Music of the Heart (The Warrender Saga No. 6) Read online

  MUSIC OF THE HEART

  Mary Burchell

  Gail Rostall was a young and ambitious singer, but all the same, when she got to know the famous composer Marc Bannister it was not with the idea of furthering her career; in fact, her feelings for him were far from professional ones!

  But how could she convince him of that, when he was still recovering from having been let down in just that way by the last girl who had claimed to love him?

  CHAPTER ONE

  She had meant to be at the station in very good time. Dressed with the sort of careless charm which requires considerable forethought, carrying her week-end case with the ease of one who has just stepped from a taxi, presenting her ticket at the barrier with almost offhand casualness, she would be able to greet Oliver Bannister with self-possession and poise.

  None of this happened, however. As she emerged from her small flat the heavens opened and the rain came down in torrents. Every taxi was instantly snapped up and there was nothing to do but rush for the nearest Underground station. Her journey involved two changes, each of them with some delay, and by the time she arrived at Victoria there was a long queue of damp or drenched passengers at each booking office window.

  Biting her lip with impatience, she inched her way forward, finally snatched her ticket and, with her week-end case—which now felt as though it were loaded with pig-iron—bumping against her legs, she ran helter-skelter for the barrier at which Oliver had promised to meet her.

  He was there, anxiously scanning the crowds, and before she could gasp out any word of explanation he seized her case, shoved her unceremoniously before him past the barrier and hustled her along the platform at a brisk trot. As the whistle blew he wrenched open the door of a blessedly uncrowded compartment, and they both almost literally fell in. Even before he had hoisted their luggage on to the rack the train started, and they both collapsed into corner seats and began to laugh.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry! I couldn’t get a taxi in that downpour, and it took ages on the Underground.’

  ‘Don’t apologize. I was only two and a half minutes before you myself,’ he assured her. ‘Praying all the way that you’d somehow be later than I was.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  ‘Honestly,’ he affirmed. That was one of the nice things about Oliver. He seldom held one to blame for anything. Mostly, she suspected, because he felt equal to any crisis that came along.

  No wonder he was popular. So popular that for some time after she first met him at a students’ concert she refused to take his advances at all seriously. So many people ran after him that it seemed absurd to suppose that she, the rather unimportant Gail Rostall, should make any special impression.

  Indeed, did she even want to make a special impression? She was not at all sure about that. For to Gail, after four hard but rewarding years as a singing student, it still seemed that no man—no person, in fact—could be half as important as the career on which she had set her heart.

  At first she had taken it for granted that Oliver was no more than just another student, like herself. It was only later that she discovered he had already had some success as a composer of light music.

  ‘Not up your street, I expect,’ he had said. ‘With your serious little face, your dedicated air and your oratorio type of voice.’

  ‘I’m not so serious!’ Gail had protested. ‘And although I was more than grateful for my few chances of singing in oratorio, an operatic career is what I’ve set my heart on.’

  ‘Worse and worse.’ He shook his head with a teasing grin. ‘Genuine opera buffs are always the most condescending about my type of tuneful nonsense.’

  ‘I can’t afford to be condescending about anything or anyone,’ Gail had told him frankly. ‘All I can boast of are a few minor engagements. If you have really composed something—anything—and had it performed, I’m lost in admiration.’

  Oliver Bannister, who seemed to like the idea of her being lost in admiration, said, ‘You’re a darling. And why haven’t I met you before?’

  ‘Probably because we’ve both been busy in our different fields.’

  ‘I can’t imagine being too busy to notice you,’ he retorted.

  And when she asked demurely if he had been getting results with that line, he burst out laughing and said, ‘You got that out of an old film.’

  ‘How did you know?’ She laughed too.

  ‘Because I went to the same film, I expect. What are you doing on Saturday evening? I have tickets for the National.’

  That was the first of several evenings together. But, still with her heart and mind on her work, Gail refused to be stampeded into anything more than a pleasant, casual friendship. He was faintly piqued by this, she saw. But not apparently to the extent of dropping her. On the contrary, he pursued the friendship with something like obstinacy, and finally invited her home for the week-end to meet his family.

  ‘Don’t look so dubious,’ he said impatiently when he saw her waver. ‘Musical people are always coming and going at our place, and my mother makes them all welcome in her slightly theatrical way. It’s rather fun, as a matter of fact.’

  It sounded fun! Much more fun than a week-end on her own in her minute flat near Hampstead Heath. So she had accepted the invitation. And, since she had accepted, she wanted of course to make as pleasing an impression as possible.

  But if her careful preparations had gone amiss, he seemed none the less charmed by her slightly storm-tossed appearance now. As he leant across to offer her the afternoon papers, he jerked his head towards the other three passengers and whispered, ‘This lot will be getting out at Gatwick, and we’ll probably have the place to ourselves after that.’

  She smiled non-committally and, accepting one of the proffered newspapers, pretended to become absorbed in it. In reality, she allowed her thoughts to wander over the meeting which lay ahead. For, without seeming actually reticent about his family, Oliver had never, die realized now, referred to them at all until he had thrown out his casual invitation.

