A Duel With Destiny

by Barbara Cartland

  “There is nothing they do not expect of you,” she would say. “It is time that lazy Vicar took some of these people off your hands.”

  “They trust me,” Dr. Winsford had replied gently. “I must not fail them, Rowena.”

  As she went upstairs carrying her father’s tea on a neatly arranged tray, she thought that now her mother was dead her father immersed himself even more completely in his work than he had done before.

  She was sure that it was because when he was working he did not have to think about the wife he had lost, who had left an aching void in his life that no one, not even his children, could fill.

  Rowena knew that he was fond of her and relied on her, but no one, however willing, could take her mother’s place and, as far as her father was concerned, when she had died, the light had gone out of his life.

  It had all happened so swiftly and, Rowena often thought, unnecessarily.

  It had been a hard cold winter and her mother had developed a cough, which persisted despite the fact that they tried various home-made remedies.

  The house had been cold since they could not afford much coal and money had been so short that they had not always even had enough to eat.

  Looking back when it was too late, Rowena was certain that her mother deprived herself so that her husband and children could have the lion’s share of everything there was.

  Her cough had grown worse until suddenly they found that she had developed pneumonia and, without the strength to resist it. she had died suddenly to leave her family shattered by the blow.

  “If everybody had paid you what they owed,” Rowena said bitterly after the funeral, “I am sure Mama would be alive today.”

  Her father had not answered and she would not worry him any further.

  But Rowena decided with a determination that made her thrust out her small chin that never again would she allow patients who could afford it to get away without paying their bills.

  The local notabilities, and there were not many of them, were astonished to receive letters written by Rowena in her elegant hand setting out how many attendances her father had made on them and asking that he should be paid as soon as possible.

  When this failed, she did not hesitate to arrive in person.

  “I must say, Miss Winsford,” the butcher’s wife said acidly, “your father has never harassed us like this in the past.”

  “With the result, Mrs. Pitt, that we often go hungry,” Rowena replied.

  The butcher’s wife was astonished.

  “Do you really mean that, Miss Winsford?”

  “I am sure your husband will tell you, Mrs. Pitt, that we have not ordered any meat for the last week,” Rowena replied, “and that is simply because we have not the money to pay for it.”

  The butcher’s wife had paid, as had several other well-to-do residents of Little Powick, but the majority of her father’s patients had not a penny to bless themselves with.

  Although Dr. Winsford actually spent more time on them than on the well-to-do, Rowena treated them as objects of charity.

  Sometimes, however, she could not help thinking that charity should begin at home, especially when she contemplated her extremely scanty wardrobe and the fact that she had to spend every moment of her spare time making clothes for her sisters and brother.

  She opened the door of the bedroom and carried in her father’s tray of tea.

  He had his shirtsleeves rolled up and was just putting the sheets and blankets back over his patient.

  “I have brought you some tea, Papa.”

  “Thank you,” Dr. Winsford replied absent-mindedly.

  “He is bad?” Rowena asked.

  “Bad enough,” the doctor replied. “I fancy that there are two or three ribs cracked and his stomach is bruised, but it is hard to tell what may have been damaged inside.”

  “Have you any idea who he is?”

  “Yes. His groom told me. He is the Marquis of Swayne.”

  “The Marquis of Swayne?” Rowena repeated with wide eyes. “Surely he lives at Swayneling Park, that huge house near Hatfield?”

  “That is correct,” Dr. Winsford answered.

  “What are you going to do about him?” Rowena enquired.

  “His groom, who was not injured, is driving home to tell them what has happened. I expect he will have a secretary or someone who will get in touch with us, although I am sure that he should not be moved until he has been examined by a specialist.”

  “A specialist?” Rowena exclaimed. “Where do you think we can find one around here?”

  “Doubtless they will send to London,” Dr. Winsford replied. “I imagine that it will not be an extravagance where the Marquis is concerned.”

  He smiled at his daughter as he spoke and the smile illuminated his thin face.

  He had been an exceedingly handsome man and those who had known him in the past could understand why his children were all so outstandingly good-looking.

  “Don’t look so worried, my dear,” Dr. Winsford went on. “I am quite certain that the noble Marquis will not trouble us for long and quite frankly the sooner he is in expert hands the better!”

  “I doubt if it will be better for him, Papa,” Rowena answered. “You know as well as I do that you have what the old women call ‘healing fingers’ and I doubt if any specialist would be able to do more for him than you can.”

  “I wish that were true,” Dr. Winsford replied, “but I am well aware of my own limitations.”

  *

  The Marquis lay with closed eyes and wondered where he was.

  He felt very weak and tired, but the fog that had seemed to fill his head and prevent him from thinking had cleared and he was aware now that there was someone in the room.

  It was a person who walked very quietly and he thought that he had been aware of her presence for some time, but it had been impossible to concentrate.

  As he thought about it, he felt an arm slipped under the back of his head, and he was lifted very gently, to feel the edge of a cup against his lips.

