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Authors: Miranda Neville
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view and most comfortable seats in London.”
The Regent’s manager raised his hands above his grey-streaked head and cast dark eyes heavenward, as though beseeching a higher power to bring enlightenment to his less experienced partner. “Ordering a subscription is one thing,” he said with patience, “paying for it another. That’s why we’ve been placing advertisements in all the newspapers for the past week.” He flipped open a box on the desk.
Max surveyed the contents of the wooden case. He considered the care, not to mention the money, he’d expended in the design of the permanent tickets that subscribers would carry to gain entry to their boxes. Where the older London theaters, including the Tavistock, issued well-worn squares of ivory, the Regent’s tickets were silver, handsomely engraved with the name of the theater and the box number. He’d commissioned a special case for them, of mahogany lined with green felt, with numbered slots for each box. Nobody received their tickets until the subscription was paid for, a theater box being one of the few items in London that the upper classes couldn’t purchase on tick. Unhappily the Regent’s ticket case was far from empty.
“The boxes were full on opening night,” he remarked.
“We had no trouble selling every seat for the first performance. Naturally we weren’t going to let the boxes sit unoccupied. That’s bad business, and it looks bad too. But we need the income from the subscriptions to cover expenses we must pay in advance.”
“Let me look at the subscription book.” Max ran his eyes down the list of names of those who, in the months leading to the opera house’s opening, had reserved boxes. It was a glittering list of the great, the fair, and the merely rich. In short, the cream of London society.
“These people can well afford to pay, most of them,” he said in disgust. Max always paid his bills as soon as they arrived. Or rather his steward did.
“You can be sure they’ve all sent the monies to the Tavistock,” Simon said pointedly. “La Divina is the rage right now. It’s the fashion to be seen at her performances.”
Max had tried to forget Teresa Foscari since their unpleasant meeting but apparently he wasn’t allowed to. He had, after all, promised Simon he’d talk to her.
“I spoke to her at Lady Storrington’s,” he said. “There’s no chance she’ll break her contract with the Tavistock. We’ll have to become the fashion by ourselves.”
Simon looked skeptical. “Without Foscari?” He coughed delicately. “It would be easier to lure her over to our side…”
Max interrupted before his partner could come up with a new, unwelcome plan requiring conversation with the rapacious soprano. He never wanted to speak to her again, or see her. Even on stage.
“Without Foscari,” he vowed. “We’ll have these misers crawling to us, begging to be allowed to enter the Regent. I’m going to make us all the rage.”
*
With the goal of making the Regent Opera House the destination of choice for fashionable London, Max had sifted through the long-ignored litter of engraved pasteboard on his desk. Little as he cared for the distinction, the Hawthorne heir was on the guest list of every hostess who could summon up a claim of acquaintance. He wasn’t happy at the prospect of appearing in salons and ballrooms to talk up his precious opera house like a common street corner shill. But it had to be done. The evening found him attending a rout party at the house of Mrs. Sackville, together with some five hundred of that lady’s closest friends and her one determined rival, the Countess of Storrington.
“I wish, Lady Storrington, that you will seriously contemplate taking a box at the Regent for the season. You won’t want to miss the opening of Signor Rossini’s new opera next week. And we can promise you the best in music, sets and costumes.”
“Your theater is beautiful. I was there on the opening night.” The
The Regent’s manager raised his hands above his grey-streaked head and cast dark eyes heavenward, as though beseeching a higher power to bring enlightenment to his less experienced partner. “Ordering a subscription is one thing,” he said with patience, “paying for it another. That’s why we’ve been placing advertisements in all the newspapers for the past week.” He flipped open a box on the desk.
Max surveyed the contents of the wooden case. He considered the care, not to mention the money, he’d expended in the design of the permanent tickets that subscribers would carry to gain entry to their boxes. Where the older London theaters, including the Tavistock, issued well-worn squares of ivory, the Regent’s tickets were silver, handsomely engraved with the name of the theater and the box number. He’d commissioned a special case for them, of mahogany lined with green felt, with numbered slots for each box. Nobody received their tickets until the subscription was paid for, a theater box being one of the few items in London that the upper classes couldn’t purchase on tick. Unhappily the Regent’s ticket case was far from empty.
“The boxes were full on opening night,” he remarked.
“We had no trouble selling every seat for the first performance. Naturally we weren’t going to let the boxes sit unoccupied. That’s bad business, and it looks bad too. But we need the income from the subscriptions to cover expenses we must pay in advance.”
“Let me look at the subscription book.” Max ran his eyes down the list of names of those who, in the months leading to the opera house’s opening, had reserved boxes. It was a glittering list of the great, the fair, and the merely rich. In short, the cream of London society.
“These people can well afford to pay, most of them,” he said in disgust. Max always paid his bills as soon as they arrived. Or rather his steward did.
“You can be sure they’ve all sent the monies to the Tavistock,” Simon said pointedly. “La Divina is the rage right now. It’s the fashion to be seen at her performances.”
Max had tried to forget Teresa Foscari since their unpleasant meeting but apparently he wasn’t allowed to. He had, after all, promised Simon he’d talk to her.
“I spoke to her at Lady Storrington’s,” he said. “There’s no chance she’ll break her contract with the Tavistock. We’ll have to become the fashion by ourselves.”
Simon looked skeptical. “Without Foscari?” He coughed delicately. “It would be easier to lure her over to our side…”
Max interrupted before his partner could come up with a new, unwelcome plan requiring conversation with the rapacious soprano. He never wanted to speak to her again, or see her. Even on stage.
“Without Foscari,” he vowed. “We’ll have these misers crawling to us, begging to be allowed to enter the Regent. I’m going to make us all the rage.”
*
With the goal of making the Regent Opera House the destination of choice for fashionable London, Max had sifted through the long-ignored litter of engraved pasteboard on his desk. Little as he cared for the distinction, the Hawthorne heir was on the guest list of every hostess who could summon up a claim of acquaintance. He wasn’t happy at the prospect of appearing in salons and ballrooms to talk up his precious opera house like a common street corner shill. But it had to be done. The evening found him attending a rout party at the house of Mrs. Sackville, together with some five hundred of that lady’s closest friends and her one determined rival, the Countess of Storrington.
“I wish, Lady Storrington, that you will seriously contemplate taking a box at the Regent for the season. You won’t want to miss the opening of Signor Rossini’s new opera next week. And we can promise you the best in music, sets and costumes.”
“Your theater is beautiful. I was there on the opening night.” The
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