The Winding Stair (4 page)

‘ “Now the day has banished night,”' her voice wove in with the other two and he breathed a sigh of relief as the hurdle of ‘day' was passed. They were all singing together, each line repeated over and over again, and he held his breath, waiting, until first Olivia, then Orsino, came in for the climax: ‘In our triumph of delight.' This was where they all took hands to move downstage together. He had to reach for Juana's, and felt it shiver in his own. She had heard. Ridiculous to have entertained the hope that she might not have. ‘ “Triumph of delight,”' sang Olivia, and ‘ “Triumph of delight,”' Orsino echoed her. Juana dropped Gair's hand and turned to face him. ‘I can't,' she said quietly, her face blanched under the make-up. ‘I can't.' Her lips were trembling. In a moment, he knew, she was going to turn and rush from the hall – back to the river? Back to where he had found her a week ago?

He caught her hand again. ‘Yes, you can.' The orchestra dwindled into silence. ‘If we change the words.'

‘Change them?' This was Vanessa, grasping at straws.

‘Well, of course. I don't know what Grub Street hack put them together, but we don't have to treat them as sacred Shakespeare, do we? Just think about them for a moment: “Triumph of delight,” indeed! “I'll rhyme you so, eight years together; dinners and suppers and sleeping hours excepted.” As, for instance,' he struck an attitude:

‘ “Now the clouds no more are grey,
Now our cares are flown away
Evermore keep holiday …”'

‘Or, better still' – he had belatedly become aware of that fatal ‘day' – ‘How about “Evermore our hearts are gay”? I won't say it's great poetry, but it's not much worse than the original.'

‘It's better for singing,' said Vanessa. ‘Don't you agree, Miss Brett? I never did like that run on night and delight. Let's see, how does it go? “Now the clouds no more are grey –”' She sang it through once, unaccompanied, then signalled imperiously to the orchestra. ‘Once more!'

This time it went perfectly, except that Orsino mixed up his
words and ended by rhyming bright with grey. But, ‘Good,' said Vanessa with finality. ‘We'll leave it there. It's going to be a great success. Be sure and get some rest this afternoon, Miss Brett.'

‘Yes, Lady Forland.'

Her tone alarmed Gair. ‘Let's take a turn in the garden first, Cesario. A breath of air will help you rest. No need to change your costume.' He anticipated her protest. ‘The audience won't begin to arrive for hours yet, will they, Vanessa?'

‘Of course not.' She could always be relied on to take her cue. ‘Yes, do go out for some air, Miss Brett. I'm afraid I've been working you much too hard.' As Gair led Juana toward the side door, he saw his sister bearing down on Daisy and Teresa and spared a moment to feel sorry for them.

It was hot in the garden. Vanessa's prized roses drooped scentless in the sun. And worse still, other couples had had the same idea and were strolling among the formal beds, pausing here and there to admire or to help themselves to a bud or two. Gair could feel the tension mounting in his companion. ‘I'll take you to a favourite place of mine.' He spoke in Portuguese. ‘Have you seen Vanessa's maze?'

‘No.' Even in Portuguese, her voice sounded strained.

‘It should be cool there. Or at least cooler.' He led the way through the walled kitchen garden, where a few of Lord Forland's army of gardeners were busy among asparagus and early peas.

The maze, when they reached it, was deserted, its high yew walls dark against the sun. ‘Don't be afraid I'll get you lost.' He opened the wicket gate for her. ‘Vanessa let me into the secret when she had it remade. It was practically a wilderness when she married Forland. It's quite easy when you know the way.' And he led her rapidly to the heart of the maze, where Vanessa had built a tiny Chinese pavilion with bamboo seats.

But Juana would not sit down. ‘You'll have to explain to Lady Forland,' she said. ‘I can't do it.'

‘Can't do what?' He would not understand her.

‘Sing tonight. I can't, I tell you. I'd only ruin it … for everyone. You must see that. Now I've started stammering when I sing, it's hopeless.' Hearing her, furiously fluent in Portuguese, it was hard to believe in the stutter.

But this was worse even than he had feared. ‘Nonsense.' Angrily, ‘You're imagining things. When did you stammer?'

‘Oh – you saved me, and don't think I'm not grateful. But you know I could not have sung that line as it stood.'

