She glanced at Natalie out of long, darkly-lashed grey eyes and said, after a moment, ‘I know you, don’t I? though I haven’t seen you for years. Aren’t you Valerie Harding’s girl?’
Natalie was so used to being identified as her father’s daughter that it gave her a strange but pleasant little shock to be catalogued as her mother’s girl.
‘My mother was Valerie Harding,’ she agreed, her sense of caution giving way to a feeling of pleased warmth. ‘But I don’t think I remember when—where——’
‘No, you wouldn’t. You were about fourteen or fifteen at the time, but I remember thinking even then that you were going to be a beauty one day, like your mother. It was some end-of-term affair at your school, and I was there because my daughter——’
‘You’re Wendy Pallerton’s mother!’ exclaimed Natalie. ‘I remember—of course. You were so terribly kind to me.’ And it all came back to her in a rush. How her glamorous parents had made the briefest of gracious appearances, totally eclipsing every other parent—not to mention their own inconspicuous daughter—and then departed in a cloud of glory, leaving her feeling that somehow they had hardly noticed her.
‘You were disappointed because they had to go early,’ Mrs Pallerton recalled tactfully, ‘and so you joined up with Wendy and me.’
‘It was you who did the joining up,’ declared Natalie gratefully. ‘I felt a bit like a squashed fly; and you were so kind and made me feel almost important. I wasn’t able to thank you then because I was at the almost totally inarticulate stage, but I’d like to thank you now.’
‘That’s very sweet of you.’ Her neighbour patted her arm in a kindly way. ‘Is your father coming tonight?’
‘Oh—oh, no.’
Her tone must have been somewhat revealing, because the other woman laughed a little and said, ‘Well, I suppose one tenor doesn’t usually come to hear another.’
‘I thought perhaps I’d better come and represent the family,’ Natalie stated a trifle disingenuously. ‘Anyway, I’ve never heard him before. Have you?’
‘Oh, yes. Quite a number of times,’ was the unexpected reply.
‘But’—Natalie turned to her companion in surprise—‘he hasn’t sung here before, has he?’
‘No. I heard him in Canada and the States. He happens to be my nephew.’
Fortunately for Natalie, the conductor made his entrance at that moment, and she was spared the necessity of making any reply. But throughout the opening scene of the opera she sat stunned. The evening had suddenly become almost too exciting and disturbing. First the recognition of someone who had been so memorably kind to her, and who recalled her mother so vividly, had greatly moved her; and then the further discovery that she actually formed a further link with Laurence Morven seemed almost uncanny.
‘I didn’t even ask about Wendy,’ she thought in passing. Then Laurence Morven came on to the stage and she forgot altogether about Wendy Pallerton.
Charles had been right about the costumes. They were immensely becoming to most of the people taking part in the elegant eighteenth-century drawing-room scene; and as the new tenor moved easily among the other figures on the stage Natalie thought how well he looked. There was nothing of her father’s instant impact, which invariably established him at once as the star of the occasion. On the contrary, he mingled almost unobtrusively with the other guests, as the poet Chénier might have done in real life.
But when he was called on to improvise a poem to music for the entertainment of the company, he moved naturally into the centre of the scene and his opening phrases were thoughtfully and beautifully sung. The poet described how, one day when he was out in the country, he was overwhelmed by the beauty of nature and the scene around him. And then various incidents brought home to him the terrible fact that the utter misery and poverty of the people of the countryside was in sharp and shameful contrast to the beauty of their surroundings.
Here his voice changed subtly, until the whole song became a cry of angry compassion for the wrongs of those who were oppressed by the very people to whom he was singing. He was a poet and revolutionary in one, and Natalie—who had, of course, often heard her father and others sing this famous, aria—thought that never before had it seemed such a natural expression of someone carried away by his own pity and anger. She found that she could completely identify herself with the heroine, Maddalena, as she stood there both fascinated and repelled by this handsome rebel, while the scene broke up in angry confusion around him.
