‘I admit it,’ he said, nuzzling into her neck. ‘I did it to make you beholden to me. And it was not just my bed where I wanted you, either. If this is the prize, a little trickery is allowable. Forgive me, my sweet, but I had to hold you somehow, and you were so determined not to let me near you. Am I forgiven?’
Like a cat, she rubbed her head against his neck, hardly able to believe that this was happening to her. ‘Wicked man,’ she whispered. ‘Is it any wonder I tried to avoid you after what I found out of your reputation? But for Caterina, I would never have given in to your disgraceful demands, my lord. It was quite the most shocking way to behave towards a lady. But now I’m not quite what I seem, am I? Who knows what or who I am? Did you really make any discoveries in London, or was that all fudge, too?’
His fingers roamed over her face, lifting a stray tear off her eyelashes and taking it to his lips. ‘Oh, dear. Am I in danger of losing all my credibility now? I hope not, because I did find something that may fit in rather neatly with your foundling story, sweetheart. It looks as if Sir Josiah Chester may have been trying to protect the identity of his early love when he told you she was his mother’s maid. That’s not quite how it looks. It began with that portrait of you by Lawrence that hangs in your bedroom; it reminded me so strongly of someone I saw at Sheen Court. I was a child of about six or seven and she was an exquisitely beautiful creature. She made a big impression on me, and I suppose that was the first time I ever fell in love. Even at six. When I saw your portrait, I realised that there must be some kind of connection, so when I saw Lord Dysart again at Lady Sergeant’s ball, I went to have a chat with him while you were dancing with Seton.’
‘That was when you vanished, and I thought … oh, never mind. Go on, if you please.’
‘Well, I asked Dysart what he knew about your late husband and about your family, but he didn’t know the Carrs personally except that they were big mill owners, and all he could tell me about Chester’s early years was that he’d sown a few wild oats before he settled down into business. What Dysart was more interested in was you. Like me, he was reminded of someone he’d once known in the late 1770s, a society beauty formerly known as Fanny Scales. Her real name was Francesca, and she’d been married to Viscount Winterbourne, who was fighting abroad for the first year of their marriage, like many others. And that’s all Dysart could tell me.’
‘What then?’ said Amelie, holding his hand to her cheek.
‘Then I went to see my mother in London. I knew that she’d known the Winterbournes well. She’d been friends with Fanny even before her marriage. The interesting part is that Fanny’s parents lived in Manchester and, while her new husband was with his regiment, she spent the best part of a year up there in the north with them. According to my mother, this would have been in about 1780. She returned to London, but later confided to my mother, her closest friend, that she’d had an affair with a wonderful man and borne a child. She never said who the father was, but the babe had been taken immediately to the Foundling Hospital in Manchester. Viscount Winterbourne would never have accepted another man’s child. My mother said she was always racked with guilt about having to abandon it.’
‘Did she mention any dates?’ said Amelie, suddenly breathless.
‘She believed it was about springtime in 1781.’
‘April. That’s when the Carrs adopted me. My father told us he wanted a boy so that he could inherit instead of his nephew, but there was me, a girl child, and my mother clung to me and thought I was most likely to grow up looking like their natural child. But what happened to Fanny? Is she still in London?’
‘This is the sad part. She died giving birth to her second son, and they both died in infancy too. Winterbourne returned to his regiment, but he was killed in action soon afterwards.’
‘Oh,’ she said, clinging to his hand. ‘That is a sad, sad story. That is so … so … oh, Nick … how could she do it? A child … a tiny babe? Could she not have found a family who would have taken it, and loved it? To give it away like that.’ Her words ended in a whisper, and hot tears dripped on to his hand, and he knew without a doubt that here was the reason for her passion for waifs and strays, for abandoned pregnant women and lost souls. Naturally compassionate, she had channelled all her latent mothering instincts into caring for unfortunates, perhaps to give back what she had been given, though the inevitable deceit was a great price to pay. Young Fanny Scales would not have been the only one to let her child go, for the sake of respectability.
