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konstantyaTitle: Soul of My Heart, Spirit of My Soul
Fandom: Love For the Asking (Short Story)
Genre: Gen, pre-romance.
Characters: Nadia Minor, Drew Carteret
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,626
Summary: “So is that what this visit is about?” she asked, with a mocking lift of her eyebrow. “Checking in on your investment?” Somehow things had a tendency to turn sarcastic between them. It was easier that way, she’d found. Easier with the emotional distance it created. (Or, a pre-canon fic based on yet another pulp story no one has read since it was initially published, pfft. We’ve got opera, class differences, complicated relationships, and the “walking in on someone” trope, baby! The original story, for reference, also involves class differences and complicated relationships, along with mutual pining and fake marriage. It can be read here (with a written summary/review of it here), but in the event you don’t want to bother with either of those, let it be known that I do provide some background context in the pre-fic notes.)
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
A/N: So, yes! As stated, the story proper (originally published in the July 1941 issue of Love Fiction Monthly) basically revolves around the heroine and the way she gets roped into pretending to be the hero’s wife for a week, but for the purposes of this fic, all you really need to know is: Main character Nadia comes from a poor Kentucky background and dreams of being an opera singer. When she’s sixteen, the younger brother (Laddie) of a local old-money family falls in love with her and wants to elope, but his older brother (Drew) shuts that shit down, ostensibly because Nadia’s too lower-class. Two years later, Drew’s sister hires her to perform at a party she’s hosting, and when Drew (like a privileged dick) tells Nadia afterward that she should be studying with a famous vocal instructor, not “wasting” her talent singing for pennies in a dime store, all her pent-up anger at him comes to a head and she just fucking goes off. At the end of it, Drew rather cheekily offers to finance her studies in New York for two years (with the understanding that she’ll repay him once she becomes successful), and Nadia agrees, essentially out of pure spite. And so, they enter into this weird business relationship, complete with her taking over his Park Avenue apartment. Slowly, however, over the course of a year and a half, her hatred of him morphs into (what she thinks is an unrequited) love, which is where the original story picks up. This fic takes place pre-canon, part-way into the arrangement.
In truth, the shower made for difficult singing if one was trying to do it with anything resembling a formal technique. Still, the lyrics of that morning’s practice piece kept looping through Nadia’s head as she scrubbed the washcloth over her limbs: Alma del core, spirto dell’alma, sempre costante t’adorerò… Her pronunciation of Italian had drastically improved over the last couple months, much to her delight. She’d have to give the aria another few run-throughs before the day was out.
She sighed as she shut off the water, grabbed the towel, and wrapped it around herself. She folded the end in around her breasts to temporarily hold it in place, then peeled off her shower cap, giving her hair a little fluff with her hand as she exited the attached bathroom and padded to her closet. Her coral shirtwaist dress, she decided—the one with the white flowers. She had a couple errands to take care of that afternoon, and its large pockets were always convenient for such things.
Sarò contento nel mio tormento se quel bel labbro baciar potrò… She was about to unwrap her towel, but then halted. Despite her best efforts to remember before she’d hopped into the tub, she’d forgotten her stockings out in the hall, after all—the placement of the windows in the apartment meant the spot had a nice cross-breeze, she’d discovered, and so was perfect for drying a number of her more delicate items. Well, she’d just have to tromp out and grab them. Maybe she could blame Antonio Caldara for her absent-mindedness, she joked in her head. And so, with another sigh, she opened the bedroom door and walked into the hall, plucking the hanger from the archway that led into the spacious living room.
Only to gasp and come to a dead stop upon seeing the tall figure of Drew Carteret, standing across the polished floor. He’d just come in, if the hat in his hand was any indication, and he similarly froze in surprise upon noticing her. His dark blue eyes raked over her barely-clad body, and then he was belatedly spinning around.
“I’m so sorry! I rang the bell, but no one answered, so I assumed you were out.”
