A Remembered Serenade Read online

  'Yes, I know it is,' agreed Mr. Wilmore good-humouredly, 'But Miss Ransome is to play this par­ticular role - and there's a sort of likeness - and anyway, I want to see her in the costume,' he finished on the peremptory note of a man who hardly knows how to explain his own impulse.

  'Very well, sir,' said Mrs. Trimble and, taking the dress carefully over her arm, she led the way upstairs, Joanna following, still holding the jewelled net.

  Having conducted Joanna to a charming bedroom overlooking the front of the house, the housekeeper turned to her and said with an air of respectful but irrepressible curiosity, 'Excuse my asking, miss, but are you a relative or a family friend?'

  'I'm neither, Mrs. Trimble,' replied Joanna frankly. 'And you're no more astonished than I am I never met Mr. Wilmore before today, and I understand this cos­tume is among his most treasured possessions. The suggestion that I should try it on certainly didn't come from me. In fact, I feel rather awful about it. Except—' she glanced longingly at the costume which now was spread out on the bed.

  'Well, any girl would want to wear it, I suppose,' the housekeeper conceded with a smile, for Joanna's can­dour evidently met with her approval. 'It's just that I've never known Mr. Wilmore to allow anyone even to touch that particular dress before. Sometimes his friends from the musical world come here, you know, but only to look at things, or check up something in a score. I certainly don't ever remember anyone trying on a - a Trangoni costume.'

  'Do a lot of musical people come here?' inquired Joanna, as she slipped off her jacket and skirt.

  'Mostly Mr. Wilmore's personal friends. People like Mr. Warrender, the conductor - though I suppose we should call him Sir Oscar now he's been knighted. And of course Lady Warrender comes too. She's Anthea Benton, the singer, you know. She tried on one or two of the costumes once. But not any of the Trangoni ones. I noticed Mr. Wilmore said something about there being a likeness—' she looked consideringly at Joanna. 'I see what he means. You've somehow a look of her. She died young, and—'

  'I know. He told me,' Joanna said gently.

  'He did?' Mrs. Trimble looked as though wonders would never cease, as she herself would have put it, 'Well, I suppose he knows what he wants—' She broke off and looked from the window as there came the sound of a car driving up to the front of the house. 'Why, here's Mr. Elliot back again already. And Miss Sara with him,' she added, with a subtle change in her tone which somehow suggested to Joanna that 'Miss Sara' was not among her favourite people.

  'Oh, dear!' The vexed exclamation slipped out before Joanna could prevent it, for the last thing she wanted was to have Elliot Cheam, of all people, see her parading in one of his uncle's famous costumes. If she read him aright, he was bound to draw all the wrong conclusions.

  She became aware that the housekeeper was looking at her with some surprise and, in order to divert atten­tion from her impulsive exclamation, she asked quickly, 'Did you ever see Emilia Trangoni, Mrs . Trimble?'

  'Oh, yes. She came here often in the last year of her life, and I'd already been housekeeper then for four or five years. She was a lovely lady, and she was going to marry Mr. Wilmore. It was all very sad. Do you want any help with your hairdressing, Miss Ransome? I think I can remember just the way she wore it, with the ends caught up in that little net at the back.'

  So Joanna willingly submitted to the housekeeper's ministrations, and literally held her breath when the beautiful stage costume was lifted carefully over her head and allowed to fall in graceful folds around her slim figure.

  'You look beautiful,' said Mrs. Trimble simply. 'And - yes, I do see what Mr. Wilmore means. You look extraordinarily like - her in that dress. It was designed specially for her, of course.

  'At least I don't look at all like myself.' Joanna surveyed herself in the long mirror and it seemed to her that another girl looked back at her. 'It's almost un­canny,' she exclaimed, catching her breath on a little gasp.

  'Well, one doesn't need to be too fanciful about these things,' declared Mrs. Trimble briskly. 'A stage dress always changes anyone a good deal. After all, it has been deliberately designed to give the impression of a special person. Are you ready to go down now? I expect Mr. Wilmore is waiting. Be careful of the train. It's easy to trip if you're not used to wearing a period costume like that.'

