“I’m sorry, Anna. It was the — the shock. How did Warrender come to know anything about all this?”
“He came into the church on his last evening here.” Anna avoided Jonathan Keyne’s interested glance and spoke in a low, rather husky voice. “My father was playing the organ and Tommy Bream was singing the soprano part of this — this song cycle my father had composed. Mr. Warrender was very deeply impressed, and he said it ought to be included in the Festival. But he told my father it was a work for a female soprano rather than a choirboy, and he — he gave it as his opinion that I had the right voice for the part.”
“Good for him!” interjected Rod Delawney.
But his sister gave him a quelling glance and asked Anna coldly, “How did Oscar Warrender know what sort of voice you had?”
“We both auditioned Anna a month or two ago,” stated Jonathan before she could speak.
“And he remembered the voice?” Teresa’s tone somehow conveyed the idea that Anna was totally unmemorable in every way.
“He was kind enough to say —” Anna tilted up her chin suddenly and looked proudly at Teresa — “that he never forgot a voice of quality.”
“Nor, incidentally, do I,” murmured Jonathan with a touch of amusement in his expression. And Anna, watching, thought Teresa took this badly.
“But how perfectly splendid!” At this moment Mrs. Delawney looked up from the Daily Echo which she had been reading with the utmost attention. “Why, Teresa, it’s much the best write-up we’ve had so far. We’ve had put right on our plate, as you might say, the world premiere of a work by a local composer which has already won praise from Oscar Warrender. And for soloist we have a singer who also belongs to the district. Any festival might be proud to present such an interesting combination. I always said we ought to have a church concert!”
“And I said not,” retorted her daughter, allowing pique to override her better judgment.
“Well, you were wrong, dear,” replied Mrs. Delawney unmoved. “I appeal to Jonathan, who knows more about these things than any of us. Wouldn’t it be stupid to refuse this chance now?”
“I don’t see how you can refuse it, Mrs. Delawney, even if it were desirable to do so. This sudden fanfare of publicity, thanks to—” his glance passed over Anna — “Warrender, pretty well forces us to put on the discussed work. And anyway, why look a gift horse in the mouth?”
“Warrender could be mistaken,” said Teresa shortly.
“He seldom is. Besides, what have you against such a concert, Teresa? especially as it would have several features which couldn’t fail to give interest and novelty to the whole Festival.”
“I don’t like to be stampeded into something I haven’t thought out in detail for myself,” replied Teresa, and for a moment her hard but beautiful eyes met Anna’s with a dislike she could not conceal. “I know Warrender is a great man and all that. But no one else has heard this song cycle—”
“The choir all like it,” Anna volunteered quickly.
“Oh, the choir! What do they know? All choirs think anything their choirmaster does is wonderful. I meant that none of us have heard it.”
“You could remedy that this evening,” replied Anna, and again that little proud lift of the head transformed her into an artist rather than Teresa’s runabout. “The choir will be there for practice anyway. And I’ll come if you want to hear me.”
“What a good idea!” That was Mrs. Delawney, speaking before her daughter could. “How about you, Jonathan? Would you be available?”
“Of course.”
“And nothing would keep me away,” declared Rod. “Shouldn’t Anna call it a day so far as work is concerned, if she’s going to undertake an important piece of singing tonight?”
“She certainly should,” agreed Jonathan. “Get your coat, Anna, and I’ll drive you down home now.”
As on a previous occasion, both Teresa and her brother tried to query this arrangement, but Jonathan refused to be overruled, saying firmly that he would take the opportunity to look in once more at the church.
“If we’re going to make a great feature of this particular concert, perhaps we should let the Press have photographs of the church. It’s an unusually beautiful setting, if I remember rightly.”
“It is indeed,” agreed Mrs. Delawney with a satisfied smile, for, like her daughter, she also liked to have her own way.
In silence Anna went out to the car with Jonathan, and in silence they drove as far as the gate. Then, as they turned into the lane which led from the Grange to the main road, he said, looking straight ahead, “May I how ask the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question?”
“Which is — what?” she enquired rather faintly.
“Who did give all that information to the Daily Echo?”
“You said yourself — it was Oscar Warrender,” she exclaimed defensively.
“But it wasn’t. I know that.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he told me all about it last night and said he relied on me to persuade Teresa that this church concert could be the sensation of the Festival. He was relying on me — he wasn’t giving any story to the newspapers. That isn’t Warrender’s way, anyway.”
“Then why did you say he had done it, if it wasn’t true?”
He shrugged and laughed in a half vexed way.
“Shall we say that I’m not a hunting man, and so I don’t like to see the fox — much less a little vixen — thrown to the hounds?”
There was a short pause. Then she said, “All right, I told them. Thank you for not giving me away.”
“Whatever made you do it, Anna?” There was real interest in his voice. “I didn’t know you had it in your make-up. Actually to force Teresa’s hand like that.”
“It was a sudden impulse. I’m ashamed about it now, but—”
“No, don’t be I Many an armour-plated prima donna would envy you your tactics. I begin to think you really might make a success of things now.”
