A Song Begins (Warrender Saga Book 1)

by Mary Burchell

  “If he really did what you think it was monstrous of him,” she cried. “To do me out of my just reward so that I should be dependent on him! Oh, but I can’t believe it. I still can’t entirely believe it wasn’t you, Neil. You said something she groped frantically in her memory — “something that made me certain it was you. What was it? What was it?”

  Neil looked taken aback in his turn then.

  “I said something? I couldn’t have. I never had the slightest intention of claiming — ”

  “Yes, yes — don’t you remember? It was when I first told you of my successful audition in London. You exclaimed, ‘So it worked!’ And then you looked as though you could have kicked yourself for having said something indiscreet.”

  “Oh, that?” Neil looked faintly uncomfortable. “Well, I wasn’t entirely surprised when Warrender sent for you to go to London. As a matter of fact, I wrote to him after that competition and told him I thought it disgraceful that he had talked the others out of giving you the prize, when you were undoubtedly the most gifted competitor there. And, incidentally, I added that you needed the money badly for your training. To that extent, perhaps, I did set the wheels turning. But anything else was of Warrender’s arranging.”

  “Oh, Neil!” She gave a long, dismayed sigh, as the certainty began to grow upon her that Neil’s suspicions were correct.

  “Does it matter so much?” he asked kindly.

  “Of course it matters! I can’t take money from Oscar Warrender. It’s inconceivable.”

  “You were willing to take it from me,” he reminded her gently.

  “That’s quite different,” she said simply. “You’re a friend.”

  He took her hand and gave it a grateful squeeze for that. But, as though wishing to be strictly fair, even to Oscar Warrender, he said,

  “A generous gesture is a generous gesture, whoever makes it. Can’t you look at it that way?”

  “No. Because I don’t believe it was a generous gesture in his case. It couldn’t be. He doesn’t work that way. It’s as you yourself said. He did it because it would give him power over me. Because I should feel forever indebted to him, and so I should have to do whatever he wanted.”

  “Anthea, it probably wasn’t entirely that. Few people act from a single motive, you know. There was probably an element of generosity in it.”

  But she shook her head obstinately.

  “No, there wasn’t. That isn’t the way he acts. It’s the power motive which prompts almost everything he does. He knew that if I owed him my training, my maintenance as a student, even she remembered the red and white evening dress and winced — “even some of my clothes, then he could always throw that up at me, and make me feel that I pretty well belonged to him.”

  “What do you mean by that, exactly?” Neil frowned.

  “Oh, nothing personal!” She dismissed that idea impatiently. “I’m simply his artistic creation. That’s the way he regards me. And in that sense he wants me to be his. So he put me irrevocably in his debt. Don’t you see? It would be a debt I could never really repudiate, because he’d not only have made me — he would have paid for me too.”

  “I think you exaggerate,” Neil said uneasily.

  “You don’t know him as I know him,” she countered bitterly. “If he’s made up his mind about any artistic matter, he’d bulldoze his way over the Archangel Michael to get it.”

  “Well, I don’t know — ” began Neil doubtfully. Then suddenly something made him glance at his watch and he exclaimed, “Heavens — the train! Come on. We’re going to have to rush for it if you’re to catch it and be in London when you promised.”

  Immediately she was almost panic-stricken. And so strong was the compulsion of Oscar Warrender’s authority upon her, even at a distance, that she forgot what they were discussing and cried.

  “Oh, let’s go! I promised him I would catch that train. I can’t imagine what he’ll do if I don’t.”

  They ran out to the car together, actually hand in hand, which gave her an odd feeling of comfort. And on the short drive to the station neither of them made any attempt to discuss further the question of who had provided Anthea’s training.

  There was very little time to spare. Even as she ran on to the platform the train was coming into the station, and Neil wrenched open the door of a compartment and pretty nearly lifted her in.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, as he kissed her goodbye. “Think only about the performance now. Everything else can wait until afterwards. In any case, we may both be quite wrong. It may simply be that he managed to interest some harmless musical patron in you. These things do happen. Forget it! Forget it until the performance is over. Good luck, darling — and bless you.”

  “Oh, thank you, dear Neil. Thank you for everything.” She leaned from the carriage window, and he walked along beside her as the train began to move. “I’ll never forget how you comforted and helped me, even if you weren’t my unknown benefactor.”

  He laughed at that and stood and waved as the train gathered speed and she was borne away. Then she drew in her head and pulled up the window. And, as she sank down in her corner seat, she thought that the sight of Neil Prentiss laughing from the platform of dear, safe, familiar Cromerdale station was at least something reassuring to take with her on her journey — to her debut and to her showdown with Oscar Warrender.

  Neil’s final piece of advice had been good, she knew. The last indulgence she could allow herself at a time like this was an emotional scene, or even a lot of agitating self-questioning. She must try to do what Neil had told her.

  It would not be easy. But, for the sake of their vital cooperation tomorrow evening, she would put from her mind any question that Oscar Warrender might have paid for her training, or that he had thrust himself into her life as the benefactor to whom she owed everything.

