Nightingale's Song

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

It all happens so fast... Celia's long lost father appears and announces that he is a millionaire. Now, in his last days, he wants to share his life, and his wealth with his only kin - his daughter. Celia is taken from her drab London flat to her father's fabulous villa in Monte Carlo. There she meets Philippe, the dashingly handsome Frenchman who sweeps her into a confusion of fiery passion. And Geoffrey, the solid good-looking Englishman whose love for her is quiet and dependable. Then, suddenly, her father dies - and Celia is a millionairess. Now the ugly question nags at her heart: does the man she desperately loves want her for herself - or for her money?

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

THE moment that Celia came down to breakfast, her aunt, Miss Cotland, who had just finished scrambling the eggs, knew that the girl had had a bad night.

Miss Cotland loved Celia dearly and was grieved for her. She knew quite well that Celia had been sleeping badly. She was worrying; she was going through a bad phase. She was completely unsure of herself. And although Miss Cotland had little use for ultra-modern psychology, she had to agree there was such a thing as an ‘inferiority complex’. Celia had one! However, Miss Cotland’s way of coping with the niece who lived with her, was to be tolerant and good-humoured.

‘Good morning, my pet,’ she said cheerfully. ‘How nice you look! I like that suit. Is it new?’

Celia Frayne flushed and gave a brief resentful glance at herself in the mirror that hung at that end of the kitchen which they called their ‘dinette’. She said:

‘Aunt Tiny—really, you know it isn’t new. And it doesn’t fit anywhere—like me. I don’t fit anywhere.’

Miss Cotland turned to the stove to hide the consternation in her eyes. Shrewd, kindly eyes behind horn-rimmed glasses. Celia was in a mood this morning. Poor child! She had been out to a party last night. Something must have happened to upset her.

‘Well, you fit in beautifully in Flat 1, Dendham Court, Battersea, S.W.,’ she said, with gay emphasis on the address of the little home which they shared. It had belonged to Miss Cotland before the war and was still at a low rent. But enough for her slender purse. All that Miss Cotland had was the small amount of money she had inherited from her father who had been a doctor in this very part of London. She took in a little dressmaking to swell the exchequer. Celia, whom she had adopted when her mother died, fourteen years ago, earned good money as a shorthand-typist with a firm of insurance brokers.

A deep affection existed between aunt and niece. Celia, stirring her tea, felt slightly better just at the sight of this dear, friendly aunt, who at fifty was angular and too tall, with shortish grey hair, and a face already wrinkled. She stooped a little because of her height. It was a family joke that she had been christened ‘Tiny’. The name had stuck to her despite the fact that she had grown to six feet tall. But in her case her character and personal charm triumphed over lack of looks. Behind her plain exterior she had a warm generosity and kindliness which endeared her to all her friends—and particularly to her niece.

This morning especially, Celia wondered what she would do without Aunt Tiny. She began to confide her reasons for her extra depression.

‘I wish I had never gone to that party,’ she said.

‘Ah!’ said Miss Cotland. ‘But why? You looked so attractive in your yellow taffeta.’

Celia choked over a mouthful of toast and gulped down her tea. This was where she could never be quite frank with Aunt Tiny. She made all Celia’s clothes, but they were never quite right. They lacked chic; Celia knew it. She never lacked boy-friends but they seemed to want to talk rather than make love to her. That wasn’t much fun! She knew she was intelligent. She could be witty and amusing when she tried. But that didn’t seem to be what the boys wanted. They preferred you to be glamorous and to suggest ‘sex’. Celia didn’t suggest it. She didn’t talk about it. She didn’t appear to want it.

She began to tell Aunt Tiny about one boy who, after dancing with her, discussed her with another girl and Celia overheard.

‘Did you see what I got in the Paul Jones just now? That one in yellow. Celia Something-or-other. She had nice eyes and attractive hair, but what a grim dress. Awkward kind of kid.’

Not very flattering but the girl’s reply had been even more crushing.

‘I think it’s desperate shyness that’s against Celia. She lives with an elderly aunt who doesn’t seem to have the know-how, so poor Celia hasn’t got it either. Personally I think she is attractive but …’

That was all that Celia had waited to hear. She had felt sick and rushed away. She went home. She meant to tell them at the office this morning that it was because she had not felt well. She told the story to Aunt Tiny—with reservations. Not for the world would she let dear Aunt Tiny think that her yellow dress had been criticised.

Her aunt tried to comfort her.

‘Don’t believe a word anybody says. You looked sweet and one day you will meet a boy who thinks you’re the cat’s whiskers—like I do.’

