Читать книгу Regency Improprieties - Diane Gaston - Страница 15

Two days later Flynn once more stood before the door of Rose O’Keefe’s lodgings. Tanner had charged him with giving Rose something that would induce her to accept him. Something more precious to her than emerald rings. Something that was her heart’s desire. Something that would ensure his winning over Greythorne.

Flynn had arranged it.

He listened to the voices of Mr O’Keefe and Miss Dawes inside, and hesitated a moment before rapping on the door.

‘Answer the door,’ Miss Dawes shouted from within.

Footsteps sounded across the floor. The door opened.

‘Yes?’ O’Keefe broke into a smile when he saw Flynn standing there. ‘Why, it is Mr Flynn, is it not? Come in, sir. Come in.’

Flynn entered the room.

‘Mr Flynn.’ Miss Dawes’s voice was syrupy ‘.it is a pleasure to see you.’

‘I come to call upon Miss O’Keefe, if you please,’ Flynn said.

O’Keefe looked hopeful.

Miss Dawes said, ‘I hope you have come to make an offer. We cannot wait for ever.’

Flynn disliked such brashness. ‘I would urge more patience. The marquess is taking the next step. That is why I have come.’

‘Rose is at the market, shopping for dinner. She will be home shortly.’ Miss Dawes gave a frustrated gesture, and Flynn spied the emerald ring on her finger.

Flynn frowned. ‘I must take my leave. I shall return when Miss O’Keefe is home.’

Before they could object, he was out of the door, heading to the market in hopes of finding her. He passed stall after stall of fruits and vegetables, each owner loudly attesting that his wares were the finest. One stall even sold hedgehogs, an animal some Londoners fancied as a pet, mainly because of its appetite for beetles.

Covent Garden was also the ‘den of iniquity,’ the place where dolly-mops and lightskirts congregated, displaying themselves much like the colourful oranges, limes and lemons on the fruit stalls. Had Flynn wished for some female company, he had only to nod and show his coin, but he was intent on finding Rose.

He spied her at a stand where herbs were displayed, lifting a fragrant bundle of lavender to her nose. He navigated his way through the shoppers to reach her.

She saw him approach and put the lavender down. ‘Flynn.’ She gave him a cautious smile.

He tipped his hat. ‘Good day, Rose.’

‘What a lovely surprise.’ Her smile fled as she glanced over to a group of doxies loudly hawking themselves. ‘Are … are you here to shop?’

He saw the direction of her gaze and realised she thought he might be looking for female company. ‘I came looking for you.’

‘For me?’ Her emerald eyes looked cautious.

‘Come, let us walk together.’ He reached for the basket she carried on her arm.

They strolled past the stalls in the direction of her lodgings, entering a quieter part of the street.

‘Why did you look for me, Flynn?’ She asked in a soft voice.

‘Lord Tannerton has a gift for you.’

She blinked and looked away. ‘I do not want a gift.’

‘You will like this one,’ he assured her.

She tossed him a sceptical glance.

‘Lord Tanner has arranged for Signor Angrisani and Miss Hughes of King’s Theatre to give you lessons in voice—’

She clutched his arm. ‘You do not mean it!’

He tried to keep his face composed, but her excitement resonated inside him. ‘Indeed. And if your voice is suitable, Lord Tanner has convinced Mr Ayrton to use you in the chorus, for at least one performance.’

‘Mr Ayrton?’

‘The musical director,’ he explained.

Her eyes grew as large as saucers. ‘I would perform on the stage of the King’s Theatre?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, Flynn!’ Her voice cracked and her face was flushed with colour. Every muscle and nerve in his body sprang to life.

‘It is wonderful!’ She twirled around, but stopped abruptly. ‘Oh.’

‘What?’

She stared into the distance as if unable to speak. Suddenly she turned back to him. ‘Lord Tannerton arranged this?’

He opened his mouth to answer, but was silenced by another transformation of her features.

An ethereal smile slowly grew on her face, and she seemed to glow from within. She lifted her jewel-like eyes to his. ‘You arranged this, Flynn.’

