CHAPTER 18

image

The sun was setting over the sea and a lacy film of mist was slowly unrolling across the bay. Celestine, well wrapped against the chill in her Novice’s robes of dove grey, knelt to place a bunch of winter hellebores and snowdrops, freshly picked, on Rozenne’s grave.

“The winter hasn’t been so harsh this year, Rozenne.” She had taken to coming here at dusk to share her thoughts with her dead friend when she needed time to reflect on what was happening in her life. “Five years. I can’t believe it’s been five years since you left us.” She straightened up. “And Sister Noyale says that soon I’ll have to make some difficult choices about my future. I can’t imagine living anywhere but here now. But suppose I’m offered the chance to go to Lutèce?”

After the last ravages of the sickness took little Sister Eurielle, life at the convent had slowly resumed its normal pattern. Under Sister Noyale’s patient tuition, Celestine and Gauzia learned to write musical notation and were set to work to copy choir parts from the great missals of sacred music in the convent library. This year, Sister Noyale had even let them teach the youngest Skylarks their scales and exercises.

Yet, busy as her days were, Celestine often found herself looking out beyond the convent walls, gazing at the sky or the distant sea. Twice today, Sister Noyale had scolded her for making mistakes in her copying and she had been obliged to start the part again.

A sense of yearning washed through her again, as strong as a spring tide. But yearning for…what? This restlessness, when it came, swept all other thoughts from her mind. Never before had the convent walls seemed so confining.

 

An ordinary vespers on an ordinary day…The Novices were in the choir stalls, Sister Noyale was conducting, and the other sisters were sitting in their customary places in chapel. Elderly Sister Gwendoline had nodded off as usual, and her gentle snores could only be heard in the softest passages of the singing.

Celestine was the leader of the sopranos; opposite her stood Gauzia, leader of the altos. Nurtured by Sister Noyale’s strict training, Gauzia’s voice had gained strength and richness in the lower notes, whereas Celestine’s upper register had developed clarity and brilliance. No longer rivals but equals, Celestine had come to realize that when they sang together, it was a thrilling, exhilarating experience.

Celestine rose for her first solo. Glancing out into the chapel, she noticed a stranger seated beside the Abbess. A man. It was very unusual for visitors to attend vespers. And there was something about the way that he sat, unmoving, listening with rapt attention as she sang, that distinguished him from so many other visitors who yawned or shifted restlessly through the services.

This man, she told herself, has come to hear the music.

As soon as the service was over, the Abbess rose and ushered her guest out. Twenty-four pairs of eyes fixed on the fair-haired young man as he walked beside the Abbess toward the doors. As soon as the Novices reached the side aisles, they burst into excited whispers.

“Did you see him?” squealed Deneza, grabbing Gauzia by the arms.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” Koulmia sighed. “He must be of noble birth.”

“But who is he? Why is he here?” Gauzia ran to the doorway to gaze after him.

Celestine alone said nothing. If I speak, it will break the spell.

“He’s probably another of the Abbess’s nephews,” said Katell dismissively. “They’re always coming to visit Auntie Ermengarde.”

“I’d have remembered one as handsome as that,” retorted Koulmia. “His hair…so long and so silky…”

“Stop drooling, Koulmia, and go and extinguish the candles.” Sister Noyale appeared, holding her folder of music.

Celestine remembered that it was her turn to help Koulmia and went to follow her. But Sister Noyale stopped her.

“No, Celestine. I want you and Gauzia to come with me.”

Gauzia looked at Celestine, one auburn brow flaring quizzically. They hurried after Sister Noyale, hearing Koulmia’s disappointed wail echoing around the empty chapel.

“It’s not fair…”

 

“Come in quickly, girls, and shut the door,” ordered the Abbess. “We don’t want to let our visitor catch cold. This old building is very drafty, Monsieur de Joyeuse.”

A fire of driftwood was blazing in the Abbess’s parlor and by its light Celestine saw the visitor rise to his feet to greet them.

“Monsieur de Joyeuse, may I present our two most promising singers? This is Celestine, and Gauzia.” The girls curtsied dutifully.

