She heard the car skid to a standstill and, as she began to pick herself out of a nasty mixture of mud and nettles, the driver came running up — to apologize, as she fondly imagined. Before she could start to reassure him, however, he addressed her in tones of the utmost irritation.
‘And what do you think you were doing? Trying to commit suicide?’
‘No. Trying to avoid some idiot who was driving much too fast,’ retorted Joanna, aware that she was not appearing to advantage on her hands and knees and covered with dust.
‘If you don’t mind my saying so - ’
‘I do mind your saying so — if you’re proposing to blame me for your own irresponsible driving,5 she interrupted. ‘And instead of berating me, you might help me out of this ditch!’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said stiffly and, extending a strong looking brown hand, he hauled her out of the ditch with some dexterity and began to brush her down.
‘I can see to that myself, thank you.’ She spoke stiffly in her turn.
‘You’re not hurt, are you?’ He sounded slightly more concerned now, possibly because he was beginning to recover from his own fright.
‘No. Except for some nettle stings and a shaking.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said again. ‘Can I drive you anywhere?’
‘No, thank you. I’m only walking a little way along the road.’
‘Well then - ’ he hesitated.
‘Don’t let me keep you.’ She was not even looking at him as she brushed some dust from the sleeve of her best suit. ‘I’m quite all right.’
‘Very well.’ He turned and went towards his car.: Then suddenly he retraced his steps and, looking up, she really saw him for the first time, taking in the fact that he was big and broad-shouldered and that his thick brown hair had more than a touch of red in it. She also noticed that all the anger seemed to have faded from his face and that his dark eyes were looking at her in a slightly shamed way.
‘Look here, I’m really sorry — ’
‘I believe you, for it’s the third time you’ve said so,’ she told him, and she laughed suddenly and felt her annoyance evaporate.:
‘It was my fault,’ he admitted reluctantly. ‘I was driving too fast. And I was thinking hard about something that was worrying me, which is an idiotic thing to do when you’re driving.’
‘Well, I was thinking hard about something too,’ she confessed. ‘Only with me it was something nice and exciting.; I expect it was half my own fault. I just walked out into the road without a thought of traffic, which is equally idiotic.’
‘Then we’re quits?’ He held out his hand and smiled in a quick, infectious way. ‘I hope whatever you’re excited about turns out to be as nice as you expect.’ ‘And I,’ said Joanna, putting her hand into his, ‘hope you don’t really need to be worrying, after all — that everything comes right, in fact.’
‘I expect it will.’ He was still smiling as he released her hand. ‘I just have to keep an eye on a nice elderly uncle of mine who’s never learned to look after himself. People are always imposing on him, and I’m just making sure it doesn’t happen again.’
With a friendly wave of his hand, he went back to his car and drove off, while Joanna looked after him thoughtfully and said, ‘Oh — ?’ She watched him drive away and then walked on towards Aunt Georgina’s bungalow, telling herself that there must be lots of nice elderly uncles about, and there was no reason to suppose —
Aunt Georgina welcomed her cordially, though she seemed to think Joanna’s explanation for her dusty condition unsatisfactory.
‘How could you fall into a ditch?’ she wanted to know. ‘I never heard of anything so silly, just because a car frightened you.’
‘I suppose it was rather silly,’ Joanna admitted, as she sponged the last mud-spots from her skirt.: ‘Aunt Georgina, has Mr. Wilmore got a nephew?’
‘Net to my knowledge. Why?’
‘Oh, nothing. I’m rather glad to hear he hasn’t, that’s all.’
And to Aunt Georgina’s credit, she pressed the matter no further, knowing from long, long experience that girls asked very odd questions at times; and when they then claimed that the question meant ‘nothing’ they were really saying that they didn’t want to be asked any questions in their turn.
She gave Joanna an excellent lunch, and then got out her battered little Mini and drove her to the gate of Wilmore Manor, a tall, exceptionally beautiful wrought-iron affair, through which Joanna could already see the roses which had attracted her aunt’s congratulations, and a pleasant greystone house with white-painted shutters.
