Stars in the Sky

by Barbara Cartland

  Sylvia felt sick with apprehension. If her parents were not coming to Endecott tonight, then the Count had lied to her. The question was, why?

  "Anyway, you're to come down," said Polly, bored now with the situation.

  Almost in a daze, Sylvia rose and followed Polly down to the drawing room.

  The Count was lolling in a large wing chair before the fire. He did not rise when Sylvia entered but merely gestured at her to sit opposite him. She sat, desiring to wait until Polly had left the room before she spoke. Polly seemed to dawdle over the tea things, which stood ready on an occasional table. She even started to hum a tune. The Count watched Sylvia with an amused expression.

  At last Polly brought over the tea and poured out each cup. She then turned her nose into the air and left the room. No sooner had the door closed behind her than Sylvia put down her cup and confronted her fiancé.

  "Why did you mislead me, Sir?"

  "Mislead you?"

  "Oh, come. You know what I am talking about. You said my parents were invited here tonight."

  The Count lowered his gaze mockingly. "I did. I'm a rogue. I admit it."

  Sylvia stared. "You…admit it?"

  "How else was I going to have you to myself? For days you have refused to see me. It is more than a full blooded man can bear."

  Sylvia leapt to her feet, knocking her cup of tea from the little table before her.

  "How…how dare you! My parents will be so anxious…not knowing where I am".

  The Count gave a nonchalant wave of his hand. "Oh, they'll know where you are soon enough. I'll send the stable boy to Castle Belham with a message. Poor fellow. He will have to stay there overnight if the storm does not abate."

  The implication of this struck Sylvia cruelly. If the stable boy had to stay at Castle Belham because of the storm, that same fact meant she would have to stay at Endecott!

  "I must go, I must go home now!" said Sylvia in great agitation.

  "Don't be a fool," said the Count. "Listen to the wind. Look out of the window. See how the trees are thrashing, see how the rain is falling. You would be in grave danger if you set out now. The boy is a hardy young fellow, but you – you cannot risk the journey. And your parents would not thank me if I permitted it."

  Slowly Sylvia sank back into her seat. She stared at the ground, feeling like a creature caught in a trap. It was true that she would be in grave danger if she tried to ride home. But would she be in even graver danger if she remained here with the Count?

  The Count is your fiancé, she reminded herself. Why should he wish you harm? She lifted her eyes to his. He was sprawled in his chair, at great ease, twirling his moustache between thumb and forefinger as he watched her. She wondered dully how often in the years ahead she would watch him do this.

  She begged leave to return to her room until supper. The Count acquiesced, content that she appeared to have accepted her temporary confinement at his house. As she mounted the stairs she was aware of Polly regarding her through an open door at the end of the corridor.

  She remained in the red room for the next couple of hours, curled up on a chaise longue. She had taken the quilt from the bed to keep herself warm. She listened hopefully for a lessening of the storm. To no avail. The wind seemed to rise higher and higher until it was screeching at the casement. Rain teemed, drawing a thick grey curtain between the window and the outside world.

  She wondered as she waited there why the Count had so few staff. Surely he could afford to maintain a larger household?

  She knew so little about him and yet she was about to yoke herself to him for the rest of her life.

  Yet what choice had she? It was either that, or see her father's health further destroyed.

  She was most uneasy when she joined the Count for supper. The table was laid for two in a gloomy dining room. Candles flickered in tall candlesticks and there were two bottles of wine open on a sideboard.

  Polly served, with a curious sneer on her face. Sylvia ignored her. She was surprised to find that she was hungry. The meal of lamb shank and red cabbage was better than she expected. She declined to drink any wine. The Count however finished glass after glass.

  He spoke at great length of his estates in Bavaria, his aristocratic friends, his visits to hunting lodges with the Prince of Wales. Sylvia kept glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. The hand crept on towards nine and still the storm raged.

  The Count suggested they repair to the drawing room for coffee. Sylvia noted with apprehension that he staggered for a moment at the door.

