My Lady Nightingale

by Evelyn Richardson

  All these thoughts jostled together in her head as, gripping the railing for support, she finished climbing the stairs and made her way back into the ballroom to her father’s side. More than anything she wanted to escape somewhere where she could sort these things out in peace and quiet. The last place she wished to be was in a throng of brilliantly dressed people intent on seeing one another and being seen by the Prince Regent and his illustrious guests.

  Fortunately, Isobel’s father, intent on acknowledging the well-wishers of the ton, had not noticed his daughter’s absence, but as she returned to his side he turned to her. “The king has asked us to accompany him to the reception being given to him by the citizens of London at Grillon’s Hotel and then, at last, we shall return to France. He has also made arrangements for us to join his party traveling to Paris. But now, my dear, you must dance. The Chevalier d’Entremont and the Comte de Pontarlier are most anxious to show these barbarians how a true courtier dances, and you are the perfect partner for this. Go, show les Anglais how gracefully it can be done, how it should be done.

  Sighing inwardly, Isobel allowed the Comte de Pontarlier to lead her onto the floor. Personally she thought he moved with far less grace than Lord Christian, who possessed the assurance and coordination of a natural athlete as well as a sensitivity toward his partner that was totally lacking in the comte, who insisted on escorting her around the floor with needlessly showy flourishes. Isobel did her best to look interested and attentive to her partner’s incessant flow of conversation, but in truth, she did not hear a word as they whirled around the floor. All she could think of was her previous partner and the unsettling revelations that had followed her last waltz.

  In fact, she barely heard any of the conversations directed at her for the rest of the evening, so absorbed was she in the tumult of emotions awakened in her by Lord Christian. Hating herself for doing it, yet longing to know what had happened to him after her precipitate departure, she surveyed the crowd from time to time, but no tall, broad-shouldered gentleman stood out. She was forced to conclude that, having come to the ball to see her, he had left after their dance. Even though she told herself that his presence was of no interest to her, she could not help but be gratified by this.

  “La, Isobel, you look like a queen of France yourself,” a gay voice at her elbow broke into her thoughts. “I have been trying to reach you this age, but there is such a crush of people around His Majesty that it is nearly impossible.” Emily was still gasping from the effort of working her way through the crowd of people surrounding the French court. “You look as fine as fivepence. I vow, Hatherleigh must have been completely undone. Yes, you sly girl, I saw you dancing with him. He could not take his eyes off you the entire time. He was like a cat looking at a cream pot. He must have filled your ears with more than one pretty compliment. It is said, you know, that he has a silver tongue, and that is a goodly part of his charm, for no woman can resist being told she is beautiful. At the very least, he must have told you that you look like a goddess.”

  “Er, no.”

  “No! He danced the waltz with you and did not say that you outshine every woman in the room, which is perfectly true.”

  “Ah, no.”

  “My dear, the man must be blind!” Emily paused and directed a searching look at the blush rising to her friend’s cheeks. “Either that or he must be so in love that he dispensed completely with pretty phrases.” The blush deepened. “So that is it. Very well, I shan’t tease you, but you do look remarkably elegant. I vow that every man in the room has his eyes on you. Even Verwood, who has gone off to find the card room, said that you looked devilish fine and for him, that is high praise indeed. Did you see the absurd turban Lady Ashworth is wearing? She looks like a perfect quiz. And why she would choose that dreadful color of green for a gown, why she looks positively hag-ridden.”

  As Emily preceded to discuss one costume after another, Isobel nodded absently, not hearing a word she said. He had not said she was beautiful. In fact, he had never attempted to offer her Spanish coin. Did that mean he did not find her attractive, or did it mean he considered her above such things? Perhaps he had meant what he said after all, that they belonged together. Perhaps there was something special in their friendship, something that meant she was not just another one of his flirts. The rush of happiness that accompanied this thought was ruthlessly quelled. What did she care? She was not about to fall in love with someone who had behaved as high-handedly with her as Lord Christian had. She was a de Montargis, after all, and much as it infuriated her to hear her father say it year after year, even when the de Montargises had nothing else, at least they had their pride.

