The Prima Donna of Vienna

Margherita took a deep breath, convulsively pulling at her stiff bodice and readjusting her powdered curls, though she knew Contessa’s skill too well to question her coiffure abilities. She listened to the sounds around her; the stage crew chattering away as they worked, their laughter drowned out by the orchestra. Beyond that, the din of the crowd was softer than normal, probably because Giuseppe was coming to his key aria. A shudder ran through her and she turned her thoughts away from the audience, knowing who would be out there, watching her.

Instead, she observed her fellow singer on the stage, belting out the notes with ease in his luscious, baritone intonations. She smiled; he had to be the best Don Giovanni Vienna had yet seen, and she was determined to be the best Elvira. Not that she wasn’t already. Margherita Castrani, prima donna, wasn’t nervous about the opera. She knew it well, and even if she hadn’t, she could always improvise or dig into her memory for one of those arias Sig. Bonturo had commissioned for her. No one would care as they diced and feasted in their opera boxes, as loud as her father’s cattle on the Florentine farm of her youth.

Youth. She bit her lip as the word caused a stab of pain in her heart. Fifteen years on the stage had enthroned her in fame, but it had cost what the other girls of her village had achieved. While she went to singing lessons, her friends were being married in the Santa Maria del Mare chapel; now she was thirty-five and felt it. According to her last letter, her childhood friend Lucia was soon to give birth to her eighth child. Was she ever to have that chance?

Margherita paused to consider. Viscount Mareville could give her children, along with everything else she wanted. No, not quite everything. She thought of him in his box, high on the left side of the stage, looking down her with that triumphant smile that he always wore when he knew he’d won. And hadn’t he? She had not said no to his offer to establish her as his mistress in London. In point of fact, she could not remembering having said anything, and he took her stunned silence as humble acceptance.

“Oh, my dear Margherita, you’ll set the ton garbling with your beauty, have no fear!”

That had loosened her tongue.

“But, my lord, I do not speak English!”

“What of that? You’ll have Contessa, and I can hire you an Italian staff, and an English tutor, if you like.”

“But, but…my contract is here!”

“The season will be over in a month, no? You can follow me when you’ve finished.”

“I do not know, my lord…”

He chuckled. “Consider it, mio uccello canoro, and remember, I’ll be watching you from my box, entranced by your siren song.”

The tattered remains of Margherita’s rigid upbringing were still strong enough to make his offer rankle both her ideas of decency and her pride. What could she lose by saying no to him? She was sure Padre Francesco would be looking down at her from heaven, greatly disappointed, not to mention her mama and papa. And there was someone else, someone even closer to the stage than the boxes…

That was it. Margherita shook herself from her daydreams. If she thought of it, if she thought of him, she would never be able to make it through the Second Act. She heard her cue and walked confidently out onto the stage, drawing a deep breath.

***

Margherita was still brushing out her curls in her dressing room when she heard a faint scratch at the door. Contessa muttered a curse and threw it open. Her mistress’s hand had frozen mid-stroke, but when she saw in her glass that the caller was merely a messenger boy, she relaxed. The viscount would have come himself.

Her maid gave the boy a coin and turned back to her, handing her the letter. It was not fine parchment, and Margherita instinctively knew who it was from.

Mio Rita,

I was hopeful that I might see you this evening. I need to speak with you urgently. Please, if you can, I would be most grateful. You sung beautifully as always.

Franz

Fear again seized Margherita’s heart. Franz wanted to meet? Why? Perhaps he was finally going to ask the question she both longed for and dreaded. Or perhaps he was going to say goodbye. Tears pricked her eyes. His gallantry and kindness would have allowed for nothing else.

“Contessa, do you have the time?”

“It is a quarter past midnight, senora.”

Margherita sprang into action. The viscount expected her to take three-quarters of an hour in her dressing room. Tonight she would be done in half that time and slip out beforehand. When she was dressed in her simplest evening gown, her unpowdered black tresses falling down one shoulder, she hurried through the opera house and to the orchestra pit.

Franz was standing in the darkness, his violin in its case nearby. She only saw his back at first, but she could tell his posture was stiff, and his hands were behind his back. He was in a serious mood.

“Francesco…” she murmured, her silky voice cutting the silence.

He whipped around, flushing when he saw her. “Mio Rita!” he gasped, rushing up and taking her hands. “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”

She smiled and squeezed his fingers. “How little you know me, mio caro.”

“I like to think I know you very well. That’s why I wanted to talk to you now.” He paused to take a deep breath, and Margherita felt her heart in her throat. “I want to marry you, Liebling.”

The dark opera house fell away, and Margherita let out a sob.

“Don’t cry, meine Liebe!” he begged. “I’m sorry! I had to tell you! I wanted you to know my intentions were honest.”

Margherita sobbed again, but she smiled at him. When he saw it, he kissed her. It was only in the middle of this that she remembered where she was, who she was. At once, she pushed away from him.

“I can’t, Francesco,” she said urgently. “I can’t ruin you like this!”

“Ruin me?” He shook his head. “I’ve told you a thousand times, Rita, I ruined myself when I left my parents to be a violinist. I love you, and I don’t care what anyone will say!”

