Читать книгу Elements of Chance - Barbara Wilkins - Страница 22

17

Reviews of Valerie’s performance appeared in the London papers over the next few days. All raved over her tone, her technique, and the intensity of her passion. Even her fragile blond beauty was noted. One reviewer waxed lyrical as he wrote of his anticipation of the mature artist unfolding in the pretty child who looked like a Degas painting.

“Valerie, my angel,” said Maria when she called from San Francisco, where she was on tour. “I’m so thrilled that your reviews are magnificent. One of these days, you’ll be nearly as good as I am.”

“Thank you, Maria,” said Valerie, flushing with pleasure.

“That bastard Leon must be happy,” she said, and Valerie could almost see the dark look on her face six thousand miles away.

“Victor Penn took me to supper afterwards,” Valerie said.

“Oh, yes?” said Maria, at the other end of the line. “Has he called?”

“He didn’t even ask for my telephone number,” sighed Valerie. “I’m sure that by now he doesn’t even remember who I am.”

“It isn’t up to him to remember you,” said Maria. “It is up to you to remind him.”

“But Maria,” said Valerie, an incredulous tone in her voice, “how do I do that?”

“We’ll talk about it when I get back to London,” said Maria, her tone imperious. “Men are all such imbeciles. Babies. The most idiotic woman can wrap them around her little finger.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” said Valerie slowly.

“You’ll see, my little one,” said Maria. “Now, a million kisses for your cheeks, and all my love.”

In the drawing room of the Green Street house, Victor Penn’s long-stemmed red roses, along with all the other flowers sent to Valerie the night of her concert, faded and were replaced with fresh ones by the maids.

“You haven’t been concentrating the last three times,” Leon Stern said after her next lesson. “Go to a movie. Read a book.” As she gathered up her notebooks, he patted her shoulder. “It’s always like this after a concert,” he reassured her. “You’re tired. It’s natural.”

But Valerie knew it wasn’t fatigue. It was Victor Penn. She couldn’t get him out of her mind.

He was waiting for her when she walked down the front steps of the conservatory, her notebooks pressed against her breasts. His arms were crossed in front of him as he leaned against the green Bentley convertible, which shone in the pale sun of the winter day. Its top was down.

“Hello,” he called, taking a few steps forward as he saw her. “I thought we could drive to the country and have a bit of lunch.” The look on Victor Penn’s face was boyish, imploring.

Valerie looked up and down the street, expecting to see Bernard turning the corner in the Daimler.

“I’d love to,” she stammered, “but I have to be home for lunch. Her Ladyship, my aunt—”

“Oh, I called Her Ladyship as soon as I saw that I had a few hours free this afternoon,” he said, taking her elbow and guiding her into the passenger seat of the car. “She gave us her permission after I promised faithfully I would have you home in plenty of time for tea.”

Victor threw the big Bentley into gear and guided it into the flow of traffic. Valerie glanced at his profile, watched his left hand pushing the shift through its gears.

The outskirts of London melted into the countryside with its rolling green fields dotted with black-and-white cows, the occasional horse, the villages with their clusters of thatched-roof cottages, gray smoke curling from their tall round brick chimneys. The icy wind slapped color into Valerie’s cheeks, the tip of her nose, and she was shivering with the cold when Victor, an hour or so later, guided the automobile into a nearly full parking lot next to a charming old country inn framed by graceful trees.

Valerie was uncomfortably aware of her schoolgirl blouse and sweater, the pleated plaid skirt, her knee socks, as the tuxedoed maître d’hôtel pulled out her chair at their table in a window alcove that looked out at miles of green acres, stands of trees. Victor, she saw when the maître d’ took his overcoat, was dressed for the country in a corduroy jacket, casual trousers. The collar of a tattersall shirt peeked from his crewneck sweater.

“What would you like?” Victor asked in an intimate voice, glancing up from the menu to look at her. “The stew is superb,” he said. “It’s perfect for a cold day like this one.”

“Oh, the stew,” she breathed, unable to comprehend that she was actually sitting there with him. “I love stew. I really do.”

“I rather hoped you would,” he said, smiling. His teeth were straight, and very white.

