Magic From the Heart

by Barbara Cartland

  Author’s Note

  When I came to live in Camfield Place, I found that there was a huge ancient oak tree in my garden, which had been planted in by Queen Elizabeth I when she was a prisoner at nearby Hatfield House.

  Apparently she rode over from the Marquis of Salisbury’s estate, which borders with mine and shot her first stag in what is now part of my garden.

  Presumably she shot it with a crossbow and, to commemorate her achievement, she planted an oak tree.

  The oak tree is still standing and I learnt that locally it had a reputation of bringing people luck.

  After I had been at Camfield for some time, I arranged for a friend of mine who was making special items for ancestral homes to dip the acorns from the tree in gold and also the leaves.

  Everyone who has received one from me as a personal present has exclaimed with astonishment at the luck that it has brought them.

  I would not like to count how many babies I have produced for people who have despaired of ever having one!

  I was told in Scotland that a couple who had been married for fifteen years were longing to have a child, but, although the doctor had said that there was no reason why they should not have one, it never materialised.

  I gave the wife vitamins and also one of the Magic Oak leaves to wear around her neck.

  Last Christmas the baby arrived amid great rejoicing and she is now the champion baby of the County. I believe in magic of this sort and, naturally my friend, who dips the acorns and leaves from the tree, is a white witch.

  When she was a little girl in Canada, an elderly witch, who was noted for the help and kindness that she gave to everybody, was dying.

  She said to my friend,

  “I am going to give you my powers.”

  My friend, who was very young, said,

  “I don’t want your powers.”

  But the witch replied,

  “You cannot refuse them.”

  She says now that it is quite extraordinary, but, when she does anything for someone she loves and who is a friend, the magic happens and helps other people.

  I have always believed that,

  “There are more things in Heaven and earth,

  Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy!”

  When Queen Victoria opened the State rooms at Hampton Court Palace to the public in 1838, people were horrified.

  They said that it was impossible to let ‘the common people’ into the grand house, as they would wreck it.

  It was not until 1949 that the first Stately Home in England opened its doors to the public for the family’s gain.

  This was Longleat, the magnificent and beautiful Elizabethan house belonging to the Marquis of Bath.

  Chapter One ~ 1879

  “The Countess of Sedgewick, Your Grace!”

  As the butler announced the visitors, the Duke of Dallwyn, who was writing at his desk, looked up in surprise.

  Through the door came a vision in green. Feathers floated above a lovely face that was dominated by two large dark eyes.

  The Duke rose slowly to his feet.

  “Isobel!” he exclaimed.

  The door closed behind her and then he asked,

  “What are you doing here?”

  “What do you think?” the Countess answered. “I have come to see you, dearest Crispin.”

  The Duke moved from behind the desk and, when the Countess held out her hand, he ignored it.

  He walked to stand with his back to the fireplace.

  There was silence before he said in an uncompromising tone,

  “The last time you spoke to me you told me that you hated me and you would never speak to me again!”

  “That is what I said,” the Countess agreed, “but something has happened and that is why I am here.”

  She seated herself elegantly on the sofa, well aware that the light from the window revealed her beauty.

  It had been acclaimed by almost every man in London, and the Duke had been one of her most ardent admirers.

  As she looked up at him, she thought that she had almost forgotten how handsome he was and she could, however, never forget the wild burning fire that had ignited them both.

  Now the Duke was frowning.

  He knew that Isobel Sedgewick would not have come to see him without some ulterior motive.

  He had thought that she was a closed chapter in his past and one that he had no intention of reopening.

  “I have something to say to you, Crispin,” the Countess said after a little pause, “which I think will be to your advantage.”

  “If it comes from you, Isobel,” the Duke replied, “I am quite certain that it will definitely be to my disadvantage and I have no wish to hear it.”

  “Now, don’t be stupid,” the Countess retorted. “I imagine that you are still in debt and that extremely shabby house of yours in the country is falling about your ears.”

  The Duke made an impatient gesture.

  “If it is, it’s no business of yours, Isobel.”

  “That is where you are wrong and, although I never intended this to happen, my business at the moment is also yours.”

  The Duke looked at her and there was an expression of anger in his eyes.

  To his surprise she merely smiled and after a moment she said,

  “You may not believe it, Crispin, after the hard things we said to each other when we parted, but I have always had a soft spot in my heart for you.”

  “Your heart?” the Duke exclaimed. “I very much doubt if you have one and personally I have seen no evidence of it.”

  “Oh, Crispin! Crispin! How can you behave like a petulant small boy instead of what you really are, a very alluring man?”

  The Duke made an expression of exasperation before he said harshly,

  “Let’s come to the point. Why are you here?”

  “I have a proposition to put to you,” the Countess smiled, “which, as I have already said, will be very much to your advantage.”

  “I doubt it, but I am prepared to listen,” the Duke replied.

