A Nightingale in the Sycamore

by Jane Beaufort

  Mr. Enrico rolled his toffee-brown eyes at the ceiling beams, and avowed sadly that he sometimes felt most unhappy about the rate of progress of the operetta.

  But, that was Charles all over! Charles was wonderful, gifted, a delight in himself because he could be so charming when he chose, and one sensed at all times his greatness—the greatness that was in him! One had only to watch his hands—those nervous, beautiful, sensitive hands—hovering as though compelled above the keyboard of a piano to recognise that here was a man with something unusual in his possession, something that enchanted. He had the gift of unlocking a door to enchantment, to purest magic, and it was unalloyed bliss to be with him on those occasions when he sat at a piano. His audiences on such occasions all but ceased to breathe while he remained at the piano.

  Oh, yes, Charles was undoubtedly quite, quite wonderful!...

  Mr. Enrico’s tribute rendered him a trifle breathless before it was finished, but by the time it was finished Virginia' had gathered that he himself was not only Charles’s keenest admirer, but that he acted towards him in the capacity of business-manager-cum-agent-cum-accompanist-cum-adviser-cum-really close friend, and that the association was of fairly long standing. And then he suddenly shot up and announced that he would have to be going, and no sooner had she let him out of the front door than Iris and Midge returned together, and Midge wanted mushrooms and sausages for his tea. The mushrooms Midge had looked for and found on his way home, and they were wrapped up in his handkerchief. His aunt cooked them without much protest.

  Then the nurse arrived, and Virginia had to spend a little time soothing Charles’s ruffled feelings, because he feared he was being handed over to the care of a dragon while the dragon enjoyed a light, cold supper in the dining-room. Then Iris wanted some assistance with a new face-pack she was determined to experiment with, Midge went to bed and dreamt (no doubt owing to the mushrooms and sausages!) that he was constantly coming upon dark-eyed young men walking a little eccentrically because their cars had been overturned, and by that time Virginia was beginning to feel exhausted.

  By the time her work for the day was over, the breakfast trays were carefully laid, kettle filled for the early tea, and the whole house very quiet, she was near the point of acute exhaustion.

  But, after a few days, with the nurse coping very determinedly with the patient, the Meadow House settled down to a careful routine. There was no excuse for Iris staying away from her art classes and none at all for Midge not attending school. In fact, his attendance and arrival at school were both so regular that he felt a little defrauded.

  The nurse fancied she had a winning way with patients, although she used, as she admitted, the iron hand in the velvet glove. Charles, revolted by her occasional archness, rebelling against her discipline, felt himself hardly used. But, nevertheless, he improved markedly. By the end of a week he asked Virginia to do him a favour.

  “Yes, what is it?” she asked, sitting beside his bed and relieving the nurse, who was having an afternoon nap.

  “I want you to go up to town to my flat and collect a few of my things for me. Will you do that? My manservant will hand what I require over to you.”

  “Of course,” Virginia answered. She looked at him, however, with increased interest. “So you have a manservant,” she remarked.

  “Naturally.” He lay looking at her with a faint smile on his face—rather devastatingly handsome now that he was beautifully shaved, his pallor a little less remarkable but still interesting, and serving to emphasise the blackness and thickness of his eyelashes, and the dark, intriguingly crisp waves of his hair. “How otherwise would I manage to exist at all?”

  Virginia was not prepared to answer that one, but her glance lowered itself to the clover-pink silk of his pyjamas—pure silk, not anything devised by scientists—with the neat monogram above the breast pocket; and then to the slender beauty of his hands, lying languidly outside one of her best sheets. There was no doubt about it he was rather an exotic young man—exotic and brilliant and pampered; or so she had gathered over the telephone in the evenings, from his mother, since boyhood. And as he was now somewhere in his middle thirties that meant that there had been thirty odd years of tasting only the best of life, and expecting perhaps only the best.

  In some ways he reminded her of a Siamese cat. She had kept Siamese cats herself at one time, and knew their reactions. They were lordly, demanding, conscious of their superiority, and at the same time they had a satin-sleek beauty that justified to some extent their arrogance. Charles Wickham, in addition to interfering with the breathing arrangements of his audiences when he gave a piano recital, had the elegant, feline beauty of a Siamese male cat. If his eyes, she thought sometimes, were blue instead of the colour of old brown sherry... And then she caught herself up short. Who was she to criticise Iris for behaving like a pagan adolescent worshipping at the shrine of masculine perfection whenever she came within a few feet of him—or the nurse for talking about “splendid physical development” over a cup of tea in the kitchen—when she herself was not unmindful of such dangerous attractiveness? Was even, sometimes, acutely aware of it!

  She looked down at her hands, roughened a little because she and Mrs. Banks had got through quite a heavy wash together only the day before, and wanted to thrust them away out of sight. But Charles, after lighting himself a cigarette, and inhaling quietly for a few moments, suddenly possessed himself of one of them, and looked at it with interest.

  “You work too hard,” he said, sounding as if he thoroughly disapproved. “You should have someone to provide you with more help in this house.”

