Nightingales (Warrender Saga Book 11)

by Mary Burchell

  She thought that surely Nan and Patrick Rogerson must have noted the significance of the moment. But when she looked up they were discussing the all-important report from Switzerland, and Amanda wondered confusedly if she had read more into that kiss than was intended.

  ‘Well—’ Lewis spoke quite briskly this time—‘we’re going to snatch Amanda away now. We’ll leave her free tomorrow, so that’s a fair division.’

  ‘As she likes,’ Nan smiled. ‘But be back before ten, Mandy. I forgot to tell you—Jeremy has phoned two or three times in the last few days and yesterday I told him you’d be home this weekend and suggested he phone about ten this evening.’

  Only when Lewis abruptly dropped her hand did Amanda realise that he had continued to hold it. But before she could make any comment Patrick Rogerson said easily, ‘I’ll undertake to have her home in time for the vital call. So you know Jerry Leydon, do you?—Attractive fellow. Very talented too.’

  No one seemed to have anything to add to this, and Amanda went out to the car with a talkative Patrick Rogerson and a silent Lewis.

  But no touch of embarrassment or strain could cloud the hours which followed. She was astounded and thrilled to discover how much work had been accomplished during the weeks she had been away. When she voiced her amazement, however, Lewis explained that there had been a considerable volume of music already written and only a certain amount of adaptation and rearrangement had been necessary for the first and third acts.

  ‘Patrick was remarkably skilful over that,’ he conceded generously.

  ‘That’s right,’ agreed Rogerson brazenly. ‘But then it’s my kind of work, and the sense of excitement and adventure kept one at it. Some nights I hardly went to bed. There’s some wonderful stuff for the two men as well as for you, Amanda.’

  ‘Don’t be so confident that it’s specifically for me,’ exclaimed Amanda, crossing her fingers. ‘Remember that the actual casting lies with the conductor and producer. Neither of them may want to trust it to a total beginner when it comes to the point.’

  ‘Has Warrender hinted as much?’ asked Lewis quickly.

  ‘No. It’s never been discussed on a practical basis, but the facts speak for themselves, don’t they? If the work turns out to be as fine as we all hope then no conscientious conductor—least of all Sir Oscar—would dream of weakening it by wrong casting.’

  ‘The part is your part,’ stated Lewis, setting his mouth in an obstinate line. ‘It waits for performance until you’re ready to play it.’

  ‘I’m afraid Sir Oscar would say that any work of quality is more important than any performer. And he would be right,’ Amanda said, but she gave him a brilliant smile. ‘I’ll do my best; of course I’ll do my best. But we’re talking about lovely possibilities at too early a stage.’ And suddenly she felt the burden of a tremendous responsibility weighing upon her.

  ‘Well, let’s finish the work,’ interjected Rogerson cheerfully, ‘and argue about the casting afterwards. We haven’t got the second act as we want it yet.’

  ‘Musically I’ve almost got it,’ muttered Lewis. ‘I only needed to hear Amanda sing that early passage. But now the mood changes too rapidly, which leaves us not enough conflict for the last act. If we strengthen this here——’ He and Rogerson hung over the sheets of manuscript together while Amanda sat and watched them, allowing her mind to wander over the extraordinary possibilities which these two men were weaving.—For her? or for someone else?

  It was difficult to realise, even now, that this was all anything more than an exciting piece of make-believe.

  ‘I don’t feel that I shall ever be on a stage, singing and acting what they are at this very moment creating,’ she thought. ‘Have I got a spark of the divine fire which makes an artist? Have I even got the competitive spirit which takes people to the top? At the moment all that I desperately want is that Lewis’s work should succeed. I’d rather someone else made a success of it than that I did it less than justice. That’s terribly unambitious of me, I suppose. But then I’m not madly ambitious. I just know how that girl in the opera thinks and acts and ticks. As though she’s trying to push me into representing her and making her real. If I get the chance——’

  ‘Come here, Amanda,’ said Lewis at that moment, and she went to him immediately and listened intently while he explained the short scene on which he and Rogerson had been engaged. ‘What would she do in those circumstances?’ he asked abruptly.

