Secrets of a Soprano (13 page)

*

Portugal, 1807

Max’s traveling companion,
the Reverend Jasper Eldon, always lay abed late, usually sleeping off the effects of enthusiastic sampling of the local wines. His mother had selected the clergyman as Max’s bear-leader not because of the man’s status with the church, but for his eligible birth and worldly knowledge. Lady Clarissa had never been very interested in religion, though she certainly expected Mr. Eldon to protect Max from the pernicious lure of Papists, a breed found in large numbers on the continent of Europe.

So Max spent the morning scouring the Oporto shops for a gift for his beloved. That provincial city offered little in the way of quality gems but though he would happily have showered his Tessa with diamonds, he wasn’t concerned. Once they were wed a large portion of the Tamworth jewelry collection would be his to adorn his bride. His sweet Tessa would prefer something unusual.

In a small, dark shop in the old quarter he found it: a rectangular plaque of ivory, exquisitely carved, depicting a couple dancing in a field of flowers and birds. The shopkeeper told him it was very ancient, and Moorish, from the time of the caliphs in the Iberian Peninsula. The carefree movement of the lovers—somehow he knew they were lovers—seemed to express the joy he and Tessa found in each other’s company. He could scarcely wait for their agreed meeting in the churchyard of São Francisco.

But first he had to face Mr. Eldon who had chuckled appreciatively when Max had confessed his infatuation. Young men of good family who’d only just begun to shave, Eldon explained in his jovial fashion, did not wed. And more particularly they did not wed opera singers. Miss Birkett, he said, would make a splendid mistress, a very suitable
petite amie
for a young man just starting his amorous career. She was a dashed pretty girl and a lovely songbird. She wouldn’t be foolish enough to expect marriage.

Max, well aware of his lack of savoir faire in such matters, had accepted his preceptor’s advice without demur. He burned for Tessa. God, he burned for her. Just as her voice thrilled his soul, her beauty inflamed him physically so that he could scarcely sleep. Sheltered by his protective mama and without a father to provide masculine guidance, his sexual experience to date consisted of two kisses from one of the dairymaids at Tamworth.

When he’d finally plucked up courage to kiss Tessa he’d nearly exploded on the spot. Silky and sweet, she’d tremulously opened to his inexpert demand and murmured in shock at the tentative exploration of his tongue. When he’d dared reach a hand to her breast she’d flinched, then relaxed and, to his enchanted surprise, moved a little closer.

Even now, he remembered every second, relived the ecstatic sensation of her soft form in his arms, the evanescent scent of Oporto’s mimosa in his nostrils. Impatient for further intimacies than could be achieved in a public place, he’d wrenched himself from her lips and cradled her against him while he’d explained his plan: meetings in a discreet inn, then passage to London where he’d find her a house. Despite his innocence, he’d learned enough from his more worldly schoolmates to understand the basics of keeping a mistress.

The ashen pallor of shock had apprised him instantly of his mistake. Speechless for a moment, her expressive face had conveyed her distress and humiliation.

The words had come in a whisper as she’d pulled away and stared at the ground. “How could you think of me like that?”

He was ashamed. And distraught that he’d insulted the girl he adored. Silently he cursed the cynical assumptions of Mr. Eldon. He’d assured her he would make things right if she would meet him again later in the same place.

His shopping expedition completed, he dashed into the hotel, ready to confront the clergyman and insist he perform the marriage ceremony as soon as possible. Thankfully Tessa was a Protestant, but that meant they couldn’t be wed in a Portuguese church. He was ready to muster his best arguments so that he could return to his darling and formally propose marriage that afternoon.

Mr. Eldon was not alone. Tessa’s guardian and his son were in the hotel parlor and all three men looked grim. Surprised that she had spoken to Mr. Waring, Max was ready to assure the man of his honorable intentions. Protective toward her, he was grateful that she had someone to see to her interests.

Eldon broke an uneasy silence. “Max,” he said. “It seems you have insulted a young lady. Mr. Waring and his son have called to register a complaint on her behalf. But I believe we have reached an accommodation to satisfy all parties.”

*

Simon Lindo continued
to pace the room until Max’s frayed nerves could no longer endure it. “Sit down and show me the receipts from last night.”

Examining the figures from the second performance of
The Barber of Seville
—they had, for the moment, agreed not to repeat the unsuccessful
Fidelio
—distracted Max from unwelcome memories though the numbers hardly improved his mood. Once again, the opera had played to a half-empty house.

Despite the bad news, Max found the process fascinating. He was almost ready to thank his mother for making it necessary for him to take an active part in the financial management of the Regent. It was a good deal more interesting than his normal daily pursuits. With little taste for gambling or sports, he’d often found time hanging heavy on his hands. He mused that he might have been a happier man had he been born into the merchant class. He could have married Tessa… But he would never have met her and in any case he had had a lucky escape.

“You seem preoccupied,” he remarked to Simon, who had been discussing the reports with less than his usually razor-like concentration.

“I’ve been thinking,” Lindo said, “that La Divina has a veritable genius for arousing the interest of the press.”

“What of it? Since neither of us looks like Aphrodite or have engaged in love affairs with emperors I don’t see how we can hope to rival her in that respect.”

