by Ella Edon
The bitter cruelty of his father’s passing was weighing on him more and more, and even when the petite songstress called The Parisian Nightingale took the stage in a beautiful lavender gown, he was unable to rouse himself to look.
But he could not close his ears and when she began to sing, he changed. He was mesmerized. He heard a pianoforte playing, and then a flute, and within seconds this voice – more than a voice – a presence. It was her, The Parisian Nightingale. When she sang, it was as though his soul were woken from a slumber that had lasted for eons.
“Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest, from his moist cabinet mounts up on high,” she sang in a voice so clear and beautiful that he could forget the staggeringly poor text setting. He leaned over to Simon who was gazing at her décolleté with rapture. “Who is this goddess?” he said.
“She’s the bleedin’ Parisian Nightingale.”
“I mean, what is her Christian name?” he said.
“Blessed if I know,” he said, nudging Peter, who was likewise mesmerized by her bodice. “Oy, what’s the bird’s name?”
“Parisian Nightingale,” said Peter shushing him.
“No, I mean what does her mother call her?”
“Garance Monteux,” he said, and as soon as Jonathan heard this name, it was imprinted on his soul.
“She is the woman I want to marry,” said Jonathan.
“Marry? Sorry, old bean, but that bird is a singer. She don’t marry nobody. But I warrant you can get a bead on her if you go to her dressing room after the performance. I read somewhere that these songstresses do that. But you need a pocketful of cash.”
And just as quickly as he had been filled with hope, it was dashed. He sank into gloom and despair, and at the intermission, he refused to leave his seat. “No thank you,” he said. “I have no need to meet Lady Cordelia.”
“I might take a spin on her if you are really disinterested,” said Simon. “I don’t mind a bird who is daft.”
Something had come over Jonathan. The concert was not only brilliant; it was stunning, and Jonathan was floating on the wings of song for the entire concert. He was captivated by her beauty, which was the main attraction, it seemed, for most of the gentlemen in the audience, but not for him.
Every few minutes, when he could tear his eyes from her stunning beauty, he looked around at the lascivious faces of old, fat men, ogling her like she was a prostitute. He was horrified and at the same time envious. He resolved then and there, that despite the unlikelihood of meeting her, he would give it a try.
Jonathan knew a little about music, having studied the harpsichord for several years as a youth, and he had a passable tenor voice that was put to good use in the chapel at Oxford. He had sung a mass by some composer from Austria called Mozart, and thought it was one of the most rewarding experiences of his life. He felt that perhaps he might have something to talk about with Mademoiselle Garance Monteux.
When the concert finished, he leapt to his feet, applauding with tears rolling down his cheeks.
“Brava!” he cried in a voice so loud that it nearly burst the eardrums of poor Peter who was seated beside him, sunk into sleep.
“Oy Johnny! What is wrong?” asked Peter.
“I simply must meet her.”
“Well, you know what I told you. Go backstage and see if she’ll rendezvous with you.”
Chapter Five
The First Encounter
Jonathan waited until the hall went quiet and the hum of excited voices began to sing her praises. He moved past his friends and into the lobby, lost in thought. He didn’t see Miss Cordelia de Montmorency as she sidled up to him. “Did you like her dress?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?” said Jonathan.
“Her gown, it was Parisian, you know. It was beautiful, don’t you think?”
“It was lovely, but Miss Montmorency, it was her voice that had me transported.”
“I fell asleep for most of it, I confess,” she said, giggling coquettishly. “But the good news is that I have all the energy in the world after that lovely nap. Would you like to accompany me and my friends to a soirée?”
Jonathan did not mean to be rude, but he had a rather more pressing encounter to go to. “I am sorry, Miss Montmorency, but I cannot.”
“Well, do take my card. It has my at-home hours, and I should like very much to meet you again.”
“Of course,” he said, having absolutely no intention of ever visiting her. But Jonathan was too well-brought-up to refuse a visiting card. Nevertheless, he pushed through the crowd and made his way to the street. He saw a flower-girl standing, looking bedraggled.
“Boy a flah from a poe gehl?” she said in a voice so pathetic that he was moved to buy all her flowers.
“How much for the lot?” he asked. She had six roses left, and they were a lamentable set. Limp and wilting, but red roses.
“Sixpence?” she said, and he gave her half a crown, as he took the small bouquet and strode toward the stage entrance.