“No…” she said faintly. A part of her was screaming at her to simply run back into the bedroom, but she couldn’t help staring at him, at the broad shoulders tensed uncomfortably under the fine grey wool of his suit. It was the first time she’d ever seen him flustered, she realized, and it was oddly fascinating. Her bare toes curled against the cool wood beneath her. “No, I…was in the shower.”
He slung a hand into his pocket and gave a rueful laugh, still facing away from her. “That much is obvious now.”
Nadia swallowed and shook her head, mentally gathering herself. She clutched her stockings to her chest like some sort of shield and moved backwards a step. “E-excuse me. I’ll—just be a few minutes.”
“Take your time,” Drew drawled, and she didn’t dare stick around to try to decipher what might have been buried in his otherwise unreadable tone.
She scuttled back to the bedroom, forcing herself to close the door gently, then leaned against it, her cheeks absolutely on fire. The bedroom. She wondered at her internal phrasing for a moment. In truth, it was her bedroom; it just happened to be located within his apartment. For not the first time, she was glad she’d taken over the guest room and not his personal one. He had offered it, back at the beginning of all of this, and she had attempted it that very first day, but something about sleeping in his bed, being immersed in his most private spaces—even if he wasn’t around, even though he had barely lived there before—had unnerved her. Bad enough that she’d taken to using his larger bath for the occasional luxurious soak. God, what if she had chosen to do so today, and he’d accidentally walked in on her in there? Why was he even here? Usually he called or sent a cable if he was going to be dropping by.
Nadia pushed herself away from the door and dressed swiftly, blushing in fresh embarrassment upon hiking the cursed beige stockings up her legs. What he must think of her, hanging them out to dry in the open like that, like some common slob of a woman. Then the anger reflexively kicked in, as it often did, and succeeded in driving the shame away. Who cared what he thought? If he had a problem with her draping her intimates all over his apartment, well, he should have considered that before he proposed she live there. Really, she should take it one step further and start collecting cloyingly adorable and feminine figurines to line along his shelves. Get a marvelously tacky rug to lay on the floor. That would serve him right.
Feeling moderately better about the whole situation, she checked herself in the mirror, gave her dusky hair a quick pass with her brush, then boldly threw open the door and reemerged.
Drew was standing at the piano, and cast a token glance over at her as she entered. He’d helped himself to a glass of water from the kitchen, and was coming up on the end of it as he idly poked through the sheet music that sat out on the instrument. “Morell tells me you’re well on your way to becoming his star pupil.”
“So is that what this visit is about?” she asked, with a mocking lift of her eyebrow. “Checking in on your investment?” Somehow things had a tendency to turn sarcastic between them. It was easier that way, she’d found. Easier with the emotional distance it created.
He finally looked at her again, inscrutably, as if he hadn’t just seen her in merely a towel, glowing from the heat of the shower. “Not exactly,” he admitted. He set his glass down, then reached inside his suit and pulled out a small envelope. “A friend of mine at the club had two tickets for Lucia di Lammermoor tonight, but an emergency came up. He offered them to me, and I thought you might like to go.”
Nadia’s breath caught. Lucia di Lammermoor, starring Irina Morozova, the famous Russian diva. Oh, what an opportunity! Before she could stop herself, the words burst out of her mouth. “With you?”
Drew blinked, and if he was at all taken aback by the question, he recovered masterfully. “I…figured you’d have some friend or musical acquaintance you could take.”
Nadia flushed. It was a perfect out he was providing for her, and she was grateful in a way—but how to explain that even after eight months of living in New York, the closest thing she had to a friend was a waitress at a diner she frequented? And even supposing Trudy would have been interested (doubtful), Nadia already knew she had a date with her boyfriend that night to see the new Gary Cooper picture. She kept telling herself the emotion would fade, but sometimes Nadia felt positively stuck between stations, too humble in background to truly connect with any of Mr. Morell’s other students, yet also living too fancy a lifestyle in Drew Carteret’s Park Avenue flat to fit in with the average working girl. No wonder she’d recently been drawn to so many novels that featured governesses.