“What about a red wine?” he suggested, beckoning for the maître d’. “A Montrachet?”

“Anything,” she said. “Anything at all.”

Lights were on all over the neighborhood when, promptly at five o’clock, Victor drew up in front of Lady Anne’s house and hurried around the car to help Valerie out.

“Wasn’t it wonderful to get away?” he asked, his eyes bright and excited, as they stood facing each other.

“Oh, yes, Victor,” Valerie agreed, putting out her hand to him, thinking that she hadn’t really gotten away at all. That she had been just where she wanted to be all the time, which was with Victor Penn.

“Thank you very much for playing hooky with me,” he said, taking her hand.

“I enjoyed it,” she smiled. “It was the best time I’ve ever had. I felt so free.”

“You know,” he said suddenly, “you have the most beautiful voice. I can hear your music in it.”

“Well, thank you,” she said, feeling a sudden flush of pleasure. “I love your voice, too. It’s like, well, it’s like …”

“Give my regards to Her Ladyship,” he said, dropping her hand.

“Oh, I will,” said Valerie, taking her cue and starting up the stairs. She turned at the door and waved good-bye to him as he got into the car and drove away.

Everything has been so orderly, so routine, thought Valerie, all of the years since I’ve been in London.

Except today.

With one phone call to Lady Anne, there was no Bernard, no hurried lunch before the cadre of tutors. Victor Penn has set me free.

The next day, when Valerie got home from the conservatory, there was a large white box addressed to her sitting on the console in the black and white marble entry hall.

“A chauffeur just brought it, miss,” said Janet, closing the door behind her and helping her off with her coat. “The car was one of those long Rolls limousines. It was very fancy, miss.”

Flowers from Victor, thought Valerie, feeling a rush of pleasure.

“Aren’t you going to open it, miss?” asked Janet. “I’m near dying with curiosity.”

Tentatively, Valerie opened the card, read it, and handed it to Janet.

“‘She reminds me of you,’” read Janet aloud. “And it’s signed, ‘Victor.’ Do you know anybody named Victor?”

“Victor Penn,” said Valerie, nodding her head.

“Well, that’s wonderful, miss,” said Janet, looking at her with new respect.

Inside the package was a small sculpture of a ballerina, her hands clasped behind her back, her chin tilted upward. Her hair was in a chignon at the base of her neck.

“It’s Degas,” said Lady Anne later, looking through her reading glasses at the little sculpture she turned in her hands.

“I thought it was,” Valerie said. “Isn’t she beautiful? It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Ummmm,” murmured Lady Anne, turning it again. “It’s museum quality. It would be, of course.” The look she gave Valerie was searching, contemplative. After a moment of silence, she added, “You must have had a very pleasant day in the country.”

“He was a perfect gentleman,” Valerie protested, shifting uncomfortably in her chair.

“I’m sure he was,” said Lady Anne, setting the little sculpture on the table next to her chair. Flames from the fire in the fireplace danced on its burnished surface. “Of course you can’t accept it.” Her gaze was steadfast as she met Valerie’s eyes. “You do realize that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Valerie sighed.

“Well, Bernard can run it back,” Lady Anne pronounced. “Still, it can wait until tomorrow, I think. At least we can have the pleasure of its company for a few hours.”

They smiled at each other over the tea things in the pretty drawing room, made cheerful on the gray winter day by the lamps on each table and by the brilliance from the huge crystal chandelier in the dome in the middle of the room.

“Victor Penn has invited us to a little dinner party,” said Lady Anne a few days later. “His secretary just telephoned.”

“Oh, where is it going to be?” asked Valerie, feeling a pleasurable little shudder.

“At his home,” said Lady Anne. “I’m quite thrilled, actually. The house is supposed to be a masterpiece. And there will be bridge after dinner. Two tables, the secretary said.”

“My bridge isn’t very good,” said Valerie doubtfully.

“I don’t think that’s the point,” Lady Anne mused, looking at Valerie sitting next to her at the dining room table. “And you know, dear, I do think it’s time we did something about your hair and your clothes. You’re growing up, you know.”

