The Ruthless Rake

by Barbara Cartland

She walked towards the hedge and to the Earl’s surprise found an almost impossible path that could not have been made by human feet.

  Without either of them scratching themselves, twisting this way and that in a curious pattern, they passed through the hedge.

  It was not as thick as it looked and suddenly to the Earl’s astonishment they were free of it and stepped into an open space.

  There was a stretch of short green grass ahead like a lawn.

  It appeared to be entirely surrounded with bushes, holly, thorns and trees.

  Yet in the centre it was clear except for some fallen masonry. The Earl saw a broken pillar and then glanced towards the end of the clearing and understood.

  This was the remains of one of the Chapels built by the monks when there was a Monastery on the site of King’s Keep. The walls knocked down by the Cromwellian troops had long been over grown with ivy and honeysuckle and giant yews growing round it had extended their branches and interwoven them to make a thick green shield for the holy place.

  But there was still the skeleton remains of what had once been a great East window and below it a huge marble slab that must have been the altar.

  The three steps leading up to the altar were thick with mosses and lichens the colour of coral, saffron and jade, while the forest had encroached until the Sanctuary was encircled by wild cherry and crab apple trees rising above an undergrowth of roses, hawthorn and ‘old man’s beard’.

  They were not yet in flower, but in the clearing the Earl saw that there were great clusters of primroses, their little yellow faces turned towards the light.

  There were also small wild daffodils, white and purple violets and delicate white celandine, the first flower of spring.

  Syringa and the Earl stood side by side for a moment before she said very softly in a voice that was hardly above a whisper,

  “There is a legend that the monks of a great Monastery built this Chapel to the glory of St. Francis, the patron saint of wild animals and birds. And they say when the winters are very bad the animals come here and never go away hungry.”

  The Earl did not speak and after a moment Syringa continued,

  “I have seen birds with broken wings or dragging a leg, animals that have been mauled by a fox and they have stayed here until they have either died in peace or have been healed. They have not been afraid of even me.”

  Still the Earl did not speak and she put her hand on his arm.

  “I am sure,” she said softly, “that if Judith could not find you, if she had been alone and fearful, she would have found her way here.”

  There were tears in the large grey eyes, tears of compassion, and then, as if she had no more to say, Syringa turned and wended her way back through the thorn hedge into the wood.

  Mercury was waiting and the Earl untied Thunderer and led him to Syringa’s side.

  She looked up at him and he sensed that she was worried in case he had not understood what she had shown him.

  “I am honoured that you should have brought me here,” he said gently.

  “No one knows about it except me,” Syringa replied and then with a smile, “except, of course, the birds and animals of Monk’s Wood.”

  Almost with a start the Earl remembered that that was the name of the wood. It was marked on the big maps that were hung up in the estate office.

  “I will keep your secret,” he promised.

  “I knew I could trust you with it.”

  “Why did you think that?”

  “Because you – have helped me,” Syringa answered. “You have helped me more than I can ever explain and so I must – thank you.”

  “You have already thanked me,” he said in his deep voice. “When I think of Judith, I shall be sure that she found her way to your Secret Place.”

  “I am sure she did. Animals are much more sensible than we are where their instincts are concerned – especially dogs.”

  “And yet you trusted me.”

  A smile touched Syringes lips.

  “I used my instinct – something I have lamentably failed to do this past week since I learnt about the – sale.”

  Her voice trembled for a moment and then she went on,

  “And now I am going to be brave about it. I shall remember the lesson you have taught me this afternoon – and I will not be as frightened as I have been up till now.”

  “I am sure that the Gods will hear your pleas,” the Earl said.

  He saw a startled look come into her eyes.

  “Why do you look so surprised?” he asked.

  A faint blush came into her cheeks.

  “It is just that when I first looked at you,” she answered, “you were standing above me. I saw you against the sky and it seemed to me that you were like a God. A God coming to help me.”

  “Which God in particular?” the Earl asked.

  “Jupiter,” Syringa answered instantly. “Of course you would be Jupiter, the God of the sky, the God to whom the Romans turned for protection and help in all their troubles.”

  “You flatter me,” the Earl remarked dryly.

  “I am not trying to do that,” Syringa answered in all sincerity. “You have helped me, you have given me a little of your wisdom and so I shall think of you while I pray for Mercury and hope that Jupiter as well as the God of St. Francis – will hear my prayer!”

  “I am sure whatever prayer you make it will be heard,” the Earl replied.

  He had untied his horse and now he stood for a moment with the reins in his hands.

  “Goodbye, Syringa. If we don’t meet again remember that however lonely one may feel there is always someone somewhere ready to listen.”

  “I will remember that,” she said seriously, “and thank you, Lord Jupiter, for coming to my help – when I most needed it.”

  She smiled up at him as she spoke.

  She looked very small and fragile, little more than a child and it seemed to the Earl as if she merged into the shadows underneath the pine trees.

  Almost without meaning to, he then put his fingers under her chin, bent his head and kissed her lips.

