Flora McIvor Read online

  Flora pushed the script to one side.

  Why had she not seen through Glengarry’s mask to the frozen emptiness beneath? She had been trapped by her own emotional need, locked in numb grief. Gradually the paralysis had passed away, but anger and shame at what had happened still churned inside her without release.

  Eventually she got ready for bed, pushing hurtful feelings aside. Before settling to sleep, she slipped the libretto under her pillow, wishing for happier dreams.

  A few days later Flora was again at the Palais which was alive with talk of the forthcoming revival. Amorous Indies was in its separate parts staple fare of the opera programme, so there was curiosity and scepticism about the original fabled work. Singers were already campaigning for leading roles, with which as Flora knew the libretto was amply provided.

  The disjointed episodes that played now in the repertoire were elaborately cosseted with dance sequences. They used well worn costumes from standard stock and scenery painted to suit almost any performance. Curiosity drew Flora to the stage where she knew that Bouchier, the scene designer, often worked. Sometimes they would both be frantically finishing last minute jobs there as the performances got underway.

  She found Bouchier slumped over two long trestle tables placed end to end on stage left. He was a slight figure often shabbily dressed and normally hard at work with a contained energy that could fire up if things were not going according to his ideas.

  ‘Excuse me, but I was wondering about Amorous Indies. How –’

  Bouchier raised a hand to halt Flora’s enquiry and then gestured wearily to the table.

  ‘Here, Miss Flora, are temples of the east, palaces of Constantinople, even the tépees of the American natives. As for the Incas I have found a picture of their dress but not their buildings which seem to have been vast edifices in the jungle. Maestro Rameau has ransacked the globe in search of his scenarios.’

  Flora moved closer to the extended table and looked at the prints that Bouchier had laid out.

  ‘These are magnificent.’ she murmured, ‘a new scene for each episode.’

  ‘Indeed, so you might suppose. But how can we paint this worn out old lady of a house, never mind move four sets? Tell me that!’

  ‘Surely the carpenters –’

  ‘Look here,’ insisted Bouchier, jumping to his feet and pulling Flora after him. ‘See, every piece has to be dragged into position like some ancient siege machine. Where are the grooves to roll flats? Where are the winches for winding up multiple backcloths? Nowhere. Every modern theatre has them. The Comedy has them but here we live in medieval times. It is appalling. A scandal against art.’

  ‘But, Maestro –’

  ‘Please, just call me François.’

  ‘If you please, but the opera is known for the finest scenic perspectives.’

  ‘Yes, the work of Servandoni, a true Maestro whose shoes I am not fit to lace. That was ten years ago but we are still touching up his classical vistas. One for every performance, or if truth be told, one for several performances. We need something different.’

  ‘Yes, Amorous Indies could be a scenic inspiration, Maestro, François.’

  ‘Above all Amorous Indies. This is my chance, Flora, to finally design something fresh. But how? Even in Lisbon, where the city has been devastated by earthquake, they have built a theatre equipped with every modern contrivance. There you can be an artist. Here we are drudges, slaves to this cantankerous ruin of a Paris that once cherished our art.’

  As his invective drained away, Bouchier’s shoulders sank and he walked back to his seat. Flora followed him quietly back to the table.

  ‘I have been reading the libretto.’

  ‘Really. Thin stuff.’

  ‘Yes, Arres lent me a copy. Perhaps there is another way to work. If one set could be designed to represent a foreign temple or palace, different trees could be added in front for each scene – palms or forest plants.’

  There was a pondering silence.

  ‘That is a possible idea.’

  ‘Then also we could design different costumes for each scene, representing the different peoples.’

  ‘But the costumes are all stock. Would singers buy new costumes?’

  ‘I don’t know. Only if I could adapt existing ones, or add something. Look at these feathers in the Inca dress.’

  ‘Can you draw, Flora?’

  ‘Once, I had lessons.’

