Secrets of a Soprano (28 page)

“Are you ready to practice?” Sempronio asked.

The last thing Tessa felt like doing was singing. “I should do something about the diamonds. Suppose I lost them outside the theater? If someone found them I might get them back without anyone knowing they are copies. But if I don’t report the loss they’d wonder why.”

Sofie returned to the dining room. “Why are you so concerned that people know they are false?”

“It looks so bad to wear false jewels.”

“At this point, my dear, you could have false teeth, false hair, and a corset stuffed with sawdust and no one would think the less of you.”

“I don’t want people to know about my lack of money.” Perhaps she was irrational to fret so, but she couldn’t let go of her pride. She didn’t want it thought that she had sold the tsar’s gift and she could hardly explain that her late husband had done so.

She continued to worry the problem aloud until Angela entered with a plate bearing a small, pale, yellow cube. Tessa cast Sofie a reproachful look but said nothing. She’d made the point that she could do whatever she wished, and it wasn’t just about a craving for dairy foods.

Sempronio looked at this tiny serving of cheese and rose from his chair abruptly. “I’ll be in the music room when you’re ready,” he said. A minute later she heard Scarlatti, played with exceptional force and rapidity. Such a display from the sweet-tempered pianist was unheard of.

“I’m sorry, Sofie.” Tessa felt like crying again. “I’ve been a beast. You are all so kind to me.”

“We worry about you,
Liebchen
. We know you are upset and we want to help. But there are things you can only do for yourself.”

“Very well. What do you wish me to do today?” Tessa asked, praying Sofie wouldn’t again raise the subject of Max.

“Mr. Coburn wants to see you this morning. He’ll be here soon.”

“Mr. Coburn?” Tessa was barely acquainted with the assistant manager of the Tavistock. “Why not Mortimer?”

“I didn’t want to tell you before, but it seems that Mr. Mortimer died in the fire. He hasn’t been seen since, but his office was completely destroyed and they fear his body may have been…” Sofie hesitated, biting her lip. “His body may have been burned away to ashes.”

“Oh.” Tessa had no affection or respect for Mortimer but she couldn’t wish such a horrible fate on anyone. And believing the fire had claimed no victims had been one beacon in the gloom of her spirits.

When the assistant manager was announced she offered her condolences. “The loss of the theater is a terrible tragedy,” she said, thinking that Coburn had lost his employment. “And of course I am much grieved about Mr. Mortimer’s death.”

Coburn, a slight man with the mild features of a slightly harassed sheep, looked more ovine even than usual. “As for that, Madame Foscari, it appears that our initial information was incorrect. We have reason to believe that Mr. Mortimer left the theater before the fire took hold.”

“Thank God!”

“In fact there is every indication he started the fire himself.” It was lucky Coburn worked behind the scenes. He had no idea how to make the best of his lines. So flat was his delivery that it took a few seconds for Tessa to comprehend him.

“Why on earth would he burn down his own theater?”

“Ahem. The fire safe in the office was empty, though a very large sum had been delivered from the box office at the beginning of the performance. Mrs. Sturridge’s benefit drew a large audience.”

“I’m sorry for Mrs. Sturridge. Does that mean she won’t receive the money for the benefit?”

“Not only Mrs. Sturridge. There is no money to pay any of the performers. Including, I am afraid, you.”

Tessa still didn’t understand. “But I wasn’t going to be paid for the evening.”

Mr. Coburn cleared his throat again. “Investigations have revealed…Er…the long and the short of it is, that it appears Mr. Mortimer has…er…absconded with all of the theater’s funds.”

“But he owed me a great deal of money. Two hundred guineas for every night I’ve sung, and very likely more.”

“I am aware,
madame
,” Coburn said miserably. “I am in the unhappy position of informing you that we are not in a position to pay you.”

Tessa felt her knees give way and she dropped into a chair, thinking furiously. “Bank accounts! Surely not all the money was kept in the office?”

“No indeed. That would be most imprudent. But all the theater’s accounts were cleared by Mr. Mortimer earlier that day. The directors of the Tavistock company will declare bankruptcy.”

“So there is nothing. Nothing for me at all.”

Fully fifteen minutes after Coburn took his leave Tessa sat stunned, unable to comprehend this disaster. Then she stood up wearily. She could no longer afford to indulge her bruised emotions. She had mouths to feed.

“Sempronio,” she called. “Let’s see how my voice is.”

*

“We won’t have
an empty seat until the end of the season.” Simon Lindo was at his ease, leaning back in his chair behind the desk and grinning from ear to ear.

Max, not in the least at ease, stared morosely out of the window of the manager’s office, tracing patterns on the dusty pane. After even a few weeks of London dirt the glass needed a clean. He was quite unable to share his partner’s glee in the Regent’s imminent success.

“Simon,” he said suddenly, over his shoulder. “May I ask your opinion about a certain…situation? Not that this is something that actually happened, you understand.”

“Of course not. I have two sons so I’m quite used to hypothetical questions. I shall don my fatherly mantle and advise you as best I can. Ask away, son.”

Obviously Simon would guess the truth, but Max couldn’t bring himself to talk about Tessa openly. “Suppose a man were…er…sharing a bed with a lady, a very willing lady. Then the next morning she awoke and started screaming and beating him. What would you think?”

Simon’s eyes widened. “I don’t,” he said after giving the matter some consideration, “have your experience with womanhood in its infinite variety but I would hazard a guess that the lady was…surprised. And frightened.”