  It was the kiss of a man for a child and her lips, very soft and sweet, were as defenceless as a child’s might have been.

  Yet just for a moment they were both very still.

  Then the Earl mounted Thunderer and raising his hat, turned his horse’s head in the direction of King’s Keep and rode away leaving Syringa staring after him.

  She stood for a long time among the trees until he was out of sight and she could no longer hear the sound of Thunderer’s hoofs.

  Then, putting her arms round Mercury, she hid her face against his neck.

  Chapter Three

  “Now eat your breakfast, Miss Syringa, and no nonsense!” Nanny said in the severe tones of one who is used to recreant nursery charges.

  “I am trying,” Syringa answered.

  But as she spoke she knew that she could not force anything down her throat, which seemed to have swollen to twice its normal size.

  She rose from the table and walked to the window to look out onto the small untended garden with its chestnut trees and its huge bushes of syringa.

  They were just coming into bud and she thought miserably that by the time they were in flower she would have left the house and would never see them again.

  She turned her head to see that Nanny had laid the breakfast tray for her father.

  “I will take it up to him, Nana,” she said quietly.

  “I don’t suppose Sir Hugh will eat anythin’,” Nanny replied, slipping some pieces of toast onto a silver rack. “And if he doesn’t want to, bring the tray down again. The coffee set and all the rest of the silver are in the sale.”

  Syringa did not answer but merely carried the neatly arranged tray with its lace-edged cloth and pretty flower-decorated china up the stairs to set it down on the table outside the door of the main bedroom.

  She knocked on the door, but there was no answer and after knocking again she p
icked up the tray and went in.

  She could see in the dim light that her father was not asleep, but lying back against the pillows, his arms behind his head.

  “Good morning, Papa,” Syringa smiled, “I have brought you some breakfast.”

  “I don’t want any.”

  Sir Hugh’s voice was thick, the words slightly blurred.

  And Syringa, even before she noticed the half-empty decanter of brandy on the table beside the bed, knew that he had already been drinking.

  She set down the tray and walked to the window to pull back the curtains and let in the pale sunshine.

  “A cup of coffee will do you good, Papa,” she suggested tentatively, knowing that sometimes any suggestion as to what he should eat or drink would make Sir Hugh turn on her in a rage.

  This morning he merely reached out his hand towards the decanter.

  “I am sure it would,” he said, “but I am not concerned this morning with what is good or bad for me.”

  Syringa, feeling that he was in a mellower mood than she had expected, decided to ask the question that had been hovering in her mind ever since she had learnt about the sale.

  “If you don’t think it impertinent of me, Papa,” she said, “will you tell me exactly how much you owe?”

  It seemed to Syringa that her inquisitiveness evoked a pregnant silence.

  Then, as Sir Hugh poured out half a glass of brandy with a shaky hand, he replied,

  “So you are curious, are you? Well, I don’t blame you! You may as well know the worst and have done with it. I owe twenty thousand pounds!”

  As he finished speaking, he tipped the glass of brandy down his throat and threw himself back against the pillows and closed his eyes.

  For a moment Syringa was too horrified to speak, then at last in a voice that seemed to her curiously unlike her own, she exclaimed,

  “Twenty thousand pounds! But, Papa, how could we – ever find – such a sum?”

  Sir Hugh opened his eyes.

  “We have to! Do you hear me? And ten thousand is a debt of honour that must be paid first.”

  “But, Papa,” Syringa expostulated, “the gentleman to whom you owe so much would not put you in prison. While the others – ”

  “Be quiet!” Sir Hugh said sharply. “I may be a fool, Syringa, I may be a damned bad gamester, but I am still a gentleman. I still honour my word.”

  He paused and then staring at her angrily he added,

  “Stop thinking like some parsimonious cheese-paring tradesman. Why should not shopkeepers wait for their money? Curse it, that is all they are good for!”

  “They have waited a long time, Papa,” Syringa said softly.

  “And they will wait a damn sight longer,” Sir Hugh snarled.

  He suddenly put up his hands to his eyes.

  “Draw the curtains, blast you!” he called out. “What do you want to let in all this light for? My head aches and, if I have to face those ravening wolves downstairs, I need another bottle of brandy.”

  “That was the last bottle, Papa,” Syringa answered.

  “The last bottle!” Sir Hugh screamed the words as though he felt he could not have heard her aright. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure, Papa. It was the only bottle left in the cellar. I looked yesterday.”

  Sir Hugh turned to stare at the now almost empty decanter.

  “God! How do you expect me to get through today without something to drink?” he demanded.

  “I have brought you some coffee, Papa.”

  “Coffee!” Sir Hugh roared, “I want brandy and I am cursed well going to have it! Get my shaving water and bring me my boots. I suppose that lazy old Nanny of yours has cleaned them.”

  “Yes, Papa, Nana has cleaned them. And she has washed one of your best shirts and I have ironed it for you,” Syringa said. “Your coat has been sponged and pressed.”

  She drew a deep breath.

