Masks and Shadows (15 page)

A door opened offstage, and an officer of the Prince's bodyguard sidled in, smiling sheepishly. Anna recognized him from the day before—Frau von Höllner's husband. She bit her lip in vexation as he settled into a seat in the back of the audience. She did not, not,
not
want an audience for this first attempt!

“Ah, Anna. Now listen carefully, my dear.” Herr Haydn smiled up at her from his seat at the harpsichord beneath the stage and turned the pages of his score with a flourish. “In this song, your character, Carolina, is telling her older sister all about the romantic stranger she's glimpsed from her window—without, of course, having any idea that the stranger is in fact her sister's secret lover! Let us begin.”

Anna listened as hard as she could, while she felt the others watching her. She held the music in her memory, she sang it back—

“No, no,
no
, Anna, no! What you're singing is gibberish, child—those aren't even real words!”

“I don't speak Italian,” Anna said flatly. She hid her clenched fists in her skirts.

Behind her, she heard a woman's clear whisper: “Is anyone surprised by that?”

“Let us begin again.” The kapellmeister gave a strained smile and played the opening chords. “Listening to the
words
, this time . . .”

The next hour-and-a-half was sheer torture. Every infinitesimal sound mattered, according to Herr Haydn—every incomprehensible syllable had to be correct—and the amusement of the other singers grew with every tiny misstep. From Anna's aria, they moved on to a duet with the leading lady, Frau Kettner, who tittered at every mistake Anna made. Then Madame Zelinowsky joined them for a trio.

By the end of it all, Anna was drenched in sweat. Her head felt as if it were filled with buzzing insects. So much to remember—so impossibly many syllables to hold straight—and all for tomorrow night's performance . . .

“We'll have Herr Pichler and Frau Kettner together, now,” Herr Haydn said.

Anna staggered off to the side of the stage, where her legs gave way. She sat down in a heap, uncaring of what the others might think.

Madame Zelinowsky sat down beside her, smoothing down her own skirts carefully. “You aren't doing so badly, you know.”

Anna snorted. She didn't look up.

“No, I really am serious. Of course it is clear—it's
very
clear indeed—that you've never acted before, nor heard Italian spoken. But what of it? We were all beginners, once.”

“But you can read music,” Anna muttered.

“Now, yes. And you will, too. You do have a lovely voice.”

“Thank you.” Anna looked up at the older woman and attempted a smile. “You do, too,” she offered.

“I? No, dear, I don't. There are actresses who sing and singers who act. I am very much the former—and you, I suspect, will always be the latter. It matters very little, in terms of success, so long as you do one or the other well. And of course . . .” Madame Zelinowsky smiled slowly and tilted her head toward the audience. “You can advance your own career very easily, with only the most minimal of acting skills.”

“How do you mean?”

“Didn't you hear that boy yesterday, arguing with his wife? ‘Interested in actresses,' he said.”

“But—”

“Oh, I'm not suggesting him for you, my dear. But you're young, you're reasonably pretty, and I'm only offering you a word or two of friendly advice. Should you desire a secure and fortunate future, you might keep an eye out for young noblemen such as him, but with rather more disposable income and influence. Who knows?” Madame Zelinowsky tilted her head closer. “The Archduke is arriving here in just six days, and I hear he won't be bringing his wife. Should he take a fancy to you . . .”

Anna's throat was dry. “I'm only here to sing, madam.”

“Of course you are, dear. But it's never a bad idea to have supplementary plans for your career, is it?” Madame Zelinowsky stood up, uncoiling herself. “Ah, I'm not as young as you are. My muscles do ache when I sit too long.”

“Madame Zelinowsky?” Anna looked up at the other woman's satisfied smile. “Why did you tell me such things?”

“Why, I'm only trying to be helpful, dear. We ladies should always help one another succeed, don't you think?” Her smile widened. “Oh, look. Our little officer has ordered refreshments. Do you think he might offer us some if we ask him nicely?”

