Stars in the Sky

by Barbara Cartland

  "Of which there are many, I believe," observed the Count coolly.

  "What? Many? Why, sir, that's of little consequence I – will pay them all, sir, even if I have to sell everything I own."

  "He is not asking for that," said Sylvia with sudden bitterness. "All he is asking is that you…sell your daughter."

  Count von Brauer glanced at Sylvia, amused. Meanwhile the Duke appeared bewildered.

  "Sell – my daughter?"

  "Oh, that's just Sylvia having a little fun," cried the Duchess quickly. She rose and bustled over to her husband. "Only think, my dear. The Count has asked for Sylvia's hand in marriage. Far from expecting a dowry he has offered to pay all the repairs to the castle. We are saved."

  "S – saved?" The Duke looked slowly round the room. "Saved?"

  The Count turned to Sylvia with a triumphant gleam in his eye. "Well, Lady Sylvia. It seems that my suit meets with some favour. All it needs now is your own consent."

  Sylvia shuddered under his gaze. Her eye fell on the whip which he held close to his side. No, it was impossible, she could not wed this man. A fleeting image crossed her mind…the garden at Lady Lambourne's…a masked man kneeling before her, his strong hand around her ankle as he slipped a satin shoe onto her foot…his gentle voice. And the stars! The wonderful, glittering stars that night.

  How, after having encountered a man like that, could she ever marry this odious, leering Count von Brauer.

  "I…cannot!" she gasped. "I…cannot."

  She began to back towards the door, her eyes haunted.

  The Duchess giggled nervously. "She is overcome, that is all. Don't you worry, Count von Brauer. All she needs is a little time and then she will favour you."

  Reaching the door, Sylvia turned and stumbled through. Her step-mother's voice echoed in her ears as she ran.

  "All she needs is a little time."

  All the time in the world could not bring her to favour the Count!

  *

  The next few days were a torture for Sylvia. Her stepmother seized every opportunity to press the case for marrying the Count. Sylvia felt trapped. The weather was terrible, rain teeming down from morning to night, so there was no chance of riding out on Columbine. If she stayed in her room, the Duchess would seek her out, crying and cajoling. The Duke said very little. He seemed in a daze half the time and Sylvia had no desire to punish his mind any further.

  When the Duchess urged him to entreat Sylvia to accept the Count, he shook his head stubbornly. "No, no. The child must choose for herself," he said. In the end the Duchess gave up raging at her husband and sent for Sylvia's sisters.

  Edith and Charlotte arrived the very next day. They lost no time in adding their voices to the argument.

  "Just consider," said Edith. "What is your position if you don't accept? Who else will marry you?"

  "I don't care if no-one else marries me, I just don't want to marry him," replied Sylvia.

  "You were always too finicky for your own good," sniffed Charlotte. "But if you don't marry, who is to keep you? Father and mother? Why, if things go on as they are, they will end up in the poor house."

  "They won't!" cried Sylvia. "I would never let that happen. I would work."

  "Work!" exclaimed her sisters in horror. "A lady cannot possibly work!"

  "Times are changing," said Sylvia. "There are female teachers and nurses. Look at Florence Nightingale."

  "But you're a Belham!" howled her sisters.

  "Belham or not, I would sooner be a chimney sweep than see Papa and Mama go without. And anyway, surely you could help them? Surely your husbands would help them out?"

  Edith and Charlotte looked at each other.

  "They are reluctant to intervene, they have their own families to think of, both of us are expectant mothers and besides, there is now a perfectly good alternative."

  Sylvia turned away, her hands over her ears. She was in despair but determined not to succumb to such pressure.

  After supper everyone retired early. Sylvia went to bed and lay in the dark, unable to sleep.

  'I'll count stars in my head,' she thought idly. 'That's far better than sheep.'

  At that moment a terrible scream rent the air. It came from the Duke's room, just below Sylvia's, and she started up in terror. Without waiting to throw on a robe, she flew out of the room and along the corridor. Out of the corner of her eye she saw doors opening and sleepy heads peering out. "What's going on?" called Edith as she passed.

