Aunt Hester dropped a biscuit on the floor. “So sorry. I am always clumsy,” she said cheerfully, then hissed an aside. “Better not to talk about the French. We are so glad you speak English.”
“I grew up in the English colony in Oporto so English is my first language. Later I often sang in Paris, of course.”
“I thought you lived in Italy,” Grandmama said. “I believe you are quite famous and I daresay you are very good to have been hired to sing in Paris and London.”
“Also St. Petersburg, Berlin, Munich, and many other places besides.”
“Dear me, what an adventurous life you have led. Was it quite comfortable?”
Tessa sank into the soothing company of people who had little notion of opera. They never read the London papers and knew nothing of her recent disasters and triumphs. It also meant they were ignorant of the less respectable rumors about her. These sweet provincials would no doubt faint if they heard she’d even met the Emperor Napoleon.
“You must sing for us although we do not have a piano. None of our family has ever been at all musical and I don’t know where you inherited it.” With that, Grandmama put a period to the discussion. “Are you fond of raspberries, Tessa? We have plenty in the garden.”
“And fresh cream sent by Mrs. Keith at the Hall,” Aunt Hester added. “So obliging of her.”
“I adore raspberries and cream,” Tessa said. “Will you show me the garden, Aunt Hester? I would enjoy some fresh air and it’s a beautiful afternoon. How happy I am to have found you. I want to learn everything about you.”
*
It was lucky Tessa had read Emma, else she would have found life at Rose Cottage incomprehensible. Accustomed to the theater where emotions were displayed like jewels and there was always a drama, off stage as well as on, she found it hard to adjust to a household where politeness ruled absolutely and dissension was avoided at all costs. At first they spoke of her father, but his mother and sister were too pained by the family quarrel to revisit anything but uncontroversial stories of his youth. Tessa would have liked to hear about his “French ideas” and match them with her recollections of him and her French mother.
She enjoyed Aunt Hester’s cheerful friendliness despite the inanity of her conversation. She admired the way her grandmother, an intelligent woman with all her faculties intact despite her advanced age, tolerated the mindless chatter of her daughter without anything more than a tactful turning of the subject. What she couldn’t understand was the resistance to any topic that wasn’t firmly rooted in the mundane activities of Stoke Newton, varied by a rare shopping trip to Bristol.
If she found her father’s family strange, they were baffled by Tessa. Much too courteous to say so, her life appalled them. Even the mildest of theatrical anecdotes made them blush. She hoped they never discovered that she had quite often appeared wearing breeches.
By the end of the fifth day the small size and number of the rooms had begun to seem stifling. Since there was no way to escape the constant company of her new relations without going outside, it gave her a new appreciation of the English passion for walks. The fresh air and green fields did her good, and her energy revived.
The disruption of years of ingrained discipline gnawed at her brain. She had never gone so long without exercising her voice, yet inflicting the tedium of vocalization on the inhabitants of the tiny cottage seemed an imposition. She missed Sempronio and Sofie, and Angela who had remained in London because there wasn’t room here for her personal maid.
She missed Max, quite desperately. What he’d done for her, what they’d done together, was wonderful. The greatest weight of Domenico’s legacy had been lifted and she was free again. Free to love. But why couldn’t she have fallen in love with an ordinary man? Why did he have to be a member of one of the richest and most famous families in England? She wanted a quiet life without the infamy that had dogged her for years. The thought of living with Max in a sweet little country cottage made her soft with longing. Hosting a grand ball in the Piccadilly mansion or presiding over the grandeur of his country estate filled her with dread. People would be looking at her and judging—not for her performance but for herself. She knew she would fail.
They had been invited to dinner at Stoke Hall, a very large house according to Aunt Hester, home of Mr. and Mrs. Keith who were the neighborhood grandees. Since this was precisely the milieu Max inhabited, she looked forward to it with trepidation. These people would have heard of her and most likely knew some of the more shocking stories. Determined to behave like an impeccable English lady, she prepared to stem any attack of panic.
