A Song Begins (Warrender Saga Book 1)

by Mary Burchell

  The conviction was upon her in that moment that this was absolutely true, and, without her even knowing it, there was tenderness as well as terror in her glance, and in her voice too. And then, when he asked her, in tones heavy with fate, if she had said her prayers that night, the whole thing became so chillingly real that all sense of the theatre dropped away from her.

  By training and innate discipline the right words and notes came to her, but she cried them out in such tones of terror and pleading that Mr. Cheetham looked over his spectacles in genuine wonder. Then she leapt from the improvised bed, as though really in fear of her life, and would have run right out of the improvised scene if the conductor had not leant forward, snatched her back and flung her on the sofa.

  She actually did scream then, and when she felt his hands on her throat she burst into tears.

  He let her go immediately, and the piano accompaniment came to a rather ragged stop, while Anthea sat on the sofa, her legs drawn up under her, and cried.

  “Stop that nonsense,” said Oscar Warrender after a minute. And when it seemed she could not, he sat down beside her and put his arm round her.

  “Don’t be so silly,” he said quietly. “You mustn’t be so emotional about it, or we’ll never make an artist of you. The feeling has to be there, of course — and you’ve got loads of that and you’re a good girl” — he laughed and lightly kissed the side of her wet cheek — “but you have to master your emotions, and not let them master you. Did I really frighten you so much?”

  She nodded without looking up.

  “Seems I ought to go on the stage,” he observed to James Cheetham amusedly.

  “You have a certain talent,” agreed that gentleman imperturbably. “But you’d already frightened her a good deal anyway, bully-ragging her about being late.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Anthea looked up then and asked incredulously, “What did you say?”

  “It’s surprising, I know. But I said I’m sorry.” And he gave her that brilliant, rather devilish smile. “I was rather carried away by the scene, I think.”

  “You were?”

  “Yes. There’s a tribute to your acting.” And, with a sharp pat on her cheek, he released her and stood up. “But remember — you must not let your fear and feelings master you.”

  “I shouldn’t with anyone else,” she said rather naively, at which he laughed not very kindly and replied,

  “I shall be no farther away than the orchestra pit, remember, even if I’m not on the stage.”

  She dried her eyes and looked at him then.

  “Do you mean she began breathlessly.

  “I don’t mean anything,” he cut in shortly. “I was looking a long way ahead. But if you ever get as far as singing Desdemona on a stage, you can take it I shall be conducting.

  “Because you — want to conduct for me?” Her lips parted slightly.

  “No. Because I have no intention of letting you make a hash of things,” was the unkind reply. “But I tell you — that’s all a long way in the future. If at all.”

  She accepted that then, and asked no more questions. But, as she walked part of the way home afterwards through the Park, she thought of all he had said, and it seemed to her that this had been the most fantastic afternoon of her life.

  Although the rain had stopped by now, the trees still dripped upon her as she passed. But she was unaware of it. She could think only of that scene in Oscar Warrender’s flat, and most particularly when he had said, “Remember you love the man, although you fear him.”

  “I suppose that’s the sort of thing one could say of him too,” she thought curiously. “He’s simply hateful most of the time. He couldn’t have been more odious over my being late. And yet — how he looked when he was playing that part. It was only a part, of course — and James Cheetham was right in saying he has a certain stage talent. But it wasn’t only that.”

  She had almost reached the point when she would leave the deserted park and take a bus for the rest of the way, when suddenly recollection hit her like a delayed bomb.

  “He kissed me!” she said to the unresponsive, dripping trees. “In a careless, laughing way, he kissed me. I never thought of it until this moment. I hardly knew it at the time, but — I remember now. He laughed, I remember, and just touched my cheek with his lips — and said I was a good girl, with lots of feeling.”

  The recollection gave her the most extraordinary sensation. Something between indignation and acute pleasure. And she thought she understood why Peroni had once said she could kill him — except that she would be a heartbroken mourner at his funeral!

