Secrets of a Soprano (36 page)

Simon nodded and kept his mouth grave. “Very wise of you,” he said. “I married a young woman chosen by my parents and we were happy until the day Leah died.” She beamed at him. “And really the point is moot. If you should win, by no means a certainty regardless of what happens at the Tavistock, you will choose the bride he wants.”

“I will?” With satisfaction he noticed that his answer surprised her.

“He wishes to marry Teresa Foscari and you will embrace the match.”

“I will not!” She folded her arms.

“Of course you will. He’s madly in love with her. You want your son to be happy and no other lady will do. She is a brilliant talent and of excellent character. I happen to know you like her. That is important between mother and daughter-in-law.”

“But she’s a singer! Her reputation!”

Her face set into a stubborn look, reminding him of her son when he’d tried to persuade Max to offer a contract to a second-rate baritone. He’d lost that battle but he knew just how to handle the mother.

“I didn’t think you cared for the opinion of the vulgar. I’m a little disappointed to hear that Lady Clarissa Hawthorne would sacrifice her son’s happiness and her own wishes because she is afraid of what people will say.”

“Never! I can do anything I want and other people be damned.”

He raised a skeptical eyebrow and waited, letting her puzzle it out for herself.

“I am going into the theatrical business,” she said.

“True.”

“And it would be useful to have the most admired performer in the world in the family.”

“I agree.”

“It’s not as though she’s an ordinary singer. Her mother belonged to a French noble family.”

“You make excellent points that I hadn’t even thought of myself. We are agreed, then?”

“I suppose.” She still looked sulky but he knew she’d keep her word. He was pleased to have done a favor for Max, whom he liked almost like another son. Also because he was a little guilty about the Tavistock.

In one of the mercurial changes of temper he found so fascinating, she settled down and regarded him with an inquisitive look. “Why did you never marry again?”

“I never met a lady I wanted to marry. And you, my lady? You’ve been widowed longer than I. You must have had many offers.”

“Dozens, but they all wanted my money. Like my husband.”

“Surely not all,” he said, struck by an unwonted vulnerability behind her eyes. “You are a very beautiful woman. You’ve been alone for a long time.”

“I had Max but then he moved out of this”—she indicated the vastness of their surroundings—“and into his own house.” She pinched her lips together. “Once I tried a less formal arrangement for a while but for one reason or another it didn’t satisfy.”

“Not the right gentleman, eh? And none of the others tempted you even a little?”

“If they aren’t fortune hunters they are frightened of me. Am I so terrible?”

“I’m not frightened of you.”

“That’s why I like you so much.”

He gazed at her strong, handsome face. Very like her son’s but in a softer, feminine version. She wasn’t strictly beautiful but she possessed an animalistic quality, a vigor and lust for life that he found endlessly appealing. She was headstrong and spoiled but possessed a core of decency that she did her best to hide, the same way she disdained to show fear. Max had told him a little about the scoundrel who had married her and sired her son. By all accounts Hawthorne’s death had been a mercy and the risk of finding another such man might have kept her from remarrying.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.
Simon was far gone to compare her to Cleopatra, but Shakespeare’s famous words expressed the fascination he had for her. Desire stirred, something he usually kept under control. He was not a religious man, but he did regard himself as a moral one.

“Simon,” she said, reminding him improbably of a shy girl. She lowered her eyelids and tilted her chin a little. If he didn’t know better he’d think she was inviting him to kiss her.

Incredible.

She swayed a little.

She
was
inviting him. An invitation impossible to refuse or resist. He had no idea what he was letting himself in for and he didn’t care.

As soon as their lips touched all resemblance to a girl, shy or otherwise, vanished and the tigress returned. Five minutes later—or ten or an hour—they were horizontal, breathing hard with clothes in disarray.

Needless to say his insane love was not discomposed for long. She sat up, patted her hair and smiled at him, a new happiness in her voracious eyes that found an answer in his heart. “Shall we marry?” she asked.