“How very fine you look,” Aunt Hester said as she helped Tessa into her gown. “This lace must have cost ten shillings a yard or more. I’m sure Mrs. Keith has nothing finer though she has her clothes from Madame Tillault in Bristol who came from London.”
“Am I not correctly dressed?” Tessa asked anxiously. It was one of the new gowns she’d bought in London after being engaged at the Regent. They were modest, both in cost and design, compared to her old wardrobe. She had thought she looked very proper and countrified.
“Mrs. Keith and Miss Keith usually outdo us all, but I daresay they won’t mind.”
*
The Keith ladies did mind. Though they received Tessa with great condescension, she caught them eyeing her ensemble with disfavor.
“You are from London?” Mrs. Keith asked. “We prefer the country.” She then proceeded to almost ignore her. Most of her remarks were addressed to her own family, and occasionally to the Birketts, who were expected to praise everything. Stoke Hall didn’t seem particularly large or splendid to Tessa, compared to the country palaces of kings and emperors, but she dutifully admired the new Wilton carpet when haughtily asked for her opinion.
Mr. Keith talked about hunting and farming; his daughter boasted of the assemblies in Bristol; the hostess went into raptures over everything either spouse or daughter said.
Tessa amused herself by comparing the company to the characters in Emma. Mrs. Keith bore an uncanny resemblance to Mrs. Elton, the self-satisfied vicar’s bride. The Birketts were, of course, Mrs. and Miss Bates. And who was she? Who else but the mysterious Miss Jane Fairfax who played the piano so very well? She wished Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley were there to enliven the evening.
After dinner, they repaired to the drawing room and Mrs. Keith asked her daughter to entertain them with a song. The young lady sang an English folk song with reasonable ease. Her voice was weak and occasionally off key, but pretty enough and not bad for someone who had been, as Mrs. Keith condescended to whisper to her, trained by the best singing master in Bristol.
“What a pleasure you have given us, Miss Keith,” Aunt Hester said. “We haven’t heard Tessa sing yet since we have no piano.”
“I haven’t practiced,” Tessa said, having the good manners not to wish to embarrass her hostess’s daughter. “And I don’t generally sing straight after a meal. I would prefer not to.”
“Oh but you must,” Mrs. Keith said, scenting an opportunity for her daughter to vanquish the London interloper. “You will find our pianoforte superior, I believe, and I daresay we have the music for something you know.”
“I am no great pianist,” Tessa replied, thinking of her Broadwood and wishing for Sempronio. “I will choose something simple that I know well and can play from memory.” Truthfully, she ached to sing. Her voice was an instrument begging to be played.
She decided on the popular Caro mio ben that she’d performed at Jacobin’s musicale. In a room this size if she sang at anything like full voice she’d blast her listeners’ eardrums with the force of an explosion. Taking a few breaths she launched into the Italian love song almost sotto voce. It was a lovely tune and she couldn’t but recall the last time she’d sung it, just before she saw Max again for the first time.
Senza di te languisce il cor. Without you my heart languishes.
And so it did. She always sang from the heart but never m
ore truly than now. She sang for Max, pouring her love into the tune, aching for his presence. This subdued performance was one of the best she’d ever given.
She bowed her head with the last heartrending phrase and you could have heard a pin drop. Nothing was as satisfying as the silence of listeners so affected they must recover themselves before they break into a rapturous ovation. She knew that silence well and she waited with her usual anticipation for the love and admiration of the crowd to wash over her.
Calling the applause a smattering would be almost too much. Raising her head, she saw nothing but indifference and perplexity.
“Very nice, I’m sure,” Mrs. Keith said.
“I know that song,” from Miss Keith.
The gentleman of the house yawned.
Only Aunt Hester displayed enthusiasm but she’d clapped equally for Miss Keith. Grandmama smiled at Tessa. “That was beautiful. You have a lovely voice. It is very loud.”
