Victoria Holt Read online

  I had thought never to wear that dress again. I had kept it in a box and never looked at it until now. I had told myself it would be too painful to look at it. Yet when I had known that I was to play before these people I had thought of this dress and I knew that it was just right for the occasion and that it would give me the confidence I needed.

  I took the dress from its box, lifting it out from the layers of tissue paper and spread it on my bed. How it came back to me…Pietro…coming onto the platform, that almost arrogant bow; the quick searching for me, finding me and smiling, comforted because I was there, because he knew that I shared every triumph and that I cared as deeply for his success as he did himself, and at the same time he would be telling me: You could never have done this.

  When I thought of that night I wanted to throw myself onto that soft velvet and weep for the past.

  Put it away. Forget it. Wear something else.

  But no. I was going to wear that dress and nothing must prevent me.

  While I was looking at it the door of my room opened stealthily and Miss Stacy looked in.

  “Oh, there you are.” She tripped to the bed. Her lips formed a round oh. “It’s lovely. Is it your dress?”

  I nodded.

  “I didn’t know you had anything so grand.”

  “I had it…long ago.”

  “Ah, when your famous husband was alive.”

  I nodded.

  She peered up at me and said: “Your eyes are very bright. Are you going to cry?”

  “No,” I told her. And then to excuse my emotion, I added: “I wore it at his last concert.”

  She did her mandarin’s nodding but I sensed her sympathy.

  “I suffered too,” she said. “It was the same…in a way. I understand.”

  Then she went to the bed and stroked the velvet.

  “Bows of the same velvet would look so pretty in your hair,” she said. “I think I’ll have a new velvet dress. Not this color though…blue, powder blue. Don’t you think that will be pretty?”

  “Very,” I said.

  She nodded and went out, thinking, I was sure, of the powder blue velvet dress she would have and the little bows to go with it.

  ***

  A few days later Sir William had a bad turn and Mrs. Lincroft was worried. For a whole day and night she scarcely left his room and when I did see her she told me he was a little better.

  “We have to be very careful,” she explained. “Another stroke could be fatal and of course he’s vulnerable.”

  She was clearly deeply moved and I thought how lucky he was to have such a good housekeeper who could at a moment’s notice become a first-class nurse.

  I mentioned this and she turned away slightly to hide her emotion, I imagined. “I shall never forget,” she said, “what he has done for Alice.”

  Because she seemed so overcome by her feelings I sought to change the subject briskly and said: “I suppose this means the dinner party will be canceled?”

  “Oh no.” She was immediately in charge of herself. “Sir William has actually said he doesn’t want that. All arrangements are to go ahead. In fact he sent for Mr. Napier and told him so.” She frowned. “I was alarmed,” she went on, “because Napier always upsets him. It’s not his fault,” she went on quickly. “It’s merely the sight of him. He keeps away as much as possible. But on this occasion…it passed very well.”

  “It’s a pity…” I began.

  “Family quarrels are the worst,” she said. “Still, I think that in time…” Her voice faded away. “I believe when there are children…Sir William is very anxious that there shall be children.”

  ***

  There was a knock on my door and Alice came in. She smiled demurely and said: “Mr. Napier wishes to see you, Mrs. Verlaine. He’s in the library.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  “He said at your convenience.”

  “Thank you, Alice.”

  She lingered and I wished she would go because I wanted to comb my hair before I went down to the library and did not want Alice to see me do it. She was a very observant girl.

  “Are you looking forward to playing before all those people, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “Well…I suppose in a way I am.”

  I was taking surreptitious glances at my hair. It was untidy. I wished that I had piled it higher on my head because that gave me height; it gave me a look of dignity too. I smoothed down my dress. I wished I was wearing the lavender with a faint white stripe on it. That was most becoming. I had bought it in one of the little shops near the Rue de Rivoli. Pietro had liked me to have beautiful clothes—when he had become famous of course—even before that I had always been able to get the most out of clothes…in contrast to Roma.

  Now I looked down at my brown gabardine dress. The cut was good, the dress serviceable, but it was not one of my best; and I wished that I had known this summons was coming.

  I could obviously not change my dress but I could comb my hair. I did so while Alice still stood there.

  “You look…pleased, Mrs. Verlaine,” she commented.

  “Pleased?”

  “Well…more than that. Different in a way.”

  I knew that I must have betrayed the excitement of going into battle, for that was what it was like…having an encounter with Napier Stacy.

  I went past Alice and down to the library. I had been in this room only once before, when I had been struck by the character of the oak paneling. There was a design of arches divided by pilasters which was surmounted by a frieze and a cornice. The carved ceiling was the most intricate in the house, and the arms of the Stacy, Beaumont and Napier families were entwined up there to make an intricate pattern.

