Rondo Allegro Page 4

  He walked out into the night air, determined to shed his ire. The matter could wait a week or two, after all. He was not seriously discommoded outside of wishing the business over so he could forget it had ever occurred. He never intended to marry. The devil fly away with all women and their grasping ways!

  ‘All women’ usually wearing one face, and one name: Emily Elstead.

  4

  “What did he say?” Parrette asked, hands clasped tightly.

  Anna repeated the entire conversation, and ended with, “He wrote Michel’s name in his pocketbook.”

  “He wrote Michel’s name?” At a stroke of the pencil, this man had separated himself out from the generality of his worthless sex, though she was afraid to let herself hope beyond that.

  “He did.”

  “We shall see if that means anything,” Parrette said cautiously.

  “I must go, for the maestro sent for me,” Anna said.

  Parrette sighed. Now that the fete was over, the servants faced the monumental task of cleanup. Although, strictly speaking, she, as the maidservant to a lady, was exempt from the worst of the labor, there had been a long time in her life when such labor was expected. She was not afraid of work, and she had found that willingness to turn her hand not only earned goodwill from her fellow servants, but furnished the opportunity to hear vital news.

  Anna repaired to the music chamber. She knew from experience not to expect unstinting praise, so she was not surprised to find Maestro Paisiello beetling his brows at her as he said, “You did well enough considering the stupefying heat, and those evil vapors, but my dear Anna, you were weak. You are too thin!” he declared, poking himself in the chest. “Can your sound resonate through so flimsy a frame? Would you perform upon a violin made of paper? No! I want you to sing the angel’s part in my new opera, but you are going to have to work on your breathing to lift that voice. And you must eat.” He banged his baton on his music stand in emphasis.

  Anna left the maestro after her lesson, determined to throw herself back into her music. It was the only way to fill in the hole in her life left by her Papa, and to cease the chatter of questions she could not answer about this marriage that felt as substantial as a mirage.

  A week turned into a month. At its end she received a summons from the legation. There, instead of being conducted to Lady Hamilton, she was met by the lady’s chief maid, who passed her a letter, directed correctly to ‘Mrs. Duncannon.’

  “It was included in the dispatches for the admiral,” the maid said with a meaningful glance whose message entirely escaped Anna. Her thoughts were on this, her very first letter.

  The words ‘Mrs. Duncannon’ made her heart give an odd gallop. She felt very unlike herself, as if someone wished her to play a part off the stage, instead of on.

  Aboard the Danae:

  Mrs. Duncannon: Pray inform your Mrs. Duflot that I sent out an inquiry, and have today rec’d notice that one ‘Michael Deflew’ serves aboard the sloop-of-war Pallas. He is about the right age. I have no more to offer than this.

  I had hoped to wait upon you to settle our Affairs, but I find I am directed to join Martin in Genoa in support of Field-Marshal Sovarov. When duty permits, I shall do myself the honor of waiting upon you; I trust by then that you will have been called upon by Mr. Jones, who promised to execute our Mutual legal Interests.

  I conclude in wishing you good Health and happiness,

  Yr. ob’d s’vt, H. Duncannon.

  Anna took the letter to Parrette, and handed it over wordlessly.

  Parrette made out the letters slowly, for English, with its impossible spelling, was difficult for her to read. Neither Parrette nor Anna paid the least heed to the words about ‘mutual legal interests,’ legalities of any sort lying entirely outside their experience. Their attention was entirely consumed with the astonishing news that Michel had been found, after years of not knowing.

  “Captain Duncannon is an angel,” Parrette proclaimed, threw her apron over her head, and wept.

  o0o

  As the days turned into weeks, and thence months, during which no notes followed that first one, Parrette took to winnowing out news through her usual labyrinthine methods. It was she, and not Anna, who discovered that Duncannon had been sent to Minorca to aid in keeping the strait free, and finally to Gibraltar, as Lord St. Vincent, who was gravely ill, had sailed home, to be replaced by Lord Keith. There was no word of the Pallas, which seemed to belong to another fleet.

