The Exploits & Adventures of Miss Alethea Darcy (28 page)

So Alethea reasoned with herself, as Figgins, her mouth pursed, fitted her into her breeches, and closed her eyes as Alethea set about creating a realistic swelling with a crumpled handkerchief. “I have to, with these skin-tight breeches, or they will catch on that I'm a woman masquerading as a castrato. In which case, they will probably throw eggs and rotten tomatoes at me, and I don't care for that idea.”

“They never would!”

“Italian audiences are extremely volatile, and quick to show their appreciation or contempt, that is what Massini says.”

 

Figgins didn't trust Salvatore Massini, no, not an inch. He was a scheming, devious foreigner, who wished Alethea no good, only she was too entranced by all this theatrical nonsense to realise it. True, he had handed over quite a reasonable sum of money, but Figgins doubted if they'd ever see another penny. Once the performance was over, and he didn't need Alethea any more, that would be the end of it.

She helped Alethea into the coat, a yellow coat that went over a natty waistcoat. She had to admit, as she stood back to admire her handiwork, that Alethea made a striking and convincing young man. Her straight, masterful eyebrows helped, as did her slim form and long legs, hardly a curve in sight; that was what came of half starving herself in her unhappiness.

At least she wasn't unhappy now, no, far from it. She was keyed up and elated; well, Figgins had seen that glinting look in the past; there'd be tears before bedtime, as Ma used to say.

“I think I'm going to be sick,” Alethea announced.

“Not in that coat, you aren't,” said Figgins, removing the coat with one hand and passing a basin with the other. “Nerves, that's what it is. You haven't got the temperament for all this, not like these girls who were showing their all on stage when you were stitching your sampler; they're bred to it, you aren't.”

“Don't be so tiresome,” Alethea said, pale now after a violent fit of retching. “I'll be all right once I start singing, that's what Massini says.”

Figgins removed the basin and set about putting Alethea's foaming neck cloth to rights. “You watch out for that chit as is singing Susanna, there's a saucy number for you. She's got hands where they shouldn't be, she'll be having a grope to see what's what if you take your eyes off her for a moment, and that'll be the cat out of the bag along with that handkerchief you've got down your breeches.”

“I'll be on my guard,” Alethea promised. “Listen, there's the overture, I must go up. Won't you wish me luck? You'll watch from the wings, you'll have to, to be ready with my dress.”

Figgins was dreading every moment of the performance. Fear flooded through her: fear of exposure, fear of Miss Alethea singing so badly that she was booed and jeered off stage, fear of her forgetting what came next; how could anyone remember all that music without getting it wrong? She didn't know how she was going to be able to breathe until the curtain came down on those dratted peasants prancing about the stage, when it would, thank God, all be over.

Massini was pleased with the audience, a full house, he murmured to the baritone who went past. All his publicity had paid off, a young fresh castrato was a novelty these days; this had been a highly profitable venture.

He was pleased with Alethea, too. Figgins could tell that from the smile wavering about his thin lips. He snapped his fingers with delight at the storm of applause that came after Cherubino had sung that first solo; it was quite a catchy tune, it was true, but one that Figgins never wanted to hear again.

The last act began, the setting shot through with the darkness of night, a darkness echoed in the words and music, a brilliant contrast to the essential comedy of the piece. Figgins noticed none of it, she was simply counting the minutes until it was all over.

“Ah,” said a cold, familiar voice in her ear. “Mr. Figgins, isn't it? I wish to speak to your mistress, will she come off this way?”

“Yes. That is—I don't know who you mean.”

“Oh, but you do,” said Titus in a voice that made Figgins wish she'd never been born.

“Must you yawn so?”

His voice betrayed how angry he was with her, although he could see that Alethea was drained to her bones; perhaps this was how all singers felt, night after night, no wonder they were a temperamental lot. Or was it the novelty and her inexperience, having to perform on her nerves that left her so weak, mentally, physically, and emotionally? “I cannot understand how you came to think up such a hare-brained scheme.”

“Mr. Manningtree”—another prodigious yawn—“you have hauled me here by main force, abducted me, in fact, and when I and Figgins try to leave, you will not let us go.”

“No, by God, I won't. I've been chasing all over Venice looking for you, my concern mounting day by day. I had such a dread of—but never mind that. You may wait here until Lady Hermione returns, which will be very soon now, she cannot have been far behind us.”

“Lady Hermione?”

“Lady Hermione Wytton, she is Alexander Wytton's mother. You don't know her.” Voices, swift steps outside. “I expect this is her now.”

“Good gracious,” said Lady Hermione as she came bustling into the room. “Cherubino, no less. Such pleasure as you gave us all this evening, such a voice.”

“Ma'am, may I present Mrs. Napier?” said Titus.

Alethea looked as though the breath had been knocked out of her, and the colour fled from her face. Distraught, she rose and faced him. “How did you know? Never tell me you are a friend of my husband. To track me down, and to betray me, there was no reason for you to do such a thing.” Too dismayed to be polite, she ignored Lady Hermione. “Do not call me by that name, or I am quite undone.”

