Improper Advances (27 page)

“In bed?”

“In a church. For me, sacred music is the most marvelous of all. The oratarios by Bach—his
St.

Matthew Passion
and
St. John Passion,
the
Christmas Oratorio.
Handel’s
Messiah
and Arne’s
Judith. Il Ritorno di Tobia,
by Herr Haydn. He’s produced a new one,
The Creation,
which I long to perform. Nothing can compare to the hush and the holiness of a cathedral. I’m happy whether I’m a soloist, with a great organ playing in the background, or part of a large chorus. And the listeners—they are the true music lovers. They come to be uplifted, not merely entertained.”

“What a surprising creature you are,” he murmured. “When can I hear you sing one of these great religious works?”

“The Academy of Ancient Music sponsors concerts at the Crown and Anchor Tavern, beginning in January. From February till May, Concerts of Ancient Music are held at the opera house on Wednesday evenings. I prefer employment with the latter, because the pay is better. But I long to sing in a cathedral again.”

“I’ll order one up for you, and hire musicians and choristers.”

She kissed his cheek. “A lovely notion, but I wouldn’t want to ruffle the sensibilities of the churchmen.

I’ll wait to be invited. Besides, you’ve incurred too many expenses already. Chasing me across England.

Lodging charges at Nerot’s and Morland’s. The purchase of a racehorse.”

“I got her at a bargain price,” he reminded her. “It’s only money. I’ve got plenty.”

“And I’m only a woman.”

“What does that mean?”

“There are so many others. Women who could please you better in bed. Women who are unencumbered by a profession as demanding as mine can be.”
Women whom you might marry,
she thought despairingly.

His hand closed upon her shoulder. “But you are special, Oriana. No female in the entire world can surpass you. You’re
mine.
Floating in the Thames somewhere, or out in the English Channel, or perhaps the ocean, is a champagne bottle containing our written pledge.” He reached around to cup her breast, with tender possessiveness. “If your lemon should fail you, remember that I can afford to support a child.

And I shall.”

“You won’t have to,” she assured him.

“I want your promise that you’ll deal with me honestly, whatever happens. No half-truths, and no subterfuge. No more running away. If by some accident I get you with child, let it be born on the island—it must grow up there. Bastardy is no stigma among the Manx.”

And what would he do with her, send her back to London to resume her interrupted career? Keep her at Glencroft, conveniently down the hill from his villa?

She stared down at his broad, tanned hand as it toyed with her. “You should go back to your room.”

“Not yet. For too many days, I haven’t been able to touch you. Like this. Or kiss you here.” He swept aside her long hair and his lips brushed her nape.

“I can’t let you stay the night—not at this hotel, where I’m known. On our way back to town, we’ll find some quiet, remote inn.”

“And when we’re back in London, what then?”

“I’ve not thought that far ahead.”

She recalled her clandestine encounters with Thomas Teversal—rushed and stealthy, and so shaming.

Her pride demanded a different arrangement, although she knew it wouldn’t be easy to devise one.

Dare drew her into his embrace, and their mouths locked in a heady kiss. Casting off her concerns, Oriana decided to let the future resolve itself.

Why should we defer our joys?

Fame, and rumour, are but toys.

Cannot we delude the eyes

Of a few poor household spies?

Or his easier ears beguile,

So removed by our wile?

‘Tis no sin, love’s fruit to steal,

But the sweet theft to reveal:

To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.

—Ben Jonson

“Mrs. Julian sings in theaters?
Vel shiu g’insh dou
yn
irriney,
Mainshtyr?”

“Of course I speak the truth.”

Ned Crowe was in a perpetual state of wide-eyed incredulity, expressing his amazement at London’s size and architectural magnificence, its traffic, the crowds. But his master’s announcement that the former tenant of Croit ny Glionney was a famous vocalist startled him more than anything else.

“She performs at the public pleasure gardens.”

The young Manxman rubbed his forehead. “Sweet is her voice,
dy-jarroo.
When I told her folk would pay to hear such sounds, how she laughed.”

“She’s paid very well,” Dare responded. “Later this week she gives one of her Vauxhall concerts. I’ll take you. You’ve never seen anything in your life like the illuminations, Ned—they will astound you.”