  ‘What would she do?’ Amanda repeated slowly. ‘You mean what would I do?’

  Rogerson made as though to speak, but Lewis silenced him with a peremptory gesture and said softly, ‘All right. What would you do? She is you in a way. Passionate inside and yet sufficiently unawakened to be passive in the grasp of events. This is the moment when reality begins to break in on her. How would you show it?’

  ‘Mostly in movement at first,’ Amanda said, still speaking slowly, and she began to pace round the room without much sense of direction, like a graceful animal seeking to find a lost track. Then she stopped and muttered something and Lewis, sitting at the piano, provided a few hesitant chords at which she nodded. She began to pace again and the phrases became more coherent, but repetitive as though she were impressing something on her own consciousness. Then suddenly she stopped and threw out her arms and instantly he launched into the strong, positive air which he had made her sing earlier in the afternoon.

  ‘Something like that,’ said Amanda, as though suddenly coming to herself again.

  ‘Yes, something like that,’ Lewis agreed in a deeply satisfied tone of voice. While Rogerson, staring from one to the other, said,

  ‘You two give me the willies! Is this an act or something? I’d have said you were hypnotising her if I hadn’t known you too well for that. How did you know what to do, Amanda?’

  ‘I didn’t—I was just suggesting what I think she would do. That was what you asked for, wasn’t it, Lewis?’

  ‘Yes. It’s a case of two minds being very much in tune,’ he explained briefly to Rogerson. ‘Thank you, Amanda. I’ll work on it that way and see if we were right.’

  ‘Well, I suppose you know what you’re doing.’ The other man looked half amused, half protesting. ‘But you made the hair stand up at the back of my neck! How about the wording required for that bit where she’s wandering around?’

  ‘Very simple. Repetitive at first, positive and coherent when she suddenly sees the way. I’ll give you the clues when I’ve worked on it. It’s the last real problem, I think.’ He smiled and the colour flushed up in his face. ‘After that there’s only some tidying up and extra scoring—and we’re almost home.’

  ‘“Only!”’ repeated Rogerson with good-humoured scorn. ‘Quite a tough assignment still. However, time is on our side. Apart from bringing our Amanda up to scratch for the great task, we may still have to wait God knows how long for the chance of seeing it actually performed.’

  ‘Of course.’ Lewis suddenly stifled a yawn and his voice sounded almost languid. ‘Take Amanda home—she’s probably nearly as whacked as I am. And I suppose even you are feeling the strain by now.’

  ‘Do you need either of us tomorrow?’ Amanda asked.

  ‘No, no.’ Lewis shook his head almost impatiently. ‘I must work on this myself to get it right. You’re going back to London tomorrow evening, I take it? Give my greetings to the Warrenders and tell him——’ he stopped suddenly and then frowned and said, ‘No, don’t tell him anything. I may not have it right even now.’

  ‘You’re sure you won’t need me tomorrow?’ She tried to make that casual, but was dismayed to find that it came out with a touch of wistfulness, and she felt humiliated when he replied absently, ‘Quite sure. Go along now. Nan said something about wanting you home before ten, didn’t she?’

  Stung by his absentminded dismissal of her, tired after the intense concentration of the last few hours, she had an impulse to sting him in return. ‘That’s right,’ she replied deliberately. ‘Nan said
Jerry would be phoning, and I shouldn’t like to miss him. Goodnight.’

  She then walked out of the room ahead of Patrick Rogerson, and was already ensconced in the car when, having exchanged a few last words with Lewis, he came out to join her.

  ‘Jerome Leydon doesn’t seem to be much of a favourite with Lewis,’ he remarked as he started the car. Then, as she made no reply to that, ‘Is Lewis jealous of him?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Their paths don’t cross professionally, do they?’ replied Amanda, with an admirable assumption of indifference.

  ‘I didn’t mean professionally. I thought it had something to do with you.’

  ‘Oh—’ she produced a careless little laugh with some success—‘that isn’t jealousy. Didn’t you know? He was angry because Jerry introduced me to Max Arrowsmith, who made me an offer to sing in one of his shows. Lewis wouldn’t hear of it, and nor would Sir Oscar. So I turned it down, of course.’

