Song Cycle (Warrender Saga Book 8)

by Mary Burchell

  “No — no,” she assured him feverishly. “It wasn’t my idea. It was Mr. Warrender’s.”

  “And a pretty poor idea too, if I may say so.”

  “He — he meant it kindly,” she stammered in all fairness.

  “To whom? It was no kindness to me, I assure you.”

  “I know — I know.” Her voice shook so that she had great difficulty in getting out a complete sentence. “Jonathan, please, please can we go somewhere quiet where you can stop the car and we can talk?”

  “Why? I have absolutely nothing to say to you,” he stated with brutal precision.

  “But I have to you,” she cried desperately.

  “I can’t imagine what.” But he headed the car north, in the general direction of Regents Park.

  She was not quite sure if it were relief at having gained one small point or fear of what lay ahead, but she found tears on her cheeks and had the greatest difficulty in wiping them away surreptitiously. She evidently made a bad job of her small, furtive movement because, still looking ahead, he said,

  “Stop crying. Tears are always a bore. And you make me nervous.”

  “You?” she exclaimed indignantly. “How do you suppose I’m feeling?”

  “I have no idea. And I’m not even trying to guess. This idiotic interview was your choice, not mine.”

  “Jonathan, it’s quiet here. Won’t you stop the car?”

  He stopped the car and sat staring straight ahead.

  “I want to tell you — I want to tell you it was all a mistake this afternoon—”

  “Was it?” There was nothing encouraging about his tone.

  “Yes. You see — Jonathan, please look at me. I can’t just talk to a profile. It was a mistake—”

  “You’ve said that before.” Still he wouldn’t look at her. “And frankly, there’ve been too many mistakes where you and I are concerned. I’m finally and absolutely sick of them. You’re not the girl I thought you were. You’re just—”

  “But I am! I am! Look at me, Jonathan —” suddenly she put her arms round him. “I am the same. I’m Anna — Don’t treat me like a stranger. Don’t you remember — ?” And then suddenly he turned his head and looked at her, and the incredible thing he said was, “‘Manon’. That’s what you ought to play! That’s exactly the way she should hang round the wretched Des Grieux. You have the voice and the looks and the — the beguiling ways. You’d be the perfect Manon! Did no one ever tell you?”

  “I don’t want to be the perfect Manon! She was a hussy, anyway,” cried Anna, really in tears by now. “I’m talking about me — about us. I don’t want to talk about a stupid opera.”

  “‘Manon’ isn’t a stupid opera. It’s one of the loveliest in the repertoire. And she was a honey in her maddening way, and could make a fool of any man. Is that what you want to do with me? — make a fool of me again?” And he kissed her hard on her lips.

  “No!” She clung to him with an abandon that any Manon might have envied. “I just want to tell you that I love you, and that was why I was wild this afternoon. I thought you’d just pretended to make love to me because you wanted Rod Delawney’s money, and I didn’t know—”

  “Hush, hush, hush! Don’t cry like that.” Suddenly he had her in his arms and was actually rocking her gently to and fro. “Just say that all over again quite slowly — particularly the bit about loving me. Though if you really do love me, why the hell do you treat me like this? I felt suicidal all the evening, and understood exactly why Jos finally killed the girl he loved. Now tell me again about you and me and Rod Delawney, and let’s get it straight, once and for all.”

  So, close in his arms, and interrupting herself with the occasional sob even now, she told him how she had misjudged him and how that had led her to behave so abominably to him.

  “And you really thought I was that sort of a heel?” he said at last.

  “No, I didn’t think you were. But it seemed that you must be.”

  “Amounts to the same thing,” he told her. “You really have been a bit of a goose, haven’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said humbly, at which he kissed her and added thoughtfully,

  “Well, I suppose I was a fool too. I ought to have beaten you and insisted on making you see the truth.”

  “Yes,” she agreed happily again. And this time she kissed him.

  “What does it all add up to?” he said, stroking her cheek. “Just tell me in simple words that allow of no second meaning, can you?”

  She nodded and wiped away the last tears.

  “I love you,” she said with a gulp. “And I want desperately to be in your Canadian company, and I don’t care about anything Dermot Deane gets for me so long as I can be with you. And even if there’s no Canadian tour, I still want to be with you. And — and that’s all.”

  “It’s enough, my dear, dear, no-longer-muddled little Anna,” he told her tenderly, and kissed the tip of her nose. “And now we’re going to drive back to the Gloria together and tell the Warrenders all about it.”

  “But they aren’t expecting me,” she said quickly.

  “If I know Warrender, he’s expecting you all right,” replied Jonathan with a laugh. “He’s probably got his stop-watch out now, and fancying himself as the deus ex machina. Why do you suppose he shoved you into this car with me?”

  “Oh, yes — I see.” She smiled slowly, and he kissed her again and turned the car and began to drive back to town.

  At the Gloria he allowed her a few minutes to do some running repairs to her face and remove the last trace of tears. Then hand-in-hand they went into the big dining-room and stood looking round.

  “Here they come,” observed Warrender to his wife, in a tone of some satisfaction. “It’s all right, he has brought her too. We shan’t have the Canadian tour scuppered, after all.”

  “Is that all you care about?” exclaimed Anthea reproachfully.

  “What else?” Her famous husband looked amused. But she studied him thoughtfully with her head slightly on one side.

  “You know what I think, Oscar,” she said at last. “I think underneath all that Warrender build-up you’re just a romantic at heart.”

  “And if I am, whose fault do you think that is?” replied Warrender, and he smiled at his wife across the table before he rose to welcome the two who were approaching them.

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