When Love Is Blind (Warrender Saga Book 3)

by Mary Burchell

  She would not have had it otherwise. All she had ever asked was that she should be allowed to help him back to his professional career and then, her debt paid as far as was humanly possible, fade into the background of his life. But she would have been less than human if she had not sometimes thought longingly of the days when she had been his essential support and comfort — when he had looked to her for almost everything and owned to missing her desperately when she was not there.

  But at least she was still an essential part of his hours of practising. And when at last the day of the final rehearsal, with the actual orchestra, came she accompanied him to the hall satisfied in the knowledge that she was largely responsible for the security on which everything rested.

  At the end of the rehearsal, when even the members of the orchestra had laid down their instruments and applauded, Oscar Warrender unexpectedly called Antoinette on to the platform and said,

  ‘Gentlemen, here is someone I think we might also applaud. Without her admirable preliminary work I hardly think this performance would have been possible. Am I right, Freemont?’

  ‘Entirely right!’ He turned and held out his hand not quite in the direction where Antoinette was standing. And she came quickly and took the outstretched hand, aware that the clasp of those thin, strong fingers expressed more gratitude than any words.

  Colouring a little, she bowed shyly as the orchestra accorded her amused but sincere applause. And then Oscar Warrender came down from the podium and said, ‘Now go home, both of you, and take things quietly. Tomorrow morning, if you like, have a final run-through of the Haydn, but leave the Beethoven alone. There is absolutely nothing to add to it. Then leave the rest to me.’ It was impossible not to accept the reassurance of such calm confidence, and Antoinette was aware of a relaxing of tension in her employer as well as herself.

  On the way home in the car she did not bother him with casual conversation. It was he who finally said, ‘It went better than I dared to hope.’

  ‘It was practically perfect,’ she replied. ‘But I expected it after the standard of those two recitals.’

  ‘Co-ordinating with other performers is an entirely different matter,’ he returned, with a touch of irritation which told her his nerves were not entirely under control. ‘It means calling on the very last ounce of concentration — and then even something beyond that — a sort of sixth sense which one’s never exercised before. Terrifying, and yet incredibly exhilarating if one can bring it off.’

  ‘You’ll bring it off,’ she assured him calmly.

  ‘We’ll see,’ he retorted disagreeably. But she thought he was glad of her confident reassurance.

  Nothing, of course, could make the next day anything but difficult and he was in quite a shocking temper during most of the morning. She told herself this was the prerogative of anyone under great nerve-strain and remained unshakably calm and good-tempered, which earned her no more, however, than an irritable, ‘Do you have to be so insufferably sweet and spineless?’

  ‘No, not really. Were you spoiling for a fight?’

  There was a moment of astonished silence. Then he laughed suddenly and asked, ‘Is that a smile that I hear in your voice?’

  ‘Yes, of course. You’re being rather funny, you know.’ He drew a long, rather odd sigh of something like relief at that and simply said, ‘I’m glad you’re here. You’ll be backstage all the time tonight, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course,’ she assured him. And that was all that was said.

  During the afternoon she went home, leaving him to rest completely. She too tried to rest. But after she had lain on her bed for ten minutes she could lie there no longer, and she got up and went out and walked about the streets until it was time to come home and change.

  Her dress was a new one of a specially becoming sea green, and as she looked at herself in the mirror it occurred to her for the first time that she wished he could see her. Not so that he would recognize her, of course, as the girl who had spoiled his life, but just so that he could know that she really looked rather nice sometimes.

  When she arrived at his flat he was ready and amazingly calm, and on the way to the hall he actually talked quite cheerfully. It was she who found the greatest difficulty in making coherent conversation, and she was thankful when they arrived and the reassuring presence of Oscar Warrender made any further efforts of hers superfluous.

  The programme opened with one of the Beethoven Overtures, and even in the dressing-room Antoinette could hear something of the characteristic sweep and drive of Warrender’s direction. But she was in no mood for assessing any finer points at the moment, and it seemed to her that all too soon the applause for the first item had ended and Oscar Warrender came back into the dressing-room and said pleasantly and in an unhurried way, ‘Whenever you are ready — ?’

  ‘I’m ready.’

  This time there was no question of kissing her employer or even wishing him luck. Neither of the men seemed even aware that she was there. She could only watch them go, Lewis Freemont with his hand lightly on the conductor’s arm, and then stand there praying confusedly that everything would be all right.

  Her degree of anxiety was so much more intense than at either of the recitals that she did not dare even to go near the stage. She had the curious impression that she might bring disaster to him again by the sheer force of her nervousness. Instead, she walked quietly up and down the dressing-room, while the familiar strains of the Haydn Concerto reached her faintly. But how it was going or if she had reason to fear or exult she simply did not know — until a great roar of sound greeted the triumphant finale.

  She opened the door then and the waves of clapping and cheering seemed to sweep in like a living force. She wanted to go to him, but even then she could not. She just stood there until, through the open doorway, she saw him coming down the passage, his hand again on the arm of the conductor.

  ‘Toni,’ he exclaimed eagerly, ‘where are you?’

  ‘I’m here!’ She started forward at last and, incredibly, he left hold of Warrender and stepped forward alone in his eagerness.

