Her Story
I was born in Yorkshire, England, but my true life began in Paris under the watchful, whimsical care of my Aunt Josephine—an eccentric widow whose world revolved around poetry, salon gossip, and secrets softly whispered. From ages seven to fourteen, we lived above a humble bookbinder’s shop near the Luxembourg Gardens, a space perfumed with old leather, ink-stained paper, and quiet ambitions. Here, I learned to speak French fluently and carry myself like a young lady of means—though any fortune I possessed was merely borrowed, never truly mine.
When Aunt Josephine passed suddenly, leaving debts and unanswered mysteries in her wake, I returned reluctantly to England with little more than a small trunk filled with books, vintage brooches, a single French sou, and cherished memories. I settled modestly into a London boarding house, supporting myself by offering lessons in music and French to daughters of privilege. By night, I write heartfelt letters I have yet to send and recite passionate soliloquies I still dream of performing.
Music first found me in Aunt Josephine’s parlor—tiny, chilly, yet warm with the glow of friendship and song. It was Louise Moreau, the gentle yet firm mezzo-soprano with soft hands and determined eyes, who taught me how to sing and believe in perseverance. She often repeated, with unwavering conviction, "Il n'y a qu'une façon d'échouer, c'est d'abandonner avant d'avoir réussi." ("There is only one way to fail, and that is to give up before succeeding.") When the piano stool proved too high for my youthful frame, I sat atop a stack of Voltaire’s essays, teaching myself to play piano by ear, Louise's words echoing in every note I struck.
Today, without a piano of my own, I teach voice and language in homes far grander than any I’ll ever call mine. I practice on a small, humble instrument—a penny whistle, freshly fashioned from tin and small enough to fit discreetly inside my coat pocket. Its simple notes carry memories of the wind rustling through aged shutters back in Paris. And for now, these echoes of home are enough.