“With respect, sir,” Jones said smoothly. “He is the son of a wealthy baron, as you say, and much cherished by Fremantle. He could raise exactly the sort of stink we do not want, if we renege on our promises.”
The senior agent’s rancor had originated in what he believed an inescapable truth: that a man of parts could not get ahead because of his birth. That virulence left no thought for those he considered beneath him. “Lady Hamilton,” he said with scornful emphasis. “We might have supposed no better from the likes of her. Why did we have to make promises at all?”
Jones, scenting the cloud of blame heading his way, said with an earnest air, “We had to act precipitously, with whatever means we had at hand. And we gained the knowledge needed at that moment.”
“In a disgraceful caper that ought never to have happened. Folly, sheer folly.” The chief agent picked up Anna’s letter. “Leave it to me. You will soon be Mr. Simison of Halifax, on the King’s business in North America. We will deal with this here.”
In relief, Mr. Jones departed from the office, and thence from this history, leaving his chief to scowl down at the letter. Irritation boiled up into righteous anger.
They had carried out their orders, but he understood the ways of the world. If this missive prompted Duncannon to send off a hot complaint to the First Admiral before the new legation and its staff came in, he knew who would catch the blame.
He picked up the letter and stood over the fire. The stiff formality of the wording made it plain that the girl was not in the habit of corresponding with Duncannon—the Perennial Bachelor. He was busy at the other end of the Atlantic, on the King’s service, exactly where he ought to be. Post, as everyone knew, was months late as often as not, and regularly lost altogether. As time went by, and he heard nothing, he might consider himself very well out of this trouble. As for the girl, she could find her own level, as thousands had done before, and would continue to do.
The chief agent dropped the letter into the flames, and when it had been reduced to ash, returned to his work.
5
Travel was a new and not altogether agreeable experience for Anna.
Whenever they reached major cities, they looked for newspapers in English, in hopes of gleaning mention of Danae or Pallas.
Consequently, despite summer storms, leaky vessels, armies churning up the countryside and driving up prices of food and lodging, broken axels, lame horses, and grasping opportunists not easily distinguished from outright thieves, they arrived at last in a Paris that exhibited the shocking evidence of a decade of troubles. The smells made Anna’s eyes water, and everywhere there was the noise of hammering, sawing, and stone-masons chipping away at stonework, as the repairs ordered by First Consul Bonaparte got underway.
When the diligence at last disgorged its crowd of passengers, Parrette refused to even look inside the inn adjacent. She marched out into the street until she found a fiacre to hire. They clutched their belongings tightly as the driver whistled to his horse.
Traffic moved about with a speed and a clatter that caused Anna to shut her eyes until at last they arrived on the street where Madame de Pipelet lived. By then she was certain she would suffer permanent mal-de-tête.
But as soon as the door opened to a charming apartment, Anna’s fatigue gave way to wonder. She gazed at furnishings evocative of caryatids and palm leaves in the Egyptian style that was fast becoming the very latest fashion.
A beautiful woman, sylph-thin, with heavy-lidded, intelligent eyes, glided toward them in in a cloud of floating draperies to welcome them. With a graceful gesture she led a wondering Anna into a salon decorated with waving palms and faux columns built around a fascinating reclining couch.
“Ah, my little guest, she arrives!” Madame de Pipelet kissed Anna’s cheeks, her clothes fragrant with a subtle, beguiling scent. Her profuse curls tickled Anna’s chin. “So! The tiresome questions can wait. You must refresh yourself. Tomorrow we shall hear you sing, and plan. Come this way. You shall have my husband’s chambers.”
“Will he not object?”
Madame laughed. “He is gone. One of the very few benefits from those dreadful days of revolution is divorce has become possible. Oh, the freedom, you cannot conceive!” She paused, then laughed again. “My dear Mademoiselle Ludovisi, you look positively shocked! Do you think me so abandoned? Think upon it. We females are married off as mere children, when we know little more of men than my puppy there.” She pointed to the little mop-haired dog whose claws ticked over the marble floor, then added thoughtfully, “Less. I hope and trust that if I marry again, it shall be for life. I am old enough, and experienced enough, to make a wise choice. At sixteen, no one is wise.”
“Nom d’un nom d’un nom,” Parrette whispered under her breath, and Anna blushed.
