Her father must be back by now. She had been too deeply asleep to hear his horse, that was all.
She crossed to the bed, threw her shawl across it, and slipped gratefully beneath the covers. Teeth beginning to chatter, she sought the warming pan that must be lurking at the foot of the mattress. Her feet finally encountered the copper but quickly withdrew. The pan was quite cold.
She curled up on her side and closed her eyes. The owl had stopped hooting. She imagined a rush of wing beyond her window…the squeal of a field-mouse in the orchard…a white-ruffed shape bearing its spoil aloft…and pitied for a moment the tiny creatures that ended the night as prey. Her mind drifted on and she saw the owl rise higher, higher, under the glitter of a distant star…Arcturus the Pathfinder.
Her eyes flew open as she heard the trot of a horse's hooves on the road.
She threw back the bedclothes and ran to the window.
Below, a horse and rider slowly approached the castle. She recognised her father's bent and weary head. Swiftly taking up her shawl, she opened her bedroom door and tiptoed along the corridor. She passed the Duchess' bedchamber and paused for an instant. Yes, she could hear a light snore that indicated her step-mother was asleep. If she could reach the front door before her father pulled the bell, no-one would know he had returned so late. She could not explain to herself why her heart was full of foreboding.
She reached the main staircase and ran lightly down the steps. She tugged open the main door and caught her father dismounting. He stood for a moment with the reins in his hand, staring at the ground. Without a thought for herself, scantily clad on this chill April night, Sylvia hurried down the steps to his side.
Her father looked up in surprise. "M'dear." His face looked so grey, so pinched with cold, that she was alarmed. Something was wrong!
"Papa…come in quickly…just tether up Belami…I'll get him stabled later."
The Duke did as he was told, like a child. He followed Sylvia back into the castle. She was uncertain of where to take him at this hour. Where would be warm? She thought of the great stove in the kitchen and decided to take him there. He trotted meekly at her side.
The stove was still warm and Sylvia pulled a chair up close for her father. She drew up a chair for herself opposite. She knew cook would be up soon to start the baking for the day. She would ask her to prepare her father something warm. Meanwhile she must find out why he looked so stunned.
She leaned forward and rubbed his hands, almost blue with cold, between her own. She noticed that his beard smelled of whiskey and tobacco.
"Papa?"
His eyes, watery and somehow fearful, met hers. "M'dear?"
"You are…home so late. It will soon be dawn."
"Will it, m'dear? I – hadn't noticed."
"What kept you at Endecott till this hour?"
The Duke blinked at her. Suddenly his eyes filled with tears and he gave a moan.
"Oh, we are undone. Completely undone."
Sylvia's heart sank. Although she half guessed the answer, still she heard herself asking the question. "What…has happened, Papa?"
"I was – on a run of luck, m'dear. The others had dropped out – only the Count and myself left – and I had a good hand – I could have sworn – no-one could have had a better – and yet – I lost. I lost."
Sylvia felt that her heart was encased in ice. "How much, Papa?"
Her father could not meet her gaze. "A great deal – yes, a great deal. At least – ten thousand pounds."
Ten thousand pounds! Sylvia could not speak. She sat back and stared at the floor. Ten thousand pounds. How would her father ever repay the Count?
She looked up as she heard a strangled sound. Her father's chest heaved as he tried to repress a sob. A wave of pity flooded through her. Her father looked so tired and ill. She must get him to bed before the Duchess rose. That would at least spare her father himself from having to tell his wife the bad news. She, Sylvia, would tell her step-mother everything at breakfast.
She gently took her father's arm and helped him from the chair. He seemed to have lost all sense of strength and purpose. She led him from the kitchen and up the servants' staircase to his room. She helped him off with his boots and then he fell fully clothed into bed. He began snoring almost immediately. Sylvia drew the cover over him and crept from the room.
She had no idea of what would happen now to her family and to Castle Belham.
