Chapter 11
On the night of the opera, it was decided that Marie would come with Sophia in Lord Chawleigh’s carriage, and Mr. Harwood would meet her at the King’s Theatre.
She confessed that although she would miss the intimacy of riding in a carriage with such a dashing man, it solved the problem of her own chaperonage.
The baron had invited Lady Poole to join the party, but she was too unwell from a lingering sore throat to stir from the house.
Sophia could only feel relief over this constraint, for she had begun to feel his neighborly interest might develop into courtship and she had no wish to begin calling Lord Chawleigh “Papa.” The baron therefore engaged Mrs. Heathrow as chaperone, a Society matron and widow who had recently put off her blacks.
It was with mixed feelings that Sophia dressed for the opera.
She would be with Mr. Harwood all evening while not being with him.
That honor would go to Marie. Thankfully, as the footman helped them into the carriage where Mrs. Heathrow was already waiting, chance placed Marie across from Robert instead of Sophia, and she was not disturbed by his knees pressing into hers.
At the opera house, Lord Chawleigh led the way to his box and held the door open to allow the ladies to enter.
Mrs. Heathrow waved her fan as she peered over the balcony to see the stage below and the audience. “It looks like all of London is here tonight.”
“The only reason one truly comes to the opera,” Robert said, raising a quizzing glass to the box seats on the far side.
She could not agree. There was something about the rich and soaring music of opera that made her soul tremble. That was why she came.
Sophia became aware of Mr. Harwood’s arrival by Lord Chawleigh saying, “Ah, Felix, there you are.”
“Good evening,” he said, bowing generally to the party. His eyes landed on Sophia, and it seemed to her they lingered there for a moment, sending a spear of happiness through her. They then quickly shifted to Marie, and he smiled and bowed. “Good evening, Miss Mowbray.”
“Mr. Harwood.” Her return smile was beatific, and it seemed plain how smitten she was with the gentleman who had invited her. Sophia’s heart felt raw and pained at witnessing it, at the reminder it brought. Lord Chawleigh placed his hand on Mrs. Heathrow’s arm.
“We were just choosing our places. Mrs. Heathrow, won’t you take this seat beside me? Miss Mowbray, yes that’s it. You may take the one near you, with Felix at your side. And Lady Sophia, you will have a very comfortable seat in the front next to Robert.”
Obediently, she sat where he’d indicated and fixed her eyes on the pit below, striving for something to ground her. Robert sat in the chair beside her, spilling over it, his elbow brushing hers. She pulled her arms inward.
“This is nice, is it not?” he asked her, smiling.
She nodded, unable to smile back at him. The seats were arranged in a semicircle, with Mr. Harwood on her left. It was possible to look into his face without too much difficulty if she wished to do so, but she refrained.
Mrs. Heathrow filled the box with light teasing that was mostly harmless, except for her comment that sometimes the best matches were made in the box seats at the opera. She leaned forward to address the younger set in a conspiratorial tone.
“One is lost in the romance of the moment. The music stirs the finer feelings and allows affections to form and deepen. And one never knows if the person you came with is the one with whom you wish to leave.” She laughed loudly, tapping Lord Chawleigh with her fan. “You agree with me—you know you do.”
Sophia wanted to sink beneath her chair, embarrassed both at how vulgar the comment was and how true. She very much wished to leave with a different gentleman than the one she had come with. Robert fidgeted at her side, and she could almost hear him say to his father, “Why did you invite her?”
Mr. Harwood asked Marie whether the admiral would be at the opera, and she replied that he would not. Then, after a pause, he touched Sophia’s glove. “Did you take cold after being caught in the rain?”
The fact that he had addressed her when he was there with Marie restored her smile. “No, for as I mentioned, I am not overly frail.”
“How can that be?” Robert demanded, determined not to be left out. “You are the shyest thing I know. A breeze could knock you over.”
Marie leaned forward enough to catch Robert’s eye. “One would think it, but you would be surprised, Mr. Cunningworth. Lady Sophia may show some reserve, but she is stronger than what her appearance might lead one to think. She can walk for hours without being fatigued.”