It was not, perhaps, one of the greatest voices she had ever heard, but it was singularly beautiful in colour and tone; and, like all truly fine voices, of a unique quality that made it completely memorable. There was an intensely masculine sound about it, with what Charles had characterised as ‘a touch of real metal’, but with this went an almost sensuous quality that took one by the throat.
‘What a beautiful voice!’ Natalie exclaimed as the curtain fell on a storm of applause.
‘I think so too—but then of course I’m a bit prejudiced.’ Mrs Pallerton smiled, but she looked pleased. ‘I know it isn’t a great heroic voice, but——’
‘It’s much more unusual than that!’ countered Natalie, carried away by her own enthusiasm. ‘Perfect for the part, because it’s the voice of a fighter—and a lover too.’
‘My dear, how well put!’ Mrs Pallerton was obviously charmed. ‘You must come round with me afterwards and tell him that yourself.’
‘Oh, but I——’ began Natalie. And then they were interrupted by a couple who came to speak to Mrs Pallerton, and Natalie was left sitting there on her own, wrestling with the bold, breathtaking question: Why should she not go round backstage with Mrs Pallerton and renew her contact with Laurence Morven?
Well, of course she couldn’t!—Or could she?
Until that moment it had never occurred to her to do anything but put the little-known Laurence Morven out of her life. As her father’s daughter——
But then she wasn’t only her father’s daughter. That conviction had been growing on her during the last few days. She was also Natalie Harding, in her own right. Her father was safely in Sussex, enjoying his visit to the Bannisters, no doubt. If she just went round to congratulate the hero of the evening, who was to know or comment?
Just as the lights dimmed once more, Mrs Pallerton slipped into the seat beside her again and whispered, ‘I went round to see Laurence, and I told him about you and our meeting again. And he wants us both to come out to supper afterwards. I said yes. Is that all right?’
All right?—No, of course, it was all wrong!
But it was also the most exciting thing that had happened to Natalie in years.
Throughout the rest of the evening Natalie alternated between decision and indecision. But, in the final prison scene, with its irresistible call to courage and high endeavour, she knew she had made up her mind. What sort of timid mouse would she be if she allowed habit and a sort of inhibited family loyalty to deprive her of a delightful experience?
Mrs Pallerton, who had obviously taken Natalie’s acceptance for granted, observed as they joined in the prolonged applause that there was no need for them to hurry, as no doubt a good many people would go round to the artists’ dressing-rooms afterwards. Consequently, instead of going through the pass-door and across the stage, they made a leisurely way out into the street and round to the stage door.
Here, as Natalie had expected, a large and excited crowd had already gathered. But with the ease of long practice she led the way through, received a nod of recognition and permission from the stage-door keeper, who naturally knew her, and turned along the well-known corridor which led to the stairs and the dressing-rooms above.
Usually visits backstage held no anxieties for Natalie, but on this occasion she found to her surprise that there was a nervous little pulse fluttering in her throat, as though she were the rawest of admirers approaching a famous artist for the first time.
They had to stand aside at the bottom of
the stairs for several early visitors who were now coming down after their brief visits to one or other of the dressing-rooms. One of these knew Natalie slightly and paused for a momentary greeting before he passed on. Then she looked up again and her heart gave a quite sickening little lurch.
Two distinguished-looking elderly gentlemen were descending the stairs. One was Quentin Bannister, and the other was her father.
Chapter Two
If Natalie could have turned tail at that moment and run away she would probably have done so. But her father had already seen her and, as he came level with her, said,
‘Why, Natalie, what brings you here?’
‘The same impulse that brought you and Mr Bannister, I expect.’ To her surprise, that came out quite lightly and naturally. ‘I was frankly curious about the new tenor.’
‘We came to hear the soprano,’ replied her father coolly, though he must have known better than most that one does not go to Andréa Chénier to hear the soprano. ‘Bannister is interested in her,’ he added.
‘Are you, Mr Bannister?’ Natalie turned to her father’s companion. ‘She was very good, I thought.’
