“He’s not a composer of any eminence, though, is he?” cut in Teresa disparagingly.
“No, I couldn’t claim that,” Anna admitted. “But this particular work—”
“Well, as I say, we should have to see.” Teresa’s tone practically sank the song cycle without trace. “It’s no good putting something forward just because it happens to have been manufactured locally, as you might say.” She could have been speaking of a new-fangled dustbin. “Local pride has been the kiss of death to more than one musical or theatrical enterprise, hasn’t it?”
Anna could find no civil answer to this, so she remained silent. But she wondered now, with passionate resentment, why she had ever allowed herself to be involved in this undertaking. And, because she did not want to face an unwelcome truth, she refused to admit that the one answer was — Jonathan Keyne.
“I shall be out all the afternoon,” Teresa informed her presently. “But you might start compiling those lists of people who will need details of performances and tickets, and later — in certain cases — invitations to the private affairs. I’ll have lunch sent in for you on a tray, and if I don’t get back before you leave, can you be here tomorrow again about the same time?”
Anna said briefly that she could. But she added firmly, “Tomorrow afternoon, however, I shall want to go to the hospital. My mother won’t be there much longer, and I want to see something of her before she goes to the convalescent home.”
“Yes, of course.” Teresa was quite good-humoured about that. “And perhaps you would like some flowers and fruit for her from the greenhouses?”
The offer was casual, but obviously well-meant and, while Anna accepted with becoming gratitude, she tried hard to think a little more kindly of the spoiled girl who dispensed insults and favours with such remarkable impartiality.
Presently Teresa left her and after a few minutes Anna saw her drive off in the smart little white car. After that her lunch — a good one — was brought to her on a tray, and while she ate it with unfeigned enjoyment she reflected, without rancour, that she was evidently not to be regarded as a member of any house party. If she had been one of the Festival artists it would, of course, have been different. But she was not an artist. She had forfeited her claim to anything of that sort. She was just secretary and general dogsbody to Teresa Delawney.
With minor variations, this was the pattern of Anna’s life during the next few days. Most mornings she caught the bus, and it was perfectly true that there was no hardship in the very beautiful ten minutes’ walk from the bus stop to the Grange. Once, when the weather broke, Rod Delawney fetched her by car, and once Teresa herself picked her up when she happened to be in town on some other errand.
Of Jonathan Keyne Anna saw very little beyond an occasional glimpse of him in the house. Certainly he made no further attempt to drive her either to or from her work.
Every other afternoon she went to the hospital to see her mother, who was now well enough to be greatly entertained by Anna’s lively account of the projected Festival.
“But you ought to have some real place in it yourself,” objected Mrs. Fulroyd. “Something other than just doing office jobs for Teresa Delawney, I mean. You are probably much the most gifted singer in the district. You’d think the Delawneys would be only too glad to include you.”
“I don’t think I have any place in Teresa’s plans.” With some effort Anna kept her tone light and a little amused. “And Rod — her brother — doesn’t have any say in her arrangements.”
“What about the parents? It’s her father, isn’t it, who supplies all the money? And what about Mrs. Delawney? I’ve always heard that she’s very much to the fore in anything to do with her family.”
“I haven’t met either of them yet,” Anna explained. “I think they’re away visiting friends or relations. But they’re due back in a day or two.”
In actual fact, the older Delawneys returned home the following day and Anna met them for the first time.
Mr. Delawney confined himself to a nod and a couple of words when they were introduced, very casually, by Teresa. He was a silent, self-made man, justly proud of the fact that he owed his quite staggering wealth to his own good brain, but disinclined to discuss that or anything else with any but a few chosen cronies. He had few interests outside his business empire, but one of these was his daughter, of whom he was inordinately proud. And, after watching them together for no more than a few minutes, Anna thought she saw one good reason, at any rate, why Teresa found it difficult to imagine a world where her wishes were not of primary importance.
Mrs. Delawney was an entirely different proposition from her husband. She had, in the common phrase, married beneath her. That was to say, she came of good but impoverished stock and, although she had not hesitated to marry money when the opportunity arose, she reserved to herself the right to appear to be above anything so vulgar as the mere making of money. This did not mean that she had any inhibitions about spending it. Not ostentatiously, but with a genuine degree of taste and cultural judgment. She entirely approved of her daughter’s plans for a local Festival. Not because, like her husband, she wished to indulge Teresa — on the contrary, she was much more clear-sighted and critical about their daughter than he was — but because she judged this to be a completely admirable and tasteful way of spending a great deal of money.
With something between awe and amusement Anna saw how completely Teresa combined her father’s drive and efficiency with her mother’s taste and artistic judgment. It was a formidable combination, and she could not help wondering how attractive that combination might be to Jonathan Keyne.
Unlike the men of the family, Mrs. Delawney put forward her views on the Festival with trenchant candour, quite irrespective of whether or not they coincided with her daughter’s wishes. It was she who, unexpectedly, came down firmly on the side of including a church concert in the programme.
