Leading Lady (3 page)

‘Why –' A tiny pause – ‘Yes, of course.' Desmond Fylde's
next move had come even sooner than she had expected, but what else could she do but receive him?

He looked handsomer than ever, very sleek, very pleased with himself, and she disliked him even more than she had remembered. She kept the interview as short and as formal as possible. There were advantages, she was beginning to learn, about being a princess.

‘Desmond, it's late!' Cristabel turned in the huge bed her husband had had installed in the star's apartments, for a quick glance at the clock. ‘We must get up! The rehearsal begins in half an hour.'

‘Ah, let them wait.' He reached out a casual arm to circle her waist and pull her down to him. ‘You're the prima donna, my queen, let them practise their trills and tremolos without you; we have better things to do, you and I. We are owed a honeymoon, my angel. Franzosi should have more sense than to call us for rehearsal so early.' His other hand was busy at the neck of her nightgown. ‘Why do you insist on wearing this high-buttoned garment in bed? To torment me?' He ripped a buttonhole, swore an oath she had not heard before. ‘There!' A note of triumph as his questing fingers found her breast and caught it in a grip that both hurt and roused her.

‘But, Desmond –' She thought he had accepted that love in the morning left her unable to put her heart into her work. The high-necked nightgown had been meant as a tacit reminder of this.

‘But, Bella –' His tone at once imitated and faintly mocked hers. ‘Must I remind you of a wife's first duty? To her husband, my own, to the husband who adores her; can't work, can't live, can't even think without her. My love!' He had got rid of the nightgown now and was kissing her leisurely here and there. As she felt herself gradually give way to his mastery, she felt also a small protesting voice somewhere deep down in her. What was it saying?

It was not the first time they had been late for rehearsal, but she had not previously been aware of the company's irritation, as well as Franzosi's. They were working on an opera he had written ready to celebrate Prince Franz's return, and she knew and regretted that she was doing less than justice to
her difficult part. It was not total comfort that her husband was superb in his.

If Martha had been tempted to tell Cristabel about that moment of terror among the vines, her marriage put it out of the question. She had raised the labourers' pay and got little thanks for it. The days dragged on, with still no word from Franz, and she felt more and more alone in her palace full of servants. She had hoped that her husband would return in time for the anniversary, on September 7th, of the night that had made him Prince of Lissenberg, but it came and went without any word either from him or from Cristabel's mother in Venice. Franz would most certainly return before winter closed the mountain road to Lake Constance. In her heart, she was sure he would be back before that, in time for their wedding anniversary in October, but she grew less and less hopeful of a visit from Cristabel's delightful, pleasure-loving mother and her long time lover, Count Tafur. Idiotic, really, to have hoped for it, when Lucia Aldini hardly troubled to stir from her luxurious Venetian palazzo except to visit the theatre and the opera house. Besides, what could anyone do for Cristabel, now that the marriage had been on public display for so long? Desmond Fylde had made it impossible for her to see Cristabel alone, but she was growing increasingly anxious about her. Anna had friends and cousins working both in the opera house and at the artists' hostel next door to it, and brought her the gossip from there.

‘He makes her late for rehearsals.' Anna was tidying the bedroom. ‘They don't like it, and of course she feels that and sings worse than ever.'

‘Worse? Anna, what do you mean?'

‘You haven't heard? No, I suppose you wouldn't have. It's just as well for her that the prince has been delayed. She's finding Franzosi's music difficult, they say, not singing her best at all. Some of them think he should have given her some time off, even if he wasn't consulted about the wedding, but naturally that made him angry. Herr Fylde is singing like an angel, they say. Well, he's got what he wanted. It would be a pity if this opera were triumph for him and disaster for her.'

‘Surely he's got more sense than that?' Though she was a duke's daughter, Cristabel had no money of her own, her only prospects were in the opera house. Martha thought Desmond Fylde would remember this, fortune-hunter that she was sure he was.

‘You'd think so. But some of us wonder if he really knows what he wants, that one. He's so certain he can charm the birds off the trees. Forgive me, highness, I'm talking too much.' She picked up an armful of petticoats and whisked herself out of the room before Martha could ask what she meant.

