Child of Music (Warrender Saga Book 5)

by Mary Burchell

  Child of Music

  Mary Burchell

  © Mary Burchell 1970

  Mary Burchell has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1970 by Mills & Boon Ltd.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mary Elliott entered the staff room at Carmalton Girls’ School, flung down a pile of books and, as she went to help herself to the rather weak coffee provided, exclaimed resignedly,

  ‘Does anyone share my view that Janet Morton isn’t really quite all there?’

  Miss Curtis, always ready to take umbrage, even about so undistinguished a member of her class as Janet Morton, bristled slightly. ‘It depends what you mean by “not quite all there”. She’s a dreamy child, of course.’

  ‘Dreamy! She’s in a trance half the time.’ Mary Elliott laughed exasperatedly, for teaching maths to resistant juniors is no fun. ‘I’d got them all more or less busy this morning when I saw her gazing out of the window, obviously a hundred miles away. And when I asked her to favour us with her thoughts — ’

  ‘You shouldn’t do that,’ interjected Miss Curtis. ‘Sarcasm withers children.’

  ‘It didn’t wither Janet Morton. She came back from her hundred-mile journey and said, “I was thinking about the wind.”’

  ‘The wind? Oh, dear!’ Miss Sharpe, longest on the staff and with an effortless sense of discipline which was the envy of all, laughed outright. ‘She was just showing off.’

  ‘But she wasn’t,’ sighed Mary Elliott crossly. ‘If she had been I could have dealt with her. I think she really had been thinking about the wind, and how one does that I just wouldn’t know. I told her to get on with her work, of course, and she did. But when I looked at it afterwards it was all wrong, and I felt somehow defeated.’

  ‘When you’ve been at it ten years you won’t mind so much,’ Miss Sharpe told her consolingly.

  ‘When I’ve been at it ten years I’ll be certifiable if many of them are like Janet Morton,’ retorted Mary Elliott, as the door opened again to admit her special friend Felicity Grainger.

  ‘Who’s talking about Janet Morton?’ Felicity wanted to know.

  ‘All of us. Which is a bad sign. No child is sufficiently important to command general attention,’ declared Miss Sharpe.

  ‘Not even if she’s a near-genius?’ Felicity inspected the coffee and grimaced, while Mary Elliott said,

  ‘Oh, Felicity, really! Just because the child scrapes that violin of hers effectively!’

  ‘What makes you think Janet Morton a near genius?’ inquired Miss Sharpe with genuine curiosity.

  ‘In some odd way, she’s the most truly musical person — and I mean person, not just child — that I’ve ever come across.’ Felicity frowned consideringly. ‘It’s not only that she has a technique and a capacity for sheer hard work outstanding in a child of eleven. There’s a sort of inner knowledge — an instinctive awareness and artistic judgment which almost frighten me at times.’

  ‘Then we’ll leave the subject,’ Miss Sharpe declared amusedly. ‘The day those brats begin to frighten one it’s time to take them less seriously.’

  Everyone laughed feelingly at that, and the subject was dropped. But later, in the kitchen of the pleasant cottage which Mary Elliott and Felicity Grainger shared, Mary paused over the joint preparations of their evening meal and said impulsively,

  ‘Do you really think the Morton child so out of the ordinary, musically speaking? It isn’t just that you’re sorry about her being an orphan and romantically inclined to exaggerate her gifts?’

  ‘Heavens, no!’ Felicity laughed. ‘Naturally I’m sorry for any child robbed of both parents in the same ghastly accident. Who wouldn’t be? But I wouldn’t judge her gifts sentimentally because of that. Anyway, I think she’s quite happy in her foster-home with the Emlyns. Mrs. Emlyn is kind and homely and hasn’t read any books on child psychology. She just gives Janet the sort of simple day-to-day security which is what she most needed after such a shock.’

