Secret of the Song

by Cathie Hartigan

  I remembered my mother’s advice all over again. How chickens do not thrive when cooped with peacocks.

  ‘But I have been noticed, and for something I didn’t even know I had.’ Tears pricked in the corner of my eyes. ‘And Salvo, I am afraid … for I confess I’m not altogether sure that my voice is the Prince’s real interest.’

  Salvo pulled me into a pool of dark shadow cast where the castle wall blocked the sun. ‘Listen, Silvia, when Pietro tells you to go to the music room I will hide myself in the gallery. If anything happens, I will make a loud noise and disturb him.’

  ‘But Salvo, you will get into trouble then.’

  ‘Better that than …’

  I put my finger to his lips. ‘Shh … don’t say it.’

  Salvo smiled, and taking hold of my hand, kissed it gently. For the first time, I felt no desire to pull away. But I was afraid for him, and an idea pressed itself into my mind that might help us both: ‘Is the Prince already in the music room?’

  ‘I don’t know. He wasn’t when I passed by a little while ago.’

  ‘Perhaps if you were to take something from the room up to the gallery and drop it over the edge, he would not know it came from above and you would be safe.’

  ‘Ah, Silvia.’ Salvo laughed. ‘I always knew you were clever as well as beautiful. Why yes, he will think it a portent. Don Carlo is most superstitious and fearful of anything that might be magic.’

  ‘Quickly then, let us find something for you to drop.’

  ‘Of course, there is one difficulty with your plan, Silvia.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You will have to make sure he doesn’t see whatever I drop fall through the air.’

  ‘Oh.’ I was downcast at once. How could I make Don Carlo do anything? The answer seemed to me exactly what we were trying to avoid.

  Salvo looked a little rueful. ‘It still is a plan, Silvia, and better than no plan at all. Let’s go and—’

  As we stepped out into the sunshine, Pietro appeared at the castle door.

  ‘Ah, there you are,’ he said. ‘And both together. How convenient for me as I have come to take you to the music room, Silvia, and for you, Salvo, an errand. Don Carlo wishes you to go to the papermakers.’

  In spite of the sun, I felt a chill run through my flesh right into my heart. Salvo and I looked at each other. We were chickens once again.

  I didn’t hear Pietro’s instructions for Salvo. All was darkness in my head as Pietro and I climbed the castle steps. When we reached the music room door, I remembered that Salvo said he had news. He had looked pleased too. I hoped whatever it was would be good enough to cheer me later.

  Pietro entered first, the door hinges complaining as they opened and closed. I stood outside and tried to determine whether it would be a good thing to sing very well or very badly. Perhaps having a good voice might keep me respectable but would retain Don Carlo’s interest in me. Being a poor singer might give him a reason to pursue another desire.

  It was fruitless for me to even think I had any choice, for when I finally entered the room, I was too afraid to make any sort of noise at all. Don Carlo sat tuning his archlute. I stood quietly although my heart danced a tarantella to a beat nearly as loud as the instrument. I looked up at the gallery and must have made a slight murmur or sigh as Don Carlo stopped playing at once and turned his gaze upon me.

  ‘Ah, girl. Come here.’ I walked over and stood a little way off from him. ‘No,’ he said, pointing at the floor, ‘here.’

  I did as directed, quivering quietly. The place he’d chosen was in the centre of a shaft of sunlight that sliced the room in two. Then he walked away, not turning until he stood beneath the gallery. ‘Sing now,’ he ordered.

  Nothing happened. I did open my mouth. Honestly, I did. I had thought the Prince to be fishlike but it was me that gulped, opening and closing my mouth as if the air about us were in short supply.

  ‘Sing as you did before,’ he called. ‘The same thing will do. Start now.’

  I cleared my throat and prayed I would not wet myself with fear, but I was able to manage half of the first line without a gasp for breath. Bbuon gggiorno … The sound was very thin to my ear.

  ‘Again.’

  I tried once more. It was a little better. ‘Buon giorno mia cara …’

  ‘And again.’

  I sang the first line several more times and then the whole song over and over until I began to feel rather faint. For the entire time Don Carlo stood beneath the gallery and I was very happy that he was so far away. Then he poured himself a glass of wine and came to sit on the chair nearest to me.

