‘You mean like a guillotine?’ asked Dora dryly.
Percy was saved from thinking up a suitable riposte by the arrival of the Vorontsovs at the railing in front of their table. The count bowed.
‘Dr Sandys, how clever of you to find a box for the concert.’
This was not good. Their claim not to know Petrovna was about to be blown to smithereens.
‘Early bird, Count Vorontsov, catches the worm, or a prime seat as in this case. Do you know the new French trade envoy, Michel Percy?’ said Jacob swiftly.
The Russian went very still for a second, before he said with glacial politeness. ‘I don’t believe I do. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.’
‘Your Excellency,’ said Percy. ‘My lady.’ He bowed over her hand. ‘Enchanté.’
The lady, seemingly ignorant of the political undercurrent to the exchange, giggled. ‘Et moi aussi.’ She tapped her husband’s arm with her fan. ‘Do prevail upon Dr Sandys to allow me to sit in his box. I am fatigued by so much walking, walking, walking. People pushing and shoving and the fire-eaters were a great disappointment,malheureusement.’
‘We only walked the length of one path,mon coeur, hardly a Marathonian adventure,’ said her husband.
‘It felt like it.’ The countess was visibly wilting.
What could Jacob do but offer her the spare seat at their table and give up his own to the count? He came to stand behind Dora’s chair.
‘I have only today presented my credentials at the Court of St James,’ said Percy, showing no sign he would give up his seat, though he was the cuckoo in the nest. ‘No doubt I will soon become familiar with all my diplomatic colleagues. Such a civilised arrangement, to keep open the communications even during a lamentable time of war, do you not think?’
‘Indeed,’ said the count coolly. He was interrupted from making any further comment by the arrival of the conductor. This gentleman escorted Madame Catalani to centre stage and applause rang out. The other singers gathered behind her, taking their seats in the second rank. Dora was surprised to see the Comte D’Antraigues, Julien, take his seat at the grand piano. She had not thought his skill would earn him a soloist role. Perhaps Miss Petrovna had pulled some strings for him? The conductor tapped his music stand, the orchestra lifted instruments, all took a breath, and began.
It was truly a fine performance. Even the Spaniard sang well, and Dora could detect nothing nasal about his voice. Perhaps the doorman had had the misfortune to hear him when he had a cold, she speculated. She particularly enjoyed the duet between Madame Catalani and Miss Petrovna taken fromThe Marriage of Figaro. It suited the mischievous air that the Russian woman carried even onto the stage. Her strength was in the comic opera rather than the tragic. Seeing her trip lightly through the notes, it was hard to imagine her as a killer. Had Dora allowed her mind to run after Petrovna as a possible lover of thecomtemerely because she lacked other suspects? Or was she a very good actress?
One could smile and smile and be a villain, as Shakespeare noted.
Julien did not play a solo piece but was present throughout as an accompanist, turning in a solid performance of that task. It might well be his best hope for a future income.
‘Rule, Britannia!’ was to be the big finale and Dora sat forward to enjoy the full spectacle that the stagehands had been working on. She did so love acoup de théâtrewhen well executed.
Percy was watching her with amusement. ‘Are you expecting something special?’ he said in a low voice. ‘Something stimulating?’ He brushed his fingers over her forearm.
She scowled at him and removed her arm. ‘Your skills are slipping, Mr Percy. That was a very awkwarddouble entendre.’
He sat back and huffed. ‘I believe you are right. Poor me. I am much out of practice. Will you help me hone my skills again? I think you have much to teach about pretending to be what you are not.’
‘That’s acting, Mr Percy. Buy a ticket to Covent Garden and educate yourself,’ she said acerbically.
‘Why do that when I can learn from an expert?’
A drum roll brought their snippy exchange to an end. The lights were shuttered and then uncovered so only the gauze backdrop was illuminated. It showed a night scene of a flotilla of naval vessels heading into battle, the moon overhead bathing the waves in silvery light. Madame Catalani, now in a breastplate and helmet, launched into the opening verse. The crowd hushed in awe as her pure voice rang out. Excitement built like a clock being wound to striking point, that tolled when she reached the chorus. As she sang the first ‘Rule, Britannia!’ the gun fired, the drums beat, and the lights were uncovered behind the gauze, an intense flash like cannon-fire, then were covered again. In time to the music, the stagehands uncovered and covered the lanterns so that the effect on the watchers was to see fire blazing at the mouths of the ship’s guns, broadsides against the French.The crowd grew wild with joy, cheering each flash. The people joined in– how could they resist?– their voices swelling under Madame Catalani’s heaven-sent one so that the whole garden was swept with the tidal wave of patriotic noise. This was excellently done. Dora leaped to her feet and held Jacob’s hand. They shared a smile and roared along to the chorus. Forget war’s many complexities for the moment; this was simply a jolly good show. The Russians stood too in respect, the countess leaning on her husband, but didn’t sing. Seated, Percy made himself a ham sandwich and chewed with deliberatesang-froid.
All was going brilliantly until the last reloading of the gun. The musician took the last shell from his stockpile. As the final chorus began, the cue arrived and the gunner fired but, rather than just noise and smoke, a live shell hit the tree canopy over their heads with an ear-splitting crack. Branches rained down on the supper boxes, some smouldering, the roof collapsing. Head ringing, Dora dived for cover under the table. Jacob dragged the countess down with him as she had been too shocked to move from her chair. The count groaned under the impact of a tree limb that had crashed through the roof of their pavilion and struck him on the back. The diners who had escaped injury screamed and ran for safety. Unfortunately, this last gunfire was the signal to start the fireworks and the pyrotechnics working in the far reaches of the park had no idea that anything was wrong. The screams of the people escaping the burning pavilions joined with the whistle and bangs of the rockets, the bursts of white, yellow and red fire in the sky.
‘Merde!’ cursed Percy, seeing the bunting go up in a string of flame. ‘We must move or burn.’ He grabbed Dora’s wrist and pulled her out of the box via the back exit. Dora would have gone back for Jacob, but the crowd was inexorably flowing in one direction which was away from the fire, a terrifying, suffocating press of people. All she had to anchor herself in the currentwas Percy’s grip on her arm. Someone trod on her heel and she stumbled, losing a shoe and the skin on the back of her ankle. Percy prevented her falling.
‘We will be crushed!’ shouted Percy. ‘Let us get out of this.’ Seeing his chance, he dragged her with him down one of the infamous dark walks of Vauxhall Garden and away from the stampede.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Acting quickly, Jacob lifted the countess over the rail of the box and dropped her to the ground. ‘Make for the stage and Miss Petrovna.’ The performers were standing aghast on the platform watching the chaotic scenes around them, but their elevated position made it a haven in the stormy seas. ‘I’ll get your husband.’
The lady clung to his hand like a limpet. ‘Oh, but I shall faint. You must help me.’
Irritation flashed through him. Why could the bloody woman not think of her husband before herself? He peeled her fingers off him. ‘Your husband is injured. You are not. Now buck up, madame, and get yourself to safety.’ He gave her a little shove in that direction and fortunately Miss Petrovna caught sight of her friend and waved her over. ‘Look, she’s waiting for you.’