The silence stretched for an awkward moment, and then Drew broke it with careful casualness, once again smoothing things over. “…But if you could deign to be seen with me, I’d be honored to go. I understand hearing Morozova in person is quite the experience.”
Nadia bravely raised her chin, determined to play along as best she could, if only to salvage her pride. “It does seem like the least I could do,” she conceded, “since you were so kind to get the tickets in the first place.” A small smile tugged at one half of his mouth (in ridicule?—in admiration?), and he inclined his head graciously, as if she was the one doing him the great favor here.
“Pick you up at seven?” he asked.
She pretended to mull the time over. “Sure,” she eventually acquiesced. He nodded again in acknowledgment, tucking the tickets back into his jacket, then moved toward the door. He settled his hat on his head and tipped it at her impudently.
“Until then,” he said, and saw himself out.
---
And so that was how she wound up attending her first opera at the Met.
She wore an olive green formal that she’d bought for her first recital, just a few weeks ago. It was simple as far as evening gowns went—an off-the-shoulder neckline the only really noticeable thing about it—but it was still the most glamorous garment she’d ever owned, with elegant lines that fit her well and made her feel like an honest-to-goodness lady. Drew, for his part, was dressed in a tuxedo, and against her will she had to admit that he made for a striking image, his dark hair nearly matching the stark black of his well-tailored jacket. At least a couple times she’d caught other women giving him an appreciative glance as they made their way through the opulent lobby, and truth be told, she had a hard time blaming them. Under different circumstances, she might have done the same.
“Drew!” a feminine voice suddenly called out, and Nadia turned just in time to see a willowy blonde emerge from the crowd. She was extremely beautiful—in her early thirties, if Nadia had to hazard a guess—with her hair done up professionally and wearing an exquisite ice blue gown. Drew bent down, clearly familiar with her, and kissed her cheek.
“Estelle,” he greeted. Upon pulling back, Estelle hit him flirtatiously on the shoulder with her gloved hand.
“Imagine seeing you here!” she said. “You should have told me you were coming.”
“It was a last minute decision, I’m afraid. The tickets are actually Peter Barlow’s, but he had something come up and didn’t want them to go to waste.”
Estelle’s face fell in concern. “Oh, yes, I heard—his father-in-law had to go into the hospital. I do hope Vivian’s weathering it all right. She was telling me he never really recovered from that bout of pneumonia he had last year. Well. Enough dour talk,” she said, and forced a bright expression. “Why don’t you introduce me to your lovely companion for this evening?” Nadia could have sworn there was something hidden in the words, but had a hard time gauging what, exactly. Jealousy? Mere curiosity? Drew was hardly what one would call a playboy, but surely he’d taken women to events before. Peculiar, though, that the concept of him having some sort of active romantic life should only occur to her now.
Drew, if he picked up on any coded message, paid it no mind. “Of course. Estelle, please allow me to present Miss Nadia Minor. Miss Minor, Mrs. Estelle Westhaven.”
“ ‘Minor,’ ” Estelle echoed thoughtfully, after they’d clasped hands. “Of the Connecticut Minors?”
Nadia’s smile turned a little wooden. “No,” was all she said, and before the other woman could ask any further questions, Drew broke in:
“Miss Minor is Anton Morell’s up-and-coming soprano,” he explained, with infuriatingly easy charm. Estelle’s features lit up with interest. “In a few years, we’ll probably be coming to see her star in Donizetti. Now, please excuse us. We were just about to get a drink before curtain.” At that, Estelle gave him a sly, secretive grin, but bid them farewell all the same. Drew proceeded to usher Nadia over to the bar, where the tenders were steadily making martinis, and his hand at her waist felt like an insult.
“You don’t have to parade me around like a dancing bear,” she snapped under her breath.