  ‘Then take these and sketch what you see.’ Bouchier pushed a box of crayons towards her. ‘Bring them in and we can touch up the colours against the scenery.’

  Flora hesitated as if presented with some forbidden fruit. ‘I am sorry but I have no paper.’

  ‘Of course, take these sheets, and re-use the backs of these ones for roughs.’

  Flora gathered everything into her canvas back where the libretto was nestling.

  ‘You have not always lived in this way, have you, Flora? Was your family well born?’

  ‘They were ruined by war.’

  ‘Ah. I am sorry. I have noticed your costumes often. You have a gift. Bring me the sketches and let us see what can be done.’

  ‘Yes, Maestro, thank you.’ Flora left quickly before the gratitude she suddenly felt swelling up showed in her eyes. She hurried through the day’s routine tasks so that she could make a start on this new venture. But even as her hands moved deftly, her mind was racing.

  As it proved, the solutions were simple, even within the limited materials available. Over two evenings Flora thought and drew, working swiftly between paper and eye. She was not concerned with the polish or effect of her sketches, only with what they expressed in the shapes. For the male characters she concentrated on varying helmets and headdresses to suit. For the costumes she stripped back the normal attire of the classical hero to indicate native chiefs, complemented by feathers and ribbons. The Europeans retained classical garb, while the orientals were swathed in silk robes and turbanned. Even the house stock contained these items.

  The female characters posed a harder challenge. Flora imagined various forms of half dress or undress, and laughed aloud at the hysteria that might cause. Even Voltaire would come running to the opera then. But Flora had an idea – if the leading ladies were persuadable. At least they already trusted her judgement.

  For the foreign characters she would replace the traditional hooped skirts and bustle with swathes of silk and brocades, varied in colour and pattern to suggest a native identity. The underskirts and petticoats could be similarly diverse, though also increased in bulk so that the overall sweep and flow would have the same or even greater impact in movement than the conventional court dresses. This would involve expense yet if the singers felt the novelty might attract public attention… expectations of this production were mounting.

  It was the last day of the week before Flora was able to look for Bouchier again at the theatre. The performances were over when she went back to the Palais in the evening. She liked that time when candles were burning low flickering in their brackets throwing a dim glow over the shabby back corridors. It was as is the whole creaking building was lit, ready to take the stage, even though the public had left. The auditorium itself was hushed and all that could be heard were the background noises of sweeping and tidying as the old labyrinth settled into its night of dreaming. Long forgotten artists waited in the shadows for their entrance.

  Bouchier was in a green room where he had been chatting to performers as they left for home. Flora found him left behind with his thoughts, but she appeared to be a welcome interruption. Leafing through the drawings, Bouchier saw immediately what was intended.

  ‘These are good. Small changes for the men, but will our divas go with these skirts? No-one has dressed like that before in opera.’

  ‘I think so, the younger ones anyway. They want to make their mark.’

  ‘And all the female roles are young. You are a clever woman, Flora, and beautiful with it.’

  ‘Have you thought about the
scene painting?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I can do it, as you described. I’ll colour up a sketch tomorrow now that I’ve seen these.’ His mind seemed to be on other things. ‘I have decided though to go to Lisbon after this production.’

  ‘To the new theatre?’

  ‘Yes, this place will never change. Will you come with me?’

  Abruptly aware that Bouchier was standing close and willing her to meet his eyes, Flora could feel heat rising over her face.

  ‘As an assistant?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  He put a hand on her arm but Flora stepped back a pace.

  ‘You have children, a family.’

  ‘What do you know of my family? Madame Bouchier will never leave France.’

  ‘François, I am a… bereaved. I am bereaved and not able to… My past.’

  ‘Come to Lisbon. I don’t care about the past. There can be new worlds.’

  ‘Wait.’ She picked up the drawings. ‘Wait.’ She could not find an answer to him. ‘You must take your family.’

  ‘Think, dear Flora, think what life can still hold, before it is too late.’

