The House of Happiness

by Barbara Cartland

  The inevitable result of the prolonged tension, the sleepless nights and the lack of nourishment – for her appetite had still not improved – was that one morning Eugenia felt too dispirited to rise. When Bridget entered with a basket of freshly laundered linen she discovered her Mistress still lying curled on her side under the counterpane, her breakfast tray untouched.

  Bridget set the basket down. “What’s the matter, my Lady?”

  Eugenia’s reply was barely perceptible. “I feel – unwell.”

  Bridget leaned over and felt Eugenia’s forehead. “You’re hot, all right. Wonder what it is?” Somewhat insensitively, she gave a throaty chuckle. “It’s too early for symptoms of – that, my Lady! Or is it?”

  Fully understanding Bridget’s insinuation, Eugenia became flustered.

  “No, no, it is not possible – not in a thousand years – for the Marquis will not – has not – slept in this bed. Not for one single night!”

  Her voice trailed away and, fist to her mouth, she pressed her cheek into the pillow.

  Bridget’s eyes were wide. She gave a long, low whistle. “That’s how it stands, eh? Well I never.” She stared at Eugenia for a moment and then seemed to suddenly make up her mind as to how she would proceed. She sat on the edge of the bed and stroked Eugenia’s damp brow.

  “There, there,” she said soothingly. “It’ll all work out for the best. You’ll see.”

  Eugenia, exhausted, closed her eyes. Bridget continued to stroke her brow until Eugenia’s breathing steadied. Then the maid rose carefully and tiptoed from the room.

  Around noon, Eugenia woke with a start. She remembered that she had unburdened herself and felt a sense of utter relief that she was no longer all alone with the unpalatable truth, even if her confidante was only Bridget. She must, however, extract a promise from Bridget that she would discuss the matter with no one but herself. She did not want her mother or great-aunt finding out.

  With this in mind, she sat up and rang the bell that connected with Bridget’s room. When Bridget had not appeared after ten minutes she rang again.

  A few minutes later the hotel maid popped her head round the door. “Were you ringing for Bridget, my Lady? Only she’s gone off to the village to post a letter. She didn’t want to wait until the hotel collection.”

  Eugenia wrinkled her brow for a moment. To whom was Bridget writing from the hotel?

  “Can I help you with anything, my Lady?” asked the hotel maid.

  “Thank you, yes. I should like to dress.”

  Eugenia was still puzzling over Bridget’s unaccustomed letter writing as she entered the dining room for lunch, but when the Marquis turned to watch her approach the resolute expression on his face proved a distraction.

  “I have made a decision, madam,” he announced as the waiter drew out her chair.

  The Marquis waited until the waiter had moved away before continuing,

  “Since neither of us is deriving the benefit we might from our sojourn here at the lake, I propose that we return to Buckbury tomorrow.”

  “And – and then?” ventured Eugenia.

  The Marquis took up his napkin and shook it out. “And then, madam, we shall, for the foreseeable future, continue this charade. I shall, of course, encourage you to spend as much time as you wish at “Paragon”, once your mother returns from her trip abroad.”

  The Marquis regarded her coldly. “Did you imagine that I was about to set you free – Eugenia? Is that what you want?”

  The sound of her name on his lips made her start. “I – I don’t know what I want, my Lord. I wish I did. And I don’t know what – what you want.”

  “I want,” replied the Marquis icily, “what is mine. Whatever form such possession takes.”

  Eugenia did not know what further to say. She did not know if she was relieved or distressed to hear that the present impasse between herself and her husband would continue unchanged.

  Bridget’s eyes gleamed when she learned that they were to return early to Buckbury. She hummed as she set about packing.

  “You are happy, at least,” commented Eugenia.

  “Oh, I am, miss. I don’t like it here. I like it at ‘Paragon’.

  Eugenia was surprised that Bridget had said ‘Paragon’ and not London, where Gregor must by now be residing. Perhaps Bridget had found a beau amongst the young men who worked on the Buckbury estate. That might explain the letter she had sent yesterday, though Eugenia wondered which of the estate workers would actually be able to read.