Martha was not sure she wanted to know. She was sitting, very rarely for her, doing nothing but brood about how to help Cristabel, when the sight of a carriage coming up the hill to the castle set her heart racing. Franz at last? No. As it drew nearer she swallowed sharp disappointment. Franz had driven off, most reluctantly, in his father's state coach; this was merely a gentleman's luxurious travelling carriage.

But whoever it was must be welcomed, and she was already busy making the necessary adjustments from lady at home to princess regnant when Anna reappeared to announce the Lord Chamberlain. Prince Franz had seen no reason to replace the majority of his father's court servants, and Baron Hals was gradually adjusting himself to the shocking informality of the new court. If he and Martha both remembered a night when he had condemned her to the ice-cold dungeons under the castle, neither of them referred to it.

‘Highness,' he said now. ‘An Italian gentleman is below, asking for you. A Count Tafur …'

‘Alone?' But she should have expected this. ‘I'll see him in the small withdrawing room, baron. He's an old friend of mine and Lady Cristabel's. You will see that he is comfortably lodged, of course. And,' an idea struck her. ‘Send a message to Signor Franzosi at the opera house. Tell him I have an unexpected guest I'd like to entertain. A small, intimate performance tomorrow night? Something he has ready … Tell him I know I can count on him.'

‘I congratulate you!' After the first greeting, Count Tafur looked her up and down with the friendly, quizzical glance she remembered so well. ‘Every inch the princess. We were
so sorry, Lucia and I, not to have been able to come to your wedding last autumn, but you know how she is. And this time, too, she thought it best to send me alone. Quite aside from her basic idleness, which we all know and love, she said you would find us an awkward enough couple to entertain. One of these days, perhaps, I shall persuade her to marry me, but I have not managed it yet. We are very well as we are, she says, and who am I to contradict her?'

‘If only Cristabel had felt the same.' Martha was amazed to hear herself say it.

‘It's as bad as that?'

‘I'm afraid so. I'm more grateful than I can say to you for coming, though goodness knows what anyone can do for her … My friend and adviser Ishmael Brodski has made enquiries about Mr Fylde. There is a good deal that is shady about him, but no trace of a previous marriage to invalidate this one. He trapped her into it, count. I don't think there is the slightest doubt about that.' She plunged into the story, glad of the chance to tell it to this wise old friend who was as good as Cristabel's stepfather. And a great deal better than her father, she thought, as she told of the duke's invitation that had effectively removed Cristabel's one protection, the dragon aunt who had watched over her for so long.

‘Lady Helen simply abandoned her niece at Salzburg?' Tafur was shocked too.

‘It was irresistible, don't you see? To stand godmother alongside Queen Charlotte!'

‘And Fylde saw his chance, and took it. You have to give him credit for quick planning. The poor child suspected nothing?'

‘Not at the time, I think. She's always thrown herself so much into her singing; she's an innocent still in some ways. Lady Helen was the one who pointed that out to me.'

‘Which makes her own behaviour now all the more inexcusable. But that's water under the bridge. The question is, what can we do now? If Cristabel were only a Catholic, I would hope for help from my friend the Pope, but as it is … Married by a Protestant minister at Munich, presumably with the blessing of the British representative there … Besides, would she agree?'

‘Not yet! But it's affecting her singing, I'm told. I've asked for an opera tomorrow night, to celebrate your coming. You must judge for yourself.'

‘And we must do nothing to throw her even more firmly into his arms,' said Tafur shrewdly. ‘Does she know you sent for me – for us?'

‘I called it a visit to celebrate her marriage.'

‘Clever of you. Lucia sends you all kinds of love, by the way, and thanks for more care of her daughter than she has ever given.'

‘Oh –' Martha was surprised by a prickle of tears behind her eyes.

‘And you?' Another of his shrewd looks. ‘Do you enjoy being a princess? Do the Lissenbergers love you as they should? What a surprise that was! I do look forward to meeting your husband, lucky man. In every sense! Kingdom and bride at one swoop. I hope you expect him soon.'

‘I wish I knew! I've not heard for a long while.' She was glad to share her anxiety. ‘He's in France,' she explained. ‘I can't help feeling anxious …'

‘On more counts than one! But I really do not think you need be fearing anything like a repetition of Napoleon's murder of the Due d'Enghien. He learned a lesson there, I am sure, though he will never admit it. He knows now that he must play the aristocrats' game more or less their way. And by all I've heard of him your Franz won't like that much either.'

