Then she thought there must have been some mistake, for there was someone already sitting there. A man considerably older than Jerome Leydon, with an air of owning, if not the Festival Hall, at least a good part of whatever made up his particular world.
He stood up as they reached the table and, as she hesitated, Jerome said, just behind her, ‘I want you to meet my friend Max Arrowsmith, Amanda. This is the girl I was telling you about, Max. And if you want more than my word for the fact that she has a very unusual talent, let me tell you that none other than Oscar Warrender thinks well of her.’
Chapter Three
Amanda was so taken aback by the sudden introduction to Max Arrowsmith that she would literally have retreated a step if Jerome Leydon’s friendly arm had not propelled her forward; and she found herself taking the outstretched hand offered to her while she murmured some conventional reply.
The voice in which Jerome’s friend greeted her was unusually deep, with very slight guttural overtones, and the shrewd, heavily lidded eyes which momentarily surveyed her gave Amanda the strange impression that their owner had looked on most things and found them pretty poor stuff.
He was very agreeable to her, however, and was obviously on good terms with her companion. Neither of them embarrassed her by any further reference to her talents, and by the time the meal had been ordered and a few trivial remarks exchanged she felt her sense of shock lessen. If Lewis Elsworth had not happened to speak about the connection between these two she would have found nothing strange in the encounter, she told herself. And presently she felt almost—though not quite—at ease.
Then the older man turned to her and remarked, ‘You’re going to hear the Warrenders for the first time, I understand?’
‘Yes.’ Amanda smiled at him. ‘I’m excited about it.’
‘Well, he’s that rare thing—a genius,’ Max Arrowsmith conceded, without qualification, which made Amanda feel better disposed towards him. ‘And she’s a very fine singer indeed, which should interest you since you’re a singer yourself.’
‘Oh, I’m not a singer!’ Amanda assured him earnestly. ‘I’m a singing student, which is quite a different thing.’
‘She’s too modest,’ Jerome interjected with a laugh, but the other man raised his hand and said,
‘Let her speak for herself. How advanced a student are you, Miss Amanda?’
‘Well, Sir Oscar said I needed another year’s study before—before he might be interested in me.’
‘Sir Oscar’s standards are high, aren’t they? And he was thinking in terms of operatic singing, I take it?’
‘I—I imagine so,’ Amanda agreed.
‘Is that your ultimate ambition?’ he enquired. And then, as she did not answer immediately, he went on thoughtfully, ‘You never considered a less ambitious start? Something which might give you a certain amount of stage experience without making tremendous demands on your singing development?’
Amanda shook her head, aware of an obscure sense of excitement mingled with a vague feeling of unease.
‘What have you done so far?’ he asked in a friendly tone, and again he silenced Jerome, who made a movement to join in the conversation at that point.
‘I—I’m in a very good church choir, and have an opportunity to do some solo singing from time to time. And I have regular lessons with the choirmaster, who’s exceptionally good,’ Amanda told him. But even to her own ears, and before Max Arrowsmith made a disparaging little grimace, that sounded rather small beer.
‘And that’s all?’
Amanda nodded. But this time Jerome refused to be silenced and exclaimed, ‘I think someone should explain that though the man who has been teaching her is academically very good, he’s one of those super-careful organists who would hardly look beyond the church door. The limit of his ambitions for her would probably be “Hear ye, Israel” or something of the sort.’
A faint resentment rose in Amanda at this cavalier dismissal of her success on the previous Wednesday, and she felt she almost liked Max Arrowsmith when he observed drily, ‘“Hear ye, Israel” takes a lot of singing.’
‘Of course it does,’ Jerome Leydon agreed impatiently. ‘And Amanda has demonstrated that it’s almost child’s play to her. That’s why I maintain that she could sing almost anything we might be interested in. And, as you see, she’s pretty and has a certain style and——’
‘She’s very pretty,’ agreed the older man, and he smiled at Amanda indulgently, so that she wondered why she had thought him slightly dangerous at first. ‘And she has, as you say, got style. We must think about her.’