“Demoiselles.” The visitor bowed. “May I say how much I appreciated your performance? You, Demoiselle Celestine, shaped your phrases with genuine understanding and artistry.” His voice was so pleasant to listen to, almost like a caress. “And you, Demoiselle Gauzia, you showed great flare in your interpretation.”

He was paying them a compliment! Celestine stared resolutely at the floor, aware that her cheeks had flamed hot red. She could not remember the last time she had been so close to a man—and such an attractive young man at that. Beside her, Gauzia was far less shy, smiling at him boldly.

“Monsieur de Joyeuse has an exciting proposal to put to you girls,” said the Abbess, settling herself in a cushioned fauteuil beside the fire.

“Excellent reports of your choirs have reached the court, Sister Noyale. Prince Enguerrand’s tutor has spoken very favorably of the music-making here.”

Sister Noyale gave a curt nod, as if she were unused to receiving compliments too.

“And so the young prince is planning to come here with his mother, Queen Aliénor, to the service on Saint Azilia’s Day.”

The Abbess was nodding vigorously. “Such an honor,” she burst out excitedly. “The royal family coming to visit us here!”

“The prince has requested me to write a new setting of the service for your choir to sing, Sister Noyale.”

“You honor us, Maistre,” said Sister Noyale in level tones.

So he’s a composer. Slowly, Celestine dared to raise her head. The firelight flickered across Monsieur de Joyeuse’s face, catching burnished glints of gold in his long, fair hair. He was smiling at her as he spoke, and it was a smile of such pleasant warmth that she felt as if her heart were melting.

 

Before Celestine and Gauzia reached the dormitory, all the other Novices came running up to pester them with questions.

“Who is he? Why is he here? Tell us!”

Celestine blinked. She heard Gauzia explaining as if from a long way off. The squeals of excitement soon brought her back to reality.

“Prince Enguerrand here? With Queen Aliénor?” shrieked Koulmia, clutching Celestine’s hands. “What an honor!”

“But just think, all the courtiers will accompany them in their fine clothes, and we’ll be in our drab, grey habits,” complained Gauzia.

“They’re coming to hear you sing, not to look at you,” said a dry voice. Katell had appeared in the doorway. As Senior Novice, soon to be faced with the decision whether to take her vows, she had not been judged to have enough talent to be sent to the choir of Saint Meriadec like Angelique. “And, royal visit or no, there are dormitory duties to be done before anyone gets into bed. If you must gossip, do it as you sweep and tidy up. I’ve seen cleaner pigsties. Koulmia, have you been eating in bed again?”

“Why would I do that?” Koulmia said in aggrieved tones.

Katell shook out her blanket and a little hail of crumbs and three brown apple cores fell onto the floor. “Just clean it up.”

“You’re such a slave driver, Katell,” grumbled Koulmia, taking the broom from Celestine, who was standing, staring into the middle distance. “Well, look who’s smitten with Monsieur de Joyeuse!”

“I was just wondering,” said Celestine hastily.

“I wouldn’t wonder too much,” put in Gauzia with a malicious little laugh. “He’s Maistre de Chapelle, isn’t he? With a choir of pretty boys?”

“What do you mean?” Celestine did not understand.

“Are you really that naïve, Celestine?” Gauzia said pityingly.

For the second time that evening, Celestine felt herself blush as she realized what Gauzia was implying. “I’m sure Monsieur de Joyeuse is not like that!” she cried. He had smiled so warmly at her; surely she had detected something more than good manners in that greeting? It was as if they had an unspoken understanding, even though they had never met before.

 

Four months passed and still there was no music from Henri de Joyeuse. Spring softened the bare branches in the convent orchard with a white snow of apple and pear blossom. The harsh winds ceased to buffet the promontory, and were replaced by gentler southerly breezes. The days grew warmer and the girls shed their thick winter robes and wore lighter linen dresses. Celestine began to wonder if she had dreamed the whole episode.

“Perhaps he’s been too busy to compose,” she said wistfully to Katell.

Celestine was chopping vegetables from the kitchen garden when she received the summons to go to Abbess Ermengarde. Wiping her hands on her apron, she arrived to find Sister Noyale unwrapping a large package in the Abbess’s parlor. The Abbess was fussing around behind her while Gauzia stood watching with folded arms.