  Once more that evening the telephone rang for Anthea, and again it was Neil Prentiss, with kind and rather anxious enquiries about how she had got on at her lesson.

  “It was a bit harrowing,” Anthea confessed. “He was pretty angry about my being late” — she felt she had better play that down a bit — “but in the end he got over it” — not quite what had happened, of course — “and I had a very exciting lesson.”

  “How was it exciting?” Neil wanted to know.

  “Well, he let me do the last scene of Otello, and he played Otello himself and – ”

  “Does he sing?”

  “No, no. He spoke the words. And it follows the play almost exactly at that point, you know.”

  “Right up to the smothering scene?”

  “Yes,” said Anthea, rather soberly, because for a moment she re-tasted that moment of terror.

  “I don’t think that’s very suitable,” observed Neil seriously. At which Anthea laughed quite immoderately.

  “Oscar Warrender doesn’t do suitable things,” she assured him. “But there was nothing offensive about it, if that’s what you mean.”

  “I fail to see how one can be smothered inoffensively,” Neil retorted, but he laughed. “What evening have you free for me, Anthea?”

  “Why, almost any evening,” she told him with pleasure. “I go to the opera sometimes with the other girls. But there’s nothing special on this week until Friday, when I’m to go and hear Mr. Warrender conduct for Peroni in Tosca.”

  “Then keep me tomorrow evening, will you? And do you like to go to the theatre or shall we dine and dance?”

  “I don’t mind. Both sound wonderful, and gloriously relaxing.”

  “Then we’ll do both,” he replied gaily. “I’ll collect you tomorrow about six-thirty, and we’ll dine before going to a show. And afterwards we’ll go and dance somewhere. Right?”

  “A hundred and twenty per cent right!” declared Anthea delightedly. “Thank you so much.” When she rang off, she felt that Neil Prentiss was the nicest man in the world.

  And then, the next morning, there happened something which confirmed this opinion with almost moving emphasis. Beside her plate at breakfast time was a letter from the firm of solicitors who paid her modest, but adequate, monthly allowance. It contained one of their brief, entirely impersonal letters, and a money order for fifty pounds.

  “Dear Madam,” — stated the letter — “We are instructed by our client, to forward you the enclosed Money Order. Our client feels that, although your lessons, lodgings and general living expenses are covered, there will be legitimate expenses from time to time (clothes for special occasions, etc.) which it might be difficult for you to meet. The enclosed payment of £50 (fifty pounds) is intended for such purposes, and a similar sum will be remitted to you every other month. Yours faithfully – ”

  “Oh, it’s too much,” exclaimed Anthea aloud. “He’s an angel!”

  “Who is?” enquired Vicki, who was the only other person in the dining-room.

  “Oh, Vicki,” — Anthea looked back at her, almost with tears in her eyes — “I wish I could tell you!”

  “Why don’t you, then?” suggested Vicki, eating toast with relish and listening with obvious attention.

  “Because – ” And then suddenly the temptation to share her news with someone overcame Anthea completely and, lea
ning her arms upon the table, she began to tell the whole story.

  All about her losing the prize in the television contest by a hair’s breadth (she did not mention Oscar Warrender’s having talked the others out of giving her the prize) and then how a generous unknown person had come forward and paid for her training.

  “But he’s not unknown, really. At least not to me,” Anthea declared. “There’s only one person it could be.” And she went on to explain Neil Prentiss’s previous kind help to her family, and how everything pointed to his having been her good angel too.

  “He must be in love with you,” asserted Vicki promptly.

  “No, no, he’s not,” replied Anthea impatiently. “You always think people must be in love with one. I’ve no time for that sort of thing. I’m going to be an ARTIST. It’s just that he thinks very highly of my parents and also believes in my voice and – ”

  “Is he an old man?” enquired Vicki.

  “Old? No, of course not. Why should he be?”

