Tracing the Shadow (29 page)

“The flame burned too brightly,” Celestine sang, “and the snows of early winter extinguished its radiance. But the memory still burns in our hearts.”

“I wanted to thank you, Demoiselle de—de—” Princess Adèle hesitated.

“De Joyeuse, highness. In honor of my mentor and teacher.” It gave Celestine, eyes respectfully lowered, a little shiver of pride to say her adopted name aloud.

“Demoiselle de Joyeuse. You sang so beautifully for my brother’s funeral.”

Celestine heard from the tremor in the young princess’s voice that Adèle was controlling her emotions with difficulty. “It was an honor,” she answered quietly, not knowing what else to say.

“The others sang beautifully, too. But you”—and the princess moved closer to her—“you sang from the heart. I felt that you understood how it feels to…to lose someone you hold very dear.”

Celestine looked up.

“Am I right?” Adèle said softly. “I am, aren’t I?”

“I’m an orphan, your highness.”

“So you lost your parents. That must have been hard to bear. Did you have any brothers or sisters?”

Normally Celestine would have resented this probing into her past. But there was something so sympathetic in the princess’s manner that made her want to answer, if only to offer a little comfort or distraction. “No,” she said, “but I had a dear friend, Rozenne; she was like a big sister to me. She…she died of a fever when I was eleven.”

“I guessed as much,” said Adèle. She put out her hand and took Celestine’s. “Come and sit with me. Tell me your story. I’m much in need of distraction.”

Celestine let herself be led to the window seat, where Adèle settled herself, patting the silk cushions beside her. Below, the formal gardens of the palace, the intricate knotted beds and gravel paths stretched down to the river, in curlicued patterns of snow-dusted box, lavender, and yew.

“How old are you, Demoiselle Celestine?”

“Just sixteen, your highness.”

“A year younger than I. Where did you learn to sing so beautifully?”

“I was trained at Saint Azilia’s convent. I had a gifted teacher there, Sister Noyale.” Celestine could not help smiling at the memory.

“So you are going to take the veil?”

It was a question that Celestine was not yet ready to answer, although she knew that one day soon she must make that difficult decision. “Gauzia and I lodge with the Sisters of Charity and sing with them in Saint Meriadec’s every day. Many of the sisters in the choir were trained at Saint Azilia’s too. So I suppose…”

“But with a rare voice like yours, you could fill concert halls. You could sing opera.” Adèle clasped her hands together, her wan face lighting up at the thought. “I adore the opera! Have you ever been, Demoiselle?”

Celestine slowly shook her head. Such possibilities had never occurred to her. “Maistre de Joyeuse would not approve.”

“Your teacher?”

“He says that one should not push a young voice beyond its natural limits. I’m not ready to sing in opera yet.” Celestine became aware how serious and intense she must sound. And yet she sensed nothing but a kind and friendly regard; it was just like sitting chatting with Angelique or Rozenne

“Those verses by Mhir that Joyeuse set for Aubrey…
I
chose them,” said Adèle suddenly. “Aubrey never had time for poetry. He was always so active, playing tennis, fencing, wrestling, riding.” Celestine saw her bite her underlip, as though trying to hold back her tears. “But he had a good heart. Everyone liked him. We were utterly different in our tastes and interests…but he always had time for me.”

“The verses were very aptly chosen.”

Adèle sighed. She turned to gaze out over the snow-rimmed gardens, but not before Celestine had seen the glint of tears in her dark eyes. “I’d love to hear you sing again. When the time of mourning is over, will you come and sing for me?”

Celestine heard herself saying, “Oh yes, your highness, of course; you have only to ask.”

Adèle unpinned a little jet brooch from her austere black dress and pressed it into Celestine’s hand. “I want you to have this. As a token of my gratitude and friendship.”

“Oh, I c—couldn’t,” stammered Celestine.

“I insist.” Adèle closed her fingers around it. “It pleases me to make you this little gift.”

“Thank you,” whispered Celestine, pressing her closed fist with the brooch inside to her heart.

“What’s that?” Gauzia poked a finger at the little jet-and-silver mourning brooch that Celestine had pinned to her dress.

“A gift.”

“From whom? A secret admirer?”

“From the princess.”

“Wha-at?”

Celestine had not told Gauzia of her invitation to the palace. But now Gauzia thrust her face into Celestine’s. “From Princess Adèle? How so? And how come I didn’t get a gift, too?”