“This arrived by special courier this morning,” Sister Noyale explained, lifting out a plain leather-bound folder and opening it. On the first page, written in a bold, black hand, was the simple inscription:


Canticles for Saint Azilia’s Day. Dedicated to my honored patron, His Royal Highness Enguerrand, prince of Francia.


So it was finished! Celestine glanced at Gauzia, wondering if she felt as dizzily excited as Celestine did.

“Well, Noyale?” said the Abbess impatiently. “What kind of piece has Maistre de Joyeuse written for us? Let’s pray he hasn’t composed anything too difficult for my girls to sing. We don’t want to look foolish before the prince.”

Sister Noyale looked up from the score. “It’s challenging. He’s made few concessions to the girls’ youth and inexperience. But if we work hard, I’m certain that it will sound wonderful.” Her brown eyes glowed with an enthusiasm that Celestine had only rarely glimpsed before.

“I know you love a challenge, Noyale,” said the Abbess, “but if you think it’s too difficult, you must tell Maistre de Joyeuse now and get him to change it.”

“Here’s your part, Celestine, and yours, Gauzia.” Sister Noyale took no notice of the Abbess.

Celestine had been chopping onions for the evening soup and although she had carefully rinsed her hands before coming to the parlor, she sniffed her fingers, wiping them on her apron before touching the precious manuscript. Gauzia was already leafing through the pages.

“Do you think this is his own hand?” Celestine asked, looking at the strong black strokes on the staff.

Gauzia gave a careless little shrug. “Busy composers use a copyist.”

“Oh.” Celestine was disappointed. She had imagined that the pages she was holding had been hand-scribed by Henri de Joyeuse, that he had sat up late into the night, feverishly scribbling down these very notes especially for her to sing.

 

The Canticles were difficult. More difficult than anything Celestine had ever had to learn before. It was not so much that the notes were hard to pitch accurately, but more the way that the individual lines were woven together. It was little consolation to know that Gauzia was equally challenged by Maistre de Joyeuse’s composition. She became obsessed with the drive to get to know this music as intimately as possible. As she sang alone in the empty chapel, she held in her mind the image of Henri de Joyeuse feverishly writing down the riot of notes flowing through his brain, lamplight like a golden halo burnishing his fair hair.


image


As Saint Azilia’s Day approached, the Abbess began to fuss about the flowers for the chapel. Everything must be “perfect—no, better than perfect—for our royal guests,” she insisted. The Skylarks were set to work binding floral wreaths and garlands to decorate the chapel; the Novices brought out ladders and, tucking up their long robes into their belts, climbed up to hang the garlands around the chapel pillars.

Celestine, her robes hitched up to her knees, was up at the top of a ladder held by Koulmia when she heard a sudden commotion below. All the girls had begun to chatter at once as noisily as a flock of starlings.

“Koulmia!” she called down. “What’s all the fuss about?”

“He’s here!”

“Who? Not the prince?” Celestine leaned out to try to see, just at the moment that Koulmia, distracted, let go of the ladder. “Koulmia!” She wobbled precariously at the top of the ladder, making a grab at a pillar to steady herself. “He-elp—”

“Good-day, Demoiselle Celestine,” said a cheerful voice from below as firm hands caught hold of the ladder and steadied it. “I see I came just in time.”

Celestine looked down to see Henri de Joyeuse gazing up at her. He must be able to see her bare legs! She climbed down, hastily shaking the tucked-in folds loose.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, unable to meet his gaze.

“It’s all right,” he said confidentially. “I averted my eyes.”

She looked up at him then, astonished that he knew what she had been thinking. His face had crinkled into a mischievously playful smile. She didn’t know whether she wanted to slap him or hug him for rescuing her.

 

“Is that really Prince Enguerrand?” said Koulmia in a shrill whisper. “Isn’t he rather…young? And he’s dressed in black, like a schoolboy.”

Even though the girls’ heads were respectfully lowered, every Novice had angled herself so that she could look down the aisle and see the prince and his mother, Queen Aliénor, as they left the chapel after the service.