*
The Duchess raised her arms and Polly nervously dropped the silk dress over her mistress's head. Polly was all fingers. She had never dreamed that she would be one day elevated from humble housemaid to ladies' maid, and she was not sure she liked it. She didn't like handling all these expensive things, silk and satin and voile, gold plated hairbrushes and delicate tortoiseshell combs. Suppose she tore something or broke something? The Duchess was so finicky too and always scolding her for no reason. She'd have much preferred to be back at her old duties, where she at least had company.
"Now hand me my stockings, Polly," ordered the Duchess.
Polly glanced round anxiously. Where had the laundry maid put the clean stockings this morning? Were they there, in that blue basket? She took out a soft, white pair and handed them to the Duchess, who sat on the bed. At least her mistress didn't expect Polly to pull up her stockings for her! The Duchess drew one half way up her leg and then gave a cry.
"Oh, Polly, there's a hole in this! Did you take it from that basket? Everything in there is to go for repair. My clean stockings are in the chest of drawers."
Sullenly, Polly marched over to the rosewood chest of drawers and, opening the top drawer, took out an embroidered stocking bag.
There was a knock at the bedroom door.
"Mama?"
"Is that you, Sylvia? Come in, do."
Sylvia entered. She looked pale and there were circles under her eyes. She had not been able to sleep at all since her father's return in the early hours of the morning.
"Sylvia, you look perfectly dreadful. Are you sick or something? Polly, that pair will do – the grey silk pair, thank you."
Sylvia sat on the end of her stepmother's bed. "I'd like to…talk to you," she said. "In private."
The Duchess regarded Sylvia sharply and then turned to Polly. "Polly, you may go for the moment. I'll finish dressing myself."
Polly bobbed a curtsey and, with an almost baleful look at Sylvia, left the room.
"Now, what is troubling you?" asked the Duchess.
In a low voice Sylvia told the Duchess about the Duke's night at Endecott. She had barely finished speaking when the Duchess leapt to her feet with her hands to her face.
"Oh, this is a disaster! How could he! How could he! We are ruined beyond all hope of rescue. How will we ever find you a husband?"
"I assure you, that is not my main concern at the moment," said Sylvia. "I am worried about Papa. He is not himself."
"Not himself?" The Duchess looked flushed and angry. "Oh, he's himself all right. Losing at cards is a favourite pastime of his. Why did I ever let him go to Endecott?"
"Why did the Count ever invite him?" mused Sylvia. It was a question that had troubled her all morning.
"Oh, don't you go blaming it all on the Count," cried the Duchess. "He is above reproach. He did not force your father to play, I'll be bound."
"He may have been well aware that he didn't have to," countered Sylvia. "He may have heard the gossip at the casinos about the Duke of Belham's habit."
"I won't hear such nonsense! All the man did was issue an innocent invitation. No, no. It's your father's fault. To think that when I married him I was considered a lucky young woman!"
Sylvia said nothing. The Duchess had not been so young when she married the Duke and coming as she did from impoverished landed gentry, there had been no reason in the world not to think her lucky. She had certainly enjoyed spending her new husband's money.
The Duchess stood wringing her hands. "Ten thousand pounds! We'll have to sell the London house."
Sylvia lowered her eyes. Obviously her father had not told the Duchess that it was already on the cards, long before his most recent and ignominious loss at cards.
"What are we going to do, what are we going to do?" wailed the Duchess. "I can't – I simply can't – be poor." Suddenly she wheeled on Sylvia. "You must appeal to his good nature."
"Whose?" asked Sylvia, bewildered.
"Why, Count von Brauer's!" said the Duchess impatiently. "He obviously admired you. He said you would make a pretty picture in his garden."
"I think he might admire me ten thousand pounds less now," observed Sylvia dryly.
"Nonsense, nonsense!" cried the Duchess. "You must ask him to defer the repayment. Use your charms. Buy some time."
Sylvia thought dully that buying time would buy them nothing. The debt would still have to be paid eventually. However she said that she would think about speaking to the Count herself when the moment came.
The moment came sooner than she expected.
She and the Duchess were sitting at breakfast – neither of them eating much beyond a slice of toast – when Tompkins entered the dining room to tell them that Count von Brauer had called and awaited the Duke in the library.
