The Goddess and the Gaiety Girl

by Barbara Cartland

  Larentia was suddenly aware that she was sitting while the Duke was standing, and as if he read her thoughts when she made a little movement as if she would rise, he lowered himself on to the grass beside her.

  She felt he had something to tell her, and she waited, her eyes on his face, thinking how clear-cut his features were and how she had already seen his face a hundred times in the portraits which hung on the walls of the Castle.

  “There was a Sir Justin Garon who built this castle,” she said impulsively. “Do you sometimes feel as if he is still here?”

  She was not certain why she asked the question, it came to her lips without her considering what she should say.

  The Duke turned to look at her and after a moment’s hesitation he replied,

  “Perhaps that is over-simplifying what I actually feel about Sir Justin and my other ancestors who have lived here. I am certainly vividly aware of the atmosphere they have left behind them.”

  “That is what I feel too,” Larentia said. “I am sure they were good because there is nowhere in the Castle that I have been where I have sensed either evil or anything malignant.”

  The Duke did not look surprised, instead he said quietly,

  “Do you always feel an atmosphere as clearly as that?”

  “Very often,” Larentia replied.

  She was thinking as she spoke of what she had felt when she visited Oxford with her father and he had shown her around the ancient Colleges redolent with history, and in Cambridge King’s College Chapel, which remained a vivid picture of beauty and sanctity.

  Once he had given a lecture to a number of scholars in the British Museum and afterwards she felt as if many of the exhibits spoke to her in a way that only her father would understand.

  “I think perhaps you must be of Celtic origin,” the Duke said with a smile. “The Celts, especially the Irish, the Scottish and the Welsh are often ‘fey’, and have developed their senses in a way the English have lamentably failed to do.”

  “You have just spoken as if you were a Celt yourself.”

  “My mother was Irish,” the Duke replied, “and my grandmother Welsh. I sometimes think their perception is constantly at war with the plain common sense of my English forebears!”

  Larentia laughed.

  “Who wins the battle?”

  “At the moment,” the Duke replied, and his eyes were twinkling, “the Celts are definitely victorious.”

  They sat talking for perhaps half an hour, and Larentia asked the Duke to tell her the legends of his family.

  She found he told them well, actually making her see the past come alive so that she felt that they suffered all the ambitions, anxieties and the disappointments of ordinary life as if he was feeling it himself.

  Then as she talked with an ease that she had never known before in the company of a stranger, she saw a servant walking towards them across the lawn.

  The Duke saw him too and gave a little sigh.

  “I am expecting one of my neighbours to visit me this afternoon,” he said, “and I must go back, but I hope that tonight you will dine with me.”

  Larentia looked at him in surprise and he explained,

  “I am afraid my aunt does not feel very friendly towards you. She has therefore informed me that as both the news of her brother’s death and his secret marriage has upset her, she wishes to retire to her room and will not join me again.”

  The Duke waited and after a moment Larentia said in a low voice,

  “I would – like to dine with Your Grace – if you are – sure it is the – right thing for me to do?”

  “It is what I wish you to do,” the Duke answered, “and we could not only continue our conversation which I have greatly enjoyed, but also discuss, as I know you would wish to, your future.”

  “Then I should very much like to dine with Your Grace,” Larentia replied.

  The Duke smiled down at her, then he walked away to join the footman.

  He was obviously informed that the visitor had arrived, and he strode towards the entrance door into the Castle. Once again Larentia thought he might be a Knight obeying an urgent summons to ride off and right a wrong.

  *

  That evening as she was putting on the only evening gown she possessed, she thought it would be exciting, if she were not pretending to be somebody else, but could be herself, to be dining alone with a man.

  It was something she had never done and she wondered what her father would think if he knew what she was doing, or indeed where she was.

  Even though she could talk of other things she knew that some part of her was all the time praying that his operation would be successful so that when she returned to London she would find he was on the road to recovery and they could be together again.

  He had, of course, been curious as to who his benefactor might be.

  “I can only think, Papa,” Larentia had said, “that Dr. Medwin must have talked to somebody who talked to somebody else, and one of the people who admire you for your work in Mediaeval History has decided to do the generous thing.”

  “It is extremely kind,” the Professor had said, “so kind that when I am home again I must make every effort to discover who this ‘Good Samaritan’ is, and of course, although it will be difficult, to repay him.”

  Larentia did not reply that that would be impossible, and she took great care not to let her father know exactly what the fee had been.

  When he had asked she merely told him vaguely that Dr. Medwin had arranged it with Mr. Sheldon Curtis and all they need concern themselves with was that he was to be operated on by Joseph Lister’s pupil, the most skilful surgeon in the whole of London.

  “As you know, I have always admired Lister tremendously,” the Professor said with satisfaction, “and I am certain that in the future he will be acclaimed as the great man he undoubtedly is.”

