Death of a soprano, p.12
Death of a Soprano, page 12
He would not—he simply could not—allow such a travesty. Young the Archduke might be, but he was old enough to know right from wrong.
Chapter Eighteen
“I wish to have a word with you, Herr Haydn.” Maria Beatrice D’Este’s solemn features were directed toward the Kapellmeister. Mounted upon a white horse, she towered over the three men.
Her blue eyes flickered toward Johann and Luigi and then found their way back to Haydn’s face. “In private, if you please.”
The Archduke and his bride had arrived a few minutes ago. Resplendent in the baggy satin trousers of a Turkish woman, wearing a richly embroidered long tunic of bright orange, with a crimson turban, the bride had ridden ahead of the groom. Her horse pawed at the ground, whinnying softly, as she gripped its reins tightly in her hands.
Haydn forbore to look at his companions. He had hoped for an opportunity to speak with the Archduke. But that would have to wait.
“Very well.” Gesturing to Johann and Luigi to usher the Archduke toward the marriage arch constructed in front of the stable, Haydn led the bride’s white horse to a secluded corner of the yard.
“The Empress speaks very highly of you, Herr Haydn,” Maria Beatrice said as she gracefully dismounted her horse. She was an excellent horsewoman, Haydn noted.
She stood before him, a petite figure, her back perfectly straight—a force to contend with, for all that she was small. Her blue eyes regarded him steadfastly.
“Her Majesty directed me to you, Herr Haydn. She said you would answer my questions honestly.”
“I will certainly endeavor to do so, Your Ladyship.” He wasn’t sure how to address her. She was an heiress to four states, but had no title in her own right. Her father, though a Duke, insisted upon being addressed as a Prince.
That had led to a frequent butchering of his title the previous evening as the footmen and other servants struggled to remember the right form of address. More than once, the Duke of Modena had been addressed as “Your Royal Grace!”
“Your Royal Highness, you dunce!” the Duke had angrily retorted each time. “I am to be addressed as Your Royal Highness. Not Your Grace. Or Your Royal Grace. But Your Royal Highness.”
The memory would’ve been amusing, but for the situation Haydn currently found himself in.
“What questions did you have, Your Ladyship?” he probed gently, although from the way her eyes narrowed as they followed the Archduke, Haydn could guess at the object of her inquiry.
The bride’s blue eyes returned toward him, fastening themselves upon Haydn’s face. Her fingers were tightly clenched around her horse’s reins.
“What was the nature of the relationship between your prima donna and His Imperial Highness?”
The bluntness of the question, voiced in an even, flat tone, took Haydn by surprise. He found his own head pivoting to where the Archduke stood talking with Luigi and Johann.
What was the relation between the Archduke and Lucia? He himself would dearly wish to know the answer to that question.
“His Imperial Highness,” he began carefully, turning back to her, “appreciated Signora Pacelli’s voice—as would any true connoisseur of music. He was most gracious and most generous in voicing that appreciation—as befits his status, of course.”
The corners of Maria Beatrice’s mouth turned down, as though Haydn had disappointed her.
“Were they intimate?” she asked, her voice hardening.
Once again, Haydn found his gaze roving toward the Archduke. How was he to answer that question? He turned back to the bride and her tight-lipped expression.
Instead of answering the question, he asked one of his own.
“Do you have misgivings about the wedding, Your Ladyship? Or the Archduke himself?”
Maria Beatrice bit her lip. Her eyes were on the Archduke’s slim person—garbed in a gold-trimmed crimson robe worn over an orange tunic—as she responded. She gently nuzzled the horse.
“He seems amiable enough. I have no reason to question his devotion to God. But I fear he might be weak-willed, and . . .”
“If you choose to marry him, Your Ladyship, your fortitude may be the guiding force that gives him the direction he needs,” Haydn pointed out. Her posture and attitude told him she was a woman of remarkable strength.
