Mary Ann and Miss Mozart (6 page)

“But – he must care for you.”

Mary Ann thought dull Mr. Browne should consider himself lucky to have Harriet, who was pretty and well brought up and truly quite amiable most of the time.

“His family will not be in favour of the match now,” said Harriet. “Whatever he may feel, they will talk him out of it.”

George came in with Harriet’s box and placed it on the floor. “You know, Hat, you might have my room most of the year. I’m only home for holidays.”

“You
were
,” said Mary Ann. “But now you’ll be living at home, won’t you?”

There was a silence. Mary Ann looked from George to Harriet, and the truth became plain to her.

“Oh! That’s not
fair
!” she cried out.

She flew downstairs. “Mama!
Mama!
”

The parlour was empty. She ran on, down to the basement.

Her mother was in the kitchen, giving instructions to Mrs. Wilson, the cook. She turned a shocked face to her daughter.

“Mama, if George is to stay at school why can’t I?”

“Mary Ann, control yourself!”

Her mother took her by the shoulders, her fingers pinching, and steered her out of the kitchen and upstairs to the parlour.

“
Never
let me hear you shouting like that again! And in front of the servants! Has Mrs. Neave taught you nothing?”

“She will not have the chance now!” retorted Mary Ann.

Her mother slapped her face. Mary Ann’s eyes watered from the sting and the humiliation. She began to cry in earnest. “It’s not fair,” she sobbed.

“Of course it is not,” her mother said. “When was life ever fair to women? But your father is right. George’s education must prepare him for a career in the City. He will have needs and responsibilities that you will never have. Don’t imagine that life is easier for a boy. It is harder, more competitive. Your father would only take George away from that school as a very last resort, if we were penniless. Whereas…”

Whereas my education is unimportant, thought Mary Ann. Even so, she’d fight for it. She said, “I will make a better marriage if I can sing and dance and speak French and behave like a lady.”

“A better marriage requires a larger dowry,” her mother replied. “I’m sorry, Mary Ann, but there is nothing to be done. We must reduce our expenditure. We intend to sell some of my jewellery—”

“I could sell mine!” Mary Ann interrupted, eager to help.

Her mother brushed the offer aside, as if it was of no consequence. She sighed, and looked around the room, at the new flock wallpaper, the painted floor cover and the long green curtains with their gold tassels: all bought last year.

Mary Ann said tentatively, “We could ask Grandmama Causey.”

At once her mother’s face closed up. “You know I never approach your grandmother for help.”

“But you might…just this once. She might
like
to help.”

“I don’t doubt she would
like
it,” said Mrs. Giffard. “It would give her great satisfaction.”

And then she was silent, as if she felt she had said too much. But Mary Ann understood. She knew that for her mother to ask for help now would mean to admit that she had been wrong to marry John Giffard, that he was as unreliable as her parents had said, that they had been right all along.

And she wondered if her mother
did
regret her marriage. Sometimes, in bed at night, she’d heard raised voices, doors slamming; and her father was often away on business.

Marriage was not something that Mary Ann looked forward to. To become an opera singer – that was her dream. And at Mrs. Neave’s she’d felt she was on her way to achieving it.

“If I could have only the singing and harpsichord lessons?” she pleaded. “I don’t mind about Geography and Arithmetic, or even Deportment…”

Her mother shook her head.

“Just one more term…the concert—”

“Oh, Mary Ann! Go and talk to Harriet. Don’t pester me,
please
!”

They sat on Harriet’s bed: Mary Ann, Harriet and George. Mary Ann was going through the contents of her jewellery box. There was a locket – a birthday present from her parents – a child-size silver bracelet, an amber brooch, a necklace of dark red stones.

“Garnets,” said Mary Ann.

“Glass,” said Harriet. “And you can’t sell any of these. Mama would not hear of it.”

“If they
were
garnets,” said Mary Ann obstinately, “I might get eight guineas for them.”