  One wall was entirely covered by the most exquisite piece of tapestry which had interested me immediately not only because of the fine weaving of wool and silk on a linen warp but because of the subject—Julius Caesar landing on these shores. Mrs. Lincroft, when she had shown me this room, told me that it had been started soon after the house was built and that it had been put away—forgotten for more than a hundred years. Then a member of the family having committed some misdemeanor at Court for which she had been banished, discovered the unfinished work and to while away her exile had completed it. In a house of this kind one was always stumbling on little incidents of this kind—links with the past.

  The three other walls were lined with books; some in leather binding with gilt lettering, behind glass. There were Persian rugs on the parquet floor, the usual seats in the window embrasures, and a heavy oak table in the center of the room with several arm chairs.

  There was an air of solemnity about the library. I could not enter it without imagining all the serious family conferences which must have taken place in it over the centuries. Here, I had no doubt, Napier had been interrogated after the shooting of his brother.

  Napier, who was seated at the table, rose as I entered.

  “Ah,” he said, “Mrs. Verlaine!” Those lights seemed to shoot up in his eyes making them a more dazzling blue than ever; I called them mischievous—but they were more than that. He was looking forward to an amusing quarter of an hour which he was going to make as uncomfortable for me as possible. “Please sit down.” His voice was silky. Dangerous, I thought.

  “I suppose you’ve guessed that I want to talk to you about your performance. The tuners assure me that the grand piano on the hall dais is now in perfect condition, so everything should be satisfactory. I am sure you are going to delight us all.”

  “Thank you.” So polite, I thought. Where is the sting?

  “Have you ever played on the concert platform, Mrs. Verlaine?”

  “Not…seriously.”

  “I see. Did you have no ambitions to do so?”

  “Yes,” I said, “great ambition.” He raised his eyebrows and I went on quickly
. “Not great enough apparently.”

  “You mean that you failed to reach the standard demanded?”

  “I mean just that.”

  “So your ambition was not strong enough.”

  I said as coolly as I could: “I married.”

  “But that is not the answer. There are married geniuses, I believe.”

  “I have never said I was a genius.”

  His eyes glinted. “You gave up your career for the sake of marriage,” he said. “But your husband was more fortunate. He did not have to give up his career.”

  I was at a loss for words. I was afraid that if I spoke my voice would betray my emotion.

  How I detested this man!

  He went on talking. “I have chosen the pieces which you will play for us. I am sure you will agree that my choice is a good one. Great favorites…and I know you will do justice to them.”

  I said: “Thank you, Mr. Stacy.”

  I glanced at the sheets in my hand. Hungarian Dances. The Rhapsody No. 2. The music Pietro had played during that last concert!

  I felt as though I were choking. I could not stay in that room.

  I turned; the Julius Caesar tapestry seemed to swim before my eyes. I groped for the handle of the door and I was outside.

  He knows, I thought. He chose those pieces deliberately. He wanted to play on my emotions; he wanted to taunt me, to trick me into betraying myself; he wanted to amuse himself as a boy does when he puts two spiders in a basin and watches their reaction to each other.

  In such a way he taunted Edith. And now his attention was turned to me. I obviously interested him. Why? Could it be that he knew more about me than I had believed possible?

  He had taken the trouble to find out what Pietro had played on that night. Perhaps it would have been mentioned in some of the papers of the time.

  How much else did he know about me?

  ***

  On the day preceding the dinner party Alice came to tell me that Edith was sick and I went along to her room to see her.

  This was the apartment where Charles I had lodged during the Civil War. The actual room led out of the main chamber and was occupied by Napier, while Edith used the larger bedroom. In it was a huge bed over which was a dome upheld by four columns engraved with flowers. The bed head and tester were ornamented with gilt figures and the hangings were of blue velvet. It was a very elaborate bed—and I remembered that this was the bridal suite. The door leading to the next room—the chamber in which a king had lodged—looked less elaborate as far as I could see. The bed was a carved wooden four-poster and beside it were a pair of wooden steps used for stepping into the bed. That room doubtless looked as it had done in the days of the Civil War—but the furniture in this one was a later and more elegant period.

  It was the first time I had been in the bridal suite and I felt embarrassed because I thought of Napier here with Edith and I wondered what their relationship could possibly be like with so much fear on her side, so much contempt on his.

  There was a consul table attached to one wall, over which was a tall mirror with a gilded frame; I noticed the secretaire-cabinet of satin wood and golden Honduras mahogany with fluted columns. This must be the most elegant room in the house—and that grim chamber leading from it made a strong contrast.

  My quick survey of the room was over in a few seconds for it was Edith whom I had come to see.

  She was sitting up in that ornate bed looking small and lost with her lovely golden hair in two plaits which hung over each shoulder.

  “Oh, Mrs. Verlaine, I feel…terrible.”

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  She bit her lip. “It’s tomorrow night. I have to be hostess, and they’ll be such terrifying people. I can’t face them.”