“But will he be faithful?” Maria Beatrice searched Haydn’s features, her fingers stroking the horse’s snow-white mane. “And loving? I will not tolerate the kind of marriage my mother endures.”
Dear Lord, what could he say to that? Would to God, Johann were with him. His younger brother might have found the words to reassure this young woman.
“I know not, Your Ladyship,” Haydn said honestly. “But I would recommend that you put before the Archduke your expectations of the marriage. See if his answers satisfy you. I will speak to His Imperial Highness as well and remind him of his duty to God, to the Empress, his mother, and to you.”
She looked at him. Her hand had ceased to stroke her horse, who kept turning its head this way and that against her hand, urging her to continue.
“And if his answers do not satisfy me?”
“Then may God, your confessor, and your own conscience be your guide.”
It was not an adequate response to her questions. But what else could Haydn say?
Johann could not have been more dismayed than when Maria Beatrice D’Este announced she wished to speak with brother alone. Walking gravely beside Luigi, who was leading the Archduke’s horse, Johann kept glancing over his shoulder at his brother.
How were they to determine whether the Archduke had supplied Lucia with the poison that had taken her life?
The rhythmic clip-clop of the horse’s hooves on the cobbles beat against his mind, preventing him from divining a way to ask the question that needed to be asked.
Luigi was explaining the music and choreography to the Archduke as they walked toward the enormous arch erected in front of the stables. A figure of Psyche was carved upon one post. A figure of Eros, her lover upon the other. Upon the arch was a gold barque with a winged creature within it, Hymen, the Greek god of marriage.
It was only when His Imperial Highness dismounted his horse—a strong black stallion—wincing as he did so, that Johann found a way to broach the subject.
“Sister-in-law was asking after your health, Your Imperial Highness. I trust the herbs she gave you settled your stomach.”
The Archduke made a face. “Yes, yes, they did the job. Please let Frau Haydn know I thank her for her solicitude.”
“The herbs are to be taken in a tea twice every day, are they not, Johann?” Luigi, seeming to have divined Johann’s purpose, asked. He turned from Johann to the Archduke.
“Every day until there’s none left,” Johann asserted with a nod. “Your Imperial Highness is following the instructions, I trust.”
The Archduke’s features darkened as though in irritation. “I fear I cannot follow those instructions—much as I would like to, of course,” he said curtly. His tone indicated that he considered the matter closed.
“Does Frau Haydn need to make up another pouch?” Luigi said at once, ignoring the warning in the Archduke’s voice. “She will be most happy to do it. Your Imperial Highness has only to ask.”
But the Archduke was already shaking his head.
“No. No, that will not be necessary.”
“But—” Johann frowned. “If the herbs affected a cure—”
“They did,” the Archduke interrupted. “Most swiftly. And not having any further need for them, I discarded them. There’s no need to trouble Frau Haydn. The job is done.”
Luigi and Johann exchanged a glance. What job was the Archduke referring to? His own health?
Or Lucia’s death?
It had not escaped Johann’s attention that the Archduke had admitted to not having the herbs in his possession. If he had—in all innocence—supplied them to Lucia, why lie about the matter? Why claim that he’d discarded the pouch?
It was a most troubling lie.
“With child?” Greta repeated, aghast. “Signora Pacelli? Are you sure?”
The broom she’d taken out of the closet slipped through her fingers and clattered onto the stone floor.
“Yes, but be quiet,” Rosalie hissed. She picked up the broom Greta had dropped and glanced quickly around the hallway. There was no one around. “We’d best go into the servants’ hall,” she whispered. “I don’t want anyone to hear us.”
Nodding in agreement, Greta picked up the bucket filled with dust cloths and the mops she’d left standing against the wall.
They were supposed to go to the opera house to clean the auditorium, but that chore was forgotten in the face of this stunning news.
“How does Master Luigi know?” she demanded once they were inside the servants’ hall.
Rosalie closed the door and stood with her back resting against it.
“It’s what the barber-surgeon says. And he should know.”
