Elusive Harmony (The Warrender Saga Book 10)

by Mary Burchell

  ‘What does that cryptic remark mean?’ Wendy wanted to know.

  ‘Nothing you would understand,’ Laurence assured her. ‘How’s the bearded swain?’

  ‘Doing splendidly, thank you. And there’s no need to be nasty about the beard. As I was telling Natalie, it’s a nice, well-groomed beard, not just a cover-up for immaturity or unwashedness or acne.’

  ‘I must remember that,’ said her cousin. ‘Was that what you were discussing when I came in?’

  ‘No. As a matter of fact,’ replied Wendy rather provocatively, ‘I was about to commit an indiscretion when you came in, but Mother stopped me.’

  ‘Too bad,’ he said lightly. ‘Am I not going to hear it, then?’

  ‘It was about your Paris engagement.’ Wendy’s eyes sparkled inquisitively. ‘And I said——’

  ‘Keep it to yourself,’ he interrupted sharply. ‘Be as indiscreet as you like about yourself or your Peter, but leave my affairs alone.’

  ‘Will you have some tea, Laurence?’ asked Mrs Pallerton tactfully. And she adroitly switched the conversation to the plans for Wendy’s wedding, which it seemed was to take place in the autumn.

  Her daughter accepted the conversational manoeuvre with a good grace, and turning to Natalie said, ‘As a matter of fact, I wanted to ask you, Nat—will you be my bridesmaid?’

  ‘Your bridesmaid?’ Natalie flushed with pleasure and surprise. ‘Why, I’d love to be—of course. But why me? I mean—you haven’t seen me for ages and there must be others who——’

  ‘No,’ interrupted Wendy firmly. ‘I haven’t any sisters, as you know, nor even cousins, except this big hulking tenor here. And among my friends—well, frankly, Natalie, you’re extremely decorative without being at all my own type, so we wouldn’t steal each other’s thunder. It was Laurence’s idea, actually.’

  ‘Laurence’s idea? But you said you hadn’t seen him lately.’

  ‘I haven’t. Mother was telling him about the wedding arrangements and he said, “Why doesn’t Wendy have that charming Harding girl as her bridesmaid?” Didn’t you, Larry?’

  ‘Your version of the story will do very well,’ replied her cousin, buttering a scone with some deliberation.

  ‘It’s—it’s terribly kind of you all to draw me into the family circle like this.’ Natalie’s eyes were shining.

  ‘Not really. We just happen to like you,’ Laurence said unexpectedly. And Natalie looked at him, still with those shining eyes and thought, ‘Oh, please, please don’t let him do the Paris Otello! Everything could be so wonderful, if only——’

  ‘Then it’s settled,’ observed Wendy at that moment. ‘I’m so glad! We shall be seeing quite a lot of each other over this I’ve been down at the country cottage a good deal lately, but now I shall be moving back to town with Mother to make all the wedding preparations, so we can discuss dresses and so on at length. You’ll be in London most of the summer, won’t you?’

  She thought of Paris in June and said, a little uncertainly, ‘I—so far as I know, yes. If Father goes abroad I go with him, of course, but there are no long engagements in prospect at the moment.’

  ‘Do you have to go with him wherever he goes?’ Wendy asked curiously.

  ‘I like to go,’ countered Natalie, quickly and a little defensively. And she thought she saw Mrs Pallerton and Laurence exchange a glance.

  ‘Well, I must be off now,’ Wendy got up, ‘I’m meeting Peter. But I’m glad we’ve linked up again, Nat—we’re going to have fun together over this wedding.’

  She spoke as though it were someone else’s wedding, but by now Natalie had adjusted again to the fact that Wendy was one of those people who almost invariably speak casually of the things which mean most to them.

  When she had gone the other three talked of unimportant things for a few minutes, and then Mrs Pallerton was summoned away to the telephone and—a little breathless at the thought—Natalie found herself alone with Laurence Morven for the first time since the original German encounter.

  She wondered if she might venture right away a frank inquiry about Paris. But before she could do so, he said, ‘Come out to dinner with me this evening, Natalie. Are you free?’

