, one a deep crimson and the other a rich olive velvet. “Emily! Jane!” she squeaked. “I had no idea you were in town. I thought you remained buried happily in the country from one year to the next.”

  The Countess of Mordiford and the Marchioness of Verwood looked at one another and laughed. “We do. That is, we did, until our offspring grew to be so obstreperous and unmanageable and our husbands so dull that nothing but a Season in town could alleviate the tedium of
our lives,” the taller of the two replied.

  “We only arrived in town last week and have taken houses next to each other in Brook Street and as Jane’s Edward is only a year older than my Charles and her Maria is just the same age as my George they are close enough in age they can tease each other rather than their parents. And now that they are of an age to enjoy the Tower and the menagerie and ride their ponies in the park, we convinced Mordiford and Verwood to bring us to town. Of course, we had to assure them they could spend their days looking over the horseflesh at Tattersall’s and their evenings with friends at White’s and we had to promise them we would only attend the barest minimum of fashionable squeezes before they would consent to bring us.”

  “Your mother and your father?”

  “Are still at Barford Court,” Emily replied. “We might be able to lure our husbands away from the country, but never Mama and Papa. Papa nearly went mad fretting about his sheep and his prize bull when they came to town for my Season and vowed never again to leave Barford for such an extended period, though it was less than a day’s journey and he had weekly reports from Mr. Watson. And how does your papa go on?”

  Isobel regaled them with stories of the French community, hoping against hope that they would not ask about her pupils and the Duchess of Warminster. Though Jane and Emily were not likely to encounter her father, she did not want to run the risk of their revealing to him that she had left her position in the Duke of Warminster’s household, a position that their mother had been instrumental in procuring for her.

  Hoping to avoid questions along this line, Isobel soon excused herself on the pretext of her father’s concern for her whereabouts.

  “But you must come driving with us in the park. Now that we are established, we expect to see a great deal of you, and you must join us in our box in the opera, though I am sure any singing that you hear will be far inferior to yours.” Jane smiled fondly at her.

  “If it is a fine day tomorrow, we shall send the carriage around for you at half after four and then you can take the air with us and catch us up on all the news,” her sister added.

  Isobel was not entirely sure she wished to run the risk of further conversation, for at the moment there were too many things she wished to keep private, such as leaving the Duke of Warminster’s household and her becoming Signor Bartoli’s pupil, but they were so patently delighted to see her and so insistent that she would not refuse. She had missed them. After she and her father had left Barford Court there had been a regular, if infrequent exchange of letters, but Emily and Jane had become so involved in their own lives that these communications had been brief at best, and nothing could quite take the place of conversation. Isobel looked forward to the next day with happy anticipation, for not only was there the drive and conversation with Jane and Emily to look forward to, but there was her first lesson with Signor Bartoli.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning Isobel presented herself at the house in Saint Martin’s Street promptly at ten and found Signor Bartoli awaiting her with some impatience. The clock on the mantel was just striking the hour as she handed her pelisse to the servant girl who had led her to the music room.

  “Ah, signorina, just on time,” he greeted her approvingly from the bench of the pianoforte. “That is the mark of a professional. It is only those who pretend to be artistas who keep everyone waiting. Now”—he ran his fingers over the keys—“let us begin with some scales. I know that you are accustomed to accompanying herself, but you will concentrate better on the voice if I concentrate on the pianoforte, no?”

  The time flew by as Isobel went over exercise after exercise, reaching higher and higher for the notes he played, but striving at the same time to gain them with the strength and control he demanded. “No, signorina, the music comes from here”—he patted his diaphragm—“not from here.” The music teacher encircled his scrawny neck with long, bony fingers. “If you bring forth the music from the throat only and then try to project it and give it power you will produce only a screech of the most horrible kind. Now, try again, this time from deep inside you, or if it is easier for you to think of it, the heart. All music comes from the heart and you must dig deeply into yours to bring it forth. Yes”—he thumped vigorously on the pianoforte—“that is it. Brava, signorina. Now, once again.” He played the rippling scale, but half a step higher. “Ah, yes. Brava, brava. Now perhaps you would like to try some songs.” He sorted through the music in front of him, pulled out a sheet, and handed it to her.

  Isobel was so exhausted from concentrating on her breathing and in following his instructions that she very much doubted she had the strength to sing another note, but oddly enough, once she began, the notes flowed effortlessly and with more power and assurance than she could ever remember experiencing before.

  “Here are some new arrangements by Parke and Mazzinghi that might be suitable for the Countess of Morehampton’s musicale.”