“He’s Aubrey’s younger brother, stupid,” said Gauzia in scalding tones. “He is a schoolboy. What did you expect?”

“I expected someone a little more princely,” said Katell. “So princes wear spectacles?” She made a disparaging click of the tongue. “What d’you think, Celestine?”

Celestine was still staring after the departing royal party. She was certain now: It was Captain de Lanvaux at the prince’s side, ushering him out of the chapel, beneath the garlands of lilies and white roses, to the open doorway where his bodyguard awaited. The prince’s tutor had spoken highly of the music-making at Saint Azilia’s. Had Ruaud de Lanvaux arranged this prestigious occasion? She felt her heart warm with gratitude as she watched his tall figure, walking with the stiff bearing of a seasoned military man beside the young prince.

“I think that Prince Enguerrand has kind eyes,” she said. “And a sweet, shy smile.”

 

“Remember, girls, whatever you do, keep your eyes modestly lowered at all times,” insisted the Abbess. “Don’t look at the prince or his mother directly. That would be immodest and improper.”

Celestine expected Gauzia to remind the Abbess that she had been presented to the queen before and did not need to be lectured on court etiquette. But Gauzia was silent, and when Celestine sneaked a look at her, she saw that her face was flushed pink. So even the worldly Gauzia was overcome at the prospect of a royal audience.

Two tall men of the royal household, resplendent in their uniforms of blue and gold, stood guard outside the Abbess’s parlor. Celestine felt her knees go weak at the sight. But the guards merely opened the parlor door and the girls were ushered inside.

“May I present our two young soloists, your majesty, your highness…”

Celestine and Gauzia curtsied obediently. Queen Aliénor was talking with her ladies-in-waiting and she merely gave a brief approving nod. Celestine had never seen such richly dressed women before; the queen’s costume of mulberry velvet was stitched with tiny jewels that glittered in the candlelight whenever she gestured. At her side, her son Enguerrand looked like a young cleric in his sober dark suit. But it was he who leaned forward and spoke to them, his low voice earnest and kind.

“Thank you for your beautiful singing. The service was truly uplifting. And Maistre de Joyeuse’s Azilian Canticles were ravishing. I’d love to come here and listen to the choir again.”

Even though she had been forbidden to do so, Celestine could not resist snatching a glance at his face as he spoke and she saw that behind the lenses of his spectacles, his dark eyes were gravely smiling at them. He does look like a young priest; serious yet rather charming.

“Thank you, your highness,” said Gauzia boldly.

“Saint Azilia is my favorite of all the saints—after Saint Sergius, of course, Captain,” Prince Enguerrand added with a hasty glance in his tutor’s direction. “Her short life was so tragic, yet so inspiring.”

Captain de Lanvaux turned around at this and gave an approving nod.

“You can go now, girls,” said the Abbess hastily, shooing them out of the royal presence.

Celestine looked back over her shoulder for a glimpse of Maistre de Joyeuse. She had hoped that he would tell them if he had enjoyed their performance. She could just see the glint of candlelight on his fair hair as he listened attentively to one of the queen’s companions, a dark-haired young woman, who was gazing at him with undisguised admiration.

Disappointed, Celestine turned away and followed Gauzia, who had already left the parlor, her head held high.

 

Gauzia stormed off through the cloisters; Celestine ran after her, the sound of their fast-pattering feet echoing around the moonlit courtyard.

“What’s wrong, Gauzia? Everything went well. Aren’t you pleased?”

“It makes me so angry.” She spoke at last and her voice was choked with emotion. “To see those daughters of privileged families simpering around Queen Aliénor in their fancy clothes.” She clenched her fists at her sides. “Why did we have to be born helpless women?”

“Helpless?”

Gauzia spun around on her heel. “What life is there for us, Celestine? We have no dowries, so we can never hope to marry. We have no money, no status, nothing.

“But we have our voices. We could make our careers from singing.”

