Music of the Heart (The Warrender Saga No. 6)

by Mary Burchell

  ‘Yes,’ said his brother, and that was all.

  They turned then into a steep, winding drive, where the trees grew so thickly that they met overhead, making a sort of deep green tunnel. Most of the fading afternoon light was shut out and, partly because of this, partly because she sensed a sort of cool unfriendliness in die man beside her, Gail felt unaccountably depressed, as though this week-end were not going to be at all the party of pleasure she had once anticipated.

  The momentary feeling left her, however, as they emerged into the wide gravel sweep before the house itself, which was even more beautiful at close quarters than it had seemed from the road.

  As Oliver helped her out of the car, a door at the top of the short flight of steps opened, and a manservant stood ready to receive them. Oliver kept a friendly, reassuring hand under her elbow as they mounted the steps. But Marc—busy either with the car or the luggage—apparently took no further interest in her arrival.

  ‘Is my mother home yet, Eliot?’ Oliver inquired.

  ‘Madam is in the drawing-room,’ the man replied.

  Then come along and meet her now,’ Oliver said to Gail. And he conducted her towards the back of the house and into the loveliest room she had ever seen.

  It was immensely wide, and on the side facing the door long, beautifully proportioned windows looked out on to a terrace and then on to a wonderful view of rolling, wooded country. It was more an elegant music-room than a conventional drawing-room, with a grand piano at either end and a harp, with a beautifully inlaid frame, in one comer. On the walls were several superb eighteenth-century prints showing groups of people playing chamber music.

  Of all this Gail took in no more than a superficial impression in that first moment, her chief interest being naturally for the sole occupant of the room—a tall, graceful woman who turned from one of the windows at their entry, with a movement so flowing, so all-in-one-piece, as Gail put it to herself, that it was a delight to see.

  As she came forward to take Gail’s hand, Oliver’s description of her as the most beautiful thing he had ever seen returned irresistibly. And Gail thought she could not have quarrelled with that claim.

  Although she must, Gail knew, be somewhere in her late forties at least, she seemed quite ageless. And if one tried to define her looks she was, in some odd way, almost Edwardian in type. Intensely feminine, unhurriedly graceful and sure in her movements, she had a faintly appealing air which was purely a surface matter. For beneath that engagingly vague exterior was someone, Gail felt certain, who knew exactly what she wanted and also how to get it.

  She greeted her young visitor in a cool, beautifully pitched voice, but the handclasp was unexpectedly warm and firm. She retained Gail’s hand in hers as she turned to her son to offer a beautiful cheek to kiss and, gazing at her in frank admiration, Gail realized that she was studying her hostess as though she were someone on a stage.

  That gleaming dark chestnut hair—the same shade as that of her elder son—was dressed on top of her head in a sort of coronet, a style which belonged to no special fashion or period and was somehow peculiarly her own. It inescapably suggested queenliness, as did her unhurried, graceful movements. And it occurred to Gail that what she and Oliver were being treated to was a superb performance of a devoted mother welcoming the girl her son had just brought home.

  She dismissed the word ‘performance’ from her mind almost as soon as it formed, feeling it was manifestly unfair to attribute anything in the nature of an act to someone who could smile so sweetly and hold one’s hand so warmly. But she thought she understood why both the Bannister sons tended to smile half indulgently when they spoke of their mother.

  After a few kind words, Mrs. Bannister herself took Gail upstairs to her room, which looked out over the same splendid view as the drawing-room.

  ‘I hope you will be comfortable, dear.’ Her thoughts seemed only half on Gail by now. ‘Come down when you feel like it. There will be drinks in the drawing-room any time you like, and a few neighbours usually drop in before dinner. Are you interested in music?’

  ‘I sing,’ said Gail diffidently.

  ‘You sing? How interesting,’ said Mrs. Bannister as though singing were an unusual form of musical activity. ‘Professionally? or just for your own pleasure?’