  “The Countess of Morehampton’s musicale?” Isobel looked blankly at her instructor.

  “Why yes, the countess sent me a note yesterday saying that she would dearly love to give a musicale if I could but suggest someone who could be counted upon to charm an audience. I wrote back that in fact I knew of such a person, an unknown, which of course delighted the dear lady even more for there is nothing she likes better than being the first to discover a new talent. There will be a quartet and a performer on the pianoforte, but she wished to have a special vocalist to offer to her guests. She takes great pride in her reputation for introducing new performers to the fashionable world.”

  “Oh, mon Dieu, but I do not know if I could ...”

  “Signorina, either you wish to become a great singer, or you do not. If you do not, then I wash my hands of you, for my time is too valuable to waste on someone who trembles at the thought of singing for an audience.”

  Isobel swallowed hard. Non, monsieur, I am not afraid of singing for people. It is just that I do not know if I am a worthy...”

  “Signorina, I am listening to you. If I, Guilio Bartoli, spare my time to listen to you, credimi, you are more than worthy to appear before a roomful of people who will be paying more attention to who is flirting with whom and what this one is wearing than to your music or your singing.”

  Isobel could not help chuckling at the accuracy of this statement. Though she did not frequent ton gatherings, she knew enough about human nature, and had observed enough among her own acquaintances to know that the music master was correct.

  “Besides”—Signor Bartoli’s eyes gleamed slyly—“the countess has already sent me a handsome sum to give the artist of my choice as an enticement, and I am prepared to give it to you to use as you, er, see fit.”

  Having witnessed his new pupil’s reaction to the news that her lessons were already taken care of, the music master felt reasonably certain that she would insist on repaying her benefactor immediately and it amused him to picture it. The Italian had come to his own conclusion about Lord Christian Hatherleigh’s reasons for taking an interest in Isobel de Montargis’s career and they included more than sheer musical talent, though the young lady did possess that in abundance.

  “That is most kind of her, and of you.” Isobel hoped she did not sound too eager. Ordinarily she would not have given the money a second thought—it was the chance to sing and the confidence that Signor Bartoli seemed to have in her ability that were important—however, the thought of being able to march straight up to Lord Christian Hatherleigh and promptly dispose of her debt to him was extremely gratifying.

  It was Signor Bartoli’s turn to chuckle, for his pupil’s expression reflected her thoughts as clearly as if she had spoken them, and he was willing to bet his pianoforte, his violin, and the cello leaning over in the corner that even before she returned home, she would call on Lord Christian to repay him for this lesson and to inform him that in the future she would take responsibility for all remunerations owed to her teacher.

  The music master drew a hea
vy purse from his capacious pocket and held it out to her. “Here. The Countess of Morehampton’s footman brought this not an hour before you arrived.”

  Isobel slowly extended her hand. Papa would die of mortification if he were to witness his carefully brought-up daughter acting as eager to be paid as any fishwife. Resolutely she pushed such a notion from her mind. He would just have to adjust to the idea of her earning money, for eventually people were going to be paying a great deal of money for the privilege of hearing her sing. She grasped the purse. “Thank you.”

  “As you can see, there is more than enough to cover several lessons,” Signor Bartoli remarked. His tone was deliberately casual, but his sharp black eyes regarded her with lively curiosity.

  Isobel glanced up at him and smiled shyly. Apparently he understood more about her than just her music. “That is reassuring to know. Thank you. I shall not disappoint you.”

  The music master smiled in return. “No, I do not think that you will. Now, off with you for I am due at Covent Garden to listen to a rehearsal. However, I want you to be thinking of other songs you would like to perform for the countess’s guests besides the latest offerings from Mr. Parke and Signor Mazzinghi. Those will appeal, of course, because of the novelty, but we must have something else, should any true connoisseurs be among the audience.”

  Isobel nodded. “I shall think about it.” She slid the purse into her reticule and allowed him to help her into her pelisse. “Thank you again.”

  “Think nothing of it. I would not be where I am today if I could not advance the careers of my students.”

  The door had barely closed behind her and she had taken only a few steps along Saint Martin’s Street when Isobel paused, struck by a sudden thought. Now that she had the wherewithal to pay for her first lessons and since it now seemed possible that she might earn more this way in the future, did it not make sense to go and repay her benefactor immediately so she would not remain any more indebted to him than she already was? Besides, she should at least let Lord Christian know that she had been accepted as Signor Bartoli’s pupil.