Songbird Read online

  ALSO BY JULIA BELL

  A Pearl Comb for a Lady

  Deceit of Angels

  The Wild Poppy

  Broken Blossoms

  If Birds Fly Low

  Thank you for choosing to read Julia Bell’s third novel, Songbird.

  Feedback for the author is very important so if you can find the time to give a review and a star-rating, it would be much appreciated. This can be done through Amazon and any comments are also welcome via our website.

  R White (Editor)

  www.JuliaBellRomanticFiction.co.uk

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Julia Bell lives in West Yorkshire, England and has two children and five grandchildren. Her various jobs have included working as a qualified nurse, training at St James’s Hospital in Leeds and also Darlington Memorial Hospital and she has also worked as a civil servant in the Prison Service. When her children were young she successfully completed an Open University B.A. degree studying psychology and sociology. She has been a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association for the last four years.

  As well as writing she loves country walks and travelling abroad (she adores bus stations, railway stations, airports and ferry ports – any place where people are on the move).

  Contact the author by email at

  [email protected]

  or visit her website on

  http://www.JuliaBellRomanticFiction.co.uk

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  I would like to thank Amanda Lillywhite for the excellent work she did creating the front cover. Amanda can be contacted on [email protected] or via her website at www.AJLIllustration.talktalk.net. I would also like to thank Rob White for all his technical know-how, moral support and encouragement for which I am very grateful.

  First Published in Great Britain 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Julia Bell Romantic Fiction

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the Publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews

  Names and characters except for the historical figures are purely the product of the author’s imagination.

  JuliaBellRomanticFiction.co.uk

  For my son, Robert

  SONGBIRD

  By Julia Bell

  Part One - The Girl from the Welsh Valleys

  Part Two - The Opera Singer

  Part Three - The Lady of the Flowers

  PART ONE

  THE GIRL FROM THE WELSH VALLEYS

  CHAPTER ONE

  I was twenty-one years old when I sold my baby. Looking back on that event, even after all these years, I wonder at my callousness, my selfishness, but I was driven by a powerful ambition that had consumed me totally and I now know that when a person has such dreams, they will do anything to realise those dreams. And at the time, I would have sold my soul never mind a small child.

  I lived in a tiny house in Hammersmith with my sister-in-law Nan, and we led a quiet life. Nan had a small private income, plus she worked as a seamstress from home, mending and making clothes, usually wedding dresses. Her bedroom was also her workshop and she was feverishly saving up for one of Mr Singer’s famous sewing machines, but at the moment she sewed by hand. Her creations were lovely and although it was becoming fashionable to buy clothing in Liberty’s department store, Nan still found she had enough clients to bring in a steady income to the household.

  I was a music teacher and taught piano and singing to the spoilt and mostly untalented offspring of the well-to-do. It was tedious and frustrating, but it was a living and over time I had learnt to accept it. Except when it came to the month of July. That was the month when I was filled with ecstatic hope. And that July of the year 1885, my hopes were higher than seemed possible.

  It was a beautiful morning, the sky sparkling with not a cloud in sight. I hurried from my last lesson in a state of turmoil, clutching my music and cursing that Charity Reynard’s mother had kept me talking in the hallway. She had wanted to know how her ‘little darling’ was progressing and I told her that she was doing very well. What stories I had to tell these mothers who always believed that their precious cherubs would amaze and delight the guests at their musical evenings. In Mrs Reynard’s case, I often felt the urge to tell her that Charity’s singing would shame a bullfrog and would probably chase her guests into the garden for some peace and quiet. But that particular morning I was in a hurry, so I told her that her little girl was a joy to teach and would enchant the whole of society with her sweet, warbling tones.

  I fled the house and then realised I would need to hail a cab, an expense I could ill afford, but there wasn’t enough time to wait for the omnibus. I was filled with horror when I saw, just half a mile from my destination, that the road was blocked by a load of vegetables that had tumbled from the back of a cart. The cabbages, carrots, turnips and onions littered the cobbles and the driver was trying to defend his cargo with his whip, beating those folk who thought they would have free ingredients for their evening meal. His language was rich and as he swore, he urged his assistant to gather up the produce before it was spoilt. The scene would have been comical if my mind hadn’t been on other things. I quickly paid the cabby and ran the rest of the way, lifting up my skirts so that I could move that little faster.

  The building finally loomed in front of me and I stopped at the huge main door to catch my breath and survey the edifice that towered above me. It was such a beautiful building and the large windows were wide open allowing the music from within, to drift on the morning breeze. Its white stone structure always made me smile with absolute pleasure. People rushed in and out of the impressive entrance, some almost embracing the sheaves of music that seemed so precious to them. I took in a few controlled breaths before ascending the steps and entering the hallowed halls, passing into the massive foyer with red and white marble floor tiles and white painted columns that held up the balcony leading to the upper rooms. And from these upper rooms I could hear singing, the wonderful voice of a tenor that made me stop and listen for a few seconds.