‘You could have, if your sisters had not put the idea into your head.'

‘Perhaps. But they have, you see. It's no good now. I can't.'

‘You must.' Which argument should he use? Fatal to pick the wrong one. And useless to speak to her of the success or failure of the opera. That would merely be to make matters worse. He bent down to pick a sprig of sweet-scented geranium from the tiny formal garden and hand it to her. ‘Why do your sisters hate you?' he asked.

‘Daisy and Teresa?' She could pronounce their names in Portuguese. ‘Hate me?' Surprised. ‘They don't. It's just … I don't know – a habit they've got into.'

‘Not a very nice one. I wouldn't be in their shoes for anything just now.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘Didn't you see? My sister was bearing down on them with all sails set. If you don't sing tonight, they're going to be in such disgrace with her – and, in consequence, with your mother—'

‘Not my mother!'

‘I'm sorry: your step-mother. She's not going to be very pleased with any of you, is she?' No need to elaborate on it.

‘I can't help it. I've told you: I can't do it. Miss Corson will have to take the part.'

Miss Corson was her understudy. But: ‘You know she can't do it,' he said. ‘The whole opera stands or falls by Viola. Without you, it falls.'

‘Not half so horribly as if I try and fail. Just think of it—'

‘Don't.' He interrupted her ruthlessly. ‘That's the worst thing you can do. Think instead what this means to me.' He had tried one line, and got nowhere. Now he must try another; a far more risky one.

‘To you? What in the world do you mean?'

‘Did you not wonder, you and your family, how you came to be invited here?'

‘Of course. You should have heard them. They're still baffled.' She sat down at last on the shady bench and looked up at him eagerly. ‘Can you explain it?' The tension was going out of her.

‘Easily, since it was my doing.'

‘Yours! But, why?'

Here was the crucial point. A lie? The truth? Or, as so often, a little of each? ‘I wanted to meet you,' he said, still playing for time.

‘Me?' There was something rather touching about her amazement.

‘Yes, you. Is that so remarkable? I know your grandmother; I told you. She's talked to me about you.' And that was true enough. ‘And about your voice. She made me curious. I wondered how, with your background, your breeding, you would have settled in England.'

‘You know now.' Bitterly.

‘Yes. I'm sorry. But that's it, you see.' Now, at last, he saw his way clear. ‘Mrs. Brett asked me to write to her; to let her know how you go on. I think she feels anxious about you; perhaps even regrets the quarrel with your father. I was at my wits' end, secluded as you live, to think how to meet you. Then my sister mentioned her project of this opera and her difficulty over a Viola. She had heard of your singing, but it was I who persuaded her to invite you and convinced her it was worth (forgive me) the plague of having to invite your mother and sisters too. If you fail her now, it's the last favour she'll do me.'

‘You mean, you did it all for me? Without even having met me? You took such a chance?'

‘Not such a chance as all that.' This was precarious ground again. ‘I'd made some enquiries about you, you see – Your grandmother asked me to. I knew that your voice was something quite out of the way.' He paused.

‘And that I stammered.' She was on to it like lightning. ‘My God, you must wish now that I had never been born.'

‘Nothing of the kind. Believe me, Miss Brett, whatever happens tonight, I'll never regret having met you.' Dangerous! This was to walk across an earthquake. ‘I'm a poor man.' He was picking his words with exquisite care. ‘I'm, simply, penniless, with my own way to make in the world.' There, that should do it. ‘But – don't think I'll ever, for an instant, regret having met you.'

‘Thank you.'

She was oddly mature for her seventeen years, he thought, or did she simply not understand how near he had sailed to a declaration? No. He saw the rush of colour transform her serious,
downturned face. She understood, but was too much the woman of the world to admit to understanding. And he found himself thinking how, in these circumstances, Daisy or Teresa would be simpering, and trying to lead him on to commit himself.

Now she looked up to meet his eyes with her clear, dark ones. ‘Lady Forland will be angry with you, if I don't sing?'

‘Angry! She won't forgive me. Well, can you blame her? I persuaded her to this. Miss Brett, if you won't do it for your own sake, do it for mine. You can, you know, if you decide to.'

‘You think so?'

‘I'm sure of it.' He made himself meet her doubtful gaze steadily, confidently. More confidently than he felt.

          .          .          .