‘Don’t weep,’ he said. ‘It happens. It always will. You’ve been doing what you could to help, sweetheart, and no one is going to object to that, even if it was unorthodox. But what about Lady Fanny’s story? Do you think it ties up with yours somehow? Was Sir Josiah right, after all?’
‘It does look as if he knew more than he told me, and perhaps he would have told me one day if he’d not died so suddenly. But why did you think Lady Fanny’s story might be relevant, Nick darling? You were not to have known that I was adopted.’
‘Your portrait and my childhood memory, and you saying that there was yet another skeleton in your closet. And Dysart’s memory too. He’d made the same link as me.’
‘But Thomas Lawrence didn’t.’
‘No, she was before his time, sweetheart. But you see what this means, don’t you? That your ancestry is as good as it gets, adopted or not. Better even than the Carrs. Mrs Carr would surely have known the lovely Fanny, Viscountess Winterbourne. She’d have approved of that. Just think.’
She had to smile at the irony. ‘I can scarcely believe it, dearest. Are we going to have to tell your parents about it? We should, you know.’
‘I don’t see why. It’s important to you, but I think we can safely say that your last skeleton is released, and you have no more to worry about. Yes?’
‘Doesn’t it make any difference to you, either?’
‘Not in the least. And I think we’ve been engaged long enough now. It’s time it was officially announced, and a date set. You and I should be made respectable.’
Certainly, there was another reason for urgency now, though she could not tell him of it until she was more sure. But the solving of so many of Amelie’s problems made a difference to their loving that extended their experience of each other even further, marking the beginning of a deeper phase in their unusual wooing. That night was for Amelie the start of a new life also, not just as the daughter of aristocrats, but as the untroubled future wife of the man she had come to adore, the one around whom she had erected so many obstacles. Paradoxically, if she had not come this far with him, she would never have discovered the answer to the one problem that had lain like a dark menace at the roots of her life; the question of her birth and abandonment.
After dinner with Dorna at Sydney Place, her guests were convinced that the concert at the Assembly Rooms would be something of an anticlimax, for the meal had been riotous, even without the extrovert Tam. The mood had lightened, the two brothers were in good form, even Stephen had rallied with the aid of a suddenly animated Hannah, and Dorna had excelled with a meal so varied and novel that each dish was a topic for discussion and some absurd guesswork.
She had invited her mysterious friend to join them, a very presentable Captain Ben Rankin who, once he had adapted to the banter and irreverence between them, showed an attractive wit and a wicked sense of humour. He was also, Amelie and Nick agreed, a risk-taker to step so boldly into Sir Chad’s slippers, for they had little doubt that that was what he was doing here in Bath. Nevertheless, they could well understand what attractions the captain held for Dorna after the unresponsive Sir Chad, and they took to him easily.
In glittering silver and white, swathes of feathery shawls, plumes and pearls, Amelie and Caterina won a large slice of the attention from the concert-goers that evening as they glided through the columned passages to the soft shush of feet and the rustle of silk and lace, the fluttering of fans, the whispers of guests with their printed programmes and lorg
nettes poised to pick out names and unctuous introductions: ‘Mr Taylor … earnestly felicits the attention of the Nobility and Gentry … and trusts that his exertions will …’
‘Exertions?’ Caterina whispered to Lord Rayne. ‘For pity’s sake.’
‘Sounds as if he’s offering to do press-ups,’ he replied, with disdain.
‘Heaven forbid. Look … oh, look … here’s Signor Rauzzini.’
‘Don’t wave.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t going to. He’s smiling at me.’
‘Then you may smile back, but not too much or he may ask you to sing.’
‘You are so disagreeable. I don’t know why I came with you.’
‘Shh! He’s taking the rostrum. Stop fidgeting.’