Would she always have the power to astonish him? He hoped so.

“No,” he said. “You are mad to even think of it.”

“Why?”

“I’m a Jew.”

“You told me you left your synagogue.”

“Like my friend Isaac Disraeli, I had a disagreement with the Bevis Marks congregation. Also like him, I had my sons baptized so they could go to university. But I have no desire to renounce Judaism for Christianity and see no need to do so. If I ever remarry, which I will not, it will be to another Jew.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Let us not argue about an irrelevancy. Even if I became a Quaker or a Methodist or a member of the Church of England I’d still be a Jew in the eyes of the world. For me to wed someone like you would be a scandal beyond description.”

“Lady Clarissa Hawthorne can do anything.”

“And my people have not survived the centuries by looking for trouble.”

“Yet you would have me accept Foscari as a bride for my son?”

“Max and Teresa are young and in love.”

“I’m in love with you.” The dear termagant had no idea of the realities of life.

“And I, God help me, am in love with you. Luckily our arrangement in running the Tavistock gives us reason to meet alone that no one will object to, beyond Lady Clarissa’s eccentricity in conducting such a venture.”

Her eyes widened and her lips formed an eager O. “We can be secret lovers. How delicious.”

“Where are you going?”

“To lock the door.”

“Many notables have now left Town, including the PRINCE REGENT and Madame FOSCARI.”

The Morning Post

T
essa’s post chaise
rattled up the narrow street of Stoke Newton, her spirits matching the gloomy day. The hard labor and emotional turmoil of her months in London had left her exhausted. The pretty village, so unpretentious, so English, posed no threat to her tranquility. She looked forward to a few weeks devoid of alarms and crises.

The final triumph of her benefit had been put behind her. Its miraculous aftermath was harder to forget but she managed. Whenever she thought of Max she returned to her book. She had spent the two-day journey reading
Emma
again, the anonymous author of the novel her only companion.

At Rose Cottage, which did indeed have pink roses climbing up the stone front, two ladies hurried out, fluttering with excitement.

“You must be Tessa,” said the elder, a neat little lady with tidy gray curls covered with a delicate lace cap. “You look just like Jonathan. You may call me Grandmama.” She embraced her tenderly and introduced Aunt Hester, who was about sixty and quite unlike her dainty mother.

“How was your journey?” Aunt Hester, tall and raw-boned, lurched more than she fluttered. “You must be very tired. Such a tedious drive from London, not that I’ve ever been there. Did you stop at an inn? Of course you did. I hope the sheets were dry. Did you have a good dinner?”

“Hester,” Mrs. Burkett said quietly, laying her hand on her daughter’s arm while keeping hold of Tessa’s hand. “You are quite right that Tessa must be tired. Let us go inside.”

Over teacups in the tiny, perfectly tidy parlor, they exchanged stories. Her grandfather had been vicar of Stoke Newton and his widow and daughter had moved to the cottage after his death. They did not appear to be prosperous. Tessa guessed that it must have taken a good portion of their resources to trace the long-lost black sheep of the family. She could improve their fortunes, she thought, then remembered that unless she returned to the fatiguing round of endless performances she would not be able to do so.

“You see, my dear,” Grandmama said, “Jonathan was studying for the church but he became infected with
French
ideas.” Her genteel voice dropped to a whisper. “
Atheism
. His father told him to leave and never come back, but a son is a son and I never stopped missing him. Perhaps it was disrespectful to Mr. Birkett’s memory but I had to find him.” Something in her voice told Tessa that the vicar had not been a pleasant man, also that his widow was far too loyal ever to say so. “We were distressed to learn of his death in Portugal. And equally so when we had the letter from Mr. Foscari saying that you were not our granddaughter. Was that a mistake? Perhaps your husband didn’t understand English.”

