An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  It all seemed so petty and trivial and unimportant compared with the life she had lived aboard Rodney’s ships and at Rodney’s side. But they would be in port tomorrow. There was nothing for her to do but say good-bye with as much dignity and control as she could achieve.

  Rodney was looking at her as she sat with her elbows on the table, her little chin resting on her hands. The white starched linen which had been Francis” ruff framed her hair and the green satin of her doublet echoed her eyes.

  “Are you content with what we have achieved?”

  He asked the question although he knew the answer. “No one could have done more ”

  There was a thrill in her voice and he felt absurdly pleased by her praise even while he expected it.

  “I have been singularly fortunate.”

  “As I foretold!”

  He smiled.

  “You will be burnt as a witch. Faith, but I am afraid of your predictions!”

  “Why, when they are in your favour?” Lizbeth asked.

  “You yourself are unpredictable – you come aboard my ship in disguise. You are a woman and yet you bring me good luck. If it had been otherwise, I should have suspected you of the evil eye.”

  “Instead – how will you reward me?”

  Lizbeth was teasing him, the candlelight revealed the sparkle in her eyes.

  “What shall I give you? The emerald necklace?”

  It was the first time he had referred to the jewels since they had fought over them and his suspicions of her.

  “It belongs to the shareholders,” she said coolly.

  “Of which I am one. Also I am the Captain of a successful ship who can take his first pick of the spoils. If I remember rightly, Drake was given goods to the value of ten thousand pounds before the cargo of the Golden Hind was divided.”

  “I thank you – but I have no wish to own the emeralds!” Lizbeth told him.

  She could never look at them, she thought, without remembering Don Miguel – she could hear his voice all too clearly as he spoke of his love, and see the pain in his eyes.

  “No, I will have nothing,” she cried suddenly.

  “Only your memories,” Rodney said, and his voice was hard.

  He knew, she thought, why she would not take the emeralds, why she shrank even from the thought of them.

  “Yes, those are mine – for ever.”

  Lizbeth’s answer was defiant, her chin raised a little; but in reply Rodney held out his hand towards her with a generous, affectionate gesture she had not expected.

  “Forgive me, Lizbeth – there is nothing I can offer which could reward you for all you have done – for your kindness to my wounded, for your courage in every danger, for the way you have never complained, never grumbled.”

  Her hand was in his and his fingers warm and strong made her breath come more quickly.

  “To Lizbeth!”

  He was raising a goblet of wine with his other hand.

  “I thank you.”

  Her voice trembled on the simple words, her whole body was quivering beneath his touch and she was afraid he would notice her agitation. He put down the goblet and looked down at her fingers lying in his palm.

  “So little,” he said, and added softly, “and so brave.”

  He did not mean what he said, Lizbeth thought, it was just a moment of sentimentality because the voyage was at an end. She drew her hand away and lifted high her own goblet of wine.

  “To the future,” she said, “and may it bring you everything you ask of it.”

  She thought of Phillida as she spoke and putting down her wine, rose from the table.

  “’Tis time to turn in,” she said, her tone deliberately commonplace.

  If he was kind to her again, she thought in a sudden panic, she would burst into tears.

  “Good night, sweet witch. God bless you!”

  She found it difficult to find the door. She managed it, though the tears were running down her cheeks by the time she reached the privacy of her own cabin.

  But they were happy tears – Rodney had thanked her! She had never expected so much from him; yet how, she asked herself, could she face saying good-bye to him tomorrow, knowing her weakness, collapsing as she did beneath his kindness where she had never quailed before his anger?

  She lay awake all night, distracted by her own feelings; and yet when the morning came, nothing was so difficult as she had anticipated. Things had begun happening from the moment they reached the Sound and Rodney, leaning over the side, had shouted to a passing vessel whose crew were staring open-mouthed:

  “Is the Queen alive?”

  He asked the question deliberately, copying Drake, who had made the same enquiry on return home from his voyage around the world. The answer to his question came roaring across the waves:

  “She’s alive.”

  “We’ve beaten the thrice-cursed Spaniards!”

  “The Armada has been defeated and wrecked.”

  It was difficult to separate the various answers, but when they had done so, Rodney and Lizbeth looked at each other and each drew a deep breath. The Armada had been defeated, that much was clear at any rate. They could wait for details until they reached Plymouth. They came into Harbour with the music lilting on deck and Rodney waving his hat wildly to the assembled crowds. There were thousands of people on the quay, cheering and waving to welcome them, and messengers were sent posting to London to Sir Francis Walsingham and to the Plymouth authorities to tell them of what lay in the holds of the Santa Perpetua and the Sea Hawk.

  The news of their return and the success of their voyage was not likely to be kept secret with the Santa Perpetua anchored in the harbour and looking strangely out of place among the smaller and more severe British ships. And every seaman on board her and the Sea Hawk seemed to have not one tongue but two as they talked of the spoils of the voyage and the richness of the promised prize money.