Celestine shrugged. It gave her a certain pleasure to see Gauzia so annoyed. But now she knew that Gauzia would not give her a minute’s peace, needling her for every detail of her meeting with the princess.

“She gave you the brooch herself? In the palace? What was she wearing? Not that you’d have noticed, Celestine. But why didn’t she invite me? Didn’t she like my singing?”

Angelique appeared in the doorway of the girls’ cell. Her expression was grave.

“The Abbess wants to see you both in her office. You’re to come with me.”

Unlike soft-hearted and indulgent Mère Ermengarde at Saint Azilia’s, the Abbess of the Sisters of Charity was a strict and stern-faced woman who did not tolerate the slightest lapse of discipline.

“What have we done wrong?” whispered Gauzia. “We’re only lay sisters here. It’s not as if we’ve vowed to devote ourselves to God. Yet.”

Celestine shook her head, not wanting to say a word in case the Abbess overheard.

“I’ve received a letter,” announced the Abbess as soon as they crossed the threshold. She frowned at them both over the top of the paper. “It states that you, Gauzia, have been offered a role in an
opera.
” She pronounced the word as if it were a mortal sin.

Gauzia let out a little shriek of delight. “What opera is it, ma mère?”

“The title is irrelevant. I cannot have one of my charges participating in such a frivolous, worldly entertainment. It is utterly inappropriate.”

“So you’re saying that I can’t—” began Gauzia in tones of anguish.

“I’m saying, Demoiselle, that you must choose.” The Abbess stared severely at Gauzia—and then at Celestine, who had been dreading this moment, even though her name had not yet been mentioned. “You are both approaching seventeen. An age at which most of our novices decide to take their vows or leave the convent for good.”

“You’re saying we must make our choice already?” Celestine was so alarmed at the thought that she dared to speak out. “But we’ve only been here a year. It will take another two years to complete our training at the conservatoire.”

“Do you wish to perform in this opera?” said the Abbess, ignoring her and concentrating on Gauzia. “Because if you do, then you cannot continue to lodge here. It would severely tarnish the reputation of my convent if it were known that one of our girls is appearing in a
theater.
”

“B—but where shall I go?” Gauzia wailed.

“That, Demoiselle, is up to you. Please inform me of your decision by noon tomorrow.”

“Is it truly your wish to become an opera singer?” Dame Elmire fixed Gauzia with a piercing stare. “Your voice is still developing. You’ll be taking a risk.”

“I’ve never wanted anything so much before,” said Gauzia quietly. Celestine looked at her in surprise; for once in her life, Gauzia was not making a scene. This, more than anything, convinced her that Gauzia was speaking the truth.

“I see.” Dame Elmire nodded but her expression still gave nothing away.

“But what opera is it? And what part am I invited to play?” Gauzia could not keep her excitement contained for long. “And who recommended me? Was it you, Dame Elmire?”

Dame Elmire sighed. “Petitfils, the manager of the Opera House, is an old friend of mine. He heard you sing at the cathedral and contacted me. The opera is called
Balkaris,
and the role is that of a slave girl.”

“No wonder the Abbess looked so disapproving,” said Gauzia with a giggle.

“But she said you must choose,” Celestine quietly reminded her.

“What should I do, Dame Elmire?” cried Gauzia. “If I accept the role, the convent will throw me out and I’ll have nowhere to stay. But if I turn it down, I may never get this chance again.”

“So you are determined to go on the stage? You’re not afraid of hard work?”

“I was born to go on the stage!”

The door opened and Maistre de Joyeuse came in, still wrapped in his greatcoat, the collar turned up against the cold. “
Peste,
it’s freezing today. Will spring never come?” He held his hands up to the blaze, rubbing them together. A stray lock of golden hair fell forward, half-obscuring his face, and with a movement at once graceful yet unself-conscious, he shook it aside.

He looks so beautiful in the firelight…
Celestine felt her face bloom with warmth at the sight; she glanced away, sure he must have noticed.

“It’s as we suspected, Henri,” said Dame Elmire. “The good sisters won’t allow their name to be associated with the opera house. If Gauzia is to appear in your opera, we’ll have to make other arrangements for her.”

Your opera?
Celestine was jolted out of her dreamy state.

