Remembered Serenade (Warrender Saga Book 9)

by Mary Burchell

  They drove for some time without further conversation, but the silence was oddly companionable. Then Joanna said, ‘You needn’t drive me right home, you know. If you drop me at a convenient Tube station, I can quite easily — ’

  ‘I’m driving you right home,’ he assured her. ‘Where exactly is “home”, by the way?’

  She told him, and added, ‘I live there with my mother.’

  ‘Yes, I remember.: You told me,’ he said, and she felt disproportionately gratified that he had remembered that detail about her. ‘You brought her with you to the theatre, didn’t you? You should have come backstage with her and introduced us.’

  ‘It was raining, otherwise I might have. But, if it interests you, she noticed you when you came on the stage with the author at the end.’

  ‘Did she?’ He looked gratified in his turn. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She asked if you were the bald one — ’

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘ — or the good-looking one.’

  ‘Come, that’s better. And how did you answer that?’ he inquired with interest.

  ‘I said you were the good-looking one, if one would call you that.’

  ‘That’s a nasty crack.’

  ‘And my mother said that most women would.’

  ‘I like the sound of your mother,’ he declared. ‘Will it be too late to come in and meet her when we arrive?’

  ‘I expect so,’ said Joanna in her least encouraging tone.

  But when they arrived at the small, pleasant house where Joanna and her mother lived, fate obligingly played into Elliot’s hands. For Mrs. Ransome, looking extraordinarily pretty and appealing in the lamplight, came running out to lean her arms on the gate like someone in a charming, if slightly old-fashioned musical comedy.

  ‘Hello, darling,’ she called eagerly. ‘Did you have a wonderful time?’

  ‘Wonderful,’ Joanna assured her. ‘This is Mr. Elliot Cheam, Mother. You remember seeing him on the stage the other night.’

  ‘I was the good-looking one, Mrs. Ransome, not the bald one,’ Elliot amplified, smiling down at her. Whereat she fluttered her long eyelashes at him. And he was so delighted by this demonstration of an almost completely lost art that he exclaimed, ‘Do that again!’

  ‘Do what again?’ Mrs. Ransome asked, while Joanne almost gaped to see this immediate rapport established between her charming, silly mother and the not very approachable Elliot.

  ‘Flutter your eyelashes. The only other woman I know who can do that is my own mother,’ Elliot explained. ‘And it doesn’t come naturally to her as it does to you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Mrs. Ransome, enchanted. ‘Would you like to come in and have some coffee after your long drive?’

  Elliot said he would love to, before Joanna could intervene. So they all went into the house where, in point of fact, Joanna made the coffee while her mother and Elliot Cheam discussed whether the old-fashioned feminine grace of the past were instinctive or carefully cultivated.

  Over the coffee Mrs. Ransome noticed her daughter again and asked about her meeting with the Warrenders.

  ‘Did you sing to him, dear? and what did he have to say?’

  ‘I did sing to him,’ Joanna admitted. ‘And,’ she added with grim accuracy, ‘he said mine was not a great or memorable voice. Perhaps not even an operatic voice at all.’

  ‘Stupid man,’ said her mother, dismissing one of the greatest conductors of the day with splendid subjectivity. ‘No need for you to think any more about him.’

  ‘Joanna has to think about him,’ put in Elliot firmly. ‘He is coming to hear her in “The Love of Three Kings”.’

  ‘Why? if he can’t appreciate her?’ Mrs. Ransome asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ explained Elliot, as though he and

  Joanna were as one in this. ‘We find it most intriguing.’

  ‘Probably he really thinks she is good, but is jealous because she is better than his wife,’ suggested Mrs. Ransome, reducing both her daughter and Elliot Cheam to momentary silence by this staggering theory.

  ‘I hardly think it could be that,’ murmured Elliot finally. While Joanna said indulgently, ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Mother. He said that in some way I interested him. As an artist, of course,’ she added hastily, before her mother could put forward any further absurdity. ‘But he wouldn’t say in what way. He put it that he would have to see me on a stage first, and that’s why he’s coming to the performance.’