  She was in the corridor hurrying towards the stage doors. But suddenly a tall figure swayed into the dim light ahead.

  ‘Who have we here? Ah, ah, little Flora! Excellent, come in and drink a toast.’

  He manhandled her through an open door into a den of noisy merriment and shouting. ‘Look,’ cried Arres,’ our lovely seamstress has come to join the party. We must drink to, to, to what?’ He was pouring champagne unsteadily into half-full glasses. ‘I know – To Amorous Indies! The worst script ever produced by Paris Opera.’

  No-one paid the inebriated writer any attention as the company of seven or eight were sprawled around the room on chairs and sofas engaged in their own loud conversations or in one instance a drink fuelled embrace. Flora recognised several of the younger performers. One actress was still in a costume which Flora had recently let out.

  Arres raised a full glass to his mouth forgetting to hand one to Flora. Then wiping his lips with one hand he pushed her towards the wall with the other, glass still in hand. She tried to slip down against the wall. Now he was fumbling with her tartan shawl. ‘Let’s show some bosom for the crowd,’ he sneered.

  Flora lashed out with her right foot and felt her wooden soled boot connect hard on the shins. But the broad bearded face above her looked more puzzled than pained, as if trying to locate the source of his annoyance. It was just enough for her to slip free, and though he lurched out in pursuit Flora was already round the corner and running for the door, clinging tightly to her canvas bag.

  ‘Miss Flora, Miss Flora! Are you alright?’

  It was old Pierre the doorman. She drew breath.

  ‘Yes, thank you. The party is getting out of hand.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. That Flemish lout. He’s not fit for decent company. You take your time now, Miss, he’ll not get past me, if he’s still on his feet.’

  ‘I’ll be home in a few minutes. Good night, Pierre.’

  ‘Oh, Miss Flora. I nearly forgot. There’s a message for you.’

  He handed her a folded paper, but Flora did not wait to read it. She ran round the corner into Jean St Denis, and hurried upstairs to her attic, shutting the trap door firmly behind her. The last precaution was unnecessary as no unauthorised person would manage safe passage into Madame Guyon’s lair.

  Only then did she sit down panting and trembling by the empty hearth. Rather than think about what had just happened, Flora pulled out and unfolded her message. It was two lines long and read,

  ‘Meet me tomorrow at noon in the Cour Royale. Do not tell or bring anyone else.’

  It was signed ‘Clementina Walkinshaw’.

  Flora slept late after a troubled night. She knew it was Clementina’s writing, yet she was reluctant and fearful. The Cour was behind the theatre and its adjoining courtyard in the Palais Royal. It would be deserted at this time. How had Clementina known?

  She waited before noon in the cover of the colonnade. She had put on a plain linen shawl with a bonnet and looked like any of the city’s poor working women. As the bells of St Honoré and St Roche beyond struck twelve, a tall figure entered the court from the theatre side and slipped into the arcade. As Flora walked towards the other woman she knew it was Clementina Walkinshaw. As Clementina approached Flora saw she was dressed from head to foot in black velvet and that her face was completely covered by a black veil hanging from her broad brimmed hat.

  ‘Are you alone?’ Clementina’s voice hissed from behind the veil in a stage whisper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you told no-one?’

  ‘I know no-one here, Clementina. How did you find me?’

  ‘Through the Sisters, but indirectly. I am being pursued.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Charles. He is determined to recover my child, Louisa.’

  ‘Is he here in Paris?’

  ‘He is everywhere, Flora, a master of disguise and subterfuge. When I was with him we wandered all over but he has a secret refuge here in Paris. Many women shelter him even now.’

  ‘This is where he was seized by the French, after the opera.’

  ‘I know. So we should be safe here. What are you doing in such a place?’‘

  ‘Why did you leave him, Clementina, taking the child?’

  ‘Charles is a ruined man. A slave to vice. Drinking, gambling and worse. I feared for my life, and for the child.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Flora, you must not tell.’

  ‘I have no-one to tell, believe me.’