Max had worked that out for himself. But he couldn’t guess why Tessa had been surprised and frightened. Try as he could, when he considered the fervor of their lovemaking, the tender interlude in the bath, and the way she’d invited him to sleep with her, the morning’s hysterics didn’t make sense.

“Did that help?” Simon asked.

“No.”

“I thought not. Wrong kind of question for me. Shall we return to business?”

Max nodded and took a seat next to the desk.

“Now that Madame Foscari has had three days to recover I think it’s time to approach her.”

Max stared at the desk. Of course Simon wanted her at the Regent. His own heart leaped at the idea of seeing Tessa again, but he feared it too. Many times over the past three days he’d set foot on the pavement outside his house intending to head for the Pulteney. Each time he ended up directing his footsteps elsewhere.

“I don’t see why we need her,” he said, “if you say we can fill the house without her.”

“She’s the best and we want to be the best. Our greatest problem has been the lack of a first-rate soprano and now the greatest of them all is available. I can’t believe you even need to ask.”

“We can do very well without her, and without paying her outrageous fees.” A ridiculous excuse, but he couldn’t tell Simon that the prima donna had taken him to bed and then virtually accused him of rape.

“For God’s sake, Max, don’t let’s go through this again. You know what happened last time you decided La Divina was an avaricious harpy. She isn’t. She’s a charming woman and a great artist who will enhance the reputation of the Regent like no other.” Simon peered at him suspiciously. “You seemed friendly—more than friendly—with her at Lady Clarissa’s musicale and you saved the woman’s life. What’s going on?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Absently he noted that the finger of his buff leather glove was black. He stripped off both gloves and flung them onto an empty chair.

“So, don’t talk about it. And don’t hire her if you want to see her on stage at Covent Garden, filling every seat with her adoring admirers who regard her as the savior of thousands.”

That brought Max up short. “Covent Garden? Tessa…Madame Foscari would never sing the nonsense they put on there. Pantomimes! Mozart in English with improvements by Henry Bishop! Faugh!”

“She has to sing somewhere. If the rumors about Mortimer are correct she’ll need to make some money.”

“Do as you like,” Max said. “But leave me out of it. You may speak to her about terms without my participation.”

*

Simon had agreed
to call on La Divina and politely refrained from calling Max insane. Thoroughly perturbed by the prospect of seeing Tessa again, Max went down to the theater, where a rehearsal was underway, and sat at the rear of the pit. Neither music nor singing had the ability to distract him.

Naturally the prospect of Teresa Foscari participating in such a rehearsal at
his
theater could hardly fail to please him. Simon hadn’t been wrong about that, and four days ago Max would have been thrilled. As a businessman and a lover of the operatic art he rejoiced; as a rejected lover he was deeply reluctant.

Supposing Tessa, for what reason he couldn’t imagine, did blame him for what had happened? If she had misinterpreted something he had done, how would their next meeting go? Would she even agree to sing at his theater?

Thinking of the tsar’s diamonds, he guessed that she would indeed be looking for an engagement. Having her as an employee of sorts might make their meeting less awkward.

On stage, Edouard Delorme hit a ringing high note at full force, a quite unnecessary piece of showing off at a rehearsal. Max remembered his certainty that there was something between Tessa and Delorme. Singing with the Frenchman might be an enticement for her to choose the Regent Opera House. Max almost wished she’d go to Covent Garden after all.

He was mad. Quite, quite mad. Tessa had driven him to insanity.

Sitting in the theater was doing nothing for his state of mind. Perhaps a long walk would cure his lunacy. Naturally he would avoid Piccadilly and the Pulteney, lest he be tempted to tear upstairs and demand an explanation.

To perhaps find Tessa recovered and apologetic and ready to take him back.

Shaking off implausible hope, he rose to leave and found he’d left his gloves upstairs. Outside Simon’s office, Max’s heart thumped at the sound of a too-familiar voice. Hearing the manager outline the terms of an offer, he knew that La Divina had come calling. Had he any sense he’d leave, gloves or no gloves. He couldn’t resist setting his ear to the door.

The woman made a complete hash of the contract. She was a mere infant when it came to tangling with a businessman of Simon’s experience and vigor. Simon played her like a fiddle, giving in on inessentials and beating her down where it mattered.

“I’d prefer to sing only two nights a week, Mr. Lindo. And I insist on one hundred and fifty guineas a night.”

“Madame,” replied Simon at his most persuasive, “I already explained about the limitations we face with the size of the Regent. I cannot possibly offer anything like what a large house like the Tavistock could afford. One hundred guineas is as high as I dare go. And we must present opera six nights a week to cover our expenses. But I fully appreciate that it would be too much for you to perform more than four.”

Simon exaggerated.
Come on Tessa
, Max urged silently.
Drive him up.
Simon expected to pay one hundred and twenty-five and would likely pay one fifty if she stuck to her guns.

Tessa sighed. “Very well, Mr. Lindo. I agree to your terms.”

How could Max ever have believed her greedy? If she was a grasping adventuress she was a totally incompetent one. What she needed was a keeper. Max restrained the urge to intervene, smiling at Simon’s likely reaction should Max burst in and take Tessa’s side in the negotiations.

The final contract wasn’t unfair or in any way dishonest, but they’d have paid much more. Tessa needed someone to look after her. Someone who had her interests at heart, unlike her scoundrel of a husband.