The House of Happiness

by Barbara Cartland

  Bridget, recovered from her exertions, got up and came over to Eugenia.

  “Don’t look so glum, miss. We can all have a good time together, can’t we, Gregor?”

  Gregor rose and spat into the fire again. “Certainly we can.”

  Bridget stroked Eugenia’s hair.

  “You thought you had it all, didn’t you, miss? But it’s me who’s got it all now. I’m the rich one now. I’m the pretty one.”

  Eugenia had to agree that Bridget did indeed look pretty. Her skin was rosy, her eyes sparkled, her lips glistened like rosehips touched with dew. This was the effect of love, no doubt.

  “You care – so much for him?” she asked, indicating Gregor. Bridget’s eyes strayed fondly to where the painter stood, prodding an unburned log in the hearth with his boot.

  “He’s a card, miss,” was all she replied.

  Gregor grunted. Almost as if he sensed Eugenia’s eyes on his back he turned and gave her an unexpected wink.

  “We will all get along like old friends,” he said. “ Why not, little flower?”

  Disgust curdled in Eugenia like spoiled milk. Disgust at Gregor, disgust at herself. From here unto eternity she must live with the bitter knowledge that she had been an almighty fool.

  She had thrown away her whole life for nothing more than a fantasy.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The sea lapped in the dark, like a dog at a trough. A gull wheeled in the inky air, hoping for a stray crust, though most of the craft in the harbour bore no lights. It was an eerily silent scene.

  Eugenia shivered as she stood waiting on the quayside. A chill wind snapped at the brim of her bonnet – or rather, Bridget’s bonnet. Gregor had decided that Eugenia should not look too much of a lady as they travelled. For some reason he was nervous of attracting attention. Eugenia did not understand this, since nobody was chasing after her.

  Perhaps it was simply in Gregor’s nature to feel hunted.

  Bridget had happily yielded up her plain brown bonnet and her worsted cape. In return, she wore Eugenia’s woollen cloak with its warm hood. It made her feel like a Duchess, she said.

  Eugenia had been grateful for the ensuing silence. The exchange had taken place in the coach that had brought the three of them from the town of Ipswich, where they had sold the gig and horses, to this seaport on the east coast. She had been tired and only wanted to sleep, her head against the musty upholstery.

  But whenever she closed her eyes she was confronted with the image of the Marquis, his features as she had last seen him, inexpressive as stone.

  The coach had arrived at the harbour just as night was drawing in. With the money from the sale, Gregor had treated them all to supper at the Seaman’s Tavern.

  “Maybe this is our last meal until the Marquis deposits he money!” he declared, gnawing on a ham bone.

  Now Gregor and Bridget had gone off to find someone who would agree to row them out to the French frigate, whose lights twinkled beyond the mouth of the harbour.

  Eugenia shivered again and drew the cape about her. She had been alone here for nigh on an hour. Suppose something had happened to her companions?

  She heard the sound of a hatch being dragged open and saw a man emerge onto the deck of a fishing boat. She watched him empty a bucket of slops into the water.

  When next she glanced out to sea she gave a start. Creeping in from the harbour mouth came a grey, clammy fog. The lights of the French ship had disappeared.

  Now Eugenia felt truly alone. The fog crept in and in until it wreathed about her. It smelled of salt and seaweed and, she imagined, the breath of those who had died in the cold waves.

  She stiffened at the sound of footsteps.

  “Gregor? Bridget?” she called hopefully.

  How desolate she must be indeed when she yearned for the return of the very two creatures who had lured her into this abysmal situation!

  Someone stood for a moment, as if listening. She thought she made out the glow of a lantern not far off. Before she could move towards it her arm was seized and she was dragged without ceremony in the opposite direction.

  “I told you to wait by the jetty,” Gregor hissed into her ear.

  Eugenia regarded him nervously. He was swaying like a weathercock and both he and Bridget, who was at his elbow, reeked of gin.

  “I did,” she replied. “But I grew cold and walked to keep myself warm. Did you – did you find anyone to row us out?”