  ‘A lot of mystery about nothing, it seems to me,’ declared her mother cheerfully. ‘But I suppose if you are Oscar Warrender you feel you should behave like the Oracle of Wherever-it-was from time to time. Anyway, we shall see for ourselves on the night, shan’t we?’ She appealed smilingly to Elliot, who said regretfully,

  ‘I shan’t, I’m afraid. Joanna says I can’t come.’

  ‘Nonsense! Of course you can come,’ replied Mrs. Ransome. ‘I invite you — and I shall expect you.’

  ‘Mrs. Ransome,’ said Elliot, getting up, ‘if you hadn’t already made my evening by fluttering your eyelashes at me, you would have made it now. I must go, but thank you for the coffee, the welcome and the invitation.’

  Then he kissed Mrs. Ransome’s hand with great panache, said a more casual good night to Joanna and took his leave.

  ‘What a nice man!’ Joanna’s mother said when he had gone. ‘I don’t know why you started by disliking him and criticizing him.’

  ‘It’s too long a story to recapitulate now.’ Joanna smothered a yawn. ‘But he did suggest a peace pact earlier today, and I admit I’m glad to be on good terms with him, after all. Do you really like him, Mother?’ ‘Yes, very much. Don’t you?’

  ‘I think — ’ Joanna smiled slowly — ‘that perhaps I do. I didn’t really mean him to come to the performance, and his being there will make me nervous. But somehow I’m glad you asked him.’

  ‘I have a sort of instinct about these things,’ declared her mother happily, and Joanna saw no reason why she should dispute this.

  During the remaining three weeks before the performance she worked devotedly on the role of Fiora. Most of the time she managed to push into the back of her mind what Oscar Warrender had said about her voice not being an operatic one, and to remember only that, contrary to anything that anyone might have expected, he intended to be there on the great night because, in his own words, she ‘interested him profoundly’.

  Joanna herself breathed not a word at the College about the likelihood of the famous Warrender attending. But somehow some hint of it must have got out, because when she came to the final rehearsal, she found several of the cast in a state of what could only be described as blissful jitters.

  ‘Have you heard?’ Martha Singleton, the other Fiora, said to her. ‘The rumour is going round that Sir Oscar Warrender will be coming to the first night.’

  Just in time Joanna stopped herself from saying, ‘No — the second night, I think,’ and merely contented her-ioo self with asking where Martha had heard this story.

  ‘Joyce Feldon got it from Dr. Evans’s secretary. Apparently two tickets were sent to him, by request.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ suggested Joanna somewhat disingenuously, ‘it’s just a case of complimentary tickets being sent, whether he uses them or not.’

  ‘No. They were sent by request. That means they were requested by him, I take it.’

  ‘And Joyce was sure they were for the first night?’

  ‘Why, of course. People like that always come to hear the first cast,’ replied Martha with almost naive self-confidence.

  Joanna was generous enough to feel sorry that there was a disappointment in store for Martha. But she would have been superhuman if she had not exulted a little in her certainty that Warrender was not coming to hear Martha.

  The first performance was, fortunately, a well-deserved success for most of the cast, and any disappointment that might have been engendered by the non-appearance of the famous conductor was swallowed up
in the enthusiastic reception by the audience and the favourable notices which the performance received from the Press the next morning.

  ‘Yes, very nice, dear,’ said Joanna’s mother when Joanna asked if she had read the notices. ‘But of course everyone is really waiting for tonight's performance.’

  ‘They aren’t, you know,’ Joanna felt bound to point out. ‘It’s usually the first performance which arouses most interest.’

  ‘Then why is Oscar Warrender coming to the second performance?’ inquired her mother, unanswerably. At which Joanna most illogically felt a queer sense of chill emptiness somewhere in the pit of her stomach at the frightful thought that perhaps he might change his mind and not bother, after all, to come to either performance.

  Her sense of self-discipline, however, enabled her to ignore her fears and doubts for most of the day and to concentrate on doing her very best, whoever might come or not come. And she was cheered, as well as touched, to find on her arrival in her dressing-room that there, waiting for her, was a small but exquisite basket of flowers from Mr. Wilmore and some very handsome roses from Elliot Cheam.

