She was the only person of his acquaintance outside of King Don Bartolomé who had ever approached him as an equal, without fear or apprehension. He thought it was a game to get what she wanted. But she was not short on courage, there was no doubt about that.
“You told me you only wanted me to sing,” she exclaimed breathlessly.
“That is all I require, Señorita. I don’t know how to tell you this, but I want…I need to hear you sing.”
“You can hear me sing any night of the week at the Palais Garnier.”
“Indeed. I wish to hear you sing privately. Only to me.”
“Why do you wish for this unusual arrangement, Your Highness?” Her voice was soft and low as she moved closer to him. Her scent was an enticingly strange mix of smells—cherries and vanilla with a floral centerpiece. He swallowed hard even as his mouth watered, finding that he wished to move closer.
Not what he would have expected. The smell of steel and blood emanating from her wouldn’t have surprised him.
“I doubt there is any man alive who would not wish it. It is naive to be surprised by this, Mademoiselle Nicolette,” he admitted with a slight nod that approached reverence. “Only I am in a position to have it. And… there is a healing in it for me,” he added softly, the truth slipping from his lips before he knew it. In her presence, everything he had learned seemed to fall away.
“A healing? Do tell,” she asked incredulously, raising her lovely arched eyebrows.
What could he have been thinking to give her this power over him? As a person in a public position, he knew never to share anything with anyone: it might end up in the papers.
“The effect of your singing was quite…unexpected,” he added, stumbling over his words.
She studied him for a long while before offering her pronouncement, not unlike a royal edict. Her expression seemed to soften, but her eyes were unrelenting as they penetrated his soul.
“Mademoiselle?”
“My singing is not for sale, Your Highness. It is something which comes from my heart. And my heart is not in it.”
She walked to the door to depart the room, dazed but determined, though not as dazed as he was. Before she exited her own door she turned and looked at him, a trembling smile on her lips.
“I am much honored to make your acquaintance, Your Highness,” she murmured as she curtseyed, “but I, unfortunately, have a pressing engagement. I invite you and your necklace to go to Hades.”
Chapter Fourteen
Start a rumor light as a feather,
Watch that rumor float on the breezes!
How it tickles! How it teases,
oh, how shyly, oh, how shyly!
Watch it find its way to every hidden place!
First a whisper, then a murmur,
little voices all a-tremble!
As the little words assemble,
round and round the rumor reaches,
Ears will open to its speeches,
Ears will listen to the lesson that it teaches,
And the mind will pay attention
to whatever it will mention
Who will drop it
Who can stop it
As it runs its rapid race!
—Gioachino Rossini, The Barber of Seville
There is no excuse for such inattention! Where is it? Nicolette rang immediately for her newspaper, which should have already arrived along with her toast and hot tea.
An odd oversight today of all days. Her entire future would be shaped by those small black-and-white letters, which appeared so innocuous on the surface.
Possibly her maid thought she would be overtired. Nothing could be further from the truth!
Unable to wait for someone to do it for her, she pulled the curtains. Her eyes rested on la fontaine Médicis in the Jardin du Luxembourg bordering their home, spouting water as if to match her excitement, even though it had been gurgling in precisely the same manner since 1624.
What a glorious, perfect world it was! Of course, it would be perfect even if she were in the middle of a hurricane. She giggled, pushing back the sheer chiffon extending from her ring-canopy bed. Latching the chiffon in place, she couldn’t help but admire the effect of the sheer plum against a damask pattern of rose, mauve, and olive. Lady Ravensdale had a gift for combining themes, she mused, letting her eyes rest for a brief moment on a round portrait of her mother in an antique gold frame hung by a long pink satin ribbon.
Her mother might have been the top decorator in Paris, with her insight into each person she met combined with her decorating skills. The room was an odd blend of English country garden and French provincial, which somehow worked surprisingly well.
Just as her life was a strange mix of themes, events, and locales which had all come together last evening.
