Elusive Harmony (The Warrender Saga Book 10)
Page 5
In this, of course, she was going too far, for in no circumstances at all could she have left her father to sit alone while she joined Laurence Morven. But Natalie was in no mood to think logically, or even connectedly. All she could do was look down at her hands, which were too tightly clasped on her programme, and try to pretend that she was absorbed in the music.
During the applause which followed the first item she pulled herself together sufficiently to answer her father’s approving comments, and then allowed herself to glance once more in the direction of Laurence and his companion. Her beautifully-poised dark head was near his fair one, and they appeared to Natalie to be talking with a smiling intimacy which excluded everyone around them. Most particularly herself.
Then the concert continued and Natalie—again with shamefully little attention for a brilliant performance—was free to pursue her own thoughts and to ask herself what was going to happen in the interval and at the end of the concert. She longed for a sign of recognition from Laurence, if only a glance and a smile which might tell her that they were still friends. But on the other hand, tact demanded that she should keep as much distance as possible between her father and his younger rival, and so——
The problem was solved for her in the interval by her father saying, ‘I think Anthea is signalling to us to come to her box. Let’s go before the crowds start streaming out.’ And, as the nearest way to Anthea Warrender’s box led away from the two seats which had occupied so much of Natalie’s attention, any question of an awkward meeting was avoided.
‘Come and stay with me for the second part of the concert!’ Anthea greeted them both eagerly. ‘Lindley’—he had been a senior colleague of hers for some years—‘did Oscar manage to contact you yesterday or today? I’ve come almost straight from London Airport myself, so I’ve had no time to talk to him.’
‘No, we haven’t been in touch, though I expect to see him after the concert, of course.’
‘Yes—but there won’t be much chance for a real talk then.’ Anthea bit her lip anxiously and then, with a burst of that almost childlike eagerness which endeared her to so many of her fellow artists, she exclaimed, ‘Anyway, it concerns me as much as him. Lindley—dear Lindley—there’s to be a gala performance of Otello in Paris in two months’ time. Oscar is to conduct and I’m to sing Desdemona, and we must—we simply must—have the greatest Otello in the world. You will do it, won’t you?’
‘My dear——’ Natalie knew from the slight flush which came into her father’s cheeks that he was pleased beyond expression. Not since the blow over the casting of the Beverley Caine opera had such balm been offered to his heart and pride. And it was genuine. That was the nicest thing about Anthea Warrender—what she said she meant. To her he was certainly the greatest Otello in the world, and she wanted him as a child wants the fairy at the top of the Christmas tree. Natalie could have embraced her.
‘My dear,’ said Lindley Harding again, ‘nothing would give me greater pleasure. There’s the question of dates of course——’
‘Friday, the tenth of June,’ Anthea replied instantly, as her husband returned to the conductor’s desk. ‘And please don’t tell Oscar I jumped the gun in this unprofessional way, he’d be furious—even with me.’
‘I shall know nothing about it at all,’ Lindley Harding promised indulgently, ‘except that I am free on that date.’
‘Oh, good! Natalie, I do love your father,’ exclaimed Anthea.
‘I’m rather partial to him myself,’ replied Natalie gaily. Then she glanced down into the hall again, and as she did so, Laurence Morven looked straight up at the box, saw her and raised his hand in smiling greeting.
‘Who is the good-looking man with Minna Kolney?’ Anthea asked. ‘He’s waving to you, Natalie.’
Natalie was almost tempted to say she didn’t know, but had a horrid feeling that she would pretty well hear the cock crow if she did anything so mean. As it was, Oscar Warrender saved her, for he raised his baton at that moment, and her father gave her an admonishing little ‘Ssh——!’