‘ “Now the clouds no more are grey,”' the three voices met at last, to sing in unison:

‘ “
Now our cares are flown away,
Evermore keep holiday
.”'

The four of them were downstage, hand in hand, as the first crash of applause broke over them. The members of the orchestra had stood up, their instruments forgotten, applauding wildly. Gair bent, in a spontaneous gesture that would trouble him in retrospect, to kiss Juana's hand, then pulled her forward for her ovation.

If Juana had hoped for another tête-à-tête with Gair Varlow – one of congratulation this time – she was to be disappointed. The party broke up next morning, and he was one of the first to leave, having received, he told Vanessa, an urgent summons from Lord Howick. ‘News from Portugal, I expect.' He was saying goodbye in her luxurious boudoir.

‘Bad news? Do you think the French are really going to attack them?'

‘Why would Howick send for me if it was good? Don't be surprised if you don't hear from me for a while.'

‘You'll not be going back there?'

‘How should I know till I've seen Howick? Don't worry, Van. You know how well I take care of myself.'

‘Yes.' Doubtfully. And then: ‘Gair, you'll say goodbye to that poor child?'

‘Miss Brett?' He would not pretend to misunderstand her. ‘Why should I? She'll be thronged with flatterers this morning.'

‘For the moment. Yes, she is. And stuttering at them woefully. But, Gair, you can't go without telling her how well she did. It was all for you, and you know it.'

He looked at her sombrely. ‘All the more reason for not seeking her out this morning. I said quite enough yesterday. Too much, perhaps.'

‘You've never committed yourself?'

‘Good God, no. You should know me better than that. But—' He paid her the compliment of being almost as ruthlessly honest with her as he was with himself. ‘She might just possibly think I had.'

‘Oh, Gair! The poor child. And when you think what she has to go home to. Her step-mother and those sisters of hers aren't going to forgive her last night's success in a hurry. I wouldn't be in her shoes, this next month or so, for all the gold in the Brazils. And if you disappoint her too …'

‘What else can I do?' But she had given him pause. If all went well, and he did want to use Juana in Portugal, he must not find her reduced to a stuttering wreck. ‘Would it help, do you
think, if I was to go out of my way to say a fond farewell to the ugly sisters?'

‘Poor things; they're not ugly at all.' She thought it over. ‘I suppose it might, but it won't make Juana any happier.'

‘I'm not so sure. She's no fool.' He was tired of the whole business now, this women's work, and anxious to be back in London, learning what new development in Portugal had induced Lord Howick to send for him so urgently. ‘There's no satisfying you today, Van. At least, admit I've made your opera the success of the season.'

‘Yes.' She laughed with pure pleasure. ‘I wish you could have heard that old cat, Lady Melbourne, congratulating me. As if every kind word cut her mouth in the speaking! Don't think I'm not grateful, Gair, even if you did do it for your own inscrutable reasons, as you do everything. I only wish I could do something for you in return, but you know how it is …'

‘I know, Van.' He did indeed. When she had made her brilliant marriage, one of her first and characteristic projects had been to get Lord Forland to provide for her beloved brother. She had soon discovered her mistake. Indulging her every whim, Forland would do nothing for Gair. Was he jealous? Or afraid, as he claimed, of being mocked for carrying what he inelegantly described as ‘a parcel of hangers-on'. It made no difference. Gair, whom she had loved and protected as a child, must come to her house like any ordinary visitor and take care not to outstay his welcome.

‘Don't fret, Van.' Gair was always quick to sense what she was thinking. ‘I'll come about in the end; see if I don't. And in the meanwhile, I will say goodbye to your protégée like the best of brothers … and to her sisters too, rather differently.'

‘My protégée? I thought she was yours.'

‘Good God, no.'

He found Juana, as he had predicted, the centre of an admiring crowd, and felt a moment of pure fright when her eye caught his. He had got her into this, she seemed to be saying, let him get her out. Sighing inwardly, he made his way through the crowd toward her with a greeting here and an apology there to keep it all casual. Coming up, at last, from behind her, he found her fending off Sheridan's enthusiasm as best she might. Sherry wanted to introduce her to his friends at the Opera House. ‘You'll be the greatest thing since Mrs. Billington, Miss Brett. Why, the young Roscius will be nothing to it.'