“Can’t she stay here?” said the Maistre. “Your students have lodged with us before.”

“I—I didn’t know you had written an opera,” Celestine blurted out.

“She’ll need a chaperone,” added Dame Elmire slyly. “Any pretty young actress is regarded as fair game by the gentlemen in the audience.”

“Dear Aunt, I know you’re longing to find an excuse to spend your days in the Opera House once more.”

“Well, it’s settled!” Dame Elmire’s eyes glinted triumphantly. “I will write to the Abbess straightaway.”

The girls returned to the convent through the falling snow; a fresh dusting was settling onto the frozen slush, making treacherous going underfoot.

“How generous of Maistre de Joyeuse to invite me to lodge at his house.” Gauzia, oblivious of everything but her own concerns, was almost dancing over the ice. “And how good of Dame Elmire to offer to act as my chaperone. It’s going to be so exciting, Celestine, starting rehearsals and meeting the other singers…”

Celestine, toes and fingertips numb with cold, hardly heard Gauzia’s exultant chatter. She was lost in her own dulled thoughts. She must have been deluding herself not to notice. Now it was obvious.

He likes Gauzia. What man wouldn’t? She’s so lively, so self-assured. And she’s pretty. No wonder he wanted her to play a role in his opera.

Compared to her, I’m a quiet little mouse. Every time I’m with him, I get tongue-tied. Or I say something stupid and blush. He must think I’m so naïve. Why can’t I be more like Gauzia
?

CHAPTER 21

As the last traces of snow melted from the roofs of Lutèce, Celestine realized that the few ties that had bound her and Gauzia together were fraying fast. Gauzia spent all her days at the Opera House, rehearsing with the Maistre. So when walking back from vespers one afternoon, Angelique happened to inquire, “How is Gauzia enjoying her new life?” Celestine answered touchily, “Oh, it suits her all too well; she’s really in her element now.”

“Ouch.” Angelique blinked her wide blue-grey eyes. “I touched a nerve there, didn’t I?”

Celestine stared at the cobblestones. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”

“Do you wish you had been the one chosen for the opera?”

“No! Well…that’s not it exactly.” Celestine had not realized until now how miserable she had been feeling.

“You must really miss her company. You were good friends together at Saint Azilia’s for…how many years?”

“Not quite friends,” Celestine said with a wry little smile. “Good rivals, more like. I was always closer to Katell and Rozenne.”

Angelique stopped suddenly and, putting her hands on Celestine’s shoulders, gazed searchingly into her eyes. “Your talent is very special. Use it. Because we’re not young forever, and the bloom in our voices soon fades.”

Celestine stared back at her, astonished. What had inspired Angelique to speak to her so bluntly? Was there some secret sadness, a disappointment that had blighted her life? But before she could summon the courage to ask, the church clocks began to strike.

“Six already! We’re late and I’m on duty in the refectory.” Angelique gave her a swift kiss on the cheek and hurried away after the line of nuns disappearing around the far corner of the street.

“You’re much in demand, it seems.” Maistre de Joyeuse passed Celestine a sheaf of letters, several bearing crests.

“Invitations for Celestine de Joyeuse…to sing at the Smarnan Embassy, at a soiree for the Marquise de Trécesson…” She looked up in astonishment, to see that his eyes were twinkling with amusement. “Are you certain that they want
me
?”

“It’s wonderful what a little royal patronage can do.”

“Princess Adèle?”

“Oh, there’s a request from her royal highness as well.”

“Then I must reply to her first of all.” Celestine pressed the princess’s letter to her heart, touched that Adèle had remembered her.

“There’s one slight snag. I won’t be able to accompany you for the Smarnan concert, or the princess’s reception. The opera…”

“Oh.” Celestine felt as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. “Then I can’t accept.”

“So I was going to propose Jagu de Rustéphan to take my place.”

Celestine looked at him blankly. She was so disappointed that the Maistre would not be there to support and guide her that she had not even considered the possibility of another accompanist.

“Jagu substituted at Saint Meriadec’s for me. Don’t you remember?”

That pale, dark-haired young man who had played as if he were possessed, and impressed all the nuns? He was a capable performer, she couldn’t deny it. Yet the idea of working with anyone other than Maistre de Joyeuse tied her tongue and she could only nod in reply.

“Perhaps Sister Angelique would agree to act as chaperone for you, while my aunt is escorting Gauzia?”