  ‘I’m in my last year of study, and I’ve also done a few engagements, mostly in oratorio. But—’

  ‘You must sing to us after dinner,’ said Mrs. Bannister, with vague kindliness rather than enthusiasm. Then she went away, leaving Gail with the odd impression that the subject might never be mentioned again.

  Well, she had not come there to sing.

  Or had she?

  It had certainly not been in her mind when she accepted that invitation of Oliver’s. But at that time she had had no idea that he was one of the Bannisters. Gail was not one to gear all her actions to the one ambitious thought of furthering her career. Some people did just that, she knew. Every contact, every so-called friendship was weighed and used with the one idea in mind. That was not her way, and never could have been. But it would have been disingenuous to pretend she was not aware that the Bannisters were the kind of people who represented powerful influence in the musical world. A word from Quentin Bannister—or, in her own case, perhaps more particularly Marcus Bannister—could not fail to be of immense advantage in any career.

  She wished she had not found Marcus Bannister so difficult of approach. After those few first pleasant words of polite welcome there had been no point of contact, nothing of his brother’s easy, expansive manner.

  ‘But then one can’t say very much on a short drive,’ she told herself reassuringly. ‘Probably later, when we can talk about the things which really interest us—’

  She left it at that. And, having changed into a dress which she hoped was suitable evening wear in the rather stately home of the Bannisters, she surveyed herself in the long mirror. The mirror reflected not only Gail but the room behind her, and she was momentarily a little dismayed by the contrast between the simplicity of the one and the elegance of the other.

  But perhaps she was being hyper-critical. It was true that nothing in her appearance matched the subdued luxury of her surroundings, where everything spoke—or discreetly whispered—of money lavishly but discriminatingly spent. But her dress, though unpretentious, was tasteful and becoming and everything about her was well groomed, from her luxuriant auburn hair to her uneccentric shoes.

  ‘She’s a nice clean child—which is such a relief nowadays,’ she had once heard Madame Marburger say of her. And if this would have been modest praise in other days, the compliment was not without significance in the self-consciously scruffy age in which Gail lived.

  On closer inspection, she was pleased to see that the sea-green of her dress brought out unusual greenish lights in her hazel eyes and that, in contrast, her fine clear skin looked a warm, almost creamy colour.

  ‘It will do,’ she said aloud, and then she went downstairs with a rather delicious sense of excited anticipation.

  Since there seemed no one about to give her any directions, she went straight into the drawing-room. And here she found Marc Bannister at one of the pianos, idly trying out a phrase or two of something she did not recognize.

  He got up immediately and came forward, but she said hastily and rather confusedly, ‘Please don’t let me interrupt you.’

  ‘You don’t interrupt me,’ he told her. ‘I was only doing a sort of musical doodling. What will you have to drink?’

  She let him pour her a sherry, sought in her mind for a fruitful topic of conversation, and came up with the subject which was naturally uppermost in her mind.

  ‘I read about your new opera in the train coming down.’

  ‘Did you?’ There was nothing conversationally helpful in the cool politeness of that.

  ‘I didn’t know anything about it until then,’ she went on.

  ‘No?’

  She very much disliked the note of frank sc
epticism in that one monosyllable, and she longed to tell him it was pretty conceited of him to suppose that one must have heard of his blessed opera.

  Gail sipped her drink nervously. And then, as it became necessary to say something, and apparently he thought she ought to know about his opera, she went on with the subject.

  ‘It’s an intriguing title,’ she ventured. ‘ “The Exile”.’

  ‘That was the librettist, David Eversleigh. I was very fortunate to have such a good librettist.’

  This was better. At least he had volunteered a whole statement!

  ‘It’s pretty important, isn’t it?’

  ‘To have a good librettist? It’s vital.’ His feelings were evidently so intense on this matter that he became really animated. ‘Half the operas written today are just nonstarters because of an unprofessional and pretentious libretto. Many of them have the kind of theme that would make quite a good short story or essay. But there is nothing stage-worthy about them at all.’

