Needless to say, I was not expecting to find anyone but family about, or I would have put on an appropriate housedress.
“Heller? Is that you?” Tommy called from the parlor as I walked into the foyer.
I stuck my head around the pocket door, to see Henry Gosling and Tommy sitting with the coffee tray.
“Good morning,” I said to Henry, trying for perfect diva aplomb—no easy task in my wrapper, with my hair straggling out of its night braid. The smell of good fresh coffee was too much for me, however, and I decided to brazen it out. I drew myself up to my full height and walked into the room with queenly demeanor, as if I were wearing coronation robes instead of a plush wrapper.
“Good morning, Miss Ella. I’m terribly sorry to trouble the two of you at this early—”
Tommy looked at me and chuckled; whether at my attempt at regality or Henry’s discomfiture, I wasn’t sure.
“It’s only early if you’ve been singing all night.” I offered a reassuring smile as I sat on the settee by Tommy. Thankfully, there was an extra cup on the tray. I filled it, doing my best not to huddle over the cup and sigh with joy as I sipped.
“That’s right. You had a benefit last night,” Henry said. “I’d forgotten.”
“For the girls’ school at St. Teresa’s,” Tommy said. “For some reason, it’s harder to raise money for girls’ education than boys.”
Henry shook his head. Father of daughters, he didn’t like it any more than we did. “Strange world we live in. You’d think we’d want the mothers of the next generation to be decently schooled.”
“I certainly do.” I smiled as the warmth of the coffee started to take hold.
“Indeed.” Henry drank some of his coffee and picked up a snickerdoodle. “You do have an excellent cook. Mrs. Gosling would try to steal her away, if I told her.”
“I do not think she’d be willing to move uptown.” I shook my head. The Goslings live above Central Park.
“Probably just as well. I am told I already eat far too many cookies.”
“We won’t tell,” Tommy assured him.
Henry nodded as he ate the last bite of cookie; then his face turned serious. “So, in light of our conversation yesterday, when I found this buried in my mail pile, I thought you might want to see it.”
It was a letter from the coroner of New Haven County, Connecticut, thanking Henry for his help in identifying the unfortunate Frances Saint Aubyn. Tommy and I took only a few moments to read it, since it was but two or three simple paragraphs.
“At least we know she went back home,” Henry said.
I took another look at the last lines: We have sent her remains back to her family. Your help prevented her from resting in potter’s field. I remembered Saint Aubyn’s comment about fighting the vicar. “Well, that’s something for the family.”
Henry nodded. “I’m glad I don’t have to think of that poor child all alone somewhere.”
“Thank you for telling us.” I looked at the date on the letter—more than a month ago. It made sense now. Saint Aubyn buried his cousin; then he came over here to see if he could find out what happened to her. Poor man.
Tommy shook his head. “Terribly sad.”
“Too true. I wish I’d known more about her,” Henry said. “When she left that packet of papers with me because she didn’t want to take them on the road, I never thought it was the last time I’d see her.”
“We never do think it’s the last time,” I said quietly.
All of us sat there for a moment, thinking about any number of people who were not Frances Saint Aubyn.
“At any rate, Henry, it’s a good thing you came by,” Tommy said finally, holding out his cup to warm up.
I poured and pulled myself back to our cozy coffee. “He’s right. We need to start looking for baritones.”
Henry’s brows went up. “Not tenors?”
“We’re pretty well done with tenors.” Tommy gave a wry shrug.
“No,” I said. “We’re done with one tenor.”
“But we don’t need one this time.”
“It’s probably going to be Xerxes in San Francisco,” I explained, handing Henry another snickerdoodle and taking one myself. Surely, after all of this drama and emotion, we deserved a little treat. “The male lead is a baritone.”
The agent took a bite of cookie, with a puzzled expression.
Tommy chuckled. “That was my reaction the first time I heard the name, too. It’s Handel, and she gets to play a general. Hasn’t been done much in the last century, so it’s new and exciting to opera fanciers.”