Tessa muttered a vaguely worded agreement. She didn’t want to explain Domenico’s falsehood, or his many crimes. She was putting that part of her history behind her. “The important thing is that I have found you.” Tears pricked her eyes. She had a grandmother and an aunt. She belonged somewhere. “It means so much for me to have found my family. I have no one else, apart from my cousin Jacobin in London. Her father and my mother were first cousins.”

Aunt Hester dropped a biscuit on the floor. “So sorry. I am always clumsy,” she said cheerfully, then hissed an aside. “Better not to talk about the French. We are so glad you speak English.”

“I grew up in the English colony in Oporto so English is my first language. Later I often sang in Paris, of course.”

“I thought you lived in Italy,” Grandmama said. “I believe you are quite famous and I daresay you are very good to have been hired to sing in Paris and London.”

“Also St. Petersburg, Berlin, Munich, and many other places besides.”

“Dear me, what an adventurous life you have led. Was it quite comfortable?”

Tessa sank into the soothing company of people who had little notion of opera. They never read the London papers and knew nothing of her recent disasters and triumphs. It also meant they were ignorant of the less respectable rumors about her. These sweet provincials would no doubt faint if they heard she’d even met the Emperor Napoleon.

“You must sing for us although we do not have a piano. None of our family has ever been at all musical and I don’t know where you inherited it.” With that, Grandmama put a period to the discussion. “Are you fond of raspberries, Tessa? We have plenty in the garden.”

“And fresh cream sent by Mrs. Keith at the Hall,” Aunt Hester added. “So obliging of her.”

“I adore raspberries and cream,” Tessa said. “Will you show me the garden, Aunt Hester? I would enjoy some fresh air and it’s a beautiful afternoon. How happy I am to have found you. I want to learn everything about you.”

*

It was lucky
Tessa had read
Emma
, else she would have found life at Rose Cottage incomprehensible. Accustomed to the theater where emotions were displayed like jewels and there was always a drama, off stage as well as on, she found it hard to adjust to a household where politeness ruled absolutely and dissension was avoided at all costs. At first they spoke of her father, but his mother and sister were too pained by the family quarrel to revisit anything but uncontroversial stories of his youth. Tessa would have liked to hear about his “French ideas” and match them with her recollections of him and her French mother.

She enjoyed Aunt Hester’s cheerful friendliness despite the inanity of her conversation. She admired the way her grandmother, an intelligent woman with all her faculties intact despite her advanced age, tolerated the mindless chatter of her daughter without anything more than a tactful turning of the subject. What she couldn’t understand was the resistance to any topic that wasn’t firmly rooted in the mundane activities of Stoke Newton, varied by a rare shopping trip to Bristol.

If she found her father’s family strange, they were baffled by Tessa. Much too courteous to say so, her life appalled them. Even the mildest of theatrical anecdotes made them blush. She hoped they never discovered that she had quite often appeared wearing breeches.

By the end of the fifth day the small size and number of the rooms had begun to seem stifling. Since there was no way to escape the constant company of her new relations without going outside, it gave her a new appreciation of the English passion for walks. The fresh air and green fields did her good, and her energy revived.

The disruption of years of ingrained discipline gnawed at her brain. She had never gone so long without exercising her voice, yet inflicting the tedium of vocalization on the inhabitants of the tiny cottage seemed an imposition. She missed Sempronio and Sofie, and Angela who had remained in London because there wasn’t room here for her personal maid.

She missed Max, quite desperately. What he’d done for her, what they’d done
together
, was wonderful. The greatest weight of Domenico’s legacy had been lifted and she was free again. Free to love. But why couldn’t she have fallen in love with an ordinary man? Why did he have to be a member of one of the richest and most famous families in England? She wanted a quiet life without the infamy that had dogged her for years. The thought of living with Max in a sweet little country cottage made her soft with longing. Hosting a grand ball in the Piccadilly mansion or presiding over the grandeur of his country estate filled her with dread. People would be looking at her and judging—not for her performance but for herself. She knew she would fail.