Drew let her go to order two of the cocktails. His voice was mild and unperturbed as he handed one to her. “I’m trying to be polite, Nadia. Am I not allowed to do that with you?”
Considering how their first interactions had involved him coldly shipping his younger brother down to South America to get him away from her, sometimes she had to wonder. She hadn’t loved Laddie—not as he’d fancied himself in love with her, at least—but she had liked him. Despite coming from old copper-mining money, there’d been a streak of the Bohemian to him, such that he’d been far more amiable and easy-going than either of his two older siblings. Maybe that had something to do with being the youngest and the most indulged. As an only child who’d furthermore had to help support her father and step-mother, Nadia wouldn’t know.
She took a sip of the drink, not answering him. Their relationship was so bizarre when she stopped to think about it. In another life, he could have been her brother-in-law, but now he was financing her musical education instead—and for God knew what reason, at that. As some sort of esoteric joke, seemed to be the most likely explanation—prop up the poor little girl from the poor little mining town and see if she could make something of herself. So funny, so utterly hilarious. Sometimes Nadia was pretty sure she hated him, and she took another drink to disguise her sneer. Upper-class snobs, all of them, and Drew Carteret especially.
But he was a rich snob, she reminded herself, and even if he was only using her for some perverse amusement, well, wasn’t she using him just as much for his pocketbook? Might as well use it for all it was worth, in that case. Heaven knew the man himself had nothing else to recommend him—save perhaps his good looks, and honestly, who needed those? There were plenty of handsome men in the world. Reinvigorated, she finished her martini and stood decidedly straighter, looking out around the milling crowd.
Drew noticed the change in her demeanor and quirked a skeptical eyebrow. “I’ve heard of liquid courage, but I’ve never known it to take effect that quickly.”
“It isn’t the alcohol,” she said serenely, but didn’t elaborate. Drew seemed to take this in stride, for he merely responded with a small incline of his head. He set his own now-empty glass back down on the bar, presented his arm, and regally, as if she belonged there, as if she had every right to be seen with a man so socially prominent, Nadia took it and let him lead her to their seats.
---
They were box seats, of course—shared with an elderly couple that exchanged casual pleasantries with them, but otherwise kept to themselves—and any lingering insecurities Nadia might have felt fell completely away as the performance went on and commanded all of her attention. Irina Morozova was a dream as Lucia, her voice in person downright awe-inspiring—the power, the control, the lush tones and expressive delivery. Come the third act Nadia was literally on the edge of her chair, heart in her mouth and eyes unblinking as Lucia sang to her lost love, Edgardo, longed for him as she descended into madness, her dress already stained with blood from the murder of her bridegroom, Arturo. Morozova’s voice rose, momentarily devoid of accompaniment, and a shiver coursed through Nadia as she watched, enraptured.
“Oh,” she breathed, unable to contain herself, “she’s extraordinary.”
In her peripheral vision, she could see Drew look at her, no doubt caught off guard by the naked adoration in her words. “Yes,” he quietly agreed, and turned back to the stage with a strange reluctance. “She is.”
-----
A/N: Oh, Nadia, my girl. So proud, yet still so insecure. <3
The lyrics toward the beginning come from the song “Alma del Core,” and translate to, “Soul of my heart, spirit of my soul, always constantly I will adore you. I will be content in my torment if I could kiss that beautiful lip.” Though usually performed as a solo piece in the modern era, it’s originally from an opera, with the quoted lines being sung by a male character about the woman he loves. (Also, shout-out to currypizza for pointing me in the direction of some good practice pieces!Tfw you know next to nothing about opera, but then—insanely—decide to write a fic focused on a prospective opera singer, ahahahaha!)
The fictional Irina Morozova might have been a little inspired by the real-life Maria Callas. Just maybe. For reference, “Il Dolce Suono” is the piece she’s described as singing at the end there.
Lastly, just to mention it, as the story takes place approximately in 1940, the opera house in question would in fact be the Old Met.