  “Nonsense!” She snatched away her hand and held it behind her—almost a defensive action. “It’s good for one to work hard, and I’m used to it.”

  “Then you shouldn’t be used to it. You weren’t born for that sort of thing.”

  “I wasn’t born to be idle.”

  He looked at her through a fragrant haze of cigarette smoke.

  “You were born to be idle, and cared-for, and admired, and made much of!”

  Virginia felt her heart give an absurd leap, and then it settled down to its normal quiet beating.

  “I’m afraid you’re not a realist,” she said.

  “Maybe not, but I don’t even pretend to be. I’m not interested in realism—it’s boring! And you should have nothing whatsoever to do with it! Avoid it like the plague.”

  “Why?”

  “Because other things are so much nicer—the things the few enjoy! Get your feet off the ground whenever possible, and keep them off.”

  “Unfortunately I have to keep my feet very firmly planted on solid ground!”

  “There you are, you see!” He shrugged, and sighed. “You can’t get away from material things—from the things which are not so important. You believe in ties, and responsibilities, wearing yourself out for the good of others. You should think more of yourself. Why don’t you?”

  “Do you think only of yourself, Mr. Wickham?” she asked.

  A puckish smile flitted across his face.

  “I believe in giving a certain amount of pleasure to others—but the pleasure must also be felt by myself! I am not actively interested in other people. If they appeal to me I no doubt put myself out to a certain extent to increase my appeal for them, but that is because the appreciation of an audience is of some value to me. I wouldn’t willingly sacrifice myself. In fact, I don’t think I could sacrifice myself under any circumstances whatsoever.”

  '“I see,” she said quietly. “And, needless to say, you don’t believe in ties and responsibilities?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  She looked down at her hands again, and his eyes glinted at her with amusement from under those disturbing eyelashes of his.

  “Well?” he inquired softly, at last. “What are you thinking now? That I’m abominably self-centred?—selfish, we might as well say! But all men are selfish. It’s, something they can’t help.” He studied the tin
y frown between her eyebrows. “Are you willing to do the little thing I asked you to do for me?”

  “You mean, go up to town to your flat and collect your things?”

  “Yes. You can drive my car if it’s ready. The garage man promised it would be ready fairly soon. And Harwell will give you lunch. Harwell will be delighted to do that.”

  “Is Harwell your man?”

  “He is much more than my man—he is my defence against a great many unpleasantnesses. Also you will probably see Pablo Enrico, who spends half his time looking in at the flat. If you do you can give him a message from me to the effect that I can just about endure to see him if, and when, he cares to come down here again. He’ll probably insist on remaining for the day when he does come, but perhaps you can put up with that.”

  “I expect so.” Her voice sounded a little stiff. “And Miss le Clair? Would you like me to get in contact with her and tell her that you would be pleased to see her, also?”

  “No, not just yet.” The amusement—very sleepy amusement—persisted in his eyes. “It wouldn’t do for me to be over-excited in my present weakened condition, and we must do things gradually. Unless you feel that it would give you some personal gratification if she came visiting again?”

  “I was only thinking of you.”

  “I’m sure you were, Virginia.” His voice always softened when he said her name, but at the same time she resented him making use of it as freely as he did. “And I’m more than grateful for all your extreme consideration. But Miss le Clair won’t need you to get in touch with her when she feels it’s time to come and see me again. She’s a very persistent person. On the Continent, where I first met her, she’s already well-known in musical-comedy, as well as films, and she got there through sheer persistence, plus the rare quality of her looks, plus the even rarer quality of her voice.”

  “Then she sings?” Virginia exclaimed, not altogether surprised.

  “Superbly!”

  “She—she’s very beautiful!”

  “Quite exquisite!”

  “I’ll go and get you some tea,” she said quickly, rising to leave him. “And I’ll go to London and collect your things whenever you wish me to do so.”

  “Good girl!” he approved. He nestled his gleaming dark head amongst his lace-edged pillows, and a quizzical smile stole to the corners of his lips. “One day I’ll tell you all about Annette—all about her wealthy first husband, who made it unnecessary for her ever to do another day’s Work in her life if she doesn’t feel like it, which naturally makes her a little bit temperamental, about her talent and so forth. She’s really quite remarkable. I’ve never met anyone quite like her.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” Virginia agreed primly. And then she found herself saying in a faintly amazed tone: “You said her first husband! ... But she doesn’t look very old.”

  “She isn’t. And she’s had another one since then. But that didn’t last long.” He lighted another cigarette. “I’ll let you into a secret,” he said. “She’s contemplating taking a third!”

  Virginia moved swiftly in the direction of the door, and when she had left him alone Charles Wickham lay studying his favourite apple tree as it tapped against his window, and as he smoked contentedly he decided that he liked apple trees better than any other kind of tree.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The morning Virginia left for London in his car he was allowed up and outside in the garden for the first time, and Virginia saw him comfortably settled before she left.

