‘I am pleased to be the first to show it to you. Flynn said you had a wish to see it.’
Flynn.
Flynn had made this happen for her. He alone knew how much she desired it. He must have forgiven her wanton behaviour, to give her such a gift. ‘I did indeed.’
It had seemed natural to Rose to tell Flynn all about her mother singing in King’s Theatre, about her mother’s dashed dreams and shortened life. She had no such impulse to tell the marquess.
The musicians entered and took their seats, the violinists tuning their strings, horn players testing their instruments’ sound. Though none played at full volume, the notes filled the huge room, and Rose found she was eager to hear the performance, especially the singing.
‘Do you fancy yourself singing in this theatre some day?’ Tannerton asked her.
Rose shot a glance at him. Had Flynn told him this as well? It seemed a betrayal of confidences. ‘Why do you think so?’
He shrugged. ‘King’s Theatre is the pinnacle, is it not, for singers? At least others have told me so.’
Perhaps Flynn had not told him all her secrets, after all. She heard Flynn behind her talking quietly to Katy and wished he would speak loud enough so she could hear what he said.
Katy disappointed Rose, acting so subdued Tannerton would never notice her. In fact, Katy seemed more determined to have Flynn’s company.
Tannerton handed her a paper. ‘Here is the programme telling who sings tonight. I will get you a candle if you cannot read it.’
She took the paper and stared at it even though she could read but little in the dim light. It gave her an excuse not to talk to him.
‘Thank you,’ she said belatedly, briefly glancing at him.
Tanner smiled at her. He had a boyish handsomeness, she had to admit. An open countenance. He was tall and athletic and looked out of place in this elegant theatre, as if he would prefer hunting or whatever gentlemen did in the out of doors. By appearance, and so far by manner, he did not threaten, but Rose could not forget her father’s warning. This was a man who possessed the power to ruin her ambitions. She turned back to staring at the programme.
‘I think it is about to begin,’ Tannerton said.
She glanced at the stage. The conductor of the orchestra took his place. The musicians quieted, but the audience seemed as noisy as ever. The music began. Rose could make out that the opera was one of Mozart’s, but she had never heard the music before. Her school had not owned these sheets of music. She poised herself to listen and watch, not wishing to miss a bit of it.
When the curtain opened, she even forgot who sat beside her. The set was magical, looking so real she could barely believe she was not looking through some window. She heard singing voices like she’d never heard before, big voices, bigger than her own, big enough to fill this huge theatre. When the soprano sang, Rose held her breath. She wanted to open her mouth and mimic each note, to try to make her voice bigger, like this one.
She could understand none of the words. She was not even sure what language they were singing. It did not matter, however. The performers showed her the story, a shocking one, really. Don Giovanni was a seducer of women, a man who made conquests and who cared little of what havoc he wreaked in people’s lives. When the character Elvira sang, Rose could hear her heartache and her rage. Elvira loved and hated Don Giovanni. Rose wanted to weep for her. How thrilling it would be to sing one’s emotions like that.
When the intermission came, Rose felt bereft. She wanted to go on listening. She wanted to step on to the stage and be a part of it, to raise her voice with the others in the beautiful music they created.
Instead, a footman brought in some cakes and fruit and other delicacies.
‘At intermission one often calls upon others in other boxes,’ Tannerton told her. ‘But I have asked the footman to stand outside and explain we do not wish to be disturbed.’
That was kind of him. The last thing she wanted was to have the magic of the performance interrupted by curious people come to see who sat next to the marquess. She was desperately trying to hold on to the music, replaying it in her head, silently singing, wishing she could sound like those wonderful performers.
They took refreshment around a small table. Flynn, sitting directly opposite Rose, poured more champagne.
‘How do you like the performance, Miss Green?’ Tannerton asked.
Katy grinned. ‘It is fun, is it not? Don Giovanni is a clever rogue. I hope he escapes.’
‘We shall see,’ said Tanner, eyes crinkling into a smile.
Tanner turned to Rose. ‘And you, Miss O’Keefe. What do you think of it?’
Rose looked up to see Flynn watching her. He quickly averted his eyes. She could barely speak. Words were not enough to convey what she felt. ‘I have never heard such singing,’ she said reverently. ‘I like it very much.’
‘Then I am happy.’ Tannerton grinned boyishly. ‘I have pleased you both.’
The second half of the opera was every bit as magical. Rose felt the music inside her. She was transported by its beauty, affected by its emotion, and invigorated by possibilities she had not known existed. To sing with such power and feeling. She could hardly wait to try to mimic their sound.
Too soon it was over, the music making its last crescendo. Rose felt as if her soul had been dropped from a great height back into her own body. She applauded with all the energy she possessed.
When the performers took their final bow, the only sounds that could be heard were the scuffling feet and muffled voices of people leaving the theatre.
Lord Tannerton put his hand on her arm. She had forgotten him, forgotten her purpose for being there.
‘Time to go, Miss O’Keefe,’ he said.
Chapter Seven
Flynn watched Tanner touch Rose’s arm. His own hand tingled, as if it were he, not Tanner, who touched her. He stretched and flexed his fingers, trying to dispel the illusion, but it did no good, because Tanner touched her again, escorting her out of the box on his arm. He had known it would be difficult to see her with Tanner. He had just not anticipated how difficult.
There was no doubt in Flynn’s mind that he’d chosen well when he’d picked King’s Theatre as the place for Tanner to meet Rose. Tanner had grumbled—the man hated opera—but Flynn knew that this place would be more precious to Rose than a whole cask of emerald rings. She would never forget the man who gave her King’s Theatre.
Flynn ought to be congratulating himself all round.
But every time Tanner had looked at Rose or leaned towards her or spoke to her it was like daggers were being thrust into Flynn’s flesh. He was surprised that the champagne he’d consumed had not spurted out of him like from a water skin poked with holes.
They found Tanner’s carriage among the line of vehicles outside. Tanner lifted Rose into it, holding her by the waist. He assisted Katy in the same manner. Flynn was the last inside, taking his seat next to Katy. His gaze met Rose’s, and she smiled, gratitude shining in her eyes.
He would not regret giving her this evening, no matter that it signified the loss of a brief, fanciful, mad dream.
The carriage made the short trip to Bennet Street in good time. As it pulled up in front of the gaming-house, Katy said, ‘You must all come up for some supper. Madame Bisou has arranged a nice treat.’
‘But—’ Rose glared