Masks and Shadows

by Stephanie Burgis

  Charlotte accidentally met Signor Morelli’s gaze for a moment as her sister’s royal lover strode across the room to meet them.

  The shadow of the Princess seemed to interpose itself among their company.

  “I prefer to take meals alone, in my own rooms, nowadays.”

  “A pity, indeed,” Charlotte murmured, and looked away.

  Chapter Four

  About one thing, at any rate, Carlo was forced to admit that Von Born had been correct. The food at Eszterháza was worlds better than the slop they’d eaten in the Hungarian inns along the road. Carlo saw Edmund Guernsey, far down the end of the table, tearing into his meat with enthusiasm. Carlo contented himself with a more restrained approach and finished his glass of wine with a final, appreciative sip.

  Prince Nikolaus had been leaning over to listen smilingly to the animated whispers of his mistress, but his nod sent a footman hurrying to refill Carlo’s glass.

  “I hope you are enjoying your meal, Signor Morelli?” The Prince straightened, patting Frau von Höllner’s hand. “I’m afraid our modest fare can hardly stand comparison against some of the rich feasts you must have known in Versailles and Constantinople.”

  Nothing about this meal, or this palace, could lay the faintest claim to modesty, from the grossly overflowing serving platters to the great diamond studs on Prince Nikolaus’s waistcoat . . . but Carlo had not risen so high by acting the honest fool.

  “On the contrary, Your Highness. I am all admiration.”

  “You must see the view from the balcony, this afternoon.” Prince Nikolaus’s wolflike grin broke out fiercely from the intensity of his face. “You might not believe it to see Eszterháza now, signor, but twenty years ago this land was naught but marshland, with a scattering of peasant huts. The grimmest sort of no man’s land.”

  Still holding his wine glass, Carlo turned in his cushioned seat to glance out the row of tall, arched windows that lined one wall of the dining room from floor to ceiling, each window separated from the others by deep gold inlay. Through the glass, warm sunlight beamed down on a classically designed green parkland as peaceful and elegant as any Grecian idyll.

  “It must have been a mighty endeavor indeed, to create this fairyland from nothing.” Carlo sipped at his wine, letting the flavors linger on his tongue.

  “It was, by God. I had to drain the marsh, bring in builders and architects from every country in Europe . . . and the construction is not yet finished, either.”

  “Oh, no,” Frau von Höllner chirped. “Niko has promised me a Temple of Diana!”

  Carlo bit down on his tongue and restrained himself from asking whether she felt any special affinity with that chaste virgin goddess.

  “I’ve still seen only a few of the temples and pavilions,” Baroness von Steinbeck said softly, from Carlo’s other side. “They are marvelously impressive.”

  Do they stand where the peasant huts did, before? Carlo wondered. And what happened to their tenants?

  Carlo stifled a sigh and reined in his wandering thoughts. Perhaps these morbid musings were a symptom of his growing age. When he was younger, this would have felt like a glorious mischief: he, Carlo Morelli, Francesco Morelli’s sixth son, was feasting with princes! They asked for his approval! Could anything be more grandly absurd?

  Now, the banter and the self-conscious grandeur of it all left a bitter taste on his tongue. When Prince Nikolaus had needed funds to build the vast Temple of Esterházy that this palace represented, how high had he forced the rents from the peasants legally bound to his land? How many families had lost their homes?

  Perhaps some of those families had youngest sons who loved to sing, as well. But how many of them would ever have the chance?

  “Signor Morelli, you are very silent.” The Prince’s keen eyes fixed on him. “Is anything the matter?”

  “Not at all, Your Highness. I’m only contemplating the beauty of your fine park.” Carlo smiled and tilted his head toward the great windows and the expanse of manicured green lawn that they revealed, dotted with statues, fountains, and hedges. “I must reward myself with a walk through it soon. A visit with the classical gods would do me good.”

  Carlo excused himself at the earliest opportunity and retreated to his private chambers. His valet had traveled a half-day ahead of him from the last inn they’d stopped at and had laid out all of his belongings before discreetly disappearing. Carlo shrugged off his coat with a sigh of relief. Lord, but he was tired. Too tired to play the courtier any more this afternoon. Too tired to convince himself that it was worthwhile.

