“Thank you, dear,” said Lady Anne, looking over Valerie’s shoulder at her own reflection in the mirror. “There’s a full house,” she added. “You’ll have another triumph, and we’ll all have a lovely supper at Claridge’s to celebrate your performance and your seventeenth birthday. Happy birthday, dear Valerie.”
“Thank you, Your Ladyship,” smiled Valerie.
There was a tap on the door, a man’s voice calling, “Five minutes, Miss Hemion.”
Valerie sighed as she slowly rose from her chair, smoothing the chiffon dress over her hips. “Wish me luck, Lady Anne. My first solo appearance with the London Philharmonic. Another step along the way. I might be a star at the conservatory, but I’m less than a glimmer in the world of classical music.”
She smiled at Lady Anne as their eyes met in the mirror.
Lady Anne was smiling too. “Good luck, my dear.”
Applause filled the hall as Valerie swept onto the stage, took Georg Solti’s outstretched hand. They made little bows to one another, then, turning, bowed to the audience. Valerie glanced at the ornately carved boxes, their occupants a blur of color. In the Queen’s box was an elegant gathering. The orchestra was a sea of bare shoulders, of throats glittering with diamonds, rubies, of black dinner jackets, white shirts.
Sitting at the piano, the eighty-piece London Philharmonic Orchestra behind her, Valerie watched the baton in Georg Solti’s raised hand, heard the crystal tones of Mozart swelling through the hall. Her fingertips were resting on the piano keys.
The maestro gestured toward her with his baton.
Valerie bent her pale blond head over the keys, all anxiety gone as the music flowed from her fingertips, filling her with a wild exaltation. The performance. All of the grueling hours shading each phrase, each measure, sent the notes soaring. There was only the music, transporting her higher and higher.
When she had finished, Valerie stood, remembering nothing except her own rapture, her hand in Georg Solti’s as they bowed to wild applause. The maestro stepped back, and Valerie bowed alone, to cheers and cries of “Bravo.” Her friends were on their feet. Here and there in the audience, others joined them. A sheaf of long-stemmed red roses was thrust into her arms. She bowed once more, and hurried off the stage into Lady Anne’s arms.
“You were magnificent, dear,” said Lady Anne, her eyes sparkling. “You were superb. Utterly superb.”
“I can’t remember any of it,” Valerie admitted, leaning against the wall next to the open door of her dressing room, pushing her nose into the red petals. “Oh, I’m so glad I didn’t faint, or fall down,” she said gratefully. “Was I really good?” she asked everybody who crowded into the dressing room to congratulate her. “Was I really good?”
“You were perfection,” said a voice. “Absolute perfection.” It was a man’s voice. Soft, like a caress, the English accent upper-class.
Valerie turned. He stood in the doorway holding a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. He was tall and slender, with thick brown hair and pale blue eyes. He wore tails, a white shirt, a white tie. Over his arm he carried a black evening overcoat.
He was very handsome, much better looking than when she had seen him at the opera, the theater, from across a restaurant.
“I’m Victor Penn,” he said, looking down into her eyes. “These are for the young woman who is turning into one of our greatest corporate assets,” he smiled, presenting the roses to her.
Accepting the roses, she put one hand against the wall behind her for support before tentatively clasping the hand he offered, feeling its power, its strength.
Lady Anne swept up to welcome him.
“We’re all very pleased with Valerie,” he said, taking the hand Lady Anne held out to him. “It’s so nice, Your Ladyship, to finally meet you. I grew up hearing about your late husband’s exploits during the war. He was something of an idol of mine.”
“How very kind of you, Mr. Penn,” said Lady Anne, taken aback. “How very, very kind.”
What a charming thing to say, Valerie thought. The dressing room was warm with the body heat of those crowded into it. There was the buzz of conversation and excited laughter. A couple of the boys from the conservatory came up to Valerie and congratulated her again and said goodnight. Others, too, were drifting through the door.
“Mr. Penn wants to take you to supper, dear,” Lady Anne murmured in her ear.
“But the party at Claridge’s …”
“That’s all right, Valerie. You run along. Everybody will understand.”
Victor helped Valerie on with the full-length pale mink cape that Maria had loaned her, then put on his own coat. Then it was just the two of them, hurrying down the street toward Victor’s automobile.
He stopped beside a vintage Bentley convertible and fumbled with the key as he opened the door for her. It was British racing green and gleamed under the streetlight. Valerie thought it was the most beautiful car she had ever seen.
“It’s exquisite,” she gasped as he took her elbow and helped her into the car.
“It’s really for Daniel, my chauffeur,” he said with a little laugh. “He gets so bored with the Rolls. I got it so he would have something to tinker with.”
“Where shall we go?” he asked as the engine roared to life. “Do you like Rules, in Maiden Lane? Or would you prefer someplace else?” She could feel his smile. “It’s your celebration, after all.”
“Rules is fine,” she said shyly. “I’ve never been there.”
“Oh, that’s splendid,” he said, his voice excited. “I can show you something new.”
The sommelier bowed in front of them, pouring Roederer Cristal champagne into fluted crystal glasses. “To you, and your brilliant career,” toasted Victor, touching his glass to hers.
A few minutes later, the waiter served fluffy omelettes filled with caviar. It took only that long for Valerie to realize she felt as if she had known this man all her life.
“The music, well, it’s something I have to do,” she said, amazed that she didn’t feel shy. “You see, it’s not like being the composer himself. It’s not like actually being Beethoven. Or Mozart. But it’s being chosen, in a way. Being blessed with talent, well, you have to carry it out. You have to see it through to whatever it can be. If you don’t, you’re denying your own humanity.”
“That must be a wonderful thing,” Victor said slowly. “To have a gift like that, and to be encouraged to follow it. Your aunt must be so proud of you.”
“Oh, she is,” Valerie agreed, wanting to touch his arm. “It’s almost as if my music has become her life since I’ve been here in London.” She looked away for a moment, remembering where her music had really started, in a little apartment where, as a toddler, she had picked out tunes on the upright piano.
“Well, it all paid off this evening,” he smiled. “You were brilliant.”
“It was a wonderful evening,” Valerie said somberly. “The only thing wrong was that my parents weren’t there to see me play.”
“They live in Los Angeles?” he asked, his expression showing he was eager to hear anything at all that she wanted to say.
“They did,” she said.
“Tell me what happened,” he said gently.
Her