“Sounds like a winning idea.”
“We think so,” Tommy said, taking his own cookie.
“Well, then, all hail General Shane.”
I laughed, since I felt anything but martial in my wrapper. “Something like that, gentlemen.”
After Henry left, fortified with a basket of Mrs. G’s snickerdoodles for the afternoon at his office, I neatened myself up in a blue-violet print housedress for a tasty luncheon of cold chicken and fruit macédoine. I then settled in for a quiet afternoon at home. The post came soon after we finished, with a special treat, a letter from Madame Lentini:
My Dear Child,
I hope this letter finds you and your cousin well. Amalfi is as lovely as ever, and Mr. Fritzel is in the pink of health, as am I. We do hope you children can manage a visit sometime soon. The sun and air will do you good.
You are probably working too hard, as always. Try to rest your instrument when you can.
And about the hard work, darling. Your voice will be reaching its peak within a few years, but you have plenty of time to sing. You may be running out of time if you wish to have a family. I remind you that we live in a much different world than when I started on the stage. Singers have every reason to expect to make an honorable marriage these days, and you should.
You will be rolling your eyes now, as you did when I reminded you to stand up straight. Roll away. I missed the chance to be a mother, and I promised myself as I guided you into your career that I would not allow you to do the same.
Just find a good man and marry him. You will know him when you meet him. And if you have already met him, don’t fight him or make him wait. Too long, anyway. A man does like a woman who makes him work to win her.
In any case, keep taking proper care of yourself and your instrument, as you always do. Don’t forget to vocalize every day.
Give my love to Tommy, and tell him and his writer friends to stay out of trouble.
With much love,
Madame
“How’s Madame?” Tommy asked.
“Happy and healthy. She sends her love and reminds you and the sports reporters to stay out of trouble.”
“Of course, she does.” Madame had a soft spot for Tommy, like most of the rest of the world, and had been quite relieved when he retired. Even happier to know that he was devoting his energies to my career and to me.
“She also thinks I should find a good man and marry him.”
“Does she, now?” Tommy smiled a little. “She may have a point. You could do with a little one or two.”
“Not you, too.”
“Heller, I’m not going to marry, because I’m not going to marry. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”
I just stared at him. We were rarely this blunt—though, of course, it was understood.
“I’ve seen you with the Morsel. I know. You know.”
I shrugged. “I can’t just go order a child from the stationer’s.”
“Well, no. But you could stop slamming the door on the fingers of any man who has the temerity to so much as smile at you.”
“I don’t—”
“Heller, we’re two sides of the same coin. And both of us have a chip on our shoulders the size of the Lower East Side.”
“Maybe.”
“You assume no man can have honorable intentions because of who you are and where you’re from. That’s not fair to you, or to the many good men i
n this world.”
“Oh?”
“I’m not suggesting you elope with one of your horrible hangers-on. I am suggesting you don’t decide you know a man’s intentions before you know him at all. You know I will be here to show your suitor the door if he turns out to be a bounder.”
I laughed. “That, you will.”
“Anyhow, nobody’s sending you down the aisle tomorrow.” He laughed, too. “Lentini’s turning into a grandma in her retirement. Is she worried that you’ll be too old to have a family?”
“I think so.”
“Well, remind her that Grandma Bridey had Uncle David at fifty-two and tell her we’ll see her in Amalfi next winter.”
“Good idea,” I said, skating right past Grandma Bridey. “We could just keep going after London, spend a few weeks in the sunshine before we come back here.”
“Mother and our friends at the Beacon wouldn’t like it.”
“Neither would Father Michael.”
We looked at each other and sighed. “Maybe next year.”