  ‘Look at me,’ he said.

  I turned towards him but could hardly see anything for the bright sun, and my heart, which had settled somewhat, began to tumble all over again. He picked up the lute and strummed a chord or two as if I wasn’t there. I had no idea as to success or failure, but I had not been dismissed.

  ‘My lord.’ I curtsied, and cleared my throat. Quietly, I stepped out of the sunlight, in order to see his expression.

  He did look up and about but not directly at me, as if he thought the voice had come from elsewhere. I curtsied again.

  ‘May I go now, my lord?’

  Then he looked at me and I wished I’d kept silent.

  ‘Go?’ he said. ‘Go? Oh, no.’

  He didn’t sound cross or shocked that I’d spoken. If I’d been a dog that barked suddenly, I suspect he would have sounded thus. A slight irritation, that’s all.

  So I just kept on standing there with only thoughts to keep me upright. Being so near to the Prince set me thinking about my mistress. I hoped Laura didn’t get herself dismissed in my absence and was looking after Donna Maria well. Not too well though. I did not want her usurping my place. I began to wonder about the missing handkerchief. There’s only one reason a married lady might give her handkerchief to a man who was not her husband, and it had nothing to do with blowing noses. Fabrizio Carafa, Duke of Andria and father of four or was it five? I had no memory of his wife, another Maria, sitting on the far side of him, and I wondered if she might have glimpsed the moment when my best cut-work handkerchief changed hands. I hoped not.

  The sound of Don Carlo knocking over his glass made me jump. I reached for it at once. ‘Leave it,’ he said. ‘Now, begin again. Here …’ He struck a chord. ‘I wish you to start higher.’

  So, off I went again. And again. It was more of an effort to sing so high but I could do it. Once I was let from that room I would never sing that song again unless on pain of death.

  ‘Again!’ Don Carlo commanded over and over.

  ‘Please, my lord,’ I said, eventually when desperate and almost hoarse, ‘a little water?’

  Abruptly, he picked up the fallen glass that had lain precariously on the edge of the table and filled it to more than half. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘All of it. Wine is more restorative than water.’

  For some that may be true, but shortly after I downed the glass, I felt a great need to hold the edge of the spinet. After two more verses I began to sway and the third time, I sat on the empty stool unbidden. At once Don Carlo stood up, laid his lute upon the ground and came to where I sat almost weeping.

  ‘Come now. There is no need for fuss,’ he said, as if I were a small child. ‘Do you not know how to work? The musician has to practise and keep on practising if he is to improve.’

  I did not like him, frowning so and berating me. Perhaps the wine had altered him too, for instead of a cold gaze, he now stared at me with a strange determination. He came closer as I stood, teetering precariously from the wine and faintness.

  ‘Your voice has an unusual timbre, girl. And there is much breath in you.’ He drew even closer and bent his face to mine, peering as if to find a witch sign on my face. I tried to lean away, to avoid his breath, the look in his eye. ‘Stamina too,’ he said, and his lips peeled apart into a thin smile.

  I felt his hands on my body then, like two monstrous spiders find
ing their way about me. I took a breath to scream but his fingers were at my throat. They crushed my neck so that no air could come forth at all. With a great crash, the world I knew slipped sideways from its usual course and grew black before my eyes.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Once Mollie had let Jon go, we finally set about singing. I’d made a bit of an effort with my part but the minute I opened my mouth, I began coughing. If I’d swallowed a fly, it couldn’t have been worse. A sip of wine didn’t help and neither did half a glass of water.

  ‘Sorry, sorry …’ I spluttered, and went into the sitting room. I couldn’t seem to clear whatever it was and at risk of throwing up I went into the bathroom. There was a spray somewhere I’d bought for a sore throat ages ago. I thought it might help.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Mollie called out.

  ‘A frog,’ I said, wheezing slightly.

  ‘Some frog.’

  ‘A bullfrog probably.’

  She stood at the bathroom door. ‘You can’t do that at the concert, Mummy.’

