Secrets of a Soprano (27 page)

“What the devil…?” Before he could rise from his undignified position, the door burst open and the maid rushed in brandishing a poker and yelling in Italian.

In the light from the adjacent sitting room he could now see Tessa, pressed back against the bed head, clutching her knees to her chest and wearing an expression of abject terror such as Max had never seen in his life, let alone caused. Her head shook like a demented metronome, sending long hair into Medusan coils. Tears poured down her cheeks and her shrieks subsided to a continuous, terrified keen.

His heart might have broken at the sight of such despair had he not been sprawled on the floor, stark naked, with a female Italian maniac threatening him with a dangerous weapon. His sense of self-preservation mingled with growing anger.

First deal with the immediate threat.
Struggling to his feet, he held out one hand in an authoritative manner, using the other to mask his private parts. “Stop!”

Angela continued to advance, keeping up her incomprehensible commentary. It was hard to know if he was participating in a farce or a tragedy.

“Stop!” Then, turning to Tessa, “For God’s sake tell your maid I wasn’t attacking you.” Lost in hysteria, she paid him no heed. He made a move towards her and she cringed, covering her face with her hands as though expecting a blow. The maid raised the poker above her head and Max jerked away from the bed, almost tripping over a footstool.

Just as the likelihood of tragedy gained the upper hand, the scene degenerated into farce when both Montellis appeared at the door, adding more Italian and some unpleasant-sounding German to the babble. At least neither of them was armed.

Mrs. Montelli said something sharply that arrested the onward march of the maid, though the poker remained poised for a strike, and the three of them stopped talking. For a few moments the scene froze: three figures clad in nightgowns glaring at Max who was horribly aware of his nudity and completely flummoxed by the turn of events. On the bed Tessa continued to weep.

“Mrs. Montelli.” Summoning what dignity he could, Max addressed himself to the only person showing symptoms of sanity. “I am in this room at your mistress’s invitation. I brought her home last night and I was in the bathroom when you returned to the hotel. Had she wished to object to my company she had plenty of opportunity to do so then.”

Mrs. Montelli looked over to the bed as though seeking corroboration from Tessa. Receiving none, she exchanged glances with her husband, thought for a second, then nodded.

“I have no idea why Madame Foscari is so upset,” he continued with exaggerated enunciation. “But please believe that I did nothing to injure her and never would.” What the devil did Tessa mean by it, weeping on the bed as though he had raped her?

Indignation made him sarcastic. “Since I take it that my invitation has been rescinded, I propose to retire, dress myself, and relieve Madame Foscari of my unwelcome presence.”

“I think that would be best, my lord,” Mrs. Montelli replied softly, with no hint of threat.

Keeping a wary eye on the poker, Max stepped around the bed and retreated to the bathroom. Wearing smoke-stained, reeking evening clothes put a cap on the disaster of a morning that had begun with such promise. Not even attempting to tie his black rag of a neckcloth, he stuffed it into his pocket and returned to the bedroom, wondering what on earth had happened and what to expect next. He found Tessa and Mrs. Montelli alone in the room, sitting on the bed. Tessa huddled in her companion’s arms, sobbing piteously while the other woman murmured words of comfort.

They both looked up and Max bowed stiffly. Then Tessa buried her face in Mrs. Montelli’s shoulder and cried unabated. If there was any sense to be found, it wasn’t here. Max removed himself from the bedchamber, the suite, and the hotel without another word and with all possible haste.

He descended the stairs and stalked through the foyer, head held high but well aware of the curious stares of the hotel staff at the sight of a gentleman in soiled evening clothes. It was early enough that few guests were at large but he was a well-known figure. He would face further humiliation if gossip about his exit spread through fashionable London. At that moment he never wanted to set eyes on Tessa again. She was surely a madwoman.

And yet.

He stepped into the street and closed his bleary eyes against the sunlight, envisioning everything that happened after she woke up.

That last look on her face hadn’t seemed insane. She had just been through a terrifying experience in the burning Tavistock and perhaps her nightmare had been reliving the fire. But that didn’t explain the reaction of her staff, nor did it explain that look. Her expression had been one of fear, yes, but also of grief and deep despair.