  In the drawing room he insisted Sylvia sit on the sofa beside him. He sat with his arm across the back of the sofa behind Sylvia. She was aware of his hand brushing against her shoulder. With sinking heart Sylvia saw that the clock in this room now said half past ten.

  She knew she must bow to the inevitable and remain at Endecott for the night. She therefore broached the subject of the fire in her room with the Count. Would he please order Polly to light it?

  "What, is my little chicken cold then?" The Count's words were slurred.

  At this moment Polly came in with the coffee. Sylvia glanced at her before answering the Count.

  "I find the red room cold, yes. It will be especially so by now."

  Polly smirked as she leaned down to place the coffee before them. "You won't have no need of a fire, miss. Not with his lordship there."

  Sylvia gasped in shock. The Count however merely threw his head back and laughed.

  "That's enough now, Polly, you naughty girl!"

  Polly glanced triumphantly at Sylvia and went out.

  "I wish to retire," said Sylvia in a low voice. As she attempted to rise, the Count suddenly gripped her arm and drew her back down.

  "Don't you think – you should be nice to me first?" he muttered.

  "What do you mean?" asked Sylvia icily.

  "I mean – this," said the Count.

  In one swift move his lips were pressed heavily to hers.

  Sylvia struggled but the Count pinned her arms to her side. She could smell the wax on his moustache and the wine on his breath.

  "I will break you," he breathed. "I will make you mine tonight. You will never escape me then."

  With almost superhuman force, Sylvia pushed the Count from her and leapt to her feet. Her eyes blazed so fiercely that for a moment the Count was distracted, gazing on her with fascination.

  "You are a cad!" she cried. "I will have nothing more to do with you!"

  "Oh, won't you?" sneered the Count. He made as if to rise but was so inebriated that he fell backwards at the first attempt.

  Her breast heaving, keeping her gaze on him all the while, Sylvia edged towards the door. The Count's eyes were closing as they followed her.

  "That's right – you go up – good girl – I'll come to you – soon."

  His eyes closed and Sylvia almost cried out with relief as she realised he had fallen asleep.

  She wrenched open the drawing room door and fled into the corridor and up the stairs. When she reached the red room, she turned the key hard in the lock behind her. Then she fell onto the bed and buried her head in the pillow.

  She could not marry this man now that she had glimpsed his real character. He had lied to get her to Endecott. He had lied to get her into a vulnerable position. He was obviously unsure of her, afraid that she might change her mind despite the situation of her father. So he had hatched a plan to entrap her. Once he had ravished her, she would never be able to escape his clutches. She would be his wife then in all but name and the ceremony would be a mere formality.

  What she could not understand was why he had gone to so much trouble. It could not be love that drove him, surely?

  The wind howled at her through the door, through the cracks in the casement, down the chimney. She felt that it was laughing at her and it sounded like Polly. Ha ha ha. Ha ha ha.

  Sylvia fell into an uneasy sleep.

  *

  "Sylvia! Open this door. Sylvia!"
>
  Sylvia's eyes flew open at the sound of the Count's voice. He was rattling the doorknob violently.

  "Let me in or you'll rue the day!"

  Sylvia wondered wildly how much time had passed. The Count was no longer slurring his words and the wind seemed to have died down. The rain was lighter against the window.

  "Let me in damn you or I'll take an axe to the door!"

  Sylvia cowered on the bed, shivering violently. The doorknob twisted and turned a while longer and then she heard the thump of a fist on wood, before the Count raged off along the corridor.

  Sylvia had no doubt but that he had gone for an axe. She knew that she could not hope for help from Polly. She was alone and in danger of losing her honour to a man she now utterly despised. She must gather her wits about her and find a way of escape.

  She slipped from the bed and crossed to the window. Opening it she leaned out and immediately saw that a sturdy tree grew very close. One stout branch indeed almost grazed the glass.

  There was no other way out for her.

  Polly had taken her cape from her when she arrived so there was nothing for it but to leave in what she was wearing.

