Rondo Allegro (6 page)

She walked in brow-furrowed puzzlement to the music chambers
behind the royal theater, where she encountered Signora Paisiello, who was busy
stitching costumes.

“The maestro is away getting those new music sheets printed.
What clouds the brow of our angel?” the signora asked.

Anna began to relate her bad news. To her vast surprise, she
had only got a few sentences in when the signora exclaimed, “So!”

The signora raised her needle, resettled her wig, and leaned
forward. “We have been talking on that very head, Paisiello and I, about what
we are to do for our cherished students if the French return, especially if the
English abandon us to our fate. Money is indeed scarce for those such as us.
The king is not to be relied upon, especially with the political scene so
unsettled. It is our belief you ought to quit Naples altogether, and go to
Paris.”

“Paris!” Anna exclaimed. “But . . . the war,
the soldiers!”

The signora waved her hand to and fro. “There is no war in
Paris. Even the guillotine rusts from disuse. Why, from what I hear, Buonaparte
is soon to declare himself king of France. Think of it, an Italian on the
throne of France, ha ha!”

“I thought he was from Corsica?”

“The Buonapartes are Florentines,” Signora Paisiello stated
with a moue of disapprobation. “He may call himself Bonaparte however much he
likes, but I never shall. Bonaparte! Such an impossible name! It will never
stick.” And, as Anna had nothing to say to this prediction, the signora went
on. “It’s rumored the family ran to Corsica after the Ghibelline troubles, as
did many others. But a leopard does not change his spots, even if he calls
himself a lion.”

She poked her finger through her high-piled powdered wig to
scratch at her scalp. “Here is what is important: Buonaparte loves music. He
has written Paisiello a hundred times, saying he still hums the march written
for General Hoche’s memorial, and promises a fortune if we would come to Paris.
Paisiello wavers, for he is deep in rehearsals, with the music near finishing, and
the stage near to ready. But you? No such trouble binds you.”

“I do not write music,” Anna began.

The signora laughed, shaking all over. “No! But you sing!
Perhaps it might not have been possible over the past years, for everything was
revolution, revolution, revolution, I hear, but they say the comic opera is
coming back into fashion in Paris. Now, you are yet too young for the great
roles, for you are not the equal of the great Mrs. Billington, but who is? There
are a great many opportunities for a singer of your talents in a city just
beginning to rediscover the arts!”

Anna clasped her hands.

Seeing her flushed, smiling face, the signora went on. “We
could send you to Buonaparte’s wife with a letter of recommendation.
Lei è così volubile!
They say that she
is kind, therefore she must get thousands such. Perhaps it would be better to
send you to Constance de Pipelet de Leury. I will write ahead to prepare the
way! She is a poet, a rich one, who champions the women of the theatre.
She
might be able to approach Madame
Buonaparte, or failing that, will surely find you a place if Paisiello asks it
of her.”

“A place! But . . .” Anna’s joy vanished. “I
promised my mother . . .”

Signora Paisiello remembered the Signora very well, and her
peculiarly English notions. “When I say ‘a place,’ it means you must become her
guest! And if it chances you perform for a select audience, and they happen to
reward you, who is to say anything?”

Anna left shortly afterward, and crossed the palace thinking
hard about all she had heard in the past few days. It was plain that staying in
Naples was not just a difficulty, but it was fast becoming a danger. The royal
family might flee, and they would not care a whit for anyone but themselves.

“I like the idea of Paris,” Anna said when she rejoined
Parrette. “If I still have not heard from Captain Duncannon, or this Mr. Jones,
by the next packet that arrives, it will prove that he does not think of me at
all. So I must think of myself, and I am determined to go. Only how are we to set
about traveling? We’ve only a few coins left from the sale of Papa’s violin.”

Parrette said firmly, “That bracelet Lady Hamilton gave you.
I will sell it, and those rubies, and any other jewels you can bear to part
with. We will probably never see their true worth, but I can bargain better
than you will be able to.”