“Everything does in London,” the youth admitted with a grin.

The
Dorrity
had completed a smooth and swift sailing from Ramsey, and was now moored in Deptford. Her crew was enjoying a few days’ leave, but they’d be busy again soon, for she was about to have her hull scraped and repainted, and get a new mast and rigging.

Ned, his arm fully mended, had delivered requested reports from the Glen Auldyn mine and copies of requisition orders to Morland’s Hotel.

“What about that small pouch I asked for?” Dare wanted to know as he searched through the trunk.

“It’s supposed to be here. What’ve you done with it?”

Ned peered over his shoulder. “At the very bottom, Mainshtyr.”

That was exactly where he found it, tucked into a corner. Emptying it onto a tabletop, Dare inspected the collection of prism like crystals. He would restore them to Oriana, but not in their present state. The jeweler on Ludgate Hill must first transform them into an appropriate token of his affection.

He advised Ned to change his clothes. “Ask Wingate to give you all my old shirts. My brown coat should fit well enough without alteration, and he can shorten the black breeches for you. And have him trim your hair before you go out.”

”
Vel oo cheet marym?”

“No, I won’t be going with you. I want you to deliver a message to Madame St. Albans, who lives close by, in Soho Square. Wingate can direct you to her house. Tell her that I must make a quick trip to Deptford to confer with the captain and give him orders for the refurbishing of the ship. I shall spend tonight on board and return tomorrow afternoon.”

“Ta
, Mainshtyr.”

Wingate, coming into the parlor, said, “I can inform Madame of your plans myself, sir.”

Since returning from Newmarket, Dare had noticed that his valet was never reluctant to visit the singer’s house. Wingate claimed to have developed a comrade-ship with old Mr. Lumley, but Dare suspected the greater attraction was Oriana’s waiting woman. Whether his servant’s interest in Suke Barry was casual or reciprocal, he didn’t know.

“Both of you may go.” To Wingate, he added wryly, “Don’t let me detain you. Lately I’ve had practice packing my valise; I can manage without you.”

“I shall take care of it, sir. This came for you.” Wingate presented a salver with a single letter and a silver knife to open it.

Oriana wasn’t the sender—his name and direction were legibly written. Impatient to be away, Dare snatched it from the tray and unceremoniously stuck it in his pocket.

During his journey to Deptford, he read it.

Number 32, Soho Square

Sunday, 14th July, 1799

Sir
,

My purpose in writing is twofold
.

Firstly, I commend your excellent treatise “Geology and Mineralogy of the Isle of Man.” I
found your investigations and their connection to Dr. Hutton ‘s theories most intriguing.

Secondly, if you are at leisure on Saturday evening, I would be honored by your presence at
dinner. My wife Lady Banks and my sister send greetings, and look forward to seeing you in Soho
Square.

Believe me, my dear Sir
,

Very faithfully yours,

Jos. Banks, President, Royal Society

His treatise
?

How the devil had Banks got hold of it? Dare had distributed copies to his circle of friends in Edinburgh-Hutton, Playfair, John Clerk of Eldin. The remainder languished in a dark cupboard at his Glen Auldyn mine office.

And there, he recalled, he’d presented one to Oriana….

Not only had she read it, she’d shown it to her illustrious neighbor. She was responsible for this highly flattering invitation. He wasn’t sure why she’d done it—but did it really matter? He was grateful, and he would definitely accept.

Ned Crowe’s bow cut across the fiddle strings, producing a spirited
coda
to the lively ballad.

Lowering his instrument, he suggested to Oriana, “Let’s try
‘Coontey Ghiare Jeh Elian Vannin.’
”

She searched among the sheaf of papers he’d brought with him. “It’s got so very many verses. You’re sure your arm is strong enough?” she asked, solicitous of his injury.

“I’ve been playing for more’n a fortnight,” he informed her blithely. “During the voyage, I was sawing at this fiddle night and day, entertaining myself by day and the sailors at night.”

When he had adjusted the tuning keys, he accompanied Oriana while she sang a lengthy ballad describing the isle’s geography and its many beauties.

As soon as she finished, she collapsed on the nearest chair, saying, “The tune is simple, but the language is not!”

