“Yes, signor?” The kapellmeister walked to the edge of the stage, still holding a sheaf of music. “Was there a problem in the balance?”
“Not at all. But I have found your replacement soprano.”
Anna gasped. Charlotte stared. Only Herr Haydn did not appear surprised.
“So, little Anna is the one you heard yesterday, eh? Well, well.” He smiled and held out his hand. “Come up here, child.”
“May I, Baroness?”
“I suppose . . .” Charlotte shrugged, bewildered, and watched Morelli escort Anna up onto the stage.
The other singers whispered among themselves, watching Anna with blatant curiosity.
“Do you enjoy singing, child?” the kapellmeister asked, once Anna stood before him.
“More . . . more than anything, sir.”
“Signor Morelli has told me he heard a marvelously strong soprano voice singing yesterday afternoon in the palace. Was that you?”
“I . . . yes, sir.”
“It was,” Morelli confirmed, standing behind her. “Strong and clear, though untrained.”
“With such a recommendation, and in our current circumstances, you appear before us as a veritable gift from Heaven, my dear. A gift, I hope, for both of us. How would you like to train your voice and learn to be a professional singer?” He looked across to Charlotte, who still sat, now alone, in the audience. “With the Baroness’s permission, of course.”
“I . . .” Charlotte took a breath and looked up at Anna’s shining, awe-struck face.
“I’m certain Prince Nikolaus would be happy to supply a replacement maid, in exchange for the addition to his opera company,” said Signor Morelli.
Charlotte tightened her lips. “Thank you, signor, I am persuaded that you are correct. However, that was not what worried me.” She stood and swept up the stairs to the stage, ignoring the interested gazes of the assembled company as she fixed her eyes on Anna’s face. “Anna, what do you want? Truly?” She added, in a fierce whisper, “I do not wish you constrained by contract in a palace that you hate!”
She fancied that she felt Morelli’s disapproving gaze on her. Let him disapprove. Two actors had died, trying to escape their contracts, only last night. She would not have Anna follow them.
Herr Haydn frowned. “We could perhaps wait upon the contract until after this performance, with the Prince’s permission, and call it a trial for all of us.”
“And afterward?”
“If all went well . . .” He shrugged. “His Highness would not be pleased for a singer trained here to go directly to the palace of one of his rivals in power and prestige. Thus, he might well offer a very tempting salary for her to remain.”
Charlotte kept her eyes on her maid. “Anna? It is your decision to make.”
Anna bit her lip. Her gaze moved from Charlotte to Herr Haydn and Signor Morelli. “Please, Baroness. I do thank you, but—to be a singer! For my living!”
“Very well.” Charlotte smiled as well as she could, despite the increasing tightness in her chest. “I wish you the very best,” she said. “And remember, you will always have my protection, whenever you should need it.”
“Now then, young Anna.” Herr Haydn took Anna’s arm and drew her away. “Let me introduce you to the rest of our little company.”
Charlotte retreated down the steps to the audience, holding her head high, even as pain knotted its way through her.
Anna had been the last link to her old life, and now she was left unrooted. That night, a stranger would undress her and remove the pins and ribbons from her hair. There would be no familiar smile or friendly presence in the room when she woke the next morning.
But how could she not be pleased by such a miraculous turn of events? Here was a one in a thousand chance indeed for a girl from Anna’s background to raise herself. Why, if Anna was successful, what great fortunes might not await her? And oh, what glorious music would surround her . . .
Confess it now and be done with it, Charlotte thought wearily. You are envious of your own maid. And what does that say of yourself, Frau Baroness?
She sank back into her seat and clasped her hands together loosely on her lap, fighting the urge toward an unladylike slump. She felt drained of enthusiasm. Rest and solitude, those were all she wanted now . . . but for Anna’s sake, as well as her own pride, she should stay a little longer yet.
“Baroness?” Signor Morelli stood looking down at her with an unreadable expression. “That was well done of you.”
Charlotte sighed, too tired to search for any hidden bite in his words. “My sister tells me there are at least one thousand servants in Eszterháza. I could hardly begrudge Anna her opportunity, merely for my own personal whim.”
