The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (22 page)

He felt cheered. What he had most feared was that the trail would go cold, here in Venice. “Can your men continue to keep watch on Warren?” he asked Harry.

“Certainly, if you wish it. Only, hear me, Titus, I shall want an account of this as soon as you are able to loosen that padlocked tongue of yours.”

“Yes,” said Titus, stepping down into the gondola. He wondered how much Delancourt might want for the sixteenth-century painting.

“My head is quite healed,” Alethea told Figgins in the morning. “So we must be up and about, finding a way to make some money. You may take that mulish look off your face; I'm not saying we won't steal sooner than starve, but it must be the last resort.”

“For young women stranded in a big city, there isn't a heap of choice,” said Figgins. “There's stealing of all sorts; there's being a whore, which my ma is dead against, being a respectable woman; and there's being taken into keeping by a man, which isn't a lot different, just that you only go with the one.”

“We aren't stranded young women. We're stranded young men, and that's much better. Look, the sun is shining—in England I dare say it's pouring with rain—we have the day ahead of us, and enough money in our pockets for a meal or two. Perhaps I can find some lost English people who are looking for a guide and interpreter.”

“Go on, you don't know your left from your right hand soon as you hear a tune coming out of a window. What kind of a guide would you be, a stranger here yourself?”

“I can invent plenty of stories about the houses and palaces as we go along. Griffy taught me to make up tales about anything.”

In Figgins's opinion, Miss Alethea had lived in a land of makebelieve for too long. Now she was landed right in one of those fanciful tales Miss Griffin made so much money out of, quite famous she was now, only where was the masked admirer who was going to appear from nowhere to whisk them to safety? It would come to pickpocketing, there was no doubt about it. For her part, she'd rather do it sooner than later, and have the coins sitting snug in her pocket.

“Where are we going?”

“First, to have breakfast. I'm famished.”

That was another thing. Figgins was used to going without food, and she could last well enough on a meagre diet. It looked like Miss Alethea, now that she was away from that wretch of a husband, had her appetite back with a vengeance. It might have been subdued while she had the headache, but Figgins's experienced eye told her that her mistress would be back to her old ways, ate like a wolf she did, when given the chance. And it looked like she'd grown again; where was it going to end?

“A crust of bread and a glass of thin ale,” she suggested.

“A pot of coffee and a plate of pastries,” said Alethea. “We'll go in a new direction this morning, to see what's afoot. Chance, you know, plays a chief role in all our lives; who knows what we may find around the next corner?”

“Trouble, like as not,” said Figgins, but not in her wildest imaginings could she have hit upon what they did find around the first corner.

“Look at the fat cove all perspiring and done up like a preacher, in those old-fashioned clothes,” she said.

“A clergyman!” Alethea said. “An English clergyman, as I live. He may be lost, this could be my chance to act as guide. My word, I do believe it is a bishop, I saw a flash of purple. How absurd to wear such clothes when you are abroad. I have a cousin who is a bishop, mind you, who is just such an idiot.”

The man in black, who was consulting a small book, seemed to hear the English words hovering on the air, for he lifted his eyes from the book and stepped backwards, colliding with Alethea, who had begun to prowl forwards.

To Figgins's astonishment, Alethea gave a kind of eldritch screech, cried out, “Fiend take the man,” and took to her heels.

Figgins was quite taken aback, but only for a moment. Seeing that the portly clergyman was about to address her, was raising his hand to detain her, she ducked sideways and followed Alethea, who had vanished into an unsavoury underpassage.

The sound of running feet echoed about her ears; easy enough to keep track of Miss Alethea, but what if the man came after them?

“No danger of that,” Miss Alethea said, panting as they emerged into a small square. “He is much too dignified to give us chase, and why should he?”

“Why, then, did you run from him?”

Alethea was struggling to restrain her mirth. “Because I know him! You'll never guess who he is.”