  'I'll be careful,' Joanna promised as she preceded the housekeeper out of the room and started towards the head of the stairs. As she did so she heard Elliot Cheam's voice in the hall, as though he were speaking over his shoulder to someone in the drawing-room, and a few moments later he came bounding up the stairs, two steps at a time.

  They met almost head on at the top of the flight, and he stopped dead, his colour actually fading in a wave of anger far exceeding anything he had shown over the incident with the car.

  'What the - hell do you think you're doing?' For the second time that day he was querying her behaviour, but this time his tone implied that an unforgivable offence had been committed. 'Take off that dress at once!' His voice actually shook with fury. 'It's one of my uncle's most treasured—'

  'Mr. Wilmore wanted Miss Ransome to try it on, sir,' stated Mrs. Trimble primly in the background.

  'Wanted her to—?'

  'You don't suppose I would be wearing this dress without his permission, do you?' Joanna's eyes flashed with anger as she stared defiantly back at him, 'He asked me—'

  'He asked you?' The contempt in his tone was like a blow in the face. 'I suppose you mean that you some­how persuaded him into agreeing.'

  'I did nothing of the kind! The offer - the suggestion - was entirely his.'

  'You don't say!' He laughed angrily, though he step­ped back to allow her to proceed. But as she passed him he said in a voice too low for the housekeeper to hear, 'You are a fast worker, aren't you?'

  She longed to make some crushing retort - to justify herself in the face of that scornful, sceptical smile - but no words would come. Instead, she started on her way down the stairs, trembling with anger and an absurd sense of guilt, generated entirely by Elliot Cheam's atti­tude.

  'But I've no reason to feel guilty!' she told herself.; 'No reason at alL I'm completely innocent, whatever he likes to imply. I wish I'd never put on the dress now, but I'm quite justified—'

  And then she saw Justin Wilmore cross the hall and come to stand at the foot of the stairs. He leaned his arm on the end of the curving banister and stared up at her.

  'Emilia!' he said in a half whisper. And he looked at Joanna as though she were a ghost, walking towards him out of his long-lost youth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  For a moment the spell was complete. Then Joanna came down the rest of the stairs and smiled as naturally as she could at Justin Wilmore.

  'It's a wonderful costume!' She tried to make her tone light and without special significance. 'I feel just like the character - like Fiora - in the opera,'

  'You look just like her too.' Her host passed a hand over his face as though brushing away some mist from before his eyes, 'You even have the perfect mixture of innocence and guilt in your expression. How did you do that? Were you just thinking yourself into the role of Fiora?'

  'Not really.' She was aware that Elliot Cheam had now followed her down the stairs and was standing just behind her. 'Mr. Cheam seemed to think I was taking a liberty in wearing the costume, which made me feel momentarily guilty, I suppose. But, as I recalled that the suggestion that I should try it on had come entirely from you, I decided I had every right to feel innocent.' And, glancing over her shoulder, she gave Elliot Cheam a defiant little smile.

  'Clever, clever girl,' he said. And she knew he was not referring to the way in which she had impersonated a stage character. 'Come and meet our neighbour, Sara Fernie. She will appreciate the - theatricality of the moment.'

  Feeling somehow that she was still in a slightly false position, Joanna did her best to look at ease and, ac­companied by the two men, she went into the drawing-room where a tall, dark girl in a stunning w
hite and emerald green dress was standing looking out of the window.

  She turned as they came in and said, 'Ell—' then she stopped and cried, 'Oh, what a gorgeous costume! Wherever did it come from?'

  ‘From Uncle Justin's collection,' stated Elliot, giving the impression that he was biting off the ends of his words rather sharply. 'Miss Ransome came to see the collection, and somehow ended up wearing some of it. Miss Ransome, this is Sara Fernie. I expect you've heard of her.'

  'Of course.' Joanna rather diffidently extended a hand towards the well-known actress who had ap­peared so successfully in more than one of Elliot Cheam's productions.

  But, either not noticing the hand or deliberately ig­noring it, Sara Fernie walked round Joanna inspecting her from all angles.

  'It's gorgeous,' she repeated, as though only the dress mattered and the girl who was wearing it hardly ex­isted. 'I wonder if it would fit me.'