  ‘I’ll ask him for a few details when we’re on our own,’ she thought. Then, from force of habit, she turned to the musical page of her paper, to study the news, views and gossip displayed there.

  What immediately caught her attention was a paragraph headed, ‘Contralto Heroine for New Opera’. As a contralto herself, she had long ago discovered that sopranos have an altogether unfair proportion of the plum roles in opera, and it was with very personal interest that she read on:

  ‘Following on the success in Cologne last year of his sacred cantata “Naomi”, Marcus Bannister has turned his hand to opera and has just completed a full-length work entitled “The Exile”. I understand that even such seasoned judges as Oscar Warrender and Max Egon have been greatly impressed, which leads one to hope that it will not be too long before we hear this work in London. An interesting feature is that the part of the heroine—described as a strongly dramatic role—is written for a contralto, which makes the casting much more difficult, of course, than if the role were the more usual soprano.’ Dropping the paper in her lap, Gail stared out of the window, distinctly hearing again the words which her teacher had spoken that very week.

  ‘Yours is not a world-shaking organ,’ Elsa Marburger had said. ‘But it’s a voice of quality, and that authentic “brown velvet” type of contralto is rare. So, of course,’ she added realistically, ‘are the opportunities for using it. Operatically speaking, there are few outstanding roles which require it. Now in oratorio—’ And Madame Marburger, who had been a distinguished oratorio singer herself, had left the sentence unfinished.

  At that moment the train began to slow down as
it neared East Croydon, and Gail glanced down at the newspaper again. As she did so, the name ‘Bannister’ seemed almost to start out of the paragraph at her. And suddenly, so abruptly that the woman in the far comer glanced up, she said to Oliver,

  ‘Are you any connection of Marcus Bannister?’

  ‘Brother,’ replied Oliver briefly. ‘Why?’

  For answer she silently handed him the newspaper, with the page folded back at the relevant news item.

  He skimmed through it so casually that it was obviously no news to him. Then he handed back the paper and said, ‘Yes, I know about it, of course. There was a long article about it in the Telegraph last week. Didn’t you see it?’

  She shook her head, and he added, ‘You’ll be meeting Marc this week-end, if it interests you.’

  If it interested her! How did Oliver suppose it could do anything else? In addition to meeting the composer of a talked-of new opera, she would also, she realized, be meeting perhaps the most distinguished musical family in the country. For if Marcus Bannister—and, to a lesser extent, Oliver—were already making names for themselves, their father, Quentin Bannister, was a figure of international reputation in the musical world. Pianist, conductor, famous for his master-classes and his support of a promising youth orchestra, he was the kind of many-sided genius whose name becomes a household word even among people with little interest in music as such.

  Her mind was buzzing with questions she wanted to ask. And when, as Oliver had prophesied, they were left alone in the compartment at Gatwick, she burst out, ‘Why did you never tell me?’

  ‘Tell you what?’ he countered lightly.

  ‘That you’re one of the Bannisters.’

  ‘I thought you probably knew. Most people do. Anyway—’ he laughed—‘perhaps I wanted to be loved for myself alone. There’s such a thing as liking to be an individual, you know, instead of the least important member of a family circus.’

  It was the half scornful last phrase which gave her the clue that, under all that easy good humour, there was a strain of totally unexpected bitterness.

  ‘But you are an individual in your own right, Oliver!’ she protested. ‘And it’s nonsense to speak of yourself as the least important member of—of your family. You’ve already created music of your own kind. And—who knows?—you may still end up as the most celebrated of the family.’

  ‘ “Unexpected triumph of younger son”, you mean?’ He laughed, his good humour apparently restored.

  ’Are you very much the younger?’ she inquired curiously.

  ‘Six years. I’m twenty-three,’ he said, apparently willing to supply information about himself and leave her to do her own bit of mental arithmetic so far as his brother was concerned.

  ‘And there are just the two of you?’

  ‘It’s enough.’ He made a face. ‘With both the parents artists too, there’s enough temperament in our household.’

  ‘Then your mother is a musician too?’

  ‘No. A straight actress. She was Daisy Bannister. She and my father were remote cousins, so she didn’t have to change her name. She was already part of the charmed circle.’ Again that slight curl of his lip that was faintly discontented.

  ‘Daisy Bannister,’ Gail repeated thoughtfully. ‘The name is familiar, though I can’t recall having seen her on the stage.’

  ‘Probably not. She retired a dozen years ago, and you’d only have been a tiddler then. I’m never quite sure why she did retire,’ he added reflectively.

  ‘I suppose she preferred family life,’ Gail suggested.

