by Julia Anders
Lynne had grown up with the sounds of music around her, and when it became apparent that her voice was special—more than just a sweet voice that her parents, being parents, would naturally take pride in—her father insisted that she have only the best teachers, those who could be trusted to develop her voice without straining it. "This is a delicate instrument, my dear," he had said, touching her throat.
When she was thirteen, he persuaded Bertelli to listen to her. The Maestro immediately agreed to take her on as a pupil. "My child," he told her, "your voice has the soaring beauty of a bird in flight. And that is the last compliment I shall pay you. From now on it is work, and only work. You will often hate me, but together we shall discipline the bird in your throat, and if we both work to the best of our capacity, you will become a great lyric soprano."
Her mother went back to her old job in a library to help pay for Lynne's lessons. Besides her music, she studied languages—French, German, but she worked hardest on Italian, because the Maestro believed that her voice would be best suited for the Italian operas.
Her father did not live long after Bertelli began her training, but he died confident of her future success. He left only a small insurance policy, but with her mother's salary and living with great frugality, they managed.
Then when Lynne was seventeen, her beloved mother was suddenly gone. Lynne was devastated. Since her father had died, the only two important things in her life were her mother and her music. She had no family other than one querulous uncle, her mother's older brother. She had never had time for close friendships and the casual pleasures of youth because there was always her work, study and practicing, to be done. Now she had only her music.
Bertelli took charge. He found an older pupil willing to share her flat with Lynne. He found money for a scholarship. He kept her too busy to give her undue time to grieve.
For months she went through the motions of work like an automaton, but then the discipline of a lifetime took over and she was working in earnest again and her deep love of music asserted itself once more and gave purpose to her days.
Occasionally the Maestro allowed his students to sing in public, but only what he felt their voices were properly prepared for and always under his personal direction.
In March of the year she had turned nineteen, Bertelli was invited to direct a production of Lucia di Lammermoor at the University of Leeds. He assigned Lynne the role of Lucia.
She had never been so happy with her work, preparing for the role, rehearsing her part, traveling to Leeds. She had a few moments of nervousness before her entrance, but once on stage pouring forth Lucia's lovely liquid sounds, she felt as if she was where she belonged.
The audience loved it. Even the Maestro smiled and said, "Well done," which from him amounted to an accolade.
The troupe was very gay on the bus trip home. A late snow, followed by sleet, had turned the countryside to a crystal fairyland. Much as she loved the green lushness of summer, Lynne thought she had never seen anything so lovely as the silent white landscape from the bus window as it flashed by, the trees mantled in pearl, glistening here and there with a diamond brilliance.
That was the last thing she remembered before the crash on the bridge.
She woke in a hospital, her head and neck swathed in bandages. Quiet, reassuring voices spoke to her; efficient hands cared for her. Only half awake in the days that followed, she was aware of an intravenous tube in her arm, but she could move all her limbs. Then the bandages were removed from her eyes, and she could see, so she knew she was basically all right Day by day the pain subsided and eventually the doctor came in and removed the rest of the bandages.
"Now we can get rid of the tube and you can eat some real food for a change—some of our delicious hospital food," he said, smiling.
With one hand she touched her face. She could feel no scars. "Am I all right?" she whispered.
"Your face is perfect," he said, and then abruptly left.
The first tray of food might not have been haute cuisine, but it tasted delicious. It was not until she tried to thank the attendant who came to take away her tray that she realized her voice was coming out in a whisper again.
Sudden fear paralyzed her. "Why can't I talk?" she croaked agonizingly.
"Just rest," she was told. "Give your body a chance to heal."
She did as she was told. She rested. She tried not to panic. She began to improve. She could talk hoarsely, no longer in that terrible whisper. She was examined and reexamined. There was no cause for the lump of fear inside her, she told herself. She was getting better. She would continue to improve until she was back to normal. Then with work and careful exercise, the instrument, the delicate instrument that was her voice, would be retuned.