  “That’s the way you make him sound — attributing all those dull and worthy motives to him. Is he good looking?”

  “Yes. Decidedly.”

  “Better looking than Oscar Warrender?”

  “I — don’t know. I never thought of comparing them. He’s much racer-looking than Mr. Warrender. He looks a dear.”

  “Well, no one’s ever accused Oscar Warrender of looking that,” Vicki agreed. “Where does the money order come in?”

  “Oh Anthea glanced down at it as it lay on the table in front of her. Then, since the letter explained itself, she handed this over to Vicki. “You see — it has to be Neil Prentiss,” she insisted. “He’s taking me out this evening, and he guesses I haven’t got the right kind of dress for the occasion. That’s why he’s had the money sent.”

  “Very close timing,” Vicki objected. “Still, it doesn’t really matter. The money’s the thing! Finish your breakfast and I’ll come and help you choose the dress. Have you a class this morning?”

  “No. Everything is perfect,” Anthea declared.

  And so it still seemed to her, later that morning, when, with Vicki’s assistance, she chose a gay and enchanting summer evening dress patterned in scarlet and ivory, with a little scarlet jacket to go with it on cool evenings.

  “It’s a bit extravagant as it’s for summer only,” Vicki admitted. “But you look a dream in it. And, after all, you must do your Neil proud, since he was so generous – ”

  Anthea thought so too. And any doubts she might have had vanished when he came to collect her that evening. He took both her hands, held her arms wide and looked at her with the utmost approval.

  “Absolutely enchanting,” he declared. “That never came out of Cromerdale.”

  “Oh, no! I bought it only this morning.” She thought he should have the fun of knowing what his gift had done for her. “My ever-generous unknown patron sent me some money and said I was to use it for things like clothes for a special occasion. This,” she said, smiling at him, “is a special occasion.”

  “I feel so too.” He laughed in sheer pleasure. “Though I have to break it to you, Anthea, that we shan’t have the entire evening to ourselves. Do you mind?”

  “No,” she said. “Whatever you arrange is all right with me.”

  “I didn’t exactly arrange it.” He made a slight face. “At least — yes, I did. But only because I had to. We’ll have our dinner and show together. But afterwards I’m afraid I have to play host to a business acquaintance and his wife because — ”

  “But that’s quite all right! I’ll go home if you like. After all — ”

  “No, you won’t!” He laughed and drew her arm through his. “I’ve got you for the evening, and I’m not letting you go. Even if we have to make a foursome of it later, we’ll have the best of the evening together first.”

  And a wonderful evening it was. Anthea thought she had never enjoyed herself more. Over dinner he was a charming and amusing companion, and it seemed that he could not hear enough of her own affairs. He questioned her more closely about what had really happened when she had been late for her lesson, and he was indignantly sympathetic, in a way that was exquisitely soothing after Oscar Warrender’s rough handling.

  “You don’t really need to worry about me,” she assured him, as she smiled at him across the table. “I’m beginning to be able to stand up for myself.”

  He seemed to find that very touching and courageous. So that, by the time they went on to the theatre, Anthea was not only feeling well disposed towards him, but well disposed towards herself too. And there is no subtler compliment that any man can pay a girl.

  The play he had chosen was brilliant, and they made the pleasant discovery that the same things amused and interested them both. It was a pity, Anthea could not help thinking, that they were not going to have the whole evening to themselves.

  However, the two additions to their party proved remarkably congenial when they joined them later in the famous restaurant of the Gloria Hotel, where Neil had cleverly managed to secure a floor-side table, so that they could either sup or dance as they pleased.

  “Like it?” he enquired, looking across at Anthea with that admiring, indulgent air, when the other two had gone to dance.

  “I love it! I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  She smiled at him radiantly and then looked round, taking in the whole colourful scene. “I don’t think I’ve ever — ” And then she stopped dead. For, threading his way towards them between the tables, came Oscar Warrender, and his expression was grim and uncompromising.

