The Quality of Mercy - By Barry Unsworth Page 0,52

which was growing denser as the evening advanced. He saw them reach the stage, watched Spenton hand his companion up, then mount the steps himself and exchange some words with the musicians waiting there. It was all for her benefit, then. Spenton had hired three supper boxes in the front arcade, the most expensive part of the pavilion; he had filled them with his acquaintance, a good many of whom, judging from those in his own box, had an interest in such concerts and probably some influence in the world of opera; he had engaged musicians to accompany her; he must also have hired the space for the stage and paid for its construction; no doubt he had also ordered supper for everybody, to be served when the performance was over. Miss Sheridan had her charms, there was no doubt of that. But for a man in need of a loan it seemed a lot to spend.

At the suggestion of Mrs. Winslow, the two ladies of the company took the occasion to go down and join Spenton, who had descended from the stage but remained close by. The three would constitute the beginning of an audience; others would join them, as is the way of passersby, and Miss Sheridan would get off to a good start.

Something, perhaps the departure of the ladies, or delayed excitement at the thought of La Petunia’s beauties, seemed now to rouse the elderly Sir Joseph from a state of apparent torpor. He leaned forward confidentially and said, “The loveliest of all was Miss Lily Somers. She was a most exquisite performer, a voice that was as clear as it was sweet. There were nightingales within her.”

“One can well imagine where they would make their nest,” the viscount said, as if to himself.

“I heard her sing Cleopatra at the King’s Theatre in the Haymarket. Da tempeste il legno infranto. Forty years ago now. I had roses sent to her dressing room. She gave me the two ribbons she had used to tie up her hair, red ribbons.” His voice had risen in the excitement of these reminiscences. For some reason he had fixed his eyes on Kemp. “Sir, I tied them together and knotted them round my testicles. For years I put them on with my clothes. I wore them till they rotted away.”

“Egad, sir, rotted away, did they?” The major cast a droll look round the table. “Nothing lasts forever,” he said.

Before any more could be said on this subject of mortality, the musicians struck up, and Miss Sheridan’s voice rose to them from below. She had chosen her opening song very well, the patriotic ending to “The Kept Mistress,” well known to everyone after the success of the play.

This island, this rocky ribbed coast,

This jewel strong set in the sea,

Nor gold mines, nor vineyards can boast,

But boasts she has sons dare be free …

She followed this up with “Art Thou Troubled?” from Rodelinda and, in artful contrast with the stateliness of this, several spirited airs from works by Vivaldi. She had a soprano voice, strong and warmly modulated, and it carried far over the gardens. Mrs. Winslow had been right: a considerable audience had gathered to listen, and there was a good deal of applause at the end of each piece.

Kemp was content to watch the crowd and listen to the singing and wait for the private talk that Spenton had promised him. From here he could see a good way across the gardens. The columns of the pavilion were lit with glass lamps, and these cast a brilliant light over the singer and the orchestra and the crowd round the stage. There was no breath of wind and the day had been sultry, but there was a freshness in the air, which he thought must be due to their nearness to the river. Perhaps it was full tide—he fancied that there was a faint tang of salt. Light rained down from the lamps in the trees along the avenue, falling onto the standing or moving figures in a way that was curiously capricious in spite of its fullness, making bright, metallic shoots of emerald among the foliage, casting a deep glow on the dyed feathers in the ladies hats, glittering briefly on powdered wigs.

Miss Sheridan quit the stage to renewed applause, and Spenton conducted her back to the box. In spite of his nonchalant manner, he had planned the evening with considerable care, or so it seemed to Kemp. The timing was impeccable.