She sat up in the bed, drawing the coverlet around her for warmth. It would be some time yet before Gerta came in to poke up the fire.
“I will see my Tanfrit performed. Even if I need to do it in the middle of the Nikuleplaiz!” Plans began to form and she said decisively, “I may have lost the chance at a patron, but it could be just a concert. I’m going to write to my father and my brother to ask their help in finding musicians. And Issibet knows everyone. She might be able to sweet-talk some singers. I don’t know where the money is going to come from…”
“Don’t give up. Ask Jeanne,” Serafina said sleepily.
“What?”
“The Vicomtesse de Cherdillac. Ask her for help. If anyone can find you a patron, she can. It’s what she does. She likes your music. She likes you. Why do you think she came to tell you about what Fizeir had done? You don’t need to try to do this all by yourself. Invite her to come and listen to your opera and tell her about your dreams.”
Yes, Luzie thought. Fizeir had the acclaim of all of Rotenek, but she had Jeanne de Cherdillac and Margerit Sovitre and—most importantly—she had Serafina.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jeanne
January, 1825
Through the open door, Jeanne heard Ainis’s steps heading for the stairs. She rose from the morning’s correspondence and intercepted the breakfast tray.
“I’ll take that up myself. Is she awake?”
Ainis shook her head. “I don’t know, Mesnera, but she told me to bring it up by the clock.”
It was the change in habits more than the physical changes that made the coming child real to her. Antuniet had never been a layabed. Now, instead of rising barely later than the servants to leave for the palace workshop to fire up the furnace, she often slept late into the morning, and that despite enjoying a respite from late society hours.
Instead of trying to manage the tray and doorknob with the efficiency of a housemaid, Jeanne went the long way through her own bedroom and the connecting dressing room. She placed the tray on the little side table and settled herself on the edge of the bed. Breaking open a steaming roll, she waved it under Antuniet’s nose until her eyes blinked and opened.
“How are you my little pruzelin?”
Antuniet smiled at the joke. “So I’ve climbed the ladder from mere bread to pastry?”
Jeanne rested a hand on the bulge of Antuniet’s belly under the covers and leaned over her, murmuring, “You are my bread, and my cake, and my pruzelin, and my soul,” punctuating each with a kiss. She felt the baby move, even through the blankets.
Antuniet smiled, but then she groaned and rolled away. “I love you, but at the moment I love my chamber pot more! If you will pardon me—”
Soon she was once again settled comfortably, propped under the covers, and Jeanne fed her pastries and poured tiny cups of hot chocolate for them to share in turns.
“I miss you in bed,” she said.
“You don’t miss me being constantly up and down in the night and the way my belly would push you off the side! But I miss you too. Only a little while more.”
They sipped and nibbled in silence, then Jeanne asked, “Are you working today?”
“Today, every day, for as long as I can. Is it selfish of me to begrudge Anna the time she spends down at Urmai? The new apprentices can’t match her.”
“I’m interviewing some nursery maids this afternoon,” Jeanne said. “I was wondering if you might be there.”
Antuniet’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “You’re much better at that than I am. Do you really need me?”
“I need you to have trust in the woman who will be caring for our child.”
Antuniet smiled and echoed, “Our child.” The words were a caress. “I have trust in you, Jeanne. You’ll make a good choice. Is it so very difficult?”
Jeanne sighed. “I’m very particular.”
“All the more reason why I trust you.”
“I had dinner with the Peniluks last night,” Jeanne said by way of turning the conversation. “They asked after your health and were all curiosity about the ‘alchemical child.’”
Antuniet handed the cup back to be refilled. “Have I succeeded? Do you think they believe it?”
Jeanne knew she meant more than the Peniluks. “I think that the very idea of an alchemical child is such a six-months’ wonder that no one wants to be the first to doubt it. Except for Barbara, of course. She doesn’t believe a word of it.”
“Barbara and I have an understanding,” Antuniet said simply.