  It was also strange that Bridget had said ‘Paragon’ when from now on it was Buckbury that was to be her home, Unless – unless the maid half suspected that the Marquis meant to relegate his wife to her mother’s company as much as possible in future!

  They returned to Buckbury the following day and life fell into much the same pattern as at the hotel. The Marquis was perfectly civil to his wife before the servants, but in private he was distant, performing the barest of courtesies.

  After supper he escorted Eugenia to what had been designated the ‘bridal chamber’ and bade her goodnight at the threshold, making his way alone to the room he had slept in before his marriage.

  During the day Bridget was little company. She performed her chores willingly but otherwise made herself absent at every opportunity. Eugenia assumed she was meeting the lover she had written to from the lakeside hotel. She did not question Bridget nor chide her for not being at her Mistress’s beck and call. Eugenia genuinely wished her maid happier than herself in the matter of romance.

  Of the portrait of Eugenia painted by Gregor there was no mention. She saw it, shrouded in a sheet, propped up in the Marquis’s study. She did not dare ask to look at it and the Marquis never offered.

  It was not long before she began to despair of ever leading anything approaching a ‘normal’ life again. She did not even have the diversion of a busy social round, for the Marquis did not care to accept invitations to dine with his neighbours.

  He was, however, at home to callers and one of the most persistent was Lady Walling. Soon Lady Walling was appearing every day for tea.

  Eugenia was expected to preside as hostess on these occasions. She poured the tea, proffered the sandwiches, smiled weakly and listened politely to Lady Walling’s constant chatter.

  Try as she might, her dislike of Lady Walling intensified with each visit. She soon began to suspect that Lady Walling knew that all was not well with the Marquis’s marriage.

  “There are rumours that your bride does not exist, my Lord,” Lady Walling said one afternoon, blinking sweetly over the rim of her cup. “You do rather hide her away here. Anyone would think you were ashamed of her!”

  “Anyone can think what they please,” replied the Marquis with a shrug. “We – do not care for Society, my wife and I.”

  Lady Walling placed her free hand on her breast. “Then I am truly honoured that you should care to admit me to your circle, my Lord. I am glad of it for I have come to depend upon your hospitality when I ride out each day.”

  Eugenia could remain silent no longer. “Yes, you seem to consider us a veritable tea-shop, Lady Walling.”

  The Marquis sat suddenly very still in his chair, while Lady Walling perceptibly bristled.

  “I may not be your ideal customer, my Lady,” she spluttered, “but I do appear to be sincerely welcomed in other quarters.”

  Eugenia reddened. Lady Walling could mean, of course, that she was welcomed generally at houses in the neighbourhood. Or she could mean exactly what Eugenia took her to mean – that she was welcomed particularly at Buckbury, by the Marquis if not by his wife.

  Her suspicions about Lady Walling were daily compounded by Bridget, who never failed to take the opportunity to allude to the frequency of her visits.

  On this particular afternoon, when Eugenia returned to her chamber with such a heated expression, Bridget regarded her Mistress with the eye of someone wondering if a chicken was fattened enough for the feast.

&nbs
p; “Are you all right, my Lady?” she asked carefully.

  “No. No, I am not! This place is becoming like a prison to me! How I wish I could get away!”

  Bridget took a deep breath. “Why don’t you and I take a ride to ‘Paragon’, my Lady?” she suggested soothingly. “You always find it peaceful there.”

  ‘Paragon?’ Eugenia repeated listlessly. “Yes. Why not? It has indeed always been a haven.”

  “Of course it’s been a haven, my Lady. You freshen yourself up while I get some things together that we might need – “

  Eugenia lifted her head. “Things?”

  “Some – some refreshment, in case we get hungry. A lantern, in case we stay late and need to ride back in the dark. And I must – order the gig.”

  Eugenia considered. “Yes. You do all that, Bridget, and then we will go. I am sure I shall feel better at ‘Paragon’.”

  The two set out a half hour later.