“But . . .” Greta’s forehead wrinkled. “But I thought Hannah said—”
“She did,” Rosalie interrupted, her head bobbing up and down. “I nearly said it out loud when I first heard the news. That her husband is incapable of fathering a child. I stopped myself just in time.”
She stifled a giggle, recalling how utterly unsurprised Master Luigi had seemed when she’d nearly blurted that out. “Although I’ll bet it’s no secret that he can’t.”
Greta still seemed puzzled. “But that would mean—” She patted her hair, pulled back as always into two blond buns. “You don’t think . . . ?”
Her voice trailed off as she gazed wide-eyed at Rosalie.
Rosalie nodded, although she was finding it hard to believe as well.
“She must have written that letter herself.”
“And His Imperial Highness killed her?” Greta’s voice rose in wonder. “I suppose he’d have to, but . . .”
Rosalie stared at the yellow wall in front of her. That the Archduke had reason to kill Signora Pacelli was not in doubt. But would he do the deed himself? When could he have even done it?
“Wouldn’t someone have noticed him if he’d gone into her changing room?” Greta asked her.
“His Imperial Highness would’ve stood out like a sore thumb,” Rosalie agreed. Could he have been in disguise? It would have to be more than a change in clothing; his face and figure were so familiar to all the servants.
“Could he have had an accomplice?” Greta asked. “Fräulein Leon, perhaps?”
That was certainly a possibility, Rosalie thought. Still, something about the situation bothered her.
“Do you suppose he’d be foolish enough to leave his pouch of herbs behind—where anyone could recognize them and immediately point the finger at him?”
Greta tilted her head and regarded Rosalie.
“It may have dropped out of his pocket,” she said at last. “That’s the only explanation for it. He could hardly have tried to poison her with his medicaments.”
“Unless. . .” Rosalie’s brow furrowed. There was something her mother-in-law had told her, some herb she was to avoid at all costs. What was it now?
She racked her brains, but to no avail.
Could His Imperial Highness have given—or sent—Signora Pacelli his herbs in the hope of ridding her of her child? Had the herb then killed Signora Pacelli as well?
“It’s very commonly found, this herb,” she told Greta. “But it can kill a child you’re carrying. And it can kill you as well.”
Suddenly the name slipped into her mind.
Pennyroyal.
“Pennyroyal!” Greta gasped. Her hand flew to her mouth. “There’s something you should see,” she said. “I thought it was just so much rubbish, but . . .”
She pulled Rosalie deeper into the room.
Puzzled, Rosalie waited while Greta reached up, withdrawing a thick notebook from a shelf on the wall that contained several similar ledgers and notebooks.
Opening the notebook, Greta pulled out a folded broadsheet.
“I tucked it away here because I didn’t want anyone to see it.”
Chapter Nineteen
Gabor, the head groom, looked at the Archduke—who was struggling to get his stallion to execute a piaffe—and shook his grizzled head.
“Where can His Imperial Highness’s mind be?” he asked no one in particular. “It’s not on his horse, that much is clear.”
Haydn made no reply, but he and Johann and Luigi exchanged a glance. Where the Archduke’s mind was could easily be guessed. At least the lad had a conscience, Haydn thought to himself. The Kapellmeister hoped to be able to use it to extract a confession.
The rehearsal was coming to an end, but it had not gone well. The bride had performed her part gracefully, her horse executing its steps with precision and beauty.
As for the Archduke, his horse’s walk during the mock joust between himself—a Knight of the Order of the Golden Fleece—and his bride-to-be—representing a Turkish warrior—had barely kept time with the music.
But now when the defeated Turk and the victorious Knight were to dance together, his horse ignored its master’s commands, slamming its hock on the ground as soon as it raised it.
The Archduke’s impatience was only making matters worse. He tugged at the reins and jabbed his knee into the stallion’s side, making the creature ever more nervous. It was hard to watch, and Haydn found himself averting his eyes.