  Isobel glanced over at her father as he exchanged words with the king in between receiving congratulations and good wishes for the future. There was color in his face, energy in his movements, and a liveliness about him that she could only dimly remember from her childhood. Even if she were feeling overwhelmed and lost, she could take comfort from the fact that he at least was happy, and that he would be able to live out the rest of his old age in his own land among his own countrymen.

  She could concentrate on that and put all her energies into their return to France. That would leave time only for her music and little else. Certainly it would leave no time for reflection about a certain tall gentleman with strong arms, a broad chest, and compelling gray-green eyes.

  Chapter 27

  True to her resolve, Isobel approached her father the next day to inquire about plans for the impending move.

  “The king and the court are leaving in a fortnight. After the reception at Grillon’s, there is to be another dress party given in our honor by the Prince Regent and the day after that, or perhaps the next, we shall proceed to Dover and then to France.”

  “But, Papa, I am not sure that everything will be in readiness by then. Madame de Colignac is not leaving for a sennight and even if she were to arrive in Paris several weeks before we did I am not confident that she or her servants would be able to insure that the H6tel de Montargis is available for us to live in.”

  The duc waved a dismissive hand. “That is no matter. The king assures me that we are to have apartments at the Tuileries for as long as we desire and that even now they are being readied for our arrival.

  Isobel’s heart sank. They were to leave so soon, when there were still so many things she wished to do. There were lessons with Signor Bartoli which she was loath to give up and there was a coveted appearance at the New Rooms in Hanover Square. She had been unable to believe her ears when her teacher had announced that he had secured her a place on the program for a concert being held the last week in April. At last she truly seemed to be on the road to her dream. How could she leave now? She knew what her father’s answer would be even before she posed the question, but an opportunity to appear in the Hanover Square rooms was too important to let slip from her grasp. Drawing a deep, steadying breath and clasping her hands tightly in her lap, she took the risk. “Papa?”

  “Yes?” The due gazed curiously at her. It was unlike his independent and decisive daughter to sound so tentative.

  “Papa, I have been asked to sing in the New Rooms in Hanover Square the last week of April. May we not postpone our departure until after that?”

  The duc’s aristocratic nose quivered as he snorted in disgust. “A daughter of the de Montargis singing like a common actrice d’opéra? Non, et non, et non!”

  “But, Papa, all the best people can be seen there, even the Prince Regent himself. And Madame Catalani is giving concerts there. It is a great honor to be asked. You were not displeased that I sang at the Countess of Morehampton’s musicale.”

  “That was different, a private affair held at the hotel of one of the ton’s well-known hostesses. But a public concert? For money? It is beneath you. No de Montargis would dream of such a thing.”

  “Very well, Papa.” Isobel sighed and refrained from pointing out that the handsome payment given to her by the countess had, in add
ition to repaying Lord Christian, been responsible for more fires in more fireplaces at the house in Manchester Street and more meat for the delicious pots-au-feu with which Marthe had managed to whet his appetite. Tears stung her eyes as she left to consult with Marthe about the packing. It was difficult to admit, even to herself, how bitter her disappointment was, and she had no one in whom to confide. Marthe, though proud of her mistress’s accomplishments, was inclined to agree with her master. “To be sure, it is an honor to be asked to sing at the New Rooms, mademoiselle, but Mademoiselle is a great lady once again. It would never do to compromise her reputation in such a way,” she had responded when Isobel had first shared her dilemma with her.

  “Mademoiselle is no grander a lady now than she was a few weeks ago and she will not be a grand lady in the future if there is nothing left to be a lady of,” Isobel replied with a good deal of asperity. Did no one see the irony and uncertainty of their future besides herself?

