The Shivering Sands

by Victoria Holt

  “Oh no.” She was immediately in charge of herself. “Sir William has actually said he doesn’t want that. All arrangements are to go ahead. In fact he sent for Mr. Napier and told him so.” She frowned. “I was alarmed,” she went on, “because Napier always upsets him. It’s not his fault,” she went on quickly. “It’s merely the sight of him. He keeps away as much as possible. But on this occasion ... it passed very well.”

  “It’s a pity...” I began.

  “Family quarrels are the worst,” she said. “Still, I think that in time...” Her voice faded away. “I believe when there are children ... Sir William is very anxious that there shall be children.”

  There was a knock on my door and Alice came in. She smiled demurely and said: “Mr. Napier wishes to see you, Mrs. Verlaine. He’s in the library.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “He said at your convenience.”

  “Thank you, Alice.”

  She lingered and I wished she would go because I wanted to comb my hair before I went-down to the library and did not want Alice to see me do it. She was a very observant girl.

  “Are you looking forward to playing before all those people, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “Well ... I suppose in a way I am.”

  I was taking surreptitious glances at my hair. It was untidy. I wished that I had piled it higher on my head because that gave me height; it gave me a look of dignity too. I smoothed down my dress. I wished I was wearing the lavender with a faint white stripe on it. That was most becoming. I had bought it in one of the little shops near the Rue de Rivoli. Pietro had liked me to have beautiful clothes—when he had become famous of course—even before that I had always been able to get the most out of clothes ... in contrast to Roma.

  Now I looked down at my brown gabardine dress. The cut was good, the dress serviceable, but it was not one of my best; and I wished that I had known this summons was coming.

  I could obviously not change my dress but I could comb my hair. I did so while Alice still stood there.

  “You look ... pleased, Mrs. Verlaine,” she commented.

  “Pleased?”

  “Well ... more than that. Different in a way.”

  I knew that I must have betrayed the excitement of going into battle, for that was what it was like ... having an encounter with Napier Stacy.

  I went past Alice and down to the library. I had been in this room only once before, when I had been struck by the character of the oak paneling. There was a design of arches divided by pilasters which was surmounted by a frieze and a cornice. The carved ceiling was the most intricate in the house, and the arms of the Stacy, Beaumont and Napier families were entwined up there to make an intricate pattern.

  One wall was entirely covered by the most exquisite piece of tapestry which had interested me immediately not only because of the fine weaving of wool and silk on a linen warp but because of the subject—Julius Caesar landing on these shores. Mrs. Lincroft, when she had shown me this room, told me that it had been started soon after the house was built and that it had been put away—forgotten for more than a hundred years. Then a member of the family having committed some misdemeanor at Court for which she had been banished, discovered the unfinished work and to while away her exile had completed it. In a house of this kind one was always stumbling on little incidents of this kind—links with the past.

  The three other walls were lined with books; some in leather binding with gilt lettering, behind glass. There were Persian rugs on the parquet floor, the usual seats in the window embrasures, and a heavy oak table in the center of the room with several arm chairs.

  There was an air of solemnity about the library. I could not enter it without imagining all the serious family conferences which must have taken place in it over the centuries. Here, I had no doubt, Napier had been interrogated after the shooting of his brother.

  Napier, who was seated at the table, rose as I entered.

  “Ah,” he said, “Mrs. Verlaine!” Those lights seemed to shoot up in his eyes making them a more dazzling blue than ever; I called them mischievous—but they were more than that. He was looking forward to an amusing quarter of an hour which he was going to make as uncomfortable for me as possible. “Please sit down.” His voice was silky. Dangerous, I thought.

  “I suppose you’ve guessed that I want to talk to you about your performance. The tuners assure me that the grand piano on the hall dais is now in perfect condition, so everything should be satisfactory. I am sure you are going to delight us all.”

  “Thank you.” So polite, I thought. Where is the sting?

  “Have you ever played on the concert platform, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “Not ... seriously.”

  “I see. Did you have no ambitions to do so?”

  “Yes,” I said, “great ambition.” He raised his eyebrows and I went on quickly. “Not great enough apparently.”

  “You mean that you failed to reach the standard demanded?

  “I mean just that.”

  “So your ambition was not strong enough.”

  I said as coolly as I could: “I married.”

  “But that is not the answer. There are married geniuses, I believe.”

  “I have never said I was a genius.”

  His eyes glinted. “You gave up your career for the sake of marriage,” he said. “But your husband was more fortunate, he did not have to give up his career.”

  I was at a loss for words. I was afraid that if I spoke my voice would betray my emotion.

  How I detested this man!

  He went on talking. “I have chosen the pieces which you will play for us. I am sure you will agree that my choice is a good one. Great favorites ... and I know you will do justice to them.

  I said: “Thank you, Mr. Stacy.”

  I glanced at the sheets in my hand. Hungarian Dances. The Rhapsody No. 2. The music Pietro had played during that last concert!

  I felt as though I were choking. I could not stay in that room.