Chapter 16
In Which Our Divas School the Duke
Next day, Thursday, Marie appeared in the early afternoon; the small Winslows all take afternoon naps, and it’s a propitious time to leave them to the nanny. I’d been taking a fencing lesson, and Louis arrived a bit early, so I hadn’t had time to change out of my fencing breeches and oversized old shirt, leaving my hair in its loose ballerina’s knot. Louis didn’t even notice, but Marie chuckled and asked me if I’d deliberately stayed in boys’ clothes to appear unattractive to the duke. Since I’d almost forgotten he was coming over to meet her, it clearly wasn’t that.
In any case, she was lovely enough for both of us, in a cornflower-blue silk day dress, with white lace trim at the high neck, and a sweet matching hat. I know Hetty would not have wanted to write about it, but I resolved to make Marie tell me the milliner, and I would get one in lavender. She left the hat downstairs, with plans to put it on for tea with the duke; singing is much too serious business to worry about one’s chapeau.
It didn’t take long to run our duet; Marie and I had done it somewhere between dozens and hundreds of times, after all, and she was right back to top form. Montezuma, who has a bit of a crush on Marie, flew down to the piano, greeted her with a friendly “Love the birdie” and accepted a pat on the head. Then he sang along as we practiced, following Marie’s melody line. Louis, who was used to having an extra performer, merely smiled and kept on playing.
After we finished, Montezuma returned to his perch, and Louis, as he always did, gave each of us a few notes and reminders. Then, as we were chatting around the piano, he pulled another score out from his music stand.
“I wonder if you ladies would try this for me and tell me what you think.”
“You’ve been writing?” I asked. “About time.”
“Past time.” Marie’s eyes took on a gleam many divas reserve for the offering of small velvet boxes. “What do we have here?”
Louis pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose as he took a breath. “Well, Anna was reading a book about the Wars of the Roses, and I saw the painting of The Princes in the Tower, and thought it might just be perfect for you two.”
I smiled. I knew which picture: the two blond boys in dark doublet and hose clinging together. It would indeed be a perfect visual for us: Marie as the delicate little brother, me as the older, regal king. And nobody knew our voices better than Louis.
“Since the princes aren’t really interesting beyond the death scene, I thought I’d have you double roles. Madame Marie as Elizabeth Woodville, the princes’ mother—”
“And me as Richard the Third?”
“No, Miss Ella.” Louis blushed. “I’d never do that to you. Henry Tudor, the conquering hero.”
I couldn’t wait to hear what he had. Neither could Marie. She snatched the score out of his hands and started leafing through it. “Oh yes! Yes.”
I peeked over her shoulder. “This looks marvelous.”
Louis grinned, his face lighting up in relief and excitement. “Yes?”
“Yes, indeed,” I said, looking at Marie.
“Can we sing it?”
“I hoped you’d want to. Would you like to try the death scene arias?”
“Please!” we called in unison.
He handed us the score, since he could play from memory. “It’s just before King Richard’s henchmen come to murder them. They fear—or know—what’s about to happen. . . first Prince Richard, a scared little boy who wants his mother, and then King Edward, a teenager who realizes he will never know love.”
It was all the direction we needed. Marie started in on “O, My Mother,” a heart-wrenching soprano showcase even on the first read. Louis’s music started gently and built along with the lyrics to a finish that left us all teary-eyed. Marie and I weren’t really trying any acting just yet, but I ended up holding her like a comforting older brother as she finished the last few lines and crumpled onto my shoulder.
Then it was my turn. Following Marie is always a little daunting . . . and after that? As I started in on “Never Shall I Love,” I questioned the wisdom of putting my aria last. I’d never be able to equal Marie, I thought, and it’s always better to leave the audience with your best. But then the song drew me in. Perhaps too close to home: I will never lie in the arms of one I love . . . I will never know the joy . . . or the pain—or any of it. Again, set to Louis’s glorious melody, it was placed perfectly in my range. It was an extraordinary piece.
Obviously, we hadn’t blocked it out like a real scene, but when I finished my last notes, Marie and I were huddled together on the floor, holding each other for comfort and dear life. We sang the last few lines as a duet:
Marie, softly: “ ‘I am frightened.’ ”
“‘I am here.’”
