gentleman
until she became aware that he was more interested in his hostess than he was
in music.
When she was not quite eleven, Anna had been taken to hear
the great Mrs. Billington, not long after she dazzled Naples in the opera the
great Bianchi had written just for her. Anna and her mother had met her at one
of Sir William’s private concerts, after which Anna had confessed that she
wished to be a singer just like her.
Mrs. Billington had patted Anna on the cheek, stooped a
little, and said in English, “I will tell you my secret, little Anna. Always
sing with a light heart, and a tight middle.” And she had pressed her fist
against her ribs under her bosom.
Anna’s heart felt cloud-light as Madam herself played the
opening bars in accompaniment. She touched her fingers to her diaphragm,
straightened another fraction, and sang. She had practiced enough to know how
to fill a room with sound, and when she saw chins lifting among her audience,
the sure sign of pleasure, joy illumined her being.
In the far doorway, Parrette stood with Madame’s maid.
“She will take,” the maid said, nodding once. “What is she?
I know she is not French.”
“Her father was Italian, her mother English.”
“English! These roast-biffs, they turn up everywhere. An
adventuress?”
Parrette kept her temper. It never did to quarrel with the
servants in any house. But she would not accept even the slightest slur against
the only woman who had ever been kind to her. “Anna’s mother was the companion
to a marquis’ daughter. The family traveled to Rome. When the earl married his
daughter to an Italian count, they cast off my Signora Eugenia without a second
thought.”
“Tchah, these aristos are all alike.” The maid lifted her
shoulders in a shrug, but her tone was sympathetic. “We are well rid of them! Et puis ?”
“ Et puis she returned
to Florence, but discovered her father dead of a duel. She met Signor Ludovisi
there, who wished to be taught in English. They married. He was very old by
then, and she was already thirty. When Anna was coming, they decided to go
south to Naples, where Madame Eugenia was hired at the royal palace to teach
the children French and English, manners and language,” Parrette said. “And he
became a part of the royal orchestra. He was a great musician. She was an
angel.”
“She is one now, hein? ”
the maid asked, smiling.
Parrette accepted that in a spirit of amity, and fell silent
as they listened to the lovely romantic songs for which Anna’s voice was
especially well suited.
When the last song was sung and Anna took her bow, the
applause was gratifyingly heartfelt. The guests accepted refreshments and moved
about to congratulate Madame de Pipelet de Leury and her protégé. Snips of
conversation followed them. “. . . voice is not large enough to
fill the Feydeau, or even the Opéra-Comique . . . she is young,
she will improve . . . anywhere along the Boulevard du Temple.
Ah, yes! In a smaller theater, the women must be young and pretty. We will not
get the men in else . . . a trifle thin, but that is easily
amended. More important, she is young, which cannot be amended so easily . . .
charming arms, well displayed…”
Before the last of the guests left, Anna had been invited to
sing for a private party given by no less a figure than the sleepy Count, and
she went to bed in a whirl of happy anticipation.
The next day she was up early rehearsing.
Parrette, who discovered herself with a great deal of
freedom as Madame de Pipelet’s house was well run, put her time to good use.
She ignored most of the gossip, except that about Josephine Bonaparte, wife of
the First Consul. Before long she had gleaned useful information about where
the First Consul obtained her fabrics, and who made her gowns.
After that, it was simple enough to visit Au Grand Turc, and
look carefully at the clothes on display, or Le Roy’s shop in the rue de la Loi.
The proprietors were quite
until she became aware that he was more interested in his hostess than he was
in music.
When she was not quite eleven, Anna had been taken to hear
the great Mrs. Billington, not long after she dazzled Naples in the opera the
great Bianchi had written just for her. Anna and her mother had met her at one
of Sir William’s private concerts, after which Anna had confessed that she
wished to be a singer just like her.
Mrs. Billington had patted Anna on the cheek, stooped a
little, and said in English, “I will tell you my secret, little Anna. Always
sing with a light heart, and a tight middle.” And she had pressed her fist
against her ribs under her bosom.
Anna’s heart felt cloud-light as Madam herself played the
opening bars in accompaniment. She touched her fingers to her diaphragm,
straightened another fraction, and sang. She had practiced enough to know how
to fill a room with sound, and when she saw chins lifting among her audience,
the sure sign of pleasure, joy illumined her being.
In the far doorway, Parrette stood with Madame’s maid.
“She will take,” the maid said, nodding once. “What is she?
I know she is not French.”
“Her father was Italian, her mother English.”
“English! These roast-biffs, they turn up everywhere. An
adventuress?”
Parrette kept her temper. It never did to quarrel with the
servants in any house. But she would not accept even the slightest slur against
the only woman who had ever been kind to her. “Anna’s mother was the companion
to a marquis’ daughter. The family traveled to Rome. When the earl married his
daughter to an Italian count, they cast off my Signora Eugenia without a second
thought.”
“Tchah, these aristos are all alike.” The maid lifted her
shoulders in a shrug, but her tone was sympathetic. “We are well rid of them! Et puis ?”
“ Et puis she returned
to Florence, but discovered her father dead of a duel. She met Signor Ludovisi
there, who wished to be taught in English. They married. He was very old by
then, and she was already thirty. When Anna was coming, they decided to go
south to Naples, where Madame Eugenia was hired at the royal palace to teach
the children French and English, manners and language,” Parrette said. “And he
became a part of the royal orchestra. He was a great musician. She was an
angel.”
“She is one now, hein? ”
the maid asked, smiling.
Parrette accepted that in a spirit of amity, and fell silent
as they listened to the lovely romantic songs for which Anna’s voice was
especially well suited.
When the last song was sung and Anna took her bow, the
applause was gratifyingly heartfelt. The guests accepted refreshments and moved
about to congratulate Madame de Pipelet de Leury and her protégé. Snips of
conversation followed them. “. . . voice is not large enough to
fill the Feydeau, or even the Opéra-Comique . . . she is young,
she will improve . . . anywhere along the Boulevard du Temple.
Ah, yes! In a smaller theater, the women must be young and pretty. We will not
get the men in else . . . a trifle thin, but that is easily
amended. More important, she is young, which cannot be amended so easily . . .
charming arms, well displayed…”
Before the last of the guests left, Anna had been invited to
sing for a private party given by no less a figure than the sleepy Count, and
she went to bed in a whirl of happy anticipation.
The next day she was up early rehearsing.
Parrette, who discovered herself with a great deal of
freedom as Madame de Pipelet’s house was well run, put her time to good use.
She ignored most of the gossip, except that about Josephine Bonaparte, wife of
the First Consul. Before long she had gleaned useful information about where
the First Consul obtained her fabrics, and who made her gowns.
After that, it was simple enough to visit Au Grand Turc, and
look carefully at the clothes on display, or Le Roy’s shop in the rue de la Loi.
The proprietors were quite
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