  "It's Papa," shouted Sylvia.

  She ran on, down the stairs, along the corridor. The Duchess met her at the door to the Duke's room, her face white with terror.

  "I c..came in to say g..good-night and f..found him on the floor," she stammered. "He won't say a word, he's just staring into space. T..Tompkins has sent for the d..doctor."

  Sylvia raced in to the Duke. The Duchess had been unable to lift him onto the bed, so he sat propped against a chest of drawers. His skin had a bluish tinge to it and he was barely breathing.

  Sylvia found herself praying. 'Please, God, don't take Papa away from me!'

  Edith and Charlotte appeared. With her sisters' aid Sylvia was able to manoeuvre her father onto the bed and lay him down. She tenderly drew the quilt over him and then they waited.

  Two hours later the doctor turned away from the bed where the Duke lay and regarded the three sisters and their step-mother gravely.

  "A nervous collapse," he said. "I believe he has been under a great deal of mental stress recently. It has taken its toll. His heart is weak. He needs rest and no more worry."

  Edith and Charlotte fixed angry eyes on Sylvia.

  "You see," said Edith. "You see! If you had accepted the Count three days ago, this wouldn't have happened. Papa could have stopped worrying about money!"

  Sylvia burst into tears.

  "Hush, now, hush," said the Duchess. "There's no use scolding about the past. It's the future that is the problem."

  "Indeed it is," nodded the doctor, glancing at Sylvia. "His mind is not strong at the moment. He cannot take much anxiety."

  Edith, Charlotte and the Duchess all pursed their lips. Sylvia looked from one to the other wildly. Then she looked at her father, lying so deathly still and pale in the bed. She alone had the power to remove all care from his shoulders. She alone could ensure that his health and strength returned.

  With this knowledge, her fate was sealed.

  She hung her head and spoke in a voice so low that the Duchess had to strain to hear.

  "You may tell the Count that I accept, Mama. Tell him that I agree to be his wife."

  As the Duchess clapped her hands and the two sisters hugged each other for joy, Sylvia slipped quietly and disconsolately from the room.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  A pale sun struggled to shine as Sylvia rode up the avenue that led to Castle Belham. There was barely a sound. Just the drip of rain from wet leaves, or the odd sucking noise as her horse drew a hoof up from the muddy ground.

  That morning, after what had seemed like weeks of bad weather, the skies had finally cleared. This had decided Sylvia to accompany her sisters' coach as far as the gates of the estate. She said good-bye to them there. Now that they had, as they thought, achieved their purpose, now that Sylvia was going to marry 'that fine looking fellow, the Count,' Edith and Charlotte were in magnanimous mood. They chatted to her merrily and begged to be matrons of honour.

  "You must come up to London to choose your trousseau," urged Edith.

  "And we insist that you are god-mother to our babies!" cried Charlotte. "Won't the next year be great fun!"

  "It's a pity you're not going to have a coming-out, of course," sighed Edith.

  "Now, now, getting married is coming-out enough!" said Charlotte, with a warning glance at Edith.

  They could not but notice that Sylvia was quiet and downcast and it piqued their consciences a little. They tried to reassure her. After all, they had not married for love. They had married for security
and look how well it had turned out. Admittedly Edith was happier when her husband was abroad on diplomatic business and Charlotte never minded when her husband spent the night at his club but nothing was ever perfect.

  Sylvia listened in silence.

  The last three days had passed in a dull haze. The Count was informed of her decision, but Sylvia would not see him for the present. The Duchess made her excuses, saying that Sylvia was distraught at her father's illness and in no mood for company. The Count bowed and said he would await a summons from his fiancée, but that he was anxious for the marriage to take place as soon as possible. The Duchess demurred – she had visions of a splendid, county wedding and that required time to plan.

  Eventually a compromise of the end of June was agreed. This set the Duchess in excited motion. She sent for her own wedding dress from London, where it lay under tissue in a trunk. It was a beautiful dress of white beaded satin and she was sure it could be altered to a more fashionable style for Sylvia. She started lists – gifts and guests and gourmet food.

