1890
The rosewood paneled lounge of Gilsey House was nearly empty, just the way Nora liked it. The attendants would appear occasionally to refill her coffee and then disappear silently. Rather like ghosts.
"Nora!"
Well, here was one distraction that she did not mind. Nora turned down her newspaper and smiled at Daniel. "Sir Daniel arrives."
Her cousin looked the same as always—rumpled suit, mussed hair, a slightly panicked expression. He kissed her cheek and sat down across from her. "You're rather tan."
"It's fading," Nora replied.
Daniel accepted a cup of coffee from the steward. "Well, this is new, isn't it? You're coming, and I'm leaving."
"Are you excited?" Nora asked. "Singapore is quite the post. Can I call you by the title again?"
"I'd rather you didn't—"
"Sir Daniel Tremblay, KCMG. I'm rather proud of my cousin, you know."
Daniel actually blushed. "I just worry about Anne and the girls. It's nearly a month at sea to get there. Do you think you might be willing to sail over with them? It won't be until next year, at least."
"Who knows where I'll be next year?" She shrugged. "I suppose I've never been to Singapore. But I was intending on staying close to home for a bit."
Daniel stared at her over the rims of his glasses. "Could it be that you're losing a bit of that infamous wanderlust of yours?"
"Certainly not," Nora shrugged. "But I am getting older."
"Oh, Nora," Daniel wagged a finger at her, "this is worrisome."
"Don't lie. You're delighted."
"It's just deuced inconvenient timing," Daniel said, "I could finally benefit from your madness, and here you are saying, 'I'm home for foreseeable future '"
"Home is relative. I am thinking of staying in New York for a few weeks at least. It isn't as if I have any pressing engagements"
"A few weeks? Couldn't you have booked a hotel in a better part of town?"
"I've been coming to the Gilsey House for fifteen years," Nora said, "They have telephones."
"And telephones make everything better," Daniel supplied.
"Actually, I think they're rather annoying," Nora said. "Ring-ring, all the time at the concierge's desk."
"I profoundly respect your ability to always find some thing to complain about. Any grand plans for your stay here?"
"I know a good seamstress in the city. All of my dresses are out of fashion."
"I've never known that to concern you very much."
"Perhaps. But I like this whole waspwaisted fashion," Nora said, "and I'll be glad to be rid of the bustle. I hoping that one of my orders will be completed shortly."
"Oh?"
"Take a look at this." She produced a fine engraved note card from her attaché case and handed it to Daniel.
In Honor of the Tenth Anniversary of the Founding of the Metropolitan Opera Association, We Invite You to a Special Showing of La Vie Nouvelle on Friday the Sixteenth of May. Eight o'clock in the Evening.
Present This Invitation at the Door.
Daniel handed it back. "I should have known you weren't in the city just to see me off."
"Well, I never pass up a chance to go to the opera," Nora replied. "Have you ever heard of the show before?"
"You would know that sort of thing better than I."
"Precious little opera going on in Constantinople," she reread the invitation before slipping away. "It's just a bit curious, I suppose. The Met is in the middle of an all-German season. This sounds French."
"Well, it is a special occasion," Daniel pointed out. "Who is the composer?"
Nora shrugged. "How should I know? I suppose I'll simply stand to be surprised."
On Friday evening, Nora came down to the lobby of Gilsey House in one of her new gowns and a rope of diamonds that would answer any questions the local elite might have concerning the fitness of her invitation.
"Good evening, Miss Farley," the concierge greeted her, "I have called for your chauffer."
"Thank you, Mr. Miles," Nora said. She flicked open her fan and leaned over the counter a bit, as if there was some great intrigue taking place. "Did you find out anything?"
Mr. Miles played along, glancing fugitively about. "A friend at The Times passed this along." He produced a piece of paper with as many blank spaces as typed words. "Apparently, he is in the habit of drawing up all of the busywork for such articles before the actual review."
"Wise," Nora rewarded the man with one of her most dazzling smiles. "Thank you, Mr. Miles."
"My pleasure, Miss Farley."
Last night, the paper read, New Yorkers of a certain quality became privy to what has long been a strictly European secret (treat?). La Vie Nouvelle, the first grand opera from M. Honoré Siamo, had its World Premier to coincide with the Tenth Anniversary of the Metropolitan Opera Association.