Of all the mornings not to have my newspaper! She rang the bell again. An instant later she threw on a dressing gown of pale India silk trimmed with white lace frills and gold bands and began pacing the room.
The critics’ assessment of my performance is the foundation for the rest of my life. She admonished herself for her fretting. Her performance had been flawless, the best she had ever given. There was no cause to flap about like a chicken loose in the barnyard. The reviews would be good, of course, but how good was the question.
The answer to that question would determine the length of the road ahead of her. She needed to read them for herself before she could generally know how to proceed.
What is taking Emily so long? It must be five minutes since she rang. At just that moment her young maid entered the room, and she saw at a glance the paper on her tray. She bit her lip to keep from snapping at the girl, whose white bow sat lopsided on her head.
“Yes, thank you, Emily, that will be all,” she pronounced dismissively, reaching for the newspaper as she sat on her bed, searching frantically for the correct section. Emily set the tea and toast on her table, curtseyed, and exited the room, the white bow in her hair still bobbing. Nicolette knew that she should pour herself a cup of tea and savor every word, but she was too excited to linger over her happiness.
She gasped. As she began reading, her world crashed in around her. Her vision began to go blurry as the reality of what she was seeing overtook her.
It isn’t possible. The paper slipped from her fingers as she blinked, attempting to focus on something, anything.
I gave the performance of my life.
The applause had been thunderous and the stage strewn with roses. Her dressing room had been filled with flowers. She could smell them yet. It simply isn’t possible.
She heard a light tapping on the door, which she knew to be Lady Elaina’s. Nicolette did not know how she found her voice, but she managed to utter, “Come in.”
Her grandmother had traveled to see her first star performance. And possibly my last, Nicolette thought as her throat constricted further. She steadied herself on the edge of the bed, afraid she might slide off.
Lady Elaina swept into the room, her indignation apparent. “So you’ve read it.” Unlike Nicolette, she was already dressed, her auburn hair arranged in an elegant coiffure atop her head, her aquamarine eyes blazing.
Nicolette opened her mouth but could find no words. Possibly she had lost her voice forever.
“Don’t believe a word of it, Nicolette.” Lady Elaina needed no encouragement. “I was there, and your performance was stupendous. I don’t know when I was ever so impressed.” She paced the room with the energy and appearance of a much younger woman, wearing a gown of pale-gray crepe de chine with a sheer chiffon overlay of embroidered dots in silver thread.
Nicolette glanced at the newspaper before her eyes, still not believing the black-and-white characters that danced before her, mocking her.
“This is absolute rubbish!” Lady Elaina seized the newspaper from Nicolette’s limp hands and in an agitated motion swatted the bed with it. “You are the greatest coloratura soprano I have ever heard. You can perform feats with your voic
e which put even the celebrated, established sopranos to the pale.”
“I gave everything to the audience, Grandmamma, everything.” She didn’t know if she said the words or only thought them. Moving slowly in a daze, Nicolette placed herself onto an eighteenth-century Venetian fainting couch where she sat, stunned. She stared at the winding designs of an Aubusson tapestry that served as a rug at her feet and wondered if she might faint from dizziness.
“Believe me, I know. It was the performance of a lifetime.”
“And this is what becomes of it. I can’t give any more.” She shook her head in disbelief.
“And no one has ever prepared for a role as you prepared for this one! Before beginning the study of the part, did you not go to Spain for several weeks and mingle with the people, learning the Spanish dances?”
“Yes.” She nodded, feeling a headache coming on. Large mirrors on her walls made the room appear much larger than it was, and the myriad reflections of light seemed to be laughing at her. “I was completely captivated with the factory cigarette girls, and I patterned my characterization of Carmen after them,” she murmured.
“Your rendition of Carmen positively vibrated with sensuality. The role took on a life of its own.” Lady Elaina sat down beside her, patting her hand. “That is the problem.”
“What was the problem?” Nicolette gasped, afraid to hear the answer.
