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Authors: Miranda Neville
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better scholar than merchant, she reflected, since he’d left her almost penniless.
“Signor Foscari didn’t like to trouble me with business,” she continued. “After his death, the translator sent me a package of papers. It turns out he was most meticulous in keeping copies of everything he wrote. I found this.”
She handed Butterworth the letter.
Busetto, 24th June, 1816
J. Smith, Bristol
Sir
I regret that I cannot assist you in regard to your inquiry addressed to my wife. Teresa Foscari is not the daughter of Jonathan Birkett and Suzanne de Chastelux.
Yours etc.
Domenico Foscari.
“Short and to the point,” was the lawyer’s comment.
“Yes,” she replied. “And untrue.”
“Do you know why your husband denied the relationship? Was he perhaps protecting you from importunity.”
“I have no idea. But I’d like to find out whether the inquiry came from my father’s family. I know nothing of his relations, even if any exist.”
“You grew up abroad, I believe,” Butterworth probed delicately.
“I was born in Paris but my parents fled from the Revolutionary terror to Portugal when I was a young child. My father gained employment in the port wine exporting company of Waring and Sons in Oporto. My mother died soon afterwards and my father when I was thirteen. After that I was taken in by his employers, the Warings.”
“Have you asked them if they know of Mr. Birkett’s connections?”
Tessa looked down at her lap. “I’m not in contact with them. They disapproved of my marriage.”
Mr. Butterworth cleared his throat tactfully. “So I take it, madam, you would like to find Mr. Smith.”
“Is it possible?”
“Very likely, though it won’t be easy. Who knows how many J. Smiths reside in Bristol? It could well be a lengthy and expensive inquiry.”
And that, Tessa thought, was the rub. She was in no position to fund the search. Not for the first time since she’d discovered Domenico’s perfidy, she cursed her husband. Not only had he rejected an overture that might come from her father’s family, he’d made sure she was in no financial position to undo the damage.
CHAPTER FIVE
“The actual subscribers to the Regent Opera House are entreated to observe that their Subscriptions are to be paid at the Office, where they may at the same time receive the Tickets for their boxes.”
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“W e have to fill almost nine tenths of the seats at every performance to break even?” Max tried to keep his voice level, not wanting to communicate any hint of panic to Simon Lindo.
Apparently he succeeded. Simon’s response reflected no deeper emotion than mild exasperation. “We discussed the economy of the Regent at great length before the plans were completed.”
True enough, but Max hadn’t been listening, not really listening. What had interested him was the design itself. The Regent was modeled after the European court theaters: elegant; intimate; a jewel box of an auditorium where every action and note performed on stage could be seen and heard from every seat in the house. The opposite of that aging barracks known as the Tavistock.
Right now every one of the nearly three thousand seats in that seedy barracks was sold out. Meanwhile the jewel box, with its modest capacity of sixteen hundred, was playing half full.
He listened intently as Simon went into detail about revenues to be expected from tickets sales in the pit at ten shillings and sixpence a piece and gallery admissions at five shillings.
“What do we need to do?” Max asked, now properly impressed with the urgent necessity to fill the Regent’s boxes and benches, soon.
“For a start we need to collect payments from the subscribers.” People of wealth and fashion paid in advance, at a reduced price, for the right to occupy private boxes for the entire season. Max himself bought subscriptions at every major theater.
“I thought we’d sold almost every box for the season,” he said. “Ours have the best
“Signor Foscari didn’t like to trouble me with business,” she continued. “After his death, the translator sent me a package of papers. It turns out he was most meticulous in keeping copies of everything he wrote. I found this.”
She handed Butterworth the letter.
Busetto, 24th June, 1816
J. Smith, Bristol
Sir
I regret that I cannot assist you in regard to your inquiry addressed to my wife. Teresa Foscari is not the daughter of Jonathan Birkett and Suzanne de Chastelux.
Yours etc.
Domenico Foscari.
“Short and to the point,” was the lawyer’s comment.
“Yes,” she replied. “And untrue.”
“Do you know why your husband denied the relationship? Was he perhaps protecting you from importunity.”
“I have no idea. But I’d like to find out whether the inquiry came from my father’s family. I know nothing of his relations, even if any exist.”
“You grew up abroad, I believe,” Butterworth probed delicately.
“I was born in Paris but my parents fled from the Revolutionary terror to Portugal when I was a young child. My father gained employment in the port wine exporting company of Waring and Sons in Oporto. My mother died soon afterwards and my father when I was thirteen. After that I was taken in by his employers, the Warings.”
“Have you asked them if they know of Mr. Birkett’s connections?”
Tessa looked down at her lap. “I’m not in contact with them. They disapproved of my marriage.”
Mr. Butterworth cleared his throat tactfully. “So I take it, madam, you would like to find Mr. Smith.”
“Is it possible?”
“Very likely, though it won’t be easy. Who knows how many J. Smiths reside in Bristol? It could well be a lengthy and expensive inquiry.”
And that, Tessa thought, was the rub. She was in no position to fund the search. Not for the first time since she’d discovered Domenico’s perfidy, she cursed her husband. Not only had he rejected an overture that might come from her father’s family, he’d made sure she was in no financial position to undo the damage.
CHAPTER FIVE
“The actual subscribers to the Regent Opera House are entreated to observe that their Subscriptions are to be paid at the Office, where they may at the same time receive the Tickets for their boxes.”
Advertisement
“W e have to fill almost nine tenths of the seats at every performance to break even?” Max tried to keep his voice level, not wanting to communicate any hint of panic to Simon Lindo.
Apparently he succeeded. Simon’s response reflected no deeper emotion than mild exasperation. “We discussed the economy of the Regent at great length before the plans were completed.”
True enough, but Max hadn’t been listening, not really listening. What had interested him was the design itself. The Regent was modeled after the European court theaters: elegant; intimate; a jewel box of an auditorium where every action and note performed on stage could be seen and heard from every seat in the house. The opposite of that aging barracks known as the Tavistock.
Right now every one of the nearly three thousand seats in that seedy barracks was sold out. Meanwhile the jewel box, with its modest capacity of sixteen hundred, was playing half full.
He listened intently as Simon went into detail about revenues to be expected from tickets sales in the pit at ten shillings and sixpence a piece and gallery admissions at five shillings.
“What do we need to do?” Max asked, now properly impressed with the urgent necessity to fill the Regent’s boxes and benches, soon.
“For a start we need to collect payments from the subscribers.” People of wealth and fashion paid in advance, at a reduced price, for the right to occupy private boxes for the entire season. Max himself bought subscriptions at every major theater.
“I thought we’d sold almost every box for the season,” he said. “Ours have the best
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