  It was strange how Eugenia’s spirits did indeed lift as ‘Paragon’ came into view. The cottage looked deserted, of course, being shut up while her mother was away, but it still represented all that had been happiest in Eugenia’s life.

  To Eugenia’s surprise the key was not under the customary stone. Her mother must have been in such a hurry that she had forgotten to put it there when she left. “You go on in,” said Bridget encouragingly. “I’ll tether the gig.”

  Inside ‘Paragon’ the windows were half shuttered and the furniture shrouded. Yet in the half light of the drawing room, Eugenia felt that something was amiss. The room was not as cold as it should be, being unoccupied at this time of the year. Indeed, the ashes in the grate seemed warm. It was as if someone had been furtively living here.

  “Little flower!”

  Eugenia spun round at the sound of this oh, so familiar voice.

  “Gregor!”

  The painter, for indeed it was he, flung himself with a cry at her feet.

  “Yes. It is I. Gregor Brodosky, who loves you, little treasure, to distraction. How my heart it dances in my breast to see you here.”

  Eugenia looked from Gregor to Bridget – who had appeared beaming at the door behind – in bewilderment.

  “But what – what are you doing here? And why are you declaring yourself in this way now?”

  “How could I declare myself in this way before?” he moaned. “What did you write to me? Nothing! What did you say to me? Nothing! You read my letters and put them away, that was all. I was sure you loved your Marquis. But now – now I know you are not happy and you are not happy because you love me, Gregor! Of this I am now sure. And because I am sure, I can DEMAND that you leave him and come with me.”

  Eugenia was shocked. “I – cannot. I am married to him.”

  “But, little flower, it is not consummated,” roared Gregor.

  Eugenia gasped and cast accusing eyes at Bridget.

  “I had to tell him, my Lady!” Bridget blurted out. “Otherwise he would never have thought to come for you. See, if your marriage is not consummated, you can get it annulled.”

  Eugenia put her hands to her head.

  “I – I can?”

  “Yes! So come with me now, today.” urged Gregor. “To Europe we will fly and begin there a new life. When your marriage is annulled, we will marry.”

  Eugenia felt dizzy. Passion was being offered to her, passion and adventure. It was all she had ever dreamed of. Yet still she hesitated, her brow creased.

  “But – I could never treat the Marquis so – shabbily.” Gregor and Bridget glanced at each other.

  “Why not?” demanded Bridget. “When he treats you so shabbily as to take a mistress, right under your nose!”

  Eugenia blenched and started back. “L-lady Walling?”

  “That’s right.” Bridget looked triumphant. “And it’s been going on for longer than you think. So come away, my Lady. I’ll be your chaperone until such time as – you are free to marry Gregor. I’ll look after you, you don’t have to worry.”

  “I have – nothing with me,” pleaded Eugenia.

  Bridget gave a laugh. “You’ve got your jewels, my Lady. I made certain of that. I’ve got them in the gig, in a leather pouch.”

  Eugenia looked troubled.

  “I am not sure this is the right thing to do,” she began, but Gregor cut her short, grasping her to his breast and planting such a hard kiss on her lips that she could barely breathe. Her senses reeled. This, this was the fever of desire that Bridget had so colourfully described.

  She was won! She buried her head against Gregor’s breast as he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the door. Bridget hurried ahead to untie the horses and ready the gig. As the wheels ground into the mud and the horses leapt forward under the crack of her whip, the heavens split open and heavy, storm-charged rain began to fall.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Eugenia stirred uneasily and opened her eyes.

  She lay under rough blankets in a small bedroom with leaded windows and exposed rafters. The room was neat enough but bare with the bed and a wooden chest the only furniture.

  She raised her hand to her forehand, trying to remember the sequence of events that had brought her here. It was something of an effort, because her mind felt curiously unfocused.

  She recalled a mad dash through the rain before arriving at a single story cottage. Whether the appearance of this cottage was fortuitous or expected she could not say as she was so cold and tired. That there was food to eat was not a surprise, since Bridget had suggested bringing ‘refreshment’ for the visit to ‘Paragon’, although the quantity was a surprise – a whole game pie, a chicken, bread and apples.