“You could sing the English words.”

“That would detract from the novelty. I shall persevere.”

She had been practicing yesterday when Ned arrived, and on being admitted to her sanctuary he had begged her to perform for him. Seating herself at the pianoforte, she’d played a Haydn composition, then took up her
mandoline
to entertain him with an Italian song. He’d rushed back to Morland’s to fetch his fiddle, and they had spent the afternoon making music together. When she’d invited him to appear with her at Vauxhall, he agreed enthusiastically and helped her choose which pieces to insert into her repertoire. The famous Ana St. Albans, student of the finest music masters in the world, and a Manx miner with a remarkable talent—this collaboration might prove profitable for them both, financially as well as artistically.

“When we feel ready,” she said, “I’ll inform Mr. Barrett and Mr. Simpson that you’ll be performing with me on Saturday night. If I say they should pay you three guineas a concert, they won’t blink.”

Ned’s mouth dropped open. “Three gold pieces?”

“I doubt I can get you more. Not yet.”

“I’ve never earned more than a
skillin
at a time, playing at weddings and wakes. I shall make my fortune here!” His gleeful outburst was followed by a sober question. “Which of us will be telling Mainshtyr Dare what we intend to do?”

“This was my idea. I’ll do it,” she said courageously. If he disliked her plan, she didn’t want his blunt censure to fall upon Ned.

Rising, she returned to the music stand. “We should try the ‘Courting Song’ again.”

”
Ta
.” Ned raised his violin, played a few notes, and sang out in his fine tenor.

“Lesh sooree ayns y geurey
,

An vennick beign ny lhie,

Agh shooyll ayns y dorraghey,

Scoanfakin yn raad thie.

With courting in the winter
,

I’d seldom be in bed,

But walking in the darkness,

Scarce seeing the road home.”

The pounding of the knocker drew Lumley to the hall. Oriana heard Dare’s deep tones, and smiled upon her accompanist, who had lowered his instrument. “Sing on,” she instructed.

Dare entered the room just as the young man resumed his performance, and smiled at her. She held her finger to her lips, bidding him to keep silent.

“Veign goll gys ny unniagyn

As crankal shirrey entreil

Yn fillaghey yealley orrym

As my lleckanyn gaase gial.

I would go to the windows
,

And rap seeking entrance,

The rain pouring upon me,

And my cheeks growing pale.”

Remembering her criticisms of his untidiness—at his Ramsey home and the mining office—she regretted the disorder all around her. Music sheets were spread across the pianoforte, and instrument cases cluttered the floor. She mustn’t draw attention to the chaos by trying to remedy it. Perhaps Dare hadn’t noticed.

“My employees have transferred their allegiance to you, Madame,” he complained. “Here is Ned, fiddling the day away. I suspect Wingate is belowstairs. He’s certainly not where he should be—at Morland’s, awaiting his master’s return.”

“He’s with Lumley,” Oriana replied. “They updated my cellar-book, and now they’re bottling off claret from the pipe Berry Brothers delivered this morning.”

“Finish your song,” said Dare, a smile breaking through. “I know there’s more.”

Oriana glanced at Ned, who waited for her with poised bow. He played the introductory notes, and she picked up where he’d left off, singing the Manx girl’s reply to her suitor.

“Fow royd voish yn unniag

Fow royd ta mee dy graa,

Son cha jean-ym lhiggey stlagh oo,

Ta fys aym’s er ny shaare!

Get away from the window
,

Get away I tell thee,

For I will not let you in,

I know better than that!

Dy bragh, ny dy bragh, guilley
,

Cha bee ayms ayd son ben,

Son cha vell mee goll dy phoosey,

My taitnys hene vys aym.

No never, no never, young man
,

Will I be thy woman,

For I’m not going to marry,

My own pleasure I will have.”

Ned, resuming the man’s part, described how his love crept out of the house, shawl over her head.

They ended in a duet, singing of the joys they found in each other’s arms.

Afterward, Oriana explained, “Ned and I are determined to perform together at Vauxhall. He’ll be well compensated.”

“But only if you permit it, Mainshtyr,” the young man said quickly.

Dare’s grave face revealed his reservations. “You want to do this?” he asked Ned.