The Duchess, flurried, dropped her napkin. "Oh. He's here – already. Summon the Duke, Tompkins."
Tompkins glanced at Sylvia before replying, "the Duke is still asleep, my lady. I opened his curtains at nine o'clock, but seeing him dead to the world I drew them again. I believe he had a very late night. His horse was tethered outside the door instead of in the stable."
Sylvia realised she had forgotten all about poor Belami.
"Still asleep?" repeated the Duchess. "Well, you must wake him."
Sylvia recalled the confused state of her father the night before. Wishing to spare him further scenes of humiliation for now, she made up her mind.
"Tell the Count that I will speak to him," she said.
The Duchess clasped her hands together. "You will?
Oh, that is marvellous!"
Sylvia sighed. She did not believe for an instant that the Count's admiration for her would over-ride his interest in calling in the debt.
"I must run and put on a dress," said the Duchess, who was still in her morning gown. "Tompkins, will you send me up Polly?"
Tompkins hesitated. "I'm afraid, Your Grace, that Polly seems to have run off.'
"Run off?" echoed the Duchess. "Why on earth! Oh, drat the girl. I'll have to train up one of the others. Send me Jeannie."
Tompkins bowed and left the room.
"I had better go and confront the Count," said Sylvia, rising.
"One moment!' The Duchess hurried over to her. That strand of hair is too loose – see – let me tuck it up. And your cheeks – far too pale. I'll give them a pinch."
Sylvia submitted to her step-mother's ministrations without a word. Soon there was a spot of red on each cheek and her hair, that she had not yet styled, was arranged neatly behind her ears. She turned and walked to the door.
"Do your best," urged the Duchess, sinking back down into her chair.
Sylvia walked quietly along the corridor to the library. She did not knock but pushed open the door and entered. The Count was standing with his back to her, examining the books arrayed on a shelf in one of the bookcases. He turned when he heard her step. His eye ran almost insolently over her figure and she suddenly wished she were wearing something with a higher neckline.
"Lady Sylvia," he exclaimed.
Sylvia swallowed and held out her hand. The Count took it and raised it lingeringly to his lips.
"Would you…care for some tea?" asked Sylvia, withdrawing her hand in as polite a manner as she could.
"Thank you, no," replied the Count. "I was hoping to speak to the Duke."
"My father is…still resting." Sylvia felt her voice begin to tremble. "I do not want to disturb him. I believe he had…a most distressing time last night."
"Well, that's his version," shrugged the Count.
Sylvia was shocked. "His version? Are you saying…he distorted the facts?"
The Count raised his hand and started to twirl his moustache between thumb and forefinger. "If I remember correctly – the Duke ate a pound of wild salmon and half a lobster. Consumed half a bottle of good Scotch. Smoked four or five excellent cigars. And held a damn good brace of cards for most of the game. Does that sound like a distressing evening to you?"
"No doubt he was enjoying himself at first," said Sylvia. "But all that changed when…"
"When his luck ran out? The Count shrugged. "My dear young lady, the Duke is a practised hand at the card table. He knows the score."
"He plays until he loses it all!" cried Sylvia. "That is his pattern. Everybody knows that."
"Everybody?"
"Yes. Everybody who frequents the casinos, the clubs. My father's weakness is legendary. We have kept him away from the casinos recently, but now…"
Here Sylvia had to break off for fear that she would begin to sob.
"But now he owes me a considerable sum of money," ended the Count with a cool smile.
"Yes," whispered Sylvia, lowering her eyes.
"And you want me to show a little mercy, do you?"
Sylvia gave a brief nod. She could not bear to speak or beg in any way. She sensed that the Count was enjoying his position of power.
"Look at me," she heard him say. Slowly she raised her eyes. The Count's gaze was cold and calculating as he spoke. "Do I look like the kind of man who would choose to wave away a ten thousand pound debt?"
"N…no," replied Sylvia. "But that is not what I was going to ask…"
"You," snarled the Count, "are in no position to ask for anything."