Talking on about inconsequentials in her quick French, Madame de Pipelet led Anna by the hand to another room also fitted out with Egyptian furnishings. These Anna found quite peculiar, though beautiful in their way. After washing off the grime of travel, she blew out the candles and climbed into a clean, soft bed. Though the noise of Paris still resounded outside her window, and from below came the rapid chatter of voices and the musical tinkle of fine dishes, she slept soundly.
Next morning, Parrette brought her breakfast on a tray. “Madame lies abed until midday,” she said, her eyes wide. “She will ring for you. There is a bath through that room. The servants have just finished bringing up the hot water.”
Anna threw off the covers. After a delicious soak, she dressed and went out to discover that the house was still silent. She whiled away the time wandering around the chambers examining the tables with hieroglyphics in gilding down the legs and the pyramidal cabinets decorated with graceful animal heads, then settled down with a book of poems that she found, to occupy herself with what patience she could muster.
It was closer to two when at last Madame de Pipelet summoned her. Anna came downstairs to discover that Madame was not alone. Reclining gracefully in the place of honor was a startlingly beautiful figure dressed a la Grecque, her curling brown hair bound up in a silver fillet. Anna took in the daring gown, the silver sandals, the bare toes with silver polish.
“Here, dear child, is my friend Julie Candeille, now Madame Simon, who came to us straight from the Tuileries. She will advise us.”
“Ah, Constance.” Madame Simon clapped her hands lightly, the gems on her hands sparkling. “She is so young! Let us see what we have.”
Anna looked from one to the other. “Thank you for your generous hospitality. Signora Paisiello felt certain that you could tell me how I am to go on.”
To her consternation, Madame de Pipelet burst into laughter.
“La la,” Madame Simon exclaimed, throwing up her hands. “That accent! Quaint, but oh, it will never do.”
Anna was stung to discover that the court French spoken at Naples was preposterously old-fashioned. Her mother had taken care to teach her. Anna said with mock solemnity, “Then shall I speak in this manner? It is how Parrette and I spoke while traveling, to hide our origins, in case there were revolutionaries still among the innkeepers and coachmen.”
Madame de Pipelet lifted silver-painted nails to her lips as she laughed. “Child! You sound like a flower-seller from Lyons. Which would indeed keep your head on your shoulders during the terrible days of the Terror, but those days are over, and you simply must speak like a Parisienne. But we can amend that. I detect a trained ear. It is well.”
She put her finger to her chin. “As for introducing you to Madame Bonaparte, it will not do. She is the kindest of women, but . . .” She lifted her shoulders expressively.
Anna did not care why. She had had her fill of the vagaries of royal courts. And though Bonaparte had not yet declared himself king, as many expected, she had heard enough gossip to gain an impression of autocracy to surpass even King Frederick’s.
“I care nothing for courts,” she declared.
Madame de Pipelet laughed again.
“Then it is decided. I shall throw a soiree, and you shall sing, hein? Only how shall you be known?”
“By my name,” Anna said. “As it transpires, I am actually married, so I am not Mademoiselle Ludovisi at all, but Mrs. Duncannon.”
“Milles diables! An English name? Worse and worse,” Madame Simon declared. “You must be Italian, of course. I know! What is your parentage?”
Madame de Pipelet pulled a much-folded paper from a graceful little side table that ended in faun’s feet. “Her father was connected to a count or a duke—I cannot make it out, but noble. Ponte San Bernardo?”
“Alors! You shall be Signorina Bernardo, the new child singer.”
“But I am no child. I am nearly seventeen!”
“What has that to say to anything? On the stage, you can be anything you wish, and as for your age, you look twelve, and everybody loves a child prodigy. If you in truth have as fine a voice as Madame Paisiello claims in her letter here, you will do quite well. Oh, it is just the time to be presenting yourself. Women might do anything, these days,” Madame de Pipelet said with a sigh.
Madame Simon sat upright on the reclining couch, and pronounced in a low, thrilling voice, “Only if her reputation remains spotless. Without. A. Spot. I am living proof!”
“But all that is ended now,” Madame de Pipelet said soothingly. “With the Bonapartes in charge, surely we shall return to civilization. Only better. Oh, to be young again! If you had only come a few months ago, you might now be singing in Madame Devismes’ Praxitèles. The Courrier is full of praises, and by none other than La Delacroix. Think of the possibilities!”