  ‘Be careful!’ she cried, but a second too late. For, misjudging the direction of her voice by a fraction, he collided with the side of the door, striking his head so violently that he gasped, staggered back and would have fallen if Oscar Warrender’s powerful hand had not upheld him.

  Characteristically, the conductor showed nothing of the dismay he must have felt, and without so much as an exclamation, he guided his half stunned friend to the nearest chair and said, almost conversationally,

  ‘Lie back and keep quite quiet. And don’t worry about anything. We have the whole interval for your recovery — or to make new plans if necessary.’ And then to the silent, appalled Antoinette — ‘Stay near him, Miss Burney. I’ll get a doctor.’

  She nodded wordlessly and moved to her employer’s side as the conductor went quickly out of the room.

  Lewis Freemont had closed his eyes by now and his face looked very pale, except for a mark that was slowly darkening on the side of his forehead.

  ‘Toni — ’ he said uncertainly once, and she took his hand and held it firmly, as though by the strength of her grip she would force him to retain consciousness.

  ‘All right, I’m here.’

  He moved his head impatiently and opened his eyes then. But then he frowned as though in sudden pain and, to her dismay, he cried her name aloud again — ‘Toni!’

  ‘Darling — ’ The loving term escaped her before she could control her agitation. And then she stopped as he made a strange groping movement of his hand and gathered a fold of her dress in his fingers.

  ‘What is it?’ she exclaimed, half frightened. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re wearing a light dress,’ he cried in a hoarse, almost unrecognizable voice. ‘A blue dress — no, a green one!’

  ‘Why — why, yes! How do you know?’ Then her voice died in her throat.

  ‘Because I can see it. God in heaven!
I can see it. Not very clearly — but I can see it.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  To Antoinette the next ten minutes were never entirely clear in her recollection.

  She remembered Lewis Freemont holding tightly to the fold of her dress and repeating over and over again, ‘I can see it!’ and she remembered Oscar Warrender coming back into the room accompanied by a distinguished-looking man with grey hair.

  She knew that someone tried to put her aside, but that her employer still held her by her dress until she herself gently prised his fingers away. And Oscar Warrender, an unusual streak of excited colour in his cheeks, drew her to one side, leaving the doctor with Lewis Freemont.

  ‘What happened?’ the conductor asked her quietly. ‘What in God’s name happened?’

  ‘He was lying back with his eyes closed and — ’ she swallowed and made an effort to steady her voice — ‘then he opened them and called my name. At first I thought he was in pain. Then he grabbed hold of a fold of my dress as though — as though it were a sort of lifeline. And he said — ’ again she had to swallow — ‘he said, “You’re wearing a light dress”, and — and then that he could see it.’

  ‘Distinctly?’

  ‘No. But he could see it.’

  ‘It was that sudden blow, of course. One hears of such things. One never expects them to happen to the right person,’ observed Warrender cynically. But there was no cynicism in the glance he directed at his friend and the doctor. ‘You must take him home, Miss Burney, as soon as the doctor says he can move.’

  ‘But the concert? — the rest of the concert?’ Even to Antoinette, with all her deepest feelings involved, the compulsive conviction that the show must go on was uppermost.

  Oddly enough it was Warrender, the ruthless professional, who said coolly, ‘The concert can take care of itself. Or rather, I will take care of it. We’ll put in something with only the slightest delay. There are certain things that this orchestra and I can do without rehearsal and — ’

  ‘You’ll do nothing of the sort!’ Lewis Freemont spoke suddenly, with such authority and energy that everyone stood and looked at him in surprise, including the doctor.

  ‘I’m all right.’ He ran a perfectly steady hand over his hair. ‘Only a slight headache physically. And emotionally I won’t let myself think of what’s happened until afterwards. I can see a little — just a little. The difference between light and utter darkness — ’ for a moment his iron self-control faltered, but he recovered again and ended, ‘I’m playing that concerto tonight and no one is going to stop me.’

  ‘It might be wiser — ’ began the doctor, but he was brushed aside.

  ‘I’m playing tonight. Has the first bell gone?’

  ‘Half a minute ago. I heard it,’ Antoinette said, in a fascinated tone.

  ‘Then we still have a few minutes left. I’m all right, I tell you! Get me a drink, Toni. No more than a dash of whisky and some water.’

  She went over obediently and mixed the drink and brought it to him. He groped slightly for the glass, and she saw that whatever vision he had was anything but clear.

  ‘It will be difficult,’ Warrender warned him. ‘You’ve learned an entirely different technique of following. You’re sure — ’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure. I shall play it as a blind man. Conduct for me as though I were. I can’t see any of you clearly anyway. Just that you’re — there.’ His hand closed on Antoinette’s as he spoke and she gripped his fingers warmly in return.

  ‘There goes the second bell!’ They all spoke in unison. And Lewis Freemont got to his feet.

  ‘Give me your arm, Warrender. The full hall lighting will dazzle me, I expect.’

  ‘I still think — ’ began the doctor.

  But no one took any notice of him. The two men went out of the room together, and Antoinette — strangely cool and calm now — followed them as far as she could without being seen from the hall.