“Oh, fank you saa!” he heard the poor flower girl say. He pulled the door open only to be greeted by a crowd of gentlemen, dressed far better than he, with bunches of camellias and white gardenias, orchids, and calla lilies. He looked at his sad little bouquet of red roses and the long line of older gentlemen, and considered returning to his friends, but something held him there, something more powerful than his shyness. He needed to see her, to meet her, to express his joy at the quality of her voice, her talent. He absolutely needed this, or he would die.
Jonathan was filled with a grim determination that he had never known before. He felt as though he were in love, and he would not be deterred, not by the fiasco of his father’s penury, nor by these lesser gentlemen and their flourishing flowers. He knew, somewhere deep within him, that this aura of perfection he had seen on stage was more than a performance. He knew at some profound level that she would be his one true love. She simply had to be!
He watched, dumbstruck, as she entered the room. She was mobbed by these coarse gestures of infatuation from so many older, less attractive gentlemen. She smiled with equanimity and one after another, they departed, feeling that they had made a strong impression on her. She looked at him once or twice, their eyes locking in what he imagined was a meaningful manner. Something about her told him that they shared something profound, some bond that could not be broken.
She had a deft way of deflecting the advances of these old gentlemen. Never rude, and always utterly charming, but it was clear that they would not have a chance to spend time with her alone. Jonathan was momentarily worried that he would lose his opportunity to speak to her. Words were not his forte, he knew, but he felt inspired when he looked at her. The tension in his mind grew more and more powerful as the room began to empty of her admirers.
So, he wondered, what is it that has made me so sure she is the partner I need? Why would I, a student, a member of the nobility, but one who has never done a thing to distinguish myself in the world, think I would be a fitting partner to this woman who is able to bring an entire theatre to tears?
He assumed that she had reached only the men, and he reasoned, it was more than likely that she had reached them by her beauty. But Jonathan was not there because of a pretty face. He was there because she had moved him as she had moved many in that theatre. She had spoken to his soul, and Jonathan needed someone to speak to his soul, and he needed to tell this person that he, too, had the soul of a poet.
Standing there, watching her reject the advances of these old gentlemen in a kind and loving manner was both inspiring and daunting for him. He had experienced this sort of misplaced adulation from the like of Misses Wiglesworth and de Montmorency, and he had not been able to brush them off in the same kind manner. He remembered how rude he was, how rude he felt he needed to be, to get them away from him, and he was once again impressed with how deftly this Parisian Nightingale was able to turn them away with love, with kindness.
She was his better, he knew,
but he knew, too, that he was improving, he was learning, and he was about to get a crash course in how to live life in a way that would determine the rest of his life. When he had walked into the theater, he imagined the reason for his attendance was to scoop up some boorish but wealthy young lady and take her fortune as a replacement for the one his father had squandered. Now, in the light of her aura, the light that shone from her soul, Jonathan saw a new world appearing on the horizon; one in which a pile of money had little or no meaning. One in which love, expressed and cherished, was all that mattered.
Of course, the world he lived in demanded a nobleman to have means, or he would have no right to his title. That much was clear. However, it was far from clear how he would be able to save his soul if he were forced into marrying one of those foolish girls who were fawning over him in the reception area of the theater. On the other hand, the sight of this French songstress moving among so many admirers, treating them kindly but firmly was an object lesson in how to treat admirers without encouraging them. He looked at her, and her beauty shone through in a way he had never considered any woman could. It was not only her voice, or her astonishing beauty, it was her manner, her confidence, her facility with her lot in life that was admirable. She looked as though she did not need him, and that was terribly attractive.
Slowly, the room began to empty, and he knew his moment of reckoning was coming. There is a tide in the affairs of men, Shakespeare once wrote. Taken at the flood, lead on the fortune, and a tidal wave was headed his way.
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Ella Edon is an American author of steamy historical Regency romance books. She started pursuing her childhood passion of putting stories to paper after experiencing two of the most life changing experiences of her life.
Her books have received rave reviews for the romance, the character’s depth, the intrigue and the turmoil they have.
She lives in New Orleans, Louisiana with her loving husband and candy sweet daughter. Before she started writing Regency romance, Ella was working in a phone center, despite the fact that she majored in English Literature. However, her restless spirit lead her to chase her dream and now she is devoted into sharing her stories with the world.
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