  Luckily, a singer always had the excuse of practice to act as his savior in such situations. Not even the Prince Esterházy could take offence at his distinguished guest’s desire to spend the afternoon in rehearsal of his voice. Not when the obligatory, “voluntary” recitals were sure to be expected, nearly every evening, after dinner . . .

  It was a complicated dance, this life of wandering virtuosity, of honor, glory, riches and veiled contempt. Carlo knew the steps and had become a master at them early in his life. They had paid for his parents to live out their old age in a luxury no one in their tiny village could have previously imagined possible. His two surviving older brothers owned a flourishing apothecary in Naples, bought outright with Carlo’s grand salary.

  Lately, though, the moments of true enjoyment had dwindled into a soul-leeching tedium. He thought of Baroness von Steinbeck’s offer to accompany his recital—pushed on, none-too-subtly, by that feather-headed sister of hers—and snorted. God save him from lady amateurs. Between thirty minutes of practice, twice a week, and the earnest applause of their music-masters, they all convinced themselves soon enough of their great musical souls.

  Souls . . . Now he had become maudlin indeed, if he would spend his afternoon on philosophical quests. Leave those to von Born! Carlo opened the windows to let in fresh air and cleared his throat to begin his vocal exercises.

  An unexpected sound cut him off before he could begin.

  Beyond his room, floating through the walls of the other third-floor chambers as well as the open window, a glorious soprano voice pealed out, deliciously full of latent power—but, as was immediately clear, untrained. No music master had ever influenced this singer.

  It took Carlo a flummoxed moment to understand why he couldn’t make out the words; it was one of Herr Haydn’s most popular Italian songs, but the Italian itself was utter gibberish—memorized by ear, perhaps? And by someone who could not possibly speak the language. She sang with musical feeling, but she clearly had no idea of what any of the mangled words might mean.

  Carlo closed the window slowly, shaking his head, while a reluctant smile pulled at his lips. The sound of the singing continued, muffled only slightly. Only the nobility and their most honored guests stayed in this wing of the palace—yet no noblewoman would be so unfamiliar with Italian, nor sing with such a blatant lack of formal training. And as for the noblewomen he had met here . . . Frau von Höllner’s speaking voice was like the bright cheeping of a canary. Carlo could swear she’d never be able to produce a tone so full and rich as this. Nor could he imagine such high, ringing peals arising from Baroness von Steinbeck’s husky contralto voice.

  It was a mystery, and an amusing one, to shake him out of his dreary mood. However, he certainly wouldn’t be able to focus on his own practice while the mysterious soprano continued to magnificently mangle more operatic arias nearby.

  He chose to take it as a sign, though, that it was time to fulfill one of his more pleasant obligations.

  It was time to seek out the musicians.

  The opera house stood behind the main body of the palace, facing the marionette theater and the military barracks across the wide expanse of green that led to the elaborate gardens, labyrinth and—no doubt—carefully designed “wilderness” beyond. Outer stairs led up to a curving balcony in the center of the opera house’s ornate façade, where a man might stand, looking out across the grounds, between acts.
Attached to the great three-story building was a smaller, rounded structure—the right size for a ballroom, perhaps? Its rounded shape was smooth and externally plain, unlike the opera house itself, which was so gilded with external decoration, it looked to Carlo like an elaborate, tiered cake.

  Prince Nikolaus’s pride and joy, indeed, and no more tasteful than its founder. Still, Carlo had sung in worse.

  As Carlo walked along the shell-lined path toward it, enjoying the afternoon sunshine, a hatless, white-haired old gentleman burst outside, clutching a note in his hand. With a muttered, “Ha!” the old man sprinted past Carlo, not even bothering to nod his head in courtesy.

  Carlo’s lips twitched. An actor, obviously. Ah, but they were a relief after the arduously refined airs of the aristocracy.

  He found the opera house empty, but raised voices led him through to the door to the ballroom.