“No,” he said, “but many would.” He paused. “I shall probably sing for the company tomorrow evening. Would you be ready to accompany me on such short notice?”
Charlotte felt a spark of life reignite in her chest, responding to the test behind his words. A challenge. She met his measuring gaze. “Of course,” she said coolly. “If you’ll send the keyboard parts to my chambers, I’ll begin practicing the music this afternoon after dinner.”
“Excellent. The cues are marked clearly in the parts. If you wish to simplify the accompaniment, for your ease—”
“That won’t be necessary.” Charlotte set her teeth together with a snap.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” His half-bow was interrupted by the sound of a door opening behind Charlotte and then loudly crashing closed. “Sir?” Morelli asked quellingly, as a young officer sauntered past them.
The officer stopped, and seemed to notice them for the first time. “Oh! Beg pardon for interrupting. I was hoping to watch the opera rehearsal. I expect I’m probably late.” He smiled nervously and smoothed down his unpowdered blond hair in its queue. Belatedly, he bowed to Charlotte. “At your service, madam. Lieutenant Friedrich von Höllner, of His Highness’s Grenadier Guards.”
Charlotte blinked. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
“Madam?” Lieutenant von Höllner remained fixed in mid-bow, his smile wavering.
“Pardon me, lieutenant.” Charlotte forced a smile, aware of Morelli’s watchful gaze. “I am the Baroness von Steinbeck, and I believe that you must be my brother-in-law.”
He blinked. His fair skin flushed. “You don’t mean . . . you’re not Sophie’s . . .”
“Sophie’s older sister.” Charlotte hesitated, searching for words. “I was most sorry not to be able to attend your wedding, lieutenant. I’m afraid my husband’s health . . .”
“Not at all,” he mumbled. “Actually, I think I remember Sophie saying something about that . . .”
At any moment, he would start backing away from her. Charlotte fought down a hysterical giggle. He was eyeing her like a dangerous snake. What on earth had Sophie told him of her? Or—did he fear she would tattle to Sophie of some imagined slight?
“I should not intrude upon this family reunion,” Signor Morelli murmured. “If you’ll excuse me, Baroness . . .”
The door opened again behind them. “Aha!” Sophie sailed into the room, beaming. “So there you are at last, Lotte! I’ve been looking everywhere for—”
Her face froze into a mask as Lieutenant von Höllner straightened, fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat. He smiled weakly.
“Hallo, Sophie.”
“What on earth—?”
“I was just making my brother-in-law’s acquaintance, Sophie.” Charlotte smiled desperately as she rose to her feet. “It is a fine day out, is it not? The weather—”
“What in heaven’s name are you doing here? Meeting my sister? How dare you—?”
“No, no! I never imagined I would find her here!” He darted an anguished look at Charlotte. “Not that it wasn’t a pleasure, Baroness, but—”
“Sophie, it really was the most accidental—”
“You don’t even like opera! What other reason could you possibly have for coming here
today?”
“I—ah . . .” He backed away, eyes darting back and forth. “Er—that is—”
“Yes?” Morelli breathed, too softly for the others to hear.
Charlotte wanted to slap him, yet she had to stifle a laugh.
“Interested in actresses?” the lieutenant offered, his eyes wide and desperate.
A woman’s throaty laugh sounded onstage.
“Oh!” Sophie whirled around and swept away.
Charlotte looked from one man to another. Signor Morelli’s eyes were filled with devilish mirth. Lieutenant von Höllner looked as if he might shoot himself only to escape.
“Lotte?” Sophie called from the door. Her voice trembled, but whether with rage or tears, Charlotte couldn’t even hazard a guess.
“Lieutenant . . . Signor . . .” Charlotte gave them both a distracted half-curtsey, and fled.
Chapter Eight
Carlo kept his smile until the door of the opera house fell closed behind him. Then it soured, as quickly as had his mood.
