Life and Love

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Francesca, the golden voice of London’s nightlife was at the height of her career, destined for stardom and breathlessly in love with her composer-partner Fane, when disaster struck. When Francesca lost her voice, Fane dropped her, and she was suddenly alone, heartbroken, her life in shreds. Her new friend Julian was kind and attentive, but in the snow-swept Swiss Alps, Frnacesca’s heart would forever belong to Fane. When she accepted Julian’s strange proposal, Francesca began an adventure that changed her life.

Release date: June 26, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Francesca sat on the low brocaded stool in front of her big triple mirror and crooned to herself as she delicately outlined a very lovely mouth with her lipstick.

It was a low, sweet, velvety sort of voice. It seemed to suit the particular type of beauty which the gleaming mirror reflected for her between two tall electric candles.

The maid who stood just behind her holding a fur coat with an enormous fox collar looked adoringly at the reflection of her young mistress, and listened with equal adoration to the murmuring voice. And after all, it wasn’t to be wondered at if Mary, who had been in Francesca’s service for three years, had learned to adore everything about her. Most people did. The big public included.

“Francesca, the Girl with the Crooning Voice.” That was how she was described by her critics. London raved about her—and about Fane, the clever young man who composed so many of the catchy, crooning little songs which she sang, and who accompanied her on the stage.

They were billed together as: “FANE AND FRANCESCA.” They had been an enormous success ever since they had first appeared in one of the outstanding revues a year ago.

There was nothing very spectacular about them. Francesca, always in a black-and-white dress and white shoes, and with a sleek white topper which she wore at a rakish angle on her fair head. Fane in tails and white tie at the big ebony grand, and black velvet curtains with big white notes of music sewn upon them for a background. Effective! And particularly when Fane began to play and Francesca to sing.

It had been more than effective from Francesca’s point of view. For not only was this a paying business concern, their strong combination, but a fount of personal happiness for them both. They were in love—quite madly in love. They were going to be married very soon. And perhaps it was that very love which inspired Fane to write such charming, sentimental songs, and Francesca to sing them so perfectly!

‘What time is it, Mary?’

Francesca turned to her maid as she slid on a little diamond wristlet and fastened the jewelled strap. She looked affectionately at the watch. It glittered on the smooth ivory arm which tapered into a delicate wrist and slender smooth fingers with pointed coral nails. Francesca loved her watch, not because the diamonds were of value, but because Fane had given it to her to celebrate their engagement a month ago. It had his name engraved on the tiny platinum back. And when he had first slid it on to her wrist he had kissed every finger on her hand and said between each kiss:

‘I love you!’

She was quite certain that he loved her, but no more than she loved him. And that was the beautiful part of their affair. They were utterly necessary to each other. Inseparable in their work, their friendship … everything!

Mary handed her mistress the coat.

‘That was the bell, Miss. It will be Mr. Fane.’

Francesca smiled and nodded. Yes, it would be Fane. He came every evening at six o’clock to take her out for a light meal, after which they went to The Quality Theatre—new and luxurious—where the revue “STAND BY” was running, and in which they played considerable parts.

Francesca gave a last glance at her mirror. She was satisfied. She had reason to be. That slim, supple young body of hers in the apricot velvet dress which had a little cape to match, edged with Russian sable, was the envy of most women who knew her. Just as her clothes were enviable. Francesca kept to her black-and-white toilette for professional purposes, but outside the theatre she loved colours. Tonight she was wearing something very new and special because Fane was going to take her to supper and dance after the show.

Invariably she was tired, and after a sandwich and a drink she came back to her small flat and went to bed. But tonight they were celebrating. This was the first anniversary of the day when they had signed their contract together and started on the career which had developed along such magic lines for them both.

Francesca gave a little contented sigh and walked across the warm untidy bedroom, which was littered with clothes and smelt deliciously of perfumes. Long before she reached the drawing-room she knew that Fane would be in one of his excited, restless moods. He would be walking up and down the room, smoking, impatient for the sight of her.

Something seemed to grip her by the heart at the very thought of him … her beloved lover, so inexpressibly dear and important to her. Fane, the temperamental composer, with his quick temper and swift engaging smile which won pardon for him whatever he did or said, and that wonderful touch on the piano keys! There was nobody in the world like Fane. And all this success and happiness was still so new to Francesca that she held her breath even now when she thought about it.