Anna agreed, adding, “I will keep only the pearl ear drops
Lady Hamilton gave me when I first sang for her Attitudes, and my mother’s
trinkets. They would not bring much, anyway.”

o0o

At the same time that Anna and Parrette embarked on the
arduous journey to Paris, on the far side of the Atlantic, Captain Duncannon
received word of his promotion to post captain. Overjoyed, he did not mind
being ordered to hand over the
Danae
to another man and return to England. He was promised command of a frigate
recently bought into the service.

He spared a thought to Naples, trusting that no
communication arriving with his new orders meant that matters were in train as
promised.

But in Naples, as servants labored to load Sir William’s
collection of antiquities and art into the hold of a ship, in a small room over
an inn not far from the legation, several men labored to sort through a mass of
papers. The erstwhile Mr. Jones sat among them, deftly unsealing letters and
reading them.

He had made three piles: those to be sent on as was, those
to be copied by one of the young clerks at the far table before being resealed,
and those he consigned to the fire.

Presently he came to Anna’s carefully written missive, which
brought memory of the entire affair rushing back.

He set the letter down to consider. Nelson was about to
strike his flag and return to England. If Lord Keith had his way, Nelson would
never sail again, but in any case his influence was diminishing fast. Troubridge
had made it plain that his own portion of the wretched business had ended with
supplying a suitable captain. After that it was Whitehall’s problem.

Mr. Jones tapped the letter against his fingers, then rose
and crossed to the far room, where his superior was instructing a young man
carrying a dispatch case. The young man wheeled about and departed.

“What is it?”

Mr. Jones eyed his superior, whose tired, embittered
countenance did not encourage speech. In silence he held out the letter.

The senior agent had operated under many names over the
years, but none of them were aristocratic. In his secret heart, he sometimes
thought that the French had had the right of it, words he would never speak
aloud.

He threw the letter back. “What of it? Duncannon is the son
of a wealthy baron. Send it on, and let him settle his own affairs.”

“With respect, sir,” Jones said smoothly. “He is the son of
a wealthy baron, as you say, and much cherished by Fremantle. He could raise
exactly the sort of stink we do not want, if we renege on our promises.”

The senior agent’s rancor had originated in what he believed
an inescapable truth: that a man of parts could not get ahead because of his
birth. That virulence left no thought for those he considered beneath him. “
Lady
Hamilton,” he said with scornful
emphasis. “We might have supposed no better from the likes of her. Why did we
have to make promises at all?”

Jones, scenting the cloud of blame heading his way, said
with an earnest air, “We had to act precipitously, with whatever means we had
at hand. And we gained the knowledge needed at that moment.”

“In a disgraceful caper that ought never to have happened.
Folly, sheer folly.” The chief agent picked up Anna’s letter. “Leave it to me.
You will soon be Mr. Simison of Halifax, on the King’s business in North
America. We will deal with this here.”

In relief, Mr. Jones departed from the office, and thence
from this history, leaving his chief to scowl down at the letter. Irritation
boiled up into righteous anger.

They had carried out their orders, but he understood the
ways of the world. If this missive prompted Duncannon to send off a hot
complaint to the First Admiral before the new legation and its staff came in,
he knew who would catch the blame.

He picked up the letter and stood over the fire. The stiff
formality of the wording made it plain that the girl was not in the habit of
corresponding with Duncannon—the Perennial Bachelor. He was busy at the other
end of the Atlantic, on the King’s service, exactly where he ought to be. Post,
as everyone knew, was months late as often as not, and regularly lost
altogether. As time went by, and he heard nothing, he might consider himself
very well out of this trouble. As for the girl, she could find her own level,
as thousands had done before, and would continue to do.

The chief agent dropped the letter into the flames, and when
it had been reduced to ash, returned to his work.

Travel was a new and not altogether agreeable experience
for Anna.

Whenever they reached major cities, they looked for newspapers
in English, in hopes of gleaning mention of
Danae
or
Pallas
.

