When Love Is Blind (Warrender Saga Book 3)

by Mary Burchell

  ‘No, of course not!’ He contemptuously dismissed the idea of being forced into any course of action he had not chosen himself. ‘She’s only one of the minor considerations.’ Antoinette was human enough to wish Charmian St. Leger could have heard that. ‘It’s a decision I’ve been coming to for a variety of reasons, most of them concerned with the sheer convenience of being in the centre of the musical world again if I am to contemplate a real comeback. One can’t expect people like Everleigh — or, indeed, Warrender — to come down here every time we want to discuss anything. In any case, it will be easier for you to work in London, won’t it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ But there was affectionate regret in her tone and before she could stop herself she added, ‘Though I love Pallin.’

  ‘But not the master of Pallin?’

  The question was so unexpected that she caught her breath. But the terror of Charmian St. Leger’s warning was raw and recent, and her voice was almost cold as she said,

  ‘I’m afraid not. And please, please don’t ask me that question again.’

  ‘I won’t,’ he promised grimly, ‘ever.’

  The move to London was effected much more speedily and easily than Antoinette had expected. Lewis Freemont’s handsome studio flat, overlooking St. James’s Park, was in the same block as those of Oscar Warrender and one or two other distinguished musicians, and it was obvious that here he would have no lack of congenial company. Now that he had emerged from the phase in which he thought he wanted to cut himself off from his old life, nothing could have been better for him, Antoinette saw, than this move to town.

  His admirable housekeeper and a couple of the staff from Pallin Manor came too, including Brenda, who confided to Antoinette with regret that ‘she expected poor Mrs. St. Leger would be very sad at the change.’

  ‘I daresay she will,’ agreed Antoinette, unable to infuse any excessive regret into her tone. ‘But I suppose she comes to town fairly often.’

  ‘Oh, yes! Yes, indeed,’ Brenda asserted happily. ‘And she’ll come even more often now, I expect,’ she added naively.

  Antoinette expected so too, with a chill sense of resignation. But there was a wonderful sense of freedom, an indefinable lifting of her spirits, now that at least she was not in almost daily contact with her enemy.

  She was not so simple as to suppose that a matter of a few miles would put Charmian St. Leger off her course, or that she was any less menacing because she was no longer more or less on the doorstep. But it is humanly impossible to be as frightened by a distant danger as by an ever-present one, and during those first few weeks in London Antoinette was almost happy.

  The flood of letters about her employer’s accident and withdrawal from the musical world had now dropped to a trickle, and there was nothing like enough secretarial work to keep her occupied. Consequently, she found herself more and more concerned with the professional side of his life. Not only was she invaluable to him for a great deal of his daily practising. She quite naturally became involved in the discussions with Gordon Everleigh about future plans. She also for the first time met Oscar Warrender.

  The famous conductor was then at the height of his career. Autocratic, dynamic, loathed by some, adored by others and almost equally indifferent to both, he was probably the strongest single force in the musical field. He had even successfully challenged the engineering gods of the recording world.

  ‘I am a music-maker, not a computer,’ he was reported to have said, ‘and I will not have knobs turned, tapes spliced, or orchestras juggled with in the cause of mechanical perfection and artistic death. Take it or leave it.’

  They took it, of course. No one could afford to leave Oscar Warrender. And the first time Antoinette saw him at close quarters she knew why.

  There is a quality about some people — a very few — which is unique and inexplicable. They are the natural centre of the stage, the born leaders, the people for whom the world stands aside because they know where they are going. Such was Oscar Warrender, and Antoinette recognized the quality immediately when he came into her employer’s flat one dull winter’s afternoon.

  There was nothing formal about his arrival. He merely came down from his own flat on the next floor, in a smoking jacket and very much off duty. He hardly noticed Antoinette’s presence, it was true, but then one doesn’t expect Olympus to take note of one on a first occasion. And he immediately started to outline exactly what he wanted.

