A Song Begins (Warrender Saga Book 1)

by Mary Burchell

  It was a sobering thought, and Anthea’s face was grave as she walked homeward that afternoon.

  CHAPTER VII

  The next few weeks proved to be the most strenuous and harrowing of Anthea’s life. If she had imagined for one moment that her declaration of loyalty might sweeten the relationship between them, she was lamentably mistaken. He drove her ruthlessly. And, under his direction, even Mountjoy seemed to become a more exacting taskmistress.

  Her sessions at the Opera House, when she might have hoped to lose her identity modestly among the chorus and escape his eagle eye, became a fresh kind of ordeal. They were, of course, intensely interesting and held a special fascination for her since they involved her first intensive experience on a stage. But he thought nothing of singling her out and humiliating her in front of the whole company with some cutting comment, and she soon learned that there was not a moment when he was not aware of what she was doing — or not doing.

  “It is not necessary to prop up the scenery. It will stand alone, and you are here for other things,” he told her sharply once when, weary beyond expression, she had dared to lean against a fairly substantial wall for a moment’s support. “How much vitality do you suppose the scene is going to have if everyone is leaning against something?”

  “Gosh, you’d think we were building the Pyramids,” muttered another girl in the chorus rebelliously. “Everything’s there except the whip, and my guess is that he’d use that too if the union would let him.”

  The idea made Anthea smile faintly. But that also got her into trouble. For afterwards he told her that if she found reproof amusing, he would not waste his time on that — or anything else connected with her.

  “I don’t find anything particularly amusing at the moment,” she muttered sulkily. “If I did smile, it must have been a complete oversight. You aren’t exactly a laughing matter, you know.”

  To her amazement, he gave her a slight but stinging slap on her cheek for that piece of impertinence. And when she stared at him in furious incredulity, her hand against her suddenly flushed cheek, he said coolly,

  “If you don’t like my methods, you can go elsewhere.”

  “Do you have to be so beastly about everything?” she demanded in a voice that shook slightly. “Did it never occur to you that you might get better results by being kind occasionally?”

  “Never,” he assured her. “Fear of the musical director is the beginning of wisdom, so far as the operatic student is concerned. That is my theory, and I act on it.”

  They seemed to have come a very long way from that rather moving lunchtime conversation. And she now recalled with a good deal of bitterness the charm and near-tenderness he had lavished on her when he momentarily needed her.

  But, in spite of her resentment, she put her whole heart into her work, and she was both disappointed and relieved when the first night of Otello came without any sign of Signorina Franci relinquishing her role.

  Vicki was even more disappointed than Anthea.

  “If only she’d break her ankle or something,” she wailed, without scruple. “Not her neck or anything final like that, though I never really want to hear her sing again. But just her ankle. Or if she would have a very bad cold — even that would do.”

  But Ottila Franci, apparently in blooming health, made her entry at the right moment, though with a lack of good basic tone which made Vicki roll her eyes and nudge Anthea significantly.

  Both girls were sitting in the conductor’s box, to Vicki’s unbounded excitement. Oscar Warrender had informed Anthea that he wanted her, easily available, in the house, even though she was not at the moment officially “covering” the part.

  “I want to know exactly where to find you,” he told her curtly. “You’d better have my box.”

  “Can I take Vicki too?” Anthea had enquired eagerly.

  “Who is Vicki?” he wanted to know, rather disagreeably.

  “You remember,” cried Anthea reproachfully. “She lent me her golden stole on the very first night I came to the opera with you. You waved to her — in the gallery.”

  “Did I really?” He seemed reluctant to remember the incident;

  But when she said rather naively, “We all thought it was extraordinarily nice of you,” he laughed suddenly and said,

  “All right. Take Vicki with you.”

  So Vicki went too, and for her the evening was pure bliss. For Anthea it was a wonderful final lesson. Not only did she note exactly where she could improve on the Desdemona’s limitations (though, being human, she did this also, of course). She watched every reaction of the other characters on the stage and, above all, she stored in her musical and artistic memory the exact effects which the conductor strove to attain.