“And Margerit would love to believe that it’s possible, but—”
“But she and Barbara keep no secrets from each other.”
“Marianniz loudly proclaims that she thinks it’s all a hoax and that you’re fooling us with pillows and will produce some orphan brat at the end of it to claim as your own.”
Antuniet groaned in exasperation. “Pillows wouldn’t kick as hard!”
“But she’s always like that and no one pays her any mind,” Jeanne concluded. “Tio has been very convincing and has been telling lurid stories of her experiences in your workshop and puffing herself off as your close friend and confidante.”
“Who would have thought Tio could be so useful?” Antuniet exclaimed in pretend surprise.
“Quite useful,” Jeanne agreed. “For she has Princess Elisebet’s ear and you know how eager the Dowager Princess is to believe in every mystery that comes along. If people put little weight on Elisebet’s credence, neither do they want to contradict her. Has Annek spoken with you again more recently?”
Antuniet’s mouth twisted in silent denial. Jeanne knew she’d spent long hours closeted with the princess months ago when the news of her pregnancy had first gone round the city. The disclosure of her unexpected condition had strained Annek’s trust, and that trust had been guarded from the first. The princess gave no clue to what she herself believed, but she had given no public sign of doubt. Antuniet still held her place as Royal Alchemist—an alchemist who had mastered the second of the Great Works. What might have been scandal had been turned to fame. But there were bridges to repair in the palace.
* * *
Jeanne sometimes wondered if she’d wasted most of her life in arranging balls and floodtide parties. The challenge that Luzie Valorin presented to her stirred her blood as few things had before. It was the same quickening she’d felt when Rikerd had asked her to launch that violinist he’d taken on as protégée. At the thought, she jotted down Iustin Mazzies’ name on her list. No, Iustin Ion-Pazit now that she’d married her composer.
Musicians…but what sort of venue would they be playing in? That made a difference. Maisetra Valorin had been thinking of a small chamber opera. Something they could stage in one of the public salles. But that wouldn’t serve the purpose of showing off the work. A small stage, with no announcements in advance? No, it wouldn’t do at all. Maisetra Valorin was correct in one concern. If people knew her opera’s topic in advance, no one would believe she hadn’t copied Fizeir. That presented difficulties. Difficulties required boldness.
She heard Tomric answering the door and rose to greet her guest.
“Luzie! May I call you Luzie? It seems long past when we should have exchanged Christian names. Now come sit and we’ll discuss everything that must be considered.”
She brought out her notes and lists for consideration. Musicians, singers, chorus, venue, a question mark beside the word “sets,” and there—deeply underscored—the word “date.” And in a smaller scrawl at the bottom, like something of no consequence at all, the word “funds.”
“Now as we discussed before, the first decision to be made is the scale and the venue, for everything else hangs on those. From what you’ve told me, it’s completely impossible to think of a performance before Lent. Even if all your work on the music were complete, there’d be no time to make arrangements. And though a private performance during Eastertide might be excused, I have a better idea. We need to catch
the attention of the entire city, not just a few invited guests. Some place public. A place where everyone will already be gathered. I had a thought.”
Jeanne held up her hand to forestall any objections. “There’s a corner of the Plaiz where traveling players sometimes set up in the summer. You know the place, by the old tapisserie guildhall. They use it because the arcades catch the sound and provide a natural stage. It’s within view of everything: the palace gates, the cathedral, the shops and cafés. We hold the performance on Easter Sunday, just after services are finished. The Plaiz will be full of people leaving the services. Barring some miracle—” Jeanne paused to cross herself on the chance that God was listening. “—the city will be on edge waiting for a sign of floodtide. They’ll want distraction and something else to talk about. And even if we have that miracle, no one would be thinking of leaving the city that very afternoon!”
Luzie stared at her in disbelief. “That’s daring.”
“Daring is what we need,” Jeanne said.
Luzie thought about it silently for long moments. Resolve stiffened her expression and she nodded. “Vicomtesse, I place myself in your hands.”
