Remembered Serenade (Warrender Saga Book 9)

by Mary Burchell

  Joanna wanted to say that she would not like the experience either. But she guessed that her feelings in the matter were of little importance to the great man until she had proved herself much further than she had been able to do so far. He regarded her as good raw material. She doubted if, even now, he regarded her as much else. But apparently she was the type of raw material necessary to his enterprise, and as such she had a certain value for him.

  ‘May I tell my mother most of the truth?’ she asked after a moment. ‘Her agreement will be an essential part of my involvement.’

  ‘You mean she holds the purse-strings?’

  ‘I mean,’ said Joanna, disliking the expression, ‘that she’s a widow and, apart from small fees from time to time, I’m dependent on her. In other words, I can’t make free with her money unless I give good reasons for whatever I suggest.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, rather reluctantly. ‘But impress upon her that there must be no exulting beforehand.’

  ‘I will,’ promised Joanna, uncomfortably aware that Warrender had probably summed up her mother pretty accurately in the space of time it had taken to exchange a couple of sentences.

  Then he showed her out. And Joanna walked most of the way home, past newspaper placards bearing threats of war in some distant country, the failure of a big investment company nearer home, and a prophecy of the hardest winter for fifty years. None of these made the slightest impression upon her. All she knew was that Oscar Warrender had made an unbelievably exciting proposition to her, and that this was the turning point of her life.

  When she reached home she was tired with walking and still dazed by the incredible thing that had happened to her. But even so, as she came into the sitting-room she was immediately struck by the extraordinary stillness of her mother, who was sitting by the fire, her hands slack in her lap, her gaze oddly unfocused, like someone who had experienced a great shocks

  ‘Mother!’ Forgetting her own affairs, Joanna ran forward in dismay. ‘What is it? What has happened?’

  ‘Where have you been?’ Her mother’s glance came round to her, but not with complete attention.

  ‘I’ve been to see Oscar Warrender. Don’t you remember he — ?’

  ‘Oh, yes. You were going to tea with them, weren’t you? They didn’t keep you long - ’ Her glance shifted absently to the clock.

  In retrospect it seemed to Joanna that she had passed a lifetime of experience since she had left home, but she brushed that aside and, putting her hand insistently on her mother’s shoulder, she repeated, ‘What’s happened? You’ve had some kind of shock, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Naturally it’s a shock.’

  ‘But what is?’ cried Joanna urgently.

  ‘Haven’t you seen the newspaper placards?’

  ‘No,’ Joanna said. For, in all accuracy, she had not seen them. She had merely walked past them without a thought.

  ‘The Home and Overseas Insurance Company have gone broke — taking half our income with them, Mr, Witherspoon raiig up to tell me, and he said it’s in all the evening papers and on the radio. He also said — which I thought was mean of him — that he was always against my investing with them, because the rate of interest was suspiciously high.’

  ‘And was he always against it?’ asked Joanna, because she felt she had to ask something.

  ‘Yes, of course. But then lawyers are always overcautious, aren’t they?’ replied her mother plaintively.

  Joanna resisted the obvious reply that in this case Mr. Witherspoon’s caution seemed to have been justified, for her mother looked so forlorn and bewildered that any form of ‘I told you so’ seemed like cruelty to children. Instead, she addressed herself to offering some form of comfort and reassurance.

  ‘Don’t worry too much, darling,’ she urged. ‘We’ll manage — we always have. And often these things aren’t so bad as everyone thinks at firsts Anyway, the house is ours — ’

  ‘There’s a mortgage on it.’

  ‘Is — is there?’ Joanna suddenly dared not ask how much, and she wondered for the first time why she had taken what seemed now to be criminally little interest in the way her mother managed their financial affairs. But then, strictly speaking, they had been her mother’s financial affairs, and sometimes she had been oddly secretive about them.

  Well, it was no good thinking about that now. And as Mrs. Ransome said rather pathetically at this moment that she thought she could do with a cup of tea, Joanna went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. As she stood there waiting for it to boil, her thoughts veered from one extreme of improbability to another.