  “I can do it better than she can,” thought Anthea, without vanity and without false modesty. “Mostly because, though I detest him, I know what he’s aiming at. She pulls against him all the time.”

  Anthea read every newspaper criticism avidly the next morning. And, in spite of everything, she could not control a glow of almost personal pride and joy when she read that “Oscar Warrender is unquestionably the conductor of the age”, and that “if we are to regard Otello as, in many ways, a conductor’s opera, we must admit that it was Oscar War-render’s night”.

  She wondered if this kind of verdict gave him intense pleasure. After all, even the most confident of performers must gloat a little over a favourable criticism.

  “Weren’t the reviews marvellous?” she said to him, when she went for her lesson the next day.

  “Were they?” He looked genuinely indifferent.

  “Of course they were! Everyone went overboard for you. Didn’t you read them?”

  “No.” He shook his head without affectation. “I’m a working musician, not a nine days’ wonder. I know quite well if I’ve served the composer faithfully or not. That’s all that matters. Remember that, if ever you get to the top.”

  “I will,” promised Anthea solemnly. And she thought how strange it was that he could mingle such real artistic humility with his extraordinary personal arrogance.

  Each time a performance of Otello loomed up on the current programme, Anthea went through agonies of hope and fear. And then, quite without warning, something happened which put the whole thing momentarily out of her mind.

  One rather dull evening, when she had been doing nothing more exciting than wash stockings and set her hair, she was called to the telephone for a long-distance call. Immediately a slight flutter of anxiety made her breath quicken, and she was not entirely surprised when Neil Prentiss’s voice said,

  “I’m sorry, Anthea dear, but I’ve some not very good news for you. I think you should know that your mother is seriously ill.”

  “Mother?” queried Anthea in consternation. “You mean Father, don’t you?”

  “No, no. Your father’s going along nicely. We got him away to a convalescent home a couple of days ago. But your mother was rushed to hospital this evening with a perforated appendix and — ”

  “I can’t believe it,” gasped Anthea. “Mother was never ill.” And her voice held the forlorn, bewildered note of one to whom Mother had always been a rock of security and strength.

  “I know. That’s just it.” His voice was full of sympathetic understanding. “I’m afraid she had devoted herself so much to your father’s care in the last weeks and months that she had no time to notice any disquieting symptoms of her own.”

  “Oh, poor darling! I should have been there to look after her,” exclaimed Anthea remorsefully.

  “No, you shouldn’t,” was the firm reply. “You’re busy doing what we all want you to do. But if you could possibly tear yourself away for a day or two — ”

  “Of course! Neil, tell me. Is it — is it dangerous?”

  There was a moment’s hesitation. Then he said,

  “It’s pretty tricky, dear. And, although she would probably be angry with me if she knew I was sending for you, I think she would be terribly
glad if you came. In addition, it’s rather a lot for young Roland to shoulder his own. And, above all, we simply must keep your father from worrying. Your mother was going to see him on Sunday and — ”

  “Yes, yes — of course it’s essential that I come,” she assured him. “I’ll come tonight if there’s a train — ”

  “There isn’t, I’m afraid, my dear. I’ve been looking them up. Nothing gets through on this branch line after the six o’clock from London — ”

  ‘Then I’ll come first thing in the morning.”

  “Good girl! I knew you would,” he said approvingly. “I’m thankful you can get away.”

  “For an emergency like this of course I can get away — from anything,” she insisted. “Thank you, thank you, Neil, for all you are doing.”

  She was trembling a little but quite calm as she replaced the receiver, and stood there considering what she must do. She would have to telephone to Enid Mountjoy to cancel her lesson in the morning, and then she must let Oscar War-render know that she would not —

  A sharp knock at the street door interrupted her reflections and, still absorbed in her anxious thoughts, she went to open the door.