  An argument composed of some six or eight people broke off as he stepped into the grand room. Carlo smiled blandly and glanced around, looking for the man described by many as the greatest composer living, and the prime jewel in Prince Nikolaus Esterházy’s collection.

  “Ah, Signor Morelli!” The man who’d been mediating at the center of the argument burst through the ring of discontented faces and flung out his arms in welcome. “It must be you! Joseph Haydn at your humble service, signor.”

  “And I at yours, Kapellmeister.” Carlo took the hands held out to him with real warmth. Haydn’s pockmarked skin and great hook nose might be enough to keep him off any operatic stage; but Carlo found the sparkling intelligence and good humor in the composer’s face deeply appealing. “I am indeed honored to meet you at last. I’ve brought you greetings from many of your friends across Europe.”

  “I—” The kapellmeister broke off to look around the circle of watching faces, all changed from chagrin to open curiosity. “Signor, I must introduce to you our distinguished singing troupe, or part of it, at any rate. Madame Zelinowsky, who plays all maternal roles—”

  “—and who is most honored to meet you, signor,” Madame Zelinowsky murmured. She sank into a curtsey and shot him a glance up through her eyelashes that looked far more seductive than maternal.

  “—Frau Kettner, who plays the second ladies in comedies and tragedies; Herr Schwarzwald, the pedants and sober servants; Fräulein Schwarzwald, the young, sentimental ingénues; Herr Partl, the first tender fathers and sedate parts; Herr Pichler, the second sentimental lovers and young servants.”

  Carlo tipped his hat to the company. “Impressive indeed. But—are you not missing a few important roles, Kapellmeister?”

  Madame Zelinowsky let out a low chuckle. “Indeed, signor. How could we function without our grand old men in tragedies? Our impulsive or funny, disgruntled old men in comedies? Our lazy servants, our comic peasants . . .” She paused and looked sidelong at young Herr Pichler. “. . . Our leading lovers, in all pieces?”

  “I saw an impulsive older gentleman darting out as I walked in,” Carlo said. “Does he play that role in your troupe?”

  The singers stiffened and exchanged glances in a moment of awkward silence. Carlo thought young Herr Pichler had changed color; even more intriguingly, Madame Zelinowsky kept her own eyes fixed on the young man’s face, while a slight smile played across her full lips.

  The kapellmeister coughed. “Impulsive indeed. The description you give, signor, matches that of the theatrical director of the company, Monsieur Delacroix, who does indeed play the roles of old men in both comedies and tragedies.”

  “And in real life . . . ?” Madame Zelinowsky murmured.

  “We are all rather disordered at the moment, I fear,” the kapellmeister said. His smile looked strained. “It will all come out well in the end, though, I am certain. Come, let me show you around our opera house. It’s only through this door.”

  Once they had exited the ballroom, Haydn slumped and came to a halt, taking out a large handkerchief to mop his brow. “My apologies, signor. We have had a rather . . . unfortunate incident this morning.”

  “I believe I heard something of it mentioned at dinner. An elopement among the singers?”

  “Indeed. Our leading lady, Madame Delacroix, is perhaps eighteen years old against her husband’s white-haired age and his”—he paused—“not inconsiderable temper. Meantime, she and our leading tenor, Herr Antonicek, have of course been much thrown together . . .”

  “Not entirely incomprehensible, then,” Carlo said drily.

  Haydn sighed. “Not at all, but disastrous nonetheless. His Serene Highness is . . . most strict, in his views upon the behavior of his servants. Had they only waited a year, until their contract had run out . . .” He shrugged his shoulders unhappily. “I would have certainly advised His Highness not to renew it—Monsieur Delacroix’s management is atrocious, if I may confide that to you, signor—but then, I suppose they could not have known that they’d be free so soon.”

  “I see. And the punishment they’ll receive?”

  “Heaven knows. For Herr Antonicek—a severe whipping with the bastinado and imprisonment, I am certain. Beyond that, I would anticipate his banishment from all Esterházy lands while Madame Delacroix remains in residence.”

  “And for the lady?”

