Mary Ann and Miss Mozart (5 page)

As the music began, the people below paused to look up. Some clapped or cheered, and one or two called out to certain performers and received a wave in reply. The music was the promised chorus from
Acis and Galatea
by Mr. Handel. Mary Ann listened and watched, noting every detail of how the female singers moved and held themselves.

All the music that followed was of a familiar, cheerful kind, and received with frequent loud applause from the audience. A worthy-looking gentleman appeared and spoke about the benefits to be gained from the proposed lying-in hospital and thanked people for their support; but the school party, eager for the Mozarts, paid little attention. Mrs. Neave looked in through the door of the box and asked what refreshments they would like for the interval, and went off to order tea, lemonade and bread and butter. The speaker retired, to applause.

Mary Ann, watching intently, was the first to see the Mozart family appear: the little boy, the girl, and a man who must be their father. She nudged Lucy and Phoebe on either side of her. “Look! They’re here!”

More applause broke out as the Mozarts were introduced. Nannerl and Wolfgang, the children were called. The boy, Wolfgang, in a bright blue jacket, took his place at the organ: a tiny figure, dwarfed by the soaring pipes above him. He began to play a piece, they were told, of his own composition.

“Amazing!” murmured Mrs. Corelli, as the music filled the hall. “To compose such work at only eight years old!”

It was not until the second half of the concert that Miss Mozart performed. She moved to sit at the harpsichord: a slim, fair girl, straight-backed, wearing a green and white dress with a high neckline edged with coral-coloured lace, her hair drawn up in tight curls and decorated with coral flowers. Mary Ann admired her looks, and when the girl began to play she realized why Mr. Mozart had described her as a “prodigy”. She knew, from her own practice, how difficult the piece was, and yet this girl made it seem effortless.

When she finished, to a roar of applause, her brother took her place at the harpsichord and Nannerl sang. Her voice was clear, high and sweet: a good voice – but not as good as mine, Mary Ann realized with surprise and some pleasure. It was obvious that the harpsichord was Nannerl’s forte. She joined her brother at the instrument and the two of them played a fast, demanding piece together, their hands crossing and uncrossing, their own and each other’s, so fast they could scarcely be seen.

At the finale they stood up and bowed to the enthusiastic crowd. Even from this distance Mary Ann could see the little boy’s impish face and the girl’s demure smile. She looked around and saw all the boxes full of cheering people.

She turned to Mrs. Corelli, behind her. “Oh, I
wish
I could play like that! And sing in public! I’d love to be Nannerl – but what a strange name!”

“Yes.” Mrs. Corelli smiled. “That’s what her family calls her. I heard that her proper name is Maria Anna.”

“Maria Anna?” Mary Ann looked across at the girl, and Lucy said, “That’s Mary Ann! Like you!”

I
shall
be like Maria Anna, thought Mary Ann. I’ll work and practise every day. And she imagined herself there, with the orchestra, the lights shining on her and applause sounding from all around.

The concert ended with “God Save the King”, and everyone stood up and sang.

And then it was over. There was shuffling, coughing and scraping of chairs. A slow movement of people began towards the exits. When at last she emerged into the night air, Mary Ann saw that it was dark, and all the lamps had been lit in the gardens. The Chinese bridge was lit up, the lamps reflected on the water in discs of shifting light; and coloured lanterns were hung from trees along the pathways. The girls gazed around, entranced.

“Girls! Stay together! Take care!” said Mrs. Neave.

The crowd emerging from the Rotunda divided, most people turning towards the King’s private road, from where their carriages would take them home across Pimlico marshes to London. The school group joined those who were travelling by boat. This meant walking back along the tree-lined path that wound through the gardens, now lit all the way with lanterns. The brightness of the lamps made the darkness beyond them mysterious, as if the gardens had expanded to become a limitless domain. The Temple of Pan glowed white near the waterfront gates, and bright nymph-like figures in silken gowns could be seen moving inside.

The others chattered and giggled, but Mary Ann was quiet, overcome by the wonder of the occasion. In her imagination she was onstage, Maria Anna and Mary Ann merged into one.

When they reached the house in Chelsea Walk and went inside, they were greeted by Mrs. Price with cups of chocolate and a warm fire in the dining room. Mary Ann sipped her chocolate, her mind still full of the sounds of singing, music and clapping, the glitter of the chandeliers and the sheen of silk. Mrs. Neave passed her a small printed card: one of the tickets for the concert. Each of the girls had one.

“A souvenir,” said Mrs. Neave.

The ticket was illustrated with an engraving. It showed a woman – a goddess, or nymph – dressed only in her long hair and a wisp of drapery. In the background was a Pan figure playing reed pipes.

“I shall keep mine in my book of picture cards,” said Lucy.

Mary Ann had no such book with her at school. Instead, when they went to their dormitory, she slid her ticket halfway into a crack in the wooden panelling beside her bed.

I’ll be able to take it out and remember and be inspired, she thought.

But next day something happened that put all thoughts of Ranelagh and Maria Anna Mozart out of her mind.

Chapter Six

News from Home

It was Saturday morning. The girls were at their first lesson of the day – Arithmetic – when a maid came in and spoke quietly to Mr. Ashton.

“Mary Ann,” he said – and she stood up, her heart beat quickening. “You are to go to Mrs. Neave’s office immediately.”

She left, catching puzzled glances from her friends, and tapped on Mrs. Neave’s door. Surely she’d done nothing wrong?

“Come in!”