  On the one hand was the extraordinary golden vista which Oscar Warrender had opened before her, and on the other something like ruin, financially speaking. Neither seemed quite real at this moment.

  Over tea Joanna strove to find some other words of comfort.

  ‘It’s really just a question of bridging the gap, isn’t it?’ she said cheerfully. ‘It won’t be all that long before I am earning money, Mother. Perhaps quite big money,’ she added encouragingly.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ Her mother’s face brightened a little. ‘Did Oscar Warrender offer you a part or something?’

  ‘N-not exactly. But he had some very interesting things to say about my future development. It would mean quite a lot of specialized training,’ she admitted. But as this did not seem to be the moment to talk about Madame Volnikov and her expensive lessons, she added hastily, ‘He had ideas about how that could be managed. And he seemed to think that, given luck — ’

  ‘Our luck doesn’t seem to be in at the moment,’ interrupted Mrs. Ransome with a sad little laugh.

  ‘Then it’s time for it to change,’ asserted Joanna firmly. ‘He really did seem to see a very bright future for me, Mother.’

  ‘But how far ahead?’ asked her mother, who had a talent for sometimes putting her finger right on the first awkward essential.

  ‘I’m not — quite sure,’ Joanna confessed. And, for the first time, a dreadful chill gripped her, and she wondered if perhaps, after all, she were fated never to reach that shining goal which Oscar Warrender had allowed her to glimpse for a moment.

  If they were really going to have to look twice at every penny in future, what was the use of thinking in terms of expensive extra training? The money for that would have to come from somewhere.

  And then she recalled what Warrender had said about generous Mr, Wilmore. Although her first reaction was to wince away from any thought of appealing to him, again and again during the rather sad evening which succeeded the madly exciting afternoon, her mind returned to him. Was he not the best — possibly the only — source for the help she would need to fulfil the extraordinary destiny which still seemed to beckon her, though not quite so clearly as it had seemed to do in Warrender’s studio?

  The next few days were confused and frightening. No one seemed to know quite what might be the final outcome of the crash which had taken place, though Mr. Witherspoon kept them as well informed as he could and was not unencouraging about the possibility of something being saved from the wreck.

  Joanna, meanwhile, kept her extravagant hopes to herself. She dared not make plans, and still less could she discuss such plans with her mother, who was naturally in no mood to discuss anything which would involve any immediate financial outlay.

  Then, very much earlier than she had expected such a development, Warrender telephoned to her again and informed her that he wished to take her to see Madame Volnikov that afternoon. Would she please be ready to be picked up by car at two-thirty?

  ‘But I haven’t learned anything of the part yet!’ she exclaimed in dismay.

  ‘Naturally not, since I have not given you a copy of the work yet,’ replied Warrender. ‘But Madame Volnikov wants to see you and test you in her own way before she will say whether or not she will take you on.’

  Joanna thought for a moment of telling him about the new and alarming complication. But why should he be interested
? In any case, if the old dancer decided against taking her as a pupil the question of the expensive lessons would not even arise.

  So she promised to be ready. And when Warrender’s car drew up outside, she ran out quickly, determined neither to keep him waiting nor to give her mother any chance to ask awkward questions. She had already explained casually that she had to go to an extra lesson and that someone would be picking her up from home. That the someone was driving a Bentley might, in ordinary circumstances, have intrigued her mother. But in her present mood she did not even glance out of the window.

  Joanna slipped into the seat beside the conductor and asked shyly if they had far to go.

  ‘Oh, no. Less than twenty minutes’ drive.’

  ‘Do you know her quite well, Sir Oscar?’ Somehow she felt a little less in awe of him when he was not immediately concerned with observing her work.

  ‘Not socially. Only as artists of a certain calibre usually know and assess each other,’ he said with a slight smile. And then they were silent until they reached the house where the old dancer lived.