Finally, Gabor could stand it no longer. “No,” he bawled, going to the middle of the yard and wildly gesticulating his arms. “No, Your Imperial Highness! Leave off the reins.”
Haydn lifted his bow, ceasing to play.
“We have rehearsed long enough. It would be best to stop for the time being. Allow the horse to rest.”
The Archduke, still sitting stiffly astride his horse, looked at Haydn, his face irate. “And what of the performance tonight? Am I to let the beast show me to be a perfect incompetent?”
“Of course, not,” Haydn smoothly replied. “Gabor will help train the creature.”
The Archduke’s concern had supplied him with just the opportunity he needed to confront His Imperial Highness with his misdeeds.
“Without a rider would be best,” Gabor interjected as he softly stroked the perspiring horse.
Haydn nodded his agreement. After the horse had perfected its piaffe—a collected trot in position—Gabor and the Archduke could rehearse the finale of the piece while he and Johann furnished the music.
“Luigi will escort Her Ladyship back to the palace,” he finished.
“Very well,” the Archduke agreed, although the sulky expression remained on his face.
Reluctantly, he dismounted his horse and bowed stiffly to Maria Beatrice D’Este, who was led away by Luigi.
Rosalie unfolded the broadsheet Greta had handed her.
The paper was large—about fifteen inches in length and eleven inches across. The publisher’s name was missing and it was undated, but the black ink and the smudges left on it when Greta had folded it suggested it had been freshly printed.
“Poison Takes Prima Donna’s Life!” ornate letters proclaimed the news.
A picture in the middle of the article showed a woman lying face down on the stage, surrounded by other singers.
Rosalie raised her head. “Where did you get this?” she asked her friend.
“Karl had it with him when he came here to ask us to clean the auditorium,” Greta replied. “He caught Fiore reading it instead of attending to his chores.”
“Fiore must’ve got it from the tavern,” Rosalie surmised. Small though Eszterháza was, it had its share of printers. The publications were typically left at the tavern for villagers and palace servants to read. For a few pfennig, one could even bring back a copy.
She turned back to the article, scanning the opening paragraph.
A fine opera performance was marred yesterday by the sudden death of the opera’s lead singer, Lucia Pacelli. Although initial rumors suggested Signora Pacelli was drunk, we now know the poor woman to have been poisoned.
Greta peeked over Rosalie’s shoulder. “That was not the part that bothered me,” she said. “It was this”—she pointed to the next paragraph.
Tragic as the situation is. It is made far worse by the fact that the poison took not one but two lives. We have been made aware that the unfortunate Signora Pacelli was with child.
“After what Hannah told us,” Greta said, “I didn’t think anyone needed to read that.”
“No,” Rosalie agreed. “Especially since they insinuate the child was illegitimate.”
The conception of the child must have been no small miracle, the article read, for the prima donna’s husband is said to be remarkably deficient in that regard. That makes the nature of the poison that took her life even more telling. For, dear reader, we hear it was pennyroyal.
“There!” Greta jabbed at the mention of the herb. “It’s the same herb Gerhard’s mother told you to avoid.”
Rosalie re-read the words. Was the writer of the article trying to say the soprano had taken her own life—in a misguided effort to rid herself of an unwanted child?
But when she shared that supposition with her friend, Greta shook her head vehemently.
“Oh, no, that’s not it. Look!” Greta pointed a pudgy forefinger at the final paragraphs of the broadsheet.
“No further clues are available save this one—that a bundle of herbs said to belong to His Imperial Highness, Archduke Ferdinand Karl, was found in the dead soprano’s changing room.”
“How could they have heard about that?” Rosalie wondered. “That the herbs belonged to the Archduke.”
“From the same place they heard the rest of it,” Greta said. “Hannah must have been gossiping. Or they overheard the barber-surgeon. Didn’t you say he was at the tavern with Herr Haydn?”
“Yes, but—?” Rosalie’s eyes narrowed as she considered the matter. Unable to put her finger on what was wrong, she bent her head to continue reading.