  It seemed that an important foreign soloist engaged for a concert in three months’ time would not, after all, be available.

  ‘He wouldn’t have been my own first choice in any case,’ Warrender remarked, ‘so it doesn’t matter. There are three other possibilities, and we have time to consider any or all of them. But my own inclination is to make this the opportunity for you to come before the full London public again.’

  ‘My dear fellow, I couldn’t possibly make my comeback in an orchestral concert!’ Lewis Freemont exclaimed quickly. ‘I must try first in the much easier medium of a recital, so that I can assess the strain of actually getting on to a platform, dealing with a real but unseen audience, finding — ’

  ‘Yes, yes, I realize all that.’ Objections were summarily dismissed. ‘I spoke to Everleigh this morning. He can arrange a recital — two if you like — at the Corinthian in January. Less overwhelming, more intimate than the Festival Hall. I said I felt sure you would jump at the chance.’

  ‘What made you sure of that?’ enquired Lewis Freemont disagreeably.

  ‘My own good judgment of your good sense,’ was the unmoved reply. ‘It’s the best possible way of doing things, and you know it. Trembling on the brink will only make the initial effort harder.’

  ‘I’m not trembling on the brink — or anywhere else, come to that,’ said Antoinette’s employer drily. ‘On the whole, I accept your assessment of the position, but — ’

  ‘Excellent.’ The conductor was evidently used to having his assessments accepted. ‘And how about the orchestral concert in late February? I leave the choice of concerto to you. I’ll build the rest of the programme round it if necessary.’

  ‘You don’t even know how well — or ill — I can handle that much more complicated medium. To play with an orchestra, without even being able to see the conductor — ’

  ‘I shall be the conductor, don’t forget.’ There was nothing specially arrogant about that, only a statement of fact. ‘There is a sort of musical radar between us, I think. But we should have to try it out, of course. I’ll get Farrell down here some time during the next few days. He can play the orchestral part on a second piano and — ’

  ‘You don’t have to do that,’ said Lewis Freemont slowly. ‘Toni — Miss Burney — will do that. Now.’

  ‘Miss Burney?’ Oscar Warrender looked round, took in the fact that Miss Burney was not just part of the furniture and said, ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Antoinette demurely.

  ‘Can you play the piano transcription of the orchestral score?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, Mr. Warrender. I’ve been doing so for quite a while when Mr. Freemont wants to practise.’

  ‘You don’t say?’ The conductor looked suddenly amused. ‘Then we’ll try it now. What are you playing, by the way?’

  ‘The Beethoven Third,’ said Lewis Freemont, and held out his hand to Antoinette, who immediately came forward and led him to one of the pianos at the end of the long studio. Then, trembling a little, with mingled excitement and nervousness, she went to the other piano herself.

  Oscar Warrender leaned over and picked up a ruler that was lying on the writing desk nearby and took up his stand where she could see him and he could watch Lewis Freemont’s every movement and expression.

  ‘All right,’ he said, and they started.

  It was both exhilarating and terrifying. Antoinette, of course, had never before played under the guidance of someone who could convey by a single movement of an eloquent left hand the exact quality
of tone and expression he required, and she felt a little like someone who started out on a walk and then found herself flying.

  On his side, Warrender naturally concentrated on Lewis Freemont, once he had found that Antoinette was reliable and intelligent. Inevitably, the usual roles of conductor and soloist were to a certain extent reversed. Since the pianist could not visually follow the lead of his conductor, the conductor had for once to do a certain amount of following himself. Which must, Antoinette thought passingly, be a novelty for Oscar Warrender!

  But there was indeed some sort of subtle line of communication between the two men, a oneness of purpose, not dependent on sight and visual direction. And except for one moment of slight confusion, almost instantaneously righted, they went through the whole of the first movement triumphantly.

  ‘Are you going to tell me now that you’re in doubt about tackling an orchestral concert?’ enquired Oscar Warrender on a note of exultant satisfaction.