“Of course we must!” she said, ignoring the fact that her daughter resented the “we”. “The church is the most beautiful in this part of England, and the choir is of a very high standard indeed. I know because I sometimes go to church, though you may not, Teresa. As for that boy soprano — Tommy Somebody — he is quite outstanding. And your father, Miss Fulroyd, is a credit to us all,” she added graciously. “He even composes, I believe?”
“Yes, he does.” Anna gave her a quick, shy smile, and was about to enlarge on the subject of the song cycle when Teresa said, “Oh, Mother, so do most church organists. Bits and pieces to keep the audience — I mean the congregation — happy until the bride arrives, and that sort of thing.”
“Mr. Fulroyd composes operas, I understand,” replied Mrs. Delawney firmly.
“None of which have been performed,” retorted her daughter crisply. And then, as though even she realised that any discussion on these lines must prove embarrassing to all, she added quite sweetly, “Oh, Anna —” they had reached Christian names terms by now — “I wonder if you could find me that letter from Franz Klein. I’m nearly sure I left it on the piano in the big drawing-room.”
Anna knew she had not. But she too realised this was an excuse to get rid of her while an embarrassing argument took place. So she rose immediately and went to the big drawing-room, where she managed to make some pretence of searching for the letter, prolonging her futile rummaging long enough to give Teresa and her mother sufficient time to dispose of the subject of Mr. Fulroyd and his compositions.
As she came back through the hall she heard Jonathan Keyne’s voice taking part in the present conversation and assumed thankfully that an entirely new topic was under discussion. But just outside the door she realised that this was not the case and, with no intention of really eavesdropping, she stopped dead in time to hear Teresa’s clear, emphatic tones say, “Mother, you’re just being tiresome and arguing for the sake of argument. The fact is that the old man is a boring failure. It’s just nonsense about these pretentious operas of his! They’re no more than a joke in the dis
trict. He simply happens to be the local organist, but they’re not a seriously musical family —”
“The girl is,” stated Keyne’s voice coolly. “She has quite an exceptional voice.”
“And what has she ever done with it, I’d like to know?” replied Teresa scornfully. “It’s what you do with your possessions that establishes their value. A beautiful voice is no better than a beautiful piano until someone does something with it.”
“Except that you can’t buy a beautiful voice, whereas you can buy a beautiful piano,” he answered with an amused note in his voice.
“All right. But you know better than almost anyone else how important the character and temperament are as well. That girl will never do anything much — take it from me — any more than her father. They’ve no real professional drive. They’re essentially amateur in their approach.”
“Well —” Keyne was laughing now and obviously not inclined to do real battle in the cause — “you may be right. I did have some reason to think her irresponsible, it’s true, but—”
Anna slipped away before she could hear any more. She was hot with shame and cold with rage. And oddly enough, it was even more on her father’s behalf than her own. How dared Teresa Delawney, who had never heard a note of her father’s work, dismiss it as amateur? She didn’t know anything about it!
Oh, of course it was true that those operas were unpractical — who knew that better than Anna and her mother? — but he was a musician to the very core of his being. While that stupid, spoiled bossy girl would never know what it was to love the great art of music as such.
She went back into the drawing-room. Where else could she go? For she could not face any of the three of them at the moment, and at least she had some sort of thin excuse for being here. She went and stood by the window, staring out across the terrace and gardens, unsuccessfully trying to hold back the angry tears which forced their way into her eyes. And presently she gave a muffled sob or two, not knowing if she were crying with rage or with a sort of anguished compassion for her father, who knew and felt so much but had never been able to express it in the art he longed to serve.
That was it. He was humbly willing to serve the great art of music. That wretched girl just wanted to use it to enhance her own prestige. And she presumed to speak disparagingly of him!
In an access of angry misery, Anna actually tore her slightly damp handkerchief across. And as she did so she realised that someone else had come into the room.
Some appalled sixth sense told her it was Jonathan Keyne, even before he came up behind her and said, “Good heavens! What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.” Even while she crumpled up the rags of her handkerchief in her hands she wished she could have thought of a slightly less idiotic reply.
He seemed to find it very silly, because he said coolly, “Well, that’s a lie, anyway. And not a very clever one.” Then, to her boundless surprise, he took hold of her by her upper arms and turned her, gently but quite resistlessly, to face him.
“Come on, now, tell me what’s wrong. Are you worried about your mother?”
“Oh, no, not now.”
“Has someone been unkind to you?”
“N-no.” The denial this time was not quite so emphatic, and suddenly she was tremendously aware of his strong, rather sensitive fingers holding her.
“Well then, I shall allow myself the proverbial third guess.” He was laughing a little, but not unkindly. “You’re upset because you’re not singing in this Festival?”
“I’m not in the least!” At that moment she even thought that was true. “It’s not me. It’s my father!” And then suddenly the angry words came rushing out. “She had no right to brush him off like that. She doesn’t know anything about it. She just—”
“If by ‘she’ you mean Teresa,” he interrupted coolly, “it is her own special festival, you know.”
