Free Masque by Bethany Pope Page B

earth. I laid my flowers down, the roses my singing master gave me. They were startling on the grassy grave, too red, too passionate a gift for a father from his girl, but I thought that they were appropriate, too, in a way. A gift from one father to another. It was, for me, a means of joining both the spirits that I sang for.
    The Countess had also granted the second boon that Father asked her. She’d adopted me as her daughter, though she hesitated at first, for longer than I then found proper. Now that I am grown I understand her hesitation much more fully than I did, although I had an inkling even then. The variety of love she felt for me must have made the action seem incestuous to her. It was easier for her to sign the paper once I made it clear to her, as kindly as I could, that though I loved her truly, I could not reciprocate in the manner she desired. She wept a little when I told her this, her clear cheeks became mottled as chicken skin: few north-toned beauties are lovely in sorrow. Still, she came through in the end, and we grew closer, until we were nearly like sisters.
    As far as I know, she was never jealous of the love I received from other sources. Still, I never could get used to calling her ‘Mother’, and in truth she seemed so relieved at this omission that it seemed to make our relationship far more comfortable than it had been before.
    I entered the ancient stone church through the side door, passing the netted pyramid of exhumed skulls that flanked the wall, dried bones waiting to be rehomed in the ossuary. This church was new before the battle of Hastings. The inside seemed very rough compared to the splendours being unveiled in Paris. I thought it unlikely that anyone would attempt to apply the new trend of ‘refurbishment’ in such a backwater, and I was very glad. In the city architects were knocking down the crude, blackened rood screens in even the smallest parish churches and replacing the rough, column-like saints with more modern replacements, statues like the ones draped all over the Opera House. Do not misunderstand me. I loved those wonderful odes to the delights of the flesh, but in their proper place. The spirit is a harder thing, more granite than marble, less lovely than we’d like to think, but more enduring than the earth.
    The altar was a bare stone slab, covered over with clumsy bundles of foliage spread out like an offering. The priest, a spare old man in a plain brown robe (it looked like it was made of burlap), was reaching up with the plate and wooden chalice, stretching to place them back in the cabinet which held the sacred bread and wine. He shut the door, painted with a scene of the Last Supper in tempera, turned and smiled at me broadly, so that every blackened tooth showed.
    â€˜Why, if it isn’t Miss … Daaé?’ He rushed forward, tottering, his thick white hair shining in the sunlight let in through clear windows.
    â€˜Why yes! You remember me!’ I remembered his kindness to me, after the service, but that was years ago.
    â€˜Of course, my dear. It isn’t often that piety and beauty meet, I note it when it does.’ He patted my hand like an uncle, ‘Besides, you sang so sweetly at the burial that I have never forgotten it.’
    After such a greeting it was an easy joy to arrange the memorial service. He would sing it the next morning.
    â€˜No, no, my dear. My Lord in Rome would be loath to hear it, but I take no payment for masses given in mercy. Weddings either (I can get away with it, there are not many). I have to charge for funerals, unfortunately. We have them pretty frequently, and my Cardinal does check.’ He laughed, escorting me down the aisle like a bride in reverse, ‘If you are so moved, however, I will say that we have a lot of poor in the area. If you are determined to part with some pennies might I suggest giving them to Madame Guilfont? She is a widow, you know, with seven children.