  Bridget immediately set about laying the table, while Gregor occupied himself building a fire in the grate. Eugenia sat shivering in a corner, watching the man for whom she had jettisoned her honour and position in Society. He ignored her, intent on his task. When the fire was lit he beckoned her over.

  She sat on a stool while he poured a kind of punch from a flask that he carried at his belt. Soon after drinking, Eugenia felt sleepy, so sleepy that she barely remembered eating. Later, someone had carried her to bed.

  Bridget must have undressed her, for she was in her shift.

  Hearing voices from beyond the chamber door, she realised what had awakened her.

  She climbed out of bed, crossed the floor barefoot and opened the door.

  In the room beyond, Bridget and Gregor sat at a table, on which lay Eugenia’s jewellery in a heap. She recognised the pearls that Great-Aunt Cloris had given her, as well as many pieces that were gifts from the Marquis, including a ruby brooch and ear-rings, a turquoise bracelet and a diamond necklace. The diamonds sparkled in the shaft of winter light that fell through the window.

  Eugenia was horrified to see, amid the spoils, a ring with the Buckbury seal. The Marquis had entrusted this emblem of his family to his fiancée and its presence here felt like theft. Bridget should not have taken it!

  In fact, the removal of each piece of jewellery felt like theft.

  “We must take it all back,” she cried from the doorway.

  Bridget and Gregor looked up with a start.

  “If I have left my husband, then I must leave him all that he gave me,” she continued.

  Gregor looked incredulous. “What – have I saddled myself with a fool?”

  Eugenia drew back, stung beyond measure by his tone. “A f-fool? What have I said that you should be so discourteous?”

  Gregor was about to reply angrily when Bridget threw him a warning glance. Eugenia might have dwelt more on this signal of complicity between the two of them, but that Gregor, curbing his temper, rose and came to her. Close to, his green eyes bored into hers.

  “What are you doing out of bed?” he murmured. “You will catch cold, my jewel.”

  Eugenia blinked at being called “jewel”.

  “What kind of jewel am I?” she asked with a faint attempt at defusing the tension that she sensed within him.


  “What kind?” Gregor considered. “I think you are – a pearl. Yes. That pink flush – that translucence.” He sank his fingers into her loose mane of hair and pressed so close that she felt she would melt at his heat.

  “You are my pearl and that is why you must listen to me and obey me and not be a silly little fool. The money from the portraits I have painted will soon be gone. We need to sell this jewellery, for how else will we live?”

  “Why, you – you can paint!” said Eugenia.

  Gregor snorted. “Paint? What do I make from that? Enough to breathe until the next painting. And then one day there are no more commissions and I starve. Always I must bow and kiss the ground beneath the feet of people who do not understand my great talent.”

  “You are going to stop – being an artist?” gulped Eugenia.

  Gregor shrugged. “Probably not. But in France or Holland I will paint when I like and, more important, who I like.”

  Bridget placed a stool before the fire and took Eugenia’s wool cape from where it had been drying on the back of a chair.

  “Here. Wrap that round you, miss. I’ll make your breakfast.”

  Eugenia took the cape, noting that Bridget had reverted to addressing her as ‘miss’ rather than ‘my Lady’. Well, what could she expect? Had she not herself abdicated the role of Marchioness? She was once again plain Miss Eugenia!

  She drew the cape around her with a shiver. She did not want to think about the Marquis. Her future lay with Gregor. As soon as she was divorced she would be his wife, as she had always dreamed of being.

  She would have liked to see her mother’s reaction then!

  Mrs. Brodosky. Mrs. Brodosky. Eugenia tried out the name silently.

  Bridget handed her a bowl of tea and set a plate of bread at her feet. She took the refreshments gratefully, warming her hands around the cup.

  “Bridget?”

  “Yes, miss?”

  “What is this – place?”

  “Don’t rightly know, miss. It was a blessing to find it last night. We didn’t want to take the London road, see, and were taking a short cut through some woods. But it was getting late and the weather was something awful. I think we’re about thirty miles from – “