Both gratification and guilt engulfed him. He’d pleased her, as he longed to do, but she must believe it was on Tannerton’s behalf.

She touched his arm, the sensation of her fingers on his sleeve radiating through all parts of him.

‘You arranged this for me.’ Her voice was awed. ‘Oh, Flynn!’

Rose took in Flynn’s handsome, too-serious features, her heart swelling in her chest. He alone had known what this meant to her. Flynn was giving her what she’d dreamed of for as long as she could remember.

‘You have arranged for my fondest wish to come true,’ she whispered, gazing into the depths of his eyes.

Four young bucks staggered toward them, holding on to each other and swaying with too much drink. One of them grinned. ‘You plucked a right rose,’ he said to Flynn. ‘M’hat’s off to you.’ The young man tried to reach his hat, but the lot of them nearly toppled over as a result. With his companions cursing him for nearly knocking them down, they stumbled away.

‘They think I am your doxy,’ she said to Flynn.

She’d received other frank remarks from men in the market that afternoon, remarks that made her cringe with discomfort and hurry on her way, but somehow she did not mind so much to be thought of as Flynn’s doxy.

But he looked pained, so she changed the subject. ‘Tell me where I am to go, what time, what I am to do.’

‘If you are able, the signor and Miss Hughes will see you at King’s Theatre tomorrow, at two o’clock.’ He spoke stiffly, as if he were scheduling some appointment for the marquess. ‘I shall come to escort you there.’

‘You will?’ That made her even happier. She wanted to share her dream with him.

They walked the rest of the way to her lodgings, she in happy silence. All she could think of was walking in to King’s Theatre on Flynn’s arm. Perhaps he would stay and listen to her sing. Perhaps he would escort her home and she could talk to him about each moment of the lesson.

Her building was in sight, and she was loathe to leave him, even though his expression was as hard as chiselled granite. This gift he would give her came with strings attached, she knew. The time was approaching when she must repay Lord Tannerton for what Flynn had done for her.

As they neared the door of her building, Flynn slowed his pace. ‘I spoke with your father and Miss Dawes,’ he said. ‘They are pressing for Lord Tannerton to make his offer.’

She nodded.

‘It is your move, Rose, but I urge you not to delay. Your father may accept another offer not to your liking.’

‘With Greythorne?’

‘Yes.’

Rose knew he spoke the truth.

‘I must accept Tannerton,’ she said in a resigned voice. ‘I know this.’

His eyes seemed to reflect her pain. ‘Soon,’ he said.

The next day Rose and Flynn stood in the hall of King’s Theatre with MrAyrton, the musical director of Don Giovanni.

‘So pleased to meet you, Miss O’Keefe. Any friend of the marquess is certainly a friend to us. He is the most generous of men …’

He escorted them through the pit of the theatre to the stage, where, standing next to a pianoforte, were two men and a woman.

‘I am to go on the stage?’ Rose asked in wonder.

‘Indeed,’ replied Mr Ayrton. ‘What better place to examine the quality of your voice?’

Flynn held back, and Rose twisted around to give him one more glance before she followed Mr Ayrton to the stage entrance.

She was presented to Miss Hughes. ‘Hello, my dear,’ the woman said in her melodious Welsh accent.

‘You played Elvira!’ Rose exclaimed, stunned that this ordinary woman had transformed herself into that character, so much larger than life.

‘That I did.’ Miss Hughes smiled.

‘I confess I am surprised you are not Italian. I could not tell, to be sure.’

The next person introduced to her was Signor Angrisani. ‘And you were Don Giovanni,’ Rose said, as he gave her a somewhat theatrical bow.

‘That is so,’ he said smoothly. ‘And I am Italian, unlike Miss Hughes.’

The third man was the pianist, a Mr Fallon, who merely nodded.

‘I shall leave you to these excellent teachers,’ Mr Ayrton said. ‘But I assure you, I shall listen with Mr Flynn.’