Madame Simon waved an imperious hand, dismissing Madame Delacroix, the Courrier, and related possibilities. “We must hear your voice, so that we might consider what best for you to sing.”
Though Anna had not warmed up her voice properly, she moved to the pretty Viennese klavier, pressed a chord as she took a deep breath, and began to sing her part from the triumph fete. It felt good to sing again.
“Very, very pure,” said Madame de Pipelet when she was done. “Perhaps a little light?” Madame Simon tapped her nails on the little mop-dog’s silky head, and its tail stirred. “Will she be heard beyond the boxes and the pit in the Feydeau?”
“We shall not worry about such things,” Madame de Pipelet stated firmly. “I’ll fill my salon with those who have the expertise.”
Madame Simon concurred. “Have her sing light airs, classic. Nothing revolutionary. Perhaps a love song or two. And voila! Instant success. I wish I could be here to see it.”
She soon took her leave, and Madame Pipelet said, “Now, let us get busy.”
o0o
She was as good as her word. Anna was swept into a flurry of shopping and dress-making. Then she was taken to a fashionable barber, who cut off her untidy, heavy braids. Her hair, freed of that weight, clung close to her head in natural curls. The back was twisted up into a charming Grecian style called a la Titus, with kiss-curls framing her high forehead.
After several days of Madame’s excellent food, her meager figure and face began to fill out a little.
Everywhere they heard the swift chatter of French, which reminded Anna of bird calls. Her sensitive, music-trained ear enabled her to swiftly mimic the Parisian accent, and then set about making it her own.
Madame de Pipelet, having dismissed with an imperious wave all the coquettes and shepherdesses of current operas, insisted that Anna must begin her concert with the angel Gabriel’s arias from Haydn’s magnificent oratorio, “The Creation,” and finish with a series of romantic songs by Madame’s good friend Alexandrine-Sophie Goury de Champgrand, who desperately needed the income from her music.
And so, while Anna rehearsed in the music room downstairs, Parrette, finding herself with free time in that well-ordered house, wandered about Paris, learning the ways of its streets. She dared to walk into the great square before the Tuileries in order to catch a glimpse of Madame Bonaparte, whose beauty was renowned all over Europe.
Parrette was disappointed of her goal, requiring her to return again and again until one day, a stir among the lounging officers and girls flirting with them indicated that at last she would be rewarded for her effort.
The crowd drew aside for a carriage pulled by no fewer than six caparisoned horses. There in the carriage, seated beside her long-faced daughter, was a woman Parrette’s own age, with a beautifully shaped head framed by a profusion of feathery dark curls.
When the carriage door opened, Parrette pressed forward in the crowd to stare at Madame Bonaparte, who wore white, draped so artfully and elegantly that Parrette scrutinized every fold, determined she would find out who made those gowns, and how.
o0o
At last came the night of the soiree.
Anna faced a crowd of glittering guests, the women wearing soft silks, thin metallic threads or pearls holding up their hair. They all sat on pretty little chairs, surrounding the guest of honor, the Count Joseph de Salm-Reifferscheidt-Dyck. Anna was at first intimidated by this grand 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 trif
le 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 happy to display the sumptuous gowns they made for Madame Bonaparte, as they deemed it good for business. They did not know that Parrette, with her rigorous eye, meticulously observed the seams and the drape, as well as the deceptively simple curves and dips of the horizontal bodice contrasted with the pure, slim line of skirts.
She took these observations home, talked to Madame about her ideas, and was advanced a sum against expected gifts, with which to buy fabrics and trim. Parrette was no less enthusiastic than Anna as she got to work.
o0o
Madame de Pipelet loved the theater, and maintained boxes at the three main venues. It was here that Anna saw the latest plays and operas. When the First Consul and his wife attended the theater, the entire crowd took note.
So did Anna. But she scarcely glanced at the thin man in the blue and white uniform; her attention was all on Bonaparte’s wife. How beautifully she moved! How beautiful she was, seen across the vast width of the theater!
A great commotion brought Madame’s party to a standstill in the lobby of the Théâtre-Français one night. Here, Anna glimpsed the famous woman up close. She was quite shocked to discover that Josephine was old, forty at least!