All other fics can be found here.
Fandom: Love For the Asking (Short Story)
Genre: Gen, pre-romance.
Characters: Nadia Minor, Drew Carteret
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,626
Summary: “So is that what this visit is about?” she asked, with a mocking lift of her eyebrow. “Checking in on your investment?” Somehow things had a tendency to turn sarcastic between them. It was easier that way, she’d found. Easier with the emotional distance it created. (Or, a pre-canon fic based on yet another pulp story no one has read since it was initially published, pfft. We’ve got opera, class differences, complicated relationships, and the “walking in on someone” trope, baby! The original story, for reference, also involves class differences and complicated relationships, along with mutual pining and fake marriage. It can be read here (with a written summary/review of it here), but in the event you don’t want to bother with either of those, let it be known that I do provide some background context in the pre-fic notes.)
If you’d like to leave a comment, please do so on AO3!
A/N: So, yes! As stated, the story proper (originally published in the July 1941 issue of Love Fiction Monthly) basically revolves around the heroine and the way she gets roped into pretending to be the hero’s wife for a week, but for the purposes of this fic, all you really need to know is: Main character Nadia comes from a poor Kentucky background and dreams of being an opera singer. When she’s sixteen, the younger brother (Laddie) of a local old-money family falls in love with her and wants to elope, but his older brother (Drew) shuts that shit down, ostensibly because Nadia’s too lower-class. Two years later, Drew’s sister hires her to perform at a party she’s hosting, and when Drew (like a privileged dick) tells Nadia afterward that she should be studying with a famous vocal instructor, not “wasting” her talent singing for pennies in a dime store, all her pent-up anger at him comes to a head and she just fucking goes off. At the end of it, Drew rather cheekily offers to finance her studies in New York for two years (with the understanding that she’ll repay him once she becomes successful), and Nadia agrees, essentially out of pure spite. And so, they enter into this weird business relationship, complete with her taking over his Park Avenue apartment. Slowly, however, over the course of a year and a half, her hatred of him morphs into (what she thinks is an unrequited) love, which is where the original story picks up. This fic takes place pre-canon, part-way into the arrangement.
- Soul of My Heart, Spirit of My Soul -
In truth, the shower made for difficult singing if one was trying to do it with anything resembling a formal technique. Still, the lyrics of that morning’s practice piece kept looping through Nadia’s head as she scrubbed the washcloth over her limbs: Alma del core, spirto dell’alma, sempre costante t’adorerò… Her pronunciation of Italian had drastically improved over the last couple months, much to her delight. She’d have to give the aria another few run-throughs before the day was out.
She sighed as she shut off the water, grabbed the towel, and wrapped it around herself. She folded the end in around her breasts to temporarily hold it in place, then peeled off her shower cap, giving her hair a little fluff with her hand as she exited the attached bathroom and padded to her closet. Her coral shirtwaist dress, she decided—the one with the white flowers. She had a couple errands to take care of that afternoon, and its large pockets were always convenient for such things.
Sarò contento nel mio tormento se quel bel labbro baciar potrò… She was about to unwrap her towel, but then halted. Despite her best efforts to remember before she’d hopped into the tub, she’d forgotten her stockings out in the hall, after all—the placement of the windows in the apartment meant the spot had a nice cross-breeze, she’d discovered, and so was perfect for drying a number of her more delicate items. Well, she’d just have to tromp out and grab them. Maybe she could blame Antonio Caldara for her absent-mindedness, she joked in her head. And so, with another sigh, she opened the bedroom door and walked into the hall, plucking the hanger from the archway that led into the spacious living room.
Only to gasp and come to a dead stop upon seeing the tall figure of Drew Carteret, standing across the polished floor. He’d just come in, if the hat in his hand was any indication, and he similarly froze in surprise upon noticing her. His dark blue eyes raked over her barely-clad body, and then he was belatedly spinning around.