Simon’s lips twitched. “You could take up crockery smashing.”

“Would anyone care?”

“Probably not. But it occurs to me that we could turn her notoriety against her. The denizens of Grub Street are ever fickle in their affections.”

“Not where Teresa Foscari is concerned. There isn’t a writer in London, from the music critics to the society reporters, who doesn’t adore her.”

“Supposing they discovered she’d done something despicable. It would certainly be noted in the press. And where the newspapers lead, the public will follow.”

“What has she done? Are you going to inform the
Morning Post
that she cheats tradesmen and beats her servants?” A vision of Tessa’s maid with her crooked nose flashed though Max’s mind. Surely not. The pair of them seemed on affectionate terms and nothing he’d read suggested that La Divina was a danger to people as well as dishes.

“It’s not like you to be so slow, Max. We have evidence of La Divina’s callous disregard for poor wounded soldiers.”

“The Chelsea Hospital benefit,” Max breathed.

“Precisely.” Simon paused significantly. “I think her admirers need to be informed that Teresa Foscari, whom the English people have welcomed to their collective bosom as though she were one of their own, refuses to sing a note to raise money for the gallant victims of our war with France.”

“Surely that would be dishonorable?”

“You’re thinking like a gentleman, Max. Businessmen can’t afford such scruples. Besides, where’s the dishonor in speaking the truth? The woman refused, in the most insulting way, to lend her services to a worthy cause.”

Insulting indeed. Surely it was no accident that she’d named two thousand pounds, the very sum Mr. Eldon had paid for his so-called “insult” to her.

Max stared at the pile of papers on the desk, emblematic of his quandary. Lady Clarissa’s ultimatum came to mind, of her triumph should he crawl back to her and admit failure. Then came the memory of the youthful Tessa, soft and yielding in his arms, and the more ardent response of the adult woman.

Two thousand pounds
. The words rang in his head. Two thousand pounds that she’d taken from Eldon, who had been supplied with ample funds by Lady Clarissa to guard the naïve Max against the lures of adventuresses. Tessa hadn’t known how wealthy he was or surely she’d have asked for more.

He understood the dilemma of Faust, faced with the blandishments of Mephistopheles. His soul, perhaps, was not at stake. He risked only the future of his opera house and his personal freedom. But if he agreed to Simon’s plan, he could kiss goodbye his chances of ever possessing Teresa Foscari.

He was mad to still desire her, even the slightest bit.

“Let’s do it,” he said. “How do we spread the tale?”

*

Tessa shuffled through
the pile of bills. “I thought we paid the hotel with the money from the Storrington recital.”

“There wasn’t quite enough left,” Sofie explained. “I had mistaken the amount.” Sofie was making a valiant attempt to make sense of their finances but arithmetic was not her forte and the accounts presented by the best hotel in London contained all sorts of unforeseen extras.

“We can’t move to less expensive accommodations without paying off the Pulteney,” Tessa said. “But I suppose we could give up the carriage.”

“La Divina cannot go to the theater in a hackney!” Sofie said, shocked. “Perhaps you should send back the walking dress you bought. That would be one bill less to pay.”

Tessa dismissed the suggestion. “I won’t serve the modiste so ill. It’s a beautiful gown and it would be unfair to leave it on her hands.” She extracted a receipt from the pile. “Twenty pounds. At least this one has been paid. What was it for?”

“Two ladies called one morning collecting money for the Chelsea Hospital,” Sofie said. “I’m sorry, I wouldn’t have given them anything if I’d known how low our funds are, but I know you like to give to charity.”

“What is this hospital?”

“A home for wounded soldiers.”

“Then I’m only sorry the amount was so small. I’ve seen enough of the horrible consequences of war to understand how much these brave men need care. As soon as Mortimer pays me we shall send them a more generous donation.”

“By the end of the week we should receive Mrs. Sackville’s…” A spate of coughing interrupted Sofie’s words.

“My dear,” Tessa said with concern, putting an arm around her companion’s frail shoulders. “You have caught a cold! You must rest, and I will summon a physician.”

“No,” Sofie said once the hacking subsided. “It’s nothing. Merely the climate. And doctors cost money.”

Tessa bit her lip. For Sofie to take ill in the English damp would be the crowning misfortune of an adventure that was starting to look misbegotten indeed. How she wished she’d remained in Paris and never succumbed to Mortimer’s persuasion.

“You must see a doctor,” she said. “And you mustn’t worry anymore. If the worst happens I can always sell the Tsar’s diamonds.”

“Here is a woman who stands to put TEN THOUSAND POUNDS of English money into her pocket this year. She is asked to exercise, for one evening, the same art by which she amasses this money, for the purpose of bringing money to the relief of a most useful charitable institution. She refuses to do so, but most liberally gives twenty pounds to the charity. Her appearance at the Regent Opera House last night might have added 300 or 400 pounds more to the receipts of the evening. How therefore could the paltry gift of twenty pounds be an equivalent to make up for this act of ingratitude to the English public? The people of England have a very simple course to pursue on this occasion: and that is, to dispense with Madame Foscari in future—to decline going to hear her. Have we not good English singers and sweet English music! Shall we throw away our substantial roast beef, and feed upon the vile kickshaws of France and Italy.”