‘Now you are on your own,’ Aunt Georgina said to her niece as she got out of the car. ‘Good luck, and don’t muff your chances.’
Joanna was too excited by now to do more than murmur some indistinct reply. Then she pushed open the tall gate and, having closed it again carefully behind her, she walked up the short drive to the house. A timid tug at the polished brass bell-pull produced a musical sound somewhere in the back regions of the house, and almost immediately a somewhat elderly manservant opened the door to her.
She explained rather breathlessly who she was and he admitted her, observing that Mr, Wilmore was expecting her, and would she please follow him?
He led the way along a thickly carpeted corridor to a half-open door. Voices in the room indicated that Mr. Wilmore was not alone and, as the servant put out his hand to open the door further, a disagreeably familiar voice said, in answer to some murmured objection,
‘I don’t care what you say, I’m willing to bet she’s just another clever young cadger. Whoever heard of her, anyway? She’s nothing but a student, apparently, and quite unworthy of — ’
‘Miss Ransome,’ announced the manservant respectfully. Then he stood aside for Joanna to enter the room.
This she did, in as good order as she could, considering what she had just overheard. A tall, greyhaired man rose from a chair and came across to greet her with an air of great politeness, while she was not at all surprised to see that the other occupant of the room was the young man who — as she now angrily phrased it to herself — had pushed her into the ditch.
‘Miss Ransome — ’ Mr. Wilmore took her hand in his long, thin one — ‘how kind of you to be so punctual. Your aunt told me you would be coming all the way from London. You must have made an early start.’
‘Not really.’ Joanna smiled at him, and liked him on sight. ‘And anyway, it’s you who are being so kind as to allow me to come and see you. Believe me, I do ap-predate the privilege.’
‘Not at all.’ His pleasant, rather short-sighted eyes surveyed her with some pleasure. Then, as though recollecting something, he included the other man in the conversation. ‘This is my nephew, Elliot Cheam. You’ve probably heard of him.’
‘The theatrical producer?’ Joanna was startled into exclaiming.
‘Yes. Have you met each other before?’
‘Briefly,’ said the young man before Joanna could either claim or repudiate the honour. ‘In fact, I almost ran Miss Ransome down a couple of hours ago. Accidentally, of course,’ he added in a tone which somehow conveyed that he would have been partially justified if he had done it on purpose.
‘You were not hurt, I hope?’ Mr. Wilmore looked quite anxiously at his young guest.
‘Oh, no! In London we get used to skipping out of the way of badly driven cars,’ declared Joanna with a charming little laugh.
‘Well — ’ her host looked faintly surprised — ‘we have quite a lot to discuss, I believe. So we won’t keep you, Elliot, if you want to go over to see Sara. Give her my best wishes.’
‘I thought perhaps of going this evening — ’ his nephew began. But the older man spoke with courteous authority.
‘This afternoon would be better,’ he stated, in the nicest way possible. ‘I should like to talk with Miss Ransome on her own.’
For an incredible moment Joanna had a childish impulse to put out her tongue at Elliot Cheam. She resisted this,
of course, but was somewhat taken aback to find that anything so juvenile could even occur to her.
‘Now - ’ when the nephew had left, with a not altogether good grace and the merest nod in Joanna’s direction, Justin Wilmore indicated two comfortable chairs in one of the pleasant window bays — ‘you must tell me what it is that specially interests you. My collection is a pretty big one — for a private collector, that is. But although my nephew thinks I am not a very well organized person — ’ his eyes twinkled a little — ‘I can usually put my hand on anything special.’
‘I must explain first that I’m not really much more than an advanced student,’ said Joanna, determined that no one should be able to hold it against her that she exaggerated her importance. ‘At the music college where I’m training we’re going to do Montemezzi’s opera “The Love of Three Kings” — ’
‘Oh? “L’Amore dei Tre Re”?’ Her host smiled immediately. ‘A very beautiful work.’
‘You’ve heard it done?’
‘Certainly. Several times. It was done more often in my youth than nowadays. The most beautiful Fiora was — ’
‘Emilia Trangoni,’ said Joanna quickly. ‘Isn’t that right? Did you actually hear her?’