  “And you will be one of the people who will be able to testify to his success in preventing sepsis,” Larentia said and knew that her father was delighted at the idea.

  When she was dressed and looked at herself in the mirror, she did not see for the moment her own reflection, but instead her father’s face pale with pain, trying not to let her know the agony he was experiencing.

  ‘I should be with him,’ she thought.

  She told herself that somehow by the end of the evening she had to persuade the Duke to give her the money and let her go back to London.

  Because she was thinking only of her father, she had no idea how becoming the very simple white gown she had made herself was, when she was wearing it.

  It was a very cheap material that fitted her closely, and billowed out behind in a very small, but nevertheless fashionable bustle that she had copied from one of the sketches in a magazine.

  She thought it was extravagant of her to spend even the few shillings the material had cost when they were so hard up.

  But she had nothing to wear in the evening for her father, who always changed for dinner, and she knew it distressed him to see her in shabby and threadbare garments and to feel it was his fault that she could not afford to be better dressed.

  She had, therefore, stitched away diligently until the gown was finished and because it was made on almost classical lines, a tight bodice outlining her small breasts and tiny waist, the skirt drawn back to reveal the curve of her hips, she looked to the Duke even more than ever the embodiment of Diana, as she walked into the salon where he was waiting.

  Then as she looked at him she gave an almost inaudible gasp.

  She had seen her father in evening clothes, and the audiences to which she had occasionally read his lectures when he was unable to read them himself had for the most part been wearing evening dress.

  But scholars were one thing and the Duke was certainly another.

  While he was impressive enough in the daytime, in the evening he had a grandeur that made Larentia feel that he came from another sphere.

  She walked slowly towards him, and then when
he smiled she made a respectful curtsy, which gave her a grace that he expected.

  “What have you been doing all the afternoon?” he asked.

  It was almost as if he forced himself to speak to her in an ordinary manner, but his eyes resting on her hair said something very different.

  “I have been – reading and – thinking, Your Grace.”

  “That is what I would have liked to be doing with you,” he replied, “but unfortunately I had to listen to a long, rather aggressive dissertation on local politics.”

  “I expect somebody was asking you to put forward the farmers’ claims in the House of Lords,” Larentia said perceptively.

  “That is correct,” the Duke admitted, “but I did not expect you, living in London, to know about country problems.”

  With difficulty Larentia prevented herself from telling him that when her mother was alive, they had not lived in London, but in Hertfordshire where they had a small house in a quiet village, which had been a perfect place for her father to write his books without being disturbed.

  It was only when her mother had died that her father had come to London, because when he was lecturing and researching in the Libraries and Museums he had not liked to leave her alone.

  “I still prefer the country,” Larentia said, after a little pause.

  “And yet you have chosen a life that is exactly the opposite of such an inclination,” the Duke said accusingly. “In the country, as you know, we go out in the daytime and go to bed early, and you do the very opposite.”

  It was almost as if he was accusing her of being unfaithful to her own heart and after a moment Larentia said,

  “There are reasons why I do not want to explain what I do, so let us talk about you, Your Grace, and your Castle.”

  “We spoke of that this afternoon. I think it is my turn now to ask you about yourself.”

  “No – please,” Larentia pleaded.

  To her relief at that moment dinner was announced. They dined in the big dining room as the Duke had not yet arranged for the meals to be served in the smaller room he preferred which had been shut up for some years. Larentia was fascinated by the huge room, the beauty of its arched ceiling and the carved musicians’ gallery at one end of it.

  She felt as if she was acting a part in a play, and what frightened her was that she might make a mistake in her lines and make the Duke suspicious that she was not what she pretended to be.

  Because she knew he was interested she told him stories of King Arthur that he did not know, and they argued as she might have argued with her father, as to the validity of the French sources.

  These, for some reason she had never understood, had included since the 12th century, many Arthurian tales in circulation.

  Only when the servants had left the room and the Duke was sitting back in his carved chair, a glass of brandy in his hand, did he say,

  “I am bewildered, Miss King.”

  “Why?” Larentia enquired.

  “That seeing your unusual, extraordinary knowledge of Mediaeval History and your familiarity with both French and Welsh, you choose to earn your living on the stage.”

  Because she had forgotten for the moment that she was not herself, Larentia looked at him and tried to find a plausible answer.

  It took her some seconds before she managed to say,

  “I do not think that – anything we have – talked about tonight – is particularly saleable.”

  “On the contrary,” the Duke argued, “I am sure there are many historians who would welcome with open arms, an assistant, or a secretary, who knows as much as you do about their work.”

  Larentia longed to inform him that he was wrong. Most historians like her father were too impoverished to afford a secretary and any work she did for such men would have to be given free.

  She did not speak and after a moment the Duke said,

  “I suppose it is because you are so beautiful that you feel you need the plaudits of the crowd, rather than the appreciation of one writer.”

  He saw the surprise in Larentia’s eyes at the compliment.

