Nightingales (Warrender Saga Book 11)

by Mary Burchell

  It was he himself who opened the door—as she had expected since she knew he lived alone—and he looked startled and not at all pleased when he saw who was standing there.

  ‘May I come in, please?’ said Amanda without preamble. ‘I—I want to speak to you.’

  He pulled the door further open then and stood aside for her to enter.

  ‘Go through to the room at the back,’ he said. ‘At least——’

  But she gave him no opportunity to develop any alternative plan, and went through the small house and into an unusually beautiful room, with panelled walls and ceiling and a wide view of an unexpectedly large and colourful garden. Near the wide windows stood a full-sized concert grand piano, and on the large polished mahogany table sheets of manuscript music were scattered.

  As he followed her into the room he went over to the table and swept the sheets of manuscript together, pushing them half out of sight. Almost, thought Amanda, as though he did not want her to see them.

  He did not ask her to sit down, so she stood, and the only thing she could think of to say was the sentence which had been repeating itself in her head all the way there.

  ‘I want to explain about last night.’ It came out as a plain, unvarnished, rather aggressive statement.

  ‘Is there anything to explain?’

  ‘Yes, of course there is! You must have thought me both rude and deceitful, but——’

  ‘I did,’ he agreed, and that also came out as a plain, unvarnished, rather aggressive statement, which made her wince.

  ‘I can’t blame you. But it wasn’t quite as—as it sounds. Before you invited me to go to the Warrender concert with you. Jerome Leydon had already invited me and I’d accepted. I was sorry and—and embarrassed when I had to refuse you——’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Why?’ she repeated, realising suddenly that she had not even thought about that until this moment. She sat down slowly—though still uninvited—and leant her arms on the big polished table. ‘I think,’ she said, trying to reconstruct the scene in her mind and seeing it with unexpected clarity, ‘I think mostly because you gave your invitation with such real pleasure; you smiled as though it made you happy to be offering me the very nicest treat you could think of, and I hated knowing I must refuse. You evidently saw what was coming because the—the light went out of your face and——’

  ‘I had no idea that I had such a speaking countenance,’ he said drily, but he too sat down at the table then, facing her.

  ‘You don’t usually,’ she told him. ‘That’s what made it all the more—distressing.’

  ‘You’re too easily distressed,’ he told her coldly.

  ‘Anyway,’ she rushed on quickly, ‘when I knew I had to refuse I didn’t want to add insult to injury by admitting I was already going to the concert with someone you—you apparently don’t much like. So I let you think it was just a matter of my not being able to get away from the hotel. It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and I realise now it was a stupid one. I’m sorry. I probably deserved being shown up later, but——’

  ‘And how does Max Arrowsmith—of whom you’d never heard—come into this?’ he enquired, again in that dry tone.

  ‘Oh, he was just a sort of bonus to the malignant fate who seems to have mixed all the lines for me!’ She gave a rather desperate little laugh which, to her horror, sounded extraordinarily unsteady. ‘I truly had never met him or even heard of him. He joined us at dinner. There was nothing I could do about it, even if—if——’ the unsteadiness in her voice increased and she struggled to find her handkerchief, but, failing to do so, wiped the back of her hand across her eyes instead.

  ‘Please don’t start crying. It makes me nervous,’ he said, though she could not detect the slightest sign of nervousness in his manner. Then he handed her a handkerchief across the table and, when she had clumsily wiped her eyes, he said, ‘Go on.’

  ‘I can’t go on. Not when you talk like that. And anyway, there’s nothing else to say. Except once more that I’m sorry and—and I think I’d better go now. Perhaps I’d have done better not to have come anyway,’ she added and, a good deal ashamed of the scene she had made, she got to her feet.

  ‘Sit down, Amanda, and stop being a silly little idiot,’ Lewis said bracingly. ‘You’re making too much of this whole affair. I accept your explanation, though I still deplore the Leydon–Arrowsmith combination. Now would you like a cup of tea? It’s the recognised remedy for an emotional upset, isn’t it?’