‘Oh, yes. She was unforgettable in the part,’ Justin Wilmore said quietly. ‘In an odd way, you remind me a little of her.’
‘Do I?’ Joanna was pleased and flattered beyond measure.; ‘In what way?’
‘Partly the shape of the face, I suppose. And you are much the same build. Besides — ’ the faintly reflective smile suggested that he was delving back into the past with a rare nostalgic pleasure — ‘there is the same quality of what I can only call questing innocence, if you don’t mind my being somewhat personal.’
‘I don’t mind a bit. I’m flattered and charmed.’ Joanna declared sincerely. ‘But how — how very perceptive of you to recognize such a subtle quality. And to have remembered it from another singer so long ago.’
‘Oh, one does remember these things,’ her host assured her, still with that reflective smile. ‘One sees them so seldom, and one should never forget them. The moment you mentioned the part of Fiora I realized why it was you reminded me of Emilia — of Trangoni. It is a quality that belongs essentially to Fiora too, that questing innocence. She is intensely innocent, although she commits a sin. That is the essence of her. — But I am interrupting you. You were saying that there is to be a performance of this work at your music college.’
‘You were not interrupting me, really,’ Joanna assured him eagerly. ‘You were talking exactly as I hoped you would talk. You see, I’m to sing Fiora, and I want desperately to get the full measure of the part — to understand the character in depth. Anything you can tell me about the role — or the singers who did the part in other days — would fascinate me and help me. And if you have anything in the way of photographs or reviews — ’
‘I have them all,’ he said musingly. ‘All that related to Trangoni, that is. And photographs of some of the other famous exponents of the part. It is, as you probably know, the kind of role that can be sung by a dramatic soprano or a lyric. Ponselle, Muzio, Bori — they all sang it in their time.’
‘And you heard them all?’ Joanna caught her breath.
‘In my youth — yes.’
‘But Trangoni was your favourite?’
‘She came a little later in my life.’ Again that thoughtful smile, as though an old film were unrolling before his charmed vision. ‘She had not the magnificent voice of any of those three, I suppose. But the difference was that I was in love with her.’
‘You were?’ Insensibly, Joanna’s voice softened. ‘How — how good of you to tell me. It somehow brings her quite near, when you talk of her like that. She died very tragically, didn’t she?’
‘Yes. She was killed in a riding accident on her thirtieth birthday. Just beyond that row of trees.’ He pointed out of the window to a glade of trees that covered a nearby hill.
‘You mean — here? in this very district?’ Joanna felt her throat tighten with excitement and pity.
‘Yes. They brought her here. She died an hour later in this room.’
‘Mr. Wilmore! I’m most terribly sorry. I — I had no idea that I was arousing such memories. It’s — it’s like intruding into your private affairs. I didn’t mean - ’
‘Don’t apologize, my dear.’ He put out his hand and touched hers reassuringly. ‘Do you suppose I don’t like to talk about her? It was all of thirty-five years ago, and I’m an old man now. Old people like to retrace their most cherished memories, you know. In some indefinable way, you recalled her as soon as you came into the room. To talk about her to you seems quite — logical. I hope you don’t find it at all embarrassing.’
Joanna shook her head and swallowed a slight lump in her throat.
‘On the contrary. It’s — it’s a sort of rare privilege to hear you talk like this. Could you tell me a little of how you remember her in the role of Fiora?’
‘Of course. But first you must tell me how you see the part. One should never superimpose one interpretation on another.’
‘Well, she — as you said, in a way she is essentially innocent, isn’t she? She has been forced into marriage while she loved someone else, and so she feels justified in still meeting her lover, although her conscience troubles her.’
‘She is innocent, though her conscience troubles her,’ he agreed. ‘I suppose that is the basic driving force behind her actions. And how about her relationship with the old man — her father-in-law?’
‘Oh, she’s afraid of him. Deathly afraid!’ Joanna actually shuddered slightly. ‘Because he knows, doesn’t he?’