“I heard this opera when it debuted last year,” Mrs. Heathrow interjected. “It is about a woman who goes to great lengths to save her husband from prison; she even dresses as a boy.”
She laughed again, and Robert, who seemed to be in a particularly contrary mood, muttered under his breath, “That is ridiculous.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Marie said, addressing Mr. Harwood. “I find it noble. Heroism is not reserved for the stronger sex. I think true love can cause somebody to do heroic things, and it matters little whether one is a man or woman.”
“You are right, Miss Mowbray,” he replied.
Sophia could not say anything to this. She privately agreed with Marie, but the sentiment ran too deep to be able to express so glibly. She also knew that Marie would go to great heroic lengths for the man she loved; surely Mr. Harwood would perceive this and admire her for it.
The chandeliers were lowered, and metal cylinders were placed around the candles, causing the house to grow dim and the stage to take on a greater brightness.
For the first time since she’d attended the opera, Sophia had been more conscious of the drama going on in her own box. Now she turned her eyes to the stage.
The backdrop was painted so that it looked like stone walls with a window, and the opera began with a maiden sweeping the floor and a young lover attempting to convince her to marry.
Sophia listened, tears already springing to her eyes, which she would not allow to fall.
Her mind placed a different scenario over what was being sung below.
It was Mr. Harwood stretching out his arm, saying, “When will you give me your consent? It could easily be today.”
But the young lady was interested in another man named Fidelio. Now, Sophia felt from the depth of her soul Marzellina’s love for Fidelio when she sang:
I wished we were united yet
And I could husband call you!
A girl may never what she thinks,
Tell anyone aloud.
But when I never have to blush
From kisses of a loving heart,
When nothing ever will us part—
And hope already swells my chest
With untold sweet desire,
How happy shall I be then!
It was as if the words were written to express her own heart, her story, and Sophia was lost imagining herself in it.
It was only in the third scene that she figured out that Fidelio was actually a woman—the wife in question—which made Marzellina’s infatuation ridiculous.
The disguise was thorough, and she had thought the singer to simply be a male tenor with a particularly high voice.
The surprise was so great, she covered her lips with her fingers to hide her laugh and received the lesson from it.
Perhaps she should not allow her own emotions to be so consuming.
Robert leaned in close to whisper, “What have you found amusing?” She only shook her head in reply.
But when she felt Mr. Harwood’s eyes on her, she was compelled to lean in and whisper, “Fidelio is Leonore.” He nodded, and she felt his slight shake from laughter. Marie turned inquisitive eyes in their direction, a smile on her face, but she did not attempt to inquire into what they were saying.
It seemed to Sophia, not for the first time, that not all operagoers attended the opera to listen to the music, for the audible discussions around her produced a continual rumble.
She did not know how the singers could bear this—to sing before an audience who did not appreciate all they poured into their performance.
The box seats were lit, their occupants providing as much interest as what was happening on the stage.
When the final notes of Act One were sung, the cylinder was removed from the chandeliers, and the theater became light again.
“A nuisance that the opera is sung in German,” Robert said, getting to his feet.
“And yet, the words were translated for you right in your libretto,” Mr. Harwood retorted with a teasing smile. “You are too particular.”
Lord Chawleigh invited Mrs. Heathrow to take champagne, and they exited into the corridor, where the sounds of people milling spilled into the box.
“Would you like some champagne, Lady Sophia?”
She looked at Robert, and then ahead as she thought about it. It would require mingling with crowds and perhaps being surprised by meeting someone she would be required to talk to. She might not know what to say. And yet, it would not be comfortable to stay in the box with Robert either.
Robert. It was a shame that the man she loved was a mere Mr. Harwood to her, for she had been given no right to address him in more intimate terms and did not dare to do so, even in her head.
All the while, the man she had known since childhood and referred to mentally by his Christian name was one she could never love.
“Well, Sophia?” Robert had a strange look on his face.
She blushed, knowing she had taken an unseemly amount of time to answer. “I think I would like to stay here.”
“Of course,” he replied, resuming his seat. It felt like he was saying, of course you would. She knew he was frustrated with her, for he would rather drink champagne, stretch his legs, and meet people. Didn’t he see how wrong she was for him?