She remembered from Mrs. Neave’s advertisement that the school cost twenty-one guineas a year. Seven guineas would buy her another term there, but she’d need extra for the music lessons.

Harriet took the box from her and closed the lid. “They are glass. And there is nothing any of us can do.”

“But it’s so unfair! Why should George stay at school and not me?”

“It’s a great pity, but you have to see that Father’s decision is entirely reasonable,” said Harriet.

“And to be expected,” agreed George – complacently, Mary Ann thought.

She punched him. “You told me you cared!”

“I
do
care! I’m sorry, truly I am! But I am the son and heir. That’s the difference.”

On Sunday there was more bad news. A letter came, delivered by a servant, addressed to Harriet. It was from Mr. Philip Browne, who told her that, with great regret, he felt it necessary to break off their engagement. Harriet, weeping, rushed upstairs to the blue bedroom and shut herself in. Her mother followed her. Mary Ann and George, listening nearby, could hear storms of tears from Harriet and soothing noises from their mother. Mr. Giffard kept out of the way in his study.

“She shouldn’t waste tears on
him
,” said George.

“No,” agreed Mary Ann. “He’s a toad.” “Toad” was Sophia’s favourite word for anyone she disliked, and Mary Ann wrinkled her nose, like Sophia, as she said it.

Mr. Browne had made Harriet unhappy, and that was reason enough to dislike him; but what Mary Ann would never have admitted, even to herself, was that she particularly hated Mr. Browne for having focused everyone’s attention so exclusively on her older sister. Harriet emerged from her room red-eyed, pale and stricken, unable to eat or to speak above a whisper: the very picture of a jilted bride. Everyone was sorry for her. Later, when Mary Ann once again pleaded to be allowed to stay on at school (for she was to go back there in the morning and this was her last chance) all her mother would say was, “How can you be so selfish? Think of poor Hatty.” The whole household, including the servants, was taken up with sympathy for Harriet’s cause. No one had time for Mary Ann.

Chapter Eight

Tea with Mrs. Corelli

Back at school, in the dormitory, it was different. Mary Ann’s friends had missed her, and worried about her, and no one knew why she had gone home so suddenly. When she told them her news, they surrounded her with all the sympathy and attention she had longed for at home.

“But that’s
terrible
!” exclaimed Sophia.

And even quiet Lucy said, “You
can’t
leave us. There must be something we can do.”

They all gathered round and tried to comfort her, and that made Mary Ann cry again.

“Mrs. Neave will help, surely?” said Phoebe.

“No.” Mary Ann gulped back tears. She was certain that Mrs. Neave would not help, for how could anyone run a business at a loss?

“I shall talk to Mrs. Corelli,” Sophia decided. “
She
won’t want to lose you. You’re our best singer by far.”

“And a good advertisement for the school,” Lucy pointed out.

But they all knew Mrs. Corelli was only an employee and could have no say in the matter.

“We’re such a friendly little group here,” Sophia said – making Mary Ann wail, “I
know
!” and cry even more – “I shall tell Mrs. Corelli that if you leave we might get some
toad
of a girl who can’t even
sing
…”

No one had a solution, but their sympathy was comforting, and they even had some left over for Harriet, though they were not shocked to hear that George would remain at his school.

“That is quite natural, Mary Ann,” said Sophia. “Your education cannot be considered as important as your brother’s.”

“You can’t call that unfair,” agreed Phoebe.

“You
can
,” said Lucy, “but it will not help. It’s the way of the world, my mother says.”

Everyone at school was kind. Mrs. Neave was especially concerned; and Jenny paused in her work to talk and sympathize.

Mrs. Corelli was determined to look on the bright side.

“You must put all this out of your mind for now, and concentrate on your work,” she said. “We have the September concert to prepare for—”

“But I won’t be
here
in September!”

Mrs. Corelli shook her head. “Now, Mary Ann, who knows what will happen? Your father’s fortunes may have improved by then. We must be ready. And you are my best soprano among the younger girls. Now, what did you intend to sing? An air of Galatea’s, wasn’t it? And anything else?”