Truly, he had lost his position in the dance. How else could one explain the fact that he had somehow spent the entire morning with musicians, rather than with the nobility who had invited him? There was no faster or more effective way of losing his equality in their eyes than to voluntarily associate himself with their subordinates. Only think of Herr Haydn, famed throughout Europe, sitting here complacently following all of the Prince’s whimsical commands, accepting his lack of freedom as a natural state . . .
Carlo realized he was grinding his teeth. He widened his jaw with an effort and strode down the path toward the palace and his real duties.
Tomorrow morning he’d not give in to sneaking temptation and slide off to enjoy himself in lower company. No, he’d make it clear to the Prince and everyone else that he was a figure to be reckoned with, every bit as much as the titled gentlemen who lounged about the over-decorated rooms of this overblown monstrosity of a palace.
Let the musicians sort themselves out.
Late that evening, after the mandatory string quartet performance had ended and Prince Nikolaus had retired with his mistress to his own chambers, the man known as Edmund Guernsey slipped through the servants’ door that was concealed within the largest landscape painting in the grand library. Hidden within the palace walls, he walked swiftly down the narrow, windowless servants’ corridor, his pace shifting from the hesitant scuttle he’d adopted for public use to quick, confident strides.
He’d written already to his master, giving judgment on the Prince. No use wasting money there in vain attempts to sway Nikolaus from the Habsburg cause. The man’s loyalty was as unswerving as his arrogance. Guernsey had lost interest in that path from the moment the method of the singers’ deaths had been announced.
A far greater reward was waiting to be won.
Guernsey paused a moment to listen at the wall. Silence. He pressed the panel.
The servants’ door swung open into Sophie von Höllner’s private apartments, and Guernsey stepped inside.
At noon the next day, an invited party gathered outside Eszterháza’s south entrance, where Prince Nikolaus’s touring carriage awaited them.
“This carriage was designed and built specifically for tours of Eszterháza’s grounds,” Prince Nikolaus said, as a footman helped Frau von Höllner up the lowered steps. “I hope you gentlemen will find it admirably suited for an afternoon’s tour.”
“I’m certain we shall.” Carlo gazed pensively at the eight horses gathered before the carriage and the miniature chimney that poked out the top, and forced himself to refrain from sarcasm.
Of all the grandiosities he’d seen at Eszterháza, this carriage was perhaps most flamboyant of all. Built almost as a wooden house on wheels, it could carry at least twelve passengers in comfort. Was it any smaller, he wondered, than the whole of Herr Haydn’s apartments?
“I am overwhelmed, Your Highness!” Edmund Guernsey breathed. “In all my travels, I’ve seen nothing like it!”
Indeed, he looked near-pop-eyed with awe. Carlo had to restrain himself from offering the little man a word or two of advice on his acting skills. Surely, even His Highness’s pride could not fail to see through such blatant shamming. But Prince Nikolaus barely spared a glance for the faux-tourist.
“Signor?” Ignaz von Born nodded for Carlo to step ahead of him into the carriage, once the Prince’s niece and her companion had been settled next to Frau von Höllner.
Carlo took one of the chairs at the great table inside, seated in front of the empty fireplace and across from a large looking glass. He smoothed out his expression and looked away from it quickly. Von Born smiled blandly as he stepped inside—without, Carlo noticed, bothering to make use of his ever-present walking stick.
The carriage rolled smoothly down the paths of the formal garden. Alleys radiated out around them, lending glimpses of statues, fountains, and artificial waterfalls in abundance. Prince Nikolaus provided a running commentary on the history of each construction, while Frau von Höllner provided giggling side-notes and the Prince’s niece whispered with her companion. Guernsey interjected wonder and awe at a high pitch. Carlo found himself missing the presence of Baroness von Steinbeck, who had been his neighbor at the dinner table the previous afternoon and again at the string quartet performance that evening. It would have been a relief to hear some quiet notes of sense amidst the gabble.
The carriage rolled to a stop half an hour later in front of a raised, square building in Chinese style, covered with mirrors that caught and dazzlingly reflected the bright afternoon sunlight. A marble figure crouched atop the curving roof, holding an umbrella high over his pointed hat. Servants waited outside the building with blankets already spread out across the grass and special seats for the ladies in their billowing skirts.