Rose’s nerves fluttered, and she was grateful Flynn would be with her the whole time. She gazed out into the theatre, but it was too dark to see him.

She turned back to Miss Hughes and Signor Angrisani. ‘Thank you both for taking your time to teach me.’

‘Oh—’ Miss Hughes laughed ‘—we have been amply rewarded, I assure you. Shall we warm your voice and discover your range?’

They began by having her sing what she could only describe as nonsense sounds, exercise for her voice.

‘Some scales, if you please,’ Angrisani said, nodding to the pianist, who played a scale pitched in middle C.

Rose sang the notes, concentrating on each one. They made her sing them again, and then went higher until Rose could feel the strain. They asked the same thing, going lower and lower.

Then Miss Hughes handed her a sheet of music. In qulai eccessi she read.

‘I do not know these words,’ Rose said.

‘Do not distress yourself.’ The signor patted her arm. ‘Speak them any way you wish.’

She examined the sheet again, mentally playing the notes in her head as if plucking them out on her pianoforte.

She glanced at Miss Hughes. ‘This is your song from the opera.’

‘It is, my dear,’ the lady responded. ‘Now, let us hear you sing it.’

Rose tried, but stumbled over the foreign words and could not keep pace with the accompaniment.

‘Try it again,’ Miss Hughes told her.

The second time she did much better. When she finished she looked up to see Miss Hughes and Signor Angrisani frowning.

The signor walked up to her. ‘You have a sweet voice, very on key and your … how do you say? … your diction is good.’

She felt great relief at his compliment.

‘But your high notes are strained. You are breathing all wrong and you have poor volume,’ Miss Hughes added. ‘You must sing to the person in the farthest seat.’

Rose nodded.

‘Sing louder,’ Miss Hughes ordered.

She sang again, looking out into the house, thinking of Flynn sitting in the farthest seat. She sang to him.

But it did not please the signor and Miss Hughes. They fired instructions at her. ‘Stand up straight.’ ‘Open your mouth.’ ‘Breathe.’

There was so much to remember.

‘Breathe from here.’ Miss Hughes put her hand against Rose’s diaphragm. ‘Not here.’ She touched Rose’s chest. ‘Expand down with your muscles. You will get the volume.’

Rose attempted it, surprised when she sounded louder.

For the high notes, Signor Angrisani told Rose to lift the hard palate in the roof of her mouth. ‘Inhale,’ he said. ‘As if you are about to sneeze. Drop your tongue. Now push out through your nose.’

She was dismayed at how many tries it took to co-ordinate all these instructions. When she succeeded, the notes came out crystal clear.

It seemed as if the lesson were over in the wink of an eye. Her mind raced with trying to remember everything they had told her. She must not have done too badly, because they invited her back in three days’ time. As Signor Angrisani walked her back to the pit, Rose put her hand to her throat, wanting to protect it for the next lesson, hoping she would not strain it by singing at Vauxhall in a few short hours. She would fix herself some hot water flavoured with lemon juice to soothe it.

As the signor walked her through the theatre, she saw two men standing at the back. She could hardly wait to reach Flynn.

‘I shall bid you good day.’ Signor Angrisani stopped halfway through the theatre. He kissed her hand.

‘Thank you, signor,’ she said, trying to use the proper accent.

He smiled. ‘Eh, you shall do well, did I not say?’

He had not said, but she was delighted to hear it now.

She felt like skipping the rest of the way to where Flynn waited.

As she got close, she saw that the gentleman standing next to Flynn was not Mr Ayrton, but Lord Tannerton.

She lost the spring in her step.

‘Lord Tannerton,’ she said as she neared him. She dropped into a graceful curtsy.

He smiled at her. ‘How did you like your lesson?’

She darted a glance to Flynn, who stood a little behind him. ‘I liked it very much, sir. I am indebted to you for your generosity.’

He waved a dismissive hand. ‘Ah, it was nothing. Glad to do it if it gives you pleasure.’

‘Great pleasure, my lord.’

Rose had no doubt the marquess could easily afford whatever sum it took to make Mr Ayrton, Miss Hughes and Signor Angrisani so agreeable, but she did not forget that it was Flynn who had made this happen.