For the rest of the concert, in spite of problems still unsolved, Natalie felt happy. Her father had once more been preferred before all others for what promised to be a very great occasion—and Laurence Morven had smiled at her. And, what was more, from a safe distance. She need not fear that he would boldly speak to her—as might well have been the case if she and her father had still been sitting downstairs. They would remain in Anthea’s box for the rest of the performance, and go with her backstage straight from there. There was even the reassuring fact that Laurence was unknown to the Warrenders—or at least, to Anthea, making it unlikely that they would meet him backstage. The evening, Natalie decided, was a superb one, and she was able to give her full attention to the remainder of the programme.
At the end there were scenes of great enthusiasm, as was usual at a Warrender performance, and Natalie was amused and touched to notice that Anthea applauded her husband as heartily as everyone else.
Then they slowly made their way backstage to the large room which, in contrast to the Opera House, gave ample space for the conductor or principal soloist to receive friends and admirers. There were already many people there, several of whom Natalie and her father knew, and for a few minutes they were separated. Then the crowd parted slightly and, to her dismay, Natalie saw Minna Kolney enter the room, closely followed by Laurence Morven.
Instinctively she glanced round for her father, intending to shepherd him away from the danger area if possible. But he was talking to the conductor at that moment and it was more than Natalie could have contemplated to interrupt them—even if she could have done so to any good effect, which was doubtful.
As she stood there, undecided, Laurence moved swiftly over to her and asked quietly, ‘What was the answer to my question this afternoon, when we were interrupted?’
‘Wh-which question?’
‘You may not remember, but I did ask you if you wanted to see me again, or if——’
‘Of course I do!’ She also spoke quietly, but there was a breathlessly urgency in her voice which she could not control. ‘Only——’
‘Never mind about the “only”. We did agree that “yes” and “no” would do.’
They had not agreed anything of the kind, of course, it had been his suggestion and she had been in no position to query it. But, as she cast an anxious glance in her father’s direction, she saw Warrender make a slight gesture of greeting to Laurence, which was very nearly a summons.
‘I think your father and I are about to meet at last,’ he said softly and rather mischievously. ‘Wish me luck!’ And he went forward with that easy sense of confidence which was absolutely characteristic of him.
At the same moment Minna Kolney came up to Natalie and engaged her in conversation, so that Natalie had no means of accompanying Laurence and perhaps helping to smooth over an awkward occasion.
Hiding her impatience, she turned to the other girl and, because she had to say something, she observed at random, ‘I didn’t realise that Mr Morven knew Sir Oscar so well.’
‘He doesn’t at the moment—know him well, I mean. But he’s going to know him much better in the future.’ She smiled with a faintly possessive air which Natalie found disagreeable. ‘Laurence is going to sing Otello under Sir Oscar in Paris in a couple of months’ time.’
Chapter Three
Natalie gave a slight gasp, as though someone had struck her a physical blow. Then she heard her own voice, thin and cold, say, ‘I don’t think you’re quite right about that.’
‘No?’ The other girl laughed in a not very friendly way. ‘What makes you so sure? Are you in Laurence’s confidence?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Natalie steadily, though the word made her realise how nearly she had betrayed Anthea’s confidence. ‘But I can’t imagine that Sir Oscar would give the rôle of Otello to a young man.’
(At least—surely, surely he wouldn’t do so! she thought distractedly.)
Natalie did not even bother to answer that spiteful little dig. Instead she looked across to where her father and Laurence were both talking with Warrender, and tried to read from their expressions if anything vital had been said. But there was nothing to help her. Laurence was laughing at something Warrender was saying, and her father looked relaxed and urbane—which could mean, equally, that he was hiding either dismay or triumph.
No one, she thought with melancholy pride, could act better than her father, either on or offstage, when it was required of him.
‘I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn.’ Minna Kolney’s voice spoke smoothly beside her again. ‘I didn’t realise you carried professional rivalry quite so far. I somehow thought you wished Laurence well, even if——’
‘Of course I wish him well!’ Natalie exclaimed, though at that moment she was in great confusion about how she felt towards him. ‘There was nothing personal about what I said. I was merely thinking of the way the part of Otello is usually cast.’
