A Fatal Finale

by Kathleen Marple Kalb

We three exchanged a grin.

  “Yes, indeed.” Louis picked up his hat and jacket.

  “Then we’ll all take this up later.” I nodded to him and Marie.

  “And we’ll start working on learning the score as soon as we can,” Marie added, as she finished pinning her hat at exactly the rakish angle that perfectly set off her blue eyes.

  “I’ll look forward to it,” Louis agreed, beaming.

  “Magnificent work, Mr. Abramovitz,” said the duke, shaking his hand again.

  “Thank you.”

  As the door closed behind Louis, I motioned to the parlor. “I believe there’s tea, although it’s something of an anticlimax at this point.”

  Marie laughed. “A real cup of tea and grown-up conversation are quite enough for me.”

  “Especially in this company,” agreed the duke with a nod at me. “‘Lead on, Macduff.’”

  We went back in and set ourselves up in the parlor, Marie and I on the settee, the duke on a chair. All very formal and proper. Well, mostly.

  Marie poured the tea, smiling as she glanced between Saint Aubyn and me. “It’s probably more appropriate that I pour, even if we are at her home, since our Ella is a boy at the moment.”

  The duke nodded to me. “Never send a boy to do a woman’s job.”

  I laughed and took my cup from Marie. “Something like that, Your Grace.”

  Mrs. Grazich, who is almost as fond of Marie as she is of Father Michael, had outdone herself with a series of plates of teatime dainties, all decorated with little vegetable flowers and leaves, and even a couple of tiny carrot birds. Marie offered a plate to the duke, and he burst out laughing.

  “Surely, you’ve seen tea sandwiches before,” Marie said reprovingly.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Madame de l’Artois, but even in my rarefied circles, food generally looks like food, not objets d’art.”

  We laughed guiltily. I shook my head at him. “Please don’t say that too loudly around Mrs. G. You’ll hurt her feelings.”

  To his credit, Saint Aubyn nodded. “We can’t have that.” He gingerly picked up a sandwich.

  “You don’t have to actually eat any,” I said quickly, “just don’t insult them.”

  “They’re actually quite tasty,” he said after a bite. “As long as I don’t choke from laughter at you. Did you quite seriously just tell me not to insult the sandwiches?”

  “Not the sandwiches, their maker.” I admit to being rather huffy about it. “There’s more than enough unkindness in the world without you adding to it.”

  He studied me for a long moment. “You’re right.”

  “Ella breaks quite enough hearts on the stage. She doesn’t like to do it on her own time.” Marie cut her eyes to me. “So, Your Grace, you want my thoughts on Juliet?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Well, it’s a rather depressing role to play over a long period of time.”

  “All that dying for love?” he asked.

  “Not really.” Marie shook her head. “It’s the powerlessness of it. Everyone treats her as a pretty ornament to be enjoyed and placed as they wish.”

  “Ah.”

  “Romeo here, as I pointed out to her a few days ago, has choices. He . . . she . . . chooses Juliet . . . chooses to duel . . . chooses how far he will go for love—and how he’ll end it.” Marie smiled ruefully. “Juliet quite literally has only one choice, the poison. It’s the only power she has.”

  “ ‘If all else fail, myself have power to die.’” He clearly knew the line, but spoke it slowly, thoughtfully.

  “Right.” She sipped her tea. “Many women are powerless most of the time. For most of us, it’s just life as we live it.”

  “Not you ladies.”

  I smiled at him. “Not as much.”

  “But legally, I’m still Paul’s property, even though he hates the notion,” Marie pointed out. “And all of us are at someone’s mercy.”

  Saint Aubyn stared at us. “I had not thought of it that way.”

  “You wouldn’t. You’re a man.”

  He looked a little wounded.

  “That’s not quite fair, Marie,” I cut in. “He’s trying to understand.”

  Marie smiled, probably at my defense of him, and nodded. “No insult intended. Just an observation.”

  “No offense taken. Tell me more.”

