Elements of Chance - Barbara Wilkins

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voice was cheerful and bright.

      Valerie dutifully took one of the lemon cakes. The standards of the house changed, she concluded, when the male in question was one of the richest and most powerful in the world.

      Reviews of Valerie’s performance appeared in the London papers over the next few days. All raved over her tone, her technique, and the intensity of her passion. Even her fragile blond beauty was noted. One reviewer waxed lyrical as he wrote of his anticipation of the mature artist unfolding in the pretty child who looked like a Degas painting.

      “Valerie, my angel,” said Maria when she called from San Francisco, where she was on tour. “I’m so thrilled that your reviews are magnificent. One of these days, you’ll be nearly as good as I am.”

      “Thank you, Maria,” said Valerie, flushing with pleasure.

      “That bastard Leon must be happy,” she said, and Valerie could almost see the dark look on her face six thousand miles away.

      “Victor Penn took me to supper afterwards,” Valerie said.

      “Oh, yes?” said Maria, at the other end of the line. “Has he called?”

      “He didn’t even ask for my telephone number,” sighed Valerie. “I’m sure that by now he doesn’t even remember who I am.”

      “It isn’t up to him to remember you,” said Maria. “It is up to you to remind him.”

      “But Maria,” said Valerie, an incredulous tone in her voice, “how do I do that?”

      “We’ll talk about it when I get back to London,” said Maria, her tone imperious. “Men are all such imbeciles. Babies. The most idiotic woman can wrap them around her little finger.”

      “Well, I don’t know about that,” said Valerie slowly.

      “You’ll see, my little one,” said Maria. “Now, a million kisses for your cheeks, and all my love.”

      In the drawing room of the Green Street house, Victor Penn’s long-stemmed red roses, along with all the other flowers sent to Valerie the night of her concert, faded and were replaced with fresh ones by the maids.

      “You haven’t been concentrating the last three times,” Leon Stern said after her next lesson. “Go to a movie. Read a book.” As she gathered up her notebooks, he patted her shoulder. “It’s always like this after a concert,” he reassured her. “You’re tired. It’s natural.”

      But Valerie knew it wasn’t fatigue. It was Victor Penn. She couldn’t get him out of her mind.

      He was waiting for her when she walked down the front steps of the conservatory, her notebooks pressed against her breasts. His arms were crossed in front of him as he leaned against the green Bentley convertible, which shone in the pale sun of the winter day. Its top was down.

      “Hello,” he called, taking a few steps forward as he saw her. “I thought we could drive to the country and have a bit of lunch.” The look on Victor Penn’s face was boyish, imploring.

      Valerie looked up and down the street, expecting to see Bernard turning the corner in the Daimler.

      “I’d love to,” she stammered, “but I have to be home for lunch. Her Ladyship, my aunt—”

      “Oh, I called Her Ladyship as soon as I saw that I had a few hours free this afternoon,” he said, taking her elbow and guiding her into the passenger seat of the car. “She gave us her permission after I promised faithfully I would have you home in plenty of time for tea.”

      Victor threw the big Bentley into gear and guided it into the flow of traffic. Valerie glanced at his profile, watched his left hand pushing the shift through its gears.

      The outskirts of London melted into the countryside with its rolling green fields dotted with black-and-white cows, the occasional horse, the villages with their clusters of thatched-roof cottages, gray smoke curling from their tall round brick chimneys. The icy wind slapped color into Valerie’s cheeks, the tip of her nose, and she was shivering with the cold when Victor, an hour or so later, guided the automobile into a nearly full parking lot next to a charming old country inn framed by graceful trees.

      Valerie was uncomfortably aware of her schoolgirl blouse and sweater, the pleated plaid skirt, her knee socks, as the tuxedoed maître d’hôtel pulled out her chair at their table in a window alcove that looked out at miles of green acres, stands of trees. Victor, she saw when the maître d’ took his overcoat, was dressed for the country in a corduroy jacket, casual trousers. The collar of a tattersall shirt peeked from his crewneck sweater.

      “What would you like?” Victor asked in an intimate voice, glancing up from the menu to look at her. “The stew is superb,” he said. “It’s perfect for a cold day like this one.”

      “Oh, the stew,” she breathed, unable to comprehend that she was actually sitting there with him. “I love stew. I really do.”

      “I rather hoped you would,” he said, smiling. His teeth were straight, and very white.

      “What about a red wine?” he suggested, beckoning for the maître d’. “A Montrachet?”

      “Anything,” she said. “Anything at all.”

      Lights were on all over the neighborhood when, promptly at five o’clock, Victor drew up in front of Lady Anne’s house and hurried around the car to help Valerie out.

      “Wasn’t it wonderful to get away?” he asked, his eyes bright and excited, as they stood facing each other.

      “Oh, yes, Victor,” Valerie agreed, putting out her hand to him, thinking that she hadn’t really gotten away at all. That she had been just where she wanted to be all the time, which was with Victor Penn.

      “Thank you very much for playing hooky with me,” he said, taking her hand.

      “I enjoyed it,” she smiled. “It was the best time I’ve ever had. I felt so free.”

      “You know,” he said suddenly, “you have the most beautiful voice. I can hear your music in it.”

      “Well, thank you,” she said, feeling a sudden flush of pleasure. “I love your voice, too. It’s like, well, it’s like …”

      “Give my regards to Her Ladyship,” he said, dropping her hand.

      “Oh, I will,” said Valerie, taking her cue and starting up the stairs. She turned at the door and waved good-bye to him as he got into the car and drove away.

      Everything has been so orderly, so routine, thought Valerie, all of the years since I’ve been in London.

      Except today.

      With one phone call to Lady Anne, there was no Bernard, no hurried lunch before the cadre of tutors. Victor Penn has set me free.

      The next day, when Valerie got home from the conservatory, there was a large white box addressed to her sitting on the console in the black and white marble entry hall.

      “A chauffeur just brought it, miss,” said Janet, closing the door behind her and helping her off with her coat. “The car was one of those long Rolls limousines. It was very fancy, miss.”

      Flowers from Victor, thought Valerie, feeling a rush of pleasure.

      “Aren’t you going to open it, miss?” asked Janet. “I’m near dying with curiosity.”

      Tentatively, Valerie opened the card, read it, and handed it to Janet.

      “‘She reminds

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