  'I'm afraid you're not likely to find out.' Justin Wilmore's tone was perfectly pleasant and courteous, but there was no mistaking the decision in his voice.

  'Why not?' Sara Fernie smiled at him, a little challengingly.

  'Because that is a Trangoni costume. And I don't let people try on the Trangoni costumes in the usual way.'

  'But you let her'

  'With Miss Ransome it is a little different. She is going to sing the role for which this dress was cre­ated.'

  'Oh—' the other girl seemed to take in Joanna as a person for the first time - 'you're a singer, then? A professional singer, I take it?'

  'No. I'm a last-year student at St. Cecilia's College, and we're putting on a production of—'

  'Uncle Justin, I call that mean!' Sara Fernie sud­denly laughed and turned on her host the full and impressive battery of her charm. 'You allow a student to run around in this dress and you won't even let me try it on!'

  'She is not running around in it,' replied Justin Wil-more. 'She put it on to please me and—'

  'And now I'm going upstairs to take it off,' stated Joanna. 'I can't tell you how much I've enjoyed hear­ing you talk of the part I'm to play, Mr. Wilmore. And actually wearing Trangoni's own costume for a few minutes has been a sort of inspiration. But now I really must go. My aunt will be expecting me and—'

  Somehow she' found it impossible to discover the right sentence on which to make a graceful exit. But she had been backing towards the door while she spoke and, on the reference to her aunt, she managed to gather together enough dignity and resolution to make her escape.

  As she went she heard Sara say amusedly, ‘Funny, gauche little thing. Does she really expect to play a part on a stage?'

  'That's her story,' Elliot Cheam's voice replied lightly. And then Joanna fled up the stairs.

  She found her way to the bedroom again, and was relieved to find the invaluable Mrs. Trimble, appar­ently still in attendance.

  'Oh, Mrs. Trimble!' There was such a thankful sound to that exclamation that she realized she must add something else. So she hastily asked, 'Who is Sara Fernie? I mean - of course I know she's a well-known actress. But is she also a relation of Mr. Wilmore's?'

  'No, miss, she certainly is not. What made you think that?'

  'She addressed him as "Uncle Justin",'

  'Oh—' the housekeeper smiled rather grimly. 'Well, I daresay she would like to be his niece. By marriage, of course.'

  'You mean she's hoping to marry Mr. Cheam?'

  'That is my view, Miss Ransome. Though of course my guess isn't any better than anyone else's,' said Mrs.-Trimble, her expression, however, making it clear that she thought it was.

  'I should think,' observed Joanna, as she carefully divested herself of the beautiful costume, 'that they would just about suit each other.'

  'Would you?' Mrs. Trimble looked surprised. 'She's pretty hard, under all that charm.'

  'That's what I meant,' Joanna said a little dryly. 'Isn't he pretty hard too?'

  'No.' The housekeeper took the costume from her and laid it on the bed, while Joanna slipped into her own clothes again. 'He's impulsive and hot-tempered, which is quite a different thing. Many's the time he got into trouble over that when he was a schoolboy. But there was never anything mean or deliberately unkind about him. And he didn't mind saying when he was sorry. You can forgive a lot for that.'

  'Ye-es,' agreed Joanna, who was trying to visualize Elliot Cheam as a schoolboy, and failing. 'Did he often come here, Mrs. Trimble?'

  'He lived here. It was his home. His parents were out East, and he came here for all his holidays, Mr, Wilmore was closer to him than his own father. And Mr. Elliot, who is so quick and impulsive, always had the idea that his uncle's quiet, easy-going manner laid him open to being imposed upon. Even as a little boy he used to have some sort of idea of protecting him. But there, I'm talking too much!'

  'It's all tremendously interesting,' Joanna assured her. 'And it's been a wonderful visit.’

  'Mr. Wilmore is expecting you to stay to tea, Miss Ransome.'

  'Is he?' She was divided between the delightful prospect of further conversation with Mr. Wilmore and the nervous conviction that she would show to poor advantage in the company of Elliot Cheam and his leading lady. 'You don't think they - I mean he -might feel I was overstaying my welcome?'

  'No, miss, I don't. Mr. Wilmore took a fancy to you -I could see that - and I'm sure he wouldn't want you to go away without so much as a cup of tea.'