  It was in one of the northern suburbs which had once been very fashionable but now looked slightly dilapidated. Here and there were still signs of faded elegance, and the house before which they stopped was quite imposing. It stood back from the quiet avenue, and trees not only shaded it but almost engulfed it, giving it a secret and slightly sad air.

  They were admitted by an elderly manservant who looked incredibly like someone out of the only Chekhov play Joanna had ever seen, and were shown into a splendid room furnished in a manner that would not have disgraced a museum of fine arts.

  Joanna wondered if even Oscar Warrender felt slightly intimidated. But if so he concealed the fact, crossing the room to examine a particularly fine picture with genuine interest. Then the door opened again and their hostess came in.

  Joanna had somehow expected a little old lady. What she saw was a completely ageless woman of medium height, who moved with such flowing grace that she hardly seemed to walk. Afterwards Joanna could not remember at all what she wore. She only knew that her figure, her movements, her clothes were all in one harmonious whole which was grace personified.

  Her face was pure oval, entirely innocent of makeup, with the high, flat cheekbones of the almost oriental Slav, and long, dark eyes of burning intelligence and beauty.

  She greeted Warrender rather as the Queen of Sheba might have greeted Solomon, according him almost royal status but reserving the right to regard herself as just one degree more royal, as it were.

  ‘And this is the little girl you spoke of?’ She surveyed Joanna kindly, but somewhat as she might have looked at a child on its first day in the kindergarten. ‘Walk the length of the room, dear.’

  The form of address had nothing affectionate about it. It carried, in fact, a note of absolute command, so that Joanna obeyed her instantly. But as she walked the length of the room she felt as though she had clogs on her feet, and could only pray that she would not slip or stumble. Then she turned and came back, while the Russian — and indeed Warrender too — watched her intently.

  ‘Hm - ’ said Madame Volnikov. ‘What were you expressing then?’

  ‘Expressing?’ Joanna considered that. ‘Awkwardness, I should think, and a nervous hope that I wouldn’t stumble. I felt a bit like a camel,’ she admitted.

  ‘You looked rather like one, dear,’ Madame Volnikov said with some asperity. ‘Now forget about me — and even the handsome Sir Oscar — for the moment. You are a young girl, expecting to meet the man you love. You are carrying a basket — here you are - ’ Incredibly she produced a basket as a conjuror might and put it into Joanna’s hand — ‘you go quickly towards him, and suddenly realize it is not he, after all, but the person in the world you most fear. — Go on.’

  ‘Walking away from you, do you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you can’t see my face!’

  ‘I don’t want to see your face. I want to see your back.’

  ‘Very well.’ Joanna stood quite still for half a minute, thinking herself into the suggested scene. She wondered where the catch was. She wondered what she could possibly do to make the whole thing stunningly effective. And she could think of nothing — absolutely nothing. Except just what she herself would do if presented with the situation.

  It was all useless, of course. She knew it was. But she must at least attempt to do what she had been told to do, and then apologize for having none of what this extraordinary woman seemed to expect of her.

  She half ran up the long room, lightly swinging her basket in a carefree way. Then, in imagination, she actually saw the person she was to be afraid of and stopped, instinctively tensing every muscle before letting her arm drop to her side in a futile attempt to repeat that careless swinging of the basket.

  ‘I’ll take her,’ said Madame Volnikov.

  ‘Ah — !’ said Warrender on a note of undoubted satisfaction.

  ‘But why?’ asked Joanna, turning and coming slowly back to where the other two were standing. ‘I mean — why do you think, on such small evidence, that I’m worth your attention?’

  The older woman smiled.

  ‘Because, with the most economical means possible, you both touched and terrified me within the space of two minutes.’

  ‘But I didn’t do anything special.’ Joanna looked puzzled.

  ‘No. Real artists don’t do. They are. Your actions and reactions are purely instinctive and right. You have a great deal to learn, cherie. But you have come to the right person to teach you.’ There was no false modesty about that. ‘It will cost you a lot of money, but it will be worth every penny. Now we will have tea.’