She gave a half shocked little laugh.
“It may have been ingenious, but it was a bit unscrupulous,” she admitted. “It was mostly because of my father, I think. It is perfectly true that Mr. Warrender was impressed with his work. No one had ever spoken to my father like that before. He — my father, I mean — looked as though the heavens had opened and the angels had sung his praises. He had almost lost faith in himself — and suddenly Mr. Warrender restored it. And he promised that the song cycle should be heard at the Festival.”
“He had no authority for doing so,” Jonathan interjected, “but then Warrender wouldn’t worry about that, of course.”
“He made several marvellous suggestions to make the song cycle more effective, and my father couldn’t have been better pleased if Mozart himself had looked over his shoulder and given him a few hints. Then Mr. Warrender went away and my father just had no doubt at all that his song cycle would be heard at the Festival.”
“But you did have a few doubts?”
“Mr. Keyne—”
“The name is Jonathan,” he interjected unexpectedly.
“Is it?” She smiled faintly. “Does that mean that I’m coming up a bit in your estimation from the tiresome bore you once thought me?”
“You’re not doing badly,” he said. “Go on with your story.”
“Well, I waited and waited, knowing that — that Teresa was very set against any thought of a church concert.”
“Not actually set against it, Anna. Don’t exaggerate, even if you’re feeling rather sore about Teresa at the moment. She just didn’t visualise a place in the Festival for that sort of concert.”
Anna silently reserved judgment, but had the good sense not to argue.
“Anyway, I was getting a bit panicky, because I saw time was getting short, and I knew that my father had all his hopes and joy pinned on the performance of his work. And then, suddenly, the Daily Echo telephoned yesterday and asked for what they called an interesting story in connection with the Fes
tival. So—” again she made that proud, defiant little movement of her head — “I gave them an interesting story.”
He laughed at that, and she thought she caught an odd little note of admiration in the laugh.
“And now, this evening, you’ve got to prove yourself to us all,” he said, half teasingly.
“I’m not afraid. At least, I’m not afraid of you.”
“Why not of me?”
“Because, though you’ve been rather horrid to me once or twice, I think you’re absolutely fair when it comes to your artistic judgment.”
“Have I been rather horrid to you once or twice?” he asked, as he stopped the car in front of her house, and he sounded very slightly nettled as well as amused.
“Yes. But it wasn’t entirely your fault,” she conceded generously. “A friend of mine always says one has to have luck as well as everything else, and I haven’t been lucky in my encounters with you. I’ve always somehow put myself in a bad light. Behaving stupidly about the audition because I was distracted with worry about my mother. And then pushing you away that time you — you —”
“When I kissed you,” he finished for her. “I’d have said it was my luck that was out that time. You nearly knocked me over in your efforts to repulse me. I’d no idea you packed such a punch.”
“Nor had I,” she admitted, and suddenly, for the first time, they were laughing in friendly unison, and it was quite easy for her to say, “Teresa was standing in the doorway, and I hardly thought she would like the idea of her part-time secretary flirting with her house guests.”
“The devil! Was that what it was?”
“That was what it was,” Anna agreed, and she wondered now why she could not at the time have put the whole incident on this half-laughing level.
“I’m sorry, Anna.” He turned and put his arm along the back of the seat. “Sorry that the luck was out both times, I mean. But—” he smiled at her suddenly — “one can always create a second time. If one wants to sufficiently.”
“I — suppose so, yes.” She glanced down at her clasped hands as they lay there in her lap. “If one wants to sufficiently.”
“The second chance of an audition is coming up tonight, Anna, isn’t it? Will you sing specially for me when you sing in your father’s song cycle tonight?”
She nodded without answering.
“And as for the other occasion — allow me a second chance for that too.” And, leaning forward, he kissed her softly on her cheek.
She did recall quite clearly at that moment what Teresa had said about his twenty-two-carat-gold charm, but it didn’t seem to have any special significance. Nothing seemed to have any real significance except the fact that he had kissed her. And so she leaned across and returned the kiss — not on his cheek, because he turned his head at the exact moment that she leaned forward, so that their lips met and they kissed each other full on the mouth.
“Thank you, darling,” was the astonishing thing he said. “It was a lovely second chance. And now you must run along in and rest. If you want to practise at all don’t overdo it. I want to hear that beautiful voice of yours tonight in all its individual freshness.”
She supposed afterwards that she got out of the car, crossed the pavement and went into the house with some air of normality. But, so far as her recollection went, she floated on clouds of gold, and if she had gone straight through the door without having to open it she would not have been entirely surprised. It would just have been all one with the magic of the moment when the whole world changed because Jonathan Keyne had kissed her and called her “darling”.
Her father was not yet in, but a dazed glance at the dock told her that he would be home in less than half an no hour. That gave her a few precious moments to stand there in the centre of the room, her hands pressed to her eyes, while she savoured the full joy of being friends with Jonathan again.
Well, not even again. For she never had been real friends with him. In the early days she had been no more than a candidate for audition. After that she had almost immediately become first the ungrateful creature who had thrown his marvellous offer back in his face and then the absurdly offended girl who had crushed him for impertinence when he had been teasing and admiring her.