  ‘Maybe you’re right.’ Mary nodded thoughtfully. ‘But I shouldn’t have thought the Emlyn household conducive to artistic development, would you?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. But security and normality were what Janet needed most. She’s allowed to practise as much as she likes without being thought either wonderful or tiresome, which is important. I don’t think anyone has ever told her she’s unusual, for the simple reason that the Emlyns don’t even know that she is. That must have been very healthy for her! But now, of course — ’

  Felicity paused and into her beautiful grey eyes came a determined gleam which Mary had seen there once or twice before when her friend was about to display unusual obstinacy.

  ‘Now,’ Felicity went on firmly, ‘it’s time Janet was found a place in a school specially geared to the training of musically gifted children. In fact — the Tarkman Foundation School.’

  ‘I thought perhaps we were coming to that.’ Mary looked both curious and amused. ‘They say the competition is pretty ferocious, and that only one in a hundred gets in.’

  ‘I know. But, unless I’m much mistaken, Janet Morton is that one in a hundred,’ replied Felicity, setting her mouth.

  It occurred to Mary to say that Felicity could very well be mistaken, but she rejected the idea. For when Felicity looked like that Mary knew by now that argument was pointless.

  On the surface the two friends had little in common, Mary being quick, volatile, impatient and superficially a trifle hard, while Felicity was quieter, artistic and something of a dreamer. But, in fact, of the two Felicity was the one who could stand foursquare for the few things she regarded as important.

  They had come to Carmalton in the same term just over a year ago and, as neither wanted to live in lodgings, inevitably they converged on the same charming cottage which was the only one to be rented in the district. They met literally on the doorstep, concealed with difficulty their dislike of each other as rivals and then, on discovering that the rent was considerably more than either had anticipated, simultaneously hit on the idea of sharing it, at least for an experimental three months.

  ‘It would be a risk, of course,’ Mary said. ‘We may loathe each other within a week. But, on the principle that half a loaf is better than no bread, how about trying it?’

  ‘I’m willing,’ Felicity agreed. ‘But I should warn you that in my job as music teacher I’m bound to do a certain amount of practising, both piano and violin.’

  ‘Are you any good?’ inquired Mary candidly.

  ‘I am rather.’

  ‘Then I’ll risk it. If I find it insupportable I’ll tell you so and we’ll have to come to some other arrangement.’

  But she found it far from insupportable. She even said sometimes that she quite enjoyed it. And on her side, Felicity, who had been an only child, found Mary Elliott’s companionship both stimulating and pleasant.

  Both were reasonably domesticated without being obsessively so and, with the twice weekly assistance of an invaluable Mrs. Arnold, they shared the household chores amicably. That particular evening, Felicity was, in her own phrase, knocking up a meat pie while Mary peeled vegetables — and presently came round once more to the subject of Janet Morton.

  ‘How do you propose to set about gettin
g her into Tarkmans?’ she inquired. ‘Have you discussed it with Mrs. Bush?’

  ‘Oh, no! Not yet.’ Mrs. Bush was the head of their school and, although respected by both for her immensely efficient organization, not somehow quite the person with whom one discussed the early stages of an ambitious dream.

  ‘I’ll have to enlist her support at some point, of course,’ Felicity admitted. ‘But I have an idea that any actual lobbying on Janet’s behalf will have to be done on my own.’

  ‘Which means seeing Stephen Tarkman himself, I suppose?’ Mary glanced up quickly. ‘They say he’s as tough as old boots.’

  ‘He is,’ Felicity confirmed. ‘I met him once.’

  ‘You did? My dear, what an interesting past you have.’ Mary looked amused. ‘I didn’t know you consorted with millionaires.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Felicity laughed. ‘And he’s not. Although he’s chief administrator of the Tarkman Trust, he’s only reasonably wealthy himself, I believe. Anyway, I met him only passingly at one of the few really thrilling dinner-parties I’ve ever attended. And I was there simply because in my student days I used to room in the same boarding-house as Anthea Warrender — ’

  ‘The conductor’s wife?’