  The Countess fluttered her eyelashes and pouted her lips in a manner that most men found irresistible.

  The Duke merely stared at her coldly and after a moment she went on,

  “I expect you will remember that Albert has a daughter by his first wife?”

  “I had no idea of it,” the Duke said briefly, “and if he has, what has it to do with me?”

  “Safina is now coming back to England from Florence, where she has been at a Finishing School ever since her father and I were married.”

  “I will not say the obvious, but it was wise of her to keep away,” the Duke remarked with a twist of his lips.

  “She had no choice,” the Countess answered curtly. “But, now that she is over eighteen, they refuse to keep her there any longer.”

  There was a pause and, as the Duke said nothing, the Countess went on in a different tone of voice,

  “You can understand, Crispin, that I have no wish to have a debutante hanging round my neck when I am only a little older than she is, in fact not yet thirty.”

  The Duke still said nothing.

  At the same time there was just the suspicion of a mocking smile on his lips.

  They both knew quite well that Isobel had passed her thirty-third birthday.

  “I have no choice but to present Safina at Court,” the Countess went on, “and naturally Albert is planning to give a grand ball for her.”

  “Then she is obviously a very lucky young lady!” the Duke remarked. “Except, of course, she will be overshadowed by the traditional wicked stepmother!”

  “Do you really think I am wicked?” the Countess countered. “You have called me many things, Crispin,
things I still remember, but you have never described me as wicked!”

  “I would not be surprised at anything you did in order to get your own way!” the Duke answered. “I suppose you are planning to ‘dispose’ of this wretched girl! Is your choice to be the grave or a Convent?”

  “I consider that remark very unkind!” the Countess said as she pouted indignantly. “In fact I have a far better idea, which is, my dear Crispin, that you should marry her!”

  The Duke stared at the Countess as if he could not have heard her aright.

  Then, after what seemed quite a long silence, he asked,

  “Are you joking?”

  “I have never been more serious,” the Countess answered.

  “Then naturally my answer is ‘no’ and there is no need for us to go on talking about it,” the Duke replied. “So I think, Isobel, you should now leave, for we really have nothing more to say to each other.”

  He put out his hand towards the bell-pull.

  Before he could reach it, the Countess said,

  “Wait! I have not finished!”

  “There is nothing more to say,” the Duke retorted. “I cannot imagine how you thought up anything so utterly ridiculous as that I should marry your stepdaughter!”

  He drew in his breath before he continued,

  “If you want the truth, I think it’s just an excuse to come here to taunt me!”

  “You are reacting exactly as I expected you would,” the Countess said disarmingly. “But as I have often said before, you look very handsome, Crispin, when you are angry!”

  She gave a soft, seductive little laugh before she added,

  “I remember how angry you were when you found Edward kissing me? And how delicious it was when I said I was sorry – and you forgave me?”

  Her words seemed almost to float on the air and, when the Duke did not speak, she went on,

  “You could be very brutal when you were jealous! But you have to admit it excited both of us!”

  “Stop!”

  The Duke almost shouted the word.

  “What are you trying to do, Isobel? Why are you raking up the past? When we parted, I told you I loathed and despised you for the way you had treated me.”

  He paused for a moment and then went on,

  “I was foolish enough to believe that, although you were unfaithful to your husband, you would be faithful to me!”

  He blurted out the words as if he were unable to control them.

  Then he said,

  “For God’s sake – go! You have disillusioned me once and I have no wish to even think about you again!”

  “But sometimes you cannot help it,” the Countess said softly, “and, although you will not believe me, it is the same with me.”

  “But, of course, you have plenty of other men to console you,” the Duke retorted. “When they talk about you at Whites Club, I find myself thinking that there is not a man in the room who has not been your lover at some time or another.”

  “It’s an enjoyable idea, but it’s not quite true,” the Countess said. “Be sensible enough to understand, Crispin, that is why I have no intention of sitting on a dais amongst the Dowagers – not, at least, for another ten years!”

  “If you are going to suggest again that I marry your stepdaughter,” the Duke said, “you can save your breath. So goodbye, Isobel. As I said before, I hope I never see you again, at any rate alone.”

  Once again he put out his hand towards the bell-pull, but the Countess said quickly,

  “Wait! I have two more things to say, which will convince you that you are making a mistake.”

  The Duke’s hand halted.

  At the same time he squared his chin and there was a hard obstinate expression on his face, which those who knew him would be aware was ominous.

  “The first reason why you should marry Safina is quite simple,” the Countess said. “She comes into some money when she marries, about thirty thousand pounds. The great bulk of her mother’s fortune will be mine and mine alone for as long as Albert is alive.”

  “I am not interested!” the Duke said coldly.

  “Then you should be!” the Countess replied. “Thirty thousand pounds should pay off most of your debts and the prospect for the future is fantastic.”

