Flora McIvor Read online

  On the first night Flora was furiously busy with final adjustments. She ran from each dressing room to the wings where dancers were gathering. Everything had to be finished at the same time. She was oblivious to the rapidly filling auditorium, or the coaches queuing in Rue St Honoré to offload the cream of fashionable society. As boxes became crammed and the stalls filled spectators crowded into the corridors or onto the stage, delaying the opening curtain.

  But nothing now could halt the momentum. The director gave a signal for the music to begin. Cheers greeted the scenery, especially the change of trees with each Act. Whenever a character appeared for the first time they too were cheered. The female costumes were a sensation. The dancers, normally ignored, were accorded a standing ovation in their own right. The singers excelled amidst the adulation, while Rameau’s old magic wove its spell. Lovers were parted and united, suitors rejected, and true devotion rewarded.

  The house dissolved in wild applause. Encores were called and given. Backstage people embraced without restraint. It was a triumph. Amidst the confusion, François seized Flora by the shoulders, and looking into her eyes kissed her lips. Then he released her and merged back into the melée. When Flora eventually crept away from the Palais, after hanging up as many costumes and salvaging as many feathers as she could, the party was in full swing.

  Success followed night after night in a crescendo not experienced by the house for years, or so the journals claimed. Fuselier, the venerable librettist, was exultant in the press and also attended nightly to witness the applause. Michel Arres had not been seen in the Palais since the night of his drunken assault, absenting himself from a triumph in which he had no part. Flora became very tired and struggled to keep up with routine work at the shop, though Madame Guyon was understanding, and appreciative of the money which Amorous Indies earned, as the numerous costumes continued to need repair and adjustment.

  After another busy night at the theatre, Flora came downstairs one morning later than normal. Sister Teresa was sitting in a chair in the shop while Madame Guyon was at her station behind the counter. The extra chair had been brought out especially for the Sister, who looked in this strange setting like the old lady she was. Teresa rose as Flora appeared and smiled quietly towards her, slightly inclining her head.

  ‘I have a message for you, Flora, from Mother Abbess.’

  She was unable to move or speak. Madame Guyon stared at her alarmed at what this intrusion from the Convent might mean. Teresa sensed the strain and stepping forward touched Flora’s arm.

  ‘It is nothing to fear. I think a letter has come for you,’ she said quietly

  The Sister did not understand that this news was not as reassuring as intended. Flora pulled on her plain shawl, and the two women left Rue St Denis for the Convent. There Flora was taken directly to the Abbess without greetings or small talk.

  Mother Abbess was formal and businesslike as if she belonged to another alien world. She did not ask how Flora was getting on, as if it was none of her concern or she already knew and did not approve.

  ‘I have received this package for you, Flora. It has come from Rome. You will understand from whom it has come. It has come with strict instructions that I am to give it to you in person and see you open it in my presence.’

  She handed over a small bundle of tightly folded papers which were bound with an elaborate seal. Then she passed over a paper knife and Flora duly broke open the waxen arms of the Royal House of Stuart.

  The first page was a formal letter addressed to her as the Honourable Miss Flora McIvor of the House of McIvor. It proceeded in courtly fashion, but the intent was that His Majesty King James was graciously pleased in recognition of the loyal service of those bearing the name of McIvor to grant the said Miss McIvor, in renewal of the gift of Her Late Majesty Clementina Sobieski, an annual pension of sixty Louis d’Or. Beneath this letter was a bank draft in her name drawn against a banking house in Paris. This was carefully signed and sealed at the foot with a smaller version of the same royal emblem.

  ‘Is it all complete, and clear?’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ replied Flora barely registering the crisp tone.

  ‘Could you please sign this to confirm you have received the papers?’

  Flora took the proffered pen and signed the additional paper which the Abbess had prepared.

  ‘Well, Flora, I do not pretend to understand your affairs, or your reasons, but this may be an opportunity to make amendment in your life.’