  ‘Oh, no!’ He laughed immoderately at that suggestion. ‘She isn’t the least bit domesticated or maternal in the usual sense of the term. In fact, I sometimes think she could only have had Marc and me in a moment of mental aberration.—She’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw.’ He stated that as a simple fact rather than a filial boast ‘Indeed, my guess is that it was her sheer beauty which pushed her to the top, rather than anything deep or subtle about her acting. When I last saw her on a stage of course I was a bit young to exercise any real judgment. But I seem to remember her as Daisy-Bannister-being-marvellous rather than the actual character. I’ve even forgotten just who the character was. Significant, isn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Gail smiled doubtfully.

  In no circumstances could she have imagined herself dissecting her own mother in that smiling, critical way. But then of course her mother was not an actress. Indeed, her whole family was blessedly ordinary. Perhaps her father was something of a delightful anachronism, being what one could only describe as the old-style family doctor, while her mother was the affectionate, practical, ever-present centre of the home. So far as Gail could judge she was perfectly satisfied, looking after her busy husband and her two younger children, while her one talented chick trod the difficult path to vocal fame in London.

  Suddenly she felt unaccountably homesick. She even found herself wishing that she were going home to her own family in faraway Northumberland, rather than visiting the fascinating but formidable Bannisters. And because there was all at once an irresistible compulsion to speak about them and give them some sense of reality, she said rather huskily, ‘My family aren’t a bit like yours.’

  ‘My dear, I’m sure of that!’ He was both touched and amused by this statement, she saw. ‘They can’t be anything but delightful if they produced you. Tell me about them’

  So she told him something of her mother and father, and the twins, Veronica and Simon. And in so doing she steadied both her nerves and her voice.

  ‘The twins think I’m famous already, just because I’ve had a few minor engagements and some kind reviews.’ She smiled.

  ‘They’re only anticipating things a little,’ he declared confidently. ‘You’re going to be famous—I’m sure of that. Your voice is one of the loveliest I’ve ever heard, and that’s not just prejudice on my part. I’m only sorry your voice is too dark and real for my kind of stuff. It’s the genuine article. More up Marc’s street, I’d say.’

  Then, as the train began to slow down again and he stood up to collect their luggage, he added almost carelessly, ‘Maybe you’re the girl he’s looking for to take the lead in his new opera.’

  She felt a sudden constriction of her throat.

  You did say he would be there this week-end, didn’t you?’ Again her voice was slightly husky, but with excitement this time.

  ‘Oh, I expect so. In fact—’ he glanced from the window as they drew into the pretty little station—‘there he is outside in the car. I thought Mother was going to meet us. But she seems to have pressed Marc into service instead.’

  They surrendered their tickets to a friendly collector who said, ‘Afternoon, Mr. Bannister. Your brother’s outside in the car.’

  ‘So I see. No, thanks, George—I can manage the bags. We’re only week-ending.’

  ‘Bit about your brother in the paper this afternoon,’ George volunteered. ‘He’s a clever one, he is. But then you’re all clever,’ he added with splendid impartiality.

  ‘Spare our collective blushes,’ replied Oliver, and he led the way out to the rather rakish-looking black car which stood there.

  The man who got out of the driving seat was sufficiently like Oliver to be obviously his brother, though everything about him was a little darker and, in some way, more clearly defined, from the thick, almost chestnut-coloured hair to the strong, good bone-structure of the face.

  ‘This is Marc,’ observed Oliver as he flung their cases unceremoniously into the boot of the car. ‘Gail Rostall,’ he added over his shoulder to his brother.

  The other man smiled briefly as he took Gail’s hand and said, ‘Come in front with me. Oliver can cram into the back.’

  ‘I thought Mother was going to fetch us,’ remarked Oliver as they got into the car.

  ‘She was. But at the last minute she was asked to deputize for some missing celebrity who was to open the village fete. She couldn’t refuse.’

&
nbsp; ‘Why not?’ countered Oliver.

  ‘Because, as you very well know, she can’t resist being the centre of the scene. Also I suppose they really needed someone.’

  Oliver laughed, and his brother said to Gail, ‘We’re not really being disrespectful, Miss Rostall. We know our mamma’s little weaknesses as I don’t doubt she knows ours. Have you had much to do with stage people?’

  ‘Not really—’ began Gail. But Oliver interrupted quickly,

  ‘She’s more or less one herself.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not! I’m a singer, Mr. Bannister, but I’m quite small fry yet.’

  ‘She’s too modest,’ Oliver declared. ‘She has a splendid voice, as a matter of fact. Very unusual type. A genuine contralto.’

  ‘You don’t say,’ replied his brother, with a sort of dry politeness which made Gail feel uncomfortable. Then he changed the subject abruptly by drawing her attention to the first view of the house from the road.

  It stood at the top of a heavily wooded hill, honey-coloured stone against the varied green of the trees. And she exclaimed quite sincerely, ‘How lovely! Is it very old?’

  ‘Not specially.’ Marc Bannisters curtness made her wonder if she had sounded gushing.

  ‘Depends what one means by old,’ Oliver interjected from the back. ‘It’s about a hundred years old, which brings it into a good period of country house architecture. Comfortable without being pretentious and a very pleasant place to live in. Wouldn’t you say so, Marc?’