Celestine stared down at the invitations, the gold-rimmed cards, the ambassadorial crests. How had it ended up this way? Gauzia and the Maistre together every day, and she partnered with an inexperienced student?

“Repertoire. What songs would be most suitable for the Smarnan ambassador, I wonder…” The Maistre seemed not to have noticed her dejection and was already leafing through a pile of music.

“B—but won’t he—Monsieur de Rustéphan—need time to learn all the accompaniments? This Smarnan reception is only in four days’ time!”

“Yes, it is rather short notice. Typical of the Smarnans: impetuous, hot-blooded southerners. But you need have no worries about Jagu; his sight-reading is far better than mine. Ah! How about this one?” He triumphantly held up a sheet. “My ‘Spring Moon.’ You sang it very affectingly at Count Velemir’s. And the words are by a Smarnan poet.”

Why was she hesitating? This was an embassy reception, so there would be dignitaries present from many countries. What better way to begin her search for her father’s betrayer?

“I’ll do it,” she said.

A virtuosic flourish of notes from the fortepiano greeted Celestine as she arrived at the Maistre’s house. She opened the music room door to see two heads bent close together over the music on the stand, one golden, one black as crow’s feathers. The Maistre looked up and smiled welcomingly as she came in.

“Demoiselle, may I present your accompanist: Jagu de Rustéphan.”

Jagu stood up rather too swiftly and knocked over the music, fumbling to pick it up. He bowed awkwardly, not quite meeting her eyes.

“We’ve already met,” she said coolly. “At the chapel.” Was he blushing? He sat down again, concentrating on shuffling the sheets of music into the right order. Not a promising start, she told herself. Clumsy—and gauche.

“We always begin with some exercises so that the demoiselle can warm her voice,” the Maistre explained. “We use techniques that my aunt has devised to loosen the throat muscles and facilitate the breathing…”

As Celestine began the series of daily exercises, she felt ill at ease. Could Jagu de Rustéphan sense that she resented his presence? He had not looked at her once directly…and yet, as he followed the Maistre’s instructions, deftly playing one broken chord, then another, to give her the correct note, she sensed that he was listening to her with a highly critical ear.

“And now let’s move to the recital repertoire.” Now Celestine was the one to blush, caught off guard by the warmth of the Maistre’s smile. “Are you going to start with ‘Spring Moon’?”

“Yes.”
Though I’ve never sung this song with anyone but you, Maistre.
It was hard not to feel resentful, for the instant Jagu began to play the introduction, she realized that she had come to regard this as “their” song. She could sense Jagu’s dark eyes watching her. Why was he looking at her with such intensity? Only then did she remember that these bars were her cue. Too late she snatched a short breath, and muffed her first entry.

“Again,” said the Maistre lightly. Grateful that he had not berated her in front of Jagu, she clasped her hands in front of her.
Concentrate!

This time she did not miss her entry and they reached the end of the song without further mishap. The Maistre made no comment and indicated that they should continue with the next song, then settled down to listen in his aunt’s chair by the fireplace. His silence disturbed Celestine more profoundly than if he had chosen to criticize her performance.

After a half hour, they had reached the end of the recital.

“Show me how you acknowledge the applause.” The Maistre began to clap. Celestine had not expected this either; flustered, she dropped into a low curtsy and, rising, turned to the fortepiano, where Jagu was sitting, glaring. Was he feeling as embarrassed as she? She gestured to him and he rose, still glaring, and managed a stiff bow.

“If the applause continues, you must beckon your accompanist to stand beside you.”

Celestine cast him an anguished glance but he continued to applaud.
Are you tormenting me on purpose, Maistre?
Reluctantly, she beckoned Jagu to stand beside her.

“Offer Celestine your hand.”

Celestine steeled herself to place the tips of her fingers on Jagu’s outstretched palm. Deliberately not looking at him, she bowed and heard the Maistre break into delighted laughter. She snatched her hand away and, stealing a glance at Jagu, saw that an angry flush of dark red had brought color to his pale cheeks.

“If you two could only see yourselves.” The Maistre wiped tears of laughter from his eyes. “Forgive me. If you can’t even bring yourselves to hold hands, then we’d better devise a different conclusion to your program. Of course, a true professional…”

They were only words. When Celestine was learning the song by heart, they had seemed little more than pretty, inconsequential verses. Now they were imbued with a bitter, personal resonance.