  ‘I—should have to phone and explain first,’ she began, and when he made an impatient movement, she went on hurriedly, ‘Anyone would! I went out to tea, having said that was what I was going to do and any parent would be a bit anxious if I then stayed out for the rest of the evening. Stop being unreasonable, just because you don’t happen to like Father!’

  She had not meant to sound so sharp, but he laughed good-humouredly and replied, ‘All right, I give you that. Anyway, I don’t dislike your father. I think he’s a charmer and a very great artist. I just can’t adjust to your sort of loving slavery.’

  ‘It isn’t that really,’ she said in a troubled tone. ‘I wish I could explain. I must seem such a rabbit to anyone as independent as you are, but——’

  ‘It never occurred to me to think of you as a rabbit,’ he broke in and, naturally, she immediately wondered how he did think of her. ‘And though I sound impatient, I’m not really. I suppose I’m just like any other fellow—irritated, though intrigued, that I don’t ever seem to have a chance to get to know a girl I like.’

  She glanced down at that, but her smile was faintly mischievous as she said, ‘You’d be surprised how irritating, though intriguing, it can be never to have a chance to get to know a man you like.’

  ‘Then come out with me this evening.’ He leaned forward in his chair and put his hand lightly on hers. ‘As soon as my chatty aunt comes off the phone, just telephone home and make any excuse that seems good to you. But please come out with me. I have my car here and we’ll drive out somewhere up the river and dine quietly and get to know each other.’

  Suddenly the prospect was so breathtakingly wonderful that she was almost frightened to realise how much it meant to her. Without knowing it, she passed the tip of her tongue over suddenly dry lips, like a child who glimpses a treat beyond all expectations.

  ‘I’d love it,’ she said huskily.

  Then Mrs Pallerton came back into the room, and Natalie realised that she had missed her opportunity to ask outright about Paris. But that hardly mattered now, because she was to have the whole evening with him.

  ‘Please may I use your phone, Mrs Pallerton?’ She had no idea that there was an entirely new note of confidence and resolution in her voice. ‘Laurence has kindly asked me out to dinner, and I just want them to know at home that I shan’t be back until later.’

  ‘Of course, darling!’ Mrs Pallerton’s tone was more heartily approving than perhaps was strictly necessary. But Natalie didn’t notice that. Nor did she know that, as the door closed behind her, Mrs Pallerton said cryptically, ‘She said “them” and not “him”. Did you notice? It’s a sort of step forward.’

  In actual fact, Natalie’s choice of pronoun was dictated solely by the fact that she instinctively chose to visualise one of the servants, rather than her father, at the end of the wire. It would be so much easier if she did not have to explain—or dissemble—to him.

  Her luck was in. It was Charles who answered.

  ‘Charles!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you working late?’

  ‘No, I’m just going. Do you want to speak to the boss?’

  ‘Not really—no. Charles, could you just tell him that I’m going to be out to dinner, after all?’

  ‘Just that?’ inquired Charles exactly.

  ‘You might add that I shan’t be late home.’

  ‘No, I don’t think I’ll add that. After all, you might want to be late home,’ said the understanding Charles. ‘Enjoy yourself.’ And he rang off.

  ‘It’s all right!’ She came back into the sitting-room, glowing with happiness in a transparent way that the other two found oddly touching, if she had but known. Then they talked for a few minutes longer before Laurence and she departed, with what could be described as the full approval of Mrs Pallerton.
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br />   ‘It’s an open car. Do you mind?’ he inquired, as they came out on to the Embankment, where a clear April sunset struck golden reflections from a dozen windows. ‘I can put up the hood if you like.’

  ‘No,’ said Natalie, taking a scarf from her coat pocket, ‘I like it open. I don’t often get the chance to feel the wind on my face.’

  ‘Why not?’ He looked staggered. ‘You speak like a prisoner!’

  ‘Oh, no!’ She was shocked beyond measure. ‘But a singer, you know, has to be careful of such things. And so——’

  ‘I’m a singer too,’ he reminded her grimly. ‘I hope I never get to the stage of coddling myself to that extent.’