Consequently, despite summer storms, leaky vessels, armies
churning up the countryside and driving up prices of food and lodging, broken
axels, lame horses, and grasping opportunists not easily distinguished from
outright thieves, they arrived at last in a Paris that exhibited the shocking
evidence of a decade of troubles. The smells made Anna’s eyes water, and
everywhere there was the noise of hammering, sawing, and stone-masons chipping
away at stonework, as the repairs ordered by First Consul Bonaparte got
underway.

When the
diligence
at last disgorged its crowd of passengers, Parrette refused to even look inside
the inn adjacent. She marched out into the street until she found a fiacre to
hire. They clutched their belongings tightly as the driver whistled to his
horse.

Traffic moved about with a speed and a clatter that caused
Anna to shut her eyes until at last they arrived on the street where Madame de
Pipelet lived. By then she was certain she would suffer permanent
mal-de-tête
.

But as soon as the door opened to a charming apartment, Anna’s
fatigue gave way to wonder. She gazed at furnishings evocative of caryatids and
palm leaves in the Egyptian style that was fast becoming the very latest
fashion.

A beautiful woman, sylph-thin, with heavy-lidded,
intelligent eyes, glided toward them in in a cloud of floating draperies to
welcome them. With a graceful gesture she led a wondering Anna into a salon
decorated with waving palms and faux columns built around a fascinating
reclining couch.

“Ah, my little guest, she arrives!” Madame de Pipelet kissed
Anna’s cheeks, her clothes fragrant with a subtle, beguiling scent. Her profuse
curls tickled Anna’s chin. “So! The tiresome questions can wait. You must
refresh yourself. Tomorrow we shall hear you sing, and plan. Come this way. You
shall have my husband’s chambers.”

“Will he not object?”

Madame laughed. “He is gone. One of the very few benefits
from those dreadful days of revolution is divorce has become possible. Oh, the
freedom, you cannot conceive!” She paused, then laughed again. “My dear
Mademoiselle Ludovisi, you look positively shocked! Do you think me so
abandoned? Think upon it. We females are married off as mere children, when we
know little more of men than my puppy there.” She pointed to the little
mop-haired dog whose claws ticked over the marble floor, then added
thoughtfully, “Less. I hope and trust that if I marry again, it shall be for
life. I am old enough, and experienced enough, to make a wise choice. At
sixteen, no one is wise.”

“Nom d’un nom d’un
nom,”
Parrette whispered under her breath, and Anna blushed.

Talking on about inconsequentials in her quick French,
Madame de Pipelet led Anna by the hand to another room also fitted out with
Egyptian furnishings. These Anna found quite peculiar, though beautiful in
their way. After washing off the grime of travel, she blew out the candles and
climbed into a clean, soft bed. Though the noise of Paris still resounded
outside her window, and from below came the rapid chatter of voices and the
musical tinkle of fine dishes, she slept soundly.

Next morning, Parrette brought her breakfast on a tray.
“Madame lies abed until midday,” she said, her eyes wide. “She will ring for
you. There is a bath through that room. The servants have just finished
bringing up the hot water.”

Anna threw off the covers. After a delicious soak, she
dressed and went out to discover that the house was still silent. She whiled
away the time wandering around the chambers examining the tables with
hieroglyphics in gilding down the legs and the pyramidal cabinets decorated
with graceful animal heads, then settled down with a book of poems that she
found, to occupy herself with what patience she could muster.

It was closer to two when at last Madame de Pipelet summoned
her. Anna came downstairs to discover that Madame was not alone. Reclining
gracefully in the place of honor was a startlingly beautiful figure dressed
a la Grecque
, her curling brown hair
bound up in a silver fillet. Anna took in the daring gown, the silver sandals,
the bare toes with silver polish.

“Here, dear child, is my friend Julie Candeille, now Madame
Simon, who came to us straight from the Tuileries. She will advise us.”

“Ah, Constance.” Madame Simon clapped her hands lightly, the
gems on her hands sparkling. “She is so young! Let us see what we have.”

Anna looked from one to the other. “Thank you for your
generous hospitality. Signora Paisiello felt certain that you could tell me how
I am to go on.”

To her consternation, Madame de Pipelet burst into laughter.