(Opening comments on the reception of the performance.)
Mr. Siamo's work has been in demand in the highest circles of Vienna and Paris for the last three seasons after his Octobre Fantaisie first premiered at the Paris Opera.
La Vie Nouvelle tells the story of _ , sung by Edmond Clément in his first Met role. Lucienne Bréval was (likely superb) in her role as _.
(Draw parallels between Siamo's instrumental works—ref. Erikson's London review—and his first opera.)…
"What sort of name is 'Siamo?'" Nora asked.
"Italian, I believe."
"I know it's Italian," Nora said, "It's a verb. It means we are, like pari siamo, 'we are equal.' It's not a name."
Mr. Miles stared at her impassively. "Do enjoy your evening, Miss Farley."
Nora knew a dismissal when she heard one. "Thank you, Mr. Miles."
Nora had always thought New Yorkers were a bit gauche, but they certainly knew how to throw a decadent party. She was handed a flute of '65 Moët and Chandon in return for her invitation and immediately introduced a set of socialites who probably would have categorized her income as quaint, if they had been given the opportunity. She made the sort of banal chitchat that she was so skilled at—and so bored by—until the bells started tolling.
She really was getting too old for this sort of thing.
The usher showed her to one of the smaller private boxes.
"Isn't anyone else sitting here?" Nora asked.
"The box is booked full," the usher replied, "but you are the only assigned guest yet to arrive."
"And I thought this was the social event of the season," Nora replied cheekily.
Before departing, the man said, "It is."
She thumbed through the patently unhelpful program before the lights dimmed. Lists of roles, actors, and settings were hardly enough to construct a story off of. She supposed she would be obliged to rely on her rusty French for the evening.
The overture began, almost too softly to be heard. It gained volume slowly, building nuance upon note, until the entire house was silent and intently fixed on the empty stage.
Here is a story of hope, the music whispered, and it will not disappoint you.
She could not quite determine what the story was—in a way, it did not matter. Characters crossed paths for instants in time and then parted, none allowed to remain the same after their meetings.
The lead tenor and soprano were, of course, the focus, though Nora would be hard-pressed to deem either a hero. Their characters did not so much meet as ricochet off of one another, damaging and strengthening their inevitable bond in turns.
After one of their more destructive meetings, the soprano took to the stage of what Nora was sure would be her grand solo aria.
The music swelled, and the world went black around Nora. All that existed was that orchestra, and that voice, and those words—and that song.
It was a song of hope, she thought, delicate, desperate hope.
…did Erik know what she thought of hope now?
She felt a hand reach over and brush away tears she had not known were falling. Long hands, slender hands, clad in white evening gloves. She almost did not dare to turn to face the man attached to those hands, but found that she was absolutely compelled to. There he was—still too-slender, a little stiff, wearing his full white mask.
The audience was applauding wildly—they might have been giving La Bréval a most deserved standing ovation—but Nora's full attention was arrested by her companion.
"You've ruined opera for me," she said, "Monsieur Siamo."
Was he smiling beneath that mask of his? His hand left her cheek and came to grasp her own fingers. "Erik."
"Erik."
The opera continued, but Nora could not look away from him. It seemed to be a mutual difficulty. He did not release her hands, though he did indicate that she should return her attention to the stage. "I am rather proud of this next bit," he said. "You'll like it, Nora."
She did turn back, but refused to let go of him. "You know," she whispered, her better judgment missing as usual, "I'm not quite done with the world yet."
"Good," he replied. His voice was as warm and beautiful as she remembered, absolutely intoxicating. "Neither am I."
She turned to face him again, smiling ridiculously in spite of herself. There was so much to say—where to begin?
Erik must have foreseen that she was preparing to talk for hours as he held up a finger to his masked lips. His eyes sparkled like polished gold in the dimmed box. "Just enjoy the opera, Nora."
"I am," Nora replied, "truly, I am."
In that book which is my memory,
On the first page that is the chapter when I first met you,
Appear the words...
Here begins a new life.
And that's a wrap. Many, many, many thanks to my faithful readers and delightful reviewers. This had really been one of the most enjoyable writing projects I've ever worked on, and I do believe I owe it to you fabulous ladies and gents. Thank you!