  ‘You mean—’ suddenly she smiled in mischievous agreement—‘the kind of thing which is written up pompously beforehand, “explained” by one involved party or another, and finally given the kiss of death by being described as profoundly interesting and thought-provoking.’

  ‘Exactly.’ For the first time he laughed, and she watched with sheer pleasure the way his face and his whole personality seemed to change. ‘All very meritorious and unemotional, but it just doesn’t add up to an opera.’

  ‘And “The Exile” really is stage-worthy, I take it?’ She looked at him with genuine sympathy and interest.

  ‘I think so. It’s always difficult to tell with any piece of theatre before you’ve actually got it on to a stage.’

  ‘Is there some probability that it will be produced quite soon?’

  ‘I hope so.’ Somehow he sounded cautious again.

  ‘And the heroine’s role is a genuine contralto one?’

  ‘Yes.’ He turned away to pour himself a drink, and she realized they were back to monosyllabic replies.

  She wanted to say, ‘You needn’t be panic-stricken. I’m not after your silly old heroine’s part.’

  But of course she could say no such thing. Anyway, it would not have been entirely true. For while she had initially accepted this week-end invitation in all ignorance—and innocence—how could she possibly be indifferent to the discovery that she had come to the fountain-head, so to speak, of a new and already much-discussed opera?

  While she was thinking what else she could say without giving offence, they were interrupted by the entrance of Oliver. And with him came his father.

  Quentin Bannister, then at the height of his fame, was nothing like so immediately attractive as either his wife or his sons. A stocky man, with a shock of grey hair, he looked more like a prosperous fanner than the popular idea of a musician. But when he spoke Gail discovered that he had one of the most attractive speaking voices she had ever heard. He also, she realized almost immediately, had that elusive gift called star quality. Why she could not have said, but he instantly and without effort became the centre of the scene, the director of the conversation, and the magnet which drew everyone’s interest and attention.

  He had none of his wife’s vagueness, and certainly none of the sceptical wariness which his elder son had displayed. On the contrary, he greeted Gail with, ‘Oliver tells me you have a very good contralto voice and that Elsa Marburger thinks well of you. We must hear you later on.’

  ‘Do you know Madame Marburger?’ Gail was charmed.

  ‘Of course. Excellent teacher. Had a very serviceable voice herself in her time. I heard her first in “The Kingdom” at the Three Choirs Festival, thirty years or more ago. Took that high entry so well that I thought it must be a fluke at the time. But I heard her do it again on other occasions. It was perfect placement and no fluke. Has she passed on some of her admirable technique to you?’

  ‘I—I should like to think so.’ Gail smiled at him. ‘Well, so should I. We’ll hear for ourselves later on.’ Then he turned to his elder son and said, ‘That’s a stupid bit about you in the evening paper.’

  Which one? They were both kind enough to mention me,’ replied Marc imperturbably.

  ‘Were they? I only saw one,’ exclaimed Gail, and then blushed at having broken into someone else’s conversation.

  ‘Where they quoted you as saying you’d rather not have “The Exile” performed at all than have the wrong vocal colour for the heroine.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t actually say that,’ Marc replied. ‘But it’s very nearly true, I suppose.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Quentin Bannister’s beautiful voice suddenly became very bracing and forthright. ‘No musical work is worth much so long as it exists only on paper.’

  ‘You mean that one should make any sort of compromise just to get a hearing?’ his son said disdainfully.

  ‘No, of course not. I mean that only a fool ruins a practical proposition by sticking out for the smallest detail.’

  ‘I don’t call the right type of voice for my heroine the smallest detail,’ retorted Marc disagreeably.

  At which his father said, ‘Pshaw!’ which delighted Gail who had never heard anyone say that before and, like most of us, had sometimes wondered how it was really pronounced.

  ‘Where’s your mother?’ Quentin Bannister addressed both his sons impartially. But she answered for herself by coming into the room at that moment, looking strangely like someone out of a fairy tale in a trailing silver-grey dress of indeterminate design.

