The Morning Gift

The slow movement next. She was old enough now for slow movements, she was immemorially old. It must be possible to love someone who could draw such ravishment from the piano. And it was possible. She could love Heini as a friend, a brother, someone whose childishness and selfishness were of no account when set against this gift. But not as a man – not ever, now that she knew . . . and suddenly the platform, Heini himself, grew blurred in a mist of tears, for it was a strange cross that Fate had laid on her, ordinary as she was: an inescapable, everlasting love for a man to whom she meant nothing.

The last movement was a relief, for no one could live too long in the celestial gravity of the Andante – and here now was the famous theme! It would have to be a very unusual starling to have sung that melody, but what did it matter? Only Mozart could be so funny and so beautiful at the same time! Everyone was happy and Ziller was nodding his head which was important. Ziller didn’t like Heini, but he knew.

Then suddenly it was over and Heini rose to an ovation. People stamped and cheered; a group of schoolgirls threw flowers on to the stage – there were always schoolgirls for Heini – and in his box, Jacques Fleury had risen to his feet.

‘I’m sorry I said he was too long in the bath,’ said Leonie, dabbing her eyes. ‘He was too long, but I’m sorry I said it.’

He had to have won. There could be no doubt . . . not really.

But now Berthold returned, and the tall Russian, Selnikoff, to play the Rachmaninoff.

And, God, he was good! He was terrifyingly good, with the weight of his formidable training behind him and the outsize soul that is a Russian speciality.

Ruth’s nausea was returning. Please, God – oh, please . . . I’ll do anything you ask, but let Heini have what he so desperately wants.

The dinner, as always at Rules, had been excellent; they’d drunk a remarkable Chablis, and Claudine Fleury, in a little black dress which differed from a little chemise only on a technicality, had made Quin a much-envied man.

Now she yawned as delicately as she did everything. ‘That was lovely, darling. I wish I could take you back, but Jacques is here for another week.’

‘Of course, I quite understand,’ said Quin, managing to infuse just the right amount of regret into his voice. Claudine’s father was notoriously easy-going, but there is an etiquette about such things. She had rung him a few days earlier to suggest dinner before he left for Africa and he had been ready to take the evening any way it suited her, for he owed her many hours of pleasure, but the temporary return of Jacques Fleury to attend to business was not unwelcome.

‘How is Jacques? Has he snapped up any more geniuses?’

‘As a matter of fact, he has. He called just before I left. He’s signed up an Austrian boy – a pianist whom he’s going to bring to New York and turn into a star! There was some competition today; he wanted me to come, but three concertos in one afternoon – no thank you!’

‘He won, then, this Austrian?’

‘No. He tied with a Russian and he wasn’t too pleased, I gather. Jacques thinks the Russian is more musical, but you can’t do anything with Russians; they’re so guarded – whereas he can get the Austrian boy over almost straight away. He’s going to bring his girlfriend over too – apparently she’s very pretty and absolutely devoted . . . worked in some café to pay for Radek’s piano or something. Jacques thinks he can use that at any rate till they’re married; she photographs well! There was some story about a starling . . .’

She yawned once more; then stretched a hand over the table. ‘I suppose we won’t meet again before you go?’

‘No, I’m off in less than three weeks. And Claudine . . . thanks for everything.’

‘How valedictory that sounds, darling!’ Her big brown eyes appraised him. ‘Surely we’ll meet again?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

For a moment, he felt the touch of her fingertips, light as butterflies, on his knuckles. ‘I shall miss you, chéri. I shall miss you very much, but I think you need this journey,’ she said. ‘Yes, I think you need it badly.’

The news that Quin was leaving Thameside, which the Vice Chancellor received officially on the first day of the summer term, had affected Lady Plackett so adversely that Verena had been compelled to take her mother aside and make her acquainted with the real state of things.

‘There is no doubt, Mummy, that he means to take me to Africa, but the matter has to be a secret for the time being. I can trust you, I know.’