Bertelli himself came to see her, not once but many times. He took her home to London to her little flat. Weeks went by and she could talk fairly normally, but still with a husky quality to her voice, not clear, liquid sounds as before. Cautiously she tried to vocalize. In the middle range the tones were harsh. The high notes she couldn't hit at all.
Bertelli took her to private specialists. Then one sunny day in June the final verdict was in. The laryngeal nerves had suffered permanent damage from the blow to her neck. No further improvement could be expected.
She was very lucky, they told her, that she could speak so normally. Her speaking voice had a very interesting, pleasing quality, they told her. It could have been much worse. Yes, they agreed; she was very lucky.
She walked out of the doctor's office and sat shivering in the warm sun.
The bird in her throat was stilled forever. She would never sing again.
She felt as if her whole life had been a dream, her aspirations only fantastic and beautiful shapes carved in ice. Then the sun had come out and the ice had melted; her dreams had melted away like water which seeped into the ground and vanished.
Madame Bertelli came to see her. "I know you think life is over," she said, "but you are wrong. Life offers many paths. Sometimes the one we choose is blocked. Then we have to turn and try a different route. You are very young, little Lynne. It may take a long time but you will find your path. Once I wanted to be a violinist, but I lacked that divine spark, so now I enjoy music, but as a listener. Instead of making music, I fell in love with Bertelli, married him, raised his children. It is hard to believe I could have been happier as a concert violinist. My best wish for you is that you have as happy a life as I, and remember, the first path I chose was blocked, too. Nothing is ever wasted. Perhaps something you have learned in your striving will point the way to your new path."
She had to find a way to live. She was prepared for nothing but singing. She knew languages, but she had not attended a university and she had no teaching credentials. She thought of becoming a tutor, but no one wanted a young English girl as an Italian tutor when there were plenty of genuine Italians around.
Her mother's brother Simon, as Lynne's next of kin, had been notified of her accident. He had written her a brief note saying he hoped she would soon recover, which she supposed was as near to expressing sympathy as he ever allowed himself. How such an irritable, dried-up character could be related to her outgoing, warm mother, Lynne couldn't imagine, though of course he was only a half-brother. He had had an unfortunate marriage, and he was plagued with attacks of arthritis. Perhaps these things had warped his character.
When Lynne was at lowest ebb, working as a counter girl in a rather unpleasant cafe, trying to make ends meet, her Uncle Simon appeared in London, down from Manchester on business.
"Well, you've really got yourself in a fine mess, haven't you?" he demanded. "I never did hold with that la-di-da, impractical training your parents gave you. All that time and money down the drain, and what's to show for it? What, I ask you?" His small black eyes glittered at her maliciously.
"Please, Uncle Simon." There were tears in Lynne's own eyes. "There's no use trying to change what's past."
"I'll tell you what
I propose," he said. "Not that I believe in bailing out people too improvident to avoid going out in a leaky boat, but you're my sister's only chick. I'll stake you to a business course. Pay for your training and living expenses. As soon as you get a job, you can start paying me back."
"But, Uncle," Lynne protested, "though it's very kind of you, I haven't the least inclination for secretarial work."
"Well, do you have an inclination for starving?" he barked. "Or wiping greasy counters in a cafe?"
"I'd thought of teaching languages," she faltered. "If I could get my qualification—"
"More folderol!" he interrupted. "The English language is good enough for anyone. You learn to type and keep accounts—you won't starve."
At last she had given in because there was really no other way out. Though she tried to be grateful, he had said so many insulting things about the impracticality of her parents that she knew she could never forgive him.
She would take the course he insisted upon and live frugally—hanging on until the debt was paid— and then somehow, working nights and studying days, she would find a way to qualify as a teacher.
She had found it harder to repay the debt than she had dreamed. She lived simply, allowing herself no luxuries, and every week she sent a small amount to him on account, but the outstanding debt still loomed impossibly large, and in the meantime she was stuck in a job she cordially disliked.
