The Songbird (47 page)

The Savoy Theatre, she pondered, where D'Oyly Carte staged the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas. She wasn't an opera singer by any means, but she knew that she could sing light operetta. The idea excited her, but she would need to make sure that she didn't strain her voice. For the last week she had spoken only in whispers, but now she felt stronger and more rested and ready to go back. She telegraphed ‘Yes'.

Dan met her at King's Cross station. ‘The Savoy have put up posters outside the theatre and an advertisement in the
Illustrated London News
. “Special performance”,' he quoted, ‘“for one night only, the celebrated Poppy Mazzini!”'

‘Really?' She was astounded. Everything was happening so fast.

‘Yes, really! Though Marian says you should have been given more time.'

‘I'm fine,' she insisted. ‘I feel really well and although I haven't sung properly I've been going over some of my songs on the piano at home.'

She moved back in with the Marinos who were pleased to see her again and gave her news of Anthony, who was still in Italy, and she travelled each day to see Mrs Bennett.

Her tutor asked her to concentrate on the breathing exercises she had given her, and to learn the words and music of the songs she had chosen to sing. ‘Concentrate on the essence of what you are singing about,' she reminded her. ‘Think of the emotion of the words and what it might mean to the listener: let them smell the roses in the arbour, hear the rustle of the trees when the breeze blows through them; let them hear the ripple of the stream, and feel the heartbreak or joy of love. Listen also to what the music is telling
you
.'

For two weeks they practised and then Mrs Bennett sat down at the piano and asked her to sing. When she had finished she clapped her hands. ‘Tremendous, Poppy,' she said. ‘Your voice is much improved. It will get even better,' she declared. ‘After this performance, you must take time off again for a few weeks, and then come to me for some more coaching. Your voice will become more mature. You are using variations of tone and expression already, but you have a young voice, and we must be careful not to overdo it. Now,' she smiled, ‘I'll meet you at the Savoy tomorrow as arranged for a rehearsal with the musicians. Try not to talk too much and then in three days we'll be ready.'

Poppy was desperate to find Charlie, yet something held her back. After the concert I'll look for him, she decided. She knew how important it was that she concentrated only on her debut at the Savoy. Marian Bennett was to be her pianoforte accompanist, with a harpist and a violinist, and they spent the next three days arranging the order of the music.

On the day of the performance she arrived early at the theatre to change and put on her make-up. She dressed herself in her green gown. She was to sing ‘Greensleeves' as part of the programme. One day, she thought, as she pinned back her hair and pulled some curls down around her face, I might be famous enough to have my own wardrobe mistress and a dresser to attend my hair, for it is always so unruly.

Someone knocked on the door. ‘Flowers for Miss Mazzini!' a voice called.

She jumped up. From Pa? From Dan? Not from Anthony, for he wouldn't know where she was or what she was doing. She opened the door to receive them. The bouquet was immense: chrysanthemums, lilies, roses, wisps of fern. ‘Goodness,' she murmured. ‘Whoever has sent these?'

She opened the card and her lips parted as she read the message. ‘From Charles.'

‘Charlie!' she whispered. Tears gathered in her eyes and she fought to control them. She mustn't become too emotional. She must save that for her singing. But she felt joy rushing through her, making her heart beat faster. ‘He came,' she murmured breathlessly. ‘He cares after all. He'll be out there in the audience listening to me!'

The musicians were grouped on the stage as Poppy made her entrance. She felt exhilarated and it showed as she swept towards the front of the stage and sank into a deep curtsy. There was a murmuring from the well-dressed audience in the stalls, the gentlemen in formal suits and the ladies in glittering gowns. Most of them were hearing Poppy for the first time. From the gallery came the sound of loud clapping and cheering and she guessed that this was from people who had heard and seen her at lesser theatres before she went abroad.

She turned towards the piano and stood beside it. The harpist began to play with evocative gentle notes. Marian Bennett caressed the keys as she developed the melodic phrasing, the violinist put his bow to the wood and Poppy began to sing.

She barely knew where she was. She only felt sheer joy coursing through her as she sang. Her voice, sweet and touching, ardent with passion, captivating and dulcet, ranged over all the emotions in its intensity. She took sips of water during the interval but spoke to no-one and came back on the stage to tremendous acclaim. At last she sang her final song and the audience rose to its feet in acknowledgement.