‘In—in what way, Mr Arrowsmith?’ asked Amanda timidly.
‘Well, this isn’t quite the moment—or the place—to go into details.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s getting near concert time. But I should like to hear you sing one of these days.’
Then he raised his hand peremptorily to the waiter, and Amanda was both relieved and disappointed to realise that this disturbing but intriguing conversation was over. They all three left the restaurant together, but she found that Max Arrowsmith was not accompanying them to the concert. He bade them goodnight at the foot of the stairs and she thought it was not just an empty courtesy when he said he hoped he would see her again quite soon.
‘I hope so too,’ she replied, not entirely sincerely, and turned away quickly in slight embarrassment. As she did so she knocked against someone’s arm, glanced up to apologise and found herself looking into the surprised and angry eyes of Lewis Elsworth.
‘Why—why, hello,’ she heard herself say rather idiotically. And he replied, ‘Hello,’ very coldly and passed on.
It was one of the most horrible moments she had ever experienced, and she found herself thinking—if only she had told him the truth when she had to refuse his invitation! Or, alternatively, if only Max Arrowsmith had left them five minutes earlier! At least she would then have had to do no more than explain, as best she could, the fact that she was with Jerome. Now, with the wretched tangle of circumstances, it must seem to him that she had deliberately deceived him, not only with regard to Jerome Leydon, but Max Arrowsmith too.
Trembling with chagrin and dismay, she turned back to Jerome, whose attention had been caught by another acquaintance, and she realised thankfully that he had not seen her encounter with Lewis Elsworth. It was not much to be thankful for in a horrid and humiliating situation, but at least it was something. All the same, it seemed to her now that she could not possibly enjoy any concert. But, once she was seated in the hall and aware of the expectant hush, succeeded by the outburst of applause which greeted the conductor’s entrance, she somehow sensed that this was going to be one of those rare occasions when all personal worries must give way to a tremendous overall experience.
She was not sufficiently knowledgeable to judge just why this concert was different from anything else she had ever heard. It was simply that nothing seemed to stand between her and the music; rather as though the work were flowing straight from the mind and heart of the composer for the first time and she, Amanda Lovett, were the incredibly fortunate creature for whom it had been composed. It did not occur to her that this was the impression made on almost everyone else in the hall, until she was startled by the applause at the end and the realisation that this held a quality of astonishment and something like gratitude in it.
‘Well?’ said Jerome Leydon beside her, and she turned her head to see that he was smiling indulgently, as though enjoying her enjoyment.
‘Nothing,’ replied Amanda. ‘There’s simply nothing to add, is there? It’s all been said, and I can’t think that Mozart would have wanted it any different.’
‘Right first time,’ Jerome told her with a laugh, and he patted her hand approvingly and then left his hand on hers.
She stared down at their two hands for a moment, half moved by his approval, half thrilled by the warmth of his clasp. Then Warrender led on Anthea and, returning to the rostrum, took his orchestra through the o
pening bars of the Letter Scene from Eugene Onegin.
By now, of course, Amanda knew a good deal more about the mechanics of singing than of conducting, and she could appreciate to the full the beauty of Anthea’s performance. Not only the consummate singing, but the drama which she infused into the scene while still keeping, with perfect taste, within the confines of the concert platform.
‘She’s lovely!’ Amanda turned delightedly to her companion. ‘If I ever sing half as well as that I’ll be proud and happy.’
‘You’ll go further than halfway,’ he assured her. ‘Not necessarily on exactly the same path, but I don’t mind prophesying, Amanda, that you have a real future in front of you.’
She was happy, of course, to hear him say that. But the reference to a different path brought back some of her earlier disquiet during the scene with Max Arrowsmith and then—much worse—her anguish over the encounter with Lewis Elsworth. So that, although she greatly enjoyed the rest of the concert, at the edge of her pleasure was the small, niggling distress about her singing teacher. She tried to tell herself that his disapproval need not matter so much. But what really made her wretched was the thought that she must seem despicable in his eyes.