“Oh, wake up, Celestine.” Gauzia took hold of her by the shoulders and gave her a little shake. “Try leaving Saint Azilia’s and making your way on your own. Just try! How long would you last in the real world? A woman alone is easy prey. We’ve been sheltered here. Protected from the realities of life on the streets.” She let go of Celestine. “It’s different for men. Why can my brothers go into the army, the navy, the priesthood—and all that’s left to me is to be shut away in this dreary convent?”

Celestine hung her head. She had no answer.

“Don’t you have a dream? Do you really want to stay here forever?”

A little spark caught fire in Celestine as if she understood what Gauzia was saying for the first time.

Forever.

“N—no,” she said dazedly. “There are things…things I have to do…”

The sharp clatter of hooves on the cobbles startled them both. Two horsemen rode into the convent courtyard; the first dismounted as the girls stared, carelessly flinging his reins into the hands of the second. A couple of shaggy hounds loped in behind them, pink tongues lolling out of their mouths as they panted.

“Good-day, little sisters,” he called cheerfully, “can you take me to my brother? I thought I’d pay him a surprise visit.”

“Your b—brother?” Gauzia was staring unashamedly. Celestine was tongue-tied. With his piercing eyes of dark blue, curling dark hair, and entrancing smile, she had never seen such a good-looking young man before.

“We’ve been hunting, haven’t we, Locronan?” The newcomer turned to his companion, who grinned and nodded. “Bagged a fine brace of partridge out on the moors.”

“Prince Aubrey?” Recovering, Gauzia dipped a swift curtsy and smiled boldly up at him. “Please follow me.”

“Wait, your highness,” cried his companion. “Your mother—”

“Will be delighted to see us!” called the prince, laughing as he strode after Gauzia.

 

As the royal party departed, all the sisters and students lined the courtyard to bid them farewell. Koulmia and Deneza clutched each other, barely able to restrain their squeals of delight as Prince Aubrey rode out of the courtyard, the hounds obediently trotting behind their master.

“And he spoke to you, Gauzia? He actually spoke to you?”

“He asked me to take him to his mother. It seems he was expected to attend the service but went hunting instead.”

“Did you meet him too, Celestine?” demanded Katell.

Celestine nodded.

“But little Miss Mouse here was too shy to say anything,” said Gauzia scornfully.

“Or you pushed her out the way so that you could take precedence.”

“You take that back, Catty Katell!”

Katell, hands on her hips, faced her defiantly.

“Katell, please—” Celestine begged, catching hold of her arm.

“Celestine!” Sister Noyale said sharply. “Come with me.”

“You haven’t heard the last of this,” Gauzia said under her breath as Celestine followed Sister Noyale toward the Abbess’s parlor.

 

“So you want to steal away my best singer, Maistre?” Sister Noyale said, staring challengingly at him.

“I don’t think I’m setting a precedent here, am I, Abbess?” Henri de Joyeuse looked to the Abbess for confirmation. “The convent regularly sends girls to sing at Saint Meriadec’s in Lutèce. And excellent choirmistress that you are, Sister Noyale, you know that Celestine deserves the chance to develop her gift to the full.”

There was a silence. Celestine saw Sister Noyale bite her lower lip. “You’re saying that I’ve taught her all I know. And…you’re right. She needs to be trained by a professional singing teacher like you.”

Celestine stood watching the nuns and de Joyeuse discuss her future as the topic passed from speaker to speaker like the ball in a tense game of jeu de paume.

“But where is she going to live while she studies? She’s an orphan, she has no relatives.”

“She can stay with my family. They’re used to hosting my students.”

“Are you married, Maistre?” asked Sister Noyale pointedly. Celestine held her breath; for some reason she did not quite yet understand, his answer to Sister Noyale’s question was of more importance to her than she could have imagined.

“No, I live with my aunt. My aunt was a renowned singer in her youth; she teaches technique to my students.”

So he’s not married. Celestine felt herself begin to breathe again.

“I think it would be more appropriate for Celestine to stay at the Sisters of Charity, in the care of Sister Angelique,” put in the Abbess. “If she is to sing daily at Saint Meriadec’s, she will have a companion to accompany her.”