  Try as she or the sisters might, however, they could not interest Sylvia in the details. She stared listlessly at materials for a veil, patterns for altering the dress, ideas for the wedding breakfast. Let the Duchess decide, she said. She did not care.

  She tried harder with her father. When the Duke took her hand as she sat at his bedside and asked if she were happy she nodded brightly.

  "Oh, yes, Papa, wonderfully."

  "Good, good," said the Duke, closing his eyes. "He's a rich fellow, anyway. You'll want for nothing."

  As her father drifted into sleep, Sylvia gazed at his face. The lines of worry that had creased his brow were smoothing out, colour was returning to his cheeks.

  Her sacrifice was not in vain.

  This was the thought that comforted her as she waved off her sisters and turned her horse for home.

  She broke from the trees. The castle was now visible, its spires seeming to pierce the sky. She reined in Columbine and sat for a moment, savouring the air, which almost tasted of damp grass.

  She tried to imagine herself living at Castle Belham with the Count. No doubt they would occupy the large bedroom that had once been her parents' room, when her own mother was alive.

  The idea made her tremble.

  The castle that she loved so much suddenly looked empty, friendless.

  She glanced up at the sky. Tompkins had said that the break in the weather was temporary. Storms were forecast for later. But the sky, though grey, was smooth as slate. There was no sign of ominous dark clouds.

  On an impulse Sylvia turned her horse to the left and rode towards the open fields. No-one would be seeking her out this morning. She could ride free until lunch time.

  Her spirits lifted as Columbine cleared the low bushes that bordered the estate to the west and galloped on towards the heath. Columbine's hooves threw up clods of damp turf. Sylvia laughed aloud as her hair streamed behind her.

  She turned to the east and made for the estuary.

  After weeks of virtual imprisonment in the castle, after all the unhappy dramas of the last few days, Sylvia felt carefree again. She meant to return to the castle for lunch but she lost track of time. She felt neither hunger nor fatigue and Columbine seemed as high spirited as herself.

  She rode to the mouth of the estuary and the house with its stone towers that stood there on the promontory. The garden of this house sloped steeply down to the water's edge. It seemed an ideal spot.

  As she sat there she saw a coach drive out from the stable yard. The coach drew up outside the entrance to the house. Two figures emerged from the house, a man and a woman, both wrapped in cloaks. They climbed into the coach and it set off along the road to the west. It was probably going to the town of Sheringham, along the coast.

  The sight of the cloaks made Sylvia realise that the wind had changed. It had developed a keen, cold edge to it. She shivered. It was surely time to return.

  She rode along the estuary. The wind sent waves scudding along its surface. She pulled up the hood of her cape and bent her head against the stinging air.

  Suddenly Columbine reared to a halt. Sylvia grasped at his mane as she was thrown forward. Her hood fell back as she righted herself in the saddle and looked ahead.

  Count von Brauer sat astride his large bay horse, blocking Sylvia's way forward.

  "I called at Castle Belham," said the Count. "They have been most anxious about you since you did not appear for lunch. I said that I would ride out and find you."

  "And so you have," said Sylvia through gritted teeth.

  "Yes," replied the Count. "And so far from home!"

  Sylvia narrowed her eyes. "You knew I might be on this road. You have…waylaid me here before."

  "Waylaid?"

  "There was a mist. It cleared a little and you were sitting there on that horse. Why did you not make yourself known? Why did you disappear?"

  The Count hesitated for a moment and then shrugged. "Let us say I was too shy to introduce myself."

  "Shy!" exclaimed Sylvia.

  "Ah!" sighed the Count. "You persist in holding an unfavourable opinion of me. You cannot imagine that an admirer, who had been following you for some time should find himself unable to approach the woman he adored." He looked at her with an almost mocking air and then continued. "Were you frightened?"

  "Yes," said Sylvia. "I was. But I think it pleases you to know that. I think you like frightening women."

  The Count's eyes narrowed. "That is an accusation you may make only when you know me better. And you will – know me better."