  ‘Somebody somewhere remembered you, as the flower-shop advertisements say,’ observed a fellow student who had looked in to wish her luck. ‘Who sent that lovely little basket of flowers? Very choice, I must say.’

  ‘A friend of mine called Justin Wilmore. He has a famous — ’

  ‘The Justin Wilmore?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose one could call him that.’

  ‘He must be the distinguished-looking elderly man who arrived a few minutes ago with the War-renders.’

  ‘The — Warrenders?’ Joanna gave a little gasp of mingled relief and alarm. ‘They did come, then!’

  ‘Yes. Didn’t you know? Oh, perhaps I shouldn’t have told you. Will it make you nervous?’

  ‘Not more nervous than I am already,’ replied Joanna with a shaky little laugh. And then her friend repeated her good wishes and left.

  The last quarter of an hour before the rise of the, curtain was, naturally, nerve-racking. But when the actual moment of her entry on the stage came Joanna conquered her sense of tension, recalled with almost loving tenderness the girl who had made this part so much her own, and told herself she would try to be a worthy, if humble, successor. From there she slipped instinctively into the personality of the unhappy Fiora — and before she knew where she was she was on the stage and the drama was unfolding.

  Fiora’s music is quite exacting, technically speaking, but almost more important is the projection of the drama and the subtle shift from mood to mood. It was a task peculiarly suited to Joanna’s talents and, once she had conquered her initial nervousness, she found herself almost exulting in the challenge.

  At the end of the first act the applause was at least as hearty as it had been on the first night. And the bass — the only complete professional in the cast — said to Joanna, ‘You’re better than the girl last night, good though her voice is.’

  In the interval her mother came to the dressing-room, sparkling with reflected glory.

  ‘You’re splendid, darling,’ she declared. ‘Everyone is saying so. Elliot Cheam — nice fellow — introduced me to his uncle, and the old gentleman said you reminded him of the best Fiora he ever heard. Even that silly Oscar Warrender applauded, I noticed.’

  ‘Mother, he is NOT silly. He only happens to be the finest conductor in the country — possibly in the world — if you must know. And the mere fact that he’s here is the sort of compliment most singers would give their eye teeth for.’

  ‘Not eye teeth, dear. They’re too noticeable. Back teeth perhaps,’ conceded her mother goodhumouredly. ‘Anyway, don’t get cross and temperamental, even if you are singing just like a prima donna. Keep on as well as you’re doing now, and you can’t fail. — Oh, who sent those lovely roses?’

  ‘Elliot Cheam. But go back now, darling. I have to think myself into the second act. It’s the real test.’

  Her mother went immediately. And Joanna sat there at her dressing-table, put her head in her hands and thought of the guilt and the innocence and the tragedy of Fiora.

  Fortunately, the bass was an excellent actor as well as singer, with something of the terrifying power needed for the old blind king. He was pleased to find that, in a mere student, he had a Fiora who could play up to him. And the tremendous scene of mounting terror and horror, culminating in the murder of the guilty girl, was played with such conviction by them both that, as he slowly groped his way from the stage, carrying her sagging body, the silence in the theatre was absolute. Indeed, for half a minute after the last chords had sounded the almost stunned silence continued, and then was succeeded by the kind of applause rarely heard at a students’ performance.

  In the opinion of Mrs. Ransome the third act could be nothing but an anticlimax, since all her girl had to do was to lie there ‘looking very dead’ as her mother put it. But the rest of the audience seemed to appreciate it, and the performance ended in a general atmosphere of congratulation and good feeling.

  Oscar Warrender exchanged a few gracious words with the Principal of the College, several students in the audience asked Anthea for her autograph, and two very bold ones asked for his. But when the Principal went on to introduce Mrs. Ransome as the mother of the gifted heroine, the famous conductor acknowledged the introduction with almost the minimum degree of politeness which the occasion warranted.

  Mrs. Ransome, however, was not going to leave it at that. In her view, her daughter had been done less than justice on a previous occasion, and with this very much in mind, she said boldly,

  ‘And what did you think of her tonight, Sir Oscar?’