“Only by the courage of Madame Foscari was the audience saved from the fire without loss of life. This singer, the marvel of our age, proved herself by her actions to be a True Englishwoman.”

The Morning Post

T
essa spent the
next two days in her darkened room, sipping tea laced with lemon and honey, kept in constant supply by the devoted Angela, and refusing talk to anyone else, even Sofie. The particular excuse that she needed to recover her voice provided cover for a more general desire to bury her head under the blankets and never leave her bed for the rest of her life.

The third day after the fire Sofie marched into the room, stiff back exhibiting her descent from generations of Teutonic martinets.

“It’s time to get up,” she announced, yanking back the curtains and throwing open a window. “
Du lieber Himmel
! It stinks in here.”

“What about my throat?” Tessa muttered, tugging the blankets up to her chin.

“A little fresh air won’t make it worse. Besides, Angela says you were speaking normally this morning.”

“I can’t. I’ll never sing again.”

Sofie turned her attention to the bedcovers. Tessa fought her but Sofie was too strong, throwing them onto the floor and leaving Tessa exposed in her oldest and least becoming nightgown.

“Up, up, up!” barked Sofie. Then, in softer tones, “You’re the heroine of London, you know. We’ve been besieged by callers wanting to congratulate you. You even have a letter from the Prince Regent. You saved the lives of thousands of people in that theater. You’ll never hear another boo, that’s for certain.”

“I can’t see anyone, ever again.”

“Lady Storrington was here. She brought profiteroles,” Sofie coaxed.

A faint flicker of interest stirred the leaden misery in Tessa’s brain. She stood up, finding her legs shaky from disuse, and shuffled past Sofie into the sitting room. She was hungry. Ignoring countless bouquets of flowers, she stiffened like a pointer sighting game and made straight for a plate of pastries. She proceeded to eat all of them, at least a dozen, scarcely swallowing one before stuffing another into her mouth. Then she sat down.

“Feeling better?” asked Sofie, who had observed the display with folded arms.

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“So I should think.” Sofie sat down beside her and took her hand. “
Liebchen
, I know you are upset but lying in bed won’t help. There are decisions to be made and neither I nor Sempronio can make them without you. You are, you realize, without an engagement. The Tavistock Theatre no longer exists. It was burned to the ground.”

Tessa said nothing. She knew there was only one other place for her to go in London.

“And Teresa, we must talk about Lord Allerton.”

“I don’t want to,” Tessa muttered. If she talked about him she’d have to think about what she’d done and face her own shame.

“Don’t you think,” Sofie said with infinite gentleness, “that Lord Allerton deserves an explanation? Or at the very least an apology?”

Tessa wanted to cry but she’d spent all her tears in the days since Max had left her bedchamber. “I can’t see him. And how can I apologize? He can never forgive me for what I did, and even if he did what would be the use? I’m ruined, worthless to any man. Domenico has destroyed me.”

She’d been so happy for a short time, but Domenico had once more returned to haunt her. She’d never be free of him. A single moment of joy, then the world had crashed about her again, leaving her worse off than ever. Before she’d merely suspected how hopeless it was to reach for happiness. Now she knew.

“You mustn’t give up,” Sofie said. “Give it time. Why don’t I have Angela prepare you a bath? When you’re dressed we can make plans.”

The thought of the bath threatened to send Tessa into renewed hysterics. Luckily the entrance of Sempronio from the music room offered sufficient distraction to keep her uncertain serenity from disintegration.

“
Cara
! You are up. How are you?” His eyes fell on the empty plate. “What happened to those pastries? I wanted one.”

“Teresa ate them,” Sofie replied. “She has found her appetite at least.”

“All of them?” A thought struck him. “They were stuffed with cream. What about your voice?” He glanced at Sofie who frowned at him. “Never mind. It will recover. Are you ready to try it? Angela says you are speaking normally.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Just a few exercises. Nothing to stress it on the first day.”

“I have nowhere to sing.”

Sofie intervened. “You have half a dozen invitations to sing at private affairs, including one from Mrs. Sackville. Do you think you will accept that one?”