  She stood just inside the door at the side of the stage, watching with her heart in her eyes as Warrender led her employer on to the platform, the first violins making way for them as they came.

  With an air of quiet assurance Lewis Freemont sat down at the piano, and even glanced round, as though testing the faint degree of vision he had regained. Oscar Warrender went to the conductor’s desk and picked up his baton. There was that moment of expectant silence which precedes any eagerly awaited performance. And then the opening notes of the concerto fell on Antoinette’s ears like the answer to her most ardent prayers.

  She stood there throughout the three movements, hardly shifting her position once, not actually tense, but so utterly absorbed and enthralled that physical movement never occurred to her.

  As a pianist herself, however unpretentious, she could not help knowing what tremendous concentration and, indeed, sheer physical strength were required for a work of this sort. And once, halfway through the exacting final movement, she wondered if he could possibly stay the course after the shock and emotional crisis of the evening. Then she glanced at the conductor and knew from his slight, watchful smile that he was certain all was well. And if Oscar Warrender was satisfied, who was she to doubt?

  The ovation at the end surprised even Antoinette. Perhaps it surprised and overwhelmed him too. At any rate, he went on sitting at the piano, not even attempting to stand and acknowledge the applause, the darkening mark on his forehead very noticeable now that he was pale with exhaustion.

  Then the conductor came down from his desk and went to him, and Antoinette saw her employer raise his head quickly and speak a few urgent words. Immediately, with that air of authority and almost nonchalant grace peculiar to him, Warrender turned to the audience and said,

  ‘Mr. Freemont wants me to explain to you that there was a slight accident this evening, as you can possibly see for yourselves. But this was not entirely a disaster. So many of you showed great sympathy and support when his sight was destroyed by a blow, and he would like you — his audience — to be the first to know that the accident this evening seems to have restored some measure of sight. In these circumstances you will understand — ’

  But whatever it was they were to understand was drowned in a fresh outburst of clapping and cheering. It was Lewis Freemont himself who silenced them by striking a chord on the piano. And then, to the stupefaction of everyone who had ever thought him a self-sufficient, cold-hearted creature, he began to play the strong, simple familiar tune of ‘Now thank we all our God.’

  There are some moments so fraught with emotion that they tremble perilously on the thin line which divides sheer sentimentality from pure gold, and only the smallest detail is necessary to push them one way or the other. On this occasion it was supplied by an insignificant-looking little man who was sitting in the third row near the gangway. As though compelled by something outside himself he got to his feet. In fascinated concert one group after another followed suit until, in less than a minute, everyone in that vast audience was standing.

  At the end, Lewis Freemont got up, bowed to the audience and then, taking Oscar Warrender’s arm, he left the platform in absolute silence — the most deeply felt tribute that had ever been paid to him.

  Almost in tears, Antoinette took him by both hands as he came up to her. Quite unselfconsciously he raised her hands to his lips and kissed them and said, ‘I wish I could see you properly. But that will come, I know — that will come!’

  ‘Home now. And at once.’ Oscar Warrender’s brisk, authoritative words broke in on this emotional moment. And it was he personally who bundled Lewis Freemont into his coat. Then, with Antoinette in close attendance, he shepherded him through the excited crowd at the stage door and drove them both home himself.

  A telephone message from the Hall had already ensured that Lewis Freemont’s own doctor was waiting for him, and once he had been handed over to such expert care there was really no need for either Antoinette or Oscar Warrender to remain.

  ‘Shall I drop you anywhere?’ the conductor enqu
ired, as they stood in the hallway of the block of flats together. ‘I am collecting my wife from Covent Garden, but if you don’t mind our stopping there first’ — he glanced at his watch — ‘I’ll drive you home afterwards.’

  Antoinette started to say it was not at all necessary but he interrupted her.

  ‘Of course it isn’t necessary. I know you can get a taxi just as well. But do you suppose either of us can go home in cold blood without discussing this incredible evening first?’

  She laughed a little at that, rather incredulously, for she had never even suspected this almost boyish side of the formidable conductor — the side which his young wife, Anthea, always declared had finally won her.

  ‘I’d like to come if I may,’ she said shyly. ‘I forgot — of course your wife was singing tonight, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Yes. That’s why she wasn’t at the concert. We usually arrange things better, but we just couldn’t avoid dates clashing tonight. I don’t want to keep her waiting. She’ll be nervous anyway, as someone else was conducting for her.’

  Even as he was explaining, he was leading Antoinette out to the waiting car. And before she could wonder if she might have learned just a little more about her employer by remaining at the flat, he was driving away. As though reading her thoughts, he observed, not without sympathy,

  ‘You’ve had enough for tonight. We all have.’ And then, with a short laugh, ‘I think I was more scared when I heard him saying he could see than I was when the accident happened.’

  ‘Scared?’ Antoinette was both amused and incredulous. ‘I don’t think you are ever scared, are you?’

  ‘No more than I can conceal,’ he replied good-humouredly. ‘But while I thought he might just be able to recover from the effects of a physical accident, I was certain no artist could take the impact of a near-miracle and have the self-discipline to go on and do a performance just the same.’