“Spring moon sheds its silver light on lovers, hand in hand,

Why am I still alone in darkness?

Where is my spring-moon lover?”

A single teardrop fell onto the music…and then another. Celestine flung the sheets away from her, scattering them across the floor.

What am I doing, sitting crying over a few words strung together by some stranger? How could the man who wrote these verses know what it is to feel this sweet, secret pain? And how can the Maistre know what musical notes will express that feeling until it’s almost too much to bear?

“Where is my spring-moon lover?”

Why, every time I sing this phrase, do I see his face, hear his voice? Why did he make me sing this song? Has he guessed how I feel about him? Is he using my feelings for him to extract a more poignant performance from me?

Is he more cruel, more manipulative, than I could ever have imagined?

“Why am I still alone in darkness?”
sang Celestine, and broke off, glowering at her accompanist.

“What’s wrong now?” Jagu asked, with a subtle emphasis on the final word. His voice held the slightest hint of weariness, as if implying that she was being picky just to annoy him.

“That’s not how we practiced it with the Maistre. He holds back on that phrase, and then puts a special nuance into the echo of the melody in the right hand.”

She saw a look of resignation cross his pale face. She heard the hint of a sigh. “From bar twenty-two?” he said, not meeting her eyes.

I love this song. But he plays it with such detachment. When the Maistre plays it, it’s as if we have a secret understanding, as if he’s putting feelings into the accompaniment that he can’t communicate directly to me…
She broke off again.
Is that why I’m angry with you, Jagu de Rustéphan?

“Where
is
Angelique?” Celestine fretted as she waited in the Maistre’s carriage. She was nervous enough about the evening’s recital without this added anxiety.

Jagu came back from checking the street for a sign of their chaperone. “We’ll be late if we wait any longer,” he said brusquely. The patter of running footsteps broke the twilit silence of the peaceful little
ruelle
. Celestine leaned out of the carriage window and saw not Angelique but dumpy little Sister Monique puffing along, waving a folded paper.

“What’s happened?” Celestine got out and went to meet her, but Sister Monique could only wheeze and clutch her sides. “Jagu, we must take her in to Francinette.”

“The time,” said Jagu between gritted teeth.

In the kitchen, Celestine and Francinette helped Sister Monique into a chair and poured barley water for her while Jagu opened the letter.

“Angelique sends her apologies; she has come down with a migraine and has sent Sister Monique to replace her as our chaperone.” The clock in the hall upstairs struck eight. Celestine looked up from fanning the wilting nun and saw Jagu crush the paper in his fist. She had been counting on Angelique’s calm demeanor to help steady her nerves.

“S—sorry,” whispered Sister Monique.

“She’s obviously in no fit state to go anywhere,” he said. Celestine could sense his growing tension; his face was pale with apprehension about the coming performance. As if she didn’t feel nervous enough already! “And if we don’t leave now, we’ll arrive too late. We’ll just have to go unchaperoned.”

The applause was appreciative. Someone shouted, “Bravo!” But as Celestine and Jagu took their bow, Celestine letting her fingertips rest as lightly as possible on Jagu’s outstretched hand, she saw that many of the Smarnan ambassador’s guests were still chatting, just as they had done throughout the recital. They had continued to drink and eat, as though the music were nothing but a pleasant background to their conversation.

A little girl came up to Celestine and presented her with a bouquet of white roses and bright yellow mimosa. Celestine kissed her and curtsied again, holding the bouquet across her breast as Dame Elmire had taught her, so that the thorns did not snag the delicate material. She noticed that the audience had already left their seats and returned to the buffet table.

“Time to leave,” she said resignedly. Then she glanced at Jagu and saw that his customary frown had deepened and his fists were clenched at his sides.

“Do they have no manners?” he said through clenched teeth. “Talking while you were singing, as if you were just some cheap street singer begging for loose change.”

“You’re not leaving already!” The Smarnan ambassador approached, accompanied by a thickset man of middle years who walked with a confident, military swagger. “The Count was most eager to make your acquaintance.”

“Alvborg at your service, Gunnar Alvborg.” The Count bowed. “Demoiselle Celestine, your performance was ravishing.” He clicked his fingers and a flunky came over and offered her a glass of wine from his silver tray. “But you must be thirsty.”