  ‘Yes, Mother Abbess.’

  ‘God go with you, my child.’

  The interview had been concluded. Flora was ushered out of the study clutching her papers. There was no sign of Teresa, and she was shown through the double barred doors by a silent nun into the blinking light of early morning Paris.

  Ignoring the curious glances, Flora climbed back into her loft. First she smoothed out the papers and read through both the documents again. There was no doubt as to their authenticity. Next she pulled out her surviving possessions from under the truckle bed. She unwrapped and laid out the miniature portraits of her father and mother, the lock of Fergus’ hair when still a boy, the garnet brooch mounted in tarnished silver which she had been given at Castle McIvor, her prayer book, some pieces of antique lace, her last formal dress, and the sketches she had made for the opera. She watched for a lingering while and then left everything open to view, going back to her tasks in the workroom.

  That afternoon she went earlier than usual to the Palais in order to seek out François. He seemed surprised to meet her in his realm.

  ‘You are early today, Flora. I did not expect to see you before the performance.’

  She looked rather than spoke her question.

  ‘Of course, you realise I cannot go to Lisbon. That is out of the question now after my, our, success. There is talk of a new theatre here in Paris, built for the opera.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. Will you write a letter of recommendation for me to the Lisbon Opera?’

  ‘You want to leave Paris after such acclaim?’

  ‘Will you write the letter?’

  ‘My feelings for you, Flora, are not tied to Lisbon. Don’t take this change in the wrong way.’

  ‘But you will write.’

  ‘If you insist, yes.’

  ‘Thank you, François. I will collect it before the end of the week.’

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll leave it with Pierre at the stage door.’

  Flora nodded and left, relieved to accept her dismissal without an extended scene. She had no more emotion to commit. In a fortnight at the most Amorous Indies would have run its gilded course and she would be free to go without obligation or regret.

  5

  EARLY EVENING WAS Flora’s favourite part of the day. The sun had declined from its fierce afternoon heat. There was an audible breathing out from workaday routine as people took the cooler air, wandering up the hill to enjoy the sinking western light and breezes from the estuary. Lisbon lived by the cycle of the sun. Even in wetter seasons the rain blew over and some warmth was restored in these evening hours.

  ‘Miradouro’ they called it, and builders were now constructing a great sunlit terrace beside the Church of Santa Luzia. Locals quietly ignored architectural hyperbole, and continued to enjoy the rays of a setting sun as their diurnal right and habit. Miradouro was a golden ripple in a tongue that everyone in this city could speak, even in the Alfama, its poorest district.

  It was hard to believe that she had been here for more than two years. Such was the pace of life and the regularity of her existence. Each day Flora rose early to walk down the hill, through the valley where the builders were still hard at work on Lisbon’s new clean cut streets and squares, amidst a tangle of scaffolding, ropes and rubble. This was where the tidal wave had swept in after the earthquake taking thousands of lives. Then she climbed up an even steeper slope on the other side to where the handsome Teatro de São Carlos stood catching its first gleams of sunlight.


  She worked all day there in the rooms set aside for making and storing costumes. Most people went home for siesta before the late afternoon performance but Flora stayed on, leaving as the performance began. She would then retrace her steps in the early evening as the heat of the day receded.

  It seemed that this pattern had been prepared awaiting her arrival. Yet when she fled Paris, and Flora recognised it now as flight, she had no idea what to expect. Bouchier had written her the promised letter of recommendation without further complaint, but Madam Guyon turned her back in speechless fury when she heard of Flora’s decision to leave. Only the other women wept – sturdy Jeanne and Adrienne with her thin faded face – embraced their friend and wished her well.

  The coach to Bordeaux and the sea voyage had been without incident, though a pleasant relief of airy sky and space after the closeness of Paris. She had become accustomed to that city’s dirt and dark, taking her comfort from the dim illumination of the workroom, her attic, and the half-lights of the theatre world. Now Flora lived as much as she could by the open light of day.