  Parrette also discovered through the same sources that the whispers about Admiral Nelson and Lady Hamilton had become general gossip, and further, that Lord Keith was not pleased at all with Nelson, and far from granting various commissions, favors, and requests, had sent orders to the admiral to quit Naples.

  Anna was too busy to think about those things, except at a distant remove. The royal family demanded entertainment, and entertainment they must have. The more unsettled the world due to French invasions and various nations fighting back and forth, the more people seemed to want the escape of music, plays, and operas. Anna was happiest singing, with the added benefit that it did not leave her time to grieve. She had a goal, to sing her very first major role, which meant hard work under the maestro’s exacting eye.

  Then one morning Parrette woke Anna with the news, “Admiral Nelson is to set sail to join Lord Keith.”

  Anna mentally shrugged. Though she admired Admiral Lord Nelson, as everyone did, she had never been close enough to speak a word to him, and his doings seemed very distant from hers. But she had grown up under Parrette’s daily care. She knew all the maid’s expressions. “I think you are displeased.”

  “It is not my place to be displeased or not, signorina. Mais alors . . .”

  “Mais alors?” Anna prompted.

  Parrette had folded her wiry arms in the way Anna had learnt indicated the maid was in possession of an article of news of which she did not approve.

  Parrette struggled within herself, and finally said slowly and reluctantly, “It seems to come about due to these whispers concerning the admiral and Lady Hamilton. Lord Keith is reputed to be displeased with the admiral.”

  Anna looked surprised. “But why? Is he not a hero? Oh, I think I have heard something or other. But I never paid it much heed. Lady Hamilton is kind and generous to everyone.”

  Parrette understood Anna’s loyalty to her benefactress, for she now felt the same about Duncannon. Others might worship Nelson, but he was nothing compared the man who had become The Captain in her mind. “I thought it my duty to tell you what is being said, but more important, the result is, the fleet might be sent away for a long period. And if the legate is recalled, because of what is whispered about his wife, you may find yourself in a difficult position.”

  “But surely the maestro would pay no attention to rumors,” Anna protested.

  Parrette sighed. “You do not understand. It is the Hamiltons who have arranged for our wherewithal. Maestro Paisiello, while in every way a fine man, a genius, he still must depend upon the royal family for his pension. Do you think they will extend their generosity to you, if the Hamiltons do not take you with them?”

  “They did for Papa,” Anna said slowly.

  “But he was a master violinist. The singers are paid by the piece, and unless you gain a primary role, it is scarcely enough to live on. More to the point, if you were known to be earning even a minuscule stipend, you would be ruined. English ladies in good society do not earn their livings in this way, you know that! Your Mama taught you to be a lady.”

  “Then we cannot depend upon Lady Hamilton?” Anna asked.

  “She might not be in a position to be depended upon, if the rumors are true. Fi donc! There is nothing to be done except to live very carefully, and wait until The Captain either sends someone to fetch you, or his Mr. Jones he mentioned in his letter arrives to make arrangements.”

  Anna spoke assent, but mentally added, And practice my music.

  o0o

  At
first, all problems appeared to be solved when the admiral returned in triumph after having won a spectacular battle against the French man-of-war Genereux. But a great portion of his fleet, including Captain Duncannon, remained at sea at the other end of the Mediterranean, and hard on that came the astounding news that Sir William had been recalled to London.

  Everybody and everything was in an uproar.

  Parrette kept her worries behind closed lips until she was told by the palace steward that the legation was soon to depart, and Anna must either depart with them, or find somewhere else to live. No, there was no Mr. Jones at the legation, and never had been.

  Anna, on hearing that, ran straight to the legate’s house, where she spent the rest of the day in a crowded antechamber waiting for an interview.

  It was very late that night when at last Lady Hamilton’s maid summoned her to the lady’s powder room. While Lady Hamilton clasped diamonds at her throat and ears, and her personal maid finished arranging her hair, Anna explained what the steward had said.