  He smiled straight at her then, in a way she found amazingly reassuring, so that she found herself able to smile back at him, though a little uncertainly.

  ‘Th-thank you. That would be nice,’ she admitted, and a great wave of relief engulfed her as she realised that his ‘I accept your explanation’ meant far more than she could ever have supposed possible. ‘Can I come and help you?’ she offered.

  ‘No, stay where you are. I won’t be five minutes.’

  So she stayed where she was, sitting at the table, experiencing some feeling not unlike that wonderful moment when the convalescent realises that recovery is imminent after all. She glanced out at the riot of colour in the garden and then back at the pile of music manuscript on the table, then she leaned forward and drawing the top sheet towards her began to examine it with some curiosity.

  It was nothing she recognised, although it was obviously a song of some kind, and she instinctively began to sight-read it, humming it under her breath.

  She was still absorbed in the manuscript sheet when Lewis came back into the room, carrying a tray, and she looked up and said, ‘What are you copying here? It’s nothing I know, but it’s rather lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it?’ He set down the tray with some deliberation, as though he were absorbed in keeping everything steady. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘But what is it? And who wrote it?’

  ‘I did,’ he replied after a fractional pause.

  ‘You did? But I had no idea you composed!’

  ‘Well, there’s no special reason why you should, is there? Milk and sugar?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ she said absently, and returned her attention to the sheet in her hand. ‘I love that unusual rising interval in the opening phrase.’ She sang it in full voice and then got up suddenly and went to the piano. ‘Come and play it for me, will you? I’d like to sing it right through.’

  ‘Don’t you want your tea?’ He stood unnaturally still, watching her.

  ‘Tea?’ she repeated vaguely. ‘Oh—no, thank you. I mean—not while there’s something like this to sing.’ She opened the keyboard of the piano and actually held out her hand to him, as though she were encouraging someone younger than herself.

  He came over to her, taking the outstretched hand for a moment in an unexpectedly tight grip, then he sat down and began to play. Amanda stood behind him and sang with some confidence, though she had to lean almost over his shoulder once or twice to catch the exact word or note. He stopped her once and in a slightly husky voice directed her back to the beginning of a line, and she followed with meticulous care what he had told her.

  At the end she continued to stand behind him, silent now and moved in some indescribable way to a degree she had never experienced before. He too was silent, as he took off his glasses and reached vaguely into his pocket for his handkerchief.

  ‘It’s here. You lent it to me—remember?’ And, picking up the handkerchief, she handed it to him. He took it without thanks and slowly polished his glasses. Then he said,

  ‘It sounds different when you sing it.’

  ‘You mean I didn’t do it quite the way you intended?’

  ‘No. I mean that though notes can tell you a lot in a—an academic way, it’s a different thing when someone sings them—very beautifully. I didn’t know—’ he cleared his throat slightly—‘that it was quite a good song.’

  ‘It’s a lovely song,’ she said. And then, lest the moment should become too emotional, she went to take her cup
of tea from the tray and, seeing the other cup was empty, she filled it for him and brought it back to him as he still sat at the piano.

  ‘Thank you.’ He took it absently, as though it were quite natural for her to wait on him in his own home.

  ‘Have you composed anything else like that?’ she asked him presently.

  ‘Not any other vocal music—no.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve done things for the organ and some string music. I composed a string quartet early in the year and sent it in for a music contest. Warrender was one of the judges. When he came down here the other evening——’

  ‘Oh, that’s why you spoke as though he might be in Austin Parva for something other than my singing?’

  ‘It did occur to me. But only for a moment. Then after the choir practice he talked to me for some time and said that, in his view, whatever talent I had was almost certainly for vocal music——’

  ‘Did he say it was a very considerable talent?’ she interrupted quickly.

  ‘Well, yes, he did. And he made the suggestion that I should try my hand at a simple song.’ He paused and gave an odd, almost shy little smile. ‘That’s the song.’ He gestured towards the sheet of manuscript music on the piano.