“I’m so sorry! I rang the bell, but no one answered, so I assumed you were out.”
“No…” she said faintly. A part of her was screaming at her to simply run back into the bedroom, but she couldn’t help staring at him, at the broad shoulders tensed uncomfortably under the fine grey wool of his suit. It was the first time she’d ever seen him flustered, she realized, and it was oddly fascinating. Her bare toes curled against the cool wood beneath her. “No, I…was in the shower.”
He slung a hand into his pocket and gave a rueful laugh, still facing away from her. “That much is obvious now.”
Nadia swallowed and shook her head, mentally gathering herself. She clutched her stockings to her chest like some sort of shield and moved backwards a step. “E-excuse me. I’ll—just be a few minutes.”
“Take your time,” Drew drawled, and she didn’t dare stick around to try to decipher what might have been buried in his otherwise unreadable tone.
She scuttled back to the bedroom, forcing herself to close the door gently, then leaned against it, her cheeks absolutely on fire. The bedroom. She wondered at her internal phrasing for a moment. In truth, it was her bedroom; it just happened to be located within his apartment. For not the first time, she was glad she’d taken over the guest room and not his personal one. He had offered it, back at the beginning of all of this, and she had attempted it that very first day, but something about sleeping in his bed, being immersed in his most private spaces—even if he wasn’t around, even though he had barely lived there before—had unnerved her. Bad enough that she’d taken to using his larger bath for the occasional luxurious soak. God, what if she had chosen to do so today, and he’d accidentally walked in on her in there? Why was he even here? Usually he called or sent a cable if he was going to be dropping by.
Nadia pushed herself away from the door and dressed swiftly, blushing in fresh embarrassment upon hiking the cursed beige stockings up her legs. What he must think of her, hanging them out to dry in the open like that, like some common slob of a woman. Then the anger reflexively kicked in, as it often did, and succeeded in driving the shame away. Who cared what he thought? If he had a problem with her draping her intimates all over his apartment, well, he should have considered that before he proposed she live there. Really, she should take it one step further and start collecting cloyingly adorable and feminine figurines to line along his shelves. Get a marvelously tacky rug to lay on the floor. That would serve him right.
Feeling moderately better about the whole situation, she checked herself in the mirror, gave her dusky hair a quick pass with her brush, then boldly threw open the door and reemerged.
Drew was standing at the piano, and cast a token glance over at her as she entered. He’d helped himself to a glass of water from the kitchen, and was coming up on the end of it as he idly poked through the sheet music that sat out on the instrument. “Morell tells me you’re well on your way to becoming his star pupil.”
“So is that what this visit is about?” she asked, with a mocking lift of her eyebrow. “Checking in on your investment?” Somehow things had a tendency to turn sarcastic between them. It was easier that way, she’d found. Easier with the emotional distance it created.
He finally looked at her again, inscrutably, as if he hadn’t just seen her in merely a towel, glowing from the heat of the shower. “Not exactly,” he admitted. He set his glass down, then reached inside his suit and pulled out a small envelope. “A friend of mine at the club had two tickets for Lucia di Lammermoor tonight, but an emergency came up. He offered them to me, and I thought you might like to go.”
Nadia’s breath caught. Lucia di Lammermoor, starring Irina Morozova, the famous Russian diva. Oh, what an opportunity! Before she could stop herself, the words burst out of her mouth. “With you?”
Drew blinked, and if he was at all taken aback by the question, he recovered masterfully. “I…figured you’d have some friend or musical acquaintance you could take.”
Nadia flushed. It was a perfect out he was providing for her, and she was grateful in a way—but how to explain that even after eight months of living in New York, the closest thing she had to a friend was a waitress at a diner she frequented? And even supposing Trudy would have been interested (doubtful), Nadia already knew she had a date with her boyfriend that night to see the new Gary Cooper picture. She kept telling herself the emotion would fade, but sometimes Nadia felt positively stuck between stations, too humble in background to truly connect with any of Mr. Morell’s other students, yet also living too fancy a lifestyle in Drew Carteret’s Park Avenue flat to fit in with the average working girl. No wonder she’d recently been drawn to so many novels that featured governesses.