  She hesitated for a second and then tucked her skirts into her bloomers. Pushing the window wide she scrambled through onto the branch. It was wet and slippery but she held grimly on, edging her way towards the trunk. Here she was able to climb onto a lower branch and thus make her way slowly down the tree.

  The lowest branch was still ten feet from the ground. Closing her eyes she let go and dropped.

  Her foot twisted awkwardly under her as she landed, but the earth was soft from the hours of rain and she was not otherwise hurt. She lay for a moment winded.

  Then from the red room above she heard the sound of an axe splitting wood. Terror spurred her on. She must find Columbine.

  She limped to the back of the house, calling softly in the darkness. Soon she heard an answering whinny.

  Columbine looked over a stable door as Sylvia approached. Sylvia opened the door and urged the horse out. There was no time to saddle her. She hauled herself onto the animal's back and thrust her hands deep into the mane.

  "Go, Columbine, go," she whispered.

  As if she had been longing all evening for this command, Columbine reared and set off at a gallop.

  Horse and rider flew along the avenue of elms. The sky above was black and not a star was visible. The moon lay deep in cloud as if in mud. Mud flew from under the horse's hooves and splashed Sylvia's bloomers and skirt.

  The rain, though it was lighter than before, still stung her face. She was soon frozen to the bone and her fingers were numb. Still she galloped on as if the very devil was after her.

  She saw the gates of Endecott ahead. They were open. Beyond that the way ahead lay as dark as the way behind but she did not falter. She raced Columbine through the gates and onto the road.

  Columbine's hooves struck sparks on the tarmacadam. The wind rose again, filling Sylvia's ears with its maddening shriek. She felt her grip on the mane weakening.

  Her head bent low, she did not see the bend ahead. She did not see the lamp of a carriage as it hurtled towards her nor heard its wheels. Too late! Too late!

  Columbine swerved at the last minute. Sylvia gave a cry as she was flung through the air. The world seemed to tumble over and over and then…she was aware of nothing more.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dappled shadows played on a yellow wall. Muslin curtains billowed at a long window, through which drifted the scent of rain-drenched lawns that were just beginning to dry. Doves cooed somewhere, and there was even the sudden high note of a peacock.

  The room was peaceful. A vase of roses stood on a walnut table. Above the fireplace hung a scene from…from…

  Sylvia could not remember. She closed her eyes again. She could not remember much at all, it seemed. She did not recognise this room. She did not know how she came to be here. All she could remember was being with her parents at Castle…Belham. Yes, she remembered that, and she remembered her name. Sylvia.

  Suddenly she heard the sound of a door opening and closing gently, followed by the soft swish of silk. Someone had entered the room and was trying to move quietly about. Slowly Sylvia opened her eyes.

  A tall, thin young lady with nut-brown hair was depositing a carafe of water and a glass on the walnut table. As she turned from her task, she caught Sylvia's puzzled gaze.

  "Ah!" she said softly. "You are awake!"

  This was all like some strange dream. "P..please excuse me," whispered Sylvia, "but…I do not seem to know you or…this house."

  "My name is Charity Farron," said the tall lady. "I am the sister of Lord Farron. You are at Farron Towers. You were brought here last night, unconscious."

  "U..unconscious? W..why?"

  "You do not remember?"

  "N..no."

  "You had an accident. You were riding along the road in pitch darkness and almost ran into our carriage. Your horse swerved violently at the last moment and you were thrown."

  Sylvia gave a weak cry. "M..my horse. Columbine!"

  "So that is her name?"

  "Yes. Is she…?"

  "She is fine," Charity reassured her. "She is out in the fields now enjoying the morning air. It is you we are concerned about. We do not know your name or where you are from."

  "I am Sylvia, daughter of the Duke of Belham…"

  "Ah! So you are resident at Castle Belham?"

  "Y..yes."

  "I will have a servant take a message to the castle. Your family must be concerned at your absence. You were heading towards Belham when you unhappily encountered us last night." Charity hesitated and then asked, in a careful tone. "May I ask – where you were coming from?"