  The theatre was much more spacious and ordered here in the capital of Portugal. Rebuilt soon after the terrible earthquake São Carlos had every facility needed for modern design, designated spaces for the performers, and a permanent stock of well maintained costumes. That had been a welcome surprise, providing the newly arrived Flora with immediate employment. Left behind was the constant calling at apartments to tout for business. She was not earning as much as Madame Guyon had latterly paid, but life was cheaper in Lisbon and she had the precious pension unspent, carefully concealed at her lodgings. The work was undemanding, and suited the calmer tempo of Flora’s existence. She felt safe, often drowsy in the warmth, and at peace.

  The walk back down from the Miradouro was a gentle stroll in the shade. Below the ancient Cathedral, which had been damaged by the quake and still awaited repair, the narrow streets were coming into their evening life. The first candles were being lit and cooking smells rose from the side alleys and twisting lanes which led down through the warren towards the river. Small shops had reopened and stalls were uncovered selling food for the social hours ahead. Flora often shopped at these same stalls in the early morning or went down to the shore where the latest catch had been brought in by the fishermen. She only went to the city markets when buying fabrics for work.

  Within five minutes Flora reached the junction of São Pedro and Rua Remedos where she turned into the familiar gateway of Villa Flor. The children came running to welcome Miss Flora, the Flora of Flor, and soon she was setting aside her basket and cotton shawl to head for the communal kitchen.

  The Villa was a substantial house rising over the steeply sloping streets. The main rooms looked out onto the broad estuary which seemed more like an inland sea. Once it had been the residence of a rich merchant or nobleman, but such wealth had left Alfama long since, and now the main house was divided into apartments. A covered walkway led from the house above the street to a cobbled courtyard in which Flora lodged. This had been the servants’ quarters which accommodated a wide range of families and itinerant workers in little rooms round three sides of the square. On the fourth side was the kitchen, washrooms and the home of Mãe Renata. In the centre of the courtyard was a well, sheltered by two gnarled trees beneath which were stone benches. Washing lines stretched in every direction from the trees to the pillars of a bleached wooden arcade that ran round the yard giving welcome shade to the doors and windows of the houses.

  At this refreshing time of the day everyone was out in the courtyard. The men sat around smoking, cleaning and mending tools. Children ran about shouting and laughing, while the women clustered round the open fires of the kitchen gossiping and preparing evening meals. Most people ate communally at a long table in the yard, presided over by the mistress of Villa Flor.

  No-one knew exactly the status of Mãe Renata or how the rule she exercised over her little kingdom had begun. However she let out the rooms, supervised the cleaning and cooking for tenants of the apartments over the walkway, and generally tended her brood like a dominating mother hen. Renata was plump, muscled and short, with abundant dark hair piled above her brow. She smelt of all the herbs that grew from old earthenware pots around the well, and nothing escaped her diligent care or remorseless right to know. When Renata moved about the Villa her whole person seemed to propel itself in a single motion without separate action of arms and legs.

  As Flora joined the kitchen conference bringing her own small share of ingredients, the nightly drama was already getting underway. Ligia was preening herself for the expected visit of Jaiminho the stone cutter. Ligia was a bronzed, fair haired beauty whose striking looks made her a centre of attention. She served as Renata’s assistant and maid of all work, but this did not preclude her dressing come the evening in flounced skirts, and a richly embroidered cotton blouse that showed off the upper body of a Juno to best effect. Flora had put her own hand to finishing that embroidery with an array of ribbons that owed something to the theatre wardrobe.

  Jaiminho worked in the old Roman theatre above the Cathedral where stone was quarried and cut. He matched Ligia in stature, rich skin hues, and nobility of feature. The suitor would appear nightly as dinner drew to a close, scrubbed and shiny, and dressed in a plain white shirt open at the neck. Jaiminho was a forthright peasant turned urban worker. Like most of the Alfama’s occupants he was drawn to the bustling, rebuilding capital by the lure of work paid in cash, but his dream was to return to the village and the life that was home. Ligia however had imbibed superior notions of herself from Mãe Renata and Villa Flor’s tenuous contacts with respectability. She had become a city girl in aspiration at least, and looked down on Jaiminho at the same time as she sampled the fruits of his devotion.