  Lady Hamilton looked sorrowful. “My dear, there is simply nothing to be done! Here, take this.” She unclasped the bracelet from her arm, and handed it to Anna. “Alas, Sir William’s affairs are all in a muddle, and his health is wretched. This is one reason why the dear Admiral has generously offered to carry him, and of course myself, as his devoted nurse, on a repairing cruise to Malta. Once Sir William has regained his strength, Queen Maria Carolina is pressing him to keep his promise of conveying the royal family from Palermo to Leghorn. We are already too crowded. There is not an inch of room to spare! If you have not yet heard from your captain, why do you not speak to the queen about an appointment? I am truly sorry, but even dear Lord Nelson can do little at present, not with Lord Keith as his most determined enemy.”

  Anna departed tired and worried. When she reached the palace, Parrette was sitting by their single window with her sewing.

  Once Anna had related the news, Parrette said firmly, “You must write to The Captain.”

  “But he is so far away,” Anna said. “And we have heard nothing at all. I have been thinking. It seems to me that he has forgotten.” She sighed, then admitted, “I was listening to the talk while I waited, and it seems some of these captains are not all they should be. Who is to say that he has not done as M. Duflot did? Perhaps he already possesses a wife somewhere impossibly far away, such as Scotland?”

  Parrette bit her lip. One of the many sins that her wretch of a husband had committed, she had discovered before she left France, was that he had another wife in Marseilles. Anna had learnt that by accident, before her parents discovered how much Italian she understood. “I think you owe it to him to report that the Hamiltons have abandoned you. He made a promise before God. It is his duty to keep it.”

  “I will write to him, but I’ll also talk to Maestro Paisiello,” Anna said. “I would as lief work in the theater at any event.”

  “No,” Parrette stated, her arms crossed. “You promised Signora Eugenia you would never stoop to taking wages in the theater. A lady cannot do that, especially in England.”

  Anna nodded slowly, thinking of the horrid things that she had read in Mama’s cherished English newspapers about Mrs. Billington, the great soprano, who earned her living as a singer. Then she crossed her arms, mirroring Parrette’s own gesture. “It seems I am not going to England. I must live somewhere, and on what?”

  She walked in brow-furrowed puzzlement to the music chambers behind the royal theater, where she encountered Signora Paisiello, who was busy stitching costumes.

  “The maestro is away getting those new music sheets printed. What clouds the brow of our angel?” the signora asked.

  Anna began to relate her bad news. To her vast surprise, she had only got a few sentences in when the signora exclaimed, “So!”

  The signora raised her needle, resettled her wig, and leaned forward. “We have been talking on that very head, Paisiello and I, about what we are to do for our cherished students if the French return, especially if the English abandon us to our fate. Money is indeed scarce for those such as us. The king is not to be relied upon, especially with the political scene so unsettled. It is our belief you ought to quit Naples altogether, and go to Paris.”

  “Paris!” Anna exclaimed. “But . . . the war, the soldiers!”

  The signora waved her hand to and fro. “There is no war in Paris. Even the guillotine rusts from disuse. Why, from what I hear, Buonaparte is soon to declare himself king of France. Think of it, an Italian on the throne of France, ha ha!”

  “I thought he was from Corsica?”

  “The Buonapartes are Florentines,” Signora Paisiello stated with a moue of disapprobation. “He may call himself Bonaparte however much he likes, but I never shall. Bonaparte! Such an impossible name! It will never stick.” And, as Anna had nothing to say to this prediction, the signora went on. “It’s rumored the family ran to Corsica after the Ghibelline troubles, as did many others. But a leopard does not change his spots, even if he calls himself a lion.”

  She poked her finger through her high-piled powdered wig to scratch at her scalp. “Here is what is important: Buonaparte loves music. He has written Paisiello a hundred times, saying he still hums the march written for General Hoche’s memorial, and promises a fortune if we would come to Paris. Paisiello wavers, for he is deep in rehearsals, with the music near finishing, and the stage near to ready. But you? No such trouble binds you.”