  “Please, Papa, don’t drink any more,” she pleaded. “If you have to face the people coming to the sale, I want them to see how smart and handsome you are when you are not – ”

  She paused.

  “Drunk as a Lord!” her father finished bitterly, “jug-bitten, bosky, foxed, any word you like to call it. It just means degraded, debauched, a man you have no reason to be proud of as your father.”

  His voice was so sharp with pain that instinctively Syringa went towards him.

  She put her hand and laid it on his, which lay against the sheet.

  “I am sorry, Papa,” she said. “You know I would help you if I could.”

  “I know that,” her father said in a very different tone of voice. “You are a good girl, Syringa. Your mother would have been proud of you.”

  As he spoke of his wife, Sir Hugh’s voice softened and suddenly there were weak tears in his bloodshot eyes.

  “It’s all because I miss Elizabeth,” he whimpered. “I cannot live without her, I never could live without her. How could she have died and left me alone. How could she, Syringa?”

  This was a familiar cry and Syringa knew when her father’s drinking had passed the aggressive stage and he became maudlin and sentimental.

  “This would never have happened if your mother had still been here,” he went on almost as if he was speaking to himself. “She kept me from making a fool of myself and made me behave decently. Oh, Syringa, how could I have failed her?”

  The tears were now running down Sir Hugh’s cheeks and there was compassion in Syringa’s eyes as she looked at him, but she knew that it was only a passing mood.

  A few more drinks and he would be aggressive again, cursing the tradesmen, ready to post back to London if he had any money to throw it away in drink and gaming.

  “I will fetch your shaving water, Papa,” she said and was moving from the bedside when she remembered his breakfast.

  She poured the black coffee into a thin porcelain cup.

  “Please drink this, Papa,” she urged. “It will steady you and make you feel stronger.”

  “Stronger for what?” her father asked. “I am hopeless and there is no point in my going on living.”

  “Please, Papa, drink the coffee,” Syringa coaxed him.

  Still muttering to himself, Sir Hugh lifted the cup to his lips, drank a little and then said in disgust,

  “Tastes like bilge water! What I want is brandy!”

  “Then you must get up,” Syringa replied.

  She picked up the tray as she spoke and went from the room. Her father was in a bad state this morning she thought dispassionately, as she walked slowly downstairs.

  At first, after her mother’s death three years ago, she had been desperately disturbed and distressed by his drunkenness and his violent moods of aggression when at times he even knocked her about.

  It was almost worse when he repented, when he wept and begged her forgiveness, and when he reiterated over and over again how much he missed his wife.

  But she had learnt through bitter experience that it was all an act.

  However repentant her father might be one moment, if he had a few guineas in his hand he would throw them away.

  Without a thought of the consequences, without remembering that she and her old Nanny, who had been in his service ever since he married, were often on the point of starvation, he would go back to the gaming tables.

  It had been horrible too to realise that his craving for drink was more insistent and more important to him than even his memories of her mother.

  He had sold the small pieces of jewellery that Lady Melton had treasured and which she had always told Syringa were to be hers.

  The money he had obtained for them had gone in one evening of debauchery and sometimes Syringa felt that she could never forgive her father for treating her mother’s possessions so indifferently.

  There was very little of any value in the house, because ever since her father and mother had run away together, they had lived on the very small income her mother had inherited when she was
twenty-one.

  It amounted to only a few hundred pounds a year and yet it enabled them to be comparatively comfortable so long as they were not extravagant.

  As Syringa grew up, she had learnt that her father must have everything of the best.

  It was her father who must have a decent horse to ride and to go hunting, even if her mother’s shoes had holes in them and her gowns were threadbare.

  Her father had the whole attention of the three women in the house.

  Syringa soon learnt to play her part in seeing that he was dressed like a dandy, even though her own clothes were so outgrown as to be almost indecent.

  Yet she could understand why her mother never regretted leaving her family in the North, who had planned for her to marry a wealthy Scottish Nobleman.

  She had chosen instead to live in what they considered penury with a man who had nothing to recommend him save his good looks and his devotion, which had kept his wife blissfully happy for all the years of their married life.

  Syringa had realised, when she was old enough to think of grown-ups as human beings, that it was her mother who kept the house together and made her father so content that he did not mind their comparative poverty.

  It was her mother who made every hour that Sir Hugh spent at home as amusing and as entertaining as if he was with the rowdy friends who had been his companions when he was a bachelor.

  It was only as she grew older that Syringa realised that her father missed the amusements he had known in London.

  He longed sometimes for his Clubs that he could no longer afford and the comradeship of men like himself who had few interests beyond sport and gambling.

  As she looked back on the days before her mother died, Syringa felt that it was by using her brain and her intelligence that her mother had kept her husband at her side.

  He had been content – there was no doubt about it.

  Content with the life they lived at Whitley, content with the confinement of the small Manor House, content with the wife who loved him to the exclusion of everything else in the world.

  But on her death, sudden and unexpected, her father had behaved like a madman.

  It seemed as if the repressions of the years when he had behaved normally, when he had been a good husband and a good father, had built up inside him.