“The Bagatelle,” Prince Nikolaus said, smiling. “We’ll picnic here today.”
“This was called the Chinese Pleasure House, you know,” Frau von Höllner confided to the carriage at large, “but when the Empress came to visit some years ago, she was monstrous impressed by it. She said she’d seen nothing like it before, and she asked what it was called, but Niko told her it was a mere trifle, only—”
“—Naught but a bagatelle,” the Prince finished for her. A satisfied smile played around his lips as he gazed out the window at the many mirrors glittering in the sunlight.
“Quite the bagatelle,” Carlo said blandly. “How long did it take to have it built, Your Highness?”
“Over a year.” The Prince shrugged, still smiling. “But well worth the wait, I think.”
“Marvelous indeed,” von Born murmured.
“The Empress and the Emperor have nothing so impressive at Schönbrunn,” Frau von Höllner said happily, as servants helped her out of the carriage.
“Nor such opera, I hear,” Guernsey added. “Did not the Empress herself say, whenever she wanted to hear good opera, she came to Eszterháza?”
“She did indeed.” The Prince stepped out of the carriage and turned to Carlo. “But we should ask you about that, signor. My kapellmeister tells me that you’ve lent him invaluable assistance. What think you of our little opera company?”
Carlo stiffened inwardly. “I’ve been more an audience than an assistant, Your Highness, but an admiring audience, truly. You have a talented company indeed.” He stepped onto the soft grass, holding his smile and the Prince’s gaze with his chin raised and his shoulders relaxed. Servants bustled around them, pouring wine and laying out savories. “At every court in Europe, I’ve heard praise of Herr Haydn. Eszterháza is fortunate in its musical director.”
“Mm. Hiring him was one sound decision made by my older brother.”
“I loved the Turkish music in his opera last year,” Frau von Höllner said brightly. “I vow, I hummed it for a week afterward.” She paused, and her eyes lit up. “Niko, I have it! You must hold a masked ball here, outside the Bagatelle. Herr Haydn can compose more Turkish music for it, and we can h
ave fireworks, and—”
“This Saturday might suit,” Prince Nikolaus said thoughtfully. “What say you gentlemen? Do you fancy a masked ball?”
Von Born smiled stiffly. “A delightful conceit.”
“Of course it is,” said Frau von Höllner. “Niko, you can be a magnificent and frightening Pasha, and I shall dress as a Turkish harem lady. It will be most romantic.” She dimpled up at her lover, who smiled back indulgently.
Baroness von Steinbeck would have blushed at that, Carlo thought—then cursed himself. What did it matter to him what she thought of her sister’s behavior? But he could vividly imagine the strain on her pale, fine features. What did she really look like, beneath all those courtly layers of powder? She had surprisingly full lips for such a delicate face, and light brown eyes that could match either dark or blonde hair, as he’d swear her younger sister’s hair must be.
When the footman had brought her ladylike refreshments to while away the rehearsal the previous morning, she’d not even noticed, so absorbed had she been in the music. There was true flame inside her, hidden behind her exterior reserve.
“Signor Morelli?” The Prince turned to him. “What think you of the idea?”
“Why, I am always pleased to mask,” Carlo said smoothly. “What finer pleasure is there?”
And what better practice for courtly life? Even if there was passion behind Baroness von Steinbeck’s own mask, it had naught to do with him, Carlo Morelli, famous virtuoso freak. He bit off the chain of speculation with a poisonous jab. Throughout his career in various courts across Europe, he’d found castrati to be valued as the safest lovers for any noblewoman with a taste for spice and adventure. The Baroness, however, was clearly not a woman who dabbled in flirtation or easy affairs of the heart. Nor had he missed the jolt of shock his voice had given her when they’d met; after marrying young to a rural Protestant landowner, who could fault her for regarding him with outright repulsion?
At any rate, she was back at the palace practicing his accompaniments now. If she played tonight with only the superficial flexibility of any other amateur lady keyboardist, her appeal would vanish at once; if not . . .
Masks and Shadows Page 8
