Who Can Deny Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “The only thing we shall regret is if we stay here,” Hannah replied. “As I’ve said before, Miss Cyrilla, you are going to where you ought to be and no amount of talk can make that anything but right and what you should do.”

  As she spoke, she stepped onto the pavement and waited for Cyrilla.

  Slowly, clutching her handkerchief wet with tears, Cyrilla followed and, having pulled the door shut behind her, Hannah turned the key in the lock and put it in the pocket in the seam of her gown.

  Standing on the edge of the pavement, she watched the traffic passing by.

  It was not long before a Hackney carriage appeared – the elderly coachman, driving a tired horse in an indifferent fashion, was not making much effort to look out for a passenger.

  Hannah waved at him and it took a few seconds before she could attract his attention. Then he drew his horse to a standstill.

  “Come along, Miss Cyrilla,” Hannah said sharply.

  Cyrilla, deep in her thoughts, was barely aware of what was happening.

  Hannah helped her into the carriage, but before she followed her, she said to the coachman,

  “Holm House in Park Lane.”

  For a moment the coachman seemed surprised, as if he had not expected such an important address. Then he raised his hand to the brim of his hat and said,

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  Hannah sat beside Cyrilla and they drove for a while in silence.

  Then she said quietly,

  “You’ve got to make yourself pleasant and remember we’ve nowhere else to go.”

  Cyrilla did not answer.

  She was thinking that there was a house waiting for her, had she accepted it – a house with a garden where she could sit amongst the flowers and trees and where she could be alone with the Marquis.

  She shut her eyes and felt again his lips on hers when he had carried her up into the sky, and she thought that no one could know such wonder and ecstasy and yet be alive.

  His kisses had been everything she had imagined a kiss should be and so much more, just as his love had been so perfect that it personified all her dreams and everything she had ever imagined love was.

  And yet when she had understood what he was offering her, she had known it was not a love that she wanted, not a love that she could even contemplate, but something from which she shrank in horror.

  She must have made a little murmur of pain, for Hannah said solicitously,

  “It’s hard, Miss Cyrilla, I know that. Don’t think I’ve not suffered all the years I was with your mother, seeing her grow weaker and more wan every day from lack of food and knowing that she had thrown away everything that made life comfortable and decent.”

  “She – never regretted – it,” Cyrilla murmured.

  “That’s as may be!” Hannah retorted. “And I’m not saying she did regret anything for herself, but she regretted for you. Many a time she said to me, ‘This life is not right for Cyrilla, Hannah’.”

  “I was very happy with Mama – and – Papa,” Cyrilla said almost defiantly, as if she could not bear Hannah to disparage her mother’s behaviour in any way.

  “Your mother was well aware, as I was, that you should have had children to play with, parties to go to and ponies to ride,” Hannah said.

  “None of – those things were – important, because I was with – Mama.”

  Hannah opened her lips to speak, then closed them again and Cyrilla knew that she forced herself not to say that her mother was at times barely aware of her existence.

  From the very first she had known that Frans Wyntack was her mother’s whole world. He was all that she had ever wanted and everything and everybody else, even her daughter, was of little consequence.

  Cyrilla had not been jealous. She had only felt left out and it was then that she would slip away from the sitting room to sit in the kitchen with Hannah, talking to her, watching her cook and aware that here at least she mattered.

  She knew, if she was honest, that without Hannah her life would have been a very dreary one.

  It was Hannah who took her for walks, gave her good books to read and, when they had a little money, took her to concerts and, on one unforgettable occasion, to the theatre to see one of William Shakespeare’s plays.

  It was Hannah who again, when they could afford it, insisted that Cyrilla had teachers to instruct her in English and French and any other subjects that were beyond her ability to teach.

  The lessons were intermittent, but equally, because Cyrilla was so attentive and so keen to learn, many of the teachers would come even when they were not paid.

  It was entirely due to Hannah that Cyrilla’s education had not been as neglected as it might have been.

  Now, apprehensively, Cyrilla thought of her ignorance of any type of life except the one she had known within the confines of the small house in Islington.

  There had always been Mama to talk to when Frans Wyntack was too busy painting to want them in the studio or had gone out to try to sell his paintings.

  Mama was so knowledgeable that Cyrilla had often thought she could teach her more in an hour than a dozen teachers could do in a month.

  Mama could speak French perfectly, also Italian. Mama could play the piano and sing extracts from the operas.

  Mama had read books on almost every subject and she could explain about paintings and art even better than Frans Wyntack could.

  Yet Cyrilla was aware that there were great gaps in her education and for the first time since she had fallen in love with him, she thought that perhaps the Marquis might, in time, find her a bore.

  What did she know of his life? And although he had said, ‘we will make sure we are never parted,’ how could she believe him?

  ‘Hannah is right,’ she thought despairingly.

  Yet she felt the tears come into her eyes and it was impossible to force them away, impossible to speak.

  They drove on in silence until the mean streets gave way to wider and more fashionable ones. They reached Mayfair and turned down Park Lane.

