Secrets of a Soprano by Miranda Neville Page A

reason for Max’s hostility: Her triumph at the Tavistock threatened the success of his new opera house. Such pettiness on his part seemed out of character for the younger man she’d known. But so did leaving Oporto without a word to her, and that was what he had done, proving that she hadn’t known him at all.
    He’d been trifling with her all along. She was too lowborn to be a suitable wife for the future Lord Allerton. Even the recollection of his rudeness brought on the panicked buzz in her head and something more. The pain she’d suffered in the churchyard of São Francisco and for weeks, nay months, afterward, pierced her anew.
    Over the years, whenever her husband made her miserable, she would look back on her short-lived first love and indulge in the foolish fantasy that it had been a mistake and she would wake up from a bad dream and find herself married to Max instead of Domenico. Such fancies solved nothing, so she would return to work, submerging her sorrows in the music that never let her down.
    Max Hawthorne, Lord Allerton, had never been worth a single tear. Her half-acknowledged hopes for their reunion had been sheer stupidity on her part, hardly a surprise given her history. When it came to men she was a terrible judge. Blinking hard, she made herself think about the business matters that brought her out this morning.
    Something about the premises of the solicitor recommended by Lord Storrington inspired trust: the diligent clerks at work in the outer office; the shelves of law books within; the neat bundles of paper tied with pink ribbon. Mr. Butterworth himself was as solid as his wide oak desk. The knot in Tessa’s chest loosened. This man would surely know what to do.
    He perused Tessa’s contract with Bartholomew Mortimer. “Although the terms of the contract are generous,” he said finally, “I would not, had I been consulted, have advised you to sign it. On the face of it a share of the theatre’s profits for the season, with a guarantee of at least two hundred guineas an appearance, should come to a goodly sum.”
    “That’s what I thought,” Tessa said. “If I sing thirty times—and Mortimer would like it to be more—I earn at least six thousand guineas by the end of the London season. And likely much more. The house,” she said proudly, “has been full every night. And that doesn’t even include my benefit.”
    “What concerns me,” said the lawyer, “is the clause relating to the timing of payments. Are you aware that Mortimer need not pay you a single penny until the season is over?”
    “Except for my benefit performance. The other singers and musicians perform without pay and I receive all the profits from the evening. In a theater of the Tavistock’s size it could bring in as much as two thousand.”
    “That doesn’t take place until late May. I hope you have sufficient funds to keep you until then.”
    The knot tightened again. After a morning spent with Sofie trying to make head or tail of her accounts, she was concerned about covering even the necessities for herself and her little entourage. Let alone putting aside enough money to ensure their futures when La Divina could no longer perform.
    “I have earned a great deal over the past years, and I have several engagements for private recitals.” She wasn’t going to admit that her coffers were perilously close to empty. “I shall survive till the benefit and in late June Mortimer will pay the rest.”
    “And are you so certain he will be able to pay you then?”
    Tessa blanched. “But he must! It’s in the contract.”
    Mr. Butterworth looked troubled. “I hope you are correct, madam, but I would be prepared for difficulties. Firstly…”—he raised a finger to count out his points—“you have to trust that Mortimer is a sober and dependable individual and will have such a large sum on hand.”
    Sober? Dependable? Not the first adjectives the figure of Bartholomew Mortimer brought to mind.
    “Secondly,