Anna looked out into the audience. Lieutenant von Höllner was eagerly scooping food off a tray carried by a familiar figure.
Erzebet
. Anna felt her own face light up. At last, someone familiar! Anna caught the maid's eye, beaming—and Erzebet's face went blank. She ducked her head down, turned away, and walked stiffly out of the room.

“Well, dear?” Madame Zelinowsky asked. “Will you join me in charming a few refreshments out of that pretty boy in uniform?”

“No, thank you,” Anna said, as the door closed behind Erzebet's rigid back. Tears prickled against her eyelids. She blinked hard to hold them back. Maidservant no longer, true enough . . . but where did she fit now? And what would she become?

“As you wish.” Madame Zelinowsky shrugged gracefully and descended into the audience.

Anna looked away, toward the center of the stage, and caught Herr Pichler staring after the other woman with narrow, suspicious eyes. As soon as he realized Anna was watching him, his face cleared into bland uninterest.

They all have secrets
, Anna thought wearily. She closed her eyes and focused on the music of the three songs she'd just learned, trying to push away the image of Erzebet's face and the expression it had worn as she'd looked at Anna sitting onstage in her new dress.

Chapter Ten

Charlotte was practicing one of Herr Haydn's keyboard sonatas when a knock sounded on the outer door of her chambers. An unfamiliar maid entered and curtseyed deeply.

“Her Serene Highness wishes me to ask, Baroness, if you would be so kind as to join her in her apartments for light refreshments.”

“Her Serene—?
Oh
.”
The Princess
. Charlotte's hands stilled. “Now?”

“Yes, madam, if it pleases you.”

How could it?
Charlotte thought. To speak lightly with the wife of her sister's lover—to feel the weight of that pain and cold dignity . . .

She stood up. “I would be delighted, of course.” What else could she say?

She followed the maid down the staircase to the first floor and along a long corridor to an ornately gilded door. The maid knocked as she opened it, to the sound of a Clementi keyboard sonata.

Sunlight filled the room, streaming in through large, arched windows to light up the deep gold of the seat cushions on the circle of chairs in the center of the room and the shining gold inlay that raced in flowering patterns across the white walls. A gilded gold-and-white clock sat on the marble mantelpiece of the fireplace across the room, inset with a reclining, melancholy muse. The light, gallant keyboard music came from behind Charlotte and to her left, but she sank into a deep curtsey without looking for its source.

“Baroness.” Sitting in a high-backed chair in the center of the room, the Princess looked up from a sheaf of papers and smiled enigmatically. At her nod, the music cut off, and the little dog on her lap hopped off to crawl beneath her chair.

“Your Highness.”

“Please do sit.” The Princess set her sheaf of papers down on a little bureau inlaid in twining golden vines. She gestured toward the empty chair across from her. “My maids will bring refreshments.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.” Charlotte rose, and instinctively looked back to the source of the music. The clavichord itself was elegant but not unusual. But the sight of the clavichord's player stopped her breath for an instant of shock.

“Asa and Jean, you may join us.” The Princess nodded at the clavichord, and a small woman slid down from the stool. She stood no higher than Charlotte's waist. “Baroness von Steinbeck, let me introduce you to Asa”—she nodded to the woman—“and to Monsieur Jean.” A man the same size stepped out from behind the clavichord and bowed to Charlotte. “They are my companions here at Eszterháza, during the long summer months.”

Charlotte nodded to them as she sat, sinking down into the deep golden cushion of her chair. They scrambled up onto their own chairs with agility, and Charlotte fought to keep her confusion from her face. They were the size of children, no more, yet they looked at her with measuring eyes from fully adult faces. She had never seen their like. And these were the Princess's sole companions in this palace full of elegant courtiers? The more Charlotte knew of the Princess, the less she understood her.

“I'm pleased to meet you both,” Charlotte murmured.

A maid offered her a miniature cup of dark coffee, and she accepted it gratefully.

“Asa and Jean both sing, draw, and play the piano beautifully,” the Princess said. “As, I understand, do you. I've heard excellent reports of your performance last night.”

Charlotte's fingers tightened around her fragile cup. “The excellence resided all in Signor Morelli, Highness, rather than in any efforts of mine. I am a mere amateur.”