  Herr Haydn’s expression was bleak. “Her apology to the Prince, I expect, and forced return to her husband. Which, considering the public humiliation he has felt, and the extent of his current thirst for blood, will be more than punishment enough, I am quite certain.” He sighed and replaced the handkerchief in the embroidered outer pocket of his frock coat. “Ah, it makes my head hurt. And all of it so needless . . .” He began to walk forward, shaking his head.

  Carlo paced beside him thoughtfully. “And you, sir? Do you wish your own contract renewed?”

  Haydn blinked. “I? Why, my contract was only recently renegotiated, signor, and under far more favorable terms than ever before. If you can believe it, I may even offer my own works for publication at last, to share them with the world in the form that I choose—and to make a pretty penny from them, too!” He gave Carlo a mischievous grin. “I cannot tell you, signor, how it once burned to save all my copies for my prince’s sole use while scoundrels sold unauthorized versions abroad—but now that that’s finally sorted, I’ve been approached by a publisher in Vienna, who has promised to design beautiful editions of my music to sell throughout the empire. What more joy could a humble kapellmeister ask for?”

  Carlo reached into the inner pocket of his own coat and drew out the collection of letters he’d couriered. “Along with affectionate greetings to you, sir, I’ve also brought commissions from the empress of all Russia, among others. The tsarina is most eager for a new opera from your pen.”

  “In St. Petersburg?” Haydn sagged back on his heels. “Ah, signor, I am truly honored, but I could not possibly accept. My contract states explicitly that I may only compose new works for the honor of the Prince, and he is most concerned that I keep to that promise.”

  “But your publications—”

  “Will be graciously allowed by His Highness after first performances here—and I fear the older operas I have written for this court would not do in another setting. I know my prince’s taste too well, and it influences all that I write.” He twisted his lips into a rueful grin. “I do not think that the tsarina would appreciate such a string of tedious long arias as Prince Nikolaus dotes upon.”

  “Long, perhaps, but beautiful, too. I have seen those unauthorized editions, remember.” Carlo frowned. “You do understand, sir, how your reputation has spread? Even in distant England, I heard talk of you and your talents. Were you ever to leave the Prince’s service—”

  “Aye, and for what?” The kapellmeister laughed. “You must have been speaking to my young friend Mozart. If we ever met in person, perhaps I might shake more sense into him. The last missive he sent me from Salzburg fairly scorched my hands, it was so full of fiery ambitions for an independent life, wild and free of his archbis
hop’s service . . . and with no promise of salary or security whatsoever. I hope my reply cooled his head somewhat.” Still smiling, he shook his head. “No, no, signor. It is well and good for a great artist such as yourself to stand on your own talents and travel the world, but I do very well here as I am. I have a fine employer with a true ear for music, who genuinely appreciates my work. And my own salary is . . . not inconsiderable for an honored servant, shall we say?” He lowered one eyelid in a roguish wink.

  And yet you will remain only a servant here, forevermore. But Carlo did not speak his thoughts. Instead, he handed over the collection of letters. “Your mail, sir. One of the letters is indeed from young Mozart.”

  “Ah, he is a good lad. ‘Papa Haydn,’ he calls me, you know. A tribute to my poor graying hairs.” Haydn grinned and slipped the collection into his pocket. “I’ll enjoy these later, at my leisure. A fine reward for haggling with these temperamental singers all day! By now I should have led a full rehearsal of my orchestra and had an hour for my own composition, too.”

  “A pity indeed.”

  “Well, never mind, eh? Come, signor, you shall not escape a view of the opera house, for it is a joy to me.”

  Carlo followed the kapellmeister in his tour, and roused himself to comment appreciatively on the sound qualities of the auditorium, the unusual depth of the angled stage, the fine detail of the carvings around it, and the positioning of the orchestra’s benches. He even felt a mild amusement as he noted the correlation between the red and green of Haydn’s uniform and the deep red and apple-green shades that dominated all the opera house’s decorations, from the great velvet hangings to the plush seats in the auditorium. Someone—perhaps even the Prince himself—had an innate sense of order, or at least efficiency.