Secrets of a Soprano (14 page)

The Times

“I
came as
soon as I read this filth.” Lady Storrington tore into Tessa’s suite from the vestibule, indignation writ large in every movement of her expressive body. “Who is responsible for this canard?”

Tessa and her entourage had already seen it, and similar diatribes in other London papers.

“I believe,” said Tessa, who was almost numb with shock, “that it was your friend Lord Allerton.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“He’s the only person who knew I refused to sing at the benefit.”

“So it’s true! But why would you do such a thing.”

“Because,” Tessa replied grimly, “he failed to inform me that the occasion was a benefit for charity. Had I known, naturally I would have agreed.”

The atmosphere in the room, which had resembled a council of war, rapidly degenerated into an impenetrable din since everyone present had an opinion and no one stopped to listen to anyone else’s. Sofie, between bouts of coughing, bewailed the fact that her decision to make a small donation to the hospital had given credence to the tale of Tessa’s indifference to the charity. Sempronio was certain that Tessa’s genius would make it impossible for the world at large to believe ill of her. Jacobin was in favor of storming Lord Allerton’s house and subjecting him to stabbing, torture on the rack and application of boiling oil. Since none of the participants was accustomed to speaking in English alone, oaths and imprecations in French, German, and Italian flew thick and fast, creating a cacophony that threatened to explode Tessa’s head.

Used to nothing but adulation from the press, the ferocity of her critics left her reeling. Although she’d never enjoyed the public interest in her personal life, and she loathed the lies that her husband had perpetrated, at least the tone of reports had been generally admiring. To find herself the object of hatred hurt. That Max, through a deceptive repetition of her angry remark, had instigated the attacks cut her to the core. In her heart, whatever their differences and his past behavior, she would never have believed him capable of such spite.

The drone in her brain was equaled by the rush of heat that signified an onset of panic. She looked for a missile. With nothing suitable at hand she opened her mouth wide and emitted a pure, lengthy high D.

Instant silence. Four pairs of eyes fixed on her in astonishment.

Then a murmur from Sempronio. “Beautiful,
cara
.”

Tessa gave her shoulders a little shake and blinked, twice. Amazingly, she felt almost serene. She’d never tried singing to calm her affliction and must remember it next time. It was, after all, rather more civilized than throwing china. She tried to visualize the scene at Mrs. Sackville’s rout had she gone this route instead of hurling a glass of wine at Max. Just as shocking, but less harmful to the gentleman’s tailoring and her hostess’s curtains.

“I must make a generous gift to the Chelsea Hospital, along with my letter of explanation and apology,” she said. “If Mortimer still refuses to pay me any of the thousands he owes, I can use the fee from Mrs. Sackville.”

“You’re very decisive today, Teresa,” Sofie said. “What has come over you?”

“Perhaps, my dear, I have finally realized that I must learn to take care of my own affairs. For too long I’ve allowed others to call the tune.”

“I know what I can do,” Jacobin said. “I shall call on my acquaintance and apprise them of Max’s iniquitous behavior. He isn’t going to get away with this.”

“Thank you. But please be careful. Let’s try and make people see the incident as a misunderstanding. I shall find it hard to forgive Lord Allerton for this, but I must confess that my own attitude has contributed to the state of war between us.”

She would be calm and reasonable and behave like a lady. The character of Teresa Foscari, the tempestuous china-throwing continental termagant would disappear and be replaced by Tessa, the gently raised English girl who had been lost in Domenico Foscari’s creation of an operatic monster.

And once she’d weathered this crisis she’d never speak to Max Hawthorne again.

“Do you attend my concert at Mrs. Sackville’s house tonight?” she asked.

Jacobin’s eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t miss it for anything. If Lydia Sackville shows you so much as an ounce of disrespect she’ll answer to me.”

Angela came into the room bearing a letter.

Tessa opened the sheet of expensive paper with its violet wax seal and scanned the curt note. “I appreciate your support,” she said. “But I’m afraid it won’t be needed. Mrs. Sackville has cancelled the event.”

*

By some whim
of the calendar, the next night was one of the rare occasions when both London’s serious opera houses played simultaneously. Max wasn’t entirely happy with the production at the Regent: Edouard Delorme had insisted on singing the title role in
Don Giovanni
, though it entailed transposing the part to the tenor voice. It offended Max’s sensibilities not to have the opera presented as Mozart wrote it.

“The arrogance of the man!” he’d grumbled to Simon Lindo. “Who does he think he is?”

“He thinks he’s a tenor,” replied Simon, “and he knows he’s a good one. Arrogance follows naturally. Don’t worry about it. Mozart would have understood.”

Mozart would also have appreciated the box office business. The theater was full to bursting. Every box was occupied by a full assemblage of the wealthy and fashionable, led by the Honorable Mrs. Thomas Sackville who had persuaded two dukes and an earl to join her party. The pretty redhead was seen to applaud rapturously each time Delorme took the stage. As usual the tenor revealed a good deal of chest while his character seduced half the female population of Spain. At least this time the shirt wasn’t ripped.

Max should have been thrilled. Simon, sitting beside him in the house box, beamed with relief at the Regent’s splendid ticket sales. But Max’s conscience pricked him that his triumph came at the expense of another. He wasn’t even sure it had been necessary to traduce Tessa. The benefit had been an enormous success, filling every box with enthusiastic members of the
beau monde
. The Royal Hospital at Chelsea was a popular institution, and the last minute announcement that the Prince Regent would attend the concert had helped swell attendance. Maybe Max needn’t have employed gutter tactics.