Mrs Bennett clapped softly, her eyes on Poppy. The harpist smiled and nodded, the violinist tapped his bow, whilst the audience went wild. Poppy seemed to wake up. She bowed low, her hand on her breast, then came to the front of the stage and gave another deep curtsy. She backed away, caught Marian Bennett's eye and in answer to her raised eyebrows and unasked question gave a slight shake of her head. She did not have the energy or the voice to sing an encore as the audience were requesting.

‘Thank you,' she mouthed. ‘Thank you.'

Someone threw a white rose, and smiling she bent to collect it and threaded it into her hair. She smiled again, mouthed ‘thank you' once more, and left the stage with the chants of the audience ringing in her ears.

Someone opened the door into the dressing room for her and she swept in and sank into her chair, absolutely spent, yet full of excitement as if she could soar like a bird above the treetops. She took several more sips of water and then Marian Bennett tapped on the open door and asked if she could come in.

‘That was wonderful, Poppy,' she said. She too was exultant. ‘Truly wonderful! I have never heard you sing so well. Dan is in the audience; he's going to want to make more bookings for you.' She held up a warning finger. ‘But you can be choosy. Don't let him rush you into anything. He is my brother, but I have your best interests at heart and we must look after your voice.' She caught sight of the flowers. ‘My goodness! What a huge bouquet! That must be from a very special admirer?'

‘From Charlie.' Poppy gave a delighted smile. ‘He must be out there in the audience.'

There was another tap on the door. This time it was Dan, and behind him the harpist and the violinist, waiting to add their congratulations.

Where was Charlie, she wondered. I want to see him so much.

‘There's a queue of admirers waiting outside the stage door, Poppy,' Dan told her. ‘Will you see them? Or shall I tell them no?'

‘I shall be a little while,' Poppy hedged. ‘I must change, and – well, I don't want to rush.'

‘I'll tell them you'll be at least an hour; that'll put off all but the most determined.' He gave her a grin as he turned to go. ‘You were just perfect tonight,' he said. ‘You've been drinking champagne, I can tell! You just sparkled.'

She laughed and denied it, but it was true; she had felt vitalized and elated, and it had shown in her voice.

The stage door keeper tapped. ‘Gentleman for you, Miss Mazzini.' He handed her a card. ‘He said as you would see him.'

She took the card, which was of good quality with embossed lettering, and read, ‘Charles Chandler. Prestigious Shoemaker.' The address was in an arcade off Piccadilly.

She raised her eyes to Marian Bennett. ‘It's Charlie,' she whispered.

‘Then I'll leave you,' she said. ‘But we'll wait, Dan and I, and see you home.'

‘No,' she replied urgently. ‘I shall be all right.' She smiled happily, joyfully. ‘We might go out for supper!'

‘Ah!' Mrs Bennett murmured. ‘Yes, of course, but – you're well known, Poppy. You must take care. Think of France.'

Poppy laughed. ‘But this isn't France, this is London!'

Marian Bennett left, leaving the door open. Poppy quickly looked in the mirror and touched her cheek and hair. The white flower she left in place. She rose from her chair as someone tapped on the door. ‘Come in,' she called. ‘Charlie! Do come in.'

She would hardly have recognized him as he entered, so debonair had he become. His sideburns were long, down to his jawbone, and his hair cut to just below the ear, but it was his dress that astounded her. He wore a formal black overcoat with a silk collar. The buttons were unfastened and beneath she saw a black evening suit, and white collar and tie. He carried a silk top hat, white gloves and a silver-topped cane.

‘Charlie,' she breathed and held out both hands. ‘I'm so glad to see you. My word! What a swell you are!'

He put down his hat, gloves and cane on a chair and bending very formally he took one hand and kissed it. ‘Indeed!' He gave a suave smile and murmured, ‘We must move on, Poppy. We must show the world that we are successful. You know that.'

She kept hold of his hand and drew closer. ‘And are you, Charlie? Is business so good? I've tried to get in touch with you,' she added quickly, in case he thought that she had been too bound up with her own affairs to think of him. ‘My letters were never answered.'

