Again the message came by telephone. Again Teresa’s voice sounded disquietingly cordial. And again the assumption was that Anna would drop everything and come at once.
Anna dropped everything and went at once.
Teresa gave the impression of being in a friendly and expansive mood, and yet she volunteered none of the information which Anna was longing to have about what had happened at the Grange during her absence. Inevitably a good deal of work had accumulated, and Anna was expected to attend to this with all speed.
Mrs. Delawney was more casually informative, however. She liked Anna and said, apparently with sincerity:
“I wish you had been here during the last week. I think it would have been specially interesting for you as a singer. Oscar Warrender was here. And his wife — Anthea Warrender, you know — came for a few days too. A charming couple.”
“I’m sure they are,” Anna agreed. “Did he have any suggestions to make about the Festival?”
“I believe he talked over a lot of things with Jonathan and Teresa. He’s not professionally involved, as you know, only taking a friendly interest because he knows and likes Jonathan. But I think he felt they were making a good job of it. Anyway, he said he and his wife would be coming down for one or two of the principal events.”
“Did he suggest any additions to the programme?” asked Anna carefully. For, after all, he might already have made some fresh suggestion by post or telephone.
But Mrs. Delawney shook her head consideringly.
“No, I don’t think so.” Then, going off at a tangent, she added, “You know, I’m really sorry myself that there is not to be a church concert. In my view, it would have been a splendid idea. I did bring up the subject again, but no one was specially enthusiastic. Indeed, Teresa seemed quite set against it. Very obstinate and silly of her, and I don’t know why she should take up that attitude. But as it is in a way her festival, I suppose there’s no more to be said. I hope you and your father are not too disappointed.”
“No, of course not,” Anna said as pleasantly as she could.
But to herself she thought, “That was before Oscar Warrender heard the song cycle. That made him change his mind. But he must say so — soon. What is he doing about it? The time is getting terribly short.”
It was indeed. All the other arrangements had been confirmed and already there was mention in some of the national newspapers, as well as the local ones, of the interesting Festival which was to take place in the West Country.
Anna tried desperately to control her impatient anxiety, and to concentrate on putting all her heart and soul into perfecting her part in the song cycle. And when she sang it for the first time with full choir and organ she was so deeply impressed all over again that she felt it was impossible that it should not be heard as it deserved — in the framework of the Festival.
So far, on her urgent insistence, her father had not confided their high hopes to anyone else in his church circle, though a few whispers were going about among the choir members themselves. But most of them sang in the choir for the sheer joy of singing, and though they thought it exciting and novel to be doing something composed by old Fulroyd himself, and they were impressed by his daughter’s voice, they were content to wait for whatever time might be judged suitable for a full-scale performance.
To Anna, the hardest part of all was to have to listen to her father’s happy speculations about the final date, which — if any — of the London critics were likely to be there, and how the work would really go down on the great night. It was, she thought, so typically unrealistic of him not even to wonder why no definite details had even now been settled.
And then, one morning, something happened to switch her thoughts almost violently into a different channel.
Teresa, who had been wandering about the room and shifting a few things in an unusually restless manner, suddenly turned to her and said, as though impelled to speech,
“Anna, there’s something I feel I ought to say to you — and I just don’t know how to say it tactfully. Jonathan is coming down here again for a few days this week —”
She paused and Anna looked at her in astonishment and said, “Yes?” doubtfully.
“My dear, I know you’re probably much too sensible to take him seriously when he turns on that twenty-two-carat-gold charm of his. But I wouldn’t like you to get hurt, and so I think I should tell you that things are serious between him and me. I was afraid that if you thought he was unattached, you might—”
“I assure you, Miss Delawney—”
“Oh, not ‘Miss Delawney’, please! We’ve been Teresa and Anna for long enough, surely.”
“Teresa, then,” said Anna coldly. “There is not the slightest question of my — my taking any serious interest in Mr. Keyne. And really I resent your even suggesting such a thing.”
“No, please don’t resent what I said! Please, Anna dear. I’ve probably been tactless and clumsy. But I just didn’t want you to get hurt,” she insisted again.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” replied Anna drily. “But there’s no danger of that happening.”
“Then that’s all right. I’m so glad.” And Teresa smiled her sweetest smile and went out of the room, closing the door carefully behind her.
Anna stared at the panels of the door and thought, “Liar! You blank, blank liar! A lot you cared about my being hurt. You weren’t worrying about me — why should you, come to that? — you were just worrying about yourself and how securely you could get your hot little hands on Jonathan Keyne. And I don’t believe he’s serious about you anyway. At least — I don’t think I do. And what does it matter if he is? He’s nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. Except for the fact that he kissed me in a way—”
She stopped and thought about the way he had kissed her. And then about the way Teresa had looked when she saw the scene. This latest move was simply her way of clearing the decks for action. Just as she had firmly eliminated the church concert from the Festival lest it should reflect credit and modest glory on Anna and her father, so she was reducing Anna to boring passivity so far as Jonathan was concerned.