  So the most magnificent samovar was brought in, and Madame Volnikov dispensed tea in cups so fragile and beautiful that Joanna was frightened every time she touched hers. She left most of the conversation to Warrender, and it was he who explained about the interesting opera in which he hoped Joanna would appear.

  ‘Nothing but movement and facial expression until the very end?’ Madame Volnikov smiled. ‘A big undertaking, but tremendously challenging. Does the child actually sing well also?’

  ‘Very reasonably well.’ Warrender, like the Russian, spoke as though Joanna were not present. ‘Not a great voice, but an appealing voice, well used. Capable of a fine climax, but not capable of sustained power and intensity throughout a whole evening. The opera might have been written for her. Provided she does the work.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Provided she works.’ Madame Volnikov looked searchingly at Joanna then. ‘Are you a dedicated worker, child?’

  ‘I should like to believe so.’ Joanna smiled at her. ‘And I think you, Madame, would inspire anyone.’

  ‘Not anyone. Most people are incapable of inspiration,’ was the cold reply. ‘Who is financing her, Warrender?’

  Joanna, who had never thought to hear Sir Oscar addressed in this summary way, glanced quickly at him.

  ‘Miss Joanna and her mother hope to find some of the backing, and I know of a musical patron who may be expected to do the rest.’

  ‘A wealthy musical patron, I hope,’ said Madame Volnikov with great frankness.

  ‘Moderately so,’ replied Warrender smoothly. ‘Do you wish to discuss that now?’

  ‘No. I will write. It is better to have these things in writing.’ An expression of quite extraordinary cupidity passed over that arresting face. Then she turned once more to Joanna and said, ‘Little one, do you know how to cry real tears, to order?’

  ‘I — don’t think so.’

  ‘I will teach you.’ The old woman smiled at her, the most beautiful smile Joanna had ever seen.; ‘You will need tears for this part. We are going to enjoy ourselves, you and I. When can you start?’

  Joanna did some rapid and, to tell the truth desperate, calculations. She must familiarize herself with the part and, even more important, she must somehow go to see Mr, Wilmore and enlist his help.; For how else was she to take t
his amazing — this unprecedented — chance?

  ‘In about two weeks’ time,’ she said with decision.;

  ‘It is not a desperate matter,’ the dancer told her, with a curious glance.

  ‘No, I know,’ said Joanna quickly,,

  ‘And yet desperation was there in your face for a moment. Everything is there in her face,’ observed Madame Volnikov to Warrender, ‘for those who have eyes to see. And when she has been trained — by me — she will be able to project that for even the fools to see.’

  Then she got up, with the air of a queen dismissing her court. And Joanna and Warrender took their leave.

  ‘Do you think,’ asked Joanna when they were back once more in the car, ‘that she was really able to assess me on that little scene?’

  ‘Oh, yes. I could even, to a certain extent, see myself what she meant. But remember,’ he went on sternly, ‘all this is only the promise of what might be. It is usually a mistake to give compliments and too much praise at such an early stage. In your case these things had to be said, otherwise you would see no reason to change into such a specialized course. But none of it — and I mean none of it — will be of the Slightest use unless you do the necessary work.’

  ‘I do know that! I truly do — and I will work,’ Joanna promised. ‘And then,’ she added timidly, ‘there’s the problem of the money to pay for the lessons. She made it sound as though they were going to cost the earth, didn’t she?’

  ‘She did indeed! And she looked it too. One wishes a really fine artist could have captured that amazing face when she spoke of the money, and then when she smiled.’

  ‘It was a beautiful smile,’ Joanna exclaimed in all honesty.

  ‘Ravishing,’ he agreed. ‘But not a smile to knock anything off the bill, I imagine.’

  Joanna laughed reluctantly. But then she spoke with some decision.

  ‘Sir Oscar, I realize that I haven’t really come to grips with the situation until now. My mother has singularly little capital behind her, and I can’t just go scrounging to Mr. Wilmore. I must get a job — and as quickly as possible.’