  ‘No, I know,’ I rasped. ‘And you’d better get back to bed.’

  The spray did help and when we finally got round to singing again, it went okay. Nothing special but no coughing fits or spilt wine. The weather accompanied us with loud gusts biffing the kitchen window.

  Later, I inspected my throat for signs of inflammation but couldn’t see anything amiss. Perhaps it was just a crumb or a fragment of Smartie shell. Daniela had no such trouble, her voice as rich and as wonderfully warm as her personality, but even so, I couldn’t stop feeling that I was an object being observed. Like being in a music exam or taking the driving test, and for someone so gushing with her smiles, she was very held back about her own life. We’d had a few rehearsals together and yet I knew no more about her than was written on the card at the shop. I’d served a few balls in her direction, but nothing ever came back, and I began to feel as if I was an interrogator.

  ‘Oh, Jon,’ said Daniela, when they were all getting ready to leave. ‘Would you be a lovely man and give me a lift? It is so raining?’ She did that leaning thing again and smiled at him as if he were Mr Special.

  His smile was pretty impressive too. With effort, I set my face to neutral.

  ‘I can hardly breathe in this, let alone sing,’ I said, as Sophie pulled at the corset during my first fitting.

  ‘You’re too short in the waist.’ She spoke through a mouthful of pins.

  ‘So I keep telling myself,’ I said. ‘You should hear me when I’m in a changing room.’

  ‘There. You can take it off now. Go carefully, it’s pinned all the way round.’

  My costume involved the most complicated fitting even though I was only the maid. I’d met Sophie at the theatre and was doing a tree impersonation while she tried not to stab me. She was clever with her pins though. I eased my way past them and stepped away from the pool of fabric.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, shaking my arms to get the blood circulating again. ‘I’m very glad to be Silvia Albana and not centre stage. Even so, poor girl, it must have been awful.’

  ‘And Gesualdo got away with it. That was really awful.’

  ‘One of the many perks of being a prince, I suppose.’ I struggled back into my jeans and felt very drab amongst the finery of all the theatre costumes. ‘What about you, Sophie? Surely you’re going to wear something, aren’t you? Or are you going to do a proper Calendar Girls stunt and be demure behind your music.’

  Sophie laughed. ‘I think there’s a bit too much of me to hide behind a piece of music. Don’t worry, I’ve sorted a few props that’ll help.’

  ‘They’ll have to be pretty extensive to please Robert.’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘Phew,’ I said, pulling my sweater on. ‘That feels better.’

  Sophie gathered up the dress, or rather the over-dress, as it went on top of the bodice and skirt, and hung it over the ironing board. ‘Have you got time for a cup of tea?’

  ‘Yes, if you have. Mollie’s at her dad’s. I have all the live long day.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ Sophie looked at her watch. ‘There’s not much day left, it’s nearly evening. Why don’t we go to the new place on Queen Street? I could just do with something nice and cold with bubbles in.’

  ‘Oh yes! And when was the last time you and I had a chat?’ I wondered if Robert might figure in Sophie’s news. ‘We’re not celebrating anything are we?’

  ‘No. Not particularly. Only …’ She snapped the lid back on the pin box. ‘That’s exactly it. You and I haven’t had a proper chat for ages. Is it me or do Noteworthy rehearsals feel completely different with Daniela there? We sound different, the conversation’s different … she’s got a lovely voice and there’s nothing I can put my finger on to dislike about her, but …’ She shook her head and stuffed the box into her sewing bag. ‘What do you think, Lisa. Am I mad?’

  Relief propelled me across the room to give her a hug. ‘Oh, Sophie, I’m so glad you said that! I thought it was just me.’

  She laughed. ‘And I thought it was just me. Or having to sing that Gesualdo.’

  ‘Yes, definitely that.’ I remembered the last rehearsal and my struggles.

  We walked down the hill in the first real chill of the year. Cold, damp air and leaves were everywhere, slippery and rotting like a month old salad in the bottom of the fridge. I heard all about Sophie’s house on the way. Not that we were avoiding anything, but there was a comfort in the certainty of new guttering. Noteworthy had felt certain but things change. Get old. Stuff happens. No, wait … stuff happens then things have to change.