Even when she was going backstage with Jerome Leydon later, the fear that she might meet Lewis Elsworth transcended any pleasure in the new experience. But they were delayed several times by people who wanted to speak to Jerome and, by the time they arrived in the Warrenders’ dressing-room, the crowds had thinned and she was able to see that, if Lewis Elsworth had indeed come, he had now already gone.
Immensely relieved, she was able to voice her eager enthusiasm to Anthea Warrender, who said quite sincerely, ‘Thank you. But the conducting has a lot to do with it, you know. You’ll find out for yourself one of these days that for a singer a good conductor is half the battle.’
‘Don’t take that as a totally unprejudiced opinion,’ said Warrender with a dry smile, and Amanda found the courage to ask,
‘Sir Oscar, how was it that the music all sounded so incredibly new—as though it had just happened? I mean—you must have conducted each one of those works many times.’
‘Thank you for that compliment—the most subtle you can pay any conductor,’ Warrender said to her, with a sudden and very brilliant smile. ‘And I’ll tell you the simple answer. One should always remember that someone, somewhere in the audience, is hearing even, let’s say, Schubert’s “Unfinished” for the first time—and for that one person the conductor should conduct.’ Then he added, almost in an undertone and as though to himself, ‘Think of the wonder of hearing Schubert’s “Unfinished” for the first time!’
Anthea laughed and patted his arm affectionately before turning away to ask Jerome something, and for a moment Amanda found herself alone with the conductor. And suddenly, on an impulse she could never afterwards explain, she said breathlessly, ‘Sir Oscar, may I ask you something?’
‘If you feel you must,’ was the not altogether encouraging reply.
‘Do you—do you know someone called Max Arrowsmith?’
‘Certainly I know Max Arrowsmith. Why?’
‘What do you think of him?’ Amanda asked earnestly.
‘What do I think of him? As a businessman, do you mean?—or a person?’
‘Well, both, I suppose.’
‘As a businessman he’s immensely clever. Probably one of the toughest eggs ever hatched. As a person——?’ the conductor gave that some further consideration. ‘Well, Miss—Amanda, isn’t it?’ Amanda nodded silently. ‘There was a description coined long ago for someone else, but I think it could be applied fairly to Max Arrowsmith. He knows the price of everything and the value of nothing. Now run along. It’s getting late.’
Amanda rejoined Jerome at once and presently, their goodbyes completed, she found herself outside the Hall with him, walking towards the car park.
‘Well?’ He took her arm in that friendly, almost intimate way. ‘How was the whole experience?’
‘It was the first really great conducting I’ve ever heard,’ she said, slightly pressing his hand against her without even realising what she was doing. ‘And Anthea Warrender is, of course, the loveliest singer in my experience. In fact, it was a magical evening from be——’ she stopped.
‘From beginning to end?’ he finished for her. ‘Or did you, on reflection, decide that some of it was not quite up to expectation?’
‘Oh, no! Nothing like that at all. In fact, I can’t possibly thank you enough for your kindness and generosity. It’s just that—I was a little disturbed by one or two things Mr Arrowsmith said.’
‘You need not be,’ he told her lightly. ‘He looks a little bit the stage villain, I grant you. But he’s a very good fellow really.’
She wanted to say that was not quite the way Sir Oscar Warrender had described him. But tact towards her host, and caution for she knew not what, silenced her and she let the subject of Max Arrowsmith drop.
The drive home was rapid, pleasant and uneventful. She was suddenly tired after all the varied experiences of the evening and Jerome seemed to sense that, leaving her for a good part of the way to easy and strangely companionable silence. Only when the countryside was beginning to look familiar and Amanda realised they were not very far from home, he said,
‘I’ve told Diana—my sister, you know—quite a hit about you, and she’s keen to meet you. She’ll probably drop in at The Nightingale one of these days, just to say hello. All right with you and your people?’