“Aren’t we forgetting our other promising singer, Gauzia de Saint-Désirat? If you were willing to give them lessons together, there could be no talk of impropriety.” Sister Noyale gazed sternly at the Maistre, as if challenging him to reject her suggestion at his peril.

“Her tone is distinctive but if she could learn to blend with the other choristers…” The Maistre smiled at Sister Noyale. “Why not? I’m sure that Gauzia will prove an asset to Saint Meriadec’s.”

“Gauzia’s family would surely make no objection?” mused the Abbess. “Then I will write to the Mother Superior at the Sisters of Charity and ask her to take in our girls as lay sisters.”

The mere hint that Gauzia might be her companion made Celestine squirm.

 

Leave the convent? The prospect was at once terrifying and thrilling. Celestine’s heart had begun to flutter at the thought. She pressed a hand to her breast, trying to steady its wild beating. All her security lay here, confined within the convent walls: her dearest “big sister” Katell, her friends, the reassuring daily rhythm of the convent routine…

“So you’re following Angelique?” Celestine whirled around to see Katell standing in the doorway, arms crossed, regarding her with a wry, sad smile.

“I don’t want to leave you, Katell!” Celestine burst out.

“But you have to go?”

Celestine could not meet her friend’s eyes. She nodded.

“Well then, that’s as it should be. Go to Lutèce and make us all proud of you.”

Was this really Katell speaking? Celestine slowly raised her head.

“Ever since you first showed us that amazing voice of yours, I knew you wouldn’t stay. Heavens, we’ve been lucky to have you here all these years. You deserve this break, Celestine. You have to follow your dream.” Katell’s voice was steady, but Celestine could see a glimmer of tears in her eyes. “But you have to promise to come back every Saint Azilia’s Day to sing to us.”

Celestine flew to Katell and hugged her, hard. “Oh, Katell, you’re all bones!” she said through her tears. “Thank you.”

“What for?” Katell wiped her eyes on a corner of her apron.

“For standing up for me. I’d never have made it to today without you beside me.”

“Enough of this nonsense!” Katell turned away so Celestine could no longer see her face. “I’ve got chores to finish.”

“I wish you were coming to Lutèce with me, not Gauzia.”

“So do I,” said the departing back, stiff and straight as a broom handle. “Come back and visit. Visit soon. And don’t forget to write!”

 

The following spring, the girls traveled by river to the capital city, where Maistre de Joyeuse met them in his carriage at the busy quay. As his driver skillfully negotiated his way between the other carriages jostling for room, the Maistre sat back on the seat, holding on to the strap to keep from being thrown by the violent lurches, and began to explain what lay ahead of them in their new lives.

“You’ll be tutored in vocal technique by my aunt. She prefers to be called Dame Elmire by her students, but her stage name was Elmire Sorel, and she was once the toast of the opera houses in the city.”

“Your aunt was an opera singer?” Gauzia clasped her hands together. “That’s my dream—to act, to sing on the stage…”

“And don’t be deceived by her friendly manner. In the music room, she’s a ferocious tyrant! You’ll have to work hard to keep up to her exacting standards.”

During this conversation, Celestine had begun to feel an unpleasant and disorienting sensation. It was as if a thin, dark smoke were seeping in from the street outside, choking her with a nauseating smell of burning. She clapped both hands to her mouth, afraid she might retch.

“Are you feeling all right, Demoiselle?” Maistre de Joyeuse was looking at her with concern.

“You look quite green. You’re not going to be sick are you?” asked Gauzia loudly.

“It must be the bumpy motion of the carriage over the cobblestones. Would you like the driver to stop?”

“No!” This inexplicable feeling of terror told her to get away as fast as possible. She felt so panicked that she wanted to wrench open the carriage door, jump down, and run until the feeling evaporated. “Where…are we?”

Maistre de Joyeuse checked outside. Then he rapped on the carriage roof and leaned forward to speak to the driver. “Turn off at once.”

“Where are we, Maistre?” Gauzia tried to peep out but the Maistre leaned across and hastily pulled down the blind.

“I apologize. Why the driver chose to bring us by the Place du Trahoir, I have no idea. He may enjoy the sight of criminals swinging from the gibbet, but it’s no sight for civilized citizens.”