Until today. Confused as her feelings were, at least today she was having a holiday from her beastly typewriter. Surely Jason Corey had meant what he had said about "suitable recompense for overtime." That should allow her to wipe out a larger portion of the debt than she was usually able to do in a week.
Meanwhile, she would try to forget having made an idiot of herself over suspecting him of dishonorable intentions, and enjoy the sensation of riding in a beautiful car with the loveliest collection of clothes she'd ever owned in her life stowed in the boot.
At the thought of the clothes, a pang smote her. He couldn't, surely, be intending to subtract the cost of the clothes from her wages, could he? Because if so, even with the overtime, it would take a year to pay for them, and there was the money for Uncle Simon owing, too. Her thoughts chased themselves around and around.
"Take three deep breaths and calm down," she told herself. It helped, because then she thought of Miss Cheney. Even if Jason Corey, in his lordly arrogance, had no notion what she earned and deemed it only fitting that she should be prepared to outfit herself properly to cross his threshold, she had no doubt that Miss Cheney could gauge very accurately what her salary was and she would never have insisted on such expensive things—that heavenly blue dinner dress, for instance—if she had been expected to pay for them herself.
Miss Cheney wouldn't have put her in such a position, she was sure, because even though she'd called her a tiresome little fool at first, later she'd been quite nice—as if she were on Lynne's side—even giving her that little flacon of perfume.
Of course she would give the clothes back when her time at Longridge was over. A sudden giggle rose to her lips as she wondered what Jason Corey would do with them.
Then her smile faded as she remembered how he had thought better of giving her a cheque and asked Miss Cheney to go along and choose her outfits. She supposed he didn't trust her to have decent taste. Well, he was wrong about that. She had studied costuming and she knew what became her, but knowing wasn't much help if you couldn't afford anything new and attractive.
"Here's the house, miss." Johnson's words broke in upon her thoughts. She peered out. The car had turned up a long lane of trees. At the end all she could see was red brick, a soft glowing rose-red with touches of white. Then they swept onto a circular drive and the whole of the house was revealed.
It was not a huge house but it was gracefully proportioned, and in the circle of the drive a profusion of flowers grew, not in the neatly trimmed beds that Lynne always felt looked so stiff and touch-me-not, but massed in a riot of color.
Before she was out of the car, the door of the house opened and a tall woman in black stepped out to greet her. If Lynne hadn't been so nervous, she would have felt very grand mounting the steps.
"Miss Delevan? We've been expecting you. I'm Mrs. Edgers, the housekeeper." There was a young, rosy-faced maid hovering in the background. "I'll show you to your room," Mrs. Edgers went on, "and Hatton will unpack for you."
Lynne decided there was no way to be grand when her luggage consisted of nothing but parcels, so she might as well tell the simple truth. "I'm afraid I live in the wrong end of London, Mrs. Edgers. Mr. Corey decided that Johnson couldn't be spared long enough to take me so far in that direction to pack, so instead we stopped and picked up some new things to tide me over for a few days. Of course I travel to work by Underground and it doesn't take nearly as long as it does driving through traffic."
As they walked along the upper hallway, much as she would have liked to explore her room in this beautiful house, Lynne said, "I won't stop in my room now. I'd like to see Tonio immediately, if that's possible."
Mrs. Edgers's lips compressed at the mention of his name. "Certainly, miss." She opened a door and Lynne could see her room, pale yellow with touches of a rich, deep blue. "Hatton, take Miss Delevan along to Master Tonio's room now. You can come back directly and unpack."
"Hatton, tell me about Tonio," Lynne said after the little maid had deposited her parcels in the yellow room and Mrs. Edgers had left them. "I can understand that he's grief-stricken and lonely, and it must be terribly frustrating not being able to talk to anyone, but what does he do that's upsetting the household so much?"