  ‘Yes. Though she was Anthea Benton then, of course. She was the really outstanding one of us all, with a voice which even we knew was something extraordinary.’

  ‘That was why Warrender married her, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Partly. Though I think he was very much in love with her too. She was an extraordinarily nice sort of girl and when success came to her it didn’t spoil her at all. Frankly, none of us expected to see any more of her after she married Warrender. But in spite of the fact that she soon became so successful on her own account, quite apart from being his wife, she never forgot her student friends. She would recall us by name and circumstances whenever she ran across us. There was a sort of warm intensity about her which made you feel you were important to her. No wonder he adored her,’ added Felicity reflectively.

  ‘And did he really adore her? — that cold fish.’

  ‘Oh, Warrender’s not a cold fish. He’s authoritative and a bit of a tyrant, of course. But I suppose in his position he’s entitled to be. And underneath all that he’s an unusually human person. I don’t think Anthea would have fallen for him otherwise.’

  ‘Well, back to our own little genius.’ Mary went to the sink to rinse the potatoes she had peeled, but continued to speak over her shoulder. ‘Having met Stephen Tarkman at the Warrender dinner-table, you feel able to tackle him on the basis of old friends?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t say that!’ Felicity laughed and pulled a slight face. ‘As a matter of fact, we didn’t hit it off at all well. But it’s nearly three years ago now — not long after I qualified. He wouldn’t remember an unimportant contact at a dinner-party. If — I mean when — I go to see him, I shall go as a complete stranger. And as to not minding — I do mind. But one doesn’t reject a worthwhile enterprise because it has disagreeable aspects.’

  ‘I do,’ said Mary frankly. At which Felicity laughed again.

  But she changed the subject after that. For not even to Mary was she prepared to admit that the recollection of her encounter with Stephen Tarkman still had the power to anger and embarrass her.

  It was extraordinary how clearly she remembered the incident. She could even remember the dress she had worn. Possibly because it was the most becoming — and certainly the most expensive — dress she had ever possessed. But then when you are invited to dine with celebrities you don’t wear last year’s renovated model.

  Felicity had felt shy but excited when she arrived at the Warrenders’ luxurious penthouse overlooking St. James’s Park. But Anthea — lovely in a breathtakingly simple white dress — had opened the door herself, welcomed Felicity warmly and taken her into her bedroom where she proceeded to give her a rapid résumé of the other guests who were coming.

  ‘Why did you include me? Felicity had asked with a frank laugh. ‘They sound a formidable lot.’

  ‘They aren’t really. Except perhaps Gina Torelli, who still makes me feel like a beginner. And I included you for the simple reason that I wanted you,’ Anthea concluded endearingly. ‘It was such fun running into you the other night and recalling our student days. It made me think how long it was since I’d seen any of the old crowd, and I hoped you’d like to come.’

  ‘I adore coming!’ Felicity had assured her. ‘I feel a bit intimidated, that’s all. They’re all top-drawer professionals, aren’t they? It makes me feel rather the minor music-teacher.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. You’re probably just as well informed musically as any of them,’ Anthea had declared encouragingly. ‘Anyway, I’ve put you beside Stephen Tarkman. He doesn’t sing or play anything, if that’s any help.’

  ‘What does he do, then?’

  ‘My dear, he doesn’t do. He just is,’ Anthea had explained comprehensively. ‘He is TARKMAN. Of the Tarkman Musical Foundation, you know.’

  ‘I think I’ve heard of that,’ Felicity said, delving into her memory. ‘But put me in the picture.’

  ‘His father was a millionaire several times over. He made half his fortune out of armaments during the last war, and had a sort of guilt complex about it, apparently. Which Oscar says is idiotic because where would we have been without armaments? — but that’s by the way. Anyway, poor Tarkman senior, feeling badly about his millions, left nearly all his money to found a big artistic trust, mostly for music. It makes grants to deserving composers and artists, finances a home for old musicians who have fallen on bad times and, above all, supports a special school for the training of musically talented children. Oscar is a director, which is why we know Stephen. He’s tough, but stimulating. You’ll like him.’