‘No, he suspects. But because he is blind he cannot absolutely confirm his suspicions. And in his way he loves her.’
‘As a man?’ asked Joanna quickly.
‘Possibly. He has been a great, vigorous, successful warrior in his day, remember. He is jealous on behalf of his son, but possibly on his own behalf too. Some play it one way, some another. Pinza was the greatest I ever saw in the part. He gave the most terrifying impression of being jealous of his own son as well as for him. It is in this tremendous conflict of feeling that he finally strangles her.’
‘Yes,’ Joanna said. ‘Yes, I see. You make it all so real. What was Trangoni’s greatest moment?’
‘Oddly enough, at a point when she was not singing, lovely though her voice was. You remember when her blind father-in-law finds her on the battlements at night, and she manages to give a fairly satisfactory reason for being there. He is not entirely convinced and, taking her face in his hands, he feels all over it trying to decide if she is innocent or not. In those moments Trangoni gave the impression that every inch of her flesh crawled with terror and guilt, and yet she managed to look like an innocent girl. Great acting — great acting.’
‘Then she was a very fine actress too?’
‘Yes. Perhaps a finer actress than singer. I don’t know. She never reached her full development vocally. And anyway, I am not an unprejudiced judge.’ He smiled that very charming smile again, and Joanna thought how good-looking he must have been thirty-five years ago. Much better looking than that horrid, aggressive nephew of his, she thought in passing.: Then she dismissed Elliot Cheam from her thoughts again. He fitted nowhere into this romantic, touching story of the past.
‘Would you like to see something in the way of photographs and costumes now?’ her host asked.
‘You have her costumes too?’ breathed Joanna in awe.
‘Yes, many of them. Certainly her Fiora costumes.; Come with me and I’ll show you.’
She followed him in something of a daze, through the house and into a large, light annexe which had obviously been built on to the house at a much later date than the original building. Here, ranged in drawers and cupboards, there were scores and programmes and photographs, all meticulously catalogued. He opened a few and displayed to her some of the treasures of his collection, and then took down
what was obviously one of his very special folders.
‘Here are the first-night programmes of everything Trangoni ever sang,’ he explained, and it struck Joanna that the collection was pitifully small — the highlights of a short, short career. Reverently she turned the leaves, catching sight of magical names like La Scala, Covent Garden, Teatro Reale Roma. Then, as she silently returned the folder to him, he took down a photograph and gave it into her hands.
It is rather rarely that one can see a likeness to oneself in another person. But as Joanna stared down at the half smiling girl who looked back at her, she said impulsively, ‘I see what you mean! She is a little like me. Except that she looks a personality and I don’t,’ she added honestly.
‘Not yet, perhaps. But you will.’ Justin Wilmore looked amused. ‘And of course her eyes were darker than yours.’
‘Mine aren’t dark at all,’ Joanna said exactly. ‘They’re grey.’
‘But the lashes are very dark,’ he replied without even looking at her, so that she had the extraordinary conviction that he already carried an accurate impression of her in his mind. ‘Here are one or two other photographs of her in various roles. As Mimi — she was a charming Mimi — and as Nedda. And here is one of her as Desdemona. And — let me see — yes, here is the photograph of her as Fiora.’
‘Oh! That’s just as Fiora should look,’ exclaimed Joanna delightedly. ‘I see what you mean! I see what you mean. And what a gorgeous costume. And the way her hair is caught in that jeweled net. It’s lovely!’
‘Would you like to see the costume?’ He put down the file of photographs and led the way to a large press at the end of the room, and when he flung open the double doors Joanna gasped. Her delighted gaze rested on one glorious stage costume after another, while ranged on shelves at the side were costume jewellery, belts, shoes, fans and all the essential additions which make up an arresting whole on a stage.
Justin Wilmore lifted down a graceful dress, with a slight swirling train, which hung a little limply from the hanger as though crying out for a young, girlish figure on which to display itself. The dress shaded from pale flesh-pink at the close neckline to almost blood-coloured beads on the train.
Remembered Serenade (Warrender Saga Book 9) Page 2