Sylvia was stung for a moment but she took a deep breath and went on. "I only wanted to…to plead that you…do not call the debt in all at once. It would cripple my father."
The Count gave a satisfied nod. "Yes. I had rather suspected that."
Sylvia stared at him. "Then why…why did you invite my father to Endecott…why did you let him play, if you knew that he was already in trouble?"
"I had my reasons," said the Count with an insinuating smile.
Sylvia sank down onto a sofa. "I do not…understand."
The Count stood above her, gazing down. "Perhaps I can strike a bargain with the Duke."
Sylvia looked up quickly. "And not call in the debt immediately?"
"I mean not call it in at all."
Sylvia knew better than to think the Count intended an altruistic act.
"What would you hope for…in return?" she asked slowly.
"Oh, that is simple to answer," said the Count. "You."
Sylvia recoiled in dismay. "M…me?"
"Yes," said the Count.
"Y…you mean…be your mistress?"
"Oh, come, come," laughed the Count. "Surely you do not think so ill of me as that?" He took up his whip, which lay across a small table, and stood stroking its length thoughtfully. "Strange as it may seem, I am proposing marriage. You have no dowry to speak of but – you, er – please my eye. And you are spirited. I like to tame – spirited young women."
Sylvia rose to her feet in consternation. "Really, Count. That is…that is hardly a recommendation."
With a sudden move the Count pressed the point of the whip against Sylvia's throat.
"I do not need a recommendation," he hissed. "You have only to consider your father's position. The sums are simple. If you do not accept me, he is utterly ruined."
He gave her a quick, icy smile and stepped away as the voice of the Duchess was heard in the corridor. "Sylvia, Sylvia – I don't know what to do with your father. He's insisting on getting out of bed, but I fear he is not well."
The Count turned to the door as the Duchess came hurrying through. She stopped short when she saw him.
"Oh, Count von Brauer! I thought perhaps you had gone."
The Count bowed. "As you can see, I am still a captive, Duchess.
"
The Duchess's eyes flew anxiously from the Duke to Sylvia. "Have you – can we – resolve the problem?" She waited a moment, and then when there was no answer began to wring her hands. "Sylvia – Count von Brauer?"
The Count gently tapped his whip against his thigh. "If by problem you mean this matter of the debt, why yes, I believe we have found a way to resolve it."
The Duchess brightened. "Yes?"
The Count inclined his head. "Perhaps you should ask your step-daughter what the choices are."
The Duchess wheeled on Sylvia expectantly. "Well, my dear?"
Sylvia slowly crossed to the window and looked out at the green lawn, across which strolled two white geese. She wondered dully where they had come from.
"WELL?" The Duchess was impatient.
"Count con Brauer has suggested," said Sylvia quietly, "that he will cancel the debt on condition that I agree to be his wife."
The Duchess reeled back, her hands pressed to her bosom. "His wife? He has asked you to marry him?"
"Yes."
"I would also insist," said the Count quickly, "that Sylvia and I take up residence in Castle Belham immediately we were married. I've taken quite a fancy to the place and look forward to spending money on improvements."
"Oh," said the Duchess weakly.
"I would encourage you and the Duke to return to London until the works are completed," went on the Count, his eye on the Duchess.
The Duchess fell into an armchair. She seemed to be gasping for air. "This is too much – too much. All our difficulties solved – with one blow!"
Sylvia turned with a gasp. "Mama! You mean…you agree?"
"Dear child," cried the Duchess. "Look at the advantages! A prestigious marriage – a debt cancelled – the castle restored to its former glory! And I can return to London. Oh, the Count is most generous, indeed he is. Why, here is the Duke. He will surely be delighted."
The Duke had entered slowly on the arm of Tompkins. Sylvia caught her breath when she saw her father. His hair was dishevelled, he was unshaven, his skin was a grey colour and his shirt was unbuttoned at the neck. When he saw the Count, he drew away from Tompkins and advanced unsteadily.
"You need not think, sir, that I intended to hide in my chamber, while you were here. My servant did not wake me this morning – that is all. Believe me, sir, I am a man who always honours his debts."
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