  And Emily and Jane, though they were not so vehement as the duc, could not sympathize with her very strongly either. “What is one concert, compared with being in Paris?” Emily wondered out loud as they had discussed it at the ball.

  Jane, more perceptive than her sister, saw the distress in her friend’s eyes. “Do not worry, Isobel. They say that Napoleon has restored the capital to the way it once was. Mama’s friend, Lady Edgerton, went to Paris after the Peace of Amiens and she reported that it was as elegant as it had ever been, if not more so. I should not fret about it. Did you not say that Auguste had reported that the Hotel de Montargis had not been destroyed. From what I understand, he rented it to one of Napoleon’s marshals?”

  “Shhh.” Isobel glanced nervously at her father. “He must not know this. It was the only way to save the Hotel de Montargis and return it to its former elegance. It is all owing to Auguste’s energy and perseverance that we can return to it at all, but Papa will not so much as allow the whisper of Auguste’s name in his presence.

  In fact, the only one who sympathized with Isobel’s dismay at being deprived of the opportunity at the Hanover Square rooms was Signor Bartoli. “Ah, signorina, it is the greatest pity.” He laid a comforting hand on her shoulder the next day when she finished her lesson. “But all artists have these unfortunate moments, and sometimes, in the end, it proves the better for them.”

  “But, monsieur”—Isobel’s eyes were bright with unshed tears—”my lessons. What shall I do about my lessons? When I go to Paris I shall no longer have you to teach me or to encourage me.”

  “That is true, signorina, and it is not only you who will be sorry for this.” The old man smiled fondly at her. He would miss her, her passion, her dedication, her willingness to learn, and her humility. In the music teacher’s vast experience he had discovered that God had created few creatures as rare as Isobel de Montargis and he, Giulio Bartoli, had been fortunate enough to meet her. Most young ladies would have been overjoyed to be returning to a life of elegance and ease in France, but he knew Isobel well enough that he did not insult her by congratulating her on her change in fortune.

  Signor Bartoli sat down at the pianoforte, fingering the keys idly while he racked his brains for some way to help his student. “Ah, I have it.” He strode over to his marquetry desk, pulled out pen, ink, and paper and scribbled furiously. “When you arrive in Paris, you must seek out Signor Gasparo Spontini. I knew him many years ago in Napoli, but he is now in Paris. If I do not miss my guess, he will be delighted to meet you, not only because you are a singer of the highest caliber, but because he has been director of the Italian Opera in Paris under Bonaparte, and I am sure he wishes to remain there. To have a pupil who is also a member of the court would be a situation of the most helpful to him.”

  “Oh, thank you, signor.” In an uncharacteristic display of enthusiasm, Isobel flung her arms around her teacher’s neck. “You do not know how worried I was.”

  “There, there, signorina.” He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder. “It is but a temporary reverse. I have the utmost confidence that you will achieve your dream in time.”

  “Thank you, monsieur.” Isobel took the slip of paper and put it in her reticule. “You have given me some hope, something to look forward to, and now I am equal to the task of preparing for our departure.”

  Despite these bold words, Isobel found the task somewhat daunting. While there were very few things that they wished to take with them—her father’s desk, her mother’s triptych, the watercolors the duchess had painted while at Barford Court—there was still a great deal to accomplish, and Isobel found herself running hither and thither on last-minute errands. Occupied with these, she was not at home any of the times that Christian attempted to call on her in Manchester Street.

  Reporting to her mistress these unsuccessful efforts, Marthe could not help wondering at the strange agitation these messages induced in Mademoiselle. To be sure, it was most distressing to miss the opportunity to speak to such a handsome and distinguished gentleman, but Isobel’s agitation went beyond that. Marthe did not understand. A lady could, without being thought forward, give some indication as to when she might be found at home, but Mademoiselle did none of this. On the contrary, she seemed to wish to put all thought of the gentleman’s visits out of her mind, even going to the length of snapping, “It is of no importance” at Marthe when the servant had ventured to speculate when he might return.