  “May I help you, miss?” The voice from the other side of the desk was soft and very polite.

  I smiled and nodded. “I have an appointment for eleven-thirty.”

  “Name please.”

  “Mrs Isabelle Asquith.”

  “You’re an applicant for the bursary?” I nodded again. He pointed to the row of chairs against the wall. “Please make yourself comfortable and you’ll be called when it’s your turn.”

  I sat down making sure that the bustle of my skirt was snugly placed on the chair and the folds of my gown fell elegantly over my knees. To my right and over my shoulder was a large double oak door and from within I heard the melodious tone of a soprano. I winced. I was a mezzo-soprano and I could hear she had an excellent singing voice. And then I was filled with dismay when I realised she was singing Voi Che Sapete from Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro, the very piece I had chosen. I listened and grimaced when she went a little off-key. At first, I felt elated and then guilty since obviously she was nervous, but it was a relief to hear that slight mistake. Competition was tough and anything helped if it put an applicant in front.

  The singing came to an end and after a few minutes more the door opened.A young girl came out, her fair hair tied up in ringlets, her gown a good quality cotton. Instinctively, my hand went to my hair, neatly held in a bun at the nape of my neck. I had wanted to look efficient, as though I meant business and so I had worn a royal blue skirt and jacket with a cream blouse. It was my best outfit and I had smiled to myself that morning as I had stood in front of the mirror. Nan had said I looked ‘just right’ and had let me borrow her silver fob watch that I had pinned to my jacket. It was always difficult to t
ie up my hair, as it seemed to have a mind of its own. It had a natural curl that annoyed me and I would brush it endlessly trying to smooth it into some kind of order. But that morning it had obediently gone into place without any protest. It was a good omen.

  The girl with the ringlets walked past me without a glance and I felt sorry for her. She knew that her mistake would have marked her down in the assessors’ estimation and her profile was fixed, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. I sighed sadly.

  “Mrs Asquith?” The woman standing in the doorway smiled at me and I nodded. “They’re ready for you now, if you’d like to follow me.”

  I followed her into a small theatre used when the students did recitals in front of a paying audience. I knew this place and immediately climbed the steps onto the stage. Below me I could see the table at which sat the assessors, two men and a woman. They looked severe, the men sporting large whiskers and uncomfortable cravats, the woman large, with a round, plump face. They must be getting bored, I thought grimly, how many potential students had they listened to already? It must be torturous to go through this every year.

  “What have you chosen to sing, Mrs Asquith?” said the large lady, trying to smile. I told her and I could almost hear the groan coming from the three of them. “Very good. Then please give your music to Mr Joyce and we’ll start.”

  I stepped over to the piano and handed my music to Mr Joyce knowing he didn’t really need it, he should know this piece by heart. He smiled, took the music from me and asked what key I sang in. Stepping to the edge of the stage, I lifted my head and started to sing.

  To say I put my heart into it is an understatement. I kept my eyes on the back wall and as my voice soared above the assessors’ heads I concentrated on the music only. When the last note left my throat, I looked down at them expectantly. They were smiling and nodding at one another.

  “Thank you Mrs Asquith. You have a remarkable voice,” said one of the gentlemen. I collected my music from the pianist who winked at me as he handed me the sheaves of paper. “However, you do realise that we can only accommodate three scholarship students every year?” I said that I did. “Our decision will be made tomorrow morning at ten o’clock here in the theatre.” Their attention turned from me as they started to discuss something I couldn’t hear. My turn was done.

  I was shown out by the same lady who had shown me in. As she opened the door for me I noticed a young man in the foyer pacing the floor. As he walked up and down, he fidgeted with his collar looking very agitated, his sheet music held under his right arm.

  He stopped when he saw me. “What’s it like in there?” he said.

  I smiled. “The assessors seem nice enough.”

  “Mr Holmes? You may come in now,” said the lady who was organising us all.

  “Good luck,” I said. But as he disappeared through the door I whispered, “But not too much eh?”

  I ran through Regent’s Park and caught the omnibus on the far side. The four-mile journey home was absolute bliss, my heart spiralling into the brilliant blue sky. I had sung really well and I knew they had liked me. I felt so confident, so happy and as I burst through the door and ran into the parlour I gave a twirl in ecstatic happiness.

  Nan was standing with little Daniel in her arms. I ran towards them and took my child from her. “Has my little man been good for Auntie Nan this morning?” I asked my sixteen-month-old infant, tenderly kissing his chubby cheeks. He gave me one of his beautiful, bright smiles, that was so like his father’s and I swung him in the air as he giggled with delight.

  I set him on his feet and he waddled across to his wooden animals and brought me the elephant.

  “Would you like some tea?” asked Nan, disappearing into the kitchen without waiting for my answer. She looked over her shoulder. “And he’s been very good. He said ‘Mama’ and pointed to the window, so I think he missed you.”