“Good, then shall we move on?”
They drew up suggestions for the instruments. The outdoor venue needed an arrangement that would carry the sound clearly. Luzie would need to start thinking about the orchestration.
“I wrote to my father for advice,” Luzie said hesitantly. “I hope you don’t mind. It was before you offered to help.”
Oh dear, Jeanne thought, but she asked, “Does he have any ideas?”
“There are a number of favors he could call in. Musicians who owed him their first chance. At the least, his name might carry some weight.”
“His name?” Jeanne asked.
“Iannik Ovimen. I performed with him and my brothers before I married.”
Iannik Ovimen, now there was a name she hadn’t heard in some time. “I hadn’t realized the connection,” Jeanne said. “Yes, that may be very helpful. Perhaps—” She rolled an idea around in her mind. “Perhaps we could use the Ovimen name as a mask when making arrangements.”
“I still don’t understand how we can do that,” Luzie said. “It’s one thing for Maistir Fizeir to keep his debuts a surprise. I don’t have that much influence.”
“Leave it to me. Didn’t you say you’d put yourself in my hands?” Jeanne moved on to the next part of the list. “Now, the principal singers need to be secured soon. I have plans for the role of Tanfrit. Have you ever heard Benedetta Cavalli perform? She’s contracted with that company from Florence that will arrive on tour next month and I might be able convince her to stay on when they leave.”
“Madame Cavalli?” Luzie’s eyes widened. “She’s well beyond my touch!”
“Ah, ah,” Jeanne stopped her. “Didn’t you say you’d leave it to me? And I assure you, Benedetta is not beyond my touch.” A few delicious memories of that touch intruded. “She’s a dear old friend of mine. And beyond that, I think I can convince her that creating the role of your Tanfrit is an opportunity not to be missed. Once I’ve secured her, she’ll have ideas for Gaudericus. She’s rather particular about who she sings with, given the chance, and that will be a sweetener as well.”
Other details were briefly skimmed until Luzie placed her finger hesitantly on the last item on the page. Funds.
“Vicomtesse—”
“Please, it’s Jeanne.”
“Jeanne, where will we get the money? Favors and debts can cover a few of the roles, but even without the rental of a venue and elaborate sets…And don’t tell me simply to leave it in your hands. I know too many people in the theater. I know how it works. Investors want a say in the performance, in the choice of performers. And if there’s no hope of return…”
“You’re right to be concerned,” Jeanne agreed. “It’s a very delicate matter. The man I have in mind…let me simply say that there’s a debt he might owe in connection with your work.” She could see that Luzie was bewildered but that discussion would be between her and Count Chanturi.
* * *
Chanturi was the first name on her list of contacts, even before writing to Benedetta. She hadn’t cared to mention his name yet in Luzie’s presence for he was one of Fizeir’s foremost patrons.
She tracked him down two days later. Like most men, he didn’t organize his life around visiting hours at home, but he was more than willing to invite her into the parlor with a brief kiss on the cheek in acknowledgment of their long friendship.
“You have that look about you,” he said. “Like a general on campaign. What am I to do for you today?”
Jeanne’s hand twitched. It was the sort of banter that called for the language of the fan—a language in which they both were fluent. Instead, she accepted the role of general and led a charge. “You financed Fizeir’s latest opera.”
Rikerd winced and poured out two small glasses of sherry. “Yes, a fresh idea, though not as fresh in the execution. Still, people were happy to see an Alpennian story for once, even one sung in Italian. I do wish he’d learn to write farce, though. It would bring me a better return. But what can one do? We must have new operas and who else will write them?”
“And what if there were someone else?” Jeanne asked.
“Do you mean Domric Sain-Pol? I’ve seen some of his work. Yes, he might be worth bringing along.”
“No, I mean someone entirely different. I want you to finance another opera taken from the story of Tanfrit.”