  ‘But still remained friendly with Leydon?’ Rogerson glanced at her curiously.

  ‘Why not?’ Amanda shrugged. ‘His interest was a genuinely friendly one, and he didn’t hold it against me that I refused Arrowsmith’s offer.’

  ‘Are you sure he didn’t?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ said Amanda, and immediately wondered if that were the exact truth. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Only that he must be more forgiving than I would have supposed if he was willing to have his discovery filched from him just as he’d got her to the point of interesting Arrowsmith.’

  ‘There was no filching about it,’ she retorted angrily. ‘And it would be exaggerating to say that he was exactly willing to lose me to someone else. He bowed more or less gracefully to the inevitable. He just had to, really. That’s show business, isn’t it?’ she added, feeling that this comment sounded rather chic and professional.

  ‘It is, my dear,’ Rogerson agreed good-humouredly as they drove up to The Nightingale. ‘And a pretty harsh and cut-throat business it is too, if I may say so. My guess is that Leydon—and certainly Arrowsmith—would be happy to hand round a poisoned loving-cup to Lewis and you—and Warrender too, I imagine. It’s a good thing we don’t all live in the time of the Borgias.’

  ‘Oh, hush!’ exclaimed Amanda warningly, for as they stopped before the door she saw that Jerome Leydon was standing there, smiling a welcome.

  She jumped out of the car almost before it had stopped and ran to greet him, aware of the most extraordinary pleasure in the unexpected appearance of someone who didn’t criticise her or brush her off when he was busy; who, on the contrary, cherished no ill-will even when she had rejected the help he wanted to offer.

  He laughed delightedly at her eagerness, almost lifted her off her feet and kissed her.

  ‘I thought you were going to phone,’ she said breathlessly, and turned to introduce Rogerson, only to find that he had already driven off towards the garage.

  ‘A visit seemed a better idea,’ Jerome explained ‘What time tomorrow have you available for an old friend?’

  ‘Oh, Jerry, I must spend some time with Nan. I’ve hardly seen anything of her. I had—’ she swallowed—‘a very long singing session this afternoon. And I’m going back to London tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Then I’ll drive you,’ he offered. And, in spite of a faint unexplained flutter of disquiet, she said that would be a wonderful idea.

  ‘Are you coming in now?’ she gestured towards the house.

  ‘No. I’ve had half an hour’s chat with Nan. And I really only came to say hello and pin you down to some sort of meeting tomorrow before rival claims were put in. How are things going for you, Mandy?’

  ‘Pretty well. It’s hard work, but rewarding, having Sir Oscar direct my studies.’

  ‘I can believe it. Which reminds me——’ he smiled, and she would have said there was a touch of malice in his smile if she had not known how good-natured he was. ‘Friend Warrender will have taken a bit of a knock over this Northern Counties Festival disaster.’

  ‘What disaster?’ she asked quickly. ‘I understood everything was going splendidly.’

  ‘I suppose it was,’ he said indifferently, ‘until Julian Tankerton had this bad car crash. Perhaps you hadn’t heard? It only happened today. He obviously won’t be able to complete that opera of his which was to have been the highlight of Warrender’s precious Festival. Pity,’ he added cheerfully.

  ‘Is he badly hurt?’

  ‘He’ll recover, but it will take a long time—too long for his work to be used this year. Ah well, Warrender can do with a bit of chastening. He does rather think he’s God Almighty, doesn’t he?’

  ‘No, he does not,’ Amanda retorted coldly, and she withdrew the hand which Jerome had tucked into the crook of his elbow. ‘Anyway, I’m sure he’ll be able to come up with a good alternative.’

  ‘Not altogether easy, Mandy. People are used to Warrender producing a thoroughly worthwhile novelty at any festival he promotes. Either a work or an artist—or both. I rather look forward to seeing the critics hint that he’s losing his touch.’

  ‘I think I’ll go in now,’ said Amanda curtly. ‘I’m tired. I’ll see you tomorrow. Would it suit you to fetch me about six-thirty?’

  ‘It would indeed.’ He smiled at her, but she did not smile back. She merely said, ‘Otherwise I can quite easily take the train.’