"Acts up something fierce, he does, miss," Hatton said, her eyes round. "Yells and takes on dreadful, all in that heathen tongue so nobody can tell what he wants. Screams when he has to go to bed and won't eat hardly nothing. Mrs. Baggett, she's the cook, tries ever such nourishing food, he's that thin, miss, but he won't have none of it. Getting worse, too, he is. Lately a couple of times he's thrown his food on the floor. Mrs. Baggett's threatening to give notice and Mrs. Edgers isn't half upset. Mrs. Baggett suits the Master fine and she won't be easy to replace."
She threw open the door of a pleasantly light room, and there by the window, arms on the sill, head buried in his arms, crouched a small boy.
So this was the monster who was turning the house upside down, Lynne thought wryly.
"Master Tonio, you have a visitor," Hatton said.
At the sound of her voice, he lifted his head and turned around. His eyes were enormous, dark pools of despair.
Lynne's heart turned over. "Ciao, Tonio." Speaking in clear Italian she said, "I'm Lynne. I've come to talk to you and be your friend. We have so much to talk about. Could we begin being each others friend now? Immediatamente?"
She held out her arms and he hurtled into them, burying his face in her skirt.
CHAPTER THREE
It was Friday afternoon three days later and Lynne was playing a rowdy game of catch with Tonio down near the woods behind the house. She was wearing her old clothes, for fear of soiling the new skirt, and a good thing, too, she thought, as she crawled under a bush to retrieve a wild pitch of Tonio's.
"Attenzione! Non faccia cost!" he called to him.
"Well, I wouldn't know about that," a masculine voice answered, and she looked up to see Jason Corey standing there in impeccable tweeds with a faintly amused look on his face.
Smug and superior were the words that came to her mind as she scrambled to her feet, humiliated at being caught in such a position. She brushed the leaves from her skirt, calling in Italian to Tonio, "Come and say good afternoon to your uncle."
Jason Corey bent down and gave the boy a stiff little hug, to which Tonio submitted. "Well, old boy, you're looking better." To Lynne, he said, "Things are progressing. Last time I came to see him he took one look at me and burst into tears."
"Is it to be wondered at? You're the one who brought him here away from everything and everyone
he knows. Is there any news of his mother?"
"I called the hospital in Madrid this morning. There's no change. She still isn't conscious."
"Oh, dear," Lynne said, trying to keep the dismay out of her voice. "That sounds very bad, doesn't it?"
Tonio was clutching at her skirt, asking for news of his mother. "Your uncle called the hospital today. The doctors and nurses are all working very hard to help her."
Hatton appeared, breathless, from the direction of the house. "Mrs. Edgers says to tell you there's a call from London," she announced.
He nodded. "I want to talk to you about the boy, but I've some business to attend to. We'll have our discussion at dinner."
"I'm sorry," she said, "but there's a shop in the village that serves pizza. I've promised Tonio to take him there to eat tonight."
"You can do that another time," he said, as if it were of no consequence.
"I'm afraid not," she said stubbornly. "Tonio trusts me. I gave him my word. I think it would be very harmful if I broke my promise. He has been behaving very politely to the cook and housekeeper for two days to earn this treat."
Tonio spoke to her, looking from her to his uncle. "What did he say?" Jason demanded. Lynne bit her lip. "Well, come on, out with it."
"He wants me to ask if you would like to come to supper with us," she said reluctantly, hoping he wouldn't think it was her idea to invite him.
"And upset Mrs. Baggett again when she's prepared my dinner?" he asked coldly. "No, thank you. Perhaps you'll have the goodness to join me when you've finished your expedition. I presume that at his age he dines early."
"Yes, but then I have to read to him before he goes to sleep. That is, I bought some children's storybooks and I translate them as he looks at the pictures."
"At your convenience then," he said sarcastically and stalked off.
What arrogance, she thought, coming down here and expecting everyone to jump to his command. Then guiltily she realized he had every right to expect just that. She was his employee, after all. However, her promise to Tonio took precedence over her duty to her employer because the boy's need to trust her was more important than Jason Corey's need to be obeyed.