  I turned; the Julius Caesar tapestry seemed to swim before my eyes. I groped for the handle of the door and I was outside.

  He knows, I thought. He chose those pieces deliberately. He wanted to play on my emotions; he wanted to taunt me, to trick me into betraying myself; he wanted to amuse himself as a boy does when he puts two spiders in a basin and watches their reaction to each other.

  In such a way he taunted Edith. And now his attention was turned to me. I obviously interested him. Why? Could it be that he knew more about me than I had believed possible?

  He had taken the trouble to find out what Pietro had played on that night. Perhaps it would have been mentioned in some of the papers of the time.

  How much else did he know about me?

  On the day preceding the dinner party Alice came to tell me that Edith was sick and I went along to her room to see her.

  This was the apartment where Charles I had lodged during the Civil War. The actual room led out of the mam chamber and was occupied by Napier, while Edith used the larger bedroom. In it was a huge bed over which was a dome upheld by four columns engraved with flowers. The bed head and tester were ornamented with gilt figures and the hangings were of blue velvet. It was a very elaborate bed—and I remembered that this was the bridal suite. The door leading to the next room—the chamber in which a king had lodged—looked less elaborate as far as I could see. The bed was a carved wooden fourposter and beside it were a pair of wooden steps used for stepping into the bed. That room doubtless looked as it had done in the days of the Civil War—but the furniture in this one was a later and more elegant period.

  It was the first time I had been in the bridal suite and I felt embarrassed because I thought of Napier here with Edith and I wondered what their relationship could possibly be like with so much fear on her side, so much contempt on his.

  There was a consul table attached to one wall, over which was a tall mirror with a gilded frame; I noticed the secretaire-cabinet of satin wood and golden Hondur
as mahogany with fluted columns. This must be the most elegant room in the house—and that grim chamber leading from it made a strong contrast.

  My quick survey of the room was over in a few seconds for it was Edith whom I had come to see.

  She was sitting up in that ornate bed looking small and lost with her lovely golden hair in two plaits which hung over each shoulder.

  “Oh, Mrs. Verlaine, I feel ... terrible.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She bit her lip. “It’s tomorrow night. I have to be hostess, and they’ll be such terrifying people. I can’t face them.”

  “Why should they be terrifying? They’re only guests.”

  “But I shan’t know what to say. I did wish I needn’t go.” She looked at me hopefully, as though asking me to produce some reason for her absence.

  I said: “You’ll get used to it. It’s no use avoiding this one. You’ll have to face up to the next. And I’m sure you’ll find it’s not so bad.”

  “I thought you might ... you might suggest that you ... did it for me.”

  “I!” I was astonished. “But I am not even going to the dinner. I am merely coming down to play for the guests.”

  “You would do it so much better than I would.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I am not the mistress of this house, I am merely employed here.”

  “I thought you might speak to Napier.”

  “And suggest that I take your place? Surely you must see how impossible that is.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said Edith. “Oh, I do hope I shall feel better. But he would listen to you.”

  “If someone is to speak to your husband surely you would do that better than anyone else?”

  “No,” said Edith, putting a hand momentarily over her eyes. Then she added: “He does take notice of you, Mrs. Verlaine ... and he doesn’t take notice of many people.”

  I laughed, but a terrible uneasiness had come to me. He was interested in me. Why?

  I said briskly: “You should get up now and go for a long walk. Stop worrying. When it is over you will be asking yourself what there was to worry about.”

  Edith lowered her hands and looked at me earnestly.

  What a child she was. My words had made some impression on her.

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  How silent it was in the big hall! There was the piano on the dais. Banks of flowers would be brought in from the greenhouses. Tulips and carnations, I imagined. The seats were already there. It was like a concert hall ... a unique one, with the suit of armor standing guard at the staircase—the weapons on the walls, the arms of the Stacys entwined with those of the Napiers and the Beaumonts.

  I should be there—in my burgundy velvet—looking as I had looked on that fateful night.

  No, different. I should not be a member of the audience; this time I should be there on that dais.

  I went to it. I sat at the piano. I must not think of Pietro. Pietro was dead. If he had been here in this audience I should have been afraid of faltering, of earning his contempt. I should have been conscious of him, his ears straining to catch the false note, the lack of sureness ... and I should have known that while he trembled for me, yet he hoped that I should give a less perfect performance than his.

  I played. I had not played these pieces since. I had told myself that I could not bear to. But I played now and I was caught up in the excitement which the master had felt when he composed them. It was there in all its glory, that inspiration which came from something not of this world. It was wonderful. And as I played I did not see Pietro’s long hair flung back in the agitation of creative interpretation. To me the music meant what it had in those days before I knew Pietro. I was exalted as I played.

  When I stopped it all came back so vividly; I could see him bowing to the audience. He had looked a little tired and strained and he never had looked like that after a performance ... not immediately after. That came later after he had left the platform, when the flatterers and sycophants had left, when we were alone together. Then the effect of all that he had put into the evening would begin to show.

  I saw him, lying back in the chair in the dressing room ... Pietro ... who would never play again.