“Oh, I can guess; with our luck he'll be that cousin of yours, as you said was a bishop. And if you know him, he'll know you, and now the fat's truly in the fire.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Alethea blithely. “It is some years since he saw me. I was a girl then, with my hair in a plait and wearing my best muslin dress, and on my best behaviour. Why should he associate that with a young man in Venice?”

“It'd be different if you weren't the spitting image of your pa.”

“I am like him, it's true, but then people do often look like other people in the most surprising way. He is a cousin on Mama's side, not on Papa's, so he will merely assume I am a Darcy, he cannot know all Darcy's relatives.”

“He looks to me like the kind of nosy gent as would make sure he did know all his noble relatives, that's how he comes to be a bishop, I expect.”

“Well, he may wonder about the likeness, but there is nothing more he can do about it. We shall have to make sure we don't run into him again, that's all. Dressed up like that, he is instantly recognisable.”

Figgins ate her roll and coffee with a heavy heart. If it wasn't one thing, it was another. They'd survived bludgeoning and destitution—at least for the moment—only to meet up with a bishop.

“I told you,” Alethea said, her voice light-hearted and happy. “You never know what the next hour is going to bring.” She paused, a pastry suspended in the air as she listened. “Hark, I hear a singer, beginning the day with scales. Not quite true on that note, but it is a good voice.”

She got up, pastry still in her hand, and walked to the centre of the square, her head on one side. She was joined by the barman from the establishment where they had bought breakfast.

“Mollini,” he said, jerking his finger towards a third-floor window. A babble of unintelligible Italian followed, with Alethea looking bright and alert, and stopping the man when she didn't understand. Then she nodded her head and thanked him gracefully.

“She is a soprano at the opera. A large and temperamental lady; operatic sopranos are the same wherever you are, I find. We are in the theatrical district here, it seems, where several opera companies put on performances. If we wander about, I dare say we shall hear some more music.”

“It's early in the morning for musicians to be up and about,” said Figgins. She finished her coffee and wiped her mouth with the back of her sleeve.

“The day is still cool, it's a good time to practise,” said Alethea. “Let's wander about the nearby streets and see what we find. Look, there's a fly bill on that wall, an announcement of an opera by Rossini. He no longer lives in Venice, but I dare say they still perform his music. Yes, at the Teatro San Benedetto,
L'italiana in Algeri.
I wish we might go.”

There was something to be thankful for, Figgins thought; with no money in their pockets there was no way she could be dragged off to endure hours of caterwauling.

“Do you suppose we might be able to sneak into the theatre?” Alethea was saying. “It happens in London.”

Figgins sighed.

 

The name at the foot of the fly bill rang a bell in Alethea's head, but she couldn't think why. She didn't know any Italian of that name; where had she heard it mentioned, and recently?

It would come back to her, as long as she didn't dwell on it. Meanwhile, this was a delightful area, despite Figgins's wrinkled nose. It might be close and fetid at street level, but above their heads, brilliant flowers tumbled over balconies, and voices and laughter—and music—came out of open windows, still unshuttered in the comparative cool of the morning.

A tall priest in a shabby soutane went past, gave them a curious glance, and disappeared into the side door of one of those unexpected churches that looked out over a small square. A lean, keen-eyed cat sat on a doorstep, washing itself while keeping a wary watch on the world.

Another singer trying out his voice, a tenor this time, a rich and vibrant voice, singing an unfamiliar aria, a showy, flowery piece; Alethea stopped to listen, regardless of the steady stream of people who had to pause and walk round her. Friendly and not-so-friendly admonitions were called out as people went past, but she stood quite still until the singer stopped, coughed, gargled, and began again.

A flute was being played further along the street, and Alethea paused again, her ears on the trills, her eyes riveted by a shop selling music. “How I wish we had money to spend,” she said.

She gave a quick laughing glance at Figgins; she knew what her maid was thinking. “I have quite enough music, you believe, but that's no longer the case. What was mine was taken by my husband”—she spat the word out—“detestable man, he burnt much of it, and only kept the music he liked. So you see, I have to begin my collection all over again.”