And on that she turned away so determinedly that the other girl had no opportunity to say more. At the same time someone else claimed Warrender’s attention, and the two tenors exchanged courteous smiles and went their separate ways.
‘Are you ready, my dear?’ Her father was beside her now. ‘I think we might go.’
‘Yes, of course.’ She bit her lip to think that even now she had made no arrangement for a future meeting with Laurence. But in the circumstances that might be as well. First she must clear up the question of the Paris Otello. If, by some utterly ghastly quirk of fate, Warrender were indeed going to offer the part to Laurence—and Anthea had spoken too soon and too confidently—then the affront to her father would go even deeper than the disappointment over the Beverley Caine opera.
On the way home Natalie was almost totally silent. It was her father who presently said—rather as a headmaster might speak of a promising prefect—‘Young Morven seems a pleasant sort of fellow.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Natalie with some effort, ‘I think he is.’ Then there was silence again until they had arrived at the house and gone into the pleasant firelit study together.
‘Well, Natalie’—her father went over to pour himself a drink—‘what’s the matter? I see you’re worried about something. And when you were talking to that tiresome young woman you looked both shocked and dismayed.’
Wishing, not for the first time, that her father were not sometimes so uncannily observant, Natalie simply countered abruptly with the question, ‘Did Sir Oscar say anything about the Paris Otello?’
‘No.’ Her father swirled his drink round reflectively in the glass. ‘It wasn’t an occasion for discussing such things. Why?’
‘Minna Kolney seems to be under the impression that Laurence Morven is going to sing the Paris Otello.’
She had not meant to blurt it out like that, but her father took it splendidly.
‘I thought she was rather stupid when I first met her,’ he said equably. ‘Even she should know one does not give Otello to a juvenile.’
She wanted to say that Laurence Morven was scarcely a juvenile, but her father went on almost without pause, ‘Cassio, perhaps. That girl is quite capable of mixing the two rôles.’
‘She said Otello,’ reiterated Natalie with desperate obstinacy.
‘Then she was wrong. I don’t know why you even bother to bring the matter under discussion. You heard Anthea ask if I would be free on the date required.’
‘I—I know. But she did also say she was jumping the gun and that Sir Oscar would be angry with her if he knew. I was afraid’—she stopped and cleared her throat—‘You don’t think perhaps she assumed too much and that in fact, on second thoughts, Warrender might have the idea of offering Otello to Laurence Morven?’
‘No, I don’t.’ Her father sounded amused rather than annoyed. ‘People have said hard things of Warrender in his time, but so far as I know no one has ever suggested that he is an errant fool. And only an errant fool views the part of Otello as suitable for anyone but the most mature of artists.’
It was true, of course. It was heart-warmingly true. But that girl had been so positive. Natalie saw, however, that the argument was leading nowhere and in addition, she longed to be reassured. So she accepted her father’s reassurance—for the moment.
But she went to bed sadly worried still, and she lay there and thought, ‘Just supposing Laurence did get the part? How could I ever have anything to do with him again? As it is, everything is difficult enough—and I still don’t know when I shall see him. I suppose he’ll telephone once more, at some entirely unfortunate time.’
It was not Laurence who telephoned the next morning, however, it was Mrs Pallerton. And Natalie herself answered the call.
‘My dear, I know this is very short notice,’ Mrs Pallerton’s pleasant voice said, ‘but do you happen to be free this afternoon? Wendy is coming into town quite unexpectedly, and I know she would love to see you. Could you come along to tea?—about three-thirty or four.’
‘Oh, I could! and I’d love to,’ exclaimed Natalie. She would indeed, she thought, enjoy seeing Wendy after these several years. But even more did she welcome the chance of being somewhere on the rim of Laurence Morven’s orbit again. With a perfect excuse too! For nothing could be more harmless than tea with a friend of one’s schooldays. Even her father would see no objection to that.