  Gregor scowled. “It would have been easier to find the devil! They’re too fond of the fireside in this backwater. I did find a boat though.”

  Eugenia swallowed.

  “Y-you are going to row?”

  “Yes. Why not?”

  Eugenia did not want to comment on his inebriated state.

  “You – you don’t know these waters, and there’s a fog.”

  Gregor turned his wavering gaze to the sea.

  “I can see there’s a fog! But once beyond the harbour, we can hail the frigate. They will show a lantern for us.”

  “Suppose they don’t want to take us on board?” fretted Bridget. Gregor drew a money pouch from his pocket and rattled it.

  “We’ve got enough left here to convince them. They will take us.”

  The boat he had found for their escape looked very flimsy, bobbing up and down at the foot of the jetty steps.

  The boat rocked wildly as she and Bridget stepped in. Gregor cast off the rope and climbed in after them. He took up the oars and began to row.

  Soon the lights of the shore had vanished. Nothing existed but fog. It felt to Eugenia as if she was travelling through layers of cobweb. A damp, soft cobweb, that trailed across her face. All sound was muted, even Gregor’s harsh breath. His face, and Bridget’s face, seemed to loom in the air, detached from their physical bodies.

  The two women sat with their skirts lifted to their calves. Water slopped about their ankles and the boat smelled of fish. With that and the wafts of gin-soaked breath that came from Gregor and Bridget, Eugenia began to feel queasy.

  Bridget peered over the edge. “Ooh, that water’s black as pitch. I shouldn’t like to fall in, I shouldn’t.”

  “Nor I,” shuddered Eugenia.

  Gregor’s eyes shifted to her and some wicked thought gleamed in their depths.

  “Do you swim, Bridget?” he asked.

  “Not I!” Bridget exclaimed. “I lived right by the river Thames when I was a girl, but it never tempted me. You don’t know what’s in it, do you? There was all kinds of filth. My brother used to catch fish and when he brought them home their scales was the colour of dirty linen. My stepfather wouldn’t touch them. The sea looks a bit cleaner but I don’t trust it. Imagine all those sailors who’ve died.”

  Eugenia had never known Bridget so voluble. She supposed it was the gin.

  “Can you swim, Gregor?” she heard Bridget ask.

  Gregor shook his head. “It must be Eugenia who will save us if we sink!” he said with an apparent attempt at jocularity.

  Eugenia gave a weak smile. “Well, then, we would all drown, for I cannot swim a stroke.”

  “That is unfortunate,” Gregor murmured, an unpleasant smile lurking on his lips.

  He lowered his head to the oars and gave such a pull that the boat gave a harsh lurch forward. Eugenia and Bridget were thrown about on their wooden bench.

  “Steady on!” cried Bridget.

  Gregor laboured fiercely. He laboured as if a pack of hounds was at his heels. The veins in his temples stood out and his chest heaved with effort.

  “Must get – out of the harbour,” he panted. “Must get – on.”

  Eugenia wondered how far they were now from the quay. The temperature was dropping and she began to shiver.

  “Quiet!” warned Gregor.

  They all fell silent. Eugenia heard, faintly and at some distance, the slap of another prow against water.

  Gregor cursed under his breath.

  “Who else is out here with us, who?”
<
br />   They waited. The sound of the other boat faded away and Gregor took up the oars again. His rowing seemed more urgent than ever. Eugenia could not look at him. The face she had once thought so handsome and so alluring, she now found mean and cruel.

  Since the Marquis had walked out of that cottage deep in the woods, Eugenia felt she had changed profoundly. She had been set upon the bitter rack of experience and it had stretched her soul beyond endurance. Yet endure she must and endure she would.

  The only alternative would be to take a step that was forbidden by law and forbidden by faith. She knew all about those poor unfortunate suicides buried outside the churchyard walls, beyond the comfort of religion. She would not travel that road, tempting though it was to her in her profound misery.