The Place du Trahoir. The name brought back terrible memories like a foul black sediment churned up from the depths of a still, clear lake. This was where they had executed her dearest papa, in the cruelest way imaginable, by searing flames on an oil-drenched pyre. Celestine leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

“So you saw?” She heard the Maistre’s voice as if from far away. “I’m sorry, Demoiselle. We will soon be at my aunt’s house.”

“I’m feeling much better now.” Celestine forced herself to regain her self-control. What must he think of her? It was not an auspicious start to her new life in Lutèce.


image


The frontage of Maistre de Joyeuse’s town house could not be seen from the street, as like many others in Lutèce, it was protected by a high wall. But to Celestine’s delight, behind the wall lay an intimate courtyard garden. When she gazed upward, she saw that the little garden was surrounded by other tall houses, and a single square of blue sky could be glimpsed high above. But she could hear sparrows twittering in the flowerpots among the scarlet tulips.

Maistre de Joyeuse went on ahead while the girls collected their bundles from the coachman. Celestine could not help feeling as insignificant and dowdy as the brown sparrows fluttering in and out of the rambling wisteria that framed the porch with its luscious-scented blooms.

“So where are our new students?” demanded an imperious voice from inside. “Don’t tell me you’ve left them to make their own way in?”

The Maistre appeared in the open doorway with a grey-haired woman beside him. “Aunt Elmire, may I present Demoiselles Celestine and Gauzia.”

The girls curtsied. Elmire Sorel regarded them with a keen and critical eye.

“You will be studying vocal technique with me. I’m a hard taskmaster and I expect you both to be diligent students.”

“She’s worse than Sister Noyale,” whispered Gauzia to Celestine as they left the house to walk to the Sisters of Charity, their new home.

 

A tall, willowy nun was waiting to greet them in the austere entrance hall of the convent. Celestine stared.

“Angelique?” She ran to her and flung her arms around her, relieved to see a familiar face.

“Welcome to the Sisters of Charity,” said Angelique, kissing her cheek. “Is this Gauzia? Let me show you to your room.”

As Celestine followed the older girl through the hushed convent, she felt as if her new life was going to turn out all right if Angelique was there to guide and reassure her.


image


Every weekday the girls went to the Maistre’s house for a singing lesson with Dame Elmire, then left after lunch to sing the afternoon service with the convent choir at the ancient Church of Saint Meriadec. Three times a week, the girls attended the Conservatoire for lessons in music theory and the fortepiano. To Celestine’s disappointment, it soon became evident that the Maistre’s busy schedule would only permit him to coach them from time to time. But when the day came for her first lesson, Celestine found herself filled with nerves at the prospect of a whole hour alone with him.

The lesson began well enough and she soon began to forget her apprehension, lulled by his sensitive accompaniment.

Suddenly he stopped playing. Celestine, surprised, stopped singing. He was leaning forward, arms draped over the music stand, regarding her intently.

“Did I sing a wrong note? I’m sorry…”

“No; the notes were perfect.” Still he stared at her.

“My breathing, then. The phrasing?”

He slowly shook his head and she saw the hint of a smile on his lips. Was he teasing her? “Shall I sing the phrase again?” Used to Sister Noyale’s strict regime, she felt baffled by his silence. She wanted so much to please him and win his approval.

He rose from the keyboard. “You’ve been well trained. Like all Sister Noyale’s star singers, you have a good technique and produce a pleasing sound.” He began to pace the music room as he spoke. Pleasing. From anyone else it would have been a compliment. Celestine watched him, alarmed. Every time he passed her, she found herself thinking not of her technique or her phrasing, but how there was a trace of golden stubble on the curve of his chin. She kept trying not to think of it…but the more she tried, the more her fingers longed to reach out and touch it, to feel the roughness against his smooth skin—

He stopped suddenly in front of her. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Demoiselle?”

She stared at him blankly. She had not heard a word, only the sound of his voice. And then she felt her cheeks flushing bright red. What must he think of her?

“Where is your real voice, Demoiselle Celestine? I want you to stop trying to sing the way other people have told you to.” He was gazing into her eyes now with such intensity that she could not look away. “I want you to show me what this music means to you. I know you can do it. Who are you, Celestine?”