Then she introduced Mrs Pallerton—as the mother of an old school-friend and, after the faintest pause, as the aunt of Laurence Morven.
‘We’re going up to see him,’ she added, and hoped there wasn’t a note of defiance in that.
‘Then you must give him my compliments,’ said her father graciously. But it was a graciousness which hardly covered some slight surprise and displeasure. ‘As you won’t be long,’ he continued, ‘I’ll wait for you. I’m going back home tonight and Bannister is staying at his club. We can give you a lift.’
‘No——’ Natalie spoke quickly but with unusual authority, ‘don’t wait, Father. I’m going out to supper afterwards.’
‘With whom?’ This time the surprise and displeasure were more obvious.
‘With Mrs Pallerton—and Laurence Morven,’ replied Natalie, and as she said that she had the distinct impression of crossing some important bridge that she could never recross again.
‘I think we should go up now.’ Mrs Pallerton, who had been exchanging a few conventional remarks with Quentin Bannister, turned back to Natalie at that moment. Natalie steadied her voice sufficiently to say, ‘Goodnight, Father. Goodnight, Mr Bannister. Please remember me to Mrs Bannister, won’t you?’ Then they were mounting the stairs, Natalie aware that her legs felt slightly weak.
‘Did your father mind you coming, do you think?’ inquired Mrs Pallerton, with the uninhibited frankness of one who had never had to weigh each word and its effect on someone else.
‘He was surprised, I suppose,’ replied Natalie, who knew he had been thunderstruck. ‘He still tends to regard me as a little girl’—it sounded better put that way—‘and doesn’t quite like me to make arrangements without consulting him. But, as he was out of London and not really expected back until the weekend, I don’t think it mattered in this case.’
Mrs Pallerton said no more, as they had now arrived at the principal tenor’s dressing-room. She knocked on the door which was opened a crack by the dresser, who said, ‘Just a minute, please. Mr Morven is changing,’ and closed it again.
For the short while that they had to wait Natalie stood there in the narrow corridor with her heart pounding. Though whether because of the recent encounter with her father or the coming encounter with Laurence Morven she was not quite sure.
Then they were admitted, and Natalie followed Mrs Pallerton into the familiar room which, until that moment, she had always associated exclusively with her father.
Laurence Morven got up from the dressing-table and came forward. And, although the romantic costume was now gone and he was in conventional white shirt and black trousers, Natalie realised at once that he still retained some indefinable impression of the character he had portrayed throughout the evening. It was nothing to do with his physical appearance—something much more subtle than that—but it gave him a charm and attraction more powerful than anything she had ever encountered before.
He kissed Mrs Pallerton and then turned to Natalie with a rather wicked smile, and said, ‘So I’m not permanently off your visiting list?’
‘Oh, please——’ Natalie coloured. ‘I’m sorry about that brush-off in the hotel. But my father was just coming out of the lift and I thought—I thought——’
‘It wouldn’t do to be found talking to the rival tenor?’
‘Something like that. I know it sounds silly, but——’ again she broke off.
‘Well, it does rather,’ he agreed, turning away to pick up his watch from the dressing-table and fasten it on his wrist. But then he glanced up again with that smile and asked, ‘What’s Father going to say when he hears you’ve been out to supper with me?’
‘He knows about it already,’ put in Mrs Pallerton. ‘We met him on the stairs, with his friend Quentin Bannister.’
‘He asked me to give you his—his compliments,’ Natalie said quickly.
‘But didn’t feel like giving them in person?’
‘I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, that’s just the way it is. Please don’t be cross about it.’
‘I’m not cross.’ To her astonishment, he touched her cheek lightly with the back of his fingers. And because there was unusual gentleness as well as amusement in the gesture she felt strangely moved as well as startled.
Then he reached for his coat and said, ‘Let’s go, shall we?’
So they went. Retracing their steps down the stairs, along the corridor and out into the street, where an even bigger crowd was now waiting to salute the hero of the evening.
