Secrets of a Soprano by Miranda Neville

Author:Miranda Neville
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Romance
Publisher: Miranda Neville
Published: 2016-03-22T04:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“With little astonishment we learn that Madame Foscari’s lack of generosity extends to the good English singers of the Tavistock company. Cruel disparagement and displays of temper are the lot of those forced to share the stage with Madame F.”

The Morning Post

“Ma chère Thérèse!” Having greeted his hostess with a sweeping obeisance to the hand and a few lavish compliments in broken English, Edouard Delorme took Tessa by the shoulders and saluted her on each cheek. “Quelle joie de te voir.”

Tessa suffered his touch, though she’d sooner embrace a scorpion. “Edouard,” she murmured. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

The tenor rattled on in rapid French. “You should have let me know where you are living in London. I would have called.”

“My residence has, of course, been a big secret.”

“You are upset with me, chérie. We have meant so much to each other. But now I shall call. Do not worry.”

As though his absence would disturb her for a single second!

“Ne te dérange pas,” she said, unclenching her teeth. “But we must speak English, Edouard. It is not polite to our fellow guests.” She guessed that most of those observing the meeting were capable of following a conversation in French, but knowing the tenor’s work habits she doubted he’d troubled to prepare for his London engagement by thoroughly studying the local language. Her superior knowledge gave her a much-needed advantage.

He flashed a smile at the gathered observers and seemed not a whit discomposed. “I do not speak the English so good. Not like you. Mais je fais l’effort.”

Lady Clarissa cut into the exchange. “You know each other, I see. Have you sung together?”

“Many times…” he began.

“We appeared together in Paris…”

“When I was très jeune. Thérèse was already the prima donna.” He implied was that she by far his elder, and Tessa resented it. They were, in fact, the same age, but her career had blossomed earlier than Delorme’s. She had been an established luminary when she’d noticed his talent in a small role and asked the Paris management to engage him to sing opposite her.

He took her gloved hand in his and gazed soulfully at her. “It ’as been too long, Thérèse, since we sing together. I ’ave missed you. Quelle tragédie that we sing now for different ’ouses.” He leaned in and she smelled the mint lozenges he sucked to keep his breath sweet. “I am désolé to ’ear of your difficultés in London.”

Like hell he was. An embryo of panic formed in her chest but she fought it. Even the thought of her breathing exercises was enough to arrest it stillborn. Buoyed by her success, she smiled tolerantly.

“I have been generally received in London with great éclat. This little contretemps will pass soon.” Dear Lord, she hoped so. “Doubtless we will appear together again someday. Perhaps in Vienna or St. Petersburg.”

Maybe China. If she had her choice it would be when they performed opera on the moon, and not a day sooner.

“Why not tonight?” Simon Lindo’s voice broke in.

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