Who am I? The question came like a ram battering at a long-locked door. Celestine felt herself trembling. She had been Celestine for so long now, quiet, obedient, well-behaved Celestine, that the prospect of letting her true self loose was terrifying.

“I—I don’t know!” She turned in panic and fled the room.

 

Little golden bees were busy about the blue buds of lavender, droning in the warmth of the sun. It was hard, in this little courtyard garden, to remember that the bustling city lay outside the walls with all its hateful memories. The roses had almost all finished except for one pale cream climber around the arbor seat that was still flowering prolifically. The roses had not even started to bloom when they left the convent; had they been in Lutèce so long already?

She could hear Gauzia’s voice drifting through the open music room window, swelling as she sang, more rich and glorious in tone than it had ever sounded at the convent.

She’s everything I’m not. Celestine paced the looping gravel path, unable to escape the sound of Gauzia’s voice. And how delighted he must be with her progress. She stopped to pick a spike of lavender, sniffing the sharp scent on her fingertips. It took her back to the convent stillroom, tying bunches for Sister Kinnie to hang up to dry from the overhead herb rack. Maybe I should never have left Saint Azilia’s. Maybe I’m not ready to cope with life in the big city. But Gauzia is so confident, nothing seems to upset her. She’s improving every day.

Yet the thought of the two of them, Henri de Joyeuse and Gauzia, performing together pricked her imagination, sharp as a rose thorn.

I can’t bear for him to pay her so much attention. I want him to play for me, to smile at me, I want… She imagined them smiling at each other over the music, a secret look of understanding that suggested a far greater intimacy than the usual relationship between master and pupil.

No! I can’t afford to like him. Liking, loving, only leads to hurt. Loss. Loneliness. I must stay strong.


image


Maistre de Joyeuse had a composition to complete. He locked himself away in his music room, insisting that no one disturb him.

Celestine would tiptoe past his locked door and notice that his food tray had been left untouched, the delicious dinner cooked by Dame Elmire cold and congealing beneath its cover.

How wonderful to be so wrapped up in the world of sound that everyday necessities like eating and sleeping could be forgotten.

She stood very still, holding her breath, hoping to catch a faint snatch of the new sounds that he was weaving together. But all she heard were a few disjointed fragments.

Next morning, as Celestine arrived for her lesson with Dame Elmire, she heard Maistre de Joyeuse’s voice. “Coffee!” he called. “Strong coffee.”

She stopped, seeing him emerge from his room in his robe de chambre. He was unshaven and his hair was loose about his shoulders and disheveled, as though he had been dragging his fingers through it.

“You should be ashamed, wandering around the house in such a state,” chided Dame Elmire. “Will you join us, Celestine?”

In the morning room, the housekeeper poured black coffee into delicate porcelain cups. Celestine was still unaccustomed to the drink—a luxury that she had not even heard of in Saint Azilia’s—and she found its dark, burned aroma irresistible. When the Maistre had finished the first cup, he pushed it forward for a refill. As he did so, he glanced up at Celestine, acknowledging her presence with a rueful smile. “It took all night,” he said. “But it was worth it.”

“Your new composition?” she said, trying not to notice that she could plainly see a triangle of lean bare chest where the dark silk of his robe gaped open as he leaned forward to lift the cup to his lips. Is that all he has on? Is he naked underneath? she wondered, then felt herself blushing that she should think such an impure thought. “What are you working on, Maistre?”

“A work for Demoiselle Gauzia to sing on the Feast of Saint Sergius.”

She thought at first she had not heard aright. “For Gauzia?”

“The Grand Maistre commissioned a new anthem. It’s for a service at the Commanderie chapel.”

“I see.” Celestine turned swiftly away, hoping that he had not noticed her bitter disappointment.

“The Feast Day is only a week away. I need extra time to work on her part with her…so would you mind very much if we canceled our lesson today?”

Another sharp thorn pierced Celestine’s heart. It was all she could do not to blurt out, “What am I doing wrong? Why didn’t you choose me?”