  It was then that Cyrilla said,

  “I am sure we are making a – mistake, Hannah. Let’s go – back. If the Marquis calls, we will not – let him in. You and I will manage on our own.”

  “And do you think you could keep his Lordship out?” Hannah asked.

  The words were like a splash of cold water against her face, Cyrilla thought, and she knew it would be impossible for either of them to keep the Marquis out of the house and out of her life.

  Despairingly she thought that perhaps she was being foolish in fighting against the man she loved and giving up the Heaven she found in his arms.

  Yet, even as she thought of him, she saw her mother, thin and emaciated, her eyes dull except when Frans Wyntack was there and she knew that she could not contemplate allowing that to happen to herself.

  Besides, if she ever fell into the condition that her mother had, it was unlikely that the Marquis would stay with her.

  “We’re here!”

  Hannah’s voice broke in on her thoughts and Cyrilla clenched her hands together with an effort at self-control.

  “Leave everything to me,” Hannah said briskly, “and just remember that there’s no alternative. This is what you have to do and what your mother would want, if you could ask her.”

  The coachman, who was obviously impressed by the fine house he had brought his passengers to, stepped down and opened the door for them.

  Cyrilla, however, gave it only a perfunctory glance before she followed Hannah, who, having paid the coachman, had walked up the steps to the front door.

  Before she could raise her hand to the knocker, the door was opened by a footman wearing a powdered wig and a livery of dark blue and yellow with crested silver buttons.

  “Is His Grace at home?” Hannah enquired.

  “Have you an appointment, ma’am?”

  “We wish to see His Grace,” Hannah insisted firmly.

  “His Grace’s seeing no one
he’s not expecting,” the footman announced.

  “Is Mr. Burton here?” Hannah enquired.

  The footman looked surprised at the question and glanced over her shoulder.

  As he did so, Hannah stepped into the hall.

  “Fetch Mr. Burton, if you please.”

  The footman, who was young and somewhat inexperienced, stood, indecisive, as Cyrilla slowly entered the hall behind Hannah.

  It was large and rather dark in the evening light which came through two stained-glass windows and Cyrilla felt herself shiver and knew that she was nervous.

  Then, at the far end of the hall from under the stairs, an elderly butler, white-haired and somewhat pontifical in appearance, came walking towards them.

  He was about to ask what was happening and then looked at Hannah with an incredulous expression on his face.

  “Good evening, Mr. Burton,” Hannah said.

  “Miss Hannah! I wasn’t expecting to see you!” the butler exclaimed.

  “His Grace is here, I understand?”

  Hannah did not wait for a reply. She merely turned to Cyrilla and started to undo her cloak at the neck.

  “It’s warm in here, you won’t need this,” she said.

  Cyrilla felt as if she was only a baby in the maid’s hands and made no protests as the cloak was taken from her and given to the footman, who, having closed the front door, was standing there listening.

  There was no doubt that Cyrilla’s appearance surprised the butler.

  He stared at her for a long moment without speaking.

  Then he said to Hannah in a voice that was barely above a whisper,

  “You’ve brought her back to His Grace?”

  Hannah nodded.

  The eyes of the two servants met and it seemed as if a message of understanding passed between them without there being any necessity for words.

  The butler turned and started to walk across the hall and Cyrilla would not have followed him had not Hannah put out her arm and moved her forward.

  Automatically she walked behind the elderly man until he opened a door and said, raising his voice a trifle,

  “A lady to see Your Grace!”

  As if it was something she remembered doing in the past, Cyrilla walked past him. Then, as she heard the door close behind her, she knew that she was alone and Hannah had not accompanied her.

  At the far end of a somewhat sombre room lined with books sat a man in a wing-backed armchair in front of a fire.

  For a moment he did not move, then he turned his head and Cyrilla saw him suddenly become rigid as if transfixed.

  “Lorrain!”

  Cyrilla could barely hear the word, yet she understood.

  She walked forward, feeling that her heart was beating tumultuously, her lips were dry and her hands were trembling.

  She drew near him and the man in the chair watched her as if he was unable to take his eyes from her.

  Then he said in a harsh voice,

  “You must be Cyrilla!”

  “Yes – Papa?

  “I thought you were your mother.”

  “Mama is – dead.”

  “Dead?”

  The words were little more than a gasp and she knew that it was a shock to him.

  “When did she die?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “She grew – weaker and – weaker through – lack of food.”

  If she had meant to startle the man in the chair, she had certainly succeeded.

  “What are you saying to me?”

  “We did not – have enough – money to eat – properly.”

  There was an expression in the Duke’s eyes that she thought was one of pain and after a moment he said,

  “Is that why you have come home now?”

  “Yes – Papa.”

  “Why did you not come after your mother died?”

  “If I had – Frans Wyntack would have – killed himself and I think she would have – wanted me to look – after him.”

  “What has happened to him now?”

  “He died – yesterday – so Hannah brought – me to you.”