  I picked up my son once more and gave him the elephant to hold. “I hate leaving you, little one,” I said sadly. “But Mama has to work.” I kissed his mouth and held him close to me, feeling the warmth of his body against mine and carried him into the kitchen.

  “I take it you’re confident about this morning’s events?” asked Nan, pouring boiling water into the teapot.

  “Oh, it was wonderful,” I breathed. “I sang as though my life depended on it and I know they were impressed.”

  “So you think you’re in with a chance this year?”

  I wrinkled my nose and pondered on that thought. Yes, this was my second year of trying for the scholarship and last year I had been optimistic. I had learnt to live with the disappointment of failing of course, just as I had learnt to live with the disgust of giving music lessons for a living.

  I gave a sigh. “I feel quietly confident. Perhaps this time I’ll be lucky. And if I want to be an opera singer and sing at Covent Garden, then I must be trained.”

  Nan pursed her lips. “If only that brother of mine had left you more than a small annuity.”

  I looked askance at her. “I didn’t want a damned annuity. I wanted him here with me.” I rubbed my cheek on my son’s blond hair and then followed it with a kiss.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” she said, patting my arm. “I spoke out of turn.”

  I gave a wry smile and my gaze swept round the kitchen. How small this house was in Laurel Close, a parlour and kitchen downstairs and upstairs only two bedrooms. Danny slept in a cot bed next to mine, even if he did clamber in with me every morning. I always enjoyed snuggling down with him and trying to persuade him to go back to sleep, singing lullabies that my mother used to sing to me and I would watch his big blue eyes close as he listened to my voice. If only I could get a place at The Royal Academy of Music, my baby’s future would be assured. Covent Garden was always interested in the students coming from the academy. Tomorrow I would find out. Tomorrow I would meet Stephanie and we would go to the academy together.

  I met her at the corner where the cobblers stood. She was watching two young boys making a puppy dance on its hind legs and laughing at their antics. I touched her arm to attract her attention and she turned and smiled at me. She looked calm, almost serene. Stephanie had told me that her audition had gone very well and through a fitful night’s sleep I had wondered how marvellous it would be if we both won places that year. To train together would have been unbelievable. The strong smell of leather and glue drifted out of the shop and we could hear the gentle tap-tapping of the cobbler’s hammer as he fixed and mended the shoes in his care.

  “Ready to go?” she asked.

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I smiled.

  We travelled on top of the omnibus, chatting away as usual, but soon we were there and passing through the foyer and into the theatre along with sixty or seventy other young hopefuls. We took seats in the auditorium and I looked around. All these bright, expectant faces, I thought, and only three will be chosen. There was a buzz of anticipation as the plump lady who had been one of the assessors took her place on the stage. In her hand was the all-important piece of paper.

  The hum of conversation faded away as our attention became riveted on her fleshy features.

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Before I read out the names of the new students who will be joining us next year, I would like to say how impressed we’ve been with the standard of entrants this time. You are all potential students of the academy and we were very hard pressed to pick only three. However, three it must be and for all of you who must face disappointment, please be assured it is no reflection on your ability and we would like to invite you to apply next July.”

  Oh, do get on with it, I groaned. I had heard this speech before. Sitting in the fifth row from the front, I quickly glanced at Stephanie. She hadn’t flinched when the word ‘disappointment’ had been mentioned. In fact, she had just smiled at me and reached across and squeezed my hand.

  “Good luck, Isabelle.”

  “And you,” I answered back, my heart starting to beat furiously.


  “So, now we reach the moment you’ve been waiting for, ladies and gentlemen. These are the three students who have been chosen…”

  I squeezed Stephanie’s hand tighter and held my breath.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Daniel Asquith was a tall, rather lean young man with bright blue eyes that gazed through spectacles that made him look more like a bank clerk than a mineralogist. His fair hair was too long and framed his face, the unruly curls caressing his forehead and giving him the appearance of a boy rather than a man. He was twenty-three and I was only sixteen when his overlarge feet introduced us. I was Miss Isabelle Pritchard then and thoughts of romance and marriage were far from my mind.

  I was hurrying across a field that cloudy but warm morning in early June, just a week before my seventeenth birthday, on my way to singing lessons with the minister. Mr Price had been a Doctor of Divinity and Professor of Music at Cambridge before deciding to become the minister of our chapel in Cwmdare in the Rhondda Valley. He had encouraged my singing for the last five years, training me to a much higher standard than I had hoped to expect. However, Mr Price had told me that he was now at the limit of his knowledge and suggested I go to The Royal Academy of Music in London and he had advised me to talk it over with my father. Papa had rubbed his chin and told me that I was far too young to travel so far from home, but he would think it over provided I could get more information about this academy. And so that morning in June, I was hurrying to see Mr Price for my next lesson and to ask him more details.

  Daniel was reading a book, sitting on the grass, his back propped up against a tree. He always said later, that it was a complete accident that he decided to stretch out his leg just as I was running past, but I never believed him. Even so, his clumsiness made me tumble, as my mama would say, boot over bustle into the grass.