  I was glad to hear about Sophie’s roof repairs and especially about the impending new central heating boiler, but once we sat in the comfort of an emerald green plush velvet booth we looked at each other and went quiet.

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, clinking glasses. ‘I was thinking it was because I was jealous.’

  ‘Aren’t we all? Who wouldn’t want a voice like Daniela’s?’

  I laughed rather ruefully. ‘I didn’t mean her voice.’

  ‘Oh, that … well, yes.’ Sophie sighed and a cluster of little lines fanned around her mouth. ‘Do we know anything about her?’ she went on. ‘What’s she doing in Exeter? It’s a long way from Milan.’

  ‘Especially as she used to sing at La Scala.’

  ‘Did she? Wow.’

  ‘That’s the only thing she’s said about her past. God knows what she’s doing here. I asked her once, but she changed the subject. Then I blamed myself for being too nosy. I thought she’d think I was interrogating her.’

  ‘That’s typical of you,’ Sophie said, between swigs.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘To think you’re at fault.’

  ‘Is it? Do I?’ This was news to me.

  ‘Not all the time, but if you’re given half the chance. Don’t look so appalled. Better that than assuming nothing is ever your fault.’

  ‘I suppose not.’ I tried thinking of other times I may have taken false responsibility. ‘You’ve got me worried now.’

  ‘Don’t be. I think Daniela is making us all feel nervous.’

  I remembered the way she smiled at Jon and the look on his face. ‘I don’t think all of us do. Did you notice that Jon took her home last time?’ It didn’t come out quite as nonchalantly as I’d hoped.

  ‘Did I notice? Of course, I noticed! Who could fail to?’

  I gulped back the rest of my wine as a shiver of fear ran through me. ‘Do you want another one?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sophie, ‘that would be very nice. But listen,’ she put her hand on my arm as I stood up, ‘you should say something.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You should speak to Jon.

  ‘And say what?’

  Sophie tutted then shooed me away. ‘Go and get the drinks. We’ll talk about it when you get back.’

  At the bar a cluster of sparkly girls wound themselves into a frenzy in readiness for the
evening. They giggled behind their hands and adjusted their clothes; tops downwards and skirts up. I remembered something similar at college. How old is it possible to feel at thirty? Through speakers, Sam Smith warbled I’m not the only one. It wasn’t reassuring.

  ‘You and Jon ought to be together,’ Sophie announced when I put our drinks on the table.

  ‘Oh, not you too. That’s what Mollie says.’

  ‘And she’s absolutely right. What’s stopping you?’

  ‘Well …’ I hesitated. This was looking the mammoth right in the eye. Like elephants, mammoths have eyes that are quite small and with all that wool in the way it can be difficult to see them. When I left Michael, I made vehement noises about how I’d had it with men. A toddler is enough, especially one as delightfully demanding as Mollie was. But a couple of years ago, when Sophie’s party invite had arrived out of the blue, it was Mollie’s excitement about her mummy being invited to a party that made me go. My own mummy had been pretty excited too, but then she wasn’t like me. When her husband left, although it took her a while, she did find another one – the caretaker at my school.

  ‘But he died …’ I said out loud, startling both myself and Sophie.

  ‘Who died?’

  ‘My stepdad.’ I waved my hand, somehow trying to wave away the past. A useless gesture, of course, so I gulped a mouthful of Prosecco instead. Alcohol is better at that sort of thing.

  ‘I didn’t know you had one.’

  ‘He died a year after my mum married him. It was such a shame. He was so lovely.’ I felt the prick of tears just thinking about him. ‘You see, Sophie, that’s the trouble with me and men. They either leave or die.’ I could hear it sounded a bit over the top but it was as if something deep down wanted to be said. Perhaps a herd of mammoths lurked just over the horizon.

  ‘That’s not really true, Lisa.’ It was said mildly and I knew she was right, but I couldn’t shed the feeling that I might cry at any moment. The mammoths were pressing forward. ‘Let’s face it,’ she went on, ‘Jon’s not gone anywhere and he’s looking pretty healthy.’ She picked up her handbag and began rummaging in its depths.