“Mrs. Napier—why, good heavens, you aren't a boy at all. You are Alethea, Alethea Darcy as was. Now I come to look at you, of course you are. With the make-up, you look quite different; what a look of your father you have about you. We have never met, which is a cause of regret to me, for I know how attached Camilla is to you—my dear, please don't cry.”

“I'm not crying,” said Alethea, dashing her hand against her eyes. “It is just that I have tried so hard to keep my disguise, and now it's all in vain. When did you discover my identity, sir?”

“I've known that you were not a man from our first encounter in Paris. With your likeness to your father, it did not take the mind of a Newton or an Aristotle to deduce who you were.”

“Sir, you do not properly understand my situation. I must not be known to be here, not as Mrs. Napier, not on any account. Oh, why did you have to interfere, what business is it of yours who I am or what I do? Why have you hunted me down?”

“As soon as I learned that the Wyttons weren't in Venice, I set out to find you. A young, gently bred woman alone in Venice, it is not to be thought of. I am acquainted with your father, Wytton is one of my oldest friends, no man of honour could do less.”

“And now it will all come out, and I shall be ruined, completely ruined.”

“What the devil do you expect to be when you run away from your husband and travel, as a man, across Europe?”

“Is that what you have done?” cried Lady Hermione. “I am amazed, my dear, amazed; what intrepidity! How did you manage it? You must tell me all about it, but first, I shall order some refreshments. You look in need of food and wine.”

“First, Mrs. Napier should change out of those pantomime garments and put on clothes more suitable for her sex and rank,” said Titus. The sight of her in the velvet coat and tight-fitting breeches offended his sensibilities; had the girl no shame?

Up went her chin, and she gave him a level look. “I have no gown, and if I had, I should not wear it. Good God, how awkward you make things for me; my coat and trousers and shirt are all at the theatre.”

“Your portmanteau is being brought round, should be here by now.”

“My portmanteau?”

“You left it at the Pensione Donata. I assume you ran out of money; how like a woman to plan such a journey with insufficient funds for your needs.”

“That is not true,” said Figgins, who had been silently watching her mistress. “More than enough, she had, and you've no call to go saying such things. Miss Alethea was robbed, beaten to the ground and robbed.”

“No!” said Lady Hermione, horrified. “Is that why you were singing at the opera tonight? For money?”

“Of course.” Alethea's voice was calm, but the look she shot at Titus defied him to comment or find fault.

“It didn't occur to you to ask for help from one of the many English families settled in Venice, who would know your father and mother and—”

“—and spread the tale all about the city and back to England in the twinkling of an eye,” said Lady Hermione. “That's enough, Titus. Alethea has coped magnificently, she is a brave woman indeed. Here comes a servant; a glass of wine will restore you, and then you must eat.”

“I was sick before I sang,” Alethea said, eyeing the plates of cold meats and fruit. “Nerves. So I am very, very hungry.”

It was all of a piece, Titus thought indignantly. To behave in a way so outrageous as to place herself quite beyond the pale of her upbringing and social world, and then calmly to announce that she was hungry. Was she not ashamed of what she had done?

Clearly not. Was Lady Hermione to be trusted with her secret? Without a doubt. Lady Hermione could be relied upon. She was one of those rare women to whom a man might turn for assistance in a crisis such as this. Emily was another, but Emily was not here, Emily was no longer part of his life. Yet, why did he need assistance? How had he become caught up in this imbroglio, which had the makings of exactly the kind of scandal he most disliked?

“It is impossible for Mrs. Napier—”

“I wish you will not call me that,” Alethea said through a thick mouthful of ham. “Miss Darcy, if you please, or Alethea. I have no objections to your using my name.”

“May she stay here with you, for the present? There is no woman in Harry's household—how did you get rid of him, by the way?”

“He met a friend, they were going to go backstage, to ogle the opera dancers, I suppose, and catch a glimpse of the castrato.”

Titus sighed. “You see, ma'am”—to Alethea—“what company you have been keeping, what dangers you laid yourself open to.”

She gave him a very direct look. “One may lay oneself open to far worse without setting foot in a theatre, indeed, without stepping out of doors.”

“Titus, stop it,” said Lady Hermione. “Alethea has been through enough without you preaching at her; since when did you grow so remarkably righteous and moral?”

Titus was silenced. He didn't care to admit to himself, let alone to Lady Hermione, that he hated the idea of people peering at Alethea, had hated seeing her the focus of all eyes when she was on stage and hated himself for the admiration that he had felt, despite himself, for the way she had sung. To undertake such a mad scheme was beyond what any young woman should be capable of, but then to pull it off, to sing in a way that moved his heart—that was unforgivable.

“You aren't attending to what I say.” Lady Hermione's words broke through his reverie; he started, and apologised.

“It is impossible, in the circumstances—” she began.

Voices, footsteps on the marble outside, heavy footsteps, with a slightly creaking shoe.

“Lord, we are quite undone,” cried Lady Hermione.