“You need a young girl, Francesco,” Margherita insisted, stepping away from him. “I am as old as you! You want a girl of nineteen who will bear you healthy children and whose name isn’t know from London to Vienna.”

“What are you saying?” he demanded, a dangerous note in his voice.

She wrung her hands helplessly. “You know what I’m saying! I’m…I’m…merce danneggiata.”

“Who told you that?!” Franz thundered. “Was it that pompous viscount?”

“No!” she assured him, frightened by the militancy in his eyes. “No, Mareville has always been a gentlemen to me.” She hoped she sounded convincing.

“It doesn’t matter, Rita. It’s not true. You are not Gabrielli or Cuzzoni. The scandal is not tied to your name.” He paused, considering. “Are you afraid I’d make you give up your career?”

She shook her head. “But how would we live, Francesco? I do not like to think of it, but you must admit it has been more difficult for me to get contracts the last few seasons. Eventually they will want younger singers.”

Now he looked hurt. “Are you worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep you in the lifestyle to which you’ve grown accustomed? Rita, I’d work every day of my life to insure that!”

“No, no, Francesco!” She shook her head, distraught that she was expressing herself so terribly. “I don’t care about the money! But I am not good enough for you, besides being too old! You would grow tired of me.”

Franz sighed. “Rita, mio Rita, do you think I have never fancied myself in love before? I know the difference between a passing flirtation and a lasting attachment. I would not grow tired of you, meine Liebe. I love you.” He drew a deep breath. “Do you not love me?”

Margherita dropped her gaze. “No,” she choked on the lie. “No I don’t.”

A heavy silence fell. She stood there with her head down, waiting for him to speak. He did not. She heard him pick up his violin and silently leave the pit. Margherita went back to her dressing room but paused at the door when she a familiar voice within. Quickly wiping away her tears, she assumed her coquetting manner and sauntered inside.

“My lord,” she greeted Mareville with a curtsy.

“Where have you been, mio amore?” he asked, casting a glance over her from his seat on her divan.

“I went to take the air.”

“I see,” he started up and toward her in one fast movement, his tall frame filling the space.

Margherita shrank before him and backed against the wall, suddenly afraid. She glanced around and for the first time realized that Contessa was nowhere in sight.

He laughed when he saw her frantic searching. “That was clever of me to make you think I was speaking to someone, no? You see, I was worried you were going to need more persuasion about my offer.”

“You want to speak about your offer?” Margherita asked, trying to stay calm. “Very well, my lord. Let us sit and discuss it.”

“You’re going to treat me like a common impresario?” he asked, stroking her cheek with one long finger. The scent of brandy on his breath assailed her nostrils.

She was about to answer with a teasing rejoinder, but the viscount shoved her against the wall with his body and kissed her long and hard. Margherita pushed against him with all her strength, but her little fists were useless against his broad shoulders. Finally, he stopped kissing her and whispered in her ear, “So che mi vuoi, mio uccello canoro,” before kissing her neck below her ear.

Without any other consideration, Margherita let out a piercing shriek, aided by her naturally powerful voice. The sound went right into Mareville’s ear and he lurched back, a murderous look in his face. She ran for the door and had pried it open before he grabbed her wrist and threw her back into the room. Margherita stumbled in her starched skirts and fell on her backside onto the divan. The viscount was in the act of the locking the door. He slipped the key into his coat pocket and faced her.

“You know, I expected more pliability from a prima donna of Vienna. Perhaps you are purer than your title suggests?”

Margherita’s temper flared and she started up from the divan. “How dare you?! Release me from this room at once! You are a drunken fool, and you have no right!”

“Ah, you’re amusing,” he said, shoving her back down easily.

Still, Margherita got up again and darted around him. Seeing a book lying on a nearby table, she snatched it up and hurled it at his head. It found its mark and Mareville cursed. Margherita rushed for the door and pulled at the handle, screaming for someone to help her.

“Shut up!” He put a hand over her and mouth and pulled her from the door. When he threw her onto the divan this time, he made certain to hold her down.

Margherita was able to scream once more before he covered her mouth with his own hungry kiss, but this time, her cry was answered with a resounding crash. Mareville was startled into getting up. Another crash rang out from behind the door, and it gave way. Standing in the wreckage was Franz. He took in the scene from Mareville’s drunken eyes to Margherita’s torn bodice, and his whole face grew red with rage. He was nearly the viscount’s height, and with one stride he was across the room and dealing him a deafening punch. Mareville’s body hit the ground like a sack of flour, and Franz turned to Margherita. Without a word, he scooped her up and carried her out of the opera house and into a hired hack.

When they were moving down the street at a sedate pace, she finally lifted her face from where it had been buried in his collar and whispered, “You struck one of the wealthiest men in Vienna, Francesco.”

“Mio Rita,” he answered, looking down at her, “I’d fight hell itself for you.”

“But, but how did you know? How did you hear me?”

“I was on my way to see you.”

She blinked in confusion. “But I’d already told you…”

He laughed low and soft. “You say you’re old, meine Liebe, but you’re young in love. Did you think I didn’t know you were lying when you said you didn’t love me?”

“How did you know I was lying?”

“You hid your eyes from me. There was something in them you didn’t want me to see.”

She sniffled and rested contentedly in her arms. “What was that?”

“That you’d fight hell for me, too.”