  She would find some way of leading a life of value. Perhaps she could teach on the Continent. She did not believe that Gregor would raise objections to her contributing to the household in such a way. She was certain now he had no intention of marrying her and she was equally certain that he had no interest in seducing her. She was simply his ticket out of the impoverished life of an artist.

  She did not believe he would marry Bridget either, though she was sure Bridget would leap at the chance of marrying him.

  Theirs was going to be a curious household, scrambled together in some apartment near the Bank de Cluny, where the Marquis would be depositing their funds.

  She was suddenly aware that Gregor had stopped rowing. He was leaning on the oars and Bridget was wiping his streaming brow with the hem of her cloak.

  “Bridget,” he asked as the maid at last sat back. “Where are those jewels?”

  “They’re safe,” said Bridget.

  “Show me.” Bridget looked surprised.

  “Out here? What for?”

  “Show me!” repeated Gregor with greater force. Bridget withdrew a leather pouch from her cloak.

  “Here they are.”

  “Open it,” ordered Gregor. “I want to be sure everything is there. I remember some pieces falling to the floor – back there – in the cottage.”

  “I picked them all up,” Bridget pointed out.

  “I want to be sure!” Gregor insisted. “There is one piece in particular – the ring with the Buckbury seal – “

  Bridget felt in the bag.

  “It’s here.”

  “Good.” Gregor seemed more than satisfied. A peculiar hue shone in his eyes, a hue suggesting a greater darkness in his soul than had hitherto been manifest.

  Bridget took the ring out and polished it on her sleeve.

  “It’s nice,” she said. “I’d like to keep this. If you don’t mind,” she added, turning to Eugenia in mock courtesy.

  “I no longer have the right to wear it,” replied Eugenia dully. She turned her head as she thought she heard the dipping of an oar through the waves. That other boat again!

  Bridget slipped the ring onto her finger. “Now I’m the Marchioness!” she crowed.

  “That’s it!” cried Gregor, leaning heavily on the oars. “You understand!”

  “I do?” Bridget, stalled in her triumph, looked perplexedly from Eugenia to Gregor.

  “With that ring,” Gregor pointed,” you enter the bank in Paris and if you say you are the Marchioness of Buckbury, they will believe you. You will be able to draw out the money that the Marquis deposits there every month.”

  “But why should I, when she’s there to do it?” asked Bridget, indicating Eugenia.

  Eugenia, beginning to understand the direction that Gregor’s thoughts were taking, tremblingly answered for him,

  “But if I was not?”

  Gregor regarded her with a chilling laugh.“Bravo, little flower. At last you understand the story.”

  “She might, I don’t,” grumbled Bridget.

  “If anything should happen to me, you would be able to continue drawing the money,” said Eugenia, trying not to show her growing fear, “and no one would ever know.”

  Gregor clapped his hands. “That’s it! You see, Bridget, how hard it has been for me to row with three people in the boat. Such weight! You see – my palms already begin to blister.”

  “That’s terrible, Gregor!” clucked Bridget. “Let me tear the hem off the cloak and bind them for you-”

  Impatiently, Gregor brushed away her hands.

  “Listen. Listen! It’s going to be even harder than this rowing has been to drag three people around the Continent for the rest of our lives. We will be manacled to her and think – five thousand pounds will go much further if there are only two of us!”

  Bridget, searching his face, suddenly shrank into her cloak. “I don’t know about that – “

  But Gregor silenced her with a wave of his hand. “What do you think about this idea, little flower?” he asked Eugenia jeeringly.

  “I wonder that it did not occur to you earlier,” replied Eugenia, feigning calm. “But – as a matter of curiosity – why me and not Bridget?”

  Gregor threw back his head. “You – ha ha ha – I do not trust and do not desire. You I could crack too easily – like an eggshell – she can take rough treatment. Ha ha ha.”

  Eugenia thought that she had succeeded in playing for time, but Gregor’s next move took her completely by surprise. With a roar he leapt up, dragged her to her feet, and made as if to fling her overboard.

  Unprepared as she was, she struggled. She heard Bridget screeching as the boat rocked to and fro and water splashed over the stern. Her hand flailed in the air before it caught hold of Gregor’s jacket and held on tight.