  Outside stood Oscar Warrender, and without preamble he said, “I’m glad I found you in. I’ve got some urgent news for you.”

  She backed slightly and he entered without waiting to be asked. And when he said impatiently, “Where can we talk?” she rather fascinatedly showed him into the shabby sitting-room which was fortunately empty at that hour.

  “I was just going to telephone you,” she began.

  “Oh?” He turned and looked at her enquiringly. “How did you hear the news?”

  “Neil Prentiss rang me.” She could not imagine how he also knew, unless Neil had telephoned to him first, in order to smooth the path for her.

  “Neil Prentiss?” he repeated, astonished. “What has he to do with it?”

  “He’s pretty well got everything in hand. I can’t go tonight, but I’m catching the first train in the morning and — ”

  “You’re not catching any trains in the morning, my girl,” he informed her grimly. “You’re reporting at the Opera House at ten o’clock, and it’s an all-day rehearsal for you. You’re singing Desdemona on Saturday night and — ”

  “But I can’t!” cried Anthea. “My mother’s ill, and — ”

  “Your mother’s ill?’ he repeated incredulously. “Your mother’s ill? What the hell does that matter? The chance of your life is coming up, and you’re going to have to seize it with both hands. And you stand there and tell me your mother is ill. What are you, for heaven’s sake? A child playing party charades or a serious artist?”

  “My mother is dangerously ill,” she said, managing to keep her voice calm with great difficulty. “I’m needed at home and I’m afraid — ”

  “You’re needed here,” he told her brutally. “I’m sorry about your mother” — he did not sound in the least sorry — “but I presume the estimable Neil Prentiss has everything in hand, as you say. They must manage without you.”

  “They can’t!”

  “They must!” he shouted at her suddenly. “Great heavens, do you suppose we’ve worked to this point in order to let everything go? Don’t you understand even now what it means to be a professional artist? The performance comes first, last and all the time. Understand that now and for the whole of your future. Your entire family can be ill, your husband can have left you for another woman, your house can be on fire, but if you can get on the stage and do a great performance, YOU GO! Is that clear?”

  “There’s a time when my family must come first, and — ”

  “There is no such time.” Suddenly he caught her by the arm and jerked her close to him, so that she could see that he was actually pale with anger and that his eyes glittered dangerously. “This is what you were born for, and everything else in your life must be subordinate to it. It isn’t as though you were just any little pip-squeak of a singer. You have the most beautiful lyric voice I’ve ever heard — though I didn’t mean to tell you so yet. If I were a praying man, I’d say you were the answer to my prayers. Do you think I’m going to let you throw away your great chance?”

  “The decision rests with me,” she managed to say, shaken though she was by the revelation he had flung at her. “You can’t command me against — ”

  “God in heaven, what do you expect me to do?” he demanded. “Plead with you?”

  “N-no.” She tried to pull free of him, but he held her fast. “I mean that if I go there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  “Oh yes, there is!” He let go of her with a suddenness which made her stagger back, and all at once the violence left him and he spoke almost gently. “If you go, my dear, you go for good. That’s my final word. Choose now. You stay and do what I tell you — absolutely. Or you go and don’t bother to return. I shall have finished with you.”

  He even made an expressive gesture, as though wiping the last trace of her identity literally from his hands.

  That was what fixed her attention most. It was at his hands she stared as she strove to make her decision. Those clever, beautiful, slightly cruel hands which could make her or break her as an artist. They expressed everything. Strength, authority, even tenderness when he was conducting. And, even as she stared at them, she saw them instinctively turn slightly outwards, in a gesture curiously suggestive of appeal.

  It was that gesture which broke her resistance. She had no need even to look at his face. She did not even raise her head as she said, a little huskily,

  “All right. You win. I’ll stay. What is it you want of me?”