Even the prospect of a vengeful refusal failed to arouse Tessa’s spirits. Neither did any of the letters of congratulation and praise, the floral tributes, the lavish encomia in every newspaper. Sofie had been right when she’d called her the heroine of London. The same scribblers who, a week before, had called her a grasping, heartless harpy, could hardly find the words to express their adoration for the woman whose courage had saved thousands.

Tessa simply didn’t care.

One matter she could no longer ignore. For days Angela had bothered her about the diamonds. The tiara, necklace, and brooch from the Tsar’s gift had been lost when she escaped the fire. Only the bracelets survived and thinking about the way Max had managed the clasp made her want to cry again.

“They’re worth a fortune.” Sofie said. “You must report their loss.”

“Let them go,” Tessa replied wearily. “They must have fallen off when I came down from the stage.” It hurt to think of Max’s brave efforts to save her, how he’d pulled her from the path of the burning beam. How much better if he’d left her to perish. “The fire will have destroyed them.”

“Fire won’t hurt the diamonds, even if the setting melted.”

“They’re not diamonds. They’re paste.”

The explanation of her recent discovery had Sofie clucking with horror and additional maledictions on Domenico’s perfidy.

“I’m going back to bed,” Tessa finally announced. “But I will rise for dinner.”

Sofie thought to tempt Tessa’s appetite by ordering all her favorite dishes from the Pulteney’s excellent kitchen. She needn’t have worried. Tessa sat in silence in the suite’s small dining parlor eating her way through every course with rapt intensity. She even eyed the remains of a pair of ducklings and considered picking up a carcass and stripping the bones with her teeth. Instead she contented herself with three helpings of apple tart swimming in thick cream. She would have eaten more if Sempronio, catching her intent gaze on his plate, hadn’t hurried to finish his own second slice.

With every mouthful Tessa expressed her hatred and defiance of her husband.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Sofie asked.

Tessa glared at her and reached for a crust of bread that had escaped her attention. “You sound like Domenico.
You’ll get fat. You’ll ruin your voice. Don’t eat sweets. Don’t drink milk. Don’t, don’t, don’t. No one will love you if you don’t look beautiful
.” She stood up and glared at both Montellis who regarded her with mouths agape. “I don’t care anymore. I don’t care if I look like an elephant. No one will ever love me anyway so I may as well enjoy myself.”

Flouncing out of the room she returned to her chamber, locked the door, and collapsed onto the bed, clutching her aching stomach as she stared at the ceiling. How badly she had behaved, taking out her emotional turmoil on her friends. The temperamental diva, the cliché invented by Domenico, had descended from the stage and become reality.

Domenico might be dead but he still dominated her life and she had allowed it. The expensive hotel suite, the indecent gowns, even her lack of capacity to manage her own affairs. It was as though Domenico was laughing at her from hell, taunting her with her inability to break away from his ascendancy and live without him.

The recollection that she’d controlled the urge to smash things buoyed her confidence for a moment. She might have eaten every crumb of food on the dinner table but at least she’d left the china intact. Then her heart sank further still. She might master her own reaction but the terror that provoked her panic remained, as demonstrated the morning after the fire. Her pleasure in making love with Max had been an aberration brought on by the greater fear of the fire and her relief at escaping it. The scene at dawn proved the impossibility of a sustained relationship.

How much worse it was now that she’d glimpsed the happiness that would forever elude her. She was doomed to be alone.

Repose was like a drug that calmed her body but did nothing to soothe her misery. Despite hours of sleep she felt little refreshed when she joined the Montellis for breakfast. They watched her warily but neither said a word beyond a banal morning greeting.

Her usual bread roll with raspberry jam was laid before her. “I’d like some cheese,” she said, shaking out her napkin.

“Cheese?” asked Sofie faintly.

“Yes, cheddar cheese.”

“English cheese!” Sempronio remarked with Italian scorn. “If you must eat cheese why not gorgonzola or parmigiano?”

“I like cheddar. I haven’t had any since we came to London. Mr. Waring used to have it shipped to Oporto.”

Seeing Sempronio about to argue, whether in defense of Italian cheese or in opposition to the danger to Tessa’s vocal cords, Sofie silenced her husband with a brief shake of the head. “I’ll speak to Angela.”