A Duel With Destiny

by Barbara Cartland

  “I would like some more wine,” he said.

  ‘One glass is all you are allowed,” Rowena answered.

  “Nonsense!” he said. “I am thirsty and I require another glass. Pour it out for me.”

  Rowena almost obeyed him and then changed her mind.

  “You must ask my father,” she said. “As far as I am concerned, I carry out the doctor’s orders, not yours.”

  He smiled in a manner that made her feel uncertain of herself.

  “You are punishing me,” he said, “because I allowed Lotty to have my pigeon. Stop being a dictatorial Amazon and give me another glass of claret.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  “Then I shall get out of bed and fetch it myself!”

  “You would not dare!”

  “Are you certain about that?” he enquired.

  Their eyes met and she had the feeling that it was a battle of wills and then, having an uncomfortable conviction that he would do what he said, she capitulated.

  “Very well,” she said. “Have it your own way and if you have a splitting headache tonight don’t blame me.”

  “Surely you know that a patient should always be humoured?” the Marquis asked.

  He was watching with satisfaction as she filled his glass from the cut-glass decanter that his valet had brought with the wine from Swayneling Park.

  Rowena did not answer and the Marquis said,

  “Why the silence? I am used to your trying to cap every remark I make, so I feel quite worried when you don’t reply.”

  “I am keeping my thoughts to myself because I do not think you are well enough to hear them,” Rowena answered.

  The Marquis smiled.

  “That’s more like it! Now bring me my wallet.”

  “I have kept an account of what I consider you owe my father,” Rowena said. “Do you wish to see it?”

  “Naturally!”

  She opened a drawer, took it out and brought it to the bedside.

  He read it slowly and then he exclaimed,

  “My dear girl, this is ridiculous! Do you really imagine that I value your father’s services at less than half what I pay my vet for looking after my horses?”

  “Papa will be quite content to receive that amount.”

  “I will pay your father later what I consider he is worth,” the Marquis said. “Again what you charge for my board and lodging is quite absurd!”

  “It is more than I have ever asked of anyone else,” Rowena replied and then she smiled. “In most cases that was too much.”

  The Marquis drew some notes from his wallet.

  “Here is twenty pounds,” he said. “And let me make this quite clear. This is for the housekeeping. My debt to your father I will settle with him personally.”

  Rowena took a step backwards almost as if he had struck her.

  “Do you – really think I would accept such a – large sum for you?” she asked.

  “You have no alternative,” he replied, “and, if you are going to be difficult about it, I shall merely send my secretary to put a deposit in your name with the local tradesmen.”

  “You will do no such thing!” Rowena cried angrily, “and let me make it quite clear, we are not asking for charity, my Lord.”

  “I am asking for luxuries,” the Marquis replied. “You said I needed to build up my strength. Very well, I require legs of lamb, sirloins of beef, plump chickens and a number of other things, many of which, now I think of it, can be procured from my own home.”

  “We will not accept them!” Rowena cried.

  “You disappoint me,” the Marquis said. “I had begun to think that you could be quite a good businesswoman. Instead I see you are merely a humbug, feeding the rich at the expense of the poor for some obscure and quite unjustified pride, which in reality is something you simply cannot afford.”

  “How dare you speak to me like that!”

  But Rowena knew as she spoke that, while she might try to oppose him, they needed everything that the Marquis was prepared to offer them.

  Because it would be of benefit to the children she would in the end capitulate and he would have his own way.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Can I come in?” a voice whispered from the doorway.

  The Marquis turned his head a little to see Hermione peeping in at him.

  “Yes, come in,” he replied.

  “Rowena will be annoyed if she finds me here, but I wanted to show you my new gown.”

  The Marquis had suffered a relapse a few days ago and Sir George had come from London again to prescribe complete quiet.

  “It’s only a fever,” he told Dr. Winsford, “and it is what might be expected. I am quite certain that there is nothing wrong with him that rest and quiet cannot cure.”

  The Marquis, however, felt extremely ill. His headache had returned and he was glad when the medications he took made him sleep deeply, unconscious of everything including his pain.

  When he was awake, he was aware that Rowena had again become the soft gentle person she had been when he first came to consciousness after his accident.

  He found himself listening for the sweetness of her voice and waiting for the softness of her arm when she lifted his head so that he could drink.

  But now he was better and he smiled at Hermione as she advanced towards the bed, obviously very conscious of the pretty new muslin gown she wore.

  It was, the Marquis saw with an experienced eye, of a cheap material, but the periwinkle blue matched the vivid blue of her eyes and was a perfect frame for the purity of her skin.

  He thought, not for the first time, that Hermione would be sensational in a year or so if she was properly gowned and presented to the Social world.

  But he had learnt by this time that there was no possibility of this ever taking place.

  He could not help feeling that it was rather sad that these beautiful girls should be incarcerated in the small village of Little Powick where nobody would ever see them.

  While Rowena and Lotty were outstandingly lovely in a classical manner, Hermione’s beauty hit one almost with the force of a sledgehammer.