The morning after the benefit he’d planned to undo the damage. Lydia Sackville’s musicale would provide an opportunity to cast oil on stormy seas. Although nervous about possible consequences to his attire should he encounter Tessa with a glass in her hand, he thought some gracious—and public—compliments to the prima donna would do much to convince the
ton
that the whole incident was a storm in a teacup. Only when he read the papers did he realize the tempest he’d unleashed had developed the force of a hurricane.

The ugliness of the news reports and commentaries shocked him. He could only imagine how the denunciations must affect Tessa. Although he had reason to think her a woman motivated by a desire for lucre, that didn’t mean she was without a single charitable impulse. When she’d trembled in his arms and returned his kiss she hadn’t seemed heartless.

What is more, in a secret, well-defended cave in his heart guilt burned like a glowing coal. What happened between him and Tessa that day—in the park, in his house, and at the hotel—had caused such turmoil in his head that he couldn’t remember the details of their conversation either in the park or at the Pulteney. He harbored a terrible suspicion that the words
charity
and
benefit
had never been spoken.

He’d arrived at the Sackvilles’ house to be greeted by the news that La Divina would not be performing that night. Lydia’s explanation was vague, but the underlying message was that Teresa Foscari was no longer welcome among her friends.

Max feared the Devil had been sitting on his shoulder when he’d told a few of the worst gossips at White’s Club that Teresa Foscari was a heartless vixen.

*

Applause rang through
the drafty expanses of the old Tavistock Theatre. The house wasn’t full but the audience was large enough for a good show of enthusiasm. Nancy Sturridge made several curtsies and kissed her hands to her audience, reveling in their approbation.

Tessa stood in the wings, awaiting her turn. The audience had been polite thus far, although her arias hadn’t been greeted with the usual level of rapture. How would it respond to her curtain call?

She didn’t want to go out there.

Almost never nervous on stage, tonight she’d had to steel herself for every entrance. The stage was her province, the only place she felt in control of her life. She worked hard, had faith in her talent, and accepted applause with pleasure, as recognition of a job well done, as thanks for pleasure she had given others. Sometimes it got a little silly. On more than one occasion a besotted admirer had managed to leap onto the stage and kiss her feet. Only a week ago an execrable poem in her honor had been tossed at her. It had landed in the orchestra and the oboe player who retrieved it had given it to one of the papers.

How long ago it seemed, a whole week, when the paper had printed the foolish verse as though it were a literary pearl. Now the same journal hadn’t a good word to say for her.

She felt terror rising inside her. She’d never had one of her attacks on stage. Taking several deep breaths she tried to concentrate on the moment. This was not the occasion for a display of histrionics. Dignity, calm, perhaps a touch of disdain. Those were the qualities she wished to project.

Nancy Sturridge retreated to the wings and the stage manager beckoned Tessa forward. She was distantly aware of the curiosity of the other singers. They’d all read the papers too.

Forcing one foot after another, she advanced into the light, clutching her skirts. Approaching upstage center she scanned the boxes, half of them empty tonight, seeking a friendly face. Her cousin was leaning over the rail of her box, smiling and nodding. Jacobin’s husband, Lord Storrington, rose from his seat beside her. He wasn’t smiling but he raised his hands and began to clap. The sound set off an echo of smattered applause around the house, growing in a gradual crescendo to a respectable level.

It was going to be all right. Tessa curved her lips into what she hoped the audience wouldn’t identify as a grimace and swept a deep curtsey.

A single boo from a man in the center of the pit started it. A catcall in the gallery followed, setting off an ugly dissonant chant that soon drowned out any expression of approval. Tessa, who had never felt anything but love from her audience, reeled from the force of hatred she sensed in the theater. For a terrible moment she thought she might swoon. Gathering strength she would never have guessed she possessed, she held her head high, curtseyed again, yet lower, and left the stage.

She thanked God that no one in the audience would be able to see her tears.

“Madame Foscari sent 20 pounds to the Chelsea Hospital, before the Operatical Performance for the benefit of that Charity, for which she refused to sing; but the Governors have ordered this boon of charity immediately to be returned.”

The Times

T
essa wasn’t accorded
the luxury of sleeping late to recover from her ordeal. Sofie had passed a restless night and, at Tessa’s insistence, the doctor was summoned early. He presented a prognosis of reasonable optimism and a bill. Shortly afterwards the account from the hotel was delivered, with a polite but firm intimation that immediate settlement was expected. Then the modiste called with her bill, followed by a representative of the livery stable that provided Tessa with her carriage, horses and driver. With a bill.

When the note arrived from the Governors of the Royal Hospital Chelsea, enclosing a draft for twenty pounds, Tessa almost laughed. At least that pittance could be used to pay off someone else.

Returning to her bedchamber she changed into the new gown, the one she couldn’t pay for but she didn’t want to return, not only for the reason she’d given Sofie—not wishing to cheat the dressmaker—but because its sobriety seemed appropriate for the coming task. She surveyed her reflection in the tall glass with ironic satisfaction. She’d ordered the severely cut morning dress and spencer in claret and gray on a whim, evoking a shriek from Sofie, so far was it from the kind of lavish, figure-hugging garb that Domenico insisted she wear to personify the character of La Divina.