Alethea saw the tightening of Figgins's lips. “No, never look like that. I don't want sympathy, you know. I have broken away from him, and I shall never go back; they will never force me to.”

“I reckon as how your father will go straight to England with a horsewhip in his hands, once he hears how you've been treated,” Figgins burst out. “Why, even my pa, who's only a groom, wouldn't stand for a husband carrying on like that Mr. Napier did. And your father's a rich man, with an earl for a cousin and powerful friends; he may do as he chooses.”

“I hope so. Not as to the horsewhip, never that, but as to agreeing with me that my marriage is over and that the conditions imposed upon me by Napier were intolerable.” She shrugged. “I don't want to think of the man. He poisons the air by the mere mention of his name.”

In that strange way the mind had, the surge of hostility she felt at the thought of her husband jostled the memory of that name on the fly-sheet into the foreground. Salvatore Massini was the impressario Lessini had mentioned, the one who was a great friend and former colleague of Signore Silvestrini, her singing master in London.

 

Better, perhaps, not to have brought Figgins in with her, but Figgins was there beside her, clearly not intending to be shut out, or worse, left loitering in the street.

Salvatore Massini had a face like a skull and a voice like a corncrake. Which was interesting, Alethea decided. Maybe his work in opera was a compensation for possessing such a dreadfully harsh and untuneful voice. Were his ears of the same kind, then it was a mistake to be here.

As Massini swept an inscrutable gaze from her head to her toes, his eyes lingering where Alethea least wished him to take notice of her anatomy, she felt herself grow uncomfortable. Never mind the voice, this might be a mistake by anyone's reckoning.

“So,” he said at last. “A pupil of my good friend Arturo Silvestrini, who abandons his homeland for the cloudy streets of London, where musicians hardly grow on every tree. He takes many unpromising pupils to make ends meet; this is the way it is in London.”

That, to Alethea's certain knowledge, was untrue. The man was goading her. Had she not had an exceptional voice, Silvestrini would not have agreed to teach her, rich man's daughter or no. His reputation was so high that he could afford to pick and choose those whom he wanted to teach, and he only taught the best. So she said nothing, and waited for Signore Massini to continue.

“I run an opera company, my business is music, and by music I mean what entertains and amuses the public and brings them to buy their seats and boxes. You say you are a singer. Very well, then, sing.”

Taken aback, Alethea stared at him. Sing? Sing what? Where was an accompanist?

Massini flicked his hands in the air. “No voice, suddenly. What has Silvestrini taught you to sing? English ballads? These are of no interest to me.”

“I shall sing Mozart,” Alethea announced with some defiance. “From
Le Nozze di Figaro: Non sò più cosa son, cosa faccio.
”

His eyebrows rose. “How interesting, that you choose to sing a woman's part.”

“I worked on the role with Maestro Silvestrini. My voice is an unusual one.”

“It must be.”

He walked to the instrument that stood in the corner of the room, a pianoforte with a shabby case and, she realised as he began to play, a tinkly sound. No matter, it would do.

She sang, finding that to sing for your supper was very different from singing to a roomful of friends or musicians who knew you and what you were. She had chosen the Mozart aria in a moment of desperation; it was a part she had studied in depth with Silvestrini, and she could remember it all, here and now. But this man wasn't interested in Mozart. Mozart belonged to the last century, Mozart was old-fashioned. Novelty held sway in the operatic world in Italy. Silvestrini had often said so, and she could see for herself, by the posters around the walls, that Massini's business was with the new.

He continued to play after she had finished singing, toying with the theme, embellishing it, picking out a variation. He was a musician, Alethea had to admit, corncrake or not.

“That is an unusual voice, as you say,” he pronounced finally, swinging round on the stool to face her. “A remarkable voice. Were I to hear it without seeing the singer, I might be in doubt as to whether it was a man or a woman singing. The power is that of a man, the range that of a man who has no balls. Have you lost your balls, Mr. Hawkins?”