Songbird

ALSO
BY JULIA BELL

A Pearl Comb for
a Lady

Deceit of Angels

The Wild Poppy

Broken Blossoms

If Birds Fly Low

Thank you for choosing to read Julia Bell’s third
novel,
Songbird
.

Feedback for the author is very important so if you
can find the time to give a review and a star-rating, it would be much
appreciated.  This can be done through Amazon and any comments are also welcome
via our website. 

R White (Editor)

www.JuliaBellRomanticFiction.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julia Bell lives
in West Yorkshire, England and has two children and five grandchildren.  Her
various jobs have included working as a qualified nurse, training at St James’s
Hospital in Leeds and also Darlington Memorial Hospital and she has also worked
as a civil servant in the Prison Service.  When her children were young she
successfully completed an Open University B.A. degree studying psychology and
sociology.  She has been a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association for the
last four years.

As well as
writing she loves country walks and travelling abroad (she adores bus stations,
railway stations, airports and ferry ports – any place where people are on the
move). 

Contact the author by email at

[email protected]

or visit her website on

http://www.JuliaBellRomanticFiction.co.uk

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to
thank Amanda Lillywhite for the excellent work she did creating the front
cover. Amanda can be contacted on [email protected] or via her website at
www.AJLIllustration.talktalk.net
. 
I would also like to thank Rob White for all his technical know-how, moral
support and encouragement for which I am very grateful.

First Published
in Great Britain 2012

Copyright © 2012
by Julia Bell Romantic Fiction

No part of this
book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written
permission from the Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied
in critical articles or reviews

Names and
characters except for the historical figures are purely the product of the
author’s imagination.

JuliaBellRomanticFiction.co.uk

For my son,
Robert

SONGBIRD

By Julia Bell

Part
One
-
The Girl from the Welsh Valleys

Part
Two -
The Opera Singer

Part
Three
-
The Lady of the Flowers

PART
ONE

THE
GIRL FROM THE WELSH VALLEYS

CHAPTER ONE

I
was twenty-one
years old when I sold my baby.  Looking back on that event, even after all
these years, I wonder at my callousness, my selfishness, but I was driven by a
powerful ambition that had consumed me totally and I now know that when a
person has such dreams, they will do anything to realise those dreams.  And at
the time, I would have sold my soul never mind a small child.

I
lived in a tiny house in Hammersmith with my sister-in-law Nan, and we led a
quiet life.  Nan had a small private income, plus she worked as a seamstress
from home, mending and making clothes, usually wedding dresses.  Her bedroom
was also her workshop and she was feverishly saving up for one of Mr Singer’s
famous sewing machines, but at the moment she sewed by hand.  Her creations were
lovely and although it was becoming fashionable to buy clothing in Liberty’s
department store, Nan still found she had enough clients to bring in a steady
income to the household.

I was
a music teacher and taught piano and singing to the spoilt and mostly
untalented offspring of the well-to-do.  It was tedious and frustrating, but it
was a living and over time I had learnt to accept it.  Except when it came to
the month of July.  That was the month when I was filled with ecstatic hope. 
And that July of the year 1885, my hopes were higher than seemed possible.

It
was a beautiful morning, the sky sparkling with not a cloud in sight.  I
hurried from my last lesson in a state of turmoil, clutching my music and
cursing that Charity Reynard’s mother had kept me talking in the hallway.  She
had wanted to know how her ‘little darling’ was progressing and I told her that
she was doing very well.  What stories I had to tell these mothers who always
believed that their precious cherubs would amaze and delight the guests at
their musical evenings.  In Mrs Reynard’s case, I often felt the urge to tell
her that Charity’s singing would shame a bullfrog and would probably chase her
guests into the garden for some peace and quiet.  But that particular morning I
was in a hurry, so I told her that her little girl was a joy to teach and would
enchant the whole of society with her sweet, warbling tones.

I
fled the house and then realised I would need to hail a cab, an expense I could
ill afford, but there wasn’t enough time to wait for the omnibus.  I was filled
with horror when I saw, just half a mile from my destination, that the road was
blocked by a load of vegetables that had tumbled from the back of a cart.  The
cabbages, carrots, turnips and onions littered the cobbles and the driver was
trying to defend his cargo with his whip, beating those folk who thought they
would have free ingredients for their evening meal.  His language was rich and
as he swore, he urged his assistant to gather up the produce before it was spoilt. 
The scene would have been comical if my mind hadn’t been on other things.  I
quickly paid the cabby and ran the rest of the way, lifting up my skirts so
that I could move that little faster.