The musicians’ tuning-up had drowned out the bickering, which in turn was a cover for something much more affectionate and which fooled none of their companions except dear Hannah, who could not understand it. Amelie’s hand reached across Nick’s lap to squeeze her niece’s arm with an exchange of smiles and, after a last fleeting glance at the festoon of gleaming chandeliers below the white-vaulted ceiling and the assembled line of artistes, she settled into her velvet-covered gilded chair.
The maestro introduced the vocalists, the musicians, the programme, its sponsors and their aspirations, but it was soon evident that the popular mezzo-soprano was far from well, though she struggled valiantly in a duet by Handel, then in a quartet composed by Rauzzini himself. By the interval, the audience had begun to wonder if she would have to retire and if they would have to forfeit what many of them had looked forward to, her solo.
With a cup of tea in her hand, Amelie was discussing the situation when she caught sight of Signor Rauzzini threading his way towards her, though she felt both privileged and slightly alarmed by a premonition of his intent. Even in late maturity, the Italian was still the handsome man he had been in his youth when women had clamoured to become his mistress and men had envied his popularity and success. His renowned castrato singing voice was now well past its best, but his charm was as potent as ever.
‘Lady Chester … my lord … pray forgive the interruption,’ he said, smiling so broadly that they would have forgiven him anything, ‘but we have a slight problem … no, I lie, it’s more than slight, it’s a catastrophe.’ And as if they had not noticed, he explained that the mature Mrs D’Oliveira was suffering a crisis. Her voice had gone. Throwing up his hands, he fluttered his fingers like wings. ‘And I wondered, dear lady, if your niece has recovered enough to help us out for the second act. I saw her here with you. Do you think … am I asking the impossible? I know she can do it. A solo, and our duet, perhaps an encore? That’s all.’
Caterina was sought, and asked. ‘Signor, I am honoured,’ she said. ‘But do I know the music?’
‘Sing whatever you wish, Miss Chester. The musicians will know it. The duet you and I will perform as we were to have done at my house, only here we shall have the applause afterwards. There is no one else I would ask to do it.’
His standards were of the highest, his reputation also. As brave as an Amazon, Caterina grasped at the chance. ‘I can do it,’ she said. ‘Of course I can.’
‘Are you sure, my dear?’ Amelie whispered. ‘You need not feel obliged.’
‘I’m not about to forgo a chance like this,’ said Caterina. ‘This is what we came to Bath for, and now Father can hear me. Lead on, signor.’
The word went round: the maestro had found a replacement. The audience settled down once more; necks craned as the introduction was made and Caterina was led on to the small dais to polite and sympathetic applause. She was a stunner, they murmured, but would she be able to match Mrs D’Oliveira?
But from the first haunting notes, the air became electric with intense concentration as it had not been previously, and the young goddess who stood so confidently before them without a sheet of music in her hand held every one of them enthralled by the pure unaffected richness that poured from her in tones of honeyed gold. Bent to their instruments, the musicians watched and followed her, awed by her beauty of expression, the phrasing, the nuances of colour, the control, for this was a poignant love song they had assumed to be beyond her experience to tell convincingly.
Yet there were some who listened, knowing that it was her own experience of which she sang, of the one she loved and was losing, and how she would recover and be merry with others, while always returning to the minor key that gave the lie to her bravado. It was heartbreaking, piquant, alternating between optimism and melancholy, and when she sang of how this love would hold her heart for ever imprisoned, there was not one in the hall who disbelieved her, especially not the one to whom she was singing. As the last long sad note floated softly around the hall, soaring upwards, every ear straining to hold it back, the silence that followed was like a wait for an echo until Caterina moved and tipped her head a little to one side, looking directly at Lord Rayne.
To his credit, he was the first to stand and blow her a kiss, followed immediately by the whole audience, whose applause was the loudest and most prolonged of the evening, both tearful and ecstatic. Even this did not unsettle her, Signor Cantoni having briefed her how every moment on stage was part of the act, the applause their thanks to be accepted graciously. When Signor Rauzzini joined her for their duet, the audience had never before sat down so quickly.