  But Felicity had not liked him.

  From the moment he came into the room she resented his faintly arrogant air. The air of a man who wields power and enjoys the fact. And because she was already feeling nervous and a little unsure of herself she found his brusque manner both frightening and irritating.

  At dinner she talked as much as possible to the partner on her other side and when she had to speak to Stephen Tarkman she confined herself to harmless generalities. Until the conversation suddenly turned on Rodney Eskith, a young pianist who had just made a sensational debut in London. It happened that Felicity had heard him and been greatly impressed, so that she was incensed beyond discretion when she heard Stephen Tarkman say, as though there could be no second opinion,

  ‘Just a flash in the pan. He won’t last. No really outstanding talent. Without that clever build-up he wouldn’t have made more than a ripple on the surface of the musical world.’

  ‘What makes you so sure of that?’ Felicity asked quietly beside him. And he turned in surprise to glance at the girl who had challenged his opinion.

  ‘Considerable experience and a good natural judgment,’ he told her drily.

  ‘You don’t think you might be — could possibly be — wrong?’ The note of sarcasm in her tone was so delicate that she thought he was too insensitive to notice it.

  But he got it all right and, turning on her the full force of a mockingly amused smile, he said flatly, ‘No, I don’t. You beg to differ, I gather?’

  ‘No, I don’t beg anything,’ she retorted, her colour flaring suddenly. ‘In my view, he has a great future. And possibly if you played yourself you might be able to see that too. You don’t play any instrument, do you?’

  ‘Not professionally.’ The smile had become almost lazy, but there was the strangest hint of danger about it. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I’m not a — a public performer. I teach. Piano and violin.’

  ‘A teacher? I see.’

  He did not permit himself the quotation, ‘Those who can — do. Those who can’t — teach.’ But she saw it passing through his mind as clearly as if he had said it. She also knew in that moment how it was that some men occasionally had their faces slapped.


  But not, of course, at the Warrenders’ dinner-table.

  The rest of the evening she managed to enjoy, so long as she avoided his company and resolutely banished him from her mind. But when the party was breaking up and Anthea kissed her good-bye and said, ‘Darling, I’m sure Stephen will give you a lift. He’s going your way,’ she could not bite back the words — ‘I’d rather go on hands and knees than accept a lift from Mr. Tarkman!’

  ‘Really?’ Anthea looked astonished. ‘Why, I thought — ’ Then she stopped, glanced beyond Felicity and said hastily, ‘Well — perhaps — ’

  At the same moment Gina Torelli came up, cast a kindly look on Felicity, who had managed during the evening to express her genuine and overwhelming admiration rather tellingly, and said graciously, ‘Does this dear child go my way?’

  The dear child said breathlessly that she did, and found herself swept off in the wake of the famous soprano — past Stephen Tarkman, whose slightly raised eyebrows and mocking smile left her convinced that he had overheard the strictures on himself.

  Momentarily discomfort was almost obliterated by the thrill of driving home in company with the famous Torelli. But the recollection of Stephen Tarkman returned again and again over the years to annoy and embarrass her. If he had ultimately been proved wrong in that argument she might have forgiven him and forgotten the incident. But within a couple of years Rodney Eskith had been more or less sunk without trace. It is almost unforgivable when the people we dislike are proved right.

  Felicity had had an exceptionally happy childhood and girlhood. The only child of affectionate parents, she had been allowed to develop her very real musical talent to the full, without being given too wildly inflated ideas about her gifts. Her father, with kindly but astringent realism, had pointed out from the beginning that few people reached the heights of the public performer and that if she ended as a good and successful teacher, she could still regard herself as having a certain value in the musical world.