  “I do not write music,” Anna began.

  The signora laughed, shaking all over. “No! But you sing! Perhaps it might not have been possible over the past years, for everything was revolution, revolution, revolution, I hear, but they say the comic opera is coming back into fashion in Paris. Now, you are yet too young for the great roles, for you are not the equal of the great Mrs. Billington, but who is? There are a great many opportunities for a singer of your talents in a city just beginning to rediscover the arts!”

  Anna clasped her hands.

  Seeing her flushed, smiling face, the signora went on. “We could send you to Buonaparte’s wife with a letter of recommendation. Lei è così volubile! They say that she is kind, therefore she must get thousands such. Perhaps it would be better to send you to Constance de Pipelet de Leury. I will write ahead to prepare the way! She is a poet, a rich one, who champions the women of the theatre. She might be able to approach Madame Buonaparte, or failing that, will surely find you a place if Paisiello asks it of her.”

  “A place! But . . .” Anna’s joy vanished. “I promised my mother . . .”

  Signora Paisiello remembered the Signora very well, and her peculiarly English notions. “When I say ‘a place,’ it means you must become her guest! And if it chances you perform for a select audience, and they happen to reward you, who is to say anything?”

  Anna left shortly afterward, and crossed the palace thinking hard about all she had heard in the past few days. It was plain that staying in Naples was not just a difficulty, but it was fast becoming a danger. The royal family might flee, and they would not care a whit for anyone but themselves.

  “I like the idea of Paris,” Anna said when she rejoined Parrette. “If I still have not heard from Captain Duncannon, or this Mr. Jones, by the next packet that arrives, it will prove that he does not think of me at all. So I must think of myself, and I am determined to go. Only how are we to set about traveling? We’ve only a few coins left from the sale of Papa’s violin.”

  Parrette said firmly, “That bracelet Lady Hamilton gave you. I will sell it, and those rubies, and any other jewels you can bear to part with. We will probably never see their true worth, but I can bargain better than you will be able to.”

  Anna agreed, adding, “I will keep only the pearl ear drops Lady Hamilton gave me when I first sang for her Attitudes, and my mother’s trinkets. They would not bring much, anyway.”

  o0o

  At the same time that Anna and Parrette embarked on the arduous journey to Paris, on the fa
r side of the Atlantic, Captain Duncannon received word of his promotion to post captain. Overjoyed, he did not mind being ordered to hand over the Danae to another man and return to England. He was promised command of a frigate recently bought into the service.

  He spared a thought to Naples, trusting that no communication arriving with his new orders meant that matters were in train as promised.

  But in Naples, as servants labored to load Sir William’s collection of antiquities and art into the hold of a ship, in a small room over an inn not far from the legation, several men labored to sort through a mass of papers. The erstwhile Mr. Jones sat among them, deftly unsealing letters and reading them.

  He had made three piles: those to be sent on as was, those to be copied by one of the young clerks at the far table before being resealed, and those he consigned to the fire.

  Presently he came to Anna’s carefully written missive, which brought memory of the entire affair rushing back.

  He set the letter down to consider. Nelson was about to strike his flag and return to England. If Lord Keith had his way, Nelson would never sail again, but in any case his influence was diminishing fast. Troubridge had made it plain that his own portion of the wretched business had ended with supplying a suitable captain. After that it was Whitehall’s problem.

  Mr. Jones tapped the letter against his fingers, then rose and crossed to the far room, where his superior was instructing a young man carrying a dispatch case. The young man wheeled about and departed.

  “What is it?”

  Mr. Jones eyed his superior, whose tired, embittered countenance did not encourage speech. In silence he held out the letter.

  The senior agent had operated under many names over the years, but none of them were aristocratic. In his secret heart, he sometimes thought that the French had had the right of it, words he would never speak aloud.

  He threw the letter back. “What of it? Duncannon is the son of a wealthy baron. Send it on, and let him settle his own affairs.”