The Maestro's Mistress (20 page)

Over time she had learned never
to take anything he did or said at face value. Saul was a strategist, a shaper
and a planner. Although a passionate man he was rarely impulsive.  Behind all
his deeds and words was a purpose.

She could not help musing on Saul’s
motivation in setting up this awesome opportunity for her to play in public
with the great Tudor Philharmonic. Maybe it was a simple desire to give her the
most wonderful gift he could think of, but as things were rarely simple with
Saul she suspected there was something more subtle behind it.

She was also well aware that in
accepting his gift she took the risk of making a fool of herself: making a
total mess of things through her lack of performing experience or hopelessly
jangled nerves. Although, she supposed that as the event was for charity, it
would not be a total disaster if her performance went no further than basic
competence.

And maybe that was what he was
giving her the chance to find out – for once and all – whether she was any good
as a top flight solo player. One never knew with Saul, which was why living
with him was so endlessly thrilling, like an eternal ride on a dizzy roller
coaster.

He had been deeply moved by the
birth of the babies. The death of the baby boy had temporarily stunned him, but
Alessandra’s sturdy growth and development had in time become a compensation.
Tara saw the three of them now as a tightly entwined unit. Tara, Saul and
Alessandra – all interdependent, all needing each other fiercely.

Alessandra was developing into a
beautiful young child. She had the long face and straight nose of her father
and the big green eyes of her mother. However, whereas Tara’s irises were green
lit with gold, Alessandra’s were heavily flecked with tawny brown, deepening
the overall tone of her eyes and forming a startling contrast with her blonde
hair – a feature that neither Saul or Tara could trace in their ancestry.

Tara thought it was curiously
ironic that her baby should have this beautiful blonde hair – a childish
replica of the mane of Saul’s wife.

***

Georgiana had been deeply puzzled
by Xavier’s mistress’s directness, right from those first moments in the spring
of the previous year when she had leaned into the car and invited Georgiana to
join her for a chat and a cup of tea.

It was quite simply not the sort
of thing that should happen. But it had happened. And she had not been able to
see any way of refusing the invitation without seeming graceless. She had found
the younger woman curiously compelling.

Georgiana had never spent much
time at the Oxfordshire house, preferring her house in London or the apartments
in Florence and the south of France. She did not like the English country
house. Its situation was isolated and its décor and furnishings too sparse and
simple for her taste.

Saul had given her a little
licence in furnishing the bedrooms, but he had been adamant about having his
own way with the reception rooms on the ground floor. It had always been
Georgiana’s view that the Oxfordshire house was a man’s place. Maestro Xavier’s
place.

The mistress had encouraged her
through the front door, smiling and friendly. She had ushered her into the
monk’s cell of a drawing room, giving her tea and afterwards mixing her a very
good gin and tonic.

Whilst Georgiana sipped,
desperate for the solace the alcohol would bring, the mistress had apologized
to her for stealing her husband and becoming pregnant with his child.

As Georgiana winced to hear the
words spoken out with such brutal nakedness, the mistress had said softly, “I
didn’t plan it to be like this for you”. She said it in a way which was almost
believable. And then she had said, ‘I wouldn’t blame you for hating my guts.’

Georgiana had looked at the
girl’s ripening bulge, the sickening badge of her triumph. She had looked at
her full, heavy breasts and her candid face. She had a vague recollection of
having seen her somewhere before. She could not place it. The mistress was like
so many girls of her generation – no dress sense, no feeling for jewellery and
make-up. No style.

That was something to be grateful
for at least. But as Georgiana listened to the girl talking and saw the life
and spirit in her mobile face, she had begun to see why a man might be
attracted to her. It was probably nothing more than raw animal sensuality. But
then, you could snare a man with that – keep him maybe, at least for a while.

And of course, the girl was
young. There was no competing with that. The years were simply too cruel.

The girl talked a little about
her musician father and her efforts on the violin. ‘Do you play?’ she had asked
Georgiana suddenly. She was so open, so quick.

‘No, not at all. I used to be a
model.’

‘Yes, I should have guessed.
You’re incredibly beautiful.’

Georgiana had been caught off
balance. Disarmed.

The mistress had seemed genuinely
interested in her. She had asked Georgiana to tell her about her family, her
interests and the ups and downs of a career as a model. She virtually invited
Georgiana to recount her life story.

Relaxed and encouraged by the
gin, Georgiana had found herself complying with the request, and beginning to
enjoy herself. The mistress had listened with such close attention: she had
broken in with questions from time to time, clearly fascinated by what she had
heard.

And then, to crown all, as
Georgiana eventually got up to leave, she had asked if she would like to visit
again sometime. Not when Saul was there if she would rather not.

‘You could meet me in town,’
Georgiana had said after consideration. ‘We could have lunch.’ She had looked
at Tara, her fastidious eye seeing in that small figure a desperate need for
sartorial guidance. ‘Afterwards we could have a browse round the shops.’

And so a tentative and unorthodox
relationship had begun.

Xavier had taken the news
impassively. ‘You’re free to plan your own social life,’ he had told Tara, his
grey eyes cool. ‘Be careful.’

‘Fraternizing with the
competition,’ Alicia had exclaimed at the end of Georgiana’s story of this
first encounter. ‘You must be out of your mind.’

CHAPTER
17

The rehearsal was about to begin.

Tara was already on stage,
laughing and joking with members of the orchestra, making a valiant effort to
conceal the nerves which had gathered in her stomach in a hard curdled lump.

Then suddenly Saul was there on
the podium, motionless and yet charged with energy. A hush fell over the
orchestra and all eyes were trained on the remote, commanding figure before
them.