As the big Daimler coursed its way through the heavy traffic on Friday night, Valerie, in the back seat next to Lady Anne, wore a new gown in sea-foam green chiffon. Her pale gold hair had been cut into a cap that followed the shape of her head. When she had looked at herself in the full-length mirror in her dressing room, she felt as though she had made a great leap into adulthood. She looked twenty at least, and very poised. She pirouetted in front of the mirror, loving the way she looked, loving the way she felt about herself.

After the security guard buzzed open the gates, it seemed to Valerie they must have driven for more than a mile on the wide, winding road flanked by ancient oak trees before Victor Penn’s Regent’s Park mansion loomed into view, silhouetted against the full moon. A butler opened the massive arched doors; a footman was there to take their wraps as the two of them looked around. The entry hall was as large as the drawing room in the Green Street house, its gleaming dark floor partially covered by a massive oriental rug in reds, greens, and blues. The framed tapestries on the walls reminded Valerie of those she had seen in the British Museum. The bas-reliefs on the ceiling depicted Greek gods, goddesses.

“Oh, there you are,” said Victor Penn, coming forward to take Lady Anne’s hand and nodding to Valerie. “We’re all having a cocktail in the drawing room.”

A hundred people could have been assembled with comfort in the huge room. Instead, there were only six, the men, like Victor, in dinner jackets, the women in long gowns. They sat chatting in chairs gathered around a crackling fire.

Valerie noted how the gold of the pilasters and ceiling brought together the richness of green brocade on the walls and the deep crimson and gold of the carpet. A massive giltframed mirror over the fireplace reflected some of the masterpieces in the room. Paintings by Rembrandt, Van Dyck, Tiepolo.

“What a beautiful room,” Valerie exclaimed.

“Do you like it?” asked Victor. “I’m so pleased.”

The men pulled themselves to their feet, the women looked up expectantly, as Victor led the two new arrivals to the cozy little group.

“Here is Lady Anne Hallowell,” he said, “and her niece, Valerie Hemion.” Turning to the group, he added, “This is Roscoe Danforth, and his wife, Caroline. Sir Edward Winston, Lady Winston.” The women were handsome, aristocratic in pale satins, jewels; the men lean, emanating power, money. “And this is my brother,” Victor continued, “Raymond Penn.”

Everybody was shaking hands, murmuring, “How do you do,”

“So nice, finally, to meet you,” when Valerie’s hand was briefly touched by that of Raymond Penn, and he, too, was uttering appropriate pleasantries.

So, this is the mysterious Raymond Penn, Valerie thought, as she looked up into his face, which was very much like Victor’s. “How do you do, Mr. Penn,” smiled Valerie, her hand clasping his. Her smile froze as she saw the contempt etched on his face, the expression of utter loathing in his pale, cold eyes. He pulled his hand away from hers as if the mere touch of it made him ill. She stood bewildered, startled by the hatred flowing toward her. Shaken, she averted her eyes from Raymond Penn, trying instead to concentrate on the conversation.

Dinner in the magnificent dining room, with its two dramatic chandeliers illuminating paintings on the walls, was superb, and later Valerie was Victor’s partner, Raymond was Lady Anne’s, as they played bridge for several hours in the library over coffee and brandy. Valerie, watching Victor’s face, played fairly well. Every time their eyes met he seemed to be asking her something. For approval, she decided, when it was finally time to leave. Victor Penn was asking for her approval. Was that the reason for the disdain on his brother’s face?

By the time Valerie and Lady Anne were in the back seat of the Daimler, plans had been made for a weekend at Victor Penn’s country estate.

“Well, what did you think? What did you think?” Valerie asked excitedly, her eyes shining.

With an imperceptible motion of her head toward Bernard in the front seat, Lady Anne put one gloved finger to her lips.

“What a delightful evening,” Lady Anne said. “And the mansion, well, it’s quite beyond belief.”

“What about Raymond Penn?” said Valerie. “He’s—”

“What a marvelous bridge player,” said Lady Anne, cutting her off. “Quite the best I’ve ever played with, really.”

“I can’t wait to go to the country,” Valerie said. “Imagine, Victor said Arthur Rubinstein will be there.”

“Yes, dear,” said Lady Anne, absently patting her hand. “It should be a divine weekend. I’m looking forward to it, too.”