  ‘You will not take the train, my love. You will give me the pleasure of driving you,’ he told her, laughing. ‘And you needn’t look so cross with me just because I offered the mildest criticism of your Sir Oscar. There are lots of people who hate his guts. I only dislike him—and mildly wish him ill. Oh, Mandy, don’t be silly!’ as she almost pettishly turned away. ‘I’m only teasing you. Come on, kiss me and say it’s all right.’

  So Amanda kissed him and said it was all right. Not because she felt any more friendly disposed towards him, but because the most tremendous excitement was growing within her and she hardly saw how she could keep it from him much longer. Was it remotely possible that a substitute—the substitute—might be found to replace poor Julian Tankerton’s work? It was hard to tell when one knew so little about how long it took to complete a work on paper and then put it on to a stage.

  She bade Jerome goodnight and went indoors. She contrived to answer Nan’s queries about her afternoon’s work and to gossip idly of family affairs and prospects. She even managed to give a convincing yawn or two before going upstairs to bed. But after that her excited thoughts and hopes took over and she lay awake until the first streaks of dawnlight were in the sky.

  In consequence she was rather heavy-eyed when she came down to breakfast, but she succeeded in sounding almost casual as she informed Nan that she had to cycle over to Austin Parva that afternoon.

  ‘I realise there are still one or two points I need to discuss with Lewis before going back to London,’ she asserted.

  ‘But why drag over there by bike?’ Nan wanted to know. ‘You look tired enough already. I’m sure Patrick would run you over.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t want to tell—I don’t want to impose on him,’ she corrected herself quickly. ‘Anyway, I’d like a cycle ride,’ she insisted, and there was an almost fretful note in her voice which made Nan raise her eyebrows and say, ‘Please yourself.’

  It was all she could do to contain her impatience until the afternoon, when she knew Lewis would be free from his Sunday duties at the church. But when at last she was on her bicycle, speeding towards Austin Parva, the tension relaxed so sharply that her spirits suddenly dropped to zero, and she told herself that she was going on a fool’s errand. She had just been indulging in the sort of extravagant hopes and dreams which characterised the totally inexperienced person.

  At that point she almost turned back. But a tiny flame of illogical hope still kept her going, and when she turned into the familiar main street and came within sight of the small white-painted house where Lewis lived, the flame shot up to unbelievable heights. For standing in front of Lew
is’s house was an unmistakable car. The long black Daimler of Oscar Warrender.

  Chapter Nine

  When Lewis opened the door in answer to her agitated knock he just looked at Amanda and said, ‘How did you know?’

  She had to control an hysterical impulse to giggle and say, ‘I’m psychic,’ but, seeing how pale and strained he looked, she pulled herself together and replied briefly, ‘I heard about Julian Tankerton’s accident and knew Sir Oscar would need a replacement for his opera at the Northern Counties Festival. I’m here—in case you need me.’

  Without another word he took her hand and drew her into the house. Then he led her through to the music room, where she was not surprised to find Warrender sitting at the table absorbed in examining a pile of manuscript.

  ‘She’s here,’ said Lewis, still in that wondering voice.

  ‘Good girl,’ replied Warrender without even looking up. Then he went to the piano, played several pages, nodded with an approving air and said, ‘Come here, Amanda. Sing this for me.’

  She went to him at once and sang as he directed her. Once or twice he stopped her, made her go back and try a phrase or two in a different way, then at last he turned and addressed Lewis.

  ‘You’re still determined to have her do it?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘But I’m not.’ Amanda spoke with quiet emphasis. ‘If you think someone else would be better, Sir Oscar, I’d prefer you to have her. I love the role, and I’d do my very best in it. But unless I would be the right person I don’t want it.’

  Lewis started to speak, but Warrender raised his hand in a gesture of complete authority which compelled silence.

  ‘I think,’ he said, addressing Amanda exclusively, ‘that you probably are the best person. Were your development complete I would have no second thoughts about it. What we are having to gamble on is the fact that you are virtually a beginner, and how much Elsworth and I can put into you in the limited time available I just don’t know.’