The silence stretched for an awkward moment, and then Drew broke it with careful casualness, once again smoothing things over. “…But if you could deign to be seen with me, I’d be honored to go. I understand hearing Morozova in person is quite the experience.”
Nadia bravely raised her chin, determined to play along as best she could, if only to salvage her pride. “It does seem like the least I could do,” she conceded, “since you were so kind to get the tickets in the first place.” A small smile tugged at one half of his mouth (in ridicule?—in admiration?), and he inclined his head graciously, as if she was the one doing him the great favor here.
“Pick you up at seven?” he asked.
She pretended to mull the time over. “Sure,” she eventually acquiesced. He nodded again in acknowledgment, tucking the tickets back into his jacket, then moved toward the door. He settled his hat on his head and tipped it at her impudently.
“Until then,” he said, and saw himself out.
And so that was how she wound up attending her first opera at the Met.
She wore an olive green formal that she’d bought for her first recital, just a few weeks ago. It was simple as far as evening gowns went—an off-the-shoulder neckline the only really noticeable thing about it—but it was still the most glamorous garment she’d ever owned, with elegant lines that fit her well and made her feel like an honest-to-goodness lady. Drew, for his part, was dressed in a tuxedo, and against her will she had to admit that he made for a striking image, his dark hair nearly matching the stark black of his well-tailored jacket. At least a couple times she’d caught other women giving him an appreciative glance as they made their way through the opulent lobby, and truth be told, she had a hard time blaming them. Under different circumstances, she might have done the same.
“Drew!” a feminine voice suddenly called out, and Nadia turned just in time to see a willowy blonde emerge from the crowd. She was extremely beautiful—in her early thirties, if Nadia had to hazard a guess—with her hair done up professionally and wearing an exquisite ice blue gown. Drew bent down, clearly familiar with her, and kissed her cheek.
“Estelle,” he greeted. Upon pulling back, Estelle hit him flirtatiously on the shoulder with her gloved hand.
“Imagine seeing you here!” she said. “You should have told me you were coming.”
“It was a last minute decision, I’m afraid. The tickets are actually Peter Barlow’s, but he had something come up and didn’t want them to go to waste.”
Estelle’s face fell in concern. “Oh, yes, I heard—his father-in-law had to go into the hospital. I do hope Vivian’s weathering it all right. She was telling me he never really recovered from that bout of pneumonia he had last year. Well. Enough dour talk,” she said, and forced a bright expression. “Why don’t you introduce me to your lovely companion for this evening?” Nadia could have sworn there was something hidden in the words, but had a hard time gauging what, exactly. Jealousy? Mere curiosity? Drew was hardly what one would call a playboy, but surely he’d taken women to events before. Peculiar, though, that the concept of him having some sort of active romantic life should only occur to her now.
Drew, if he picked up on any coded message, paid it no mind. “Of course. Estelle, please allow me to present Miss Nadia Minor. Miss Minor, Mrs. Estelle Westhaven.”
“ ‘Minor,’ ” Estelle echoed thoughtfully, after they’d clasped hands. “Of the Connecticut Minors?”
Nadia’s smile turned a little wooden. “No,” was all she said, and before the other woman could ask any further questions, Drew broke in:
“Miss Minor is Anton Morell’s up-and-coming soprano,” he explained, with infuriatingly easy charm. Estelle’s features lit up with interest. “In a few years, we’ll probably be coming to see her star in Donizetti. Now, please excuse us. We were just about to get a drink before curtain.” At that, Estelle gave him a sly, secretive grin, but bid them farewell all the same. Drew proceeded to usher Nadia over to the bar, where the tenders were steadily making martinis, and his hand at her waist felt like an insult.