  “Women don’t control much. And playing a role that reminds you how little power you have?”

  “Could help make someone desperate.”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  He nodded and silently looked into his tea for a few moments, finally bringing his gaze back to Marie. “Tell me about something more pleasant.”

  “What?”

  “How you manage to do all this.”

  “This what?”

  “Singing and family life,” Saint Aubyn said with a faint smile. “Miss Shane has told me you have three wee ones, which I cannot imagine.”

  Marie’s serious expression gave way to a joyful smile. “Indeed I do. Being a mother is the most important thing I do, but not the only one.”

  “Clearly. You have a lovely voice.”

  “Thank you.” She beamed at him. “I limit my engagements, choosing them carefully, and my husband is kind enough not to complain. I am lucky.”

  The duke nodded. “I suspect your spouse is the lucky one.”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” Marie said, picking up a very decorative cookie. “What about you, Your Grace? How do you feel about wives who sing?”

  “That would depend upon the singing. And the wife.”

  As he said it, his eyes moved from Marie to me, and quickly back.

  “No doubt, it would.” She grinned and cut her eyes to me. “I’m not the only singer who manages a career and children.”

  “No?”

  “A fair number of women in the regional companies do the same. All that’s required is a willingness to work hard . . . and a husband who won’t stand in the way.”

  “Ah. That is probably the key.”

  “It is.” Marie smiled. “Your cousin would almost certainly have known about such women. So she would have known that art does not have to be the only love in your life.”

  The duke nodded.

  “It might—or might not—have been important to her at her age. I was far more interested in singing than in men until I was a bit older.”

  I nodded. “That was the impression I had of her. She was interested only in the music. But you’re right, some singers do eventually widen their horizons.”

  Marie sipped her tea and watched me. “We all should eventually, unless we want to end up alone in a house filled with programs and old costumes.”

  I looked down into my tea. For a tiny second, I felt almost weepy.

  “Perhaps a bit harsh, Madame?” Saint Aubyn cut in as I felt, rather than saw, his eyes on me.

  She patted my hand. “No offense intended, Ells.”

  I shook my head. “None taken.”

  Marie once again glanced between Saint Aubyn and me, then just smiled at him. “At any rate, I hope I’ve been able to give you some insight.”

  “You’ve been a great help.”

  “Good.” She looked down at the watch pinned to her bodice. “Heavens. I must be going home.”

  In the half second as she rose, she metamorphosed from diva to busy mother, and I smiled, having seen it many times before. Saint Aubyn couldn’t help staring a little, but managed to keep his manners, stand and bow gracefully as she left.

  After she was gone, we sat for a moment with our tea, enjoying the glow from Marie’s presence, and perhaps trying to put off our other task.

  “Thank you for introducing me.”

  “Marie is always happy to talk about her work. And she doesn’t have many chances to do that. I suspect you did her as much good as she did you.”

  Saint Aubyn nodded. “She is a lovely lady.”

  “You’ll get no argument from me.”

 
“As are you.” He took another look at the tea tray. “Don’t insult the sandwiches?”

  I shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with being kind when you can.”

  “It would be a far better world if everyone felt that way, Miss Shane.”

  Chapter 17

  What She Left Behind

  If tea and music had been all that were on the schedule for the day, it would have been a very happy afternoon. But before Marie arrived, a porter from the Waverly Place Hotel had dropped off Lady Frances’s trunk, and there was another task waiting for us. Which is probably why we lingered over the tea longer than we should have. It certainly wasn’t because he wanted to partake of more of Mrs. G’s pretty sandwiches.

  “I suppose we had best set to work.” He put down his cup slowly, regretfully.

  “I’ll call Rosa.”

  It would not have been fair to ask Marie to help with this grim errand. I’d recruited Rosa, as the closest I had to a lady’s maid, to provide insight on the make and style of the clothing, and not incidentally serve as chaperone. I didn’t want to put Frances’s dark fate so close to Marie and her sunny life, or bring her any further into this without asking the duke first.