  CHAPTER V

  “Allow me — ” Oscar Warrender gave only the briefest nod, in acknowledgment of Neil’s presence, and then turned to Anthea and said, in a tone of cold anger,

  “What are you doing out at this time of night? You won’t be fit for any real work in the morning.”

  “I have some sort of private life,” Anthea began defensively, but Neil came to her assistance immediately.

  “Miss Benton is my guest,” he explained shortly. “And I take full responsibility for keeping her out late.”

  “Miss Benton is also my pupil,” returned the conductor coolly. “And I take full responsibility for seeing that she goes home at a proper hour. She should be in bed now. Will you take her home or shall I?”

  “I — beg your pardon?” Neil looked as though he thought he could not have heard aright. But Anthea knew all too well that he had. She had seen that expression on Oscar Warrender’s face before and she knew there was no appeal from whatever he had decided.

  She could willingly have struck him at that moment. But she said, with admirable self-control,

  “Mr. Prentiss has other guests, and can’t very well leave them. And certainly I am not going to have his supper party spoiled. I’ll go home myself, as soon as I reasonably can.”

  “You’ll go home now,” was the calm retort. “I’ll take you myself.”

  “But I tell you she is my guest,” exclaimed Neil.

  “And I tell you she is my pupil, and entirely subject to my authority.”

  “In her private life too?” enquired Neil, raising his eyebrows.

  “In everything,” was the cold and comprehensive reply.

  “I’ll go,” said Anthea, suppressing her fury with difficulty, and she got to her feet, gathering up her evening bag and her gloves as she did so. “Don’t worry, Neil. You must look after your other guests. Please make my excuses and explain that I had no option.” She gave a cold and angry glance at the conductor, who withstood it admirably. Then to Neil, in a warm and friendly tone, she added, “Thank you. It’s been such a lovely evening. We don’t want to end it with a scene.”

  “But I never heard of such behaviour!” protested Neil.

  “You’ll hear of more like it if you keep in touch with Miss Benton,” Oscar Warrender assured him calmly. “Ready, Anthea?”

  He had evidently given her all the time he intended her to have for goodbyes.
For, with no more than a slight inclination of his head to the angry Neil, he now shepherded Anthea out of the restaurant, through the foyer of the hotel, and out of the swing doors into the street, where his car was waiting.

  “I’ll take a taxi,” she said, standing her ground for a moment and regarding him with unconcealed dislike and anger.

  “Get in,” he replied, and opened the door of his car. And, since there was no alternative — short of a dispute in the street — she got in. But she stared mutinously ahead as he came round and got into the driving seat beside her. And, as they drove off, she vowed to herself that she would not say one single word to him all the way home.

  There was utter silence in the car for a matter of minutes. Then he said impatiently,

  “There’s no need to sulk. You had to discover, sooner or later, that a singer’s life is a strict and dedicated one. Late hours and nightclubs are not for you, and the sooner you learn that fact the better.”

  She refused to answer.

  “And if,” he went on coolly, “you fancy yourself in love with that young man, you’d better write that off immediately also. You won’t have any time for that sort of thing, I can assure you.”

  “I think,” said Anthea deliberately, “that you’re quite the most odious and insufferable person I have ever met.”

  “Very possibly.” He seemed quite unmoved by this expression of opinion. “It’s the odious, insufferable people who usually get to the top. The nice, pleasant bores stay in — Cromerdale, for instance.”

  This time it was she who could hardly believe her ears. Had he no sense of decency at all? There he was, accepting Neil’s money for her training, and speaking of him in this contemptuous way. At least, she decided, he should realise that she was aware how atrociously he was behaving, and so she said, coolly and distinctly,

  “Do you think it very becoming for you to speak like that of Neil Prentiss when you must be accepting quite a lot of his money for training me?”

  There was quite a long pause, during which she hoped he felt as contemptible as she thought him. But when he finally answered, he sounded much more amused than ashamed, she noticed.