  “We shall have to have a showdown some time. Even quite soon,” she told herself. “But not until after tomorrow night. Not until after the performance.”

  She realised after a while that something of the iron discipline which he had imposed upon her had become second nature to her. For she really did manage to hold back her fears and her anger during that long journey, and she remained in a sort of emotional vacuum. On the one hand she could think with relief and gratitude that her mother was recovering well, and, on the other, that everything had been made as secure as possible for her performance tomorrow night. Those two certainties seemed to cushion her against any sharp awareness of other, more disturbing, factors in her life. And if she owed that security to Oscar Warrender — well, that too she could think of another time.

  To her relief and pleasure, Vicki was there at the station to meet her.

  “Darling, how did you know what train I would catch?” Anthea hugged her gratefully for the attention.

  “Mr. Warrender rang me up” — Vicki was evidently a good deal impressed by the importance thrust upon her on this occasion — “and told me to meet you.”

  “In order to make sure that I’d caught the train?” enquired Anthea sharply.

  “Oh, no. At least, he didn’t say anything about that. He said that you would need a good deal of friendly care and unfussy attention just now and that he thought I was the best person to give it to you.”

  “And so you are!” exclaimed Anthea, ashamed of her momentary sharpness. “It was very kind of you to come, Vicki.”

  “It was rather nice of him to suggest it too, don’t you think?” replied Vicki.

  “I — don’t know,” said Anthea. “I’m beginning to think that I don’t really know just why Mr. Warrender does anything.”

  Vicki glanced at her curiously, but did not question that. Only, when they were seated in the taxi which she insisted on taking, she said,

  “He has done some pretty good battling on your behalf, Anthea. I ran into Kate Minden, from the chorus, when I was on my way here, and she says all hell broke loose at the Opera House this morning, because Ottila Franci said she was we
ll enough to sing tomorrow, after all.”

  “He said she would,” murmured Anthea irrepressibly.

  “Did he?” Again Vicki glanced at her curiously.

  “Yes. That’s why he insisted on driving straight back again last night. It must have been dawn before he got in.”

  “Well, that didn’t prevent his being on the spot when Madam created,” Vicki observed with relish.

  “What happened?” asked Anthea rather fearfully.

  “I gather she put her terms, which were that she’d never sing there again if she couldn’t have tomorrow night’s performance. He let her get that off her chest and then he coolly put his terms. They could dispense with her — or him.”

  “He didn’t!” exclaimed Anthea in horror.

  “He did. Of course they didn’t either of them mean it,” said Vicki indulgently. “But the management knew that if anyone’s bluff was called, Oscar Warrender was worth ten Ottila Francis to them. Everyone had a gorgeous time blowing their tops, I suppose. And then he emerged the victor — naturally.”

  “Naturally,” agreed Anthea drily. So drily that Vicki said rather reproachfully,

  “He’s on your side, you know.”

  “No.” Anthea shook her head. “He’s on his own side. He happens to want me in the part tomorrow night, for his own reasons. So Ottila Franci is expendable. If, for any reason, he wanted it otherwise, I assure you I’d be dropped just as ruthlessly.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Vicki looked doubtful. “Most people would crawl on their hands and knees to have Oscar Warrender battle for them like that.”

  “I am not the kind to crawl on hands and knees for anyone,” retorted Anthea disdainfully, as they drew up outside the boarding-house. And Vicki evidently decided to leave the argument there.

  Everyone, from Mrs. McManus up and down, was very solicitous and affectionate that evening, and Anthea was made to feel a little as though she were made of fine china.

  “Don’t sit there! There might be a draught, and if you got a cold at this moment — ”

  “Try a little of this, dear. It’ll give you strength and not lie heavy on the stomach. I made it myself, so I know what went into it.”

  “You’ll be making an early night of it tonight. We all did our practising early so that the place would be quiet.”

  “Would you like – ”

  “Can we get – ?”

  “Do you feel – ?”

  “Darlings,” said Anthea at last, “I feel disgustingly well and fresh and normal. You mustn’t worry about me so much. Everything is going to be fine.”

  Indeed, if anything, Anthea was calmer than anyone else at Mrs. McManus’s boarding-house that evening. And she even slept soundly and refreshingly that night.

  But the following morning, when she went to Oscar Warrender’s flat for the final run-through, everything which she had feared and suspected the previous day rushed back upon her with renewed force.

  She looked into that handsome, determined, faintly enigmatic face and she thought,

  “Why did I never suspect the real explanation before? Of course it’s just the kind of situation that would appeal to him. Unlimited power — over me and my voice.”

  Something of her inner stress must have communicated itself to him, for presently he said, with a sort of impatient good humour,

  “Relax, child, relax! There’s no need to be so tense and scared. I’ll get you through tonight safely. Have no fear about that.”

  “I have no fear about it,” she replied. And, oddly enough, that was true. She felt, of course, the natural tremors of stage-fright, the occasional waves of near-panic at the realisation that tonight — tonight — she was to make her debut. But she had no deep-rooted fear of failure. She knew, quite simply, that if he said she would be a success, a success she would be.