Something came to life inside her, a volcano erupting and spreading heat and vigor through her veins. What was she doing in this provincial backwater? Was she to waste the talent that God had given her and she’d sweated, wept, and suffered to perfect? Who were the people of Stoke Newton to scorn what had delighted tens of thousands of others in a dozen countries? And filled her with joy too. For the all the pain her fame had caused her, she wasn’t prepared to renounce it because her celebrity was earned and merited. Not as a beauty or a wearer of jewels or an object of desire, but as an artist.
She was La Divina, the greatest soprano in Europe. She was also a woman in love. If she could be both she would.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“The theatres are closed for the summer and London is very dull.”
The Examiner
Max had been prepared to give Tessa a fortnight to wallow in rural tranquility. After less than a week he had had enough. First he had to tackle his mother and address his violation of the terms of their bet. He’d been avoiding her since the benefit.
He found her in the library at Tamworth House with Simon Lindo. Both seemed self-conscious at his arrival. Something to do with her idiotic plan to rebuild the Tavistock, most likely. He didn’t much care.
“Max, darling,” Lady Clarissa said. “Simon and I were just discussing the opening of the Tavistock Phoenix Theatre. All the papers have been signed and the plans are made. Building starts next week.”
“Congratulations, Mama. I wasn’t sure you were serious. You’re going to be busy, Simon.”
Simon cleared his throat and looked nervous. “Managing both houses is quite within my capability.”
Max would have brushed aside the whole matter since it was the last thing on his mind, when Lady Clarissa interrupted. “And of course we must have Madame Foscari for our opening.”
That got his attention. “We’ll see about that.” Enough was enough. His mother had taken Tessa from him once and he was not going to allow it again. Come to think of it she owed him.
“But, Max, La Divina is the most popular performer in London and I must have the best.”
Simon intervened to prevent an unseemly brangle. “The kind of show we envision for the new Tavistock, my lady, is hardly Madame Foscari’s cup of tea.”
“No indeed!” Max said. “I can’t see her prancing around in Harlequin Gulliver or The Flying Island or whatever nonsense you mean to present in the name of entertainment. Tessa is a serious artist. A great artist! You want her to share the stage with an elephant?”
“Elephants. Plural,” Lady Clarissa snapped, then continued with a deceptive air of innocence. “She’s good with animals. Being bitten by a chicken didn’t bother her in the least. And she’s such a magnificent creature. Imagine her surrounded by the light of a thousand fireworks.”
Max could imagine it only too well and it made his blood freeze. Rockets and Roman candles raining fire on Tessa’s head. “When is this opening, anyway?”
“I wanted to be ready for the spring season but Simon says there isn’t time.” She didn’t appear upset about the foiling of her plans. Simon must have exerted a calming influence, for which her son could only be grateful, given the news he had to break. “It means,” she continued, “that your little opera house will have no competition to speak of until then and I am sure you will make lots of money. Lucky for me that I already won our bet.”
Max braced himself for war. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said in a vain hope that Simon hadn’t let the cat out of the bag about Tessa’s benefit.
No such luck. “You had to dip into your own pocket to persuade Madame Foscari to sign a contract.” Yet his mother smiled at him, her dark eyes devoid of malice or triumph. Lady Clarissa in a gentle mood could only be coiling for attack. She looked over at Simon, the snake in the grass, who raised his brows and nodded.
“Since I win our bet by default, I have chosen a bride for you.”
“I won’t marry her. I’ll choose my own, thank you, in fact—”
“Don’t you even want to know her name?”
“Not especially. You’ve doubtless picked someone like Lady Mary Greville but I can tell you—”
“Lady Mary? Goodness no. She wouldn’t suit me at all. I’ve thought of someone much better.” She examined her amethyst bracelets—even in the morning Lady Clarissa had no use for subtlety in adornment—and muttered something about getting them cleaned, all the time casting Max sideways looks to see if she’d driven him insane yet. He considered sitting down and pretending to fall asleep, just to annoy her, but decided against it. He let her enjoy the moment. She’d be disappointed soon enough.