  I started dragging the trunk from the unobtrusive corner, where I’d had the porters place it this morning, and Saint Aubyn quickly moved to help me.

  “Miss!” Rosa said reprovingly as she bustled in. She’s a tiny, dark-haired girl, and while I know she has to be very strong to do the daily housework, I don’t have to add to her burden.

  I shrugged and knelt down beside the trunk. “I’m strong enough, why shouldn’t I?”

  Both of my companions glared at me, probably for different reasons.

  “Fine.” I looked to the duke. “Do you have a key?”

  He handed it to me and got down beside me. “I don’t think she left with a trunk.”

  “Probably just a small bag of essentials, and acquired the rest over time.” I pointed to the stamp in the metal by the lock. “This is American-made, and good, but not expensive. I have a couple from the same maker.”

  “Practical?”

  “Practical, and a common choice for traveling performers. Anyone wise in the ways of the road would tell her to get one. She probably bought it for the tour. That’s when I got my first one.”

  He nodded.

  I slipped the key in the lock and it turned easily. I felt Saint Aubyn tense beside me. I didn’t blame him. These were his cousin’s things, and he’d never see her again this side of Heaven. I hoped. My theology is unorthodox enough to admit the possibility that God takes in strays. I suspected the man who was ready to fight the vicar for Frances was probably a bit unorthodox, too.

  Rosa tutted when the lid came up. “Badly packed, miss.”

  “True. The coat, like all heavy things, belongs on the bottom.”

  I handed the coat to Rosa, who started checking the linings and seams. It was a simple medium gray wool, which would have looked very good with Frances Saint Aubyn’s pale skin and light eyes.

  Under the coat was a light blue wool dress, also just thrown in on top, as the coat had been, and then we began with the lightest items. I didn’t understand until I saw the dress.

  “What?” Saint Aubyn knew I saw something.

  “Well, she was packed to travel. She’d have worn the coat and dress after the show, so someone, I’d guess the police, just threw the clothes in on top. I doubt anyone searched the trunk at all.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Not exactly thorough, the New Haven constabulary.”

  “They had decided what it was, and weren’t going to spend any more time.” I shook my head. Tommy and I are probably the only Irish people I know who do not have a close relative who is a police officer . . . and that’s only because Uncle Jim died a year after he retired from the force. Father Michael has brothers and cousins on the beat, and, like it or not, we’re all versed in the ways of law enforcement. “Which does not make it right, Your Grace.”

  With his barrister’s training, he probably had a bit of insight himself. “It certainly does not.”

  I looked to Rosa, hoping to change the subject, since we couldn’t change what had happened. “Any thoughts on the coat and dress?”

  “A dressmaker made it. It’s good enough, but not really fancy. From the sleeves, I’d say a year or so ago. Probably made for the tour.”

  “That makes sense. I always purchase what I will need, and the singers get an advance so they can, too.”

  “‘Advance’?” The duke looked at me.

  “Most singers aren’t especially well-off. You can’t expect people to just run off without supplies, and they’ll never tell you they can’t afford things.”

  I thought of the first tour, when I had noticed a young basso carrying his things wrapped in a bundle like a vagrant. He hadn’t been able to afford a trunk and had no other options. Tommy and I bought him one and we provided a modest advance after that.

  “Miss Shane, if I were a singer, I believe I’d want to work for you.”

  I smiled. “Lentini treated me well. The least I can do is be good to my company.”

  Saint Aubyn just nodded.

  Rosa and I sorted through the rest of the clothes fairly quickly. Most were similar, pieces made by an American dressmaker, all about the same vintage. At the bottom, though, was a simple dark blue wool dress that was different. It was older and worn, but the fabric was noticeably higher quality, and the tailoring far better.

  Saint Aubyn stared at it. “That looks somewhat familiar.”

  “I suspect it’s the dress she wore when she left.” I looked at the elbows and hem. “She wore it for a long time, and kept it after it was no longer in respectable shape to wear.”