‘I'm sorry. I've been very busy,' he said. ‘I've moved premises. Lots of orders.'

‘I'm so glad you came tonight,' she said softly. ‘I've been longing to see you. I was going to search you out if you hadn't come. I was anxious about you.'

His manner was reserved, yet touched with tension as he answered. ‘Well, of course I would come, Poppy. I've read so much about you – how successful your French tour was – how could I not come to see you?'

She gazed at him. There was something amiss, some hesitation, and a slight awkwardness that unnerved her. Was he pleased to see her or not? ‘Are you free, Charlie?' she asked. ‘I was wondering about supper. My agent and companion . . .'

‘Ah!' he murmured and they both turned as they heard a rustling against the door. ‘A little difficult.'

A young woman stood there. She was very lovely, was Poppy's first impression. She was also beautifully and expensively dressed in a sealskin coat and a large hat trimmed with plumes and feathers. As Poppy gazed at her, she realized that she had seen her before.

‘P-Poppy,' Charlie stammered. ‘May I introduce . . .' He indicated the young woman, who, smiling gracefully, came into the room, holding out her gloved hand. ‘My fiancée, Miss Amanda Burchfield. Amanda, this is my very good friend, Miss Poppy Mazzini.'

Poppy felt that she staggered as he spoke. Yet she didn't. She was rooted to the spot as Miss Burchfield inclined her head at the introduction. Poppy was in a dream, or a nightmare. Her head buzzed as if a thousand bees had invaded her, and her mind drained of thought. She was as shocked as if she had taken a physical blow. From far off she heard Miss Burchfield say how much they had enjoyed the concert, and that they had met previously when she had visited Charles's workshop for the first time.

‘Who would have thought,' Miss Burchfield trilled, ‘that that meeting would prove so fateful?'

‘Charlie!' Poppy whispered, turning to him. ‘Is it true?' Tell me it is not, she silently pleaded. Tell me it is not!

Charlie looked at neither of them, but kept his gaze lowered. ‘Miss Burchfield and I announced our engagement two months ago.'

Two months. Poppy counted. November. Whilst I was away!

‘We haven't known each other so very long,' Miss Burchfield interjected. ‘My parents wish us to wait a little before announcing our wedding plans.' She lowered her eyelashes. ‘We would rather not wait, isn't that so, Charles? Charles is impatient to be married straight away, but I must submit to my parents' desires.' She smiled indulgently. ‘So whilst Charles is building up his empire, I can plan where we shall live and what kind of house we shall have.' She came and tucked her arm into Charlie's and gazed up at him. ‘We can wait,' she said softly.

Charlie said nothing, but he turned a pale face towards Poppy.

Poppy felt sick and faint. Her whole body was trembling. ‘Ch-Charles – isn't any good – at waiting.' Her words, mumbled and inarticulate, were muffled, low and tremulous. ‘Isn't that so, Charles?' She realized she was repeating Miss Burchfield's earlier question.

‘Poppy – I . . .' He turned to his fiancée. ‘Dearest! Would you wait outside for me for a moment? I'd like to speak to Miss Mazzini about a private matter.'

Miss Burchfield raised her eyebrows, but gave Poppy a graceful adieu, and left the room.

Poppy sank down into her chair and closed her eyes for a second. When I open them I shall know that I'm dreaming, she thought. This isn't really happening. But when she opened them, Charlie was still standing there with a concerned look upon his face.

‘Poppy! I couldn't think of any other way to tell you. It's all happened so suddenly – Amanda and I – even my parents don't know yet!'

‘You were going to wait for
me
!' she whispered. ‘You said – that you loved
me
. You wanted me to prove that I loved you,' she breathed, her words melting in the air. ‘Did I mean – nothing – after all, for you to change your mind so quickly?'

‘No. No!' He grasped her hand. ‘I've always cared for you, Poppy. Since you were just a child. But . . .' he hesitated. ‘You were a child – still are so young.'

‘I'm not!' she said, on a faint husky breath. ‘I am not a child and I have always loved you!'

‘I'm sorry, Poppy,' he said, straightening up and fingering his collar. ‘So very sorry.'