Miss Cotland meant it. She was certain that Celia had possibilities. How right, for instance, that boy had been about Celia’s hair. It was thick and wavy and looked like polished copper. And those wide-set eyes which were smoky-grey—they were beautiful. How could anybody say that Celia wasn’t pretty? Miss Cotland couldn’t think why things always went wrong for Celia. But Celia knew. It hadn’t needed last night’s disaster to tell her. She dressed badly. Her hair wasn’t well cut. She walked badly. She was not good at parties. Yet Mr. Flack, to whom she was personal secretary, was always telling her that she was the perfect secretary.

Gloomily Celia looked at Aunt Tiny. Dear, darling Aunty T. as she sometimes called her—she was no advertisement for her own dressmaking. She would wear knitted twin-sets that had gone out of shape, and skirts almost to her ankles which make her look so elongated. No man had ever proposed to Tiny Cotland. She admitted it. But she said cheerfully that she didn’t care. She liked being an old maid. Celia didn’t believe it. She knew that she, herself, did want to get married. She had all the capacity for love.

A knock on the door brought Aunt Tiny to her feet.

She returned from the hall with a circular and a letter bearing a French stamp.

‘Here’s something to cheer you up, very foreign-looking. Have you a friend in France, duckie?’

‘No,’ said Celia and took the envelope and blinked at it.

Monaco. For a moment she stared at it, remembering how often she and Aunt Tiny had looked at their neighbour’s television and seen Prince Rainier and beautiful Princess Grace and Monte Carlo harbour. All that splendour, that glamour—the incarnation of any woman’s secret dreams.

Feeling suddenly thrilled, Celia slit the envelope so as not to tear the stamp.

She read only a few words, flushed scarlet, turned over the thin foreign-looking sheets of paper and blinked dazedly at the signature. Then she gave a cry.

‘Oh! Aunt Tiny, this is from my father! I can’t believe it!’

Miss Cotland, most placid of women, confessed to her own heart missing a beat.

‘My goodness gracious me—no!’

Celia sprang up, went round to her aunt and spread the letter out on the table.

‘Let’s read it together.’

‘So he’s still alive!’ exclaimed Miss Cotland, adjusting her horn-rims. ‘How on earth has he traced you after all these years?’

‘Goodness knows!’ breathed Celia.

Her black mood had passed. Yesterday’s frustrations and miseries were forgotten. It was as though a miracle had taken place in the little flat in Battersea this bright April morning.

Celia could not remember her father. He had walked out of her mother’s life, and hers—when she was only two. Of course she had seen a photograph of him; the one taken with her mother on their wedding day. That had been two years before the Second World War. He looked rather a sulky young man with thick curly hair and intense eyes. All that she had ever heard about him from Mummy was that he had been ‘too much for her’.

Poor Mummy was a bit like me, Celia often thought; too shy and reserved. She had found it difficult to express herself. She and Daddy just couldn’t get on. But Mummy had admitted that Daddy had a flame of genius in him. An engineer by profession, he had possessed a quick inventive mind. In a good job, with a big firm, but always pressed for time, always frustrated. Always bringing home new gadgets of his own making. When they moved to London he got a better-paid job but still found no scope for his real ambitions, his unusual brilliance. Then one day he vanished. Celia’s mother had never seen him again. Three years later, a letter came from Nat Frayne—from Chicago—asking Mary to divorce him for desertion. Typical of the hard ruthless man he was, he avoided sentiment, told her nothing except that he had at last found his milieu in America, and he would never return to her. Aunt Tiny once mentioned to Celia that ‘poor Mary had never had the spirit to be malicious’. In her negative timorous fashion she gave him a divorce. Afterwards all she ever knew about her strange husband was that he paid her alimony regularly into her bank. Once she died, the money stopped. Aunt Tiny adopted Celia. All these years, like her aunt, Celia had believed that she would never see her father again. But now he appeared to be very much alive, and living in France. What could be more exciting, she asked herself?

Miss Cotland began to read the letter aloud:

‘My dear Celia,

‘I am a man of few words so wish to be brief. I have traced you through a detective agency, being at last mindful of the fact that I have a daughter in the world.

‘I was sorry to leave you, but I had either to live my life in my own way or remain at home and be crushed by domesticity. Rightly or wrongly I quit and broke every tie that bound me.

‘I know it was wrong. A young girl like you will probably hate me for having abandoned you and your mother, but I had something to offer the world and I met an American who gave me my chance. I went with him to the States. The first invention we put on the market succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. I became a wealthy man overnight. Today I own huge factories in several capitals.