“As are we all, of course. What else were any of us trained to be, from birth?” The Princess regarded her with piercing eyes. “Yet I would wager that your efforts were slightly more than amateur, Baroness. You do not strike me as one who would take any responsibility lightly.”

Charlotte blinked. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

“You need not thank me. I'm well aware of how uncomfortable that trait must prove for you, often enough. It would be far easier for you to follow your younger sister's path and not allow yourself the trouble of uncomfortable recollections or self-doubts.”

Charlotte set down her cup. “I am very grateful to my sister, madam.”

“Indeed. Without her invitation, you would still be—where?”

“In Saxony, Your Highness. At my late husband's country estate.”

“Mm. Sequestered away among the relics. And what age were you when they married you off, Baroness?”

“Eighteen.” Charlotte traced the gilded rim of the china cup with one finger. Looking at the pattern on the cup meant that she did not have to meet the Princess's eyes.

“I was nineteen, myself. I found the idea quite romantic at the time—naïve of me, I know, but then, I was young. I imagined myself most fortunate to have been chosen for a husband near my own age, with all the attractions of handsome looks, power, and brilliance to recommend him. You might not realize it now, Baroness, but in his youth my husband was a strikingly attractive man.”

“He still is, Your Highness.”

“Indeed. Gentlemen of a certain station often do retain all their attractions, even for much younger ladies, do they not? It is only we ladies who fade away and lose our charms . . . at least, in their eyes.”

Charlotte met the Princess's cold gaze. The older woman must have shared something like Sophie's soft blonde beauty when she was younger, Charlotte thought. Now, though, the marks of character and intelligence had formed something deeper in her face—a gravity that went beyond mere beauty.

“I cannot see any loss of charms in you, Your Highness,” Charlotte said sincerely.

Neither of the Princess's companions spoke, but Charlotte saw Asa shift in her seat, eyebrows rising skeptically. On the Princess's other side, Jean gave Charlotte a sunny smile that was not quite enough to hide the calculation in his gaze.

Notes, she was unhappily certain, were being taken by both of them for a careful dissection afterward.

The Princess herself only snorted. “Ha. And your husband? What did you think of him, when first married?”

It was an impertinent question. Yet Charlotte found herself answering it. “I was . . . frightened, at first. Saxony felt very far away from home, and the von Steinbeck estate is quite rural. Very far away from civilization.”

The Princess's lips twisted. “That I can well understand. And your husband himself?”

Charlotte picked up the coffee cup. Its warmth felt reassuring against her fingers. “Ernst was five-and-sixty to my eighteen, Your Highness. But he was everything that was kind and good.”

“And did he give you children, waiting for you now in Saxony?”

Charlotte stiffened. “His health was never good. By the second year of marriage, I was his nurse.”

“I see.” The Princess regarded her for a moment in silence. “Tell me, Baroness, do you purpose to marry again?”

Charlotte lifted the coffee to her lips to hide her expression. “I am but four months widowed, Your Highness. I hardly think—”

“Regardless. Do you long to reenter that happy state, once your year of mourning is over?”

Charlotte looked into the dark depths of the coffee. “My parents would certainly expect me to, to extend our family's connections.”

“And you?”

“I cannot say.” Charlotte smiled thinly at the Princess and shrugged. “I cannot tell you any plainer than that. I would not . . . seek out a second marriage, I think. Not of my own accord.”

She tried to imagine, for a moment, the idea of a second wedding. The long walk down the aisle of the
Michaelerkirche
in Vienna, the pews filled with the cream of Austrian society, and at the altar . . .

Her stomach clenched. She emptied the rest of the coffee in one hot gulp.

No matter what lay in her future,
that
vision could never prove correct.

“In my first fifteen years of marriage, I would not have understood you,” said the Princess. “Now, though . . .” She glanced down at the woman beside her, and Asa nodded in silent approval as she continued. “I would advise you, if possible, to avoid the wedded state entirely. Do not lightly surrender the power you hold within your own hands as a titled widow with an independent fortune. He did leave you a fortune, I assume?”