It did not seem so long ago that she was unknown … just nobody at all but Francesca Hale, who lived with a widowed mother in a Sussex cottage, and divided her time between singing the music which she so passionately loved and looking after her mother, who was almost always ill.

Then had come Mrs. Hale’s death, which had left Francesca alone in the world at the age of twenty-two. And after that, a studio party in Chelsea, given by a girl who had been at school with Francesca. To that party Fane had come, and had heard Francesca sing for the first time. Just one of her own crooning songs to a Spanish guitar which she could play. And before the end of that evening Fane had commandeered her in his egotistical and impetuous fashion, played song after song for her at the piano, and then asked her to call and see him in the morning and meet one of London’s biggest theatrical producers. Her very name had inspired him, he told her. Why, the name of Francesca was meant to be linked with that of Fane, and her velvety, appealing voice was just what he needed for his songs.

Fane had been on the stage before. He had money of his own, and two or three years after he had come down from Oxford he was making a steady income by composing. He had influence with the theatrical magnates and he used it. Francesca was shy, but that could easily be remedied with a little tuition and experience. He himself coached her, helped her, worked with her for weeks, and at the end of it she was what he wanted.

Then, after the nerve-shattering experience of a first performance, Francesca knew that everything was going to be all right. The public took her—like Fane’s songs—straight to their hearts. And one of the things that pleased her most was that she had justified Fane’s faith in her.

He had told her that he had no wish to eradicate entirely that shy and sensitive strain in her. That was what he most loved. That was why he had fallen in love with her, he had said. Because she was different from others on the stage. There was no hardness, no cynicism in the soft dark eyes of Francesca. They radiated kindness and generosity. Fine, brilliant eyes, exquisitely set in a pale oval face framed with the smooth shining hair which made such a contrast to the darkness of narrow brows and long, jet lashes.

Francesca found Fane just as she had anticipated, pacing the room. But he stopped when he saw her in her apricot velvet gown, standing in the doorway. He came towards her with that graceful, gliding walk which singled him out from other men. Francesca had never seen anyone walk just that way. He moved like a born dancer. Not very tall, slightly built, he was extraordinarily good-looking with hair almost as fair as her own, and long, heavy-lidded eyes of a curious cold grey. Students of physiognomy might have said that Fane Braber’s eyes and lips were cruel. But Francesca had not discovered the cruelty. For her Fane was warm and tender and, as a lover, all that a woman desired.

‘My sweet!’ he said when he was close to her, and took her hands and kissed them each in turn. ‘How adorable you look.’

‘Do you like the new dress?’

‘Terribly. What do you call it? … tangerine? peach?’

‘No,’ she laughed up at him, ‘all wrong—it’s apricot.’

He took her in his arms.

‘And you smell lovely, and you’re warm and beautiful, and oh … rather like a ripe apricot from the South.’

‘You say beautiful things, Fane darling.’

‘Only to a beautiful girl.’

‘London’s full of beautiful girls.’

He drew her closer, and with a forefinger touched a shining curve of her hair which winged over both small ears and just showed the smoky-pearl earrings which she always wore.

‘There isn’t one as lovely as you, Adorable.’

‘And how many have you said that to?’ she laughed again.

‘My sweet, I don’t think that I have ever heard you say a cynical thing before. It hurts, rather … on this day of days, too!’

She linked both slender arms about his neck, reached on tiptoe and kissed his chin.

‘Darling idiot, I was only teasing you. But I dare say you have paid compliments to other girls.’

‘I dare say,’ said Fane rather languidly, ‘but I don’t remember—I remember nothing but you.’

Francesca hummed under her breath.

‘Most of every day,

Most of every hour of every day

I’m thinking of you.’

He stopped the rest of the verse by kissing her on the lips, passionately.

‘When you sing like that you drive me crazy.’

‘Darling, aren’t you tired of my voice yet?’

Flushed and starry-eyed she looked up at him.

‘I never shall be.’

‘I believe you love my voice more than you love me.’

‘You and your voice are one and the same thing.’