  ‘But, Lewis—’ suddenly that was the perfectly natural way to address him—‘it’s absolutely lovely! You’re a genius!’

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not!’ He laughed then in his usual forthright, unsentimental way. ‘This may be just a flash in the pan.’

  ‘You know it isn’t!’ she said indignantly.

  ‘All right, I know it isn’t,’ he agreed quite seriously. ‘But one song doesn’t make a composer. This could be the beginning of something—or not. I just don’t know yet.’

  ‘Where did you get the words?’ Amanda asked interestedly.

  ‘From a mixed collection of short poems which I found in a secondhand bookshop,’ he admitted. ‘It’s one of those nineteenth-century things which hover somewhere between pure gold and pure corn. The music can make all the difference,’ he added. ‘And so can the way it’s sung.’ He smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Amanda. You’ve given me something this afternoon which has more than paid for all your lessons.’

  ‘Oh! What a lovely thing to say. Particularly after the ridiculous way I behaved over the concert. Thank you, Lewis, for all you’ve done for me. I’m going to make a prophecy. I think you’ll write an opera one day. Perhaps a chamber opera,’ she added hastily, as he made a quick gesture of repudiating such an idea.

  ‘All right. And perhaps you’ll sing in it,’ he retorted lightly, as he accompanied her to the door and watched her remount her bicycle. ‘Go carefully.’

  And she had reached the far end of the village street, and was just passing the church, before it occurred to her that never before had he said anything which expressed the least concern for her personal welfare.

  With a strong wind behind her and her spirits and energy at their highest, she made good time on the way home and, as she entered The Nightingale, she was aware of the sound of several voices coming from the family sitting room, with a certain amount of laughter and the general impression of gay conversation.

  The tones of her brother and sister-in-law were easily distinguishable, but with them was another voice which sounded excitingly familiar. And when she entered the room she was not surprised—but exceedingly pleased—to find Jerome Leydon there. With him was a good-looking woman slightly older than he was, but sufficiently like him to suggest that she must be his sister, Diana.

  Both of them were in animated conversation with Nan and Henry. The other person in the room, who was not joining in the conversation at the moment, she recognised with a slight sense of shock as Max Arrowsmith.

  ‘Here she is!’ cried Nan, on a note of unforced gaiety which Amanda had not heard from her for a long time. ‘Mandy, come and meet Mr Leydon’s sister, Mrs Cole. You know everyone else, I think. Even—you secretive creature—Mr Arrowsmith.’

  ‘I wasn’t secretive about Mr Arrowsmith,’ Amanda protested, as she shook hands in turn with the three visitors. ‘I told you about meeting him.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell us about his special interest in you. How could you keep quiet about your voice and your lessons with Dr Elsworth—and Sir Oscar thinking well of you? And perhaps most of all Mr Arrowsmith’s interest.’

  ‘I didn’t know Mr Arrowsmith was specially interested in me,’ said Amanda stubbornly, while she felt as though a great gusty wind was beginning to blow upon her future.

  ‘But he says he is,’ reiterated Nan. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Mr Arrowsmith?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ agreed Max Arrowsmith. And again those dark, heavily-lidded eyes regarded Amanda a little inscrutably.

  Chapter Four

  Relieved though she was to find that Henry—and, still more importantly, Nan—had calmly accepted the revelation about her singing, Amanda was disquieted by the presence of Mr Arrowsmith. Little more than an hour ago Lewis Elsworth had been expressing strong disapproval of him, and now here he was, seemingly entrenched in the family circle on quite friendly terms.

  Somehow she summoned a nervous smile of general greeting, and then addressed herself to her sister-in-law.

  ‘Nan, I’m so glad you and Henry know about—everything at last,’ she said eagerly. ‘I hated not telling you before this. But, knowing what I did of your own talent and frustrated career, how could I start babbling about my modest hopes? After all, they may come to nothing and——’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of their coming to nothing,’ put in Max Arrowsmith. ‘Not,’ he added carelessly, ‘if you have good advice—and follow it.’