  A low chuckle behind me. For a moment I thought he had come back, that he was there laughing at me. If anything could evoke the return of his spirit surely that music would.

  Miss Stacy was sitting in one of the seats. She was wearing a dress of pale pink crepe material and little pink bows were in her hair.

  “I crept in when you were in the middle,” she said. “You play beautifully, Mrs. Verlaine.”

  I did not answer. And she went on: “It reminds me of the old days so much. Isabella used to be so nervous. You’re not. And afterwards she used to cry in her room. It was because she wasn’t pleased with her performance and knew she could have done better if she’d gone on with her teachers. When I sat there listening I thought ... I wouldn’t be surprised if this brought the ghosts out. It’s just like it used to be. Suppose Isabella couldn’t rest. Suppose she came back ... Well, the hall would look just as it did on those nights when she played ... all the same ... only someone different at the piano. Isn’t that exciting, Mrs. Verlaine? Don’t you think it would bring the ghosts out?”

  “If they existed, yes. But I don’t believe they do.”

  “That’s a dangerous thing to say. They might be listening.”

  I didn’t answer. Instead I closed the lid of the piano. And I was thinking: Yes, it would be an occasion for ghosts. And I wasn’t thinking of the ghost of Isabella Stacy but that of Pietro.

  The image that looked back at me from my mirror was reassuring—red velvet, and that orchid. It became me as no other dress ever had. Pietro had not said so, but his eyes had told me.

  He had stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, looking at us both in the mirror. That picture would be stamped on my memory forever.

  “You look worthy ... of me,” he said, with typical Pietro candor; and I had laughed at him and said that if he thought that I must look very well indeed.

  We had gone to the concert hall together, and I had left him to take my place in the audience.

  But what was the use of going over it. I must not think of him tonight. I smoothed one hand over the other, massaging my fingers. They were supple ... adequate, I told myself. But I knew better. They had some magic in them tonight, and no one was going to rob them of it, not even the ghost of Pietro.

  I was glad I had not been invited to dine with the party. Mrs. Lincroft had said that she had thought it a little remiss of Napier not to suggest it, for she was sure it had been Sir William’s intention. I replied that I preferred not to go.

  “I understand,” she said, “you want to be perfectly fresh for your performance.”

  I wondered about the guests. Friends of Napier’s or of Sir William? Scarcely Napier’s for he had not been home long enough to make many. How did it feel, I wondered, to be exiled and then return? It would be a little like that for me tonight. I had been exiled in a way, and tonight I was to go onto that dais and people would listen to my playing. It would be an uncritical audience, I told myself, quite unlike the audiences Pietro had played to. There was nothing to fear.

  At nine o’clock I went down to the great hall. Sir William was there in his chair. Mrs. Lincroft in a long grey chiffon skirt with cornflower blue chiffon blouse wheeled him in. She was not of the company but like myself a kind of higher servant. I remembered thinking this as I saw her.

  Sir William beckoned to me and he told me that he was sorry I had not joined the company for dinner. I replied that I preferred to be quiet before the performance and he bowed his head in understanding.

  Napier came over to me, Edith was with him. She looked very pretty but highly nervous. I smiled reassuringly at her.

  Then the company seated itself and I went to the dais.

  I played the dances first as Pietro had done; and as my fingers
touched the keys and those magical sounds came forth I forgot everything but the joy they gave me. As I went on playing, I saw pictures evoked by the music; and that wonderful mood of exultation came to me. I forgot that I was playing to strangers in a baronial hall; I even forgot that I had lost Pietro; there was nothing for me but the music.

  The applause was spontaneous. I smiled at the audience who went on clapping. I scanned them lightly. I saw Sir William deeply affected; Napier sitting upright applauding with the rest; Edith beside him smiling almost happily; and somewhere at the back of the hall Allegra and Alice—Allegra bouncing up and down on her seat in her excitement and Alice gravely clapping. I sensed their pleasure—not so much in the music. But in my success.

  The applause died down and I began the Rhapsody. This was Pietro’s piece but I didn’t care. To me it had always opened a world of color and delight. I could undergo twenty different emotions while I played it and so had he. He had told me once that during one part of the Rhapsody he always imagined that he was sitting in a dentist s chair having a tooth removed which had made us both laugh at the “It’s pain,” he had cried. “Sheer pain ... and then that acute joy.”

  I suffered; I rejoiced; and there was nothing for me but the music. And when I came to an end I knew that I had never played so well.

  I stood up; the applause was deafening.

  Napier was beside me. He said: “My father wishes to speak to you.”

  I followed him to Sir William’s wheelchair. There were tears in the old man’s eyes.

  “I’ve no need to tell you, Mrs. Verlaine,” he said. “It was superb. Beyond ... my expectations.”

  “Thank you. Thank you.”

  “We shall be requested to repeat this often, I believe. It—it reminded me...”

  He did not continue and I said: “I understand.”

  “These people will be wanting to congratulate you.”

  “I think I will go to my room now.”