  ‘No, I think you’re right. It could be done.’ There was a streak of excited colour in Lewis Freemont’s cheeks, and the very slightest tremor in his voice. Possibly that was not lost on the conductor. At any rate, as though giving the other man time to recover, he turned to Antoinette and said good-humouredly,

  ‘You’re extremely good. Why haven’t I heard of you before? That particular gift of representing orchestral tone on a piano is very rare.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t really belong to the musical world!’ Antoinette assured him hastily. But the once-ambitious pianist within her rose joyously to the surface for the first time in a year. ‘I’m really Mr. Freemont’s secretary. I happen to play the piano as well.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ said the conductor. ‘Where were you trained?’

  It was indescribably pleasant to be asked — and asked by such an authority as Oscar Warrender — about one’s musical background, and Antoinette smiled as she said, ‘I was trained at St. Cecilia’s.’

  ‘Were you indeed? I must ask my friend Sir Horace Keen about you,’ remarked the conductor graciously.

  ‘Oh — no!’ Suddenly Antoinette saw the gulf open in front of her. And at the same moment her employer said curiously,

  ‘You never told me you trained at St. Cecilia’s.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  To Antoinette it seemed that the whole tottering edifice of her deception was about to collapse around her. She gave a quick, desperate glance from her sightless employer to the all-too-well sighted Oscar Warrender. And then, with an effort she would not have believed within her powers, she replied with the boldness of sheer simplicity,

  ‘Surely I mentioned St. Cecilia’s when you were corresponding with Sir Horace about — ’ her voice shook for a moment — ‘about that girl? I’m sure I did. You were too much occupied with the — the other matter to take much notice of what I said, I expect.’

  ‘I should have noticed that,’ retorted Lewis Freemont with a touch of irritation. ‘I never thought of your being at St. Cecilia’s. Otherwise I should have asked for your co-operation in tracing the girl.’

  ‘What girl?’ put in Oscar Warrender curiously.

  ‘The girl who blinded me,’ replied Lewis Freemont almost brutally, and Antoinette winced perceptibly.

  ‘The girl who — ? What are you talking about?’ exclaimed the conductor. ‘It was a car accident!’

  ‘Not quite simply a car accident. There was more to it than that.’ Lewis Freemont stirred impatiently and, by accident or intention, his hand struck a jangling discord on the piano.

  The other man started to say something, but he interrupted almost harshly, ‘It’s a long story. It doesn’t matter now. But it starts with someone I very much wanted to trace. She was a student at St. Cecilia’s. I should have thought Toni would have been only too eager to use her knowledge of the place to help me.’

  He turned his sightless eyes on Antoinette and there were little lines of tension at their corners, as though, useless though it might be, he still could not help straining to see her in that moment.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ To her own astonishment her voice was still miraculously calm. ‘The girl must have been long after my time. I just never thought of myself as having any special knowledge that might help.’

  ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’ That was Oscar War-render, with the almost naïve arrogance of the single-minded artist. ‘What does matter is that you have proved conclusively that you can tackle not only a recital but an orchestral concert too, within the measurable future.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ The strain left Lewis Freemont’s face and he smiled slightly. But Antoinette noticed with anxious tenderness that he looked suddenly tired, and she went and took him by the arm and led him back to his chair.

  The conductor watched with close attention and a touch of approval. And it was obvious that he too was aware that a certain amount of reaction had set in.

  ‘Rest completely now,’ he said, with an air of friendly authority. ‘We can discuss everything tomorrow.’ And then to Antoinette, who had made an eager movement — ‘No, it’s all right. I’ll see myself out.’

  Ordinarily people obeyed Oscar Warrender’s slightest order or suggestion, and he went without even looking behind him. But Antoinette followed him into the hall, closed the door behind her and, as he reached the front door said, in a low but almost peremptory voice, ‘Mr. Warrender — ’

  The conductor turned in surprise, perhaps at her tone, perhaps at merely finding her there.