“But we both laughed about it together at last!” she thought happily. “We both thought it funny. Not a matter for friction and misunderstanding, but for shared amusement. And he kissed me — really kissed me. I don’t believe a word Teresa said! Not about their meaning something special to each other, nor about his charm being dangerous. Oh, he has charm of course — loads of it. But it’s real, not just put on to dazzle people. And he said I was to sing specially for him tonight. I will, I will! I’ll sing as I never sang before, and Dad’s beautiful music will enchant them all. But most of all Jonathan. Oh, dear clever Mr. Warrender, to suggest that I should sing it. I could almost love him too just for thinking of that.”
When her father came in she was at the piano, running over a specially difficult passage in the final section of the work. But she jumped up and embraced him and cried, “They’re all coming to hear the rehearsal tonight! All the Delawneys — except Mr. Delawney, of course. I don’t think he’s interested in anything but stocks and shares. But Jonathan Keyne will be there, and it’s got to be better than it’s ever been before, Dad. Jonathan Keyne is coming specially to hear me — us, I mean. And although Teresa is still resistant to the idea of a church concert, she’s going to be overruled because—”
“But if she’s resistant to the idea of a church concert,” interrupted Mr. Fulroyd bewilderedly, “why did she give all that information to the newspaper?”
“She didn’t. I did,” replied Anna succinctly.
“You did, Anna? But with what authority?”
“None. It was my own private little stroke of genius,” said Anna, who by now was really rather flown with her own part in things.
Her father, however, was scandalised.
“Do you mean that you gave all that story when in fact the organiser of the Festival had not even decided to have such a concert?”
Anna nodded defiantly.
“But, my dear, that was completely unethical!”
“Of course it was. But so are most of the things Teresa Delawney does. You have to fight people with their own weapons sometimes.”
“You know perfectly well that’s a most specious line of argument,” said her father severely. “And I’m ashamed to hear you use it.”
“Well, not everyone thinks as you do,” said Anna hastily. “Jonathan Keyne himself said that many an armour-plated prima donna would envy me my tactics.”
“Possibly so. They’re an unscrupulous lot, I understand, when it comes to cutting each other’s throats. But I don’t like the idea of your doing such things.”
“Oh, all right, Dad. I felt guilty about it at the time, if you want to know. But there was some pretty dirty work on the other side and — Oh, I’ll explain it all another time,” she cried, seeing further bewilderment on her father’s face and greatly fearing that they would be splitting hairs for the next fifteen minutes if she didn’t take a firm stand. “It’s all right, darling. Truly it is! At least, it’s going to be after tonight. Don’t think of anything but the rehearsal. It’s got to be SUPERB.”
“Very well.” Unable to resist her happiness and enthusiasm, her father smiled — still rather doubtfully — and consented to being hustled through a light meal and then a few minutes of practice. Neither of them really required the latter, for both knew every note and musical nuance of the work which had occupied their thoughts and hopes for so long. But, like most artists, Anna liked to “sing herself in” before any performance of importance. And this, she felt, was to be one of the most important performances of her life.
Then they went down to the church, and Mr. Fulroyd explained to the choir that they must all do better than their best that evening, because they would be more or less on trial for inclusion in the Festival programme.
<
br /> Tommy Bream at this point accidentally — at least, he said it was accidentally — released his pet white mouse among the ladies of the choir and there was quite a scene. But order was presently restored, the mouse — returned once more to its cage — was taken out into the vestry, and Tommy’s voice was already soaring in angelic tones in the first anthem when the party from the Grange arrived.
From where she was sitting Anna could not see individually who was there, but it seemed to her that the Delawneys must have gathered some of their friends to accompany them, for there was quite a group of them. Mrs. Delawney came first, slightly ahead of the others and, with a gracious little gesture to Mr. Fulroyd, indicated that the rehearsal should proceed without any interruption on their account.
So Tommy — whose faultless soprano had not so much as quavered, in spite of his interest in the visitors — completed his anthem and sat down, looking as though he were justifiably expecting the Pearly Gates to open for him at any moment.
Then there was a slight rustle among the choir, as they stood up, their manuscript copies of the song cycle in their hands. A nod from Mr. Fulroyd, a few opening chords on the organ, and they burst into the quite splendid chorus with which the Summer section opened.
To Anna it had never sounded better. And, although she could not actually see Jonathan from where she was sitting in the choir stalls, she thought she could somehow sense the impression which the work must be making upon him from the outset.
When she herself stood up to sing she was almost glad that she could not see him. Thus there was nothing and nobody — not even Jonathan — to distract her attention from the joy and beauty of what she was singing. She could hear her own voice, mounting triumphantly against the rich background of the choral singing, and during the slight pause before the next section of the work she was aware of a stirring of interest and a murmur of approval among the group who had come with the Delawneys. Even Teresa smiled slightly when her mother leaned across and said something to her.
Song Cycle (Warrender Saga Book 8) Page 10