He saw no objection when she told him where she was going. But he did add, ‘Is that Laurence Morven’s young cousin?’
‘Well, yes—I suppose she is.’ Natalie had not really worked out that particular relationship. ‘At least, her mother is his aunt.’
‘That makes them cousins,’ said her father, and the dryness of his tone suggested that her reply had been either dim or devious.
‘As far as I’m concerned, she’s just a good friend from my schooldays,’ retorted Natalie, more curtly than she usually spoke. And she went to change into her most becoming dress, though not specially with the good friend from her schooldays in mind.
Mrs Pallerton lived in one of those attractive Chelsea houses which overlook the river and have not yet been engulfed by the vulgarity of the Kings Road. She welcomed Natalie with genuine pleasure, and five minutes later Wendy breezed in, with so much of the carefree gaiety which had enlivened their schooldays that Natalie felt her own responsibilities and anxieties slide from her.
Over tea there was a great deal of laughter and ‘do you remember?’ And then Natalie indicated the attractive ring on Wendy’s left hand and said, ‘Does that mean you’re engaged?’
‘Oh, yes! I was just going to tell you about him. His name is Peter, and although he has a beard it’s a nice well-groomed one. He’s an artist. But he actually sells his stuff, which is encouraging. How about you?’
Natalie smiled and shook her head.
‘She hasn’t time for that sort of thing,’ put in Mrs Pallerton with a sympathetic laugh, though there was a touch of seriousness in her expression. ‘She is the prop and stay of her famous father.’
‘Well, that must be rather fun too, isn’t it?’ retorted Wendy. ‘You must meet all sorts of famous and glamorous people. Do you know Oscar Warrender?’
‘Yes. Though not very well.’
‘“Not very well” will do,’ replied Wendy. ‘I think he’s still the dishiest thing in the musical world. You’ve met Laurence, I hear. What do you think of him?’
Natalie was not fully prepared for this frontal attack, but she said with great earnestness that she thought him immensely gifted and had enjoyed his performance very much.
‘Oh—his performance, yes.’ Wendy was evidently not a passionate devotee of opera. ‘I meant—as a person. You and mother went on to supper with him, didn’t you?’
‘Yes. He was very kind and—an
d I enjoyed it.’ She had a mad impulse to say, ‘And he kissed me goodnight, which was the best bit of all,’ but restrained herself.
‘He’s coming this afternoon, isn’t he, Mother?’ Wendy turned to her mother. ‘I haven’t seen him for quite an age. Not since he hit the international headlines. How is he taking it?’
‘Very well,’ said Mrs Pallerton judicially. ‘He isn’t basically the conceited type, I think.’
‘Well, one could excuse him a little conceit after what’s happened to him,’ Wendy observed. ‘London and the promise of that new opera—whatever it is. The Scala and a new production of Trovatore specially for him. And what’s this mysterious Paris engagement that no one is supposed to talk about?’
‘If no one is supposed to talk about it, you’d better not talk,’ replied her mother good-humouredly.
‘Well, at least I’ve heard that Warrender is conducting for him. The first time, isn’t it?’
But before her mother could answer that—even supposing she had chosen to do so—the front door bell sounded and Mrs Pallerton exclaimed, ‘There he is, I think.’
A moment later Laurence Morven came into the room, and it seemed to Natalie that immediately the whole scene took on fresh zest and liveliness. Although her father could be both witty and entertaining, on the whole she lived a rather quiet, measured existence with him. She thought that never before had she encountered people who met and laughed and talked and kissed with quite such natural gaiety and warmth. They all had a sort of spontaneous animation about them which seemed to her to project happiness of a kind she had hardly ever experienced before.
‘Dear me, what a good-looking creature you’re becoming,’ observed Wendy. ‘Success must suit you.’
‘Doesn’t it suit us all?’ He smiled and turned to greet Natalie. ‘Fate—or my aunt—has been kind to us today,’ he said.