Nightingale by Juliet Waldron Page B

bad as she felt today, there was still a sense that the worst was behind her, that she was now on the still miserable-but-mending downside. Her chest ached, and every cough brought up quantities.
    "I shall not be able to sing for days, but in another week, perhaps, I believe I'll be free of it. Now, no more talk for me. Bring breakfast and then fetch my secretary box so that I can write to Prince Vehnsky and make my apology."
    "Oh, Mistress!"
    "Liese, I can't sing and that's all there is to it. But I do feel as if somehow I've skipped straight through the worst."
    The stove was stoked again, and in a few minutes, Klara washed in the basin of hot water Marie the maid carried in. She’d sweat during her sleep and needed all fresh underclothes, chemise, shift and stockings. After putting these on, she slipped into the old wool morning gown.
    She discovered a surprisingly good appetite for her breakfast, a soft boiled brown egg sitting staunchly in a blue china cup, rye bread and butter, accompanied by a cup of honeyed black tea. After the tray was gone, she picked up the small secretary box and set it in her lap.
    Selecting a sheet of paper and taking up a quill, she penned a graceful note of apology to Prince Vehnsky. Education had given her the confidence to do this. Klara was even bold enough to ask the Prince if she might have the honor of singing for him when she was better. When the letter was dispatched (a man servant, Hermann, had been called up from the stables to personally deliver it), Klara went back to nursing her cold.
    Liese brought the three-legged pot from the kitchen and left it to steam on a ledge of the parlor stove. Soon, the head-clearing scent of scented oils filled the room. Even though Klara felt miserable, it was always so boring to be sick! Restlessly, she began to look over arias which had been sent to her by audacious young composers.
    She got heaps of such stuff, because to gain the interest of a prima donna might also be to gain the interest the powerful connoisseur who was her protector. Oettingen protected Klara from many risks, both financial and those of artistic reputation, involved in staging any new opera at the conservative court theater.
    Of course, the Count had the final say in all such matters. While he was by nature a traditionalist (what aristocrat could be anything else?), Klara had to admit that Max's taste in music was unimpeachable. Sometimes, however, unable to get staging for an entire work, Klara would buy arias she especially liked for her own use at winter concerts.
    Poor composers! They labored to rescue Beauty from Oblivion, to show her forth in triumph, but it was the singers like Klara who got the adulation, and the money. Klara tried, in small ways, to remedy what she saw as injustice, although Oettingen always grumbled that she was far too lavish.
    "And with my money, too, you little baggage! Forty ducats for a couple of songs? Why, those fellows are lucky if they get a hundred and twenty for an entire three hours of opera."
    "But, Sir, that's not fair recompense for their labor, and you know it. Besides, these songs I've purchased are wonderful, and are written especially for my voice. I shall not be so mean as to cheat the Orpheus who has surrendered them to me."
    "Orpheus? Fair recompense? Grosse Gott! You musicians certainly bestow airs and graces upon yourselves! In which I, among others of the first estate, indulge you." Maximillian shook his head as he spoke. His own aging silver blond was, as usual in public, concealed beneath a severe white wig. "All right," her patron said, "I grant that the songs are lovely, that they are tailored for you like a beautiful dress. Still, Little Nightingale, if you give Herr Weczek forty ducats this week for his arias, how do you propose to pay for your horses?"
    When Klara had insisted upon remaining in her own apartment three years ago, Maximilian had made some conditions.
    "If you are going to insist upon playing the