  She heard him slowly expel his pent breath in what she supposed was relief, and his tone was almost normal as he said,

  “Report at the Opera House tomorrow at ten. The rest I will decide when I’ve seen how the full stage rehearsal goes. Go to bed early tonight and see that you get plenty of sleep.” It obviously did not occur to him that anxiety might keep one awake. “You’ll need all your strength tomorrow.”

  Then he turned and left her, and she stood there, silent and motionless, until she heard the street door shut firmly, and Vicki came into the room, to say in an awed tone,

  “That was Oscar Warrender, wasn’t it? I saw him just as I was coming downstairs. What on earth brought him here?”

  “He wants me to sing Desdemona on Saturday night — ” Anthea began.

  But she got no further, for Vicki let out a shriek.

  “At the Garden, do you mean? I don’t believe it! No wonder you look stunned. Wait till I tell the others! We’ll all be there in the amphi yelling for you, of course. It’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened! How can you be so quiet about it, Anthea?” And then, a little uncertainly, “What’s the matter? Are you so terribly scared?”

  “No. At least — yes, of course, I’m scared. But it’s not that.” And then she told Vicki about her mother’s illness, and the agonising decision she had had to take. Though she did not describe the exact type of pressure Oscar Warrender had put upon her.

  “I’m terribly sorry.” Vicki’s vivid, usually laughing face looked very solemn. “But it’s the only right decision, isn’t it? I mean — I suppose your mother made all sorts of sacrifices to get you where you are. You’d be letting her down terribly if you threw your big chance away, just because you couldn’t stand the anxiety of being away from her when she was ill.”

  “Is that how one should look at it?” Anthea stared thoughtfully at the girl who had always seemed rather frivolous and lightweight, in spite of all her warmth and charm. “Perhaps you’re wiser than I am, Vicki.”

  “I don’t know about that!” Vicki looked amused, but gratified. “I guess it’s easier to see things straight when one isn’t personally involved. Now, is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Yes. Could you possibly telephone Neil Prentiss for me — I’ll give you his number — and explain that I — I can’t come tomorrow, after all. I h
aven’t the heart — or perhaps it’s the courage — to tell him myself. And I’ll probably start crying if I find myself in contact with home again.”

  “Leave it to me,” Vicki told her firmly. And, thankfully, Anthea did.

  Evidently Vicki handled the conversation very capably, for when she came to Anthea later, in her room — where she was already deep in her much-thumbed Otello score — she reported,

  “He says you’re not to worry. That everything is under control, and that the thing which will give your mother most strength and incentive to recover will be the thought that you are actually making a Covent Garden debut.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Anthea squeezed her hand gratefully.

  “Anything else I can do?” Vicki wanted to know.

  “Yes. Could you possibly come with me tomorrow to the rehearsal? It may be an all-day affair. But I think I must have a friend with me, and there’s no one I’d rather have than you.”

  “Could I come? Just try to stop me,” cried Vicki, radiant at the prospect. “There’s nothing I’d like better, and I’ll look after you like a maid, friend and dresser all rolled into one. Only — will Mr. Warrender let me come? He’s not keen on outsiders at rehearsal, is he?”

  “Mr. Warrender is going to have to let you come,” retorted Anthea, with a sudden flash of temper. “I’ll have my own way in this at least.”

  “Prima donna already, I see,” observed Vicki delightedly.

  And, oddly enough, that was almost exactly what Oscar Warrender himself said the next morning, when Anthea presented herself for rehearsal, with Vicki firmly in tow.

  “This is Vicki Donnington,” she stated coolly, “and she’s staying with me throughout the rehearsal. I need her.”

  The conductor seemed amused, rather than resistant. And Vicki was allowed past — to the dressing-rooms, to the wings, and indeed anywhere she liked during that remarkable rehearsal.

  It was an occasion to be talked of in the Opera House for years afterwards. That incredible Thursday when an unknown girl walked into a star role and carried it off with the style, assurance and artistry of an old-stager.