But suppose Jonathan heard her sing in that song cycle — what then? If all went as Oscar Warrender seemed to think it would go, he would see her in a very different light. He must! For once she would triumph happily and bask in his astonished interest and approval.
Only how was that to be brought about unless someone took a hand and forced the issue? What was Warrender doing? — what was anyone doing to see that the concert took place? Nothing. Just exactly nothing. It must be that in the press of his many other commitments Oscar Warrender had forgotten the absolute necessity of his intervening. And now each day made it less and less likely that anything could be done. It was not as though she could do anything herself -
And then at that moment the telephone rang beside her.
She stared resentfully at the thing, not wanting to speak to anyone. But self-discipline reasserted itself and she picked up the telephone, to find that there was a call from London, from the national newspaper which always made a special point of noticing musical events of any real importance.
“Can I speak to Miss Delawney, please?” asked the voice at the other end.
“Miss Delawney has just gone out, I’m afraid,” said Anna, watching through the window Teresa’s car shooting off down the drive. “I’m her secretary. Can I help you?”
“Well, perhaps you could. We are doing a special feature about this festival which Miss Delawney is organising. It has a rather unusual angle, with the family background and Jonathan Keyne being involved, and I believe Oscar Warrender even is taking some interest in it and will be present part of the time?”
“Yes, that is all correct,” Anna agreed.
“We wondered if there were anything else rather special — anything not yet mentioned — that we might enlarge upon. Something with particular local significance, for instance.”
Anna felt a great lump rise in
her throat, choking her into silence for several seconds.
Then the voice went on — “I may as well tell you there is a rumour going about that there is to be some sort of surprise at this festival. Is that correct?”
“Where did you get that story?” Anna asked cautiously.
“Oh, by the general grapevine, you know. Any comment?”
There was, of course, no comment whatever which she was entitled to make. And yet — only a few minutes ago — she had been brooding angrily on the desperate necessity for someone’s hand to be forced.
Suddenly, in the clearest detail, she saw what she could do. And because she was so agonisingly sick of inaction, so wretchedly aware of the grains of sand that were slipping through Time’s hourglass, she spoke with calm directness, hardly a tremor in her voice.
“Don’t quote me personally, will you? But if you want an exclusive piece of news — yes. The highlight of the Festival is going to be a church concert, as yet unannounced. There is, as the special attraction, the world premiere of a song cycle, composed by the local organist and very highly thought of by Oscar Warrender. It is for soprano, choir and organ.”
“You don’t say!” There was no doubting the interest generating at the other end of the line. “Boy soprano?”
“No, it’s for a woman — lyric soprano.”
“That sounds very interesting.”
“Yes, we’re all rather excited about it,” said Anna, wondering if she had gone mad.
“Who is singing the soprano part? Not Anthea Warrender?”
“Oh, no, no one as famous as that. The part is to be sung by the composer’s daughter, Anna Fulroyd.”
“Anna Fulroyd? I seem to know that name. Didn’t she have some rather favourable mention recently from one or two of the London critics?”
“I believe she did,” agreed Anna coolly.
“Well, that’s really quite a story! Just the sort of personal touch we wanted. Thank you very much.” And the line went dead.
“Don’t mention it,” said Anna into the silence. Then she replaced the receiver and sat staring at the wall in front of her.
CHAPTER FIVE
There are some people — usually with a gambling streak in them — who can take all sorts of risks, live through them without too much anguish, and accept philosophically whatever the final outcome may be. But Anna was not one of these.
The moment she had staked her all on forcing Teresa’s hand with regard to the church concert she was overwhelmed with horror at what she had done. It was true that she had some reason to think of Oscar Warrender as being on her side. But he was far away in London, whereas Teresa was very much here, believing in her more or less divine right to direct everything to do with the Festival.
“I did tell the man not to quote me personally,” Anna thought miserably. “But I couldn’t expect him to hold to that if Teresa herself queried the truth of his statements.”
For a black moment or two she even wondered if her best course would be to make a frank confession to Teresa when she returned. But that seemed a pretty poor-spirited way of following up her bid for justice. Perhaps if she brazened it out -
She had never felt less brazen in her life. On the other hand, since she had taken that first mad, irrevocable step, there would be neither sense nor dignity in rushing to embrace defeat even before it overtook her. It was just remotely — oh, so remotely! — possible that even Teresa might prefer to accept the hated concert rather than turn unsought (but valuable) publicity into a farcical denial.
Whichever way it went, of course, Teresa would never forgive her. Nor would Jonathan Keyne, probably, come to that. Certainly not if he were as deeply involved with Teresa as she made out. Not, Anna assured herself, that she cared in the least what either of them thought. And if this were not the whole truth, it was half of it. The half that related to Teresa, that was to say.
During the rest of the day she managed to preserve a fairly cool demeanour, concentrating hard on her work lest her agitated thoughts should lead her into any serious error. If she could not bring herself to say much to Teresa — nor even to look her full in the face — no doubt this was put down to embarrassment following on the conversation about Jonathan that morning.