‘Not quite. I might lose my voice but there’d still be me!’

‘Don’t think of such horrors. Tonight we are going to celebrate the day that we became partners.’

Francesca looked up at him a trifle wistfully. Fane hated any deep discussions, any philosophy. There were times when she would like to have talked to him about all kinds of things which were in her mind and heart. But she kept silent because she was afraid of boring him. He was so gay, and he loved gaiety in others. He skimmed over the surface of things, brilliantly. He adored her. She knew it. But was it not because her voice and her beauty appealed to him rather than because he realised that the real Francesca was his mate, essentially, integrally part of him?

‘Just supposing,’ she persisted, ‘that I did lose my voice, would you go on loving me?’

‘Sweet, I refuse to answer such foolishness. Don’t be so depressing! Let’s go along to “The Ivy” and have a spot of food before we go down to the theatre. The car’s outside.’

She sighed and smiled. No use trying to make Fane say any more than that. He hated to be depressed! Well, bless him. She wasn’t going to upset him. But there remained in her a remote desire to go deeper, to get nearer to him, spiritually closer. Hers was a deep, generous nature, passionate and sensitive. Fane had awakened all the real woman in her. Yet somehow she felt that it was not the real woman that he wanted. Not the Francesca who was an idealist and who believed in love for love’s sake and in sacrifice and the blinding beauty of love as the poets had seen it … “The desire of the moth for the star.” There had always been that poetic and idealistic quality in Francesca which had lifted her thoughts to the stars. But Fane persistently brought them earthwards.

He adored her success. The applause. The glowing criticisms of her artistry. He liked to be seen in public with her.

He liked to hold her, ardent and tremulous, in his arms and to watch the effect of his caresses upon her; liked to feel that she was very much under his spell and that she was his to command even when he knelt and kissed her small shoe to prove that he was her devoted lover. He was extravagant in all his methods. Yet every action was tinged with caution and personal vanity. Francesca had helped to make him famous. Yet somehow, skilfully, he managed to make her feel that he was mainly responsible for their success.

There were a dozen women in love with him, and a good many hundreds whom he would never know were “Fane fans” after having listened to him play and sing with Francesca.

She was immensely proud of him and of their association. It was marvellous to feel that he belonged to her and that very soon they would be married, so much more completely united than they were now. It never entered her head to be jealous, because she trusted him implicitly. He was the more exacting of the two, but she adored him for his very jealousy when he showed it. He was terrified of losing her. He told her so, continually. And she liked him to feel like that. That was a proof of his love.

She walked across the drawing-room and opened the long French windows which led on to a balcony overlooking the river. The April night was soft and warm. It was so clear that she could see all the hundreds of lights which glittered on the bridges and the shadowy buildings across the water, as far as the Tower.

Not so very long ago she had been living in a country cottage and imagining that she would never get used to London. Now she would not care to leave it. She was absolutely content in this small flat in Whitehall, high up, close to the roof, with an incredible view of the river; of smoke-grey house-tops, the church steeples, the tall stately monuments, and the grand old Abbey close by.

Big Ben rose proudly like a superb sentinel, showing her the time on its lighted face. Dear Big Ben … she felt a personal affection for it and the friendly booming voice that chimed its hours! Then she turned and looked back at her room. That was beautiful, too; polished floor and soft blues and reds of old Persian rugs; her cherished Blüthner grand which her mother had bequeathed to her; two parchment-shaded lamps on Italian wrought-iron stands; many books, green chairs and sofa, green and gold cushions, and just one picture over the fireplace. An oil-painting of an Italian lake, brilliant blue water, silver olive trees and green mountains. Como, the birthplace of the Italian grandmother from whom Francesca had inherited her name and the velvet darkness of her eyes and brows.

Fane watched her small, expressive face with a tinge of amusement in his smile:

‘What’s the matter with you tonight, darling? You’re all “fey” …’

She came back to him and rubbed her cheek against his sleeve.

‘No—but just so happy that I don’t feel that I’m in this world at all.’

‘But you are, very much so.’

‘Fane, when we are married, can’t we have another flat in this building? I hate to leave the river.’