  At the end of the short lesson, in which he had smoothed out the one or two difficulties which had remained after the dress-rehearsal, he closed the score, smiled at her in that half mocking, half indulgent way and said,

  “Well, for my part, I’m satisfied. Is there anything left that you want to ask?”

  The opening was, though unintended, almost irresistible, and it was all she could do to prevent herself from flinging at him the one query she so desperately wanted answered. But she controlled herself even then and said quietly, “Nothing, thank you. I think you’ve covered everything.” Something in her tone seemed still to leave him faintly puzzled, for he frowned slightly. But after a moment he said,

  “Very well. Go home now. Rest completely this afternoon. And be at the Opera House by five o’clock.”

  “I’ll be there.” She gave a little nod to emphasise that. “And there’s nothing whatever for you to worry about,” he told her deliberately. “I’ve seen to it that you shall have the most experienced person there to make you up, and your dresser probably knows as much about the ways of the house and a performance as I do.”

  “Quite an admission from you,” she said, and smiled faintly and remotely.

  “True, nevertheless.” Again he gave her that slightly puzzled glance. Then — “I’ll come and see you in your room in good time, in case there is anything final to be said, on either side. Think yourself into the part of Desdemona — and leave the rest to me.”

  “Very well,” she said, and turned towards the door.

  She almost reached it when his voice sounded quietly and authoritatively behind her.

  “Anthea, come back here a minute.”

  She turned immediately and came back until she stood before him, quiet, self-possessed, but with an intangible veil between him and her.

  “Look at me,” he commanded suddenly.

  That did shake her rather. But, after a moment’s hesitation, she raised her eyes and looked at him.

  When she was close to him like that she could see the fine bone-structure of his face, the faint, clear tan of his skin and the cold brilliance of those alarmingly penetrating eyes.

  “We can’t leave things quite like this,” he said coolly. “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing’s the matter!” She looked away from him quickly, and then back again as though she could not help it.

  “Of course there is,” he exclaimed impatiently. “For some reason or other you’re an entirely different girl from the one I drove to Cromerdale thirty-six hours ago.”

  All too true! But she remained obstinately silent.

  At that he looked both amused and exasperated, and he said, “Do you want me to coax you or bully you?”

  Inexplicably, that was the moment when her resolution broke. Her eyes flashed suddenly and she flung at him bitterly,

  “You don’t have to do either, do you? After all, you bought the right to command me. Isn’t that enough?”

  It was a splendid exit line, and she would have turned and gone from him then, but he put out his hand and caught her back against him, just as he had that time in the dressing-room, and all at once she was powerless. Not only because of the strong hands which held her, but because she was suddenly weak at the sensation of being so close against him.

  “What do you mean by that, exactly?” he asked coldly. “Stop putting on an act, and talk sensibly for a moment.”

  “Very well, then, I will! If you want to know, I’ve discovered who it is who is paying for everything,” she cried furiously. “I didn’t mean to have it out with you until after the performance. But, since you insist on knowing, you can have the truth now. I know at last that it’s you who are paying for everything I learn, eat, wear, and am.”

  “I — see.” He had let her go now, and he was suddenly cool and very calm. Even a little remote, in his turn. “I take it you don’t — like the situation.”

  “I loathe it,” she retorted, with an emphasis which made even him flicker his lashes slightly. “I see now that it was your way of establishing your absolute authority over me. I could have forgiven you for the bullying and the tyrannising. I could even have forgi
ven your occasional cruelty. But I’ll never forgive you for buying your authority over me.”

  “Do we have to be so melodramatic about it?” he asked disdainfully.

  “I’m not being melodramatic. I’m telling you why I can hardly bring myself to be civil to you. If I could walk out on you now — ”

  “Don’t you dare even say it!” He went white with the effort of suppressing his anger and, taking her by both her wrists, he jerked her round to face him. “What you feel or I feel doesn’t matter twopence at this moment. Do you understand? Our paltry little affairs count for nothing beside the claims of a great performance. And this can be a great performance tonight. It will be. Afterwards” — his voice changed and again he let her go, so abruptly that she stumbled — “afterwards you can tell me exactly what you think of me, if you like. It won’t matter then.”

  “Oh, I shall tell you,” she assured him quietly. “Make no mistake about that. I shall tell you.”

  “But after the performance,” he warned her. “And perhaps, my temperamental little prima donna from Cromerdale” — suddenly that flashing, almost wicked smile seemed to play around her like lightning — “perhaps I shall then tell you exactly what I think of you.”

  She stared at him in silence for a moment, half fascinated, half repelled by that extraordinary flame of amusement and confidence. And, even while she told herself that she hated him for finding the occasion somehow funny, she also felt a sort of thankfulness that her fortunes on this vital day rested in the hands of someone so completely sure of himself.

  “Go home,” he said, almost gently now. “Think only of the performance. Everything else can wait until afterwards.” It was exactly what Neil had said to her. But what had been in him kindly suggestion, in Oscar Warrender was authoritative reassurance.

  “Very well.” Anthea gave a long, irrepressible sigh. But whether of satisfaction that she had at least let him know that she knew the depths of his infamy, or relief that he was in full command of the situation, she could not have said.