5 - Her Deadly Mischief by Beverle Graves Myers Page B

clapping alone was ten soldi a man, while a zecchino purchased enthusiastic cheering and cries of “bravo.” Booing and fisticuffs directed at a rival singer’s partisans could earn much more. Though I detested Lazarini and his crew, I could understand why Emilio would make such arrangements. He was several years older than myself, and though his handsome face still turned heads, his castrato’s physique was slowly turning to fat. I had it on good authority from Benito that Emilio’s manservant laced him into a corset before every performance. More crucially, his silvery soprano had not worn well.
    Vittoria was not feeling as charitable as Torani. Shouting over our maestro’s protests, she upbraided Emilio with the zeal of the sorceress she portrayed in the opera. The castrato responded like the feckless fool he was, and on they went. The other singers, as well as a few stagehands, drifted onstage to view what promised to be a rousing good fight. I confess I was disappointed when Benito appeared at my elbow to deliver the message that Madame Dumas required my presence in her workroom.
    “Tell me what happens,” I whispered, then made my way through the wings and backstage corridors to Madame Dumas’ domain.
    The company’s chief costumer, a dignified, gray-haired Frenchwoman, insisted on the title of Madame despite her many years in Venice. Her habitual frown and slate-hard blue eyes terrified most of the company, but her severe demeanor didn’t put me off. Madame Dumas and I had been through several adventures together; I knew that inside she was as sweet and soft as a cream puff, especially where I was concerned. She met me at the door of her workroom, scissors dangling from a belt at her waist and needles trailing different colors of thread tucked in the bodice of her faded black gown.
    I deposited a peck on her wrinkled cheek. “My angel, you’ve rescued me from the middle of a vicious squabble. Emilio and Vittoria will start drawing blood any moment now.”
    After I’d explained, the seamstress gave a very Gallic snort. “Just let it come out that our righteous prima donna employs her own claque—then we’ll see some real fireworks.”
    My jaw dropped. “Vittoria has a claque? She’s warmly received, to be sure, but I thought that was because the gondoliers love her.”
    Madame Dumas chuckled as she guided me toward the mammoth table tumbled with a wealth of luxurious fabrics and trims. In a corner, a pair of young seamstresses were working around a mannequin that wore one of Vittoria’s costumes. They looked up as if to join our conversation; Madame put them in their place with a fierce look. Then she retrieved my torn tunic and draped it over my shoulders.
    “Vittoria’s cabal is supposed to be a secret,” she mused as her quick hands fluttered over my chest, tucking here and folding there. “Her supporters specialize in making their praise appear absolutely natural.”
    I shook my head. “And that doe-eyed soprano has always sworn she would never stoop so low.” What other secrets went on in this opera house under my very nose?
    “Hold your arms straight,” Madame Dumas ordered out of one corner of her mouth. She’d stowed her pins on the opposite side. “I need to fit this to you.”
    “Did I do that much damage?”
    “The tear was easily repaired, but the waist needs taking in. It sags where it should fit like a glove. Doesn’t your woman ever feed you?”
    As instructed, I made my torso into a living statue. Fortunately, my lips were allowed to move. “Have you ever seen anything to rival last night’s tragedy?”
    She shrugged as she pinned. “I’m not surprised. These girls of today do not know how to conduct their affairs. In Paris, when I was a young woman, arrangements were made properly. Attorneys made certain the gentleman’s funds were secure and drew up a settlement while his breeches were still buttoned. Imagine staking your future on a wager over a jewel box. It was