  Sylvia frowned. "I …don't seem able to remember."

  "Try. It's important."

  Sylvia's brow wrinkled with the effort. "I…remember that I sometimes ride out for the whole day. I often ride as far as the estuary."

  Charity nodded. "You will not be surprised then to learn that you can see the estuary from that window over there."

  Sylvia looked towards the window. "So I was on my way home from this area…?"

  Charity hesitated. "Yes, but I cannot believe you were simply returning from a day's ride. For one thing, it was very late, nearly midnight. For another your horse was not saddled and you were not wearing a cloak."

  "No saddle? No cloak?" repeated Sylvia in wonder.

  "No," affirmed Charity. "You seemed to be riding, as if pursued by somebody."

  At this idea, Sylvia grew agitated. "But I…remember nothing of that," she said.

  Charity looked at her with concern. "Well let us not worry about it at the moment. We have called for the local doctor to attend you. He should be here soon. Meanwhile perhaps you would care for some tea and toast?"

  "Yes. Th..thank you," said Sylvia.

  Charity smiled and made as if to move to the door.

  "Charity?"

  Charity turned. "Yes, Sylvia?"

  "Who is 'we'? You keep saying 'we'."

  Charity regarded Sylvia before answering. "I live here with my brother, Lord Farron. He and I were returning home together last night when our carriage almost ran into you. It was he who carried your unconscious body to the carriage and then rode your horse back to Farron Towers. We had to bring you here as we had no idea who you were. Now, let me get you some breakfast."

  She had barely reached the door when Sylvia called out to her again.

  "Charity…can you tell me…what is the subject of that painting? Over the fireplace?"

  Charity looked up at the painting. "That? That is the Rape of Lucrece."

  The Rape of Lucrece! Sylvia frowned as the door closed behind Charity. The Rape of Lucrece. She vaguely remembered the story and wondered why the title troubled her.

  Her head fell back on the pillow. Trying to remember things made her tired. She should just relax her mind and see what happened.

 
She seemed to drift at first amidst pleasing images. Her room at Castle Belham. Papa riding beside her on Lancer. The wide, glittering estuary. Tompkins! Cook! Her step-mother looking delighted about something. Farther back in time she remembered…a London house with tartan wallpaper. A cat. Tilly! A garden at night…stars.

  She frowned to herself. Her mind seemed to be full of unconnected memories. None of them helped explain why she had been out at night far from home, without a saddle and a cloak.

  There was a knock at the door and a gentleman in black entered. He introduced himself as Doctor Glebe. Charity followed swiftly on his heels and with her a maid carrying a breakfast tray. The maid put the tray on the walnut table, her mouth open at the sight of the mystery girl, Sylvia.

  "Leave the tray there, thank you, Hattie," said Charity.

  Hattie backed out of the room, still agog.

  Charity turned to Doctor Glebe. "You came sooner than expected, doctor."

  "I happened to be in the vicinity on another call," explained the doctor. "I was on the road when your servant encountered me. Now tell me about our little friend here."

  Charity went through the circumstances of the night before with the doctor. Sylvia listened dreamily.

  "Well, she has a cut here under the hair-line," said the doctor, lifting loose curls from Sylvia's forehead. "She must have struck her head."

  "We feared that," said Charity. "There is an upright stone at the side of the road where she fell, an ancient signpost."

  The doctor nodded thoughtfully. "That accounts for the partial amnesia."

  "Amnesia…" repeated Sylvia.

  "That's right," said the doctor. He smiled down at her. "Before we talk about that, let me examine you to see if there are any broken bones."

  Doctor Glebe's examination was thorough, and at the end of it he was able to reassure Sylvia that the only ill effect of her accident was the loss of memory.

  "I have no doubt that it is not permanent," said the doctor. "Things will return to you slowly, piece by piece. In a few months you will have every detail of the jigsaw in place. Meanwhile you must rest for the next few days as the shock has no doubt weakened your constitution."