  Isobel participated halfheartedly in the events leading up to their departure. She refused to join the crowds in Piccadilly that watched the procession, led by the Eleventh Dragoons and ending with the Prince Regent’s carriage, that swept out toward the Paddington turnpike to the village of Strathmore, halting at the Abercorn Arms, where they met King Louis. She was waiting at Grillon’s Hotel with the rest of the French court, but while the others were watching from the windows as the Prince Regent’s carriage, drawn by eight cream-colored horses, drew up in front, she remained aloof. And once the king had arrived and began to receive the well-wishers crowding around him, she glided unobtrusively to a place by the windows so as not to be seen as part of the court and the celebrations for which she could muster no enthusiasm.

  Exhausted by her preparations, Isobel went through the Prince Regent’s dress party the following day in a fog, barely even noticing the moment when Louis was invested with the Order of the Garter.

  It was almost with relief that, two days after this ceremony, she lay back against the squabs of the post chaise hired to take them to Dover. They spent the night at the Red Lion and joined the king and his entourage boarding the English frigate that was to take them to Calais. Worn out with the emotions of the last few days, saying good-bye to Emily and Jane and their parents, who had journeyed to London to offer their best wishes and their farewells to Isobel and her father, visiting all the places which had been her home for the past years, and parting from Signor Bartoli, Isobel sought solace in the solitude of the open deck, as she leaned on the rail watching England and the white cliffs receding behind them. Long after the shoreline had disappeared from sight, she remained there feeling the salt spray on her face and listening to the lonely cry of the seagulls.

  Isobel did not begrudge the other émigrés their rising excitement and happy anticipation as the shores of France came into view, but she could not share it with them. Nor could she share their joy at stepping ashore onto French soil to the sound of French voices and French church bells. As the others fell to their knees to kiss the ground beneath them, Isobel thought she had never felt so alone in her entire life.

  The trip to Paris passed as if in a dream. They stopped at Compiegne, where Louis received Czar Alexander and various deputations from the government. Isobel allowed Marthe to dress her for the reception held in honor of the czar, the man who had been so instrumental in Louis’ restoration, but she exhibited no more interest in it all than if they had been back in Manchester Street and Marthe had been handing her her pelisse. At the reception she made her curtsies to foreign dignitaries me
chanically, responding automatically to the often repeated phrases of congratulation.

  When at last they arrived in Paris, Isobel was able to overcome her lassitude enough to see them installed in temporary quarters in the Tuileries, but even the pianoforte so thoughtfully procured by Madame de Colignac failed to rouse much enthusiasm in her. This was how her parents must have felt upon arriving in England so many years ago, lost and aimless, but infinitely poorer.

  I must pull myself out of this lethargy, Isobel told herself again and again. I must find something to interest me. After all, when he was in exile, even Papa was able to inspire himself with the hope of a return to France.

  Slowly, as the days passed, she recovered from the physical exhaustion of the move and the days of celebration, and as her fatigue wore off, some of her natural energy returned. Bit by bit she began to return to her music, reveling in the luxury of having a pianoforte at her disposal and available for practice any time she might wish it. Gradually she began to feel more like herself again, enough so that at last she felt prepared enough to send a footman with a note to Signor Spontini. After years of having only Marthe or the occasional stable boy to run messages, she was finding it difficult to adjust to the army of servants available to her at the Tuileries.

  Isobel soon discovered that living at the palace meant that one was constantly immersed in a hive of activity, of comings and goings, intrigues and cabals, and discussions among the many courtiers jockeying for position and a chance to win the king’s favor.

  Even her father, though he never complained of it, found the increased activity and increased society fatiguing. There was many a state dinner when he asked that his daughter might be seated next to him. He explained it to her. “I tell them that it is so I may help you to be better acquainted with court etiquette, but, du vrai, it is to make sure that you keep me awake. I am not so young as I was the last time I was at court.”