As he stood there signing the inevitable programmes that were thrust into his hand, Natalie withdrew a little to one side with Mrs Pallerton and watched, a faint, irrepressible quiver of dismay making her draw her wrap more closely round her. The scene so nearly duplicated those many other times when she had stood in that same doorway and watched another figure smilingly accept the adulation, the outstretched programmes, the particular brand of incense which is burnt at the altar of a successful tenor. And she was looking very serious as Laurence Morven finally gathered her and Mrs Pallerton into his orbit again and ushered them into the waiting car.
He took the wheel himself—a thing her father would never have done just after a performance, being of the opinion that the transfer from the stage world to the world of real life required a little time before one’s reflexes were normal. Natalie glanced at her companion’s strong hands on the wheel and wondered if he would have regarded her father’s theory as affected and silly. She supposed he would, and gave a small involuntary sigh.
‘Yes?’ he said at that moment, and he glanced at her and smiled as he stopped the car at some traffic lights.
‘Why do you say that?’ She smiled too, but a little uncertainly.
‘I wondered—why the serious expression and the slight sigh?’
‘Oh—it was nothing, really.’ And then she added, because she was genuinely curious. ‘Do you always drive your car yourself after a performance?’
‘Usually—yes. Why not? I’m feeling on top of the world tonight.’
‘I’m sure you are!’ Natalie’s tone was warmly congratulatory, ‘and with every reason. I was just thinking that—that my father never does. Drive the car himself after a performance, I mean.’
‘Well, he’s a much older man than I am,’ replied Laurence Morven. And, although that was the literal truth and he said it quite inoffensively, Natalie immediately felt defensive on her father’s behalf.
‘I don’t know that he ever did, even in earlier days,’ she said stiffly.
‘He did, you know.’ Mrs Pallerton spoke unexpectedly from the back seat. ‘Oddly enough, I was thinking of one occasion—oh, years ago, when you were probably away at school. He came out of that stage-door after a stunning performance of Don Carlos, and I was standing in the crowd in those days. Your mother was already waiting in the car. And when he had de
alt with the fans and the autograph-hunters he got in beside her and—I’ve always remembered it—as she moved over to make room for him at the wheel, he leaned over and kissed her, quite unselfconsciously, as though none of us were there. Then he drove off with her beside him, and I’ve never seen anyone look handsomer or happier than they did.’
‘Oh—thank you——’ said Natalie, and that was all she could manage, because that sudden glimpse of the long-gone, glorious past brought the tears to her eyes, and two of them actually trickled down her cheeks.
‘Don’t cry, darling.’ Incredibly, Laurence Morven used the endearment as though he had known her for years. ‘I know it’s part of the past, but no one can ever really take those moments away, you know.’
‘I know—I know.’ She hastily wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘I’m being emotional and silly tonight.’
‘I wouldn’t call it that.’ He smiled ahead down the road in front, and taking one hand from the wheel he gave her a large, serviceable white handkerchief, which she accepted with a shaky little laugh, and somehow felt much better.
The restaurant where they went was small and quiet, but the Italian proprietor apparently already knew about the evening’s performance, because he hastened to congratulate Laurence on his success.
‘How do you know I wasn’t a thumping failure?’ countered Laurence amusedly.
‘First because you are the stuff of which success is made, Signor Morven,’ replied the Italian promptly, ‘and secondly, my cousin, who was there, has just telephoned to tell me that it was the best performance of Andréa Chénier since Lindley Harding was in his prime.’
‘Hm—thank you.’ Laurence then addressed himself to the menu and wine list, while Natalie surreptitiously stole another glance at him and thought, ‘“The stuff of which success is made”. That exactly describes him, of course. Perhaps that’s why I’m a little—afraid of him.’
Conversation flowed very easily during the meal, which was more than Natalie had dared to hope. She had supposed there might well be awkward moments to circumvent, occasions when loyalty to her father would force her to take issue with him. But though they talked about the performance in detail, it was all quite amicable.
Elusive Harmony (The Warrender Saga Book 10) Page 3