  ‘There you are!’ Nan’s eyes sparkled with such pleasure that Amanda felt strangely moved. Who could have supposed that Nan, of all people, would rejoice so openly on her behalf?

  In an attempt to avoid a tricky subject, she turned away then to accept Jerome’s introduction to his sister. And Diana Cole smiled at her with obvious interest and said, ‘Congratulations! This is really very exciting, isn’t it?’

  ‘Oh, it’s too early for congratulations,’ Amanda protested quickly. ‘Dr Elsworth thinks——’

  ‘Don’t rely solely on his advice, Amanda,’ interrupted Jerome with good-humoured firmness. ‘He’s a splendid basic teacher, of course. But though I’m not knocking him, the fact is that a village organist is hardly the best person to advise about a stage career.’

  ‘I’m not ready for any sort of stage career yet,’ retorted Amanda, her annoyance on Lewis’s behalf adding emphasis to that.

  ‘That could be a matter of opinion,’ observed Max Arrowsmith. And because he sounded rather amused Amanda said quite rudely,

  ‘Whose opinion?’

  ‘Eventually—mine, when I’ve heard you and had an opportunity to make my own assessment,’ was the cool reply. ‘Meanwhile I’m impressed by what Jerome has told me, and neither he nor I could be described as inexperienced in these matters.’

  ‘You do realise Mr Arrowsmith’s position in the theatre world, Mandy, don’t you?’ Nan interjected eagerly. ‘And Mr Leydon is a composer who——’

  ‘Lewis Elsworth is also a composer,’ Amanda heard herself state rather aggressively. And then she immediately wondered if she had betrayed a confidence. Certainly her statement produced a pregnant silence, which was broken after a moment by Jerome saying curiously,

  ‘So he composes, does he? What does he compose?—Church anthems?’

  She very much wanted to say that Oscar Warrender was interested in Jerome’s compositions; but she was afraid she might already have said too much to an audience less than friendly towards her teacher. So she choked back her indignant defence and replied not quite truthfully, ‘I don’t know any details. I haven’t discussed it with him.’

  Then, suddenly aware that she was disturbing the harmony of the scene unnecessarily, she smiled and said apologetically, ‘Don’t think I’m ungrateful for all this interest in my voice. It’s just—I’m r
ather bemused with the suddenness of it all. And, as I said before, these are early days. Too early for me to make any firm plans.’

  Nan made as though to speak and so did Jerome, but it was characteristically Mr Arrowsmith who got in the first Word.

  ‘Miss Lovett,’ he said, ‘your loyalty to your teacher does you credit, and if he has taught you as well as Jerome says then you’re right to display it. But behind every successful artist you’ll usually find more than one adviser, one teacher, one director of talent. From my own observation and from what Jerome has told me, I think you’re probably quite ready to be tested for something other than operatic singing; something which would give you some professional stage experience and stand you in good stead in any future ambitions.’

  ‘What—exactly—did you have in mind?’ Amanda was half reassured against her will.

  ‘My dear—’ Max Arrowsmith got to his feet with a smile, but with an air of putting an end to the conversation—‘in show business no one puts all his cards on the table at the first discussion. Least of all myself. I suggest that Jerome brings you to London some time during the next few days and that I have a chance of hearing and testing you for myself. You may, of course, prove to be no good at all.’ He made a disparaging little gesture which, curiously enough, had the effect of putting Amanda on her mettle. ‘But I should like to judge for myself,’ he concluded.

  Then, without waiting for any reply from her, he turned to Nan, who was listening with breathless interest, and said, ‘Mrs Lovett, it has been a charming—possibly a fruitful—visit and I hope we shall all be seeing more of each other.’

  As goodbyes were exchanged Jerome gave Amanda’s hand a specially friendly pressure and whispered, ‘Trust me! I’ll see everything goes all right for you.’