  ‘I’m here, dear,’ she said, in that low, charming voice of hers. But even without her words Gail would have known she was there simply by looking at the change in Quentin Bannister’s expression. On to his healthy, strong-featured face had come a slight, wondering smile, and Gail realized that even now, nearly thirty years after he had married her, Daisy Bannister was still the darling, ultimate miracle to her famous husband.

  ‘Put on some more lights, Marc,’ she said. ‘I think the Forresters have just arrived. And—I forgot to tell you, darling, and I hope you won’t mind—they’re bringing Lena Dorman with them.’

  ‘I don’t mind in the least,’ replied Marc, in a tone which meant that he did, Gail could not help thinking.

  He put on more lights, however, so that the lovely room sprang into life like a superb stage set. Momentarily, it gave Gail an even more pronounced feeling of taking part in some delightful but improbable play. Then half a dozen newcomers entered the room, to be greeted warmly by the two older Bannisters and with varying degrees of pleasure or mere courtesy by Oliver and his brother.

  As is usual on these occasions, Gail failed to register everyone’s name. But she identified the Forresters as a pleasant, middle-aged couple—rather unexpected companions for the striking girl who accompanied them. Lena Dorman—Gail found the name faintly familiar, though she was not sure why—was not strictly beautiful, but there was something arresting about her, partly because of her air of cool confidence which almost demanded attention and interest. No single feature of her face was outstandingly lovely, but she had a wonderful mobility of expression which made it, Gail knew instantly, what one calls ‘a stage face’.

  She went almost at once to Marc who stood, slightly withdrawn, by one of the pianos.

  ‘Hello, Marc. Congratulations on the new work.’

  ‘Not before it has stood the test of an actual performance,’ he replied coolly. ‘How’s the German scene?’

  ‘Musically speaking, you mean?’

  ‘Of course. Nothing else interests you, does it?’

  ‘No.’ There was an odd touch of defiance in her reply. ‘For me the German musical scene is fine. I never looked back after the Cologne “Naomi”.’

  ‘I believe you,’ he said, still in that very cool tone.

  Then Gail’s attention was claimed by Oliver and she overheard no more of what she felt was an interesting and significant conversation.

  ‘None of them will stay v
ery long,’ Oliver told her quietly. ‘I hope you’re not finding this tiring.’

  ‘Not in the least,’ she assured him. ‘I’m fascinated. Who is the girl talking to your brother? I caught her name, but I can’t quite place her.’

  ‘She’s very much an up and coming soprano. Marc chose her himself for his cantata “Naomi” when it had its world premiere in Cologne.’

  ‘And that really launched her?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say quite that. She was already beginning to make a name for herself. But I suppose it gave her a valuable boost. At any rate, as a result of “Naomi” she got in with one of the big international agents. She’s been his white-headed girl ever since.’

  ‘I—see.’ Again Gail glanced with interest at the couple by the piano. ‘Was your brother rather—sweet on her?’ she inquired on impulse.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Oliver looked genuinely surprised. ‘He’s not much interested in anything but his music, you know.’

  Then Mrs. Forrester came up and said pleasantly that she had just heard that Gail was a singer and a pupil of Elsa Marburger.

  Gail made the usual polite replies to the usual questions, and then asked if Mrs. Forrester were a singer herself.

  ‘Oh, no, my dear! It’s shaming to have to admit it in this company, but I don’t sing or play a note. My niece—’ she nodded in the direction of the two by the piano—‘is the only real performer in our family. But being neighbours of the Bannisters keeps us very much in the musical scene. I can at least claim that I am a devoted and reasonably knowledgeable listener.’

  Gail decided that she liked Mrs. Forrester and said, very truly, that no performer, great or small, could afford to underestimate a good listener.

  ‘Well, that’s true,’ Mrs. Forrester laughed. ‘I hope the Bannisters will bring you over to our place some time tomorrow.’