Mary Ann opened the door, and was surprised to see her mother sitting opposite Mrs. Neave.

Mrs. Giffard did not look her usual self. Her hands, which she normally held still in her lap, were restless, pulling at the fingers of her gloves.

“Mama?” Mary Ann said uncertainly.

“Don’t be alarmed, Mary Ann,” said her mother. “No one is ill.”

And Mrs. Neave told her, “You are to go home with your mother today. You may return on Monday morning.”

“Oh – but…” Mary Ann thought of her singing lesson later that morning: Galatea’s song about the dove. She’d been practising.

“You are excused lessons,” said Mrs. Neave. “Go and fetch your cloak and shawl and anything else you wish to take with you.”

Mary Ann went upstairs. When she came down again with her outdoor clothes her mother was waiting in the hall.

“Mama, what is it?”

Her mother steered her outside, towards the landing stage on the riverside, before replying. “The ship – the one your father was expecting: it has sunk.”

“Then…he has lost money?” said Mary Ann. She was accustomed to the ups and downs of her father’s finances, but they were rarely down for long.

“Yes.” Her mother spoke calmly, but there was a tremor in her voice that frightened Mary Ann. “We have lost nearly everything. I had no idea how much he had invested in this, and in another venture which has also failed. We have many creditors. We cannot live as we have been doing. We must economize.”

It was a moment before Mary Ann realized the implications of this. Then she said in a voice of rising alarm, “Mama…?”

“You must leave Mrs. Neave’s school,” her mother said. She laid a hand on Mary Ann’s arm. “Oh, not immediately, dear. You may stay till the end of July, of course; that is paid for. But we can’t keep you there for another term.”

“July! But there is to be the concert – the school concert – in September. You are to come. And I am to sing in it. And I love being there, Mama, you know that. I can’t leave. I can’t!”

“Oh, Mary Ann, I’m sorry,” her mother said, “but there is simply no money. We’ll talk about it at home. Your papa is there, and George is on his way. Look, there’s a boat waiting. Compose yourself before we step aboard.”

Out on the river and facing towards the City, Mary Ann turned round and watched the shoreline of Chelsea disappearing from view. She felt trapped, helpless. When she looked back at her mother her face was wet with tears.

The boatman pretended not to see. Her mother said, in a low voice, “We must do as your father thinks best, Mary Ann. You are not the only one to suffer. Think of Harriet – her position now as regards Mr. Browne.”

But Mary Ann was too full of her own grief to care about Harriet and her fiancé. All she could think was that this boat was taking her farther and farther away from where she wanted to be: the house in Chelsea Walk.

Chapter Seven

“It’s Not Fair!”

Mary Ann felt the tension in the house as soon as they arrived home. Even Betty, the kitchen maid, and the manservant Tom looked nervous – as well they might, Mary Ann thought, since they could lose their jobs.

Her father came out of his study to greet her and her mother. He had dark circles under his eyes, and through the half-open door Mary Ann could see papers spread about and a decanter of brandy.

“Well, Kitten!” he said, falsely hearty and using Mary Ann’s baby name. “We must tighten our belts for a while. No doubt your mother has told you—”

“Papa!” Mary Ann could not help interrupting. “
Please
don’t make me leave school!”

Instead of reprimanding her for her rudeness, her father looked almost apologetic.

“I’ve no choice, Kitten. Now, now –” he patted her shoulder – “tears won’t help.” He turned to his wife. “I shall go out to the coffee house; speak to friends. There may be contacts…”

He wants to escape us, Mary Ann thought.

She heard fast footsteps coming downstairs, and George burst into the room.

“Greetings, Little Sister!” He pulled a long face. “Oh – not you, too! Harriet is all of a mope upstairs, moving her things.”

“Moving her things?”

Mrs. Giffard intervened: “I should have told you, Mary Ann. We have made space for you and Harriet in the blue room and will be letting your bedroom and the dressing room to a lodger.”

“A lodger! Who?”

They had had financial problems before, but it had never come to this. And the blue room was tiny and overlooked the back yard and the privy.

“Do not shout, child. Remember your manners. We shall take a respectable woman. Perhaps even someone who might be able to play or sing a little, and could give you lessons…”

Mary Ann stiffened. She hated the proposed woman already.

“I must go and help Harriet,” she said, and turned to the stairs. George followed her up.

Harriet had almost filled the press with her gowns. I don’t know where mine will go, thought Mary Ann, but she didn’t say so because her sister looked so miserable.

“This was not
my
idea,” Harriet said defensively.

George crossed the room, leaned on the window sill and breathed in, wrinkling his nose. “Better keep this shut when the night-soil men come,” he said.

“It’s nothing to joke about, George,” retorted Harriet. “
You
don’t have to lose your room.”

“Mine is smaller still! You would not get two beds in it.”

This was true, but George’s room was cosier, newly painted in yellow, and with a tiled fireplace. The blue room was shabby; even Amy, the lady’s maid, had a fresher one: a small, neat space under the eaves.

“Make yourself useful, George,” Harriet pleaded. “Fetch my box of shoes?”

When he had gone out, she turned to Mary Ann: “Father has written to Mr. Browne about my dowry.” Her eyes brimmed. “It will be much diminished.”

“Oh, Hatty!” For a moment Mary Ann put aside her own troubles. “If Mr. Browne loves you that will make no difference!”

“Have you been reading romances, Mary Ann? You know love has nothing to do with it. It is my fortune that matters.”