This too was a performance that set Bath society talking for months afterwards, for the maestro’s voice, though changed, was still beautiful and in the same range as Caterina’s, but of a different timbre. And though they had never sung together before, she took her cues from him, held his hand, and sang with him a love duet of quite a different kind, sweet and full of promise. For a great artiste at the end of his career and a young woman at the beginning of hers, it had a significance that no one could miss. Once again, the applause rattled the chandeliers.
Wisely, she left them wanting more, modestly offering the excuse that the other singers still had a programme to finish, resuming her place with her family, whose emotional greetings lifted those spirits which, only days before, had been at rock-bottom. The rest of the concert, though enjoyable, could not match Caterina’s brilliance, and by the end it was she who had assumed the status of celebrity. But it was to Amelie she remarked, when they were alone, that she had found it both exhilarating and consoling to sing in public about a wounded pride rather than weep about it, and that if it helped her to understand love songs, the heart’s pain must have its uses.
Chapter Ten
There were several reasons why Amelie must return to Richmond sooner than she had intended, most of which concerned others more than herself. Caterina and her father were keen to return to their family at Buxton, while Nick and Seton were anxious not to keep their parents waiting at Sheen Court where they were preparing to send Seton off in style and to celebrate their eldest son’s engagement. The only one of their company who was not inclined to leave the freedom of Bath was Dorna, who was enjoying herself too much, confident that her husband would miss her less than Captain Rankin. Duty came first, however, and family celebrations were much to her taste. So for the remaining few days of their stay, they indulged in every opportunity for enjoyment that Bath had to offer, using each morning, noon and night to parade, to ride and walk to the surrounding beauty spots, to games of bowls, shopping sprees, assemblies, dinner parties, country dances and, on the Friday to come, a formal dress ball. One of their visits was to Perrydown, where Signor Rauzzini had a beautiful cottage and where he entertained them lavishly. Here the maestro did his utmost to convince Stephen that he must take his daughter’s talent seriously, but Amelie and Nick, discussing the event later, agreed that it was Caterina herself who had been largely responsible for her own success with only a little steering in the right direction from them.
The ball at the New Assembly Rooms was intended to mark their last night before their return home and, for this, Lise and Millie spent hours preparing gowns, stockings and pump
s, gloves and fans, and in arranging hair entwined with plaits, braids and pearls. An evening gown of cream lace for Amelie and a flower-sprigged white muslin for Caterina put the two of them once again in a class of their own, and Lord Rayne’s admiration that had once been only for the aunt was this time for the niece. It was enough for her to see how his eyes lingered, without straying.
Still on cloud nine since the banishment of her cares, Amelie gave herself generously to every moment in Nick’s company, able for the first time to indulge in those small signs of affection she had never quite been able to show before: squeezing his hand, pressing close to him, whispering intimate secrets, laughing at nothing, the talk of lovers. When he led her into the enormous pale green and white ballroom lined with Corinthian columns into a blaze of light from no less than nine cut-glass chandeliers, there was nothing that could have diminished her joy at being by his side as his beloved final partner. It was during the supper interval in the tea room where an incident took place that came very close to removing her joy forever, and which brought their last evening in Bath to a more abrupt end than they had expected.
As the crowds jostled around the groaning supper tables, Amelie, Hannah and Dorna carried plates of food to a table in one corner to await the men, who had offered to bring tea and wine. Raising their eyebrows at the level of noise as guests clamoured for food, the three women paid little attention to a burst of shouting over by the door to the octogon, a central room that led directly into all the others. Assuming that the rowdiness would soon be dealt with by Mr King, the Master of Ceremonies, they continued to chatter and nibble until Dorna suddenly stopped, sat up very straight, and frowned severely at someone standing close behind Amelie’s chair.
At that same moment, Amelie felt the touch of a hand beneath her elbow and, sure that it must be Nick, half-turned with a smile at the ready. But by that time Dorna had leapt to her feet, enraged by the stranger’s effrontery. ‘Sir!’ she scolded. ‘Take your hand away from Lady Chester this minute. How dare you come in here dressed like that?’
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