“Oh, I know.” All at once, Anna was horrified to realise how much she had said. “I don’t know why I should mind so much. You must think me a perfect fool, but —”
“No, I don’t.” Unexpectedly he took his right hand away from her arm and actually touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I think perhaps you agonise a bit too much about family loyalties. But that’s rather a lovable fault, I suppose. Don’t cry any more, Anna. I can’t insist on your father being included in the Festival. After all, I don’t know myself what his claims may be. But I’ll try to get you included. How about that?”
If she had not been in quite such an emotional turmoil, or her family pride had been less bitterly hurt, she would probably have recognised this for a fair shed olive branch. As it was, however, it seemed to her altogether too much like offering a sweet to a child, and she cried scornfully,
“Thank you, but I don’t want to be in this stupid Festival! I just thought how lucky they would be to get my father, but if they don’t want him that’s all right with me. As for my caring two pins about it—”
“Anna, stop being tiresome.” He was still half laughing. “I want you to sing. Are you turning me down a second time?”
“You — want me?” she stammered, staring up at him.
“If you look at me like that there’s only one possible answer,” he told her half seriously and, bending his head, he kissed her deliberately on the lips.
For a second she savoured some delicious emotion that was totally unfamiliar to her. Then, for some reason — perhaps the flicker of a movement — she looked past him, and saw that Teresa Delawney stood framed in the doorway, her eyes wide with fury as well as astonishment.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Oh, please — don’t!” Panic-stricken at the sight of Teresa, Anna pushed Jonathan Keyne from her with more violence than she had intended, so that he released her with an angry exclamation and almost staggered back.
At the same moment Teresa moved away, so swiftly and silently that Anna stared for a moment at the empty doorway, almost thinking for a moment that she must have imagined the glimpse of that outraged figure. But she knew really that there was no imagination about it. Teresa had stood there all right, patently furious at the very idea that Jonathan should kiss anyone but herself.
Then, much too late, Anna turned to apologise to Jonathan Keyne, who had moved away and was standing by the piano, turning over some sheets of music which apparently absorbed his whole attention.
She came close to him and said with a nervous catch in her voice, “I’m sorry — I didn’t mean — I was startled—” She broke off, aware suddenly that she could not possibly drag Teresa into the conversation as an explanation of her reaction. The whole incident was altogether too silly and undignified.
“Oh, don’t apologise.” He sounded rather scornfully amused. “I expect it’s I who should do the apologising. I don’t seem to have the right touch where you’re concerned, do I? Forget it.”
“But I assure you—”
“Please don’t. Hollow assurances are always such a bore, aren’t they?”
And, having crushed her effectually with that, he went out of the room, leaving her divided between misery at having offended him again and acute anxiety about what Teresa might say to her when next they met.
On the latter account, however, there was no need to worry. Teresa made no reference whatever to what she had seen. Nor did she show any trace of resentment in her attitude to Anna. If anything, she was a trifle more cordial than usual, a circumstance which somehow disquieted Anna more than open enmity would have done. For she could not believe that she would not be made to feel the full weight of the other girl’s displeasure eventually.
But it was not Teresa’s way to put her anger into words. Her line was just to remove, with her customary efficiency, any undesirable element which stood in her path. That evening she telephoned home to Anna and explained, very plausibly and charmingly, that she would not be needing her for a few days as she was expecting important house guests.
“I shall be too much occupied with them, I�
��m afraid, to do much about the Festival. But I’ll let you know when I need you again,” she said.
“Which means that I shan’t be asked back to Coppershaw Grange until Jonathan Keyne has safely returned to London — if then,” Anna reflected. And it was no good telling herself that she didn’t care. She cared very much indeed — to part once more from Jonathan Keyne on a note of misunderstanding, just as their relationship seemed likely to take a new and friendlier turn.
It was difficult not to be very unhappy during the ensuing week and, suddenly bereft of her truly interesting work, she began perversely enough to long for Coppershaw Grange on almost any terms, and to find her thoughts returning there again and again.
One day, in the main street, she met one of the maids from the Grange. She was on good terms with all the staff and the girl stopped to enquire after her.
“Aren’t you coming to work at Coppershaw anymore, Miss Fulroyd?” she asked.
“Oh, I hope so, Jenny. But at the moment Miss Delawney is too busy with other things to need me. I believe there are some important house guests, aren’t there?”
Jenny nodded. “Some famous conductor, they tell me,” she said. “Friend of Mr. Keyne.”
“Really?” Anna was interested. “What’s his name?”
“I can’t remember. Warren or something. Big chap with a rather la-di-da manner. But pleasant. He has a wife who sings.”
“Oscar Warrender!” More intensely than ever did Anna regret being banished from the Grange at this time.
“Yes, that’s the name,” Jenny agreed. Then she nodded again in a friendly manner and went on her way.
But for the fact that this was the week when her mother was well enough to leave hospital and travel the twenty miles to the convalescent home, Anna would have had even more time to bemoan her ill-luck in missing all that was happening at the Grange. As it was, with relief and gratitude in her heart, she was able to accompany her mother and see her happily installed in the lovely country manor which housed the convalescent home.
Song Cycle (Warrender Saga Book 8) Page 7