Titus looked at her, astonished. Had she a lover? Visiting her at this hour? It was not inconceivable, she was by no means young, but somehow he had never imagined—someone disreputable, perhaps, he knew of women who took their pleasures with a handsome young gondolier, or—no, the voice was speaking in English, loudly and deliberately, so as to make himself understood by the Italian servant, saying that Lady Hermione's instructions to deny herself to visitors did not mean him, he was a guest, not a visitor.

The same horror seemed to have transfixed Alethea. Ha, so her insouciance was not invariable. Only, why did she look quite so panic-stricken? She had been happy enough to pass herself off with English people formerly. Sartorial considerations? The coat and breeches she was wearing looked decidedly outré, but this was, after all, the city of masks and costumes.

Lady Hermione and Figgins were dragging a large screen away from its place against the wall. It was painted in the classical style, a pastoral landscape with nymphs, that matched the elegant trompe l'oeil figures on the walls. Alethea darted behind the screen, just as the door opened and a ponderous clergyman, purple-chested and pink-faced, entered the room.

 

Alethea emerged from behind the screen equally pink-faced some fifteen minutes later, when Lady Hermione had finally got rid of the man. Her pinkness was due to suppressed mirth, to which she succumbed as she slid into a chair.

Titus, indignant at having to spend even five minutes in the company of such a man, was demanding of Lady Hermione what on earth had possessed her to give house room to that prosy bore. Then he rounded on Alethea. “This bishop is your cousin, I dare say.”

“He is,” said Alethea when she could stop laughing. “And he is the most dreadful man, is he not? So pompous, and always moralising; how we used to dread his visits.”

“I'm surprised your father let him in the house.”

“There's no keeping him away. Cousin Collins is a very persistent kind of person. His wife, Charlotte, is a great friend of Mama's, so she bore with him for the sake of seeing her. Papa was rarely there when he came, he always seemed to have urgent business in town on those occasions. My cousin goes and stays with my grandfather, too, in Hertfordshire, for he will inherit the estate there, it is an entail or some such thing. He cannot believe that Grandpapa is so hale and hearty. I'm sure he expected to step into his shoes years ago.”

“He is the kind of man whom there is no resisting,” Lady Hermione agreed. “He announced his arrival in Venice by telling me of his intention of staying with me on account of there now being a connection between our families, and there was no refusing him, he is an immovable force. I dare say that is how he became a bishop.”

“I've never had a high regard for the bench of bishops,” said Titus, “but how a man such as that has reached such eminence, I cannot think.”

“He is not a proper bishop,” said Alethea. “He has no seat in the Lords, which is what he would love, and I don't suppose he would be much noticed there, as they are all so boring.”

“Not a proper bishop? You mean he merely dresses like one? Masqueraders seem to run in your family.”

Alethea found her mind wasn't working as clearly as she should like, and it was beyond her powers just at present to explain what she meant.

“He is the Bishop of Wroxeter,” said Lady Hermione. “Not of Gloucester or Durham or any such see as that. Can we leave Bishop Collins to his own devices for the moment? As you heard, he was retiring for the night, and he will sleep soundly, with the most prodigious snores for the next many hours. However, you understand why Alethea may not stay here with me.”

“I can't pass myself off as Mr. Hawkins for more than a minute with him,” said Alethea. “Even though he is a stupid man, he is not so stupid as that. I bumped into him a few mornings ago, and I had to be off like a flash before he recognised me.”

“He is the kind of guest who wanders about, poking his nose in everywhere he is not wanted,” said Lady Hermione. “Alethea may sleep here tonight, and indeed I think she is about to fall asleep in front of our eyes, but it is too risky for her to stay any longer. Don't look so cross, Titus, I shall contrive something. Now, take yourself off, and you may call in the morning. The bishop sets off for several hours of sightseeing every morning at ten o'clock, he loves to visit churches and be appalled by the Catholicism all around him; I thought I would have to apply smelling salts when he came back from San Marco.”

Alethea, once again yawning her head off, bid Titus a cold if sleepy good night, and followed her hostess out of the room.

 

How pleasant it was, how very pleasant, to wake up to find herself in a wide, comfortable bed, lying between clean sheets, with a smiling maidservant fastening the shutters open and offering her a dish of chocolate.

The chocolate was followed by a tray with rolls, preserves, fruit, and a pot of coffee. Alethea polished off every crumb, and leant back on the soft pillows to consider her situation.

“You will have to wear this dowdy gown that was in your portmanteau,” said Lady Hermione, coming in with Figgins. “For you are too tall by far to fit into any of my clothes.”

“Must I dress as a woman?”

“Yes, for I think both Mr. Hawkins and Cherubino will have to vanish.”

Alethea sighed, and eyed the gown Figgins had laid on the bed. “It is so very comfortable to wear trousers and breeches, ma'am.”

“A gown will be cooler in the heat, you will find. And you cannot be a man for ever, you cannot become a man.”

Alethea wished, not for the first time, that she had been born a boy. How different her life would have been. How different it was for her younger brothers, how their independence was encouraged, what liberty they would grow up to in comparison to her narrow world. For the first time since she had bowled away from Tyrrwhit in that carriage, she felt completely at a loss.