  “Here come the carrion crows,” one man laughed as the women of Plymouth seemed to turn out as it were in one body – wife and mistress, maiden and prostitute–pushing and fighting with each other in their efforts to get near to the returned buccaneers.

  In the turmoil and excitement of it all, it was easy for Lizbeth to slip away. She had told Rodney the night before that she would leave for Camfield as soon as possible. He agreed heartily with her decision, for he was anxious that no one should know that she had been on board.

  It would be some time, he knew, before he could join her. There was the cargo to be registered, and when the prize money had been distributed, the rest had to be sold and divided among the shareholders. It all meant a great deal of work but when that was done, he would come hurrying to Camfield.

  And so, as the gold-laced officials streamed on board the Santa Perpetua, Lizbeth left her. Two ordinary seamen set her baggage in the boat and shook her hand in farewell. She would like to have spoken to Master Barlow, to Baxter, to Hales, to the Master Gunner and all the other men with whom she had sailed but she knew they would not expect it – they were far too busy at this moment to be looking for her.

  The sun was shining on the water as the ship’s boat took her to the quay. It was a pale, insipid sun with no warmth in it, which seemed to make no difference to the chill on the wind or the promise of rain in the clouds blowing across the grey sky.

  Rodney had meant, Lizbeth knew, to make arrangements for her return. He had planned to find horses and servants to escort her on the long journey from Plymouth to Camfield. She felt she would rather make these arrangements herself than trouble him, so she went to the inn where she and Francis had stayed the night before she went aboard the Sea Hawk.

  The landlord took her for her brother and was quite prepared to find her decent horses and trustworthy men to accompany her on her journey. She paid him well and knew that she need not worry that he would rob her more than he was entitled to do.

  When everything was arranged, she went to bed and lay sleepless, finding it impossible to rest be
cause the room was steady and there was no creaking timber or rattle of the rigging to which she had grown accustomed without realising it. She hated the stillness of the night and was glad when dawn came and she could say that she was ready to leave an hour before the time appointed.

  It was drizzling with rain, a fine drizzle which made her face wet and glistened on her eyelashes. Yet, as she turned round in her saddle to look back at the town, the harbour and the grey waves of the sea, she knew it was not the drizzle that was blinding her eyes, but tears of regret and loneliness, of a longing which seemed to make her whole body ache for the man she had left behind her.

  12

  It was growing dark and the scuds of rain seemed to make it darker still. The horses were tired, as were the riders, for Lizbeth had pushed them hard. For the past hour she had recognised the way and had ridden ahead of her little band of servants and pack-horses, hurrying forward with an eagerness which made it hard to keep up with her; but she was shivering as she turned into the twisting, muddy road which led to Camfield.

  She found herself longing for the warmth of the tropical sun, and in her tiredness she tried to imagine herself on the quarter-deck of the Santa Perpetua sailing down the coast over a sea as brilliantly blue as the sky above it. She could visualise Rodney walking up and down deep in thought, his hands clasped behind his back, his expression serious and preoccupied.

  In contrast she saw him as she had seen him last, waving his hat to the cheering crowds, his eyes alight, his head thrown back with the excitement and exuberance that all the crew were feeling at their return home.

  Gone was his pose of being calm and unperturbed by anything that occurred. He was setting no check on his feelings, and she thought how young and handsome he looked when he was off his guard. Rodney! Rodney! It seemed to Lizbeth that every picture in her mind was of Rodney! And yet how little she knew about him! He had rarely spoken of his past. Of Drake’s exploits he could talk by the hour, but he seldom included himself in those adventures.

  She guessed rather than knew that there had been many women in his life and she felt the sharp pangs of jealousy as she thought of them – women who must have loved and ached for Rodney even as she loved and ached for him. Of his childhood she had learnt only that he was unhappy at home. His mother had died when he was only a child, and his father bullied both him and his elder brothers and sisters. A brilliant scholar, Rodney’s father had expected those who bore his name to follow in his erudite footsteps and resented it when they had other interests.

  One by one the older members of the family had left home and finally Rodney himself had run away to join the Navy, preferring physical hardship to mental cruelty.

  This was all Lizbeth had learned of his early life, for the miserable years of a lonely adolescence were still too vivid for him to speak lightly of them. But remembering the aching void that the death of her own mother had left in her life, Lizbeth sensed and understood much that he left unsaid.

  Rodney! Rodney! The very wind in the trees seemed to whisper his name.

  Only half a mile to Camfield Place! But there was somewhere else she must go first. She gave the word to halt. The horses seemed to obey her gratefully, while the servants looked at her askance.

  “Wait here for me,” she commanded. “There is someone I must see. I shall not be long.”

  They would have demurred if they had dared, at this delay in reaching shelter and food, but Lizbeth’s air of authority and the promise of good pay she made them had persuaded the hired men at the very beginning of the journey that she was someone of importance. Nevertheless she could hear them muttering to themselves as she turned off the road and rode quickly down an untidy, badly-kept drive towards Dr. Keen’s house.