  ‘Please — ’ she came quite close to him — ‘don’t discuss me with Sir Horace. I’d — much rather that you didn’t.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Isn’t it enough that I ask you not to discuss me with someone?’

  ‘No,’ said Oscar Warrender, who seldom wasted words. ‘But this is something which concerns me. I can’t be of the slightest interest to you and — ’

  ‘On the contrary,’ the conductor interrupted her, ‘you interest me profoundly. You have a rare gift which most people would be only too eager to thrust under my notice, and yet you try to play it down. You have an air of disarming candour, and yet you apparently concealed from Lewis Freemont something he thinks singularly important. And now you invest a simple query with an air of mystery, and try to do what few people would be bold enough to contemplate — to divert me from a personal course of action. You have left out nothing that was needed to excite my curiosity.’

  Antoinette stared at him in such blank dismay that, after a moment, he laughed not unkindly and said, ‘Come, you’d better tell me what the mystery is.’

  ‘I — can’t.’ Then she added mechanically, ‘There is no mystery.’

  He did not bother even to accord that an answer, evidently finding it absurd. Instead he enquired,

  ‘Who is this girl Freemont spoke of in such odd terms? Was there a girl who had something to do with his accident?’

  ‘He — believes so,’ said Antoinette with an effort. ‘He failed her in an examination at St. Cecilia’s, and he has some fixed idea that she followed him around, wishing him ill, and that she — she made him crash his car.’

  ‘Made him crash his car?’ Oscar Warrender repeated the words incredulously. ‘Do you mean — you can’t mean — that he has some superstitious feeling about her? Freemont just isn’t that kind.’

  ‘Not exactly — no. He says she was — there when the accident occurred. That she stood in the road and that in order to avoid her he had to crash the car.’

  ‘And was she there?’ Those cold, penetrating eyes were suddenly full upon her.

  ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I — wondered,’ said the conductor. ‘Couldn’t he remember the name of the girl he failed? It should be easy enough for the staff at St. Cecilia’s to supply a list of the unsuccessful candidates on that occasion.’

  ‘They did,’ replied Antoinette stonily. ‘He couldn’t recognize any of the names when the list was read out to him.’

  ‘Who read the list?’ was the odd thing O
scar Warrender asked.

  ‘I did,’ said Antoinette. And after a long moment, the conductor said,

  ‘I see.’

  Like many people before her, Antoinette suddenly had the curious impression that it was virtually impossible to pull the wool over Oscar Warrender’s eyes. She didn’t even try any more. She simply looked straight at him and said,

  ‘Are you going to speak to Sir Horace about me?’

  ‘No,’ said the conductor, and turned away. But she caught him by the arm in her eagerness and exclaimed,

  ‘Are you really not going to say anything about — this?’

  Oscar Warrender looked down at her and for a moment she wondered why she had thought his glance was cold.

  ‘I’m a conductor, my dear,’ he said drily, ‘Not a self-appointed judge.’

  Then he went out of the flat, closing the door behind him, and she was left staring at the door until her employer called,

  ‘Toni, where are you?’

  ‘I’m coming!’ A sudden overwhelming wave of relief engulfed her, so that she felt incredibly light-hearted — almost light-headed. That Oscar Warrender should have guessed the truth and found it unnecessary to do a thing about it was in such intoxicating contrast to the emotional blackmail of Charmian St. Leger or, indeed, her employer’s bitter intensity of feeling, that for the first time in months Antoinette dared to draw a slight breath of hope, and to question her own sense of proportion about the whole situation.

  The respite was only momentary, of course, and was succeeded by the familiar sensation of remorse and anxiety. But that one moment of truth was indescribably strengthening and comforting. It even made her able to go in to her employer and say lightly,

  ‘I’m really terribly sorry if I seemed in any way secretive about my musical training. It never occurred to me that I hadn’t mentioned St. Cecilia’s in connection with myself. I suppose it was partly that I couldn’t imagine my musical training could be in any way interesting to anyone so professional and distinguished as yourself.’