Stoker spoke again. “Try drawing a little less attention to yourself,” he suggested.
I edged my chair back a little, casting my face deeper into the shadows. “That is the best I can do. I am supposed to be the guest of honor at this event,” I reminded him.
“Imperious as a princess already,” he returned lightly. “I think I shall make you clean my walrus when we go home just to put you in your proper place.” He dared a quick wink before resuming his post in the rear of the box. I drank deeply of my champagne.
Home. The word was jarring in this context. I had never had a home, not a real one. My aunts and I had moved frequently for reasons I had come to understand only too late. My travels had taken me around the world, drawing me across the globe and back again in pursuit of my beloved butterflies. I never tarried long in any spot for the fear that I would become too rooted, too settled. But with our employment at the Belvedere and the eccentric lodgings of which we had both become fond—to say nothing of our personal attachment—I found myself for the first time perched on the edge of domesticity.
It was a terrifying thought. Hearthsides and cradles held no charms for me. I was unfettered as the east wind, I reminded myself. And the sooner Stoker realized I had no interest in darning shirts and stirring cook pots, the better off we would both be.
I turned in my chair to meet Duke Maximilian’s delighted gaze as I held out my glass again. “I would like more champagne,” I announced.
“With pleasure, Princess,” he said, obliging me.
I caught the baroness’s glance of reproof as I started on my third glass. The coupes were small, scarcely bigger than thimbles, and I was well capable of handling my intoxicants, I thought in some irritation. Besides, the combination of the handsome duke, the jewels, and the danger of what I was doing was heady enough. I had spent too long cocooned in the security of the Belvedere, pinning mounts and answering correspondence. For just these few hours, I was on the tightrope again, balanced precariously between glory and disaster, and the thrill of it coursed through me with far more effect than the glittering wine.
I raised my glass to Duke Maximilian. “To your very good health, Your Grace.”
He grinned and touched his glass to mine.
CHAPTER
13
The rest of the performance passed in a golden haze from the faery-tale circumstances—heightened no doubt by the excellence of the champagne as well as the liminal magic of the opera itself. The librettist had clearly been inspired by Handel’s work of the same name, but his handling of the myth of Atalanta was altogether darker. The first act saw the princess thwart her father’s attempts to see her matched with a man who could best the fleet-footed heroine in a race. In this version, a suitor dropped enchanted golden apples to distract her, but Atalanta was guarded by Artemis, protectress of chaste maidens, and the goddess gave her heightened speed so she might win in spite of the conspiracy of men to cheat her into marriage. The act had finished with the princess singing of her triumph but also of her loneliness, her longing for someone of her own choosing to share her victories as well as her woes.
The second act had been set upon an enormous ship, the Argo, as Atalanta and a crew of heroes sailed for the Golden Fleece, a quest in which the princess distinguished herself by her daring although the men around her plotted to take her share of the spoils. Enraged, she took her revenge upon them before running away to hide out as a shepherdess. Her disguise was penetrated when the hunt for the Calydonian Boar passed and she must join or die. Reaching for her spear, she embraced her true destiny at last, spitting the beast and saving the kingdom from his ravaging. When the other hunters disparaged her, a young huntsman named Meleager stood alone in her defense. The tenor cast in the role was heartbreakingly young, bewailing the fact that he would never be worthy of her love, but vowing he would take her side against his own uncles, who plotted to kill her. Finding at last a man whose honor was as great as hers, Atalanta bestowed her hand upon him, and a tremendous wedding chorus was sung as the lovers were joined in marriage. But the goddess Artemis, petitioned by Meleager’s uncles and angered at losing her devoted handmaiden, cast the bridegroom into a pyre, causing Atalanta to deliver a widow’s aria, shivering the rafters with its eldritch lament. It was a thing of fire and rage, her grief smelted in the crucible of loss into purest anger and a vow of revenge against those who plotted against her. The opera ended with Atalanta, silhouetted by fire, spear raised against a dying sun, triumphant even in the knowledge that she will go to her death, destroyed by the goddess she once served for her blasphemies.
“We do not much care for happy endings,” Duke Maximilian murmured in my ear. “We are too pragmatic for that. But I think it disturbs you British,” he added with a nod towards the audience below.
The English crowd, rather uncomfortable with equivocal endings, applauded politely. Suddenly, I realized all eyes were fixed upon the royal box. My reaction, for good or ill, would determine whether the work was a success or a dismal failure. In that moment, I held the fate of Mademoiselle Fribourg, of the entire cast, of the composer Berton, of the world’s opinion of Alpenwalder culture, in my gloved hands.
Slowly, deliberately, I rose to my feet and began to clap. The kidskin muffled the sound, but still it echoed throughout the opera house. The applause began haltingly, like drops of rain pattering on a roof. I fancied I could hear each pair of hands, clapping alone in the darkness. Then more, and still more, the sound rising to a storm, then a deluge of approbation as the curtain rose and the cast took their bows, the chorus and lesser performers first. Then the goddess and the suitors, and finally Mademoiselle Fribourg herself. Bouquets were hurled along with cries of “Brava!” and the lady curtsied deeply, gesturing towards the orchestra pit. The conductor, Monsieur Berton, who had also composed the work, leapt onto the stage at her invitation. They joined hands and faced the royal box. As one, the entire cast and orchestra bowed deeply to me, Mademoiselle Fribourg’s nose nearly touching the stage. When she rose, I saw tears glittering on her cheeks, and Berton seized her hand, kissing it ardently. Whatever else happened that night, I told myself, I had done some good for these people.
* * *
• • •
When the ovations were ended, the chancellor shepherded us out of the royal box just as the ambassador appeared, his moustaches quivering in delight.
“A triumph! An absolute triumph!” he exclaimed. “And all due to Your Serene Highness’s enthusiastic response.”
“I think it is rather more to do with the quality of the music and the performance,” I told him.
“So gracious!” he murmured. “Naturally, you will wish to pay your compliments directly to the performers and the composer, madame, so I have arranged for a private audience backstage. If you would step this way—”
He bowed low, extending his arm. I looked to the chancellor for help, but he merely lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. I should have to make the best of it, I decided. I followed the ambassador, the rest of the Alpenwalder entourage trailing behind. The cast and orchestra and stagehands were arranged in a long line in the wings. The proprietors naturally took pride of place, beaming and bowing, and obviously enormously relieved, as their gamble on a new production would pay handsomely now that they had a bona fide success on their hands.