Rikerd choked on his sherry and set it aside. “A second Tanfrit? Are you mad?”
“Not a second,” Jeanne said, “but the original. The one Fizeir took his inspiration from. The one that by rights should have been performed instead.” She waved her hand at the beginnings of Rikerd’s protest. “Oh, I don’t go so far as to suggest you financed a plagiarist, but Fizeir was familiar with the work and chose not to credit it. And you are complicit in that. I don’t expect you to remember, but you were present at the conception of this one.”
“Is this blackmail, then?” Rikerd’s question wasn’t in the least serious.
“Think of it more as a debt,” Jeanne countered.
“A debt. So you’re saying there wouldn’t be any return on my investment.”
Now Jeanne truly wished for a fan in her hands. Words were such awkward tools! “Surely my friendship is a better return than mere money.”
He smiled. “And how do you know that Fizeir was familiar with this original work that no one else has seen?”
“Because the composer showed it to him and asked his opinion. And then—voila!—Fizeir writes his own opera and it includes details of Tanfrit’s life that are pure invention, and yet curiously the same as that original. Did you know that Fizeir has been purchasing compositions from this composer for years and passing them off as his own work?”
Rikerd waved the objection off. “It’s done all the time. There’s nothing in that.”
“But consider,” Jeanne continued. “If Fizeir considers this composer’s work worth passing off as his own, it says a great deal for the music in question.”
“You needn’t work so hard to interest me,” Rikerd said, taking another sip of his sherry. “I’ve never known you to send me off on a false trail. But who is this unknown prodigy?”
“Not so unknown,” Jeanne said. “Now you must promise me to keep this all under the rose, even if you refuse. It’s Luzie Valorin.”
“Valorin?” he said in surprise. “The one who does that little mesmerism trick with her art songs?” His eyes widened. “Now I do remember. She joined our party for the closing of La Regina di Saba. And someone did mention Tanfrit.”
“It’s no trick,” Jeanne scolded. “But never mind that. Yes, Luzie Valorin, who has written an opera that will set all of Rotenek on its head, if only she’s allowed to perform it. The problem is that everyone will think she’s the one who copied Fizeir’s work, and not the other way around, until they hear it.”
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“You’re that certain?” Rikerd asked.
Jeanne nodded.
Rikerd steepled his fingers in thought. “Fizeir won’t be happy and I rather like the role of his patron. I meet a great many interesting people that way.”
“Fizeir needn’t know,” Jeanne said. “I’m quite happy to keep your part a secret.”
“But if my part is secret,” Rikerd protested, “then how can I have the glory of having discovered this Valorin woman?” He was teasing again.
“I leave that entirely to you,” Jeanne said. “I only ask that you keep it secret until after the performance.” She rose and offered her hand. “Have we an agreement? The expenses should be modest, mostly salaries. But I’m afraid you won’t see a penny in return unless there’s enough interest for more performances in the fall.”
Rikerd took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Then we shall need to make sure that it takes.”
* * *
“Would you have time to come to the workshop tomorrow?” Antuniet asked over dinner.
“Always,” Jeanne answered warmly. “Do I need to wear a smock?” She tried to think what the current commissions were that might require additional roles for the ceremonial preparations.
“Yes, but not for the work itself. Do you recall that portrait that Princess Annek commissioned?”
Antuniet had been complaining about the sittings for the last week, though Jeanne expected that they were a pleasant break from the more active work.
“Is it finished?” she asked. “You wouldn’t ask me to come in working clothes just to view a painting!”
Antuniet grimaced. “I don’t know whether the idea came from Olimpia Hankez or Princess Annek herself. But now there’s to be something more monumental. A depiction of my first royal commission. I think it’s meant to be a companion piece to the one of the All Saints’ Castellum she did last fall. There’s also to be one commemorating the battle of Tarnzais, but I think that commission went to Iosip. There won’t be a bare wall left in the palace if this continues.”
Mother of Souls: A novel of Alpennia Page 39