But, damn it, the moment was taking too long. “Can we make a little haste? There’s somewhere I need to be.” Somerset, or rather Marlborough, where he intended to spend the night on the way.
“I insist that you marry Teresa Foscari.”
Max had to sit down after all. “Tessa?” he said faintly.
“Simon says you are in love with her and I want you to be happy.” When she leaned over and kissed him on the cheek Max saw that her eyes were shining.
He seized her hand. “I came to tell you that I am going to Somerset to propose to her.”
“Very naughty of you, but I forgive you this time.” She sat beside him and held both his hands. “I won’t apologize for separating you years ago. At nineteen and seventeen you were too young to know your minds. Now you are grown up. I like her. A namby-pamby daughter-in-law wouldn’t suit me.”
Max thought they would get on very well. Lady Clarissa and Tessa were not alike, thank the Lord, but he could see them as friends, especially if he and Tessa had children.
“One more thing,” Lady Clarissa said. From her tone he gathered her attack of sentimentality had passed. “I expect her to sing at my first night. As her husband you must insist.”
“Tessa will make her own decisions about where and when she sings. However—” He gave Simon a stern look. “—I will advise her on her contracts. Now I must be off. I have sixty miles to travel today.”
“Make sure you accepts you,” his mother called as he reached the door.
When he turned back she was standing next to Simon near the hearth.
“I will.”
He wished he felt confident in his powers of persuasion.
*
Tessa was sorry to say goodbye to the Birketts and promised to visit them again. She had made up some nonsense about a wobble in her voice that required the instant attention of a vocal coach. They found the excuse plausible if perplexing. She didn’t blame them for finding her performance less than enthralling; they simply had no comprehension of either her life or her art. She had come to Somerset to find out who she was and now she knew.
She was not an English country lady and she couldn’t wait to get back to London. What if Max had left town? He might have given up on her and her lack of decision. Perhaps he’d thought better of his eccentric wish to marry a notorious soprano and found himself a suitable young lady. Why did Lo
ndon have to be so far away, requiring that she spend the entire night at Marlborough? She might miss him by a day. Panic clawed at her stomach.
She breathed a little, hummed a few bars, and looked out of the window of her private parlor into the courtyard of the Lamb Inn. An elegant traveling carriage drew up, the kind built especially for a family of means. She’d owned such an equipage herself once; it had been sold along with the house in Italy and so much else to pay Domenico’s debts. The hired vehicles in which she’d journeyed from London and back had almost rattled her teeth out.
At first the gentleman who alighted seemed a product of her hopes and imagination. Then her head filled with an orchestral crescendo heralding a soaring operatic climax. She tore out of the parlor, out of the inn and hurled herself at Max.
Trumpets and horns sounded as she pressed herself shamelessly against his long, lean body, burying her face in the wonderful Maxness of his chest. His arms came around her and now she was home.
“Why are you here?” For a terrible moment she wondered if their meeting was a coincidence he hadn’t sought. “Are you on your way to Tamworth?”
“My darling, your grasp of English geography is abysmal. I was on my way to find you.”
“And I was coming to London….” She could scarcely speak for joy so instead she pulled his dear dark head down and kissed him passionately.
“We have to stop doing this in an inn yard,” he said, putting her aside with obvious reluctance five minutes later. “There are grooms and Lord knows who else staring at us.”
Tessa, unable to summon an iota’s care for the opinions of Lord knows who, shrugged. “I am accustomed to performing in public.”
He threw back his head in an infectious, full-bodied laugh from deep within his chest and they continued to make a spectacle of themselves, clinging to each other in mirth.
“Shall we continue this inside?” he said. “I trust this unseemly demonstration means you are going to marry me.”
Secrets of a Soprano Page 26