  Sylvia's eye moved unwillingly to the whip that the Count held, resting lightly across the neck of his horse. The Count followed her gaze and gave a cold smile. "You guess that – I will discipline without hesitation – those creatures that are under my charge."

  Her heart beginning to pound, Sylvia spoke in a low voice. "I wish to go home now."

  "To Castle Belham? Oh, but they are not expecting you there. The Duke and Duchess have agreed to drive to my house at Endecott for supper."

  "My father…is not well enough to visit anyone," cried Sylvia in dismay.

  "Did you see him this morning?" asked the Count quickly.

  "N..no," admitted Sylvia.

  "He is remarkably improved. He said he was looking forward to dining with us."

  "Us?"

  "I said I would take you straight to Endecott when I found you."

  Sylvia felt at that moment as if she could not breathe. "How could they be sure…you would find me?"

  For a second only, the Count faltered. "Why I said I knew for certain – which way you had gone. Your tracks in the mud – "

  Sylvia shrank into her cloak. She had no desire to ride on with the Count to his house at Endecott. As if reading her thoughts, the Count tried to speak in a gentler tone.

  "Look about you. Rain is on its way and Endecott is much closer than Belham."

  Sylvia gazed around. It was indeed true that black clouds were moving swiftly in from the sea, whipped on by the wind.

  Leaning quickly forward, the Count took hold of Columbine's rein.

  "Come," he said. "I will lead you on. Your parents will have left Belham by the time you arrive there. Why cause them a moment's more worry than is necessary?"

  Cold and hungry now and convinced at last of his argument, Sylvia allowed herself to be led towards Endecott and its avenue of elms.

  *

  The clouds opened before they reached the house. The stable boy ran forward to take their mounts, while the Count ushered Sylvia into the dark entrance hall of Endecott. The Count then went to the end of the hallway to call for his valet.

  A maid came forward from the shadows to take Sylvia's cape. Sylvia eyes widened when she saw who it was.

  "Polly!"

  "That's right."

  "Why did you…run off without a word?"

  "I suppose I can go where I like without permission, can't I?" scowled Polly. "I liked
the look of the Count, so I thought I'd ask him for work. I don't have to find no stockings or do up buttons here."

  Sylvia said nothing more as the Count returned.

  "Show my – fiancée – to the red room, there's a good girl, Polly. She can freshen up there," said the Count.

  Polly made a face when she heard Sylvia referred to as 'fiancée'. She flounced up the stairs ahead of Sylvia and led her into a room whose walls were painted a deep blood red. A large canopied bed took up most of the space. Sylvia noticed that a huge fire was set in the grate.

  "Perhaps you will light the fire, Polly?"

  "I'm not your maid, you know, miss," sniffed Polly.

  Sylvia turned away. Polly spoke out of turn but Sylvia was not sure that the Count would listen to complaints about her. Sylvia had a suspicion that he might rather enjoy his fiancée's discomfort.

  She dropped onto the stool before the dressing table and stared at herself. Being engaged did not suit her at all, she thought wryly. She looked wan and her eyes had none of their one time sparkle.

  She took up a brush that lay on the dressing table and began to brush the damp hair back from her forehead. After a moment her hand dropped to her side. She bowed her head before her listless image and wept silently.

  She was roused by the sound of hail clattering at the window. A blinding white flash lit up the room and simultaneously lit up her startled, white face in the mirror. A moment later came the deep, brutish growl of thunder.

  In the glass she saw the door behind her open and Polly leered in.

  "Your fiancé says you're to come down for some tea."

  "I'd rather wait here until my parents arrive," said Sylvia quietly.

  "What makes you think they're coming here?" asked Polly with genuine surprise.

  "Why, the…the Count said they were expected."

  "First I've heard of it," snorted Polly.

  "He may well not have informed you. Perhaps he informed the cook."

  Polly snorted again. "I'm the cook."

  "Y..you are?"

  "There's only me, the valet, and the stable boy. And a woman who comes to clean but she's under my instructions," said Polly haughtily.