  Fun commenced while the noisy communal dinner was ending. Darkness had descended swiftly on the courtyard but lanterns and candles appeared on all sides, as the children were put to bed. Ligia flitted between kitchen, table and the well, which was lit by two or three lamps hung from the trees. Jaiminho pursued doggedly trying to draw his quarry into the dimmer recesses of the arcade, which was in turn draped with climbing plants that lent an enticing late summer aroma to the atmosphere.

  Unfortunately for the expectant lover, the game was for someone to suddenly appear in the chosen recess with an errand for Ligia or just a friendly desire to chat. The quarry played her teasing role to the hilt, though being careful at some point to give a degree of tangible encouragement to the stonecutter. However, if as the evening revels came to their end, there was any hint of a more lingering dalliance, Renata whose eagle eye had registered every move in proceedings so far, would dash in chasing off Jaiminho into outer darkness.

  Flora took no part in these games though she laughed with the rest. After dinner was cleared she went to her room to enjoy the last hour of the day in her own company. As the sociable chatter lessened a comfortable peace breathed through Villa Flor, leaving her alone yet not solitary. She unwound and rebraided her still dark hair, and kept her own small stock of garments in neat and attractive order, just like her chamber with its painted dresser, table and bed. Finally she drew a cloth over the open window to keep insects at bay, extinguished the lamp and lay down to rest. Sometimes memories crept in to delay sleep, but there were compensations to leaving youth behind. Most nights she slipped calmly into unconscious rest.

  The two longer lasting occupants of Villa Flor’s once grand main floors were a priest and a poet. Father José was, or had been, chaplain to a confraternity associated with the Cathedral though his current status seemed, like most of the Villa’s tenants, indeterminate. He was however the firmly established favourite of Mãe Renata. She felt that the presence of a priest conferred prestige and dignity on her establishment, and in return she lavished special attentions on the complacent cleric, feeding and pampering his lean frame. Some unkind gossip suggested that she would not permit Father José to lie in an unwarmed bed.

>   The priest for his part went about his own business, whatever that might be, and exchanged greetings with the Villa’s other inhabitants in passing. When he realised that Flora had Italian, he paused sometimes to share his memories of Rome. Renata hovered around these occasional conversations, buzzing approval like a queen Bee. She regarded Flora as a respectable woman down on her luck, and seemed to believe that she and the grey haired Father had much in common.

  The other distinguished resident was known in Villa Flor as the Poet. His name was Lorenzo Gozzi, and like many of the cultured set in Lisbon he was Italian. Unlike the slightly shabby priest, the Poet dressed in some style and wore a carefully tended wig. He was compactly built of medium height, and carried himself with confident poise. He was considered eminent by Mãe Renata, and therefore by the whole community of Villa Flor which he generally ignored, so confirming their high opinion. Speculation regarding his marital status, requirements for a mistress and age were rife. He could certainly be described as handsome though in a mature kind of way. Renata had conceived a plan to marry the Poet to Ligia, so in one move raising up her protégé and retaining a valued tenant. Hence her virulent disapproval of the poor stonecutter.

  One morning as Flora came into the courtyard after an early visit to the harbour stalls, she overheard an irate Renata fulminating in the washhouse. Some of the Alfama idioms were beyond her basic Portuguese but the meaning was plain.

  ‘Where were you so late, slut? Do you think I am deaf or blind? If it were not waking a respectable house I would have got up to beat you then and there. You daughter of an ill-gotten bastard, are you trying to turn my good house into a brothel. After everything I have done for you. I had to take the Poet his eggs and fish in my own hands.’