  “Sentimental value, perhaps,” he said.

  “I’d guess. We women are like that. In a drawer somewhere, I have my dress from my first recital.”

  “Dress?”

  I smiled. “Yes, Your Grace. I only wear breeches when I play men. For recitals, I dress like a lady.”

  “Silly of me. Of course, you do.”

  “You’d be surprised how many people who see me only on the stage are surprised to find out that I don’t wear boys’ clothes at home.”

  Saint Aubyn’s eyes strayed to my shirt.

  “Well, usually. I had fencing before I had rehearsal, and there’s been no time to change.”

  “Ah.”

  I knew what was going on here. Any distraction from our task would do. “Not fair to ask the rest of you to sit here twiddling your thumbs while I scramble into something more appropriate.”

  “You’re quite appropriate. As always, Miss Shane.”

  “Thank you.” I handed the dress on to Rosa. “At any rate, she saved it as a reminder of where she came from, and who she was.”

  He nodded gravely. “So that’s all we can gather from her wardrobe.”

  I opened the first of the three small drawers in the side of the trunk. Inside was sheet music: a Capuleti score, of course, plus one for Aida and several arias, including the Queen of the Night’s rage aria from the Magic Flute. I looked through them, thinking of Stratford’s dismissive assessment of her.

  “What do you think?” Saint Aubyn asked.

  “I think she was aiming high. Literally and figuratively. She might have had the range and skill to do the Queen of the Night someday. It’s Marie’s signature role, but it’s fiendishly difficult. And Aida’s no walk in the park, either.”

  “Ambitious.”

  “Yes. Good for a young singer. But there’s nothing in here that she could have comfortably done right now. I don’t know who her teacher was, but she wasn’t doing right by her.”

  “Did she have one?”

  “I knew she was practicing with Louis on the tour. I don’t know whom she studied with at home. I’ll ask our booking agent if he knows, the next time I talk to him.” Thankfully, no need to tell the duke that Henry was good and scared of us at the moment—or why.


  “Could she just have been working on more difficult repertoire by herself?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe her teacher told her not to work on these things yet, and she decided to do it on her own while she was away. It’s a risk, though. Young voices have to be very careful.”

  “Why?”

  “The voice isn’t fully mature until a singer is around thirty. Sopranos can ruin their instruments if they push too hard, too fast.”

  “How?”

  “Basically, you have to have all the technique in place to support those high notes. And even if your voice will go there, it may not be right for you.” I pointed to the Queen of the Night aria. “I can hit most of those notes, most days—and often do in vocalization. But it’s not just an athletic event. I have a big, dark voice, and I sound much better in my lower registers. Marie has that lovely bell-like quality, and sounds like an angel—or, in the case of the Queen of the Night, like a demon—when she goes up there.”

  Saint Aubyn thought about it. “Would she have been upset to learn there were roles she couldn’t play?”

  “I’m honestly not sure.” I looked at the scores. “I was destined for trouser roles from very early on, and never really wanted anything else. Sometimes I think it might be fun to be the pretty princess, but it’s not a deep wound that I can’t.”

  His eyes lingered on the music. “And yet?”

  “And yet, if I wasn’t sure where my voice was going to settle, and what I might be capable of, and dreamed of things that could end up being beyond me . . . I don’t know.”

  “What roles was she going to do in Philadelphia?”

  “Pretty-princess things, challenging enough, but not heavy work. I know Aida is in the plan for Philadelphia—perhaps she was going to understudy.”

  “So maybe not all as rosy as we thought?”

  “Well, this certainly suggests she wanted more than she was doing. That’s not unhealthy. That’s evidence of ambition—and if I were her agent, I’d be glad to see it. As long as she wasn’t pushing her voice too much.” I would actually have been glad to know that my little show-off had lofty goals, and if she’d trusted me, helped her to grow safely. A missed opportunity for both of us.

  “So we might do well to find her teacher.”

  “If she had one. I’ll ask Henry, and Louis, for that matter.”