  “I have told you I am not interested,” the Duke repeated, “and, as for waiting until Albert is dead, I am quite certain that, witch that you are, he will live for eternity.”

  He spoke with a bitterness in his voice that was unmistakable, but the Countess merely laughed.

  “So now I am a witch!” she said. “You always said I bewitched you, but then, if I remember correctly, I was a Goddess and you worshipped at my feet!”

  “I was a fool!” the Duke admitted.

  “Avery ardent, demanding, authoritative fool!” the Countess murmured.

  “The answer to your proposition is still ‘no’!” the Duke asserted again.

  “You have only heard the first reason why you should accept it,” the Countess then added.

  “And what is the second?” the Duke enquired.

  “I have two letters,” the Countess answered, “which I took yesterday from the secretaire in Yvonne de Mauzon’s boudoir.”

  The Duke stiffened.

  “Two letters?” he asked, incredulous.

  “They were charmingly expressed and, of course, some of the phrases were familiar.”

  “What are you saying and why did you take these letters?” the Duke asked angrily.

  “I thought, dear Crispin, if you were a reluctant bridegroom, as you appear to be, they would be of considerable interest to the Ambassador.”

  There was a silence in the study in which it would have been possible to hear a pin drop.

  The Duke seemed turned to stone and the Countess, watching him, did not move.

  The Duke broke the silence.

  “You would not dare!”

  “I am not exaggerating when I say that I would do anything rather than have Albert’s tiresome brat on my hands.”

  The Duke walked across the room and stood at the window to look out with unseeing eyes.

  He knew that Isobel, when she wished to get her own way, would stop at nothing and she also wanted to punish him for having left her.

  He had discovered once that, when he was away, she had taken to her bed not one, but two of his friends.

  He had believed foolishly that she loved him as much as she was capable of loving anyone.

  It had disgusted him that she could not be faithful for the few days when he had left London because his mother was ill.

  They had quarrelled violently and he had stormed out of the house saying that he would never speak to her again.

  He had loathed her because she had destroyed his love.

  It had all happened a year before and he was well aware of the procession of men who had followed him.

  He himself had found consolation with the attractive seductive wife of the French Ambassador.

  The Frenchman was, however, very different from the ageing Earl of Sedgewick.

  If the Earl had any suspicion of what was going on behind his back, he did not want to know about it.

  He was busy with his position at Court, his duties as Lord Lieutenant of his County and the administration of his very large possessions.

  The Duke was aware, as was everybody else, that his first wife had been extremely rich and her fortune had increased as her relatives died and she inherited their wealth.

  Vaguely the Duke remembered hearing that, because she had adored her husband, she had left him her enormous fortune to do with as he pleased.

  It was not surprising that Isobel, with her scheming mind, was determined to acquire every penny she could before she became a widow and only on the Earl’s death would it go to any children of his two marriages.

  The Duke suspected that Isobel had no intention, because it might spoil her beauty, of producing a child, not even the heir for whom the Earl obviously had
married someone very much younger than himself.

  He needed money, the Duke thought. God knew that was true.

  But he had no intention of selling his title to obtain it or of marrying Isobel’s stepdaughter because she wished to be rid of her.

  But that she intended to blackmail him with letters he had written to Yvonne de Mauzon made the situation quite different.

  It was known to every man in London that the Ambassador was exceedingly jealous and this was understandable considering his wife was not only beautiful but had an indescribable fascination.

  She had only to smile at a man and look at him from under her long eyelashes for him to feel the blood throbbing in his temples.

  The Duke in all his many love affairs had never known a woman so insatiable or so provocative.

  From the moment Yvonne de Mauzon smiled at him with an invitation in her eyes, he had been intrigued and then captivated to the point where he knew he would never rest until he had become her lover.

  They had to be very circumspect, but fortunately the Ambassador was frequently obliged to return to France.

  When he and Yvonne met, he found that the stories about her were not exaggerated.

  The Duke was only waiting impatiently now for her to tell him when it would be safe for them to meet again.

  Set beside her no other woman seemed interesting let alone desirable.

  He knew, however, that he was now caught in a trap. Isobel was closing the door by which there was any chance of escape.

  For the moment, to save himself from destruction, he turned from the window to say,

  “I cannot believe that Yvonne would be so foolish as to keep any letter I wrote to her. You have always been a liar, Isobel, but if, as you claim, they really exist, I wish to see them.”

  The Countess laughed.

  “That is just what I expected you to say and I therefore came prepared.”

  “You have them with you?”

  It flashed through the Duke’s mind that in that case he could take the letters from her and burn them in the fire.

  What had dissolved to ashes could certainly not be held against him and, however plausibly Isobel might describe what had once been in her possession, who would listen?

  She was opening her reticule, which was the same green as her gown.

  She drew out some sheets of paper, which she held out invitingly to the Duke.