  “Why should they be terrifying? They’re only guests.”

  “But I shan’t know what to say. I did wish I needn’t go.” She looked at me hopefully, as though asking me to produce some reason for her absence.

  I said: “You’ll get used to it. It’s no use avoiding this one. You’ll have to face up to the next. And I’m sure you’ll find it’s not so bad.”

  “I thought you might…you might suggest that you…did it for me.”

  “I!” I was astonished. “But I am not even going to the dinner. I am merely coming down to play for the guests.”

  “You would do it so much better than I would.”

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I am not the mistress of this house, I am merely employed here.”

  “I thought you might speak to Napier.”

  “And suggest that I take your place? Surely you must see how impossible that is.”

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said Edith. “Oh, I do hope I shall feel better. But he would listen to you.”

  “If someone is to speak to your husband surely you would do that better than anyone else?”

  “No,” said Edith, putting a hand momentarily over her eyes. Then she added: “He does take notice of you, Mrs. Verlaine…and he doesn’t take notice of many people.”

  I laughed, but a terrible uneasiness had come to me. He was interested in me. Why?

  I said briskly: “You should get up now and go for a long walk. Stop worrying. When it is over you will be asking yourself what there was to worry about.”

  Edith lowered her hands and looked at me earnestly.

  What a child she was. My words had made some impression on her.

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  ***

  How silent it was in the big hall! There was the piano on the dais. Banks of flowers would be brought in from the greenhouses. Tulips and carnations, I imagined. The seats were already there. It was like a concert hall…a unique one, with the suit of armor standing guard at the staircase—the weapons on the walls, the arms of the Stacys entwined with those of the Napiers and the Beaumonts.

  I should be there—in my burgundy velvet—looking as I had looked on that fateful night.

  No, different. I should not be a member of the audience; this time I should be there on that dais.

  I went to it. I sat at the piano. I must not think of Pietro. Pietro was dead. If he had been here in this audience I should have been afraid of faltering, of earning his contempt. I should have been conscious of him, his ears straining to catch the false note, the lack of sureness…and I should have known that while he trembled for me, yet he hoped that I should give a less perfect performance than his.

  I played. I had not played these pieces since. I had told myself that I could not bear to. But I played now and I was caught up in the excitement which the master had felt when he composed them. It was there in all its glory, that inspiration which came from something not of this world. It was wonderful. And as I played I did not see Pietro’s long hair flung back in the agitation of creative interpretation. To me the music meant what it had in those days before I knew Pietro. I was exalted as I played.

  When I stopped it all came back so vividly; I could see him bowing to the audience. He had looked a little tired and strained and he never had looked like that after a performance…not immediately after. That came later after he had left the platform, when the flatterers and sycophants had left, when we were alone together. Then the effect of all that he had put into the evening would begin to show.

  I saw him, lying back in the chair in the dressing room…Pietro…who would never play again.

  A low chuckle behind me. For a moment I thought he had come back, that he was there laughing at me. If anything could evoke the return of his spirit surely that music would.

  Miss Stacy was sitting in one of the seats. She was wearing a dress of pale pink crepe material and little pink bows were in her hair.

  “I crept in when you were in the middle,” she said. “You play beautifully, Mrs. Verlaine.”

  I did not answer. And she
went on: “It reminds me of the old days so much. Isabella used to be so nervous. You’re not. And afterwards she used to cry in her room. It was because she wasn’t pleased with her performance and knew she could have done better if she’d gone on with her teachers. When I sat there listening I thought…I wouldn’t be surprised if this brought the ghosts out. It’s just like it used to be. Suppose Isabella couldn’t rest. Suppose she came back…Well, the hall would look just as it did on those nights when she played…all the same…only someone different at the piano. Isn’t that exciting, Mrs. Verlaine? Don’t you think it would bring the ghosts out?”

  “If they existed, yes. But I don’t believe they do.”

  “That’s a dangerous thing to say. They might be listening.”

  I didn’t answer. Instead I closed the lid of the piano. And I was thinking: Yes, it would be an occasion for ghosts. And I wasn’t thinking of the ghost of Isabella Stacy but that of Pietro.

  ***

  The image that looked back at me from my mirror was reassuring—red velvet, and that orchid. It became me as no other dress ever had. Pietro had not said so, but his eyes had told me.

  He had stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders, looking at us both in the mirror. That picture would be stamped on my memory forever.

  “You look worthy…of me,” he said, with typical Pietro candor; and I had laughed at him and said that if he thought that I must look very well indeed.

  We had gone to the concert hall together, and I had left him to take my place in the audience.

  But what was the use of going over it. I must not think of him tonight. I smoothed one hand over the other, massaging my fingers. They were supple…adequate, I told myself. But I knew better. They had some magic in them tonight, and no one was going to rob them of it, not even the ghost of Pietro.