Page 132 of The Mistress of Ashmore Castle

Chloë was alone, still clutching the huge bouquet of flowers that had been presented to her on the platform. She was alight with excitement from the performance, her eyes brilliant, her usually pale cheeks flushed. Her elation was so palpable Richard almost expected flames to shoot out of her head.

Molly couldn’t speak and could only lay a hand on her daughter’s arm.

‘You were wonderful,’ Richard said simply. ‘But I’m a layman when it comes to music. Were you pleased with your performance?’

‘It was – almost unbearably exciting,’ Chloë said, her voice vibrating with emotion. ‘Like riding a wild horse – ten wild horses! The power, the speed, the elation! Oh, my God, Richard, I can’t describe it! Playing is exciting always, always – but with an orchestra, a full orchestra . . . ! Sixty musicians! The power, the sound, and I control them all!’

‘I thought the conductor controlled the orchestra,’ Richard said.

‘But I controlled him. You don’t understand. In a concerto, the orchestra must follow the solo part. The conductor must take his cues from the soloist. She has the reins of it all in her hands. All of it! Oh! I shall never, never . . .’ She pushed the flowers into her mother’s arms in a gesture that clearly did not really see her, and sat down. ‘I’m in a dream. I’m in Heaven.’

Richard met Molly’s eyes above the flowers. He could feel the power radiating out from Chloë, and not for a moment did he think she would ever allow anything to happen that she did not want. The elegant, important, rich, famous Sir Thomas could get no foothold on the shining carapace that enclosed Molly’s daughter. ‘You see,’ he said to her, ‘the soloist controls the conductor.’

Before she could speak, the door opened, and Sir Thomas came in: a tall man, handsome, well-built, big in evening clothes, big with success, hot from his exertions, displacing more air than with his physical self alone – his ‘presence’ was at least a whole extra person’s worth, so that Richard felt himself pushed back, and Molly took a step away towards a corner, instinctively effacing herself. Behind Sir Thomas a dresser hovered, pushing a towel into his hand so he could mop his face; and behind him, other lurking figures, the one in evening clothes the hall’s manager perhaps, and who knew who else? A person like Sir Thomas rarely moved without an entourage.

But Chloë, Richard was glad to note, did not stand up at his entrance, though she looked at him with a ravishing smile and something of intimacy in her eyes. It was almost lover-like – it was certainly the look between two people who were very close – but Richard had the wit to remember that her excitement was all about the music and the performance, and to interpret it in a different way. Chloë and Sir Thomas were sharing something vivid and vital and excitingly important to them both, but it was not something the average man ever shared with a woman. It was a piano concerto, with orchestra, and he would never know what that felt like.

‘My dear.’ Sir Thomas claimed her hand in both of his and kissed it almost reverently. ‘What a triumph!’ he said. ‘Never have there been thirty minutes of such impassioned virtuosity. You have arrived, my dear, you have arrived. By tomorrow the world will know it.’

Oddly, Richard saw that his words were not further elating her but bringing her down to earth. In a flash of understanding, he saw that she had been in a different place where the musicians, including herself and Sir Thomas, had no physical form, but were part of the incorporeal thing that was the music. Now he had reminded her that they were human after all, and she didn’t like it. He suddenly felt much more cheerful, and wanted to tell Molly that she had nothing to worry about. Chloë would never fall under Sir Thomas’s spell. As far as she was concerned, he didn’t have one. He felt almost sorry for the old boy.

‘Now we must go and talk to our patrons, and the press,’ Sir Thomas was saying, ‘and then we shall go with a select party to supper at the Savoy.’ His roving eye discerned Molly – whom he had probably taken for a dresser – and with a jerk of recognition he said, ‘Servant, ma’am. You must be very proud. And, er, Mr . . .’

‘Sir Thomas,’ Richard said tormentingly.

‘Yes, yes, of course you must both join us.’ He dropped them like a used towel and returned to Chloë. ‘A few minutes, my dear, just to refresh your face and tidy your hair, and then upstairs. I’ll send Hayter to fetch you. Don’t keep us waiting.’

* * *

Richard left Molly for a few minutes’ privacy with Chloë, and slipped out into the foyer to mingle with the crowds and hear what they were saying. He discovered that, while it was to be supposed they were music lovers, most of them spoke, like other members of the ton, only about their own affairs and people they knew. Intellectual analysis of the performance they had just witnessed was not to be expected.

But he did hear a few comments.

‘Astonishingly good.’

‘Remarkable playing.’

‘So young, too. Quite a prodigy.’

‘I loved that tune in the last movement. Pom-pom-ti-tiddleom-pom-pom. How did it go?’

Less welcome comments too.

‘I’ve heard that she’s in Sir Thomas’s keeping. Yes, an appartement meublé no less!’

‘It’s shocking, an old man like him and a young girl like her.’

‘Well, what can you expect? Ballet girls and actresses and musicians, all the same.’

‘It’s Lady Burton I feel for.’

‘Yes, poor Violet. She’s not at all well, you know.’

‘There’s really something rather off about a young female performing in public.’

‘Oh, I agree! I shouldn’t like one of my girls to expose herself like that.’

Then his gentle sifting through the throng brought him face to face with his grandmother.