  So Joanna stifled her misgivings and went down to the drawing-room once more, where her host made her very welcome over tea; and Elliot and Sara - if they paid little attention to her - at least said nothing further to make her feel uncomfortable.

  'If there is anything more you feel you need to know about the role of Fiora, don't hesitate to come and ask me,' Mr. Wilmore said. 'I'm afraid what you got this afternoon was little more than a jumble of general im­pressions.'

  'Mr. Wilmore, it was probably the best informal lesson on the role that I'm ever likely to have,’ Joanna assured him gratefully. 'I wasn't proposing to impose on your time again. But if I do have a query—'

  'Then you must let me know. There would be no question of imposing on me. If you visit your aunt often, please come and see me some time.'

  'I -I should love to,' stammered Joanna.

  'Sometimes people from the musical world come down here for a week-end or a few days. More to examine the collection than to see me, I daresay—' he smiled whimsically, 'it might be of help for you to meet one or two of them. A young artist can't have too many friendly contacts among established musicians. Now, how are you going to get back to your aunt's place?'

  'I'll walk,' said Joanna.

  'I'll drive her,' stated Elliot Cheam at the same moment.

  'There's really no need!'

  'You mean you don't want to trust yourself to my driving?' He grinned at her suddenly, and she had to make an effort to remember just how much she disliked him. 'I'll take great care of you.'

  'Yes, please do,' said his uncle. 'We are already good friends, I hope.'

  So Joanna repeated her thanks to her host, said her good-byes and went out with Elliot Cheam to the car which had so inauspiciously started their acquaint­ance.

  It was quite a short drive, of course, giving little time for well-considered conversation. But Joanna felt she must seize this opportunity to set herself right in his eyes, if only partially.

  'Mr. Cheam—' her voice sounded more nervous than she had intended - 'I do understand your wanting to protect your very kind uncle from people who might impose on him. But, truly, that isn't my intention. He's so fine and - and courteous and good that I wouldn't dream of it. It just so happens that my aunt is a neighbour of his, and she had a chance to ask him if I could come and see his collection because of this modest as­signment of mine. He agreed and - and I came, and I was as stunned as anyone else when the rest followed. It's all because I have - I mean, he thinks I have -some odd likeness to the artist he admired so much in his youth. But so far as I'm concerne
d—'

  'Take a deep breath and count ten,' he advised her. And, glancing at him, she saw he was smiling as he looked straight ahead down the road,

  'You mean I'm making so many excuses it all sounds phoney?'

  'No, I mean you were running out of breath. And anyway, you've justified yourself sufficiently to make me feel a bit of a heel. It could all have happened just as you said, and I'll take your word for it at the moment. I'll even apologize, if you like. But for my part, let me say I'm devoted to the old boy, who is both kindly and unworldly, and I make it my business to see that no one - and I mean no one - gets the better of his good heart and romantic disposition. No hard feelings, I hope?'

  'No hard feelings,' agreed Joanna, swallowing down part, if not quite all, of her resentment. He could, she felt, have made somewhat more handsome amends -particularly after what Mrs. Trimble had said about his not minding saying if he were sorry - but they had arrived outside Aunt Georgina's bungalow by now. So she bade him good-bye and got out of the car.

  She was sorry to see Aunt Georgina's front room curtain flutter unmistakably as she walked up the path, and she hoped Elliot Cheam had driven off before he could also note this and probably cast Aunt Georgina as a fellow-conspirator.

  Her aunt did not even try to conceal her interest in every detail of the visit. And, longing as she was to go over it all again herself, Joanna gave a spirited account of her afternoon.

  'He let you wear one of the Trangoni costumes?' Even Aunt Georgina was impressed. 'That can't have happened to many people.'

  'To no one else, if I understood the housekeeper and the nephew aright,' Joanna said.

  'Why did you put the housekeeper before the nephew?' asked Aunt Georgina, who missed very little.

  'I - don't know.' Joanna looked surprised. 'Except that I liked the housekeeper, I suppose.’

  'But not the nephew—'

  'Not really. But then I don't think he liked me. He was unnecessarily suspicious about my motives in coming to see his uncle.'