Diane Gaston - Regency Improprieties

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.’