  She was falling, falling, and he was falling too. With a terrible cry she hit the water.

  She gasped at the cold, went under, surfaced and went under again. She kicked with her heels and came up for a second time. She caught a glimpse of Gregor, foundering nearby. And Bridget, taking up the oars of the boat.

  Salt stung her eyes and she began to sink. Her skirt and petticoat, heavier by the second, ballooned about her. This was the end! The end!

  Darkness began to descend on her mind –

  Two arms reached down through the water. Two arms clasped themselves firmly about her waist. Two arms – tender, strong and determined – drew her barely conscious from the greedy embrace of the sea.

  *

  A soft wind sang in the chimney at ‘Paragon.’ Eugenia held out her hands to the flames. She was not cold but the dancing fire seemed to draw her to its heart. Apart from the wind and the crackle of logs in the grate, the house was quiet. Beyond the windows, the treetops swayed gently to and fro but made no murmur. She was alone. Alone with her thoughts and they, alas, were unsettling company.

  After her rescue from the sea she had known nothing more until she had awakened at dawn in a room at the Sailor’s Tavern. The first face she saw before her was that of the Marquis.

  It was he, she discovered, who had saved her.

  “Y-you were in the boat we heard in the distance?”

  “Yes.”

  Although the Marquis had been watching her intently when she had first woken, now he seemed reluctant to talk to her. He rose and began to pace the room.

  Eugenia followed him with her eyes. “Why? Why were you there at all? I do not understand. When you left the cottage you – you were returning to Buckbury, surely?”

  The Marquis halted at the window.

  “I did not go to Buckbury,” he said shortly. “I rode to the nearest town and found two officers of the law. You see, when Brodosky tried to get me to deposit the – money – in his name, I was instantly suspicious, although I did my best to conceal it. I feared for your safety.”

  “Y-you did?”

  “As I would for the safety of any woman in such a situation,” said the Marquis coldly, as if to forestall any hope she might harbour of regaining his affections. He resumed his pacing. “I returned with the officers to the cottage, intending to snatch you from Brodosky’s clutches, only to find the place empty.

  “Guessing that he would h
ead immediately for the nearest port from which to travel to France, I followed. The officers accompanied me. At the port we separated, each searching a different area of town. We soon learned Brodosky had been asking around for someone to row him out to the frigate.

  We were not sure from which direction he would approach the vessel, so we took a boat ourselves and waited at the harbour mouth, hoping to apprehend him there. Then the fog rolled in. It was a mercy that we came upon you when we did.”

  “Yes,” Eugenia agreed humbly. She hesitated before posing the next question, “And did you – apprehend him?”

  The Marquis glanced her way sharply.

  “No. He drowned.”

  Eugenia drew in her breath with shock. Then, without warning, her eyes filled with tears.

  She mourned for Gregor’s folly, as well as her own, but the Marquis did not know that. His features hardened.

  “I see, madam, that you grieve,” he remarked stiffly.

  Eugenia wiped away a tear that had begun to trickle down her cheek. “Not as you imagine, my Lord.”

  “What I imagine is of no consequence,” remarked the Marquis, turning once again to the window and staring out.

  “What about – Bridget?” she asked.

  “In the chaos of the moment, she took up the oars and rowed swiftly from the scene. Neither she nor the jewels – oh, yes, I suspected that she had taken the jewels – have been found.”

  Eugenia realised that this was all the information she was going to receive. The Marquis may have saved her life, but he was not about to forgive her. She longed for his embrace, longed for the ardour he had once shown, but he was as distant to her now as a King to a common subject.

  What could she expect? He was certain that she had – given herself up to Gregor, body and soul. If she tried to tell him the truth, he would not believe her. It would seem mere opportunism, now that Gregor was dead and she was without a protector of any kind.

  Besides, there was the vexed question of Lady Walling.

  Eugenia was sure that it was her own shameful behaviour that had caused the Marquis to stray. Nevertheless, part of her that could not quite forgive her husband for so easily finding an alternative interest!