‘During the war I played my part in France, but a tricky heart put me out of action, and I went to America to make munitions. Now I am retired, virtually a millionaire. I live here in Monte Carlo in a villa overlooking the harbour.

‘In a roundabout way I heard of your mother’s death and was told that my sister-in-law adopted you, so I knew you were all right. Until now I had no wish to be involved with a daughter, so I never got in touch with you.

‘I married again—a young and lovely French girl. I suppose I centred all my affections on her, but the full circle turned. She died in childbirth. It was a fearful blow to me and one which I imagine you will think I deserve. Now I, myself, am ill and old. My doctors tell me my heart is really bad nowadays. I may live a few years—or only a few days longer.

‘A few weeks ago, I suddenly felt a nostalgic longing for my one and only daughter. I have no heir. I am surrounded by friends, but who is to know whether they are not sycophants or fortune-hunters? I want to leave my money to somebody who has a right to it and upon whose honesty of purpose I could rely. So I had you traced. I discovered that you were earning your living as a typist.

‘What exactly you are like I can only guess, but you must have something of me in you—that part of me that the British always call “guts”. Your poor mother had none, but you are mine as well as hers.

‘I want you to come to Monaco to live with me at Villa Psyche. If you go to the Midland Bank (head branch in London) you will find that I have opened an account for you and paid five hundred pounds into it. Buy yourself what clothes you need, your air ticket, etc., and come to me as soon as you can. Perhaps I haven’t long in which to make amends.

‘You have much to forgive and I thank God that I can prove to you that I wish to become what I have in the past failed to be.

Your father,

Nathaniel Frayne’

There was a P.S. to this letter:

‘Upon thinking things over I have decided that for the moment I wish to let it be thought that you are my niece. I am sure it will not be difficult for you to call me “Uncle Nat”. I have seen too many wealthy young women pursued and married for their money. I intend to see that does not happen to you. Later I will publish the fact that you are my daughter—and heiress.’

Miss Cotland finished reading and looked up.

‘Did you ever! Nat Frayne alive and a millionaire. Well, he always swore he’d invent a world-shaker, and he’s done it …’

‘And he wants me to join him in Monte Carlo!’ Celia gasped.

Aunt Tiny stood up. She had to admit that she was shaken. But she said:

‘I couldn’t be more glad for you, duckie.’

‘But I don’t think I shall go. He left my mother and me. I despise him.’

Miss Cotland smiled at the flushed passionate young face. Ironically she thought that it took a cyclone to infuse this brilliance into Celia. The pale sulky young girl who had come into breakfast was transformed.

‘Don’t judge him too harshly, child. Nat was always a bit cracked and unreliable. Morally, nobody could excuse his actions. But your poor mother was a weak timid girl and Nat just could never take weakness. He and I, as a matter of fact, were quite friendly. In a way I understood him, sorry though I was for poor Mary.’

‘I couldn’t like him,’ persisted Celia.

‘You will. Everybody adored Nat. As a matter of fact, you’ve got quite a lot of him in you, Celia. You’re physically brave. You’re intelligent. And you’ll soon blossom out once you start leading a new life with him in a place like Monte Carlo.’

‘No—I heard the truth last night!’ said Celia, biting her lips. ‘I know I’m too ordinary for my father. I’d disappoint him.’

‘No—I know Nat. He’ll infuse you with some of his own supreme self-confidence. Look child—there’s £500 waiting for you in the bank. We’ll buy you a trousseau, and fly you over to Monte Carlo, looking as the daughter of a tycoon should.’

‘But what about this business of being called his niece?’

‘Nat was always a wise one. I can see his point. He doesn’t want the men to make a rush because they think you’re an heiress.’

‘I admit I’d hate to be married for money,’ muttered Celia.

She was in a daze. This letter from Monte Carlo seemed to have dropped from the skies. In one way it terrified her, in another it excited and thrilled her because of its staggering possibilities. She was critical of her father’s past behaviour; but as Aunty T. said, who was she to judge him too hastily. And if he wanted to make up for it all now, how could she deny him? Besides what right had she to deny herself the chance he offered.

She caught her aunt by the hand.

‘But how can I leave you all alone, Aunty T?’

Miss Cotland turned to the sink and made a great to-do by swooshing hot water over the dirty crockery. Not for worlds would she let Celia see there were tears in her eyes, or guess that she dreaded the very thought of being left here, alone. Celia was as dear to her as her own daughter. She had always been such an affectionate little thing—such a real home-girl. They had shared their good times and their bad. The day’s hard sewing and cooking for Miss Cotland had always seemed worthwhile because Celia was coming back at night.