“It became too real.” Lady Elaina opened the newspaper she clutched with a crisp pop pop and began searching with her eyes.
“Is that not the goal of theatre? Of opera?”
“Ah. Renault, one of the most respected critics in the business, writes, ‘If ever a more lewd and licentious interpretation was given, it is difficult to picture,’” Lady Elaina read aloud, her voice shaking. “‘The part calls for a woman who has power over men. But this performance by Mademoiselle Nicolette Genevieve made a mockery of the soprano’s role. It made one blush to see it. I hope I shall never see the likes of it again.’”
“Stop, Grandmamma! Stop!” she gasped, unable to keep from scanning the paper with her eyes as she inched closer. Below the review was a picture of her kissing Caruso. She almost choked on her words even as she continued reading where Lady Elaina had ceased, at her insistence. “‘Enrico Caruso was excessively theatrical as well; his exaggerated Italian pretensions overshadowed the part.’”
Nicolette tore the newspaper from her grandmother’s hands, reading the next review out loud. “Armand Le Strange writes, ‘Mademoiselle Nicolette Genevieve’s coloratura singing I found hopelessly overdone. One wonders if one was at a circus performance instead of the opera as she showed off her voice acrobatics. Worse, her voice is dark and invasive, like a black fog slowly encroaching upon an abandoned cemetery—and equally as disturbing. Her low register is bold and unrefined, almost as powerful as a man’s voice! She was well aware of it, too, immodestly utilizing this part of her voice for climactic effect in a way that was both suspenseful and vulgar, maintaining its rich timbre much higher on the scale than do most sopranos. Her voice is amazingly agile but much too ornate. Enrico Caruso sang magnificently, it is most unfortunate the soprano did not complement his exceptional ability.’” She dropped the newspaper onto the couch, her mouth wide open.
“Insufferable man!” Lady Elaina exclaimed.
“My life is over, Grandmamma. All my dreams…destroyed,” she wailed.
“Nonsense, child,” Lady Elaina pronounced resolutely. “You must turn it to your advantage. If you do not know how to do so, something is lacking in your education, and that is why this has been given to you. I regret to tell you, Nicolette, that this is the first genuine challenge you have ever had in your life. You must rise up to meet it and defeat it.”
“The first genuine challenge?” she repeated incredulously. “My entire life has been nothing but. I have hardly known a moment I wasn’t working toward this goal each and every waking hour! And while I sleep as well!”
“I can assure you, Nicolette, that the rest of the world is privy to pain every day of their lives. Up until now, you have worked very hard, but things have gone well for you. You have an enormous talent and every advantage. How many people work equally hard but without the same results? Emily, your maid, is exactly your age—and what are her prospects?” She shook her head. “No, you do not truly know disappointment.”
“I do now,” Nicolette murmured, tears forming in her eyes. “Never fear on that score.” She glanced about her room. Everything was music. A lyre-back chair beside her music stand held the score from Carmen. A pair of bronze-doré sconces over the mantel of a white marble fireplace framed a Parisian scene from Puccini’s La Bohème. A painting of Mozart sat next to her desk.
“This is not the time for self-pity. It serves no purpose.” Lady Elaina rose and began pacing again, crossing in front of the marble fireplace before turning to face Nicolette abruptly, her aquamarine eyes vivid against the white marble. Nicolette was accustomed to her grandmother’s unrelenting pragmatism, but she felt as if those eyes were drilling a hole into her when she least needed to be scrutinized.
“There is no longer a purpose, Grandmamma. It is over.” She felt herself choking on the words.
“It most certainly is not over! And I’ll thank you never to use such a phrase in my presence again!” Her expression was defiant. “Having had a protected childhood raised alongside Tibetan monks, some of the purest and most loving people alive, who sought no gain for themselves at the expense of others, you now work in a world replete with jealousy, falsity, thievery, and cruelty. There are those who do not believe they can be successful on their own merit. They must, instead, attempt to make everyone around them appear unfavorable by comparison.” She smiled smugly. “You must learn to live in this world the rest of us inhabit, my darling.”