  ‘We are in the care of good Sisters, and in communication with the Court in Rome.’

  ‘Palazzo Muti!’

  ‘Hush, Flora!’ Clementina glanced round anxiously but the Cour was abandoned. ‘I am asking for the king’s protection, and that of the Cardinal Henry. I have already shown my loyalty to them, so that my child will be properly brought up as a princess of the blood.’

  ‘And when Charles succeeds?’

  ‘Then he will have to recognise her.’

  This was a glint of the old commanding Clementina, though with hardened metal.

  ‘What do you need from me?’

  ‘Nothing. I wanted to see you before… well before.

  I have no illusions left, Flora, whatever you might think. I will be shut up somewhere till Louisa is grown and then I will be permanently enclosed, out of sight. I am the scarlet woman.’

  Flora wanted to offer some qualifying comfort but was unable to deny the truth of what Clementina had said.

  ‘Why are you here, Flora?’ Her friend filled the gap.

  ‘Surviving, working to live, as a seamstress and costume maker for the opera.’

  ‘How dreadful. You were always clever with your hands.’

  Flora could not help smiling at this flash of the old Clementina.

  ‘Come somewhere to eat with me, Clementina, and we can have a proper talk.’

  ‘I daren’t. I see spies everywhere. But we can walk for a minute here. It’s very quiet.’

  So the two friends, one tall and richly garbed, the other below medium height and plainly clothed, walked arm in arm in the sheltered gallery. And Flora listened to an account of Clementina’s wanderings with Charles, to news of Rose’s children and happiness with Waverley, of O’Sullivan’s retirement to Italy, and even of Glengarry. He had returned to Scotland and succeeded his father as chief. Though suspicions were rife, he had not been declared a traitor. His double game continued.

  ‘You were well rid of that viper, Flora,’ pronounced Clementina.

  ‘He betrayed us all.’

  ‘I am sure that King James will take you under his protection in Rome. I sent them an account of your troubles and Glengarry’s double dealing.’

  ‘I am not sure that I want to go back to the Palazzo.’

  ‘You can’t go on living like this. I suppose you’re safe here though.’<
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  ‘As long as no-one knows.’

  ‘I must go, Flora, or I will be missed. When I get to Rome I will send you a message. Then you can decide what to do.’

  ‘Thank you, Clementina, and thank you for coming to look for me.’

  ‘We must not lose touch, dear Flora.’

  ‘Let me see your face. Please. Clementina.’

  The tall figure hesitated and then lifted her veil. There was the upturned nose and the high cheekbones but the skin was discoloured. It was the face of a woman who had suffered blows. Flora kissed her tenderly on both cheeks and raising her arms lowered the veil. For one moment they were lost in each other’s embrace. Then Clementina tore herself away and hurried out of the Cour.

  Flora sat down alone on the stone edge of the colonnade and cried without restraint. She had not wept like this since Boulogne.

  The next two weeks were a blur of frantic activity. The opening of Amorous Indies had been brought forward due to the failure of the current production after only four performances. Flora rushed from the shop to singers’ apartments to the theatre and back to Madame Guyon’s. Her fingers never stopped, while her mind was gratefully numb.

  The unexpected panic also worked in favour of the new designs as everyone was caught up in the need to get a performance ready for the public. Singers agreed to the costume changes and urged Flora to bring their fittings forward. It was one of those rare times when all parts of the huge unwieldy mechanism that was the opera seemed to move in the same direction.

  At the Palais carpenters and scene painters were also busy. Bouchier supervised the work with intense energy, barely acknowledging interruptions. Flora kept out of the designer’s way until the rehearsals when all the elements were brought together. As usual at this juncture chaos prevailed while the Director struggled in vain to marshal his resources in the right order. However cries and gasps of astonishment greeted the finished scene cloths, while both singers and dancers flaunted their new costumes. No-one could recall a production that had been so completely renewed. Excitement mounted; there was a whiff of success in the aether.