‘Why, of course!’ Amanda roused herself to express genuine pleasure, both for the friendly overture from someone she did not want to lose sight of and also for the thought that the contact would be pleasant and even helpful to Nan. ‘My brother and sister-in-law will be delighted. They’re both sociable people, and Nan at any rate is greatly interested in music. She once had hopes herself of being a singer, but when my brother was badly injured motor-racing——’
‘Your brother isn’t Henry Lovett, the racing driver, is he?’ interrupted Jerome.
‘Yes!’ She turned in her seat to smile at him with pleasure. ‘Do you remember him?’
‘But of course. He was a hero of mine when I was about sixteen. I even asked him for his autograph once.’ Jerome grinned reminiscently.
‘Oh, you didn’t!’
‘Certainly I did. Why not? Most of my age-group thought the world of him. He was so young himself then—not more than twenty, I imagine. He seemed almost like one of us, and yet he did all the godlike things we longed to do.’
‘Oh, Jerome, how nice of you to speak of him like that!’ She laughed, though she was oddly moved too. ‘I’ll tell him. Or better still, come and meet him yourself some time. It would mean a lot to him. He doesn’t get much chance these days to talk of his racing years.’
‘That’s a promise,’ Jerome told her with obvious satisfaction. ‘I suppose that accident put paid to most things for him?’
‘I’m afraid it did. He made a better recovery than anyone dared to hope at the time, but there were some very difficult years. Then he and my sister-in-law took over The Nightingale and, though it’s been a tough struggle, they’re beginning to break even, and rather more than that now.’
‘I’m glad,’ he said sincerely, as they drove up to the silent house where the sign of The Nightingale swung gently to and fro in the night wind. ‘And I’m glad to know that we shall be seeing something of each other in the future, Amanda.’
‘Yes, indeed!’ All her gratitude for a wonderful evening went into that, and it seemed very fitting that he should lean forward and kiss her lightly as he helped her out of the car. It was not a demanding kiss. Just a friendly, almost casual one; and as such it was acceptable.
He waited while she let herself in at a side door and then, with a final wave to her, he got back into his car and drove off. Amanda was glad the place remained silent as she closed the door. It was reassuring to know that no one else was up and that she would not therefore have to
give any account of her evening until she had had time to consider every detail herself. But, in point of fact, hardly had she got into bed than she was asleep. And it seemed to be no more than a matter of minutes before the light was pouring into her room.
There was very little time to prepare whatever she was going to say, but she made of it all an entertaining story which amused and rather charmed both her brother and Nan. She even included Max Arrowsmith in her account, at which Nan wrinkled her forehead thoughtfully and said, ‘He’s some sort of impresario, isn’t he?’
‘Yes,’ said Amanda, helping herself to toast. ‘Sir Oscar says he’s pretty tough but a very clever businessman.—And I found that Jerome Leydon is a fan of yours, Henry.’ And she added a résumé of the last conversation in the car on the way home.
As she expected, her brother was both amused and pleased, and even Nan smiled indulgently and said she would like it if Jerome and his sister did drop in.
The only thing Amanda left out of her story was the encounter with Lewis Elsworth. And yet, illogically enough, the feeling began to grow upon her that this was the most important thing which had happened during the evening and, as a natural corollary, that she must do something about it. She had no special plan of action. She only knew that she must see Lewis Elsworth. And, with some ingenuity, she concocted a fairly good reason for going over to Austin Parva that afternoon.
‘Won’t it wait until tomorrow?’ Nan wanted to know. ‘You’ll be going there then anyway for your choir practice.’
Tense with nervousness at the very thought of delay, Amanda managed to say consideringly that she thought it better to go that afternoon and, Nan making no further objection, she set off on her bicycle as soon as the lunchtime rush was over.
Since all her lessons were conducted in the church schoolroom, and the choir practices of course in the church, she had hardly ever had any occasion to call at the small, white-painted house at the end of the main village street, and only twice had she even stepped inside the door. Her hand was not entirely steady as she pulled at the brightly polished brass knob which rang a bell somewhere in the back regions of the house, and she was aware suddenly that her breath was coming unevenly as she heard footsteps approaching the door.
Nightingales (Warrender Saga Book 11) Page 5