The
building finally loomed in front of me and I stopped at the huge main door to
catch my breath and survey the edifice that towered above me.  It was such a
beautiful building and the large windows were wide open allowing the music from
within, to drift on the morning breeze.  Its white stone structure always made
me smile with absolute pleasure.  People rushed in and out of the impressive
entrance, some almost embracing the sheaves of music that seemed so precious to
them.  I took in a few controlled breaths before ascending the steps and
entering the hallowed halls, passing into the massive foyer with red and white
marble floor tiles and white painted columns that held up the balcony leading
to the upper rooms.  And from these upper rooms I could hear singing, the
wonderful voice of a tenor that made me stop and listen for a few seconds.

“May
I help you, miss?”  The voice from the other side of the desk was soft and very
polite.

I
smiled and nodded.  “I have an appointment for eleven-thirty.”

“Name
please.”

“Mrs
Isabelle Asquith.”

“You’re
an applicant for the bursary?”  I nodded again.  He pointed to the row of
chairs against the wall.  “Please make yourself comfortable and you’ll be
called when it’s your turn.”

I sat
down making sure that the bustle of my skirt was snugly placed on the chair and
the folds of my gown fell elegantly over my knees.  To my right and over my
shoulder was a large double oak door and from within I heard the melodious tone
of a soprano.  I winced.  I was a mezzo-soprano and I could hear she had an
excellent singing voice.  And then I was filled with dismay when I realised she
was singing
Voi Che Sapete
from Mozart’s
The Marriage of Figaro
,
the very piece I had chosen.  I listened and grimaced when she went a little
off-key.  At first, I felt elated and then guilty since obviously she was nervous,
but it was a relief to hear that slight mistake.  Competition was tough and
anything helped if it put an applicant in front.

The
singing came to an end and after a few minutes more the door opened.A young
girl came out, her fair hair tied up in ringlets, her gown a good quality
cotton.  Instinctively, my hand went to my hair, neatly held in a bun at the
nape of my neck.  I had wanted to look efficient, as though I meant business
and so I had worn a royal blue skirt and jacket with a cream blouse.  It was my
best outfit and I had smiled to myself that morning as I had stood in front of
the mirror.  Nan had said I looked ‘just right’ and had let me borrow her
silver fob watch that I had pinned to my jacket.  It was always difficult to
tie up my hair, as it seemed to have a mind of its own.  It had a natural curl
that annoyed me and I would brush it endlessly trying to smooth it into some
kind of order.  But that morning it had obediently gone into place without any
protest.  It was a good omen.

The
girl with the ringlets walked past me without a glance and I felt sorry for
her.  She knew that her mistake would have marked her down in the assessors’
estimation and her profile was fixed, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.  I
sighed sadly.

“Mrs
Asquith?”  The woman standing in the doorway smiled at me and I nodded. 
“They’re ready for you now, if you’d like to follow me.”

I
followed her into a small theatre used when the students did recitals in front
of a paying audience.  I knew this place and immediately climbed the steps onto
the stage.  Below me I could see the table at which sat the assessors, two men
and a woman.  They looked severe, the men sporting large whiskers and
uncomfortable cravats, the woman large, with a round, plump face.  They must be
getting bored, I thought grimly, how many potential students had they listened
to already?  It must be torturous to go through this every year.

“What
have you chosen to sing, Mrs Asquith?” said the large lady, trying to smile.  I
told her and I could almost hear the groan coming from the three of them. 
“Very good.  Then please give your music to Mr Joyce and we’ll start.”

I
stepped over to the piano and handed my music to Mr Joyce knowing he didn’t
really need it, he should know this piece by heart.  He smiled, took the music
from me and asked what key I sang in.  Stepping to the edge of the stage, I
lifted my head and started to sing.

To
say I put my heart into it is an understatement.  I kept my eyes on the back
wall and as my voice soared above the assessors’ heads I concentrated on the
music only.  When the last note left my throat, I looked down at them
expectantly.  They were smiling and nodding at one another.

“Thank
you Mrs Asquith.  You have a remarkable voice,” said one of the gentlemen.  I
collected my music from the pianist who winked at me as he handed me the
sheaves of paper.  “However, you do realise that we can only accommodate three
scholarship students every year?” I said that I did.  “Our decision will be
made tomorrow morning at ten o’clock here in the theatre.”  Their attention
turned from me as they started to discuss something I couldn’t hear.  My turn
was done.

I was
shown out by the same lady who had shown me in.  As she opened the door for me
I noticed a young man in the foyer pacing the floor.  As he walked up and down,
he fidgeted with his collar looking very agitated, his sheet music held under
his right arm.

He
stopped when he saw me.  “What’s it like in there?” he said.