  “Hannah is still with you?”

  “Yes – Papa. She is – outside in the – hall.”

  “And you really think I would take you back, seeing the life you have been leading with your mother and – that man?”

  The Duke’s voice was suddenly harsh. It sounded to Cyrilla like the crack of a whip and it broke her self-control.

  She gave a muttered cry and rushed forward to throw herself on her knees in front of him.

  “Let me come to you, Papa. Please – let me stay with you,” she begged, her words tumbling over one another. “I have – no money and nowhere else to – go – unless I do what I know is wrong – and that I cannot – contemplate, even though I-I love him – ”

  Because the words brought back to her mind the agony of losing the Marquis, she burst into tears.

  Now she bent her head and laid it against the Duke’s knee and cried despairingly as a child would do who has lost security and everything that means love and comfort in its life.

  Then she felt the Duke’s hand on her head, stroking her hair and it was strangely comforting.

  “Who is this man?”

  She heard his voice as if it came from a long distance and, as she groped for the handkerchief she had put in her sash when they entered the house, the Duke took a fine linen one from his pocket and put it into her hands.

  It was soft and smelt of lavender and Cyrilla pressed it against her eyes, trying to stop her tears.

  “Suppose you tell me what has upset you,” the Duke suggested in a very different tone of voice from the one he had used before.

  “I – believed when he said he – loved me that he – meant it,” Cyrilla began.

  There was a note of self-disparagement in her voice that the Duke did not miss.

  “You are saying,” he went on in the same quiet tone, “that this man did not offer you marriage?”

  “No – ”

  “That is not surprising, considering – ”

  The Duke checked himself from saying more, but Cyrilla knew only too well what he had been about to say.

  “He – did not – know about Mama,” she said hastily. “Nobody knew – and there were few people to know – as we had no – friends.”

  “That was your mother’s choice,” the Duke said and now his voice was harsh again, “but we are talking about you. Who is this man? And if you had no friends, how did you meet him?”

  “He came to the – house about a – painting.”

  “And his name?”

  “He is the Marquis of – F-Fane.”

  She felt the Duke stiffen and after a moment he said,

  “Fane? Fane! What has Fane to do with you? That rake – that ravisher of women! He is not the sort of man I would allow my daughter to associate with.”

  “I-I love him – Papa – I cannot help it – it’s just – something that – happened.”

  “It is something that should not have happened!” the Duke said. “In no circumstances and make no mistake about it, Cyrilla, will I allow him to set foot in any house that belongs to me!”

  There was silence for a moment and then Cyrilla asked,

  “Does that mean – Papa – that I may – stay here?”

  The Duke did not reply and she added pathetically,

  “It is – the only way I can – avoid seeing him – please – Papa – let me stay?”

  “If you stay here,” the Duke said after a moment, “it will not be because you are hiding from the Marquis of Fane, but because you are my daughter. I have often thought, Cyrilla, that I was wrong in allowing your mother to take you with her.”

  “She left Edmund with you. How – how is he?”

  “He is in Europe at the moment, doing the Grand Tour,” the Duke replied, “but all these years I have missed my daughter.”

  “Oh – Papa – is that –
true?”

  “It is true.”

  Cyrilla looked up at the Duke and thought there was an expression in his eyes that was one of inexpressible pain.

  After a moment she said in a whisper:

  “You have – missed Mama – too.”

  The Duke stirred a little uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Your mother left me and I will not talk about it.”

  “I understand, Papa, but, although she was happy – very happy with – Frans Wyntack, I think she missed – you and Edmund more than she would ever – admit.”

  “I don’t want to hear any more,” the Duke said harshly. “I want you to tell me about yourself.”

  Cyrilla gave him a little smile and, as there were still tears on her cheeks, it was like the sunshine after rain.

  “There is really – nothing to – tell,” she relied. “We lived in a very small house in Islington which Hannah always disliked and it was fun until Mama became – ill. After that – everything was really very – very miserable.”

  The Duke looked at her for a moment and then rose to his feet to stand in front of the fire while Cyrilla sat back on her heels, looking up at him.

  “Damn the man!” he ejaculated. “He ruined my life and he has ruined yours!”

  “Not – really, Papa,” Cyrilla tried to say.

  At the same time she could understand what he was feeling.

  When her mother died, she had said to Hannah as she wept,

  “This is how Papa must have felt when Mama ran away from him. He must have been desperately – unhappy, knowing that she could – never come back.”

  She thought now that the Duke looked very much older than she remembered him.

  It was, of course, eight years since she had last seen him. Even so, his hair was now dead white and the lines on his face were deeply etched.

  He must be sixty, Cyrilla thought, but he looked older and she knew perceptively that the last vestige of his youth must have ebbed away when her mother left him for Frans Wyntack.

  Because she could understand how much he had suffered and because she wanted to comfort him, she said,

  “If – I may stay with you – Papa – perhaps we can be happy – together. I have missed you – as you have missed me.”

  The Duke smiled and it broke the severity of his expression.