  ‘She is very gifted,’ replied Warrender, without specifying in what way, and then he turned away, extricated Anthea from a buzzing group of admirers, and bore her off without more ado.

  Slightly deflated, though she was not quite sure why, Mrs. Ransome went backstage to Joanna’s dressing-room, where she found Mr. Wilmore displaying what she considered to be a much more intelligent reaction than that of Sir Oscar. He was frankly delighted and moved by Joanna’s performance, and did not hesitate to say so.

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without all the help you gave me,’ Joanna said sincerely.

  ‘My dear child, it is your own talent and hard work that are responsible,’ he replied. ‘I hope if there are other occasions when my collection might be of use to you, you will let me know. Even without that, please come and see me sometimes when you visit your aunt.’

  Joanna said most willingly that indeed she would. And then Elliot came in, with apologies for the fact that he had been detained by friends he had not seen for some time. He added very real congratulations to those of his uncle.

  ‘I had no idea you were so good,’ he said frankly. CI don’t know why Warrender said it was not an operatic voice. I should have thought it was, and I wish you lots of luck in what ought to be a good career.’

  ‘Sir Oscar was there, wasn’t he?’ Joanna tried to make that sound calm and not too eager.

  ‘Yes. He and Anthea were mobbed by some of the students just as they were leaving.’

  ‘They’ve left already, then?’ She tried not to let that sound disappointed. ‘Did he say anything to you about the performance?’

  ‘No.’ She thought Elliot was sorry that he had to say that. And he added, a trifle too quickly, ‘He almost never goes backstage to see anyone, you know.’

  ‘Oh, no! I didn’t expect that,’ said Joanna, who naturally had hoped against hope that the famous conductor would sweep in and tell her she was magnificent.

  ‘He said you were very gifted,’ her mother put in.

  ‘Did he, Mother?’ Joanna turned eagerly to her. ‘Do you mean he volunteered the opinion — just like that?’

  ‘No. I don’t think he’s generous enough to volunteer praise,’ replied Mrs. Ransome censoriously. ‘I asked him his opinion outright. I thought he deserved that.’

  ‘Oh - ’ the
air of eagerness faded — ‘I see. Well, that’s not quite the same thing, is it?’

  Then she turned to the mirror and began to remove her make-up. And at this hint Elliot and his uncle took their leave. One or two other people drifted in and out, all with nothing but praise for Joanna’s performance, and she managed somehow to look and sound elated and happy.

  She was elated and happy, of course. She knew she had done her very best, and she had been a resounding success. — But Oscar Warrender had left the theatre without a word to her and, try as she would, she could not help feeling that somehow, somewhere she had failed.

  Joanna made every effort to hide from her mother the fact that the evening had in some way disappointed her. She said she was tired, that she was feeling the reaction after all the work and strain, and that was why she could not eat much supper and why she really just wanted to go to bed.

  ‘Of course, my dear — of course!’ Her mother seemed to regard this as the perfectly understandable behaviour of a nearly fledged prima donna. Indeed, she would possibly have been disappointed if Joanna had shown her usual good appetite and cheerful disposition.

  ‘Being murdered — even on the stage — must take it out of one,’ was her original explanation. ‘You go to bed, darling, and I’ll bring you something nice on a tray. Just some soup, perhaps, and a little bit of cold chicken. And then you shall have a good night’s rest, and when you wake up you’ll have forgotten all about it.’

  Presumably she meant all about being murdered. Anyway, Joanna accepted her suggestion thankfully, had her light supper in bed and then, to her subsequent surprise, fell straight asleep and slept dreamlessly until she woke to find her mother shaking her gently and saying,

  ‘I’m so sorry, Joanna dear, but could you wake up and take a phone call? He’s very insistent?’

  ‘Who is?’ muttered Joanna. ‘And what is the time?’

  ‘It’s ten o’clock. And I don’t know who it is on the phone. Someone very sure of himself. If it didn’t seem so improbable, I’d say it was that Oscar Warrender, but - ’

  ‘Mother!’ Joanna was instantly wide awake and out of bed, groping for her dressing-gown which she flung around her as she ran downstairs.