  ‘It’s a perfectly ordinary precaution,’ she retorted coldly, as she took her seat in the car. ‘You might do well to observe it. If you want your voice to last, that is.’

  He got in beside her and then said, rather disagreeably, ‘Well, do we have the hood up or down?’

  ‘Please yourself.’ She looked straight ahead, and wondered miserably what had happened to their lovely, easy relationship.

  When he moved his arm, she thought he was going to pull the hood over. But instead he suddenly put his arms round her and his lips were on her cheek, and after a moment he said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Just that. But it seemed to her that they were the dearest and most significant words anyone had ever spoken to her.

  ‘No—I’m sorry,’ she whispered, and she turned her head so that their lips met.

  ‘I don’t know why I was so cross and unreasonable,’ she said, when he released her. ‘I’m so happy, really, to come out with you. I just get—prickly, I suppose, whenever there’s even implied criticism of Father. It’s a habit I’ve got into—I’ll try to get out of it. It isn’t his fault. It’s just—just——’

  ‘You don’t need to explain.’ He smiled as he started the car. ‘People who—like each other shouldn’t have to explain every impulse and reaction. We were both so pleased to be going out like this that we got tense at the very idea of anything spoiling it. That was all.’

  It was not exactly a logical explanation, but Natalie thought it the cleverest and most tolerant explanation anyone had ever offered her. And as they drove on, along the river bank and then by side-roads and unfamiliar turnings until they began to emerge into something more like open country, she felt her whole being relax and expand. And she thought, ‘I’ll not say one other word that could lead to friction or dispute this evening.’

  It was some while before she recollected that, of course, this ruled out the whole subject of the Paris Otello.

  Oh, but what did it matter? The evening—perhaps just this one precious evening out of all the evenings there could ever be—was hers. Hers and his. She wasn’t going to spoil it. She wasn’t even going to think about the complications of being the daughter of one famous tenor and being terribly attracted by another. If she paid too much attention to that thought it gave an element of something like absurdity to the whole situation. Whereas——

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ he said at last. ‘Is everything all right?’

  She wanted to say that never in her life before had everything been more all right. But of course that would be a silly exaggeration. So she just turned her head and smiled at him.

  ‘I’m enjoying it so much that I hardly even thought of talking. Do you want us to talk?’

  ‘Not if you’re happy as you are. We’ll talk over dinner later. Lean back and relax again. I have the feeling this is what you need.’

  ‘Not really,’ she protested. ‘I don’t live exactly a tiring life, you know. Compared to a great many people I’m almost pampered.’

  ‘Depends what you mean by a tiring life,’ he replied. ‘No artist is easy to live with, I know that. There are times when I wonder why my family, or my dresser, or my colleagues don’t hit me. It’s always said in excuse that we live on our nerves—which is true, I suppose. But I have a suspicion that we live on other people’s nerves too.’

  ‘You’re entitled to,’ declared Natalie, happy to find herself discussing artists in general, with no implication that her father was perhaps more difficult than most. ‘If you deliver the goods, most of the rest of us are willing to let you have a few indulgences. Did you mean to be a singer from the very beginning, Laurence?’

  ‘From the time I started to grow up, yes. I had a good voice by nature, for which, of course, I can take no special credit. But it did mean that I started with the comfortable idea that it was not going to be such a fearful grind. By the time I realised how much goes into the making of a real artist, I was hooked. And then, as I’m something of a perfectionist in an obstinate sort of way, I couldn’t bear to settle for less than reaching for perfection.’

  ‘Which makes it a hard life?’ she smiled.

  ‘But an infinitely satisfying one. I’ve had a good deal of luck as well. There’s usually an element of luck mixed in with the hard work, as you probably know. I started with a splendid teacher, for one thing. Then I did have a second string to my bow financially speaking, so I could pay for the length of training I needed without being answerable to some bonehead who was dispensing grants. Finally, although my family thought me slightly crazy, they were willing to let me have my head, especially as I wasn’t scrounging on them. It’s all immensely important, Natalie.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’ She smiled and thought that, so far at any rate, her father would agree with most that he had said.