  Built of grey stone it stood in a small garden surrounded by ancient trees. It had never been an attractive house and now to Lizbeth it appeared sinister and repellent as in the dying light she could see that its windows were shuttered and that there was no welcoming gleam of light.

  She rode right up to the front door, then dismounted and rapped with the handle of her riding-whip on its rough, oak-studded surface. The sound of her knocking seemed blunted by the wind and after a moment she rapped again. A strand of ivy was flapping in an untidy manner on the side of the house, a puddle of water had accumulated near the front door, and there was over all an air of neglect and depression which began to affect Lizbeth.

  Could Dr. Keen have left? she asked herself. Perhaps the house was empty? And then, even as she framed the question in her mind, she was certain it was not. She had a feeling, a strong, unmistakable conviction that someone was within. The windows were shuttered, the rooms must be in darkness, and yet someone must be listening.

  She could not account to herself for her absolute certainty of this; but because she was so sure, she knocked again, and this time she raised her voice and called to the upper windows:

  “Elita, Elita !”

  The only answer was the whistling of the wind and the tap of the ivy; but again Lizbeth called.

  “Elita, are you there? I want to speak with you”

  Her voice sounded strange even to her own ears. As she waited, she heard the sound of a shutter being opened very softly. It was too dark to see clearly, but she felt sure that someone was looking out at her from the windows on the first floor and now she called again:

  “Elita! Elita!”

  This time she was answered. The casement over the front door moved a few inches and Elita’s voice, low and hoarse, asked:

  “ What do you want?”

  “It is I, Lizbeth. I wanted to speak with you. Let me in.”

  Elita did not answer for a moment and Lizbeth had the feeling that she was contemplating a refusal. Hastily she called, “Come down, Elita, I must speak with you. ’Tis of the utmost importance. There is no one with me.”

  “No one?” Elita questioned. “You are alone?”

  “Yes, I am absolutely alone,” Lizbeth answered. “Marry, can you not see there is no one here?”

  She felt that Elita peered into the shadows to reassure herself ; then the window was closed. After a few moments Lizbeth could hear footsteps on the stone floor of the hall and the chains and bolts being undone. After what seemed a long time the door was opened a few inches.

  “What do you want?” Elita’s voice was surly; and now through the darkness Lizbeth could vaguely see the white oval of her face, her dark eyes, suspicious and wary.

  “Where is Francis?”

  To Lizbeth’s surprise she did not receive an answer. Instead it seemed to her a flicker of fear passed over Elita’s face, but it might have been merely a trick of the darkness.

  “Let me in,” Lizbeth said impatiently. “It is impossible to stand here where we cannot see each other.”

  She loosed hold of the bridle of her horse as she spoke.

  “He will not wander far,” she said more to herself than to Elita. “He is too tired.”

  She stepped towards the door as if she would enter the house. It did not open for her as she expected. Instead, Elita appeared to bar the way, only a portion of her showing through the partially-opened door.

  “You must go away,” she said, in a low, fierce voice. “I would not have answered you had I not feared you would wake the whole neighbourhood with your shouting.”

  “Why are you behaving like this?” Lizbeth asked. “Let me in. Elita. We cannot talk to each other out here in the cold.”

  Her persistence seemed to make Elita decide to do what she was asked. The door was opened and a second later Lizbeth stood in the hall. The door was closed behind her. Both the girls were in the darkness for a moment while Elita fumbled about and eventually lit a candle.

  It burned slowly and fitfully, but by its light Lizbeth could see Elita for the first time. She was astonished by what she saw. The girl was obviously ill, thin and emaciated, her cheek-bones etched sharply against her face, her eyes burning dark and feverishly in their sockets. She looked very differ
ent from the exotic Elita whom Lizbeth had suspected of seducing Francis for her own ends.

  There was something radically wrong, Lizbeth could see that, at a glance, and she noticed that Elita’s hands were trembling as she turned to face her. The hall smelt dank and cold and somehow an atmosphere of horror seemed to creep over Lizbeth. It was in a voice hardly above a whisper that she managed to ask:

  “Where is Francis?”

  There was no doubt now that Elita was frightened. She was trembling all over as she glanced towards the door as if she expected someone to be standing there who could overhear what she had to tell. Now grotesquely her face seemed contorted and Lizbeth realised that her teeth were chattering. Lizbeth felt fear rising within her.

  “Answer me!” she commanded. “Answer me! Where is Francis?”

  “He is dead!”

  Lizbeth knew then that she had anticipated the words before Elita spoke them.

  “When did he die? What has happened?”

  She heard her own voice ringing out and echoing away through the shadows.

  “Hush, someone might hear you!”

  Elita looked over her shoulder and her teeth chattered audibly.

  “How did he die?” Lizbeth asked in a lower tone.

  “He went with my father to a friend’s house in Northampton,” Elita answered. “There was a – a meeting there, but it was discovered – The soldiers came ”

  Elita put her hands suddenly to her eyes and her voice died away harshly in her throat.

  “Yes, yes, go on!” Lizbeth said impatiently. “By a meeting I suppose you mean that my brother was taking part in some conspiracy against the Queen?”