Teresa, for her part, was unusually gracious — complimenting Anna on her work and announcing that of course she would be expected as a guest at the Eighteenth Century party which would end the Festival. But graciousness is a quality which exalts the dispenser and diminishes the recipient, and Anna went home depressed and dispirited beyond description.
In contrast, she found her father in excellent spirits and eager to discuss with her the final form of the projected concert.
“Dad, I hate to be a wet blanket,” she said desperately at last, “but there may not be a church concert during the Festival. Don’t you realise that even now Teresa Delawney hasn’t made any statement confirming it? And the final decision rests with her.”
“But why haven’t you asked her outright?” Mr. Fulroyd looked astonished. “I thought you were on such friendly terms.”
“No, I wouldn’t describe us exactly as that,” murmured Anna uncomfortably. “She was nice about sending fruit and flowers to Mother, of course, and she always seems satisfied with my work, but—”
To her surprise, her father laughed unexpectedly and patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Then perhaps I know more about it than you do,” he said good-humouredly. “I had a telephone call from London this afternoon, from the Daily Echo. They knew all about the concert, and the song cycle. They even knew that you were to be the soloist and they wanted some personal details. If Miss Delawney hasn’t given them all this information, who else has?”
Who indeed?
Anna stared at her father for a moment in consternation, feeling like someone who had wilfully lit a very, very small bonfire, only to see it burst into a great conflagration. But apparently her father took her wide-eyed expression to be no more than surprise at his interesting news, for he said contentedly, “You’ll see. Everything is going to be all right.”
There seemed little to add to that. So Anna smiled faintly and was silent.
The next morning she rushed down early, almost before the newspaper was thrust through the letterbox. But though she searched through the Daily Echo feverishly, to her mingled relief and disappointment there was nothing about Teresa’s Festival. She was obviously going to have to wait another day — or two or even three — before the blow fell. Meanwhile, there was nothing to do but go to the Grange as usual and get through her day’s work, her heart in her mouth every time the telephone rang or Teresa came into the room.
Early in the afternoon Jonathan Keyne and Roderick Delawney arrived, almost at the same moment. They had both motored down from London, neither realising that the other was coming, and virtually met on the doorstep,
“Oh, Jonathan, how glad I am to see you!” Teresa’s welcoming kiss was distinctly less casual than before, Anna thought. “There are so many things to work out, and I’ve missed all your professional know-how.”
He laughed and declared she was well able to manage the Festival single-handed, but was not displeased, Anna saw, to be appealed to as die final authority. His greeting to Anna was polite rather than warm. But Rod — who came into the room a few minutes after him, accompanied by Mrs. Delawney — greeted Anna before he even addressed his sister.
And what he said was, “Congratulations, Anna! I see you’re to sing in the Festival after all.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Anna stammered, “Wh-where did you hear that?”
At almost the same moment Teresa exclaimed scornfully, “She certainly is not! What gave you that idea?”
“My copy of the Daily Echo in which I have more or less implicit faith,” retorted her brother amusedly. “It’s all here—” he produced his copy of the newspaper in question — “Song Cycle by Mr. Fulroyd, local organist — soloist his own daughter — to be th
e highlight of the Festival, if Oscar Warrender is to be believed and—”
“You must be mad! They must be mad!” His sister was white with barely controlled rage. “There’s not a word of truth in it. And there’s nothing about it in my paper.”
“You take the wrong paper,” replied her brother, laughing.
“Don’t be a fool! It’s no laughing matter. I mean that it’s not in my copy of the Echo.”
That’s the worst of these provincial editions.” Rod was rather unfairly enjoying himself. “You’ll get it in yours tomorrow, I expect. Mine is the latest London edition, of course.”
“But it’s not true! It’s not true!” Suddenly Teresa’s composure broke and she turned on Anna in undisguised fury. “You must have done this — you and your father! You cooked it up between you, thinking you’d force your way in. You little snake—”
“Teresa!” her mother spoke sharply.
“Don’t ‘Teresa’ me! I’ll say what I like about my own Festival. No one else could have given such a story to the papers. And anyway, you have only to look at her! She looks sick with guilt and fright.”
“She looks pale with shock and surprise, you mean,” interjected Jonathan Keyne very coolly. “The person who gave that story to the Echo was Oscar Warrender.”
“Oscar Warrender?” said everyone, including Anna, in accents of profound astonishment. And then Teresa added unsteadily, “What could Warrender know about it? What do you know about it, come to that?”
“Rather more than you, it seems.” Jonathan Keyne still spoke very coolly indeed. “Perhaps you’d like to apologise to Anna, and then she might tell us how Warrender came to know anything about her father’s song cycle.”
“How did he know?” Teresa turned to Anna again, but much less aggressively this time.
“No, my dear. First things first,” interrupted Jonathan, putting a hand rather firmly on Teresa’s shoulder.
“What do you mean?” she glanced back quickly at him. “We all realise you’re under a great strain about this Festival of yours, but—” he nodded his head slightly in Anna’s direction, and after a moment Teresa said reluctantly,
Song Cycle (Warrender Saga Book 8) Page 9