  Rowena’s fair hair was so pale that it almost had silver lights in it, but Hermione’s was positively and vividly gold.

  Rowena and Lotty’s eyes were the soft blue of a thrush’s egg, while Hermione’s were the deep blue of gentians so vivid that one felt almost blinded by them.

  ‘How could an ordinary country doctor have produced such exquisite creatures,’ the Marquis wondered as he had done a dozen times before.

  “Do you like it?” Hermione asked anxiously.

  She was standing by his bedside in her new gown and now she pirouetted round so that he could see her from every angle.

  “You look very attractive,” the Marquis said, “but I expect you are aware of that already.”

  “I want you to think I look pretty,” Hermione said with a little glance at him from under her eyelashes, which would undoubtedly, the Marquis thought with amusement, have made a younger man’s heart stop beating.

  “Did you make it yourself?” he enquired.

  “I did a great deal of it,” Hermione replied proudly. “Rowena cut it out for me, but I sewed all the seams and arranged the frills around the neck and sleeves.”

  She gave a little sigh.

  “I wish someone would ask me to a party. There are never any parties in Little Powick.”

  “What about the County? Surely there are people outside the village?” the Marquis asked.

  Hermione smiled at him.

  “You know as well as I do,” she said, “that the County families are very puffed up with their own importance. If they give a ball or a Reception, the children of doctors don’t qualify.

  The Marquis did not reply because he knew that this was true.

  “When the old Squire was alive,” Hermione went on, “Papa and Mama were asked to dinner once a year. Papa used to hate going, but Mama would laugh and say that his evening clo
thes enjoyed the outing!”

  The Marquis remembered that this was how his father had treated their local doctor. If he had had any children the Marquis could not remember them, but he was quite certain that they would not have resembled the Winsfords in any way.

  “Mama used to say that everyone should have a hobby,” Hermione announced, obviously following the train of her own thoughts.

  “And what is yours?” the Marquis enquired.

  “Drawing pictures of beautiful gowns!” Hermione replied. “What I would like to do, if I had the chance, is to design gowns that could be made up by an expensive dressmaker.”

  “I should have thought that was a rather good idea,” the Marquis commented.

  “I need lessons,” Hermione said with a sigh, “it’s very difficult to know if what you do is right or wrong without a teacher.”

  “Surely you are being educated?” the Marquis enquired.

  “Of course we are!” Hermione replied. “Mama was very insistent on that, but Papa can only afford to pay for subjects that matter, like history, geography, arithmetic, which I hate, and English literature.”

  “Is that an essential subject?”

  “Rowena thinks it is. She said we would be very ignorant if we did not read and we must try to develop a critical faculty.”

  “And you think you are doing that?” the Marquis enquired with a smile.

  “I would much rather be drawing,” Hermione replied, “but when I suggested it to Rowena she said ‘no’.”

  “Rowena also said that you were not to come into this bedroom!” a voice said from the doorway.

  Hermione started round guiltily.

  “She came to show me her new gown,” the Marquis explained. “I have been admiring your joint handiwork.”

  “You have to keep very quiet,” Rowena said, “and, as you well know, I have told the children to keep out of this room.”

  “That was yesterday,” the Marquis said. “Today I feel much better and I am sure that it is bad for me to brood alone.”

  Rowena brought him a glass of homemade lemonade.

  He took a few sips of it and handed it back to her.

  “I would like a glass of champagne this evening. Will you tell Johnson?”

  Rowena looked doubtful.

  “I shall have to ask Papa first.”

  “It’s a waste of time,” the Marquis retorted. “You know as well as I do that he will agree to anything that makes me feel better.”

  “Very well, I will tell your valet when he returns,” Rowena said a little stiffly.

  Hermione looked at the Marquis with a light in her eyes.

  “Has Johnson gone to Swayneling Park?” she asked. “If so, perhaps he will bring back some more of those luscious big peaches.”

  “Hermione!” Rowena exclaimed.

  “I shall be very annoyed if he does not bring back fruit and vegetables and anything else you require,” the Marquis said.

  “You are very kind,” Rowena came in, “but we must not impose on you.”

  “I need them for my own consumption,” the Marquis said, “and I hope tonight that I shall be allowed a proper dinner. I am very tired of the slops you have been feeding me for the last few days!”

  “You know you were allowed nothing else while you had a fever,” she replied.

  “I am not really complaining,” he answered, “but actually I feel quite hungry.”

  “You are better, much better!” Hermione said in an excited voice. “That means we can come in and talk to you. It has been awfully boring having to tiptoe past your room when there were so many things we wanted to ask you.”

  “What did you want to ask?” the Marquis enquired.

  “That is quite enough, Hermione!” Rowena interposed. “Run along now. His Lordship has talked for long enough.”

  She saw the disappointment on her sister’s face and added,

  “Perhaps if he is not too tired you can come back later and say goodnight to him.”

  “I want to stay and talk to him now,” Hermione insisted.

  “We were talking about hobbies,” the Marquis said to Rowena. “Your sister informs me that she wishes to be a dress designer.”