“You don’t have to parade me around like a dancing bear,” she snapped under her breath.
Drew let her go to order two of the cocktails. His voice was mild and unperturbed as he handed one to her. “I’m trying to be polite, Nadia. Am I not allowed to do that with you?”
Considering how their first interactions had involved him coldly shipping his younger brother down to South America to get him away from her, sometimes she had to wonder. She hadn’t loved Laddie—not as he’d fancied himself in love with her, at least—but she had liked him. Despite coming from old copper-mining money, there’d been a streak of the Bohemian to him, such that he’d been far more amiable and easy-going than either of his two older siblings. Maybe that had something to do with being the youngest and the most indulged. As an only child who’d furthermore had to help support her father and step-mother, Nadia wouldn’t know.
She took a sip of the drink, not answering him. Their relationship was so bizarre when she stopped to think about it. In another life, he could have been her brother-in-law, but now he was financing her musical education instead—and for God knew what reason, at that. As some sort of esoteric joke, seemed to be the most likely explanation—prop up the poor little girl from the poor little mining town and see if she could make something of herself. So funny, so utterly hilarious. Sometimes Nadia was pretty sure she hated him, and she took another drink to disguise her sneer. Upper-class snobs, all of them, and Drew Carteret especially.
But he was a rich snob, she reminded herself, and even if he was only using her for some perverse amusement, well, wasn’t she using him just as much for his pocketbook? Might as well use it for all it was worth, in that case. Heaven knew the man himself had nothing else to recommend him—save perhaps his good looks, and honestly, who needed those? There were plenty of handsome men in the world. Reinvigorated, she finished her martini and stood decidedly straighter, looking out around the milling crowd.
Drew noticed the change in her demeanor and quirked a skeptical eyebrow. “I’ve heard of liquid courage, but I’ve never known it to take effect that quickly.”
“It isn’t the alcohol,” she said serenely, but didn’t elaborate. Drew seemed to take this in stride, for he merely responded with a small incline of his head. He set his own now-empty glass back down on the bar, presented his arm, and regally, as if she belonged there, as if she had every right to be seen with a man so socially prominent, Nadia took it and let him lead her to their seats.
They were box seats, of course—shared with an elderly couple that exchanged casual pleasantries with them, but otherwise kept to themselves—and any lingering insecurities Nadia might have felt fell completely away as the performance went on and commanded all of her attention. Irina Morozova was a dream as Lucia, her voice in person downright awe-inspiring—the power, the control, the lush tones and expressive delivery. Come the third act Nadia was literally on the edge of her chair, heart in her mouth and eyes unblinking as Lucia sang to her lost love, Edgardo, longed for him as she descended into madness, her dress already stained with blood from the murder of her bridegroom, Arturo. Morozova’s voice rose, momentarily devoid of accompaniment, and a shiver coursed through Nadia as she watched, enraptured.
“Oh,” she breathed, unable to contain herself, “she’s extraordinary.”
In her peripheral vision, she could see Drew look at her, no doubt caught off guard by the naked adoration in her words. “Yes,” he quietly agreed, and turned back to the stage with a strange reluctance. “She is.”
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A/N: Oh, Nadia, my girl. So proud, yet still so insecure. <3
The lyrics toward the beginning come from the song “Alma del Core,” and translate to, “Soul of my heart, spirit of my soul, always constantly I will adore you. I will be content in my torment if I could kiss that beautiful lip.” Though usually performed as a solo piece in the modern era, it’s originally from an opera, with the quoted lines being sung by a male character about the woman he loves. (Also, shout-out to currypizza for pointing me in the direction of some good practice pieces!
The fictional Irina Morozova might have been a little inspired by the real-life Maria Callas. Just maybe. For reference, “Il Dolce Suono” is the piece she’s described as singing at the end there.
Lastly, just to mention it, as the story takes place approximately in 1940, the opera house in question would in fact be the Old Met.
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