‘As much pleasure as I receive hearing your voice, I wonder?’ His expression was all that was agreeable.

She cast her gaze down at the compliment.

‘May I have the honor of escorting you home, Miss O’Keefe?’

She glanced up again. ‘Oh, I would not trouble you. I am certain I might easily find a hack.’

‘It is no trouble,’ he reassured her. ‘My carriage should be right outside. It shall give me the opportunity to hear your impression of your tutors.’

She’d been eager to tell Flynn everything, but now she could think of nothing to say about her lesson.

There was no refusing the marquess now, or, she feared, when he asked for more intimate favours. ‘Very well, my lord.’

‘I shall see you back at Audley Street, Flynn.’ Tannerton said this affably, but it was still a dismissal.

Flynn nodded, but said nothing. He turned and walked out of the theatre.

Rose was alone with the marquess.

‘Shall we go?’ He offered his arm.

When they made their way to the hall, Rose saw Flynn just disappearing through the doors. By the time she and the marquess reached the street, she could not see Flynn at all.

‘My carriage, Miss O’Keefe.’ As he spoke, the carriage pulled up to the front of the theatre.

King’s Theatre was located in Haymarket. She would have several minutes of riding alone with him to Covent Garden. He gave his coachman the name of her street and helped her into the carriage.

‘And how did you find the lesson?’ he asked after they were settled in and the coach began moving.

‘There seems much to learn,’ she replied.

‘I suspect you will be a good student.’

He asked her other questions about the lesson, about what she thought she needed to learn, about singing in general. It was the sort of conversation intended to put a person at ease. She admired his skill at it. She had to admit his interest in her likes and dislikes seemed genuine, though she could not imagine him burning with ambition, as she and Flynn did. He could not possibly understand what it meant to her to sing, not like Flynn understood.

Rose glanced at him. He was a handsome man, more handsome, perhaps, than Flynn, whose features were sharper and his expression more intense. But Lord Tannerton did not make her heart race. When he gazed upon her, he did not seem to see into her soul.

‘I have strict orders from Flynn not to walk you inside your lodgings,’ Tannerton said as they passed Leicester Square. ‘I gather he does not wish me to encounter your father.’

She almost smiled. More likely Flynn was protecting him from Letty.

‘Mr Flynn is a careful man,’ she said.

‘Oh, he is exceptional, I’ll grant you that,’ Tannerton agreed.

‘How long has Mr Flynn been your secretary?’ She knew the answer, of course, but she would rather talk about Flynn than anything else.

He paused, thinking. ‘Six years, I believe.’ They walked on. ‘Not that I expect him to remain,’ he added.

This was new information. ‘Oh?’

He gave her a sly glance. ‘Can you keep a secret, Miss O’Keefe?’

‘Of course I can.’ She kept many secrets.

He leaned closer and whispered. ‘Our Flynn burns with ambition, you know. He wants to rise higher than his present employ and deserves to, I believe. I have lately spoken to the Duke of Clarence about Flynn. His Royal Highness will come around, I think. God knows, he could use a man like Flynn.’

Flynn to work for royalty. For a Royal duke? All Rose knew about the Prince Regent’s second brother was that his mistress had been Mrs. Jordan, a famous actress. But that poor lady had died not long ago. It was said the Duke would marry now. He would become more serious about his station in life.

Flynn would serve the Duke well, no doubt, Rose thought. Such employment meant the fulfilment of his dreams.

Both their dreams would come true. She ought to be happy. Only, at this moment, it merely made her sad.

‘This is my street,’ she said, looking out of the window. ‘The coachman should stop here.’

He rapped on the roof of the carriage, and it slowed to a stop. He got out and helped her descend.

She pointed to a building two doors down. ‘That is my building.’

He turned to see which one she meant and spoke suddenly. ‘What the devil is that fellow doing here?’

She saw a man walk out of her building and turn in the opposite direction from where the carriage had stopped.

Greythorne.