His eyes took their customary
assessing journey across each section of the orchestra, then rested on Tara.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I ask you to welcome Tara Silk.’

A huge cheer went up, a round of
applause, a roll from the kettle drum. Everyone was loving the occasion;
welcoming a soloist who was not only the daughter of an old colleague, but now
romantically and scandalously shacked up with their charismatic music director.

Saul smiled, waiting for silence.
As he prepared to say something about Elgar’s concerto and the way it should be
played, there was a mischievous introduction from the leader of the orchestra,
a mild-mannered man affectionately known as the Chief Toreador.

‘Maestro – aren’t you going to
tell Tara the newcomer’s cautionary story? It’s something she shouldn’t miss.’

Saul narrowed his eyes and then
smiled. ‘Ah, yes.’ He looked down at Tara and she looked back. ‘The initiation
story! It’s about a bassoon player I knew once in an orchestra in Munich,’ he
explained. ‘A wily old devil. He knew all there was to know about playing great
music. He used to sit in darkened beer cellars telling stories about
conductors.’

He paused. ‘Go on,’ Tara said.

‘He claimed that when a new man
faced the orchestra they knew straight away whether he was the master or they.
Before the poor man even picked up his baton they knew whether he or they would
call the tune.’

‘I think I know who calls the
tune with this orchestra,’ Tara interposed sweetly, her eyes sparkling with the
thrill of combat. ‘Is this a story with a happy ending?’ she wondered.

‘Oh, indeed. As long as all the
players are competent and obedient. Including the soloists.’ He arched his
brows.

‘So anyone with a faint heart, a
rebellious spirit or inadequate technique may leave now. Is that the moral of
the tale? Well, I’m staying,’ Tara responded smartly, eliciting a roar of
delighted approval from the players.

‘Good. Now, shall we get down to
business?’ Saul was suddenly the indomitable conductor again, his face steely with
purpose. ‘The Elgar Violin Concerto, ladies and gentlemen. A great work of art.
A silk purse. Let’s not make a sow’s ear of it.’

He rested his hands on the curved
brass rails of the podium. His face had become distant, absorbed and intent.
‘Edward Elgar’s music takes us back to a bygone age where taste and charm
mattered.  His music has great dignity, great beauty, genuine nobility. It is
filled with a nostalgic longing for the past.’

His words created a picture in
Tara’s head: a dreamy June afternoon in an old English garden. She saw elegant
slender women in white muslin – an older Alessandra, a younger Georgiana maybe
– drifting over silky lawns murmuring companionably to each other.

Saul was still speaking. ‘The
great concerto we are about to bring to life is loved and renowned for its
poetry and romanticism.’ He paused and gazed intently at Tara for a moment. ‘I
want our audience to feel the spirit of a bygone England as they listen. I 
want them to experience the same regrets that the composer felt when he wrote this
music, contemplating the closing years of his life and the glories of the
Edwardian age, an epoch already closed.’

My God! He’s inspirational, Tara
thought, a lump rising in her throat.

‘And remember,’ Saul continued,
his voice calm and hypnotic, ‘that Edward Elgar was himself an accomplished
violinist and would know all too well the pitfalls of this piece.’ Again he
looked at Tara.

Saul! Are you trying to scare me
to death, she thought. But she knew he was not playing games now. This was Saul
at his most serious, his most intense and genuine. His soul was bared and he
would expect every member of the orchestra  to be totally devoted to the
pursuit of musical excellence, not only technical but spiritual.

‘Elgar was well into his fifties
when he wrote this piece,’ Saul continued. ‘Tara is still very young. She will
need all her skill and sensitivity to capture the emotions of an ageing man.’
He stopped and stared at her with his penetrating, remorseless eyes making her
heart sway.

‘I’m sure she will do it beautifully,’
he concluded, his voice almost a whisper. As his eyes held hers she was
spellbound, utterly magnetized. Even after living with him for all these months
he could still work this powerful magic on her.

She knew that all his wealth of
experience and musical perception, all his strength of purpose would be
generously put at her disposal in order to draw out the performance of a
lifetime.

Whenever she played for Saul she
was always at her peak, going far beyond the abilities she believed herself to
possess when she was without him – in the cold light away from the orbit of his
sun.

Play your heart out for him Tara,
she murmured to herself, knowing that she had the power under his direction to
give the quality of performance which would satisfy even his exacting
requirements. And she was sure the orchestra members felt similarly energized
and empowered.

Warm, prickling sensations surged
through the veins of her fingers as she placed her violin against the skin of
her jaw.

The following minutes and hours
swam unrealistically by, an unbroken dream of playing and listening and
preparing to play yet again.

And then it was time to play for
real. The audience had assembled, the overture had reached a climax and swirled
to a close. Applause resounded through the auditorium. Tara waited behind the
stage, her nerves singing with tension and anticipation. With massive
determination she fixed her mind on nothing but the music she was about to
play. Her head swam with images of the music and of Saul’s beloved austere
features.

Beyond fear now, she waited for
him to leave the orchestra and escort her onto the stage. And suddenly he was
there, coming towards her, his face intense with concentration as though he had
not yet quite returned to earth after the surging crescendo of the orchestra.
In his long tailored jacket and classically plain white shirt he looked every
inch an aristocrat: remote, passive, inscrutable.

How little she really knew about
him. And how fascinating that made him seem.

He extended his hand towards her,
taking in the scarlet gown with its tight waist and full skirt. ‘The audience
will love you,’ he said with an ironic smile.