Miss Cotland sniffed.

‘I’m not so sure I shall miss you, my girl. I shall be free to find myself a nice boy-friend, and make whoopee at last,’ she said gruffly. ‘You sit down and write to your father and tell him you’re on your way.’

‘Is there anything more that I can do for you, sir?’

Nathaniel Frayne leaned back in his chair, glanced at a pile of papers on his desk and took a cigar from a cedar-wood box open before him. He sniffed it, then rolled it against his ear, listening to the crackle of the dry leaves.

‘Not another thing. I’m through for today, boy.’

‘Then I think I ought to be off, sir. I’ve arranged for the car to take me to Nice at half past four.’

Nat Frayne lit his cigar and puffed at it for a moment without speaking. He knew that he oughtn’t to be smoking. He had been warned neither to smoke nor drink alcohol, nor indulge in the rich food that he liked too well. He could feel his tired heart pumping too fast, but he refused to take any notice. To hell with doctors and gloomy prophecies of sudden death. He was fifty-five tomorrow. Queer … his very own daughter would be here for his birthday. She wouldn’t even know that it was his birthday.

He glanced at the secretary who was putting some papers into a brief-case. Nice chap, Geoffrey More; what the French called charmant garçon. Good brain and a tireless worker. He was twenty-five and had been personal assistant to Nat for the last four years. His father, Ted More, had, like Nat, been in the engineering world and assisted Nat through some difficult times long years ago. When Ted and his wife died in an air crash, leaving the boy more or less alone in the world, Nat had offered him a home. Geoff had just come down from Oxford. He knew nothing about engineering. He had taken a degree in economics, which made him invaluable in business to Nat. He also had a love of art and literature, and these two things were Nat’s passions now that he had put work behind him.

When Nat settled in the villa down here on the Riviera he started to collect paintings and antiques. For amusement he opened a splendid shop in Nice. As usual, whatever Nat Frayne touched turned to gold. Frayne et Cie was now a flourishing concern; the salon was visited by some of the most famous dealers in Europe. There followed branches in Paris, London and New York. Geoffrey took care of Nat’s enormous correspondence when he was at home and attended to all his private business.

Power and money—those things used to be Nat Frayne’s personal gods. But now he felt the need for something more. He had felt it when he married poor Marie-Thérèse, but he had lost her. He was positively excited by the idea of seeing his daughter today.

What would she be like? He hadn’t even seen a photograph of her.

When Marie-Thérèse died he had learned what it was to suffer, for he had loved her. Now he was a tired sad old man. He wanted the one thing left in the world that was his own—Celia.

Geoffrey said:

‘Weather’s brilliant. Your niece should be having a perfect flight.’

Nat blinked. His niece! Yes, of course, that was how he had wanted Celia to be known.

‘Okay, Geoff, cut along to the airport,’ he said, and chewed on the butt of his cigar.

Geoffrey More closed the door of the study behind him. A magnificent book-lined room, air-conditioned, and with every luxury, like all the other rooms in the Villa Psyche.

Geoffrey did not always approve of Nat Frayne’s ruthlessness. The young man was, himself, first and foremost a humanitarian with a sympathy for all living creatures, including animals. It amused Nat because Geoffrey was always befriending some overworked horse or neglected dog. When Nat wanted to pull his leg he called the boy ‘a vet’.

Nevertheless Geoffrey—like most of his staff—was devoted to the Chief and served him with an abiding loyalty. And perhaps Geoffrey, who was so closely associated with Nat in his work, knew how lonely the great man had been since his second wife died. Geoffrey had been a little surprised to learn that Nat had ‘a niece’ in England and that he had sent for her. But he thought it not a bad idea. He hoped the girl would be the right sort, and look after the old man a little, and he hoped, too, that she wasn’t a self-centred ‘glamour-girl’ like so many of them here in the golden warmth of the south. Geoffrey couldn’t stand seeing them spending the whole day sunning their brown bodies on the beach, drinking endless aperitifs, wasting time and money at night in the Casinos.

He looked at his watch. Miss Frayne’s plane was due in about an hour. He would have time to bath and change before he went to the airport. He had been invited to a dinner party which the Chief was giving for his niece this evening. He was not particularly glad about that. Formal parties bored Geoffrey. And he would have preferred to spend the evening exercising the mongrel which was his own particular pet.

Geoffrey occupied a ground-floor roo. . .