  ‘In addition,’ he added consideringly, ‘and with many thanks to the Almighty, I’m almost disgustingly healthy. And perhaps most important of all, I didn’t fall in love at the wrong time.’

  ‘What does that mean, exactly?’ she asked, amused.

  ‘That although of course there were the usual flirtations and palpitations natural to youth, I never met anyone more important to me than my career. In those vital early years your art has to be your love, if you’re aiming for the top. It’s easy—and very human, of course—to take your eye off the ball and get deeply involved with things and people who then have a right to first place in your life. But it’s bad for art, I’m afraid.’ And he laughed.

  ‘You don’t think that a rather cold-blooded approach to life?’ she said doubtfully.

  ‘No. You ask your father. How old was he when he married your mother?’

  She was almost startled into giving an accurate answer, but caught back the revealing words just in time. Instead, she said thoughtfully, ‘I suppose you’re right. He was a completely established artist by the time he met and married her. And I think he would agree with pretty well everything you’ve said. There is the same touch of—ruthlessness about him when it comes to his art.’

  ‘No, it’s not ruthlessness,’ Laurence insisted. ‘It’s a matter of knowing what you want and being willing to pay the necessary price for it. Anyway, here we are at the restaurant I had in mind. How do you like the look of it?’

  She said with truth that she thought it enchanting. And as they went in together to the charming, candlelit place which stood almost at the water’s edge, more than one person turned to glance at the happy, handsome pair they made.

  Over their meal he made her talk a little more about herself; not the controversial subject of her present life with her father, but more of the days when her mother had been alive, and life had been an alternation of schooldays and the occasional flashes of excitement and glamour when she spent holidays with her parents.

  ‘Whom did you love best in the world then?’ he suddenly asked unexpectedly.

  ‘My father,’ she said, without hesitation.

  ‘Not your mother?’

  ‘Oh, Mother too—of course. But Father was the dominant figure. He was the pivot of her existence and so, quite naturally, of mine too. And I loved it. Don’t think anything else. I enjoyed every new triumph, if I happened to be at home when he took on a new rôle. I’d find it hard to tell you in which rôle he was finest.’

  And then suddenly she saw the perfect opp
ortunity for her inquiry and, almost carelessly, she asked, ‘What rôle would you most like to play, Laurence? I mean—of the rôles you haven’t yet played.’

  ‘Oh, my dear’—he laughed protestingly—‘how can one say? Something demanding dramatic art as well as purely vocal art. And, by both temperament and quality of voice, I lean more to the French and Italian schools than the German.’

  ‘You’re narrowing it down, anyway.’ She smiled at him across the table. ‘Take it a little further.’

  ‘Well, like old Martinelli, I think I would say, “Verdi is my king—my emperor.” And that being so, I suppose I would regard Otello as the crown of my career.’

  ‘Would you?’ Natalie spoke a little faintly. ‘It—I think it’s my father’s favourite rôle too.’

  ‘Very likely,’ he replied, and then he changed the subject—rather abruptly, it seemed to her.

  With a great effort, she followed all he was saying and carried on her part of the conversation very ably. But the magic had gone out of the evening, and she felt as Pandora must have felt when she opened the forbidden box. Unwelcome truth—the certain disturber of her peace—had been liberated.

  By the time they started home it was dark, and as they drove along a small crescent moon seemed to drift in and out among scurrying clouds. It was a romantic enough setting, but Natalie felt a band of anxiety tightening round her heart, and the clouds were more significant than the moonlight at that moment.

  As they neared home, she drew a quick, irrepressible sigh, and he flashed a smile at her and asked, ‘Wasn’t it a good evening after all, Natalie?’

  ‘It was a lovely evening!’ She roused herself. ‘But’—there was a long pause, which he did not seek to break, and she finally went on—‘may I ask something which isn’t really my business? Something connected with what Wendy was going to say when you came in this afternoon.’

  ‘If you must.’ His voice sounded slightly wary all at once, and she knew that for him too the magic had gone out of the evening.

  ‘Are you going to sing—a new rôle in Paris in June?’ Even now, she could not bring herself to name the fatal rôle.