  “She is just as likely to jump over the moon,” Rowena said crossly.

  “Mama said everybody should have a hobby,” Hermione repeated defiantly. “What is yours, my Lord?”

  “As a matter of fact I have a hobby that I enjoy very much,” the Marquis replied. “I wonder if you can guess what it is?”

  “Is it something to do with horses?”

  “No.”

  He looked at Rowena.

  “I am sure whatever it is,” she remarked, “it’s very expensive and undoubtedly personal.”

  “It is not particularly expensive,” the Marquis replied, “but it is certainly personal and I find it absorbing.”

  “What is it?” Hermione asked. “Do tell us.”

  “Genealogy,” he replied.

  Hermione looked blank and the Marquis turned to Rowena as if challenging her to explain.

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that it has to do with one’s ancestors.”

  “That is correct,” the Marquis said. “It is the history of the origins of one’s family.”

  “Does it mean that you are making your Family Tree?” Hermione asked. “There is a picture of one in one of the history books I am reading. I think it is of King Charlemagne.”

  “A very good example,” the Marquis replied, “and mine, as a matter of fact goes back before William the Conqueror and includes no less than four Kings.”

  “I call that a very exciting hobby,” Hermione enthused.

  Rowena said nothing and the Marquis, looking at her profile, said,

  “I feel quite sure that in your practical mind, Rowena, you consider my preoccupation a waste of time.”

  “I imagine, my Lord, you have a lot of time to waste,” Rowena replied, “but here in this house we are more concerned with the living than the dead.”

  “That is exactly what I expected you to say,” he remarked and she felt annoyed that she had not thought of something more original.

  She did not know why, but the moment the Marquis was better again they seemed to fence with each other, engaging in a duel of words which was at times stimulating, at others slightly embarrassing.

  There was something about the Marquis that made her want to fight him.

  It was, she told herself, not at all the attitude that she should take towards a patient and yet, when he was not in pain, asleep or unconscious, she found his air of superiority extremely irritating.

  He was so sure of himself, he looked so distinguished and authoritative and she felt somewhat resentfully that he had become the centre of attention for the whole of her family.

  When they were all together, Hermione, Mark and Lotty could talk of nothing but the Marquis and she was well aware that Hermione not only thought of him but dreamt about him at night.

  Mark had lessons most of the day, but no sooner had he returned to the house than he had a hundred questions to ask about their illustrious patient.

  If one of the Marquis’s horses was in the stable, he would fling down his lesson books and rush out to see it.

  Once the Marquis had discovered how poor they were, the food that was brought to the house was a delight that they had never known before.

  On his instructions not only chickens, young turkeys and pigeons arrived daily from Swayneling Park but also lamb and mutton from his own sheep and beef from his own oxen.

  Lotty and Mark could not get over the enormous size of the peaches from the greenhouses or the baskets of grapes, nectarines, greengages and plums.

  These arrived in such profusion that Rowena’s store cupboard in the kitchen, which was usually empty, was now filled with jams, chutneys and preserves that she and Mrs. Hanson made before the fruit could go bad.

  Mrs. Hanson recovered very quickly from her resentment at having another mouth to fe
ed when a kitchenmaid from Swayneling Park came over to help her and not only prepared the vegetables but was also ready to scrub the kitchen floor.

  It was only Rowena who felt resentful that the Marquis seemed to have taken over the house.

  His valet and the kitchenmaid arrived in the morning and left in the evening bringing with them the great hampers of food in a landau.

  Mr. Ashburn, the Marquis’s secretary, also called every day and never left without asking Rowena if there was anything she wanted for his Lordship’s comfort.

  As he too exuded an aura of superiority and gave the impression that he did not consider the surroundings suitable for his Master, Rowena with difficulty prevented herself from replying that the one thing she really wanted was that the Marquis should remove himself to his own home as soon as possible.

  But this she knew neither her father nor the specialist would permit.

  She could not help feeling, however, that the Marquis’s disruptive influence would make it very hard to return to normal once he had gone.

  ‘He is spoiling the children for the life they will have to lead in the future,’ she thought to herself.

  Now, because she wished to prick the balloon of his self-importance, she said,

  “I should have thought that your Lordship would have found something more active to do than delving into dusty manuscripts to see which of your antecedents produced an all-important son to carry on the name.”

  “I am not alone in my hobby,” the Marquis replied. “Julius Caesar for instance, boasted of his descent from Aeneas, who doubtless you will remember was not only a Trojan hero but also the son of Aphrodite.”

  “Do you really expect me to believe that Aphrodite ever existed?” Rowena enquired.

  “I think perhaps you and Hermione are living proof of that,” the Marquis replied with a twist of his lips that was undoubtedly mocking.

  “I want to know about genealogy, tell me about it,” Hermione begged. “If you find it interesting, it must be.”

  “Thank you,” the Marquis replied.

  Rowena thought that, because he felt it would annoy her, he began to explain to Hermione how genealogy had started with epic poems like those of Homer and the Nordic Sagas and had even been significant in Greek history in the fifth century.