“Yes. Galatea. ‘As when the dove…’ I like that one. And ‘Nymphs and Shepherds’?”

“The choir will sing ‘Nymphs and Shepherds’. You’ll be part of that.” (Mary Ann wished it were true.) “What about ‘When Daisies Pied and Violets Blue’ for a solo? That’s pretty, and would suit your voice. But first, let me hear the Galatea…”

Mary Ann tried hard to think only of the music, to forget her troubles. She sang:

“
As when the dove

Laments her love

All on the naked spray;

When he returns

No more she mourns

But love the live-long day…
”

Her voice broke on “mourns”, and spoiled what should have been the joyful crescendo of the next line. By the end of the song tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I won’t be here to sing it!” she wept.

“But you must
learn
it!” insisted Mrs. Corelli. “How else can you be ready when occasion demands? If you are to be a performer, you must always be ready.”

“My parents won’t allow me to be a singer,” said Mary Ann, determined to be sorry for herself.

“Then they are probably wise,” Mrs. Corelli said. “It is a difficult choice, the stage, and very few succeed. Oh, Mary Ann! Your voice is quite gone with all this crying. Dry your tears, and come up to my room. I’ll make tea.”

Mary Ann had always been curious to see inside the teachers’ private rooms, and she immediately felt more cheerful as she followed Mrs. Corelli upstairs to the second floor.

Mrs. Corelli’s room was across the stairwell from the younger girls’ dormitory, and opposite Mrs. Neave’s suite. It was a fair size, but filled to overflowing with Mrs. Corelli’s possessions. There was a bed, a press, a cupboard, a music stand, a table and two chairs, cooking pots and a kettle. And all around the walls and on the mantelpiece and shelves were displayed playbills, engravings, open fans, a plume of feathers, a crimson shawl. The bed was curtained off, but the cooking area by the fireplace was open to the room.

Mrs. Corelli put the kettle on a trivet over the fire, then took a small key from a bag at her waist and unlocked a little black lacquered tea caddy. Mary Ann felt privileged to be given tea, which was so expensive.

“It’s cosy here. I like it,” she said, watching Mrs. Corelli measure a spoonful of tea into the warmed pot.

“But hardly what
you
are accustomed to?”

“Well…until Hatty and I were put together, I had a bedroom all to myself…”

“In a big house, with servants to wait on you?”

“Yes.”

“I might have had the same, if I had not followed my heart.”

Mary Ann had already noticed, in a frame on the wall opposite, a small painting of a young man, dark and slightly foreign-looking.

“Is that Mr. Corelli?” she asked.

“Yes.” Mrs. Corelli placed two cups of tea on the table. The cups were cracked but pretty. Mary Ann’s had medallions painted on it enclosing scenes of cupids and goddesses.

“My husband was a singer,” Mrs. Corelli explained. “Italian. He had a fine voice and was much sought after by the opera companies.”

“He was famous?” Mary Ann was entranced. “How did you meet? Where?” In her excitement she quite forgot to be deferential to her teacher.

Mrs. Corelli did not seem to mind the informality. “At Drury Lane Theatre,” she said. “I was a singer too.”

“Oh! I knew it!” exclaimed Mary Ann. Mrs. Corelli was no longer young, but she moved like an actress and her dress was always a little more flamboyant than you’d expect in a teacher. (“She knows how to wear a shawl,” Sophia had said once). “Were
you
famous?”

“A little, for a while.”

She opened a drawer and brought out a green cloth-covered box. Inside were old tickets, advertisements, playbills, prints of engravings.

“Here is all my life, and my husband’s, on the stage.”

Mary Ann leafed through them: “…
The Beggars’ Opera
…the part of MacHeath played by Enrico Corelli” … “Enrico and Jane Corelli” … “the celebrated Mr. Corelli…” … “Mrs. Corelli excels as Margarita…”