“ ‘Help me be brave, brother.’ ”
“ ‘Remember who we are. Still, Plantagenets and sons of kings.’”
“‘So bravely . . .’”
“‘Bravely . . . we die.’ ”
Louis ended with a few ominous bars, playing in King Richard’s henchmen to smother our poor princes, and Marie and I looked at each other, too impressed and moved to even speak for a moment.
“Brava, Divas!” called a voice from the back of the studio as someone clapped his hands.
It broke the spell and we looked up to see Gilbert Saint Aubyn walking toward us, unashamedly wiping away a tear. “Good heavens, ladies. What was that?”
I quickly stood and helped Marie up, taking a look toward Montezuma, who had been lulled to sleep by the music. Of course, he had.
Marie motioned to Louis. “His new work.”
“Amazing.” Saint Aubyn shook Louis’s hand. “Absolutely astonishing.”
“Thank you,” Louis said, staring at all of us with the same dazed look I was sure Marie and I had.
“We should do this instead of Capuleti this fall for Polly’s college fund.” I took the score from Marie and handed it to Louis. “A world premiere? Two trouser roles and doubling, too?”
“An absolute sensation.” She patted the accompanist’s arm. “Louis, you’re a genius.”
He blushed and smiled. “I can’t take all the credit. Anna writes the lyrics, you know.”
“I thought I detected a woman’s touch”—Marie smiled—“and a mother’s.”
Saint Aubyn was watching both of us with open curiosity. “Forgive me, ladies.”
We turned to him.
“Are you both all right? You seemed quite—”
Marie and I both burst out laughing, a pretty standard reaction after plowing through all of that strong emotion.
The duke looked hurt. “I merely—”
Without thinking, I reached over and patted his arm. “It’s all right. You’d have no way to know. We’re fine. We just laughed as a kind of release after our performance.”
I’m not sure how it happened, but he put his hand on my arm for a moment, and
kept it there as he looked closely at me. “Understandable. I have never seen anything like that.”
“I’m not sure we’ve ever done anything like that.” Marie still seemed a bit dazed. “Louis is incredible.”
“You ladies are rather impressive, too.” The duke hadn’t moved his hand from my arm.
“Thank you.” I was enjoying the warmth of his touch, and the glow in his eyes as he watched me. It wasn’t a besotted fan; it was honest admiration and respect.
“We like to think so.” Marie’s eyes sparkled as she carefully walked between us. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
The duke and I broke apart, and I felt a horrible blush creeping up my face, which hopefully no one noticed as I made the introductions, not forgetting Louis.
Montezuma decided to join the conversation just as the gentlemen bowed. “English stick!”
Bloody blast it!
“Fine figure of a man!”
Yes, the only thing that would be worse.
Marie giggled.
Saint Aubyn laughed. “I beg to differ, Miss Shane. I may be a stick, but thank you, I am a British stick. My mother is Scots.”
“Perhaps you would like to correct Montezuma,” I replied, meeting his impish smile with my own.
“No, thank you. I have learned never to argue with a lady’s parrot.”
“Love the birdie!” Montezuma proclaimed as he preened.
Marie shook her head. “That bird will drive us all to distraction.”
“Well, let’s leave him to his contemplation,” I said, motioning everyone out of the studio, and away from any further embarrassing comments. Of course, Montezuma started singing a raucous chorus of some drinking song the sports reporters had taught him, but at least I got everyone out of the room before he got to the really off-color part.
“Are you staying to tea, Louis?” I asked as we walked down the stairs, and I saw Mrs. Grazich setting up in the parlor on the first floor.
“Sorry, Miss Ella, I’d love to, but Anna is teaching an English class in an hour and a half, so I have to get back to watch Morrie.”
“You probably also want to tell her how much we love The Princes in the Tower.”
A Fatal Finale Page 11