  It was a beautiful morning, with a soft breeze reaching them from off the river, and all the flower scents in the garden were gently wafted hither and thither on that same breeze. Charles’s chair was set up near a corner of the lawn bordered by wax-white lilies and some towering sprays of larkspur, and he could look across the lawn in the direction of the poplars that swayed near the river. The view seemed to afford him immense satisfaction, especially as he could actually hear the lazy slap and murmur of the river, and he half closed his eyes contentedly once he was settled.

  He looked even more painfully interesting—if that were possible!—in a well-cut lounge-suit and immaculate linen, with his feet on a foot-rest and a rug over his knees. Behind him a Chinese blue satin cushion—which Iris had selected from the drawing-room—was stuffed in behind his head, and Iris herself sat beside him, an embroidery frame she hadn’t touched for months in her hands. As it was a Saturday she had no classes to attend, and as it was also the nurse’s day off she was going to be in full charge of the invalid. For the purpose she had donned a larkspur blue dress, and her hair was in a swinging pony-tail.

  When Charles first realised he was going to be left alone with Iris he had offered a mild protest.

  “Do I really have to? I mean—” looking with faint appeal at Virginia—“I admit she’s decorative, but—”

  “You can either have Iris or Mrs. Banks to look after you,” Virginia had answered firmly.

  “Mrs. Banks?” His eyes opened wide, and he repressed a shudder. “Your excellent daily help who thanked me with empressement for the roses I presented her with?” A twinkle crept into the eyes as he saw that Virginia looked faintly uncomfortable. “No; I think, on the whole, I prefer Iris,” watching that young woman approaching them gracefully across the lawn.

  But Virginia, faced with no real alternative, was not entirely satisfied with the arrangements. Her young sister, she had now made the discovery, was not merely impressionable, but inclined to become abject when anyone like Charles Wickham was in her near vicinity. She was, apparently, a modern of moderns, and her eyes became completely revealing when she turned them on Charles, and she had absolutely no inhibitions. Virginia would not have been at all surprised to come upon her one day actually crouched at the feet of the demi-god, and revealing every symptom of openly gasping for some sort of notice.

  And so, she asked herself uneasily, ought she to leave Iris alone with him to-day? But Mrs. Banks had promised to stay in the background, dealing with the lunch and so forth, and the nurse would be back soon after tea. Iris couldn’t behave too stupidly in such circumstances, and Charles had never given her the least bit of encouragement. In fact, Iris was occasionally hurt by his obvious indifference.

  Charles waved a careless good-bye to Virginia ere she walked round to the garage. Iris scarcely seethed to notice her departure, and was not in the least concerned with the hour at which she would return. Midge was fishing on the river.

  Virginia could not deny a little thrill of excitement as she started up Charles’s car. It was such a beautiful car now that there were no longer any signs of damage clinging to it, and by comparison with Virginia’s battered old utility was a glistening chariot. As she swept down the drive and out into the road she felt as if she was starting out on a high adventure.

  The day was perfect for a jaunt up to London. Although it was difficult not to travel at speed with such responsive acceleration she preferred not to make the journey too short, and when she arrived at Charles’s flat, in an extremely salubrious neighbourhood, there was still an hour to spare before lunch. But Harwell, when he opened the flat door to her, obviously expected her to lunch. “Mr. Wickham wrote and asked me to make certain that it was an appetising lunch, Madam,” he said, as he conducted Virginia into Charles’s delightfully appointed sitting-room. “And I can put things forward if you are in a hurry.”

  “No; there’s no hurry.”

  Virginia sank into the lap of a chesterfield and looked about her. The carpet was dove-grey, the walls and paint-work grey also. The ceiling was a kind of light cerulean blue, and the long curtains sapphire blue velvet. Apart from the room’s most prominent item of furniture, a magnificent grand piano, there were luxuriously deep chairs—in particular one in which it was easy for Virginia to imagine Charles, with his long legs stretched out in front of him in an attitude of languid elegance, his feet resting on the white skin rug before the flower-filled fireplace—and little occasional tables supporting cig
arettes and magazines. One of the occasional tables also supported a photograph, a superb studio portrait of Annette le Clair. In front of the photograph there was a bowl of heavenly-scented dark crimson roses.

  When Harwell returned to the room to announce lunch Virginia asked him:

  “Do you see to the arrangement of the flowers yourself, Harwell?”

  “No, Madam.” He looked surprised. “Miss le Clair comes in very frequently and does them when she’s here. When Mr. Wickham is at home, and Miss le Clair is on the Continent, a local florist makes himself responsible for the decoration of the rooms.”

  “I see,” Virginia murmured.

  The lunch prepared for her was the nicest, she realised, that she had ever had the opportunity to enjoy. Harwell, in addition to looking, and quite obviously behaving, like the perfect manservant, was plainly an excellent cook. His lamb cutlets were the tenderest she had ever tasted, his cheese soufflé all but brought tears of appreciation to her eyes—recalling her own constant failures where cheese soufflés were concerned—and his coffee brought back memories of the one visit she had ever paid to Paris, when all her expenses were paid by the same wealthy aunt who had bestowed upon her her piano.