  “Try to drink a little,” a soft voice said.

  Almost automatically he responded to the voice and felt that this was not the first time he had obeyed it.

  What he swallowed tasted sweet and delicious and because he realised that he was thirsty and his throat hurt he drank a little more.

  “That is very good,” the voice said approvingly. “Now go to sleep again and I will bring you some beef tea a little later on.”

  “Why cannot I have some beef tea?” someone asked.

  The Marquis was aware that it was the high-pitched voice of a child.

  “Lotty, how often have I told you, you are not to come into this room?” the first voice asked.

  “But I like to look at him.” Lotty replied defiantly, “Hermione says he looks like a fallen gladiator. I think she’s in love with him!”

  “You are not to talk such nonsense! Go downstairs at once and neither you nor Hermione are to come in here again. Is that understood?”

  “I think you are very selfish, Rowena, to keep him all to yourself,” Lotty objected. “We want to look at him too.”

  “Go downstairs at once!”

  There was a note of authority in Rowena’s voice which apparently had its effect, because the Marquis heard the patter of feet down the stairs and Rowena, whoever she might be, crossed the room to close the door.

  Very slowly, half-afraid that the mere action of raising his eyelids might start up again the pain in his head that the Marquis recalled as being intolerable, he opened his eyes.

  He saw, as he had expected, that he was in a strange room and that he was lying in a strange bed.

  Standing by the washstand, washing the cup that he had recently drunk from, was the slim figure of a woman.

  She had her back to him and, remembering the softness of her voice and the gentleness with which she had raised him, the Marquis found himself waiting for her to turn so that he could see her face.

 
; She dried the cup and set it down on the saucer with an infinitesimal amount of noise and then she placed the cloth on a towel rail and turned towards him.

  He had somehow expected her to resemble her voice, but was not prepared for what he saw and thought for one second that she must be a hallucination due to concussion.

  Nearing his bed was a girl, she was obviously little more, who was lovelier than anyone he had seen for a long time.

  She was concentrating on her thoughts and her large eyes, which seemed almost to fill her thin face, were not really looking at him until she reached his side.

  Then, as her hands went out to tidy the sheet which had been disarrayed while he drank, she saw that he was looking at her and stood still.

  “You are awake?” she questioned.

  She did not wait for his reply but said quickly,

  “Don’t try to talk. You have been unconscious for a long time, but now I think you can hear me. There is no reason to be worried or afraid. You are in good hands.”

  Despite her instructions the Marquis managed to speak although his voice sounded strange and hoarse.

  “Where – am I?”

  “You are at Little Powick where you had an accident.”

  Rowena paused as if to let this sink in.

  Then she said,

  “No one was hurt except you and I am sure that you will want to know that your horses, although frightened, were not hurt or injured in any way.”

  “I am – glad to hear that, but – who are – you?”

  “I am the doctor’s daughter, Rowena Winsford.”

  “Doctor – Winsford?” the Marquis repeated as if he were trying to recollect the name.

  He saw the smile that illuminated Rowena’s face.

  “You will not have heard of us,” she said, “but your specialist, Sir George Seymour, came from London to see you. He said that there was nothing wrong with you that would not mend itself, but he utterly refused to have you moved.”

  As Rowena spoke, she saw the Marquis’s eyes close as if he was weary.

  “Go to sleep,” she suggested softly. “There is nothing to trouble you. You will be well enough to go home in a few days.”

  *

  The Marquis sat up in bed with difficulty and regarded the tray that had been set down in front of him.

  “I don’t like pigeon!” he said positively.

  “I am afraid there is nothing else,” Rowena replied. “Chickens are expensive and you had beef yesterday.”

  “If he does not like pigeon,” came a voice from the door, “can he have my Shepherd’s pie? I love pigeon – so does Hermione!”

  The Marquis turned his head to see Lotty, whom he knew well by now, looking at him pleadingly from the door.

  She was with her large eyes and fair hair a replica of her older sister. But while Rowena’s face was thin to match the extreme slenderness of her body, Lotty was round and plump and looked, the Marquis thought, rather like one of the carvings of a small angel in a Bavarian Church.

  He was not however to be diverted from his train of thought.

  “Why is chicken too expensive?” he asked.

  “Because we don’t the money to buy it, my Lord,” Rowena replied.

  “Are you telling me that I am not paying for my keep?” he enquired.

  “You have not been in a fit state until now for me to ask you for money,” Rowena replied.

  “Then why did you not ask my secretary? He is here often enough.”

  “I never thought of it,” Rowena said frankly.

  “Then why the devil did he not offer it?” the Marquis questioned irritably.

  “He brought you some fruit, which we could not have afforded to buy and the wine, which Papa does not really approve of your drinking until your head is better.”

  “I suppose it never crossed his mind that you could not afford to buy every luxury,” the Marquis said almost as if he spoke to himself. “Anyway, I have some money with me.”

  “It is here, my Lord, in the drawer of the dressing table.”