‘No. I worry about what Franz will do just as much. He made such a hero of Napoleon as the democratic leader he thought him. And now! Emperor of France, King of Italy, a court as full of pomp and ceremony as any in Europe … I made Franz promise to be careful what he said, but he does still come out with things. And I love him for it!'

‘Not easy to find oneself a prince overnight,' said Tafur. ‘And he did always sound a very positive young man, from what you and Cristabel said of him.'

Martha laughed. ‘I thought him an intolerable bully when he was working on Cristabel's singing with her. What a long time ago it seems! Oh, it's good to see you. You'll stay a while, now you are here?' She asked it eagerly, and he was glad to see her looking more cheerful, more like the forthright young
American girl he and Lucia had grown to love quite as much as Lucia's own daughter. She had never been beautiful, but there had been a glow of intelligence about her that had been in some ways better than beauty. He had missed it when he first saw her, but it was back now, and he was glad.

‘Indeed I'll stay, if you'll have me. Having endured the rigours of your mountain road once, I mean to make it worth while before I face it again. I promised Lucia that I would leave well before the snow makes it impassable, of course. She can't spare me all winter, she says. But until then I am your grateful guest. So, when do I meet Cristabel and this disastrous husband of hers?'

‘I thought, quite informally, a reception tonight?'

‘Admirable. And the less said about anything, the better. Oh, by the way, we passed another carriage on the long pull up from Lake Constance. I caught a glimpse of its occupants, a pair of old admirers of yours and Cristabel's.'

‘Not Lodge and Playfair?'

‘I thought you might not quite like it.'

‘I most certainly do not. Birds of ill omen! What conspiratorial brew are they stirring now, I wonder? They nearly wrecked Franz's plans last year, with their bungling. I sometimes wondered, afterwards, if they could be quite such inept plotters as they seemed, but Franz would never believe me. I think, if you will excuse me, I had better find out where they are staying. I wouldn't like to think they were planning to pay a visit to Prince Gustav.'

‘He's allowed to keep his own court at Gustavsberg?'

‘Yes, rather against my instincts, to tell you the truth. It seems to me that one can carry magnanimity too far.'

‘And the bastard boy?'

‘With his father. And the countess, his mother, and all the sisters. All thriving they say.' A rueful glance down at her own neat waist. ‘I'm a great disappointment to everyone, I'm afraid. It's good of you not to have asked.'

‘It's not a year yet. Early days to be fretting, Lucia says. But I am keeping you from your business. May I make a suggestion?'

‘Please.'

‘Why not invite Lodge and Playfair to your reception? I
saw them; they must have seen me; it would make perfect sense.'

‘Thank you.' With her warmest smile. ‘I can't tell you how I hate to play the spy.'

After she had given her instructions, she sat for a long time gazing out at the darkening view of mountain and forest and empty road, while she probed at the failed heart of her marriage. What had gone wrong between her and Franz? Tears throbbed behind her eyes as she remembered the perfect happiness of that public onstage engagement, the glowing promise of their first kiss in front of all Lissenberg. After that it had been nothing but business, discussion, arrangements, and at last wedding and crowning all in one day. And, at the end of it, ceremonial bedding by the whole court – a barbarous custom no daughter of hers should ever endure. But what chance of a daughter – she came to the heart of the matter – when she was still a virgin. Her fault? His? What went wrong? How should she know, who knew so little? And what use thinking of ‘fault'? If Franz would only discuss it, with her, with anyone. But, among so much success, it must be specially hard to admit, even to himself, to such a failure. She had hoped that time would take care of it; had practised small enticements, a new dress, a glass of mulled wine in their bedroom, other things she did not care to remember. All to no avail. Did he notice her trying? She could not be sure, but felt the mounting desperation in him, making everything worse. She thought he was glad to go away now, on affairs of state, and pay her the empty compliment of leaving her behind to rule in his place. Suddenly, desperately, she wished Lucia Aldini had come. Had it been, really, on her own account that she had invited her? You could talk to Lucia about anything and in her lazy, relaxed way, she would have helped.