  Then she looked away to say,

  “It is not – easy for a woman to – earn money in what is very much a – man’s world.”

  “That is as it should be,” the Duke said, “for a man surely should keep a woman and, if it were possible, no woman should have to work.”

  “Even when this Castle was built,” Larentia said, trying to speak lightly, “there were women who worked in it whether they were scrubbing and cleaning, sewing or looking after children.”

  “Yes, of course,” the Duke agreed, “but they did not look like you!”

  The way he spoke brought the colour to her cheeks and to his surprise he saw that she was shy.

  He bent forward first to put his glass down on the table, before he said,

  “Many men must have told you how lovely you are, but I feel this is exactly the right setting for your beauty because here I can imagine you have just stepped into Camelot.”

  What he said made Larentia feel even more embarrassed than she had before, and because she felt that somehow she ought not to sit listening to him she replied quickly,

  “I think perhaps Your Grace I am at fault in not leaving you – now that dinner is finished.”

  “There is no point in your leaving me,” the Duke said, “and I do not wish you to do so, but I think we might return to the salon.”

  Larentia rose quickly to her feet and he opened the door for her and they walked in silence down the wide corridor. Then they reached the salon where candles were lit making the huge room seem even lovelier than it did in the daytime.

  There was a fire burning in the grate and Larentia moved towards it to hold out her hands towards the flames.

  “You are cold?” the Duke asked.

  “My fingers are cold.”

  She knew that really she was nervous, and yet it was not a frightening nervousness, but an exciting one and something she had never encountered before.

  It made her feel tinglingly alive because he was beside her, and she was acutely conscious of him as a man.

  “I am behaving stupidly!” she told herself, “because previously I have never been in such a position.”

  But she knew it was far more than that, something that it was hard to put into words and yet was indisputably an emotion that vibrated through her, that seemed to come from him and link her to him.

  The Duke stood close beside her.

  She was aware that he was looking at her hair, and because she felt as if he was speaking to her without words, she said,

  “I – I feel you are – criticising me.”

  “I am admiring you!” the Duke said firmly. “Do you object?”

  “It makes me – shy.”

  “How can you be shy? You intrigue me, Larentia, and I am beginning to think that you have cast a spell over me from which it is difficult for me to escape.”

  “If Merlin were here he would tell you how to do so.”

  “But he is not here,” the Duke replied. “Therefore I am in your thrall.”

  Larentia tried to laugh, but her eyes could not meet the Duke’s.

  Then as she wanted to move away from him she was unable to do so.

  “Look at me, Larentia!” the Duke said unexpectedly.

  Because there was a note of command in his voice she obeyed him and as their eyes met he said very softly,

  “Why are you so mysterious? Tell me the truth about yourself!”

  Larentia knew she should say that she had told him the truth, and yet somehow the lie would not come to her lips. Instead some words she had been reading this afternoon came insistently to her mind, almost as though the Duke spoke them aloud.

  “While thus he spake, his eye dwelling on mine Drew me, with power upon me, till I grew one with him to believe as he believed.”

  “One with him!”

  She could not take her eyes from the Duke’s and she knew that his power drew her
and she was in fact his prisoner whether she wished it or not.

  Very slowly, almost as if it was a movement that was part music rather than a human volition, the Duke put his arms around Larentia and drew her against him.

  Their eyes still looked into each other’s and she was hardly aware what he was doing or whether he or she had moved.

  She only knew that she was one with him and it was something she had been in the past, would be in the future, and nothing could prevent their coming together.

  He drew her closer still, then his lips were on hers and he felt the little quiver that went through her and knew it vibrated within himself.

  To Larentia it was more powerful, a dream that she had felt enveloping her since they had talked together outside the keep and she had found it impossible to be free of him, even when he was not there.

  Now as his lips touched hers she was kissed for the first time in her life and thought it was as she had expected it to be.

  The surrendering of herself to a man who dominated her because he was a man, and who took not only her body, but also her soul into his keeping, and she could not prevent him from doing so.

  She knew it was not only the Duke who held her captive. It was also the mystery of the Castle and the Knights who had lived in it, and the legendary magic, which had remained within it all down the centuries.

  It was all there in the strange rapture he aroused in her that she felt pulsating through her and knew it was what she had felt when she had read of King Arthur himself, his deeds of valour and heroism.

  The Duke drew her into a mystical world that she had always sensed, yet had never been fully a part of, until now.

  Because it was so perfect and was, to her, the finding of the Holy Grail that she had sought and longed for, she felt that he carried her up to God and they were no longer human, but divine.

  The Duke’s lips became more insistent, more demanding, and yet there was a kind of reverence that she had always known must be the real love if ever she found it.

  It was the love she had imagined and which had been expressed in the Arthurian legends, and yet now was real, as real as she was herself, and as real as he was.

  At the same time he was all her secret dreams rolled up in to one perfect man.