  “Then bring it to me.”

  “Your food is getting cold,” she answered, “and I suggest you eat first.”

  The Marquis looked towards Lotty.

  “I think I would rather have the Shepherd’s pie.”

  “I will fetch it for you, I will fetch it at once!” Lotty cried.

  “No, wait!” Rowena called, but it was too late.

  Already her small sister was halfway down the stairs.

  “If you interfere with my housekeeping arrangements,” she said to the Marquis, “I shall send you home immediately, whatever the doctors say!”

  “You have bullied me long enough,” the Marquis answered, “I shall stay here just as long as it suits me and you know as well as I do that your father will not turn me out!”

  “My father has plenty of patients besides you!”

  “But not such important ones!” he said with a smile.

  “I consider that a very conceited remark,” Rowena replied. “Where suffering is concerned, to Papa all men are equal.”

  “But, as you are aware, some can afford to pay,” the Marquis answered.

  There was no answer to this and Rowena pressed her lips together to prevent herself from replying in what she felt would be an undignified manner.

  She had already found that since the Marquis was better he could be extremely obstinate and often challenged her in a manner that she found annoying because she considered it undermined her authority.

  Lotty, she told herself now as she heard her younger sister coming up the stairs, would not have dared a week ago to demand pigeon when she was supposed to be eating Shepherd’s pie.

  Now she came into the room carrying it on a plate and handed it to the Marquis.

  ‘Thank you,” he said. “That looks very appetising.”

  “May I have your pigeon?” Lotty asked almost breathlessly.

  “With pleasure!” the Marquis replied.

  She took the plate from his tray.

  “Half for me and half for Mark,” she said. “Hermione has already eaten her Shepherd’s pie, so she will not want any.”

  The Marquis picked up his fork while Lotty went downstairs again carrying the pigeon carefully in both hands.

  “I would like to point out,” Rowena said, “that we are trying to build up your Lordship’s strength. There is far more nourishment in a pigeon than there is in a Shepherd’s pie, which consists mostly of potato.”

  “I presume,” the Marquis said, “that it has been made from what was left of the meat that you gave me yesterday?”

  “I am astonished you should know what ingredients constitute a Shepherd’s pie,” Rowena replied. “I am quite certain that you have never been obliged to eat one before.”

  “I find it surprisingly appetising,” the Marquis replied, “and now, as I am no longer hungry, let’s get back to the subject of money.”

  “Not until you have eaten your junket,” Rowena said.

  She brought the dish and a plate from the top of the chest-of-drawers as she spoke.

  “It is good for you,” she said as she set it down in front of him, “and there are some fresh raspberries from the garden to go with it.”

  “You are quite certain Lotty does not want those?”

  “Lotty is greedy and you are not to encourage her.”

  The Marquis took a spoonful of junket, which he could not remember eating since he was a boy, and found it very palatable.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he asked.

  “There is nothing to tell,” Rowena answered. “You have seen us all by now and you must be aware that we are an ordinary doctor’s family living quietly in a small village with no excitement except what is provided by bad driving on the main road.”

  The Marquis’s eyes flashed for a moment as if he suspected that she was deliberately trying to needle him.

  Then he said,

  “You certainly don’t look like an ordinary d
octor’s family.”

  Rowena smiled.

  “I think Hermione is going to be a beauty. Already the choirboys find it almost impossible to sing when she is in Church!”

  “I agree with you,” the Marquis said, “and you, if you came to London, would certainly stop the traffic in Piccadilly!”

  Rowena looked at him as if she thought that he was making fun of her. Then, seeing the expression in his eyes, she said quickly,

  “You must not try to turn our heads, my Lord, and please don’t flatter Hermione. She is romantic enough to think that she is in love with you and, when you have left, I shall have a difficult time making her settle down again to her lessons and good works.”

  “Is that the only future you envisage for the poor girl?”

  “What else is there?” Rowena asked almost defiantly.

  She had found that ever since the Marquis had arrived in their home he had proved a very disturbing influence.

  It was impossible for her not to be positively aware of him, both by day and by night, not only because she waited on him but also because he had brought into their house something that she had never known before.

  It was like a blustery wind blowing through the small rooms or finding the blinding sun in one’s face when one least expected it.

  Even while he was unconscious he had been, she thought, distinctly masculine.

  Now that he was awake she could talk to him, argue with him and there was something about him that challenged her.

  She thought that he infuriated her with his calm assumption that he was of such extreme importance that the whole world must be prepared to bow and do his bidding.

  She also found it impossible not to feel that he was condescending in staying with them when he owned huge grand houses where he would be far more comfortable.

  His secretary called to see him driving in a curricle drawn by horses so fine that it made Rowena feel breathless even to look at them.

  His valet who came over every day to attend to him increased Rowena’s knowledge of the Marquis’s vast possessions and the distinguished place he held in Society, which at the same time made her feel more and more insignificant.

  The Marquis drank the glass of claret that stood on the tray.