His brows contracted. A view was not so important to Fane as being right in the centre of things … things that mattered to him. His own flat was in Piccadilly, close to the theatres; in the core of the world that he loved. So far, the arrangement was that both he and Francesca should move to a larger flat in his building. He intended that it should be so, but he did not press it tonight. He always got his own way, but gradually, subtly. He just kissed her finger-tips and murmured:

‘Sure—we must talk it over.’

Sweet Francesca! What a wonderful thing it had been finding her! Duffeyne, their manager, had told him the other night that they had made a phenomenal hit with their piano and songs. So simple, but it just hit the mark. And so lucky that a girl who looked like Francesca, and who was so lovable, should have that perfect voice. Without that crooning voice Fane might never have come before the public eye in the way that he had so much wanted. Now his songs were in huge demand. Sung by Francesca, of course! They couldn’t be separated. They had broadcast with considerable triumph a week ago. Tomorrow they were to make gramophone records together. This they had already done before, and these records were selling well.

‘Don’t forget, sweet, we’re making that new record for H.M.V. at twelve o’clock tomorrow,’ he reminded her.

She nodded.

‘We’re going to do Nobody Knows, aren’t we?’

‘Yes. I think it ought to record well.’

‘Are we singing it tonight?’

‘As an encore in the second act, yes.’

Francesca’s rich, low voice lilted the words:

‘Nobody knows how much I love you,

‘Nobody cares but you.’

Fane whistled with her, then suddenly pulled a small parcel wrapped in tissue-paper from his pocket.

‘Good lord, I was forgetting this. For you, darling, a first anniversary present.’

Her eyes widened with pleasure as she opened the small case and found a brooch sparkling against the velvet. Emeralds and diamonds on a delicate platinum bar.

‘Fane! How gorgeous, and how extravagant!’

His handsome face was tender as he pinned the brooch for her on to the apricot velvet just above the slight lovely curve of her breasts. Yes, it was extravagant. More expensive than he could really afford. He was making money, but it seemed to trickle like water through Fane’s fingers. He was always in debt no matter how much he earned. He had been like that since he was a boy at Oxford—always overdrawn. Whatever he did must be done in the most lavish fashion. Just before Francesca had come on to the scene his finances had been in rather a serious way. Now, fortunately, they were making money together, so his accounts could run on. Everybody in London today knew “Fane and Francesca.”

She raised a warm face with starry eyes to his.

‘A million thanks for such a lovely present, and I’ve got one for you …’ She drew a packet from her bag and pressed it into his hand. A set of black pearl studs. Of course he was enchanted with them, and insisted upon going into her bathroom and putting them on at once.

Then when he came back, there were long, ardent kisses, all their passionate love closing round Francesca’s heart and body like a white flame. She had never thought it possible for anybody on earth to be as happy as she was tonight.

She was humming one of his songs, gaily, when he helped her into the beautiful blue and silver Bentley which was his latest extravagance. They drove through the warm spring night down St. Martin’s Lane toward “The Ivy,” where they were to have a short meal before the show.

At half-past six “The Ivy” was almost deserted, because it was much too early for the usual diners. But Fane and Francesca came here for their lunch and this quick, early meal regularly. Later, after the theatre, they would go on to a night club for supper and dance, where there would be heaps of people who knew them; the usual cheery theatrical crowd.

Very often they had the little restaurant to themselves at half-past six, but tonight one table in the corner was occupied. Francesca, as she sat at her usual table, glanced at the couple who were quite close to them. Rather an unusual pair, she remarked to Fane. A big, dark-haired, brown-skinned man with a hard, bitter face, and a little old lady with snow-white hair, forget-me-not blue eyes, and a black velvet ribbon Victoria-wise round her neck.

‘Isn’t the old lady a darling?’ Francesca whispered to Fane.

‘M’m,’ said Fane with a brief glance, and then returned to the menu. ‘But the fellow looks decidedly unpleasant.’

‘Until he speaks to her, and then his whole face changes,’ said Francesca. ‘I think she must be his mother. He adores her.’

‘Quaint child,’ said Fane, ‘you do notice such extraordinary things.’

At that instant the big, dark man beside the old lady caught Francesca’s eye. She had a queer uncomfortable sensation that. . .