I
smiled.  “The assessors seem nice enough.”

“Mr
Holmes?  You may come in now,” said the lady who was organising us all.

“Good
luck,” I said.  But as he disappeared through the door I whispered, “But not
too much eh?”

I ran
through Regent’s Park and caught the omnibus on the far side.  The four-mile
journey home was absolute bliss, my heart spiralling into the brilliant blue
sky.  I had sung really well and I knew they had liked me.  I felt so
confident, so happy and as I burst through the door and ran into the parlour I
gave a twirl in ecstatic happiness.

Nan
was standing with little Daniel in her arms.  I ran towards them and took my
child from her.  “Has my little man been good for Auntie Nan this morning?” I
asked my sixteen-month-old infant, tenderly kissing his chubby cheeks.  He gave
me one of his beautiful, bright smiles, that was so like his father’s and I
swung him in the air as he giggled with delight.

I set
him on his feet and he waddled across to his wooden animals and brought me the
elephant. 

“Would
you like some tea?” asked Nan, disappearing into the kitchen without waiting
for my answer.  She looked over her shoulder.  “And he’s been very good.  He
said ‘Mama’ and pointed to the window, so I think he missed you.”

I
picked up my son once more and gave him the elephant to hold.  “I hate leaving
you, little one,” I said sadly.  “But Mama has to work.”  I kissed his mouth
and held him close to me, feeling the warmth of his body against mine and
carried him into the kitchen.

“I
take it you’re confident about this morning’s events?” asked Nan, pouring
boiling water into the teapot.

“Oh,
it was wonderful,” I breathed.  “I sang as though my life depended on it and I
know they were impressed.”

“So
you think you’re in with a chance this year?”

I
wrinkled my nose and pondered on that thought.  Yes, this was my second year of
trying for the scholarship and last year I had been optimistic.  I had learnt
to live with the disappointment of failing of course, just as I had learnt to
live with the disgust of giving music lessons for a living.

I
gave a sigh.  “I feel quietly confident.  Perhaps this time I’ll be lucky.  And
if I want to be an opera singer and sing at Covent Garden, then I must be
trained.”

Nan
pursed her lips.  “If only that brother of mine had left you more than a small
annuity.”

I
looked askance at her.  “I didn’t want a damned annuity.  I wanted him here
with me.”  I rubbed my cheek on my son’s blond hair and then followed it with a
kiss.

“I’m
sorry, my dear,” she said, patting my arm.  “I spoke out of turn.”

I
gave a wry smile and my gaze swept round the kitchen.  How small this house was
in Laurel Close, a parlour and kitchen downstairs and upstairs only two
bedrooms.  Danny slept in a cot bed next to mine, even if he did clamber in
with me every morning.  I always enjoyed snuggling down with him and trying to
persuade him to go back to sleep, singing lullabies that my mother used to sing
to me and I would watch his big blue eyes close as he listened to my voice.  If
only I could get a place at The Royal Academy of Music, my baby’s future would
be assured.  Covent Garden was always interested in the students coming from
the academy.  Tomorrow I would find out.  Tomorrow I would meet Stephanie and
we would go to the academy together.

I met
her at the corner where the cobblers stood.  She was watching two young boys
making a puppy dance on its hind legs and laughing at their antics.  I touched
her arm to attract her attention and she turned and smiled at me.  She looked
calm, almost serene.  Stephanie had told me that her audition had gone very
well and through a fitful night’s sleep I had wondered how marvellous it would
be if we both won places that year.  To train together would have been
unbelievable.  The strong smell of leather and glue drifted out of the shop and
we could hear the gentle tap-tapping of the cobbler’s hammer as he fixed and
mended the shoes in his care.

“Ready
to go?” she asked.

“Ready
as I’ll ever be,” I smiled.

We
travelled on top of the omnibus, chatting away as usual, but soon we were there
and passing through the foyer and into the theatre along with sixty or seventy
other young hopefuls.  We took seats in the auditorium and I looked around. 
All these bright, expectant faces, I thought, and only three will be chosen. 
There was a buzz of anticipation as the plump lady who had been one of the
assessors took her place on the stage.  In her hand was the all-important piece
of paper.

The
hum of conversation faded away as our attention became riveted on her fleshy
features. 

“Ladies
and gentlemen.  Before I read out the names of the new students who will be
joining us next year, I would like to say how impressed we’ve been with the
standard of entrants this time. You are all potential students of the academy
and we were very hard pressed to pick only three.  However, three it must be
and for all of you who must face disappointment, please be assured it is no
reflection on your ability and we would like to invite you to apply next July.”