“You sound like the Dalai Lama, Grandmamma, who told me that my suffering is a gift! Can you not see that this is disaster?” Nicolette stared at her beloved grandmother in horror, not believing what she was hearing.
“Pish-tosh!” Lady Elaina huffed indignantly. “Do not allow such a thing, Nicolette! Refuse to accept it, and a solution will present itself. I would not call this unfortunate turn of events a gift—it is a serious millstone and an injustice—but it must now be dealt with nonetheless, and you will be a stronger person for it, I guarantee.”
“It is immaterial if I am strong or weak!” she sobbed. “It only matters that I sing.”
“It is quite relevant, I assure you! Your own mother was cast out on the very day of her presentation to society, the day she had been planning for all her life. I see many similarities with your current situation.” Her lower lip began to tremble as she turned to face Nicolette, her auburn hair catching the morning light. “I never saw anyone so distraught in my life. And yet, reticent, terrified Alita—whom most didn’t think had an ounce of backbone in her—set her own course, sailed to Egypt, and rescued not only herself but thousands of others in the bargain!”
“Yes, yes, I know but…” Nicolette began. “Honestly, all Mama ever wanted was to be at home and to raise a family. She married the Earl of Ravensdale and never wished for anything else.”
“Nicolette Genevieve Stanton! Don’t you ever let me hear you diminish someone else’s dreams and disappointments simply because they are not your own. I assure you that Alita’s challenges were every bit as great as your own. Possibly greater. As I said, life has spoiled you terribly until now.”
“I didn’t mean…Oh, Grandmamma! Can you not see that I am suffering terribly?” She burst into tears. “That I have already been destroyed? There is no need for you to chime in with my failings. Does this really serve any purpose?”
Lady Elaina rushed to her and put her arm around her as she sobbed into her shoulder. “There, there, my dear. You shall make it all well, you’ll see, probably in half the time it took the rest of us. I merely want you to see that you are no different from women who have gone before you and overcome incredible odds.�
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“But, Grandmamma…” she sobbed.
“It took me six years to overcome my difficulties and to realize my dreams.”
“Six years? Oh, what am I saying? I will never be a star now! Six years would be a miracle! It simply cannot happen now!”
“Don’t tell me this is different, my girl! In 1860 I myself was shunned by all when I went into nursing school—and believe me, things are much better for women now than they were then—I know, I helped bring many of those changes about myself. Now I am the most sought-after political hostess in London.”
“Yes, it is quite an achievement, Grandmamma”—she sniffed, forcing herself to gain control of herself—“but opera…”
“Don’t think for a moment, Nicolette, that you are the first to face a trial. Or that the world of music is any more difficult and cutthroat than any other world. Many have gone before you and succeeded. We are original women, all of us, and there will always be setbacks for those who live authentically. But it is only temporary, I assure you.”
“Many have gone before us and failed as well.” Nicolette fought back tears as she wrung her hands, shaking her head in anguish.
“True, and if you give up now, you will, without a doubt, be among them.”
“There is no solution, Grandmamma. Singers do not endure if public opinion is not with them. And the critics define public opinion.”
“Do they now? Public opinion is ever changing with a life of its own.”
“Oh, what could I have been thinking, Grandmamma? I thought that I could hold to a higher ideal in a profession which depends upon the approval of others. I wanted so desperately to be true to myself and to the music. And it was just a dream.”
“You must not despair, Nicolette. You were right to focus on the development of your talent first and foremost. No one does anything great without being disliked by someone. When I went to nursing school, you would have thought it was a personal attack on womankind.”
“How could anyone possibly object to a woman living according to her ideals and serving society?” Nicolette asked, disgusted, forgetting her own problems for a moment.
The Serenade: The Prince and the Siren [Daughters of the Empire 2] (BookStrand Publishing Romance) Page 13
