An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Her mother was friendly with one of the Queen’s ladies in waiting, and presuming on that friendship, she pleaded and implored the unfortunate lady until she obtained permission to bring Beatrice to St. James’s.

  Beatrice might have been innocent in some ways at fifteen, but she would have been deaf and an idiot if she had not understood very clearly and without pretence what her mother desired for her.

  They had taken a stagecoach from Sevenoaks to London, as they were too poor to afford a post chaise. Every penny they could scrape together or borrow from their equally impecunious relations had been expended on Beatrice’s wardrobe. Even then they were heavily in debt, but supremely confident that the future would enable them to pay their dues.

  They were not mistaken. Beatrice’s beauty did not go unnoticed and within a few weeks of their arrival in London it was obvious that her most eligible admirer was Lord Wrexham. That he was over sixty, a licentious, dissolute man was of no consequence. Younger men waited on Beatrice, flattered her and avowed to be her most devoted slave, but the majority were seeking a bride with a dowry.

  Lord Wrexham could not only afford to marry, he was wealthy enough to be a matrimonial catch. The fact that he had sworn, when his third wife died ten years earlier, never to take another did not depress either Beatrice or her mother.

  They played their cards carefully. Lord Wrexham was encouraged to call and Beatrice was paraded before him. He was tantalised and tempted by her beauty, but he soon realised that the price of making her his was the cost of a plain, gold wedding ring.

  His Lordship paid and was the first of Beatrice’s triumphs, although by no means the last. Those who were shocked by the marriage and the disparity of age between the bride and the groom, and who knew the unsavoury reputation of the latter, foretold the future with gloom. They were disappointed. Beatrice showed no sign of being disgusted or affronted by her husband’s licentious ways. Gorgeously dressed, wearing fabulous jewels that even the Queen would have been proud to own, she became the toast of London.

  For so young a girl her self-assurance was phenomenal. Her beautiful face was a mask to hide her real feelings, whatever they might be. There were those who said that Wrexham, entranced by his young bride and converted by her innocent purity, had turned over a new leaf, there were others who averred that he had merely drawn her into the vortex of sin and vice in which he himself wallowed.

  It was hard to know the truth. One thing only was certain – Lady Wrexham enjoyed her position as the wife of a nobleman.

  Four years later Lord Wrexham suffered a stroke. He retired to his country seat, but his wife did not accompany him. She remained in London and there were those who said that she was preparing to make a much more important marriage as soon as she became a widow.

  But Lord Wrexham did not die, he remained in the country half paralysed, his senses somewhat impaired, enjoying, it was true, many comforts but not the companionship of his wife.

  Beatrice Wrexham began to be talked of in a hushed voice. It was not only scandal that surrounded her, it was the aroma of intrigue. Still the most beautiful and the most extravagantly dressed woman in London, she appeared to demand more of life than the social gaiety of Ball, Masque and Rout. Her ambition was insatiable. Once she had craved money, jewels and a title, now she wanted much more – that insidious, delectable, but dangerous possession of all – power.

  It was noticeable that among the beauties at court, Beatrice was unique in that she chose her lovers not for their physical attributes, but because they were of political consequence.

  The ladder Beatrice had chosen to climb was by no means an easy one, but beneath her soft yielding femininity lay a backbone of steel. Slowly, step-by-step, she climbed until with the triumphant ecstasy of one who reaches the summit of a mountain, she captured the attention of the Marquis of Severn. Earl Marshal and Hereditary Marshal of England, the Marquis was also the King’s chief adviser.

  He was a clever, ruthless and extremely able man, and George II with his heart and his interests firmly fixed in his native Hanover, was content to leave State affairs in Severn’s capable hands. The Marquis’s influence was everywhere, his position unequalled.

  Beatrice became friendly, too friendly some people said, with the aide de camp. Having learned from him who Severn’s enemies were, she made it her business to discover certain information about them and then conveyed it to the Marquis with her compliments.

  The Marquis’s life had been singularly barren of women. Married when he was quite young to a simple, but dull, young woman of noble birth, his family consisted of two sons and three daughters. The Marchioness was an admirable housekeeper and an excellent mother.

  The family place in Hertfordshire was kept up with the kind of pomp and splendour that most people averred surpassed any royal palace and easily eclipsed the drab formality of the Court at St. James’s.

  But the Marchioness seldom came to London, while pressure of State affairs made it difficult for the Marquis to visit his country seat save at irregular intervals. Strangely enough, there was little evidence of any feminine influence at Severn House in Berkeley Square, for the Marquis was happiest when immersed in the machinations of statecraft and had a contempt for the frivolous, empty headed chatter of fashionable society.

  He liked the company of men and he enjoyed intrigue as other men might enjoy a game of faro. He was singularly astute and he was well aware that Beatrice was stalking him as an animal stalks its prey. He watched her with amusement and when finally he took her in his arms, she was uncertain whether he had succumbed to her beauty or had decided that she was too useful for him to lose.

  It was enough in some ways to know that she could hold him, the most powerful and most feared man in England, but at times it had its disadvantages.

  The Marquis was no voluptuary as Lord Wrexham had been, to be beguiled with exotic delights and to be enticed into the whirlpool of passion. If Beatrice worked hard to get him, she worked much harder to keep him. He was insatiable in his desire for knowledge of other people. His agents and informers were spread like a spider’s web across the length and breadth of England, but now his tentacles were reaching out towards Scotland.

  Beatrice had been taken by surprise when the Marquis had sent for her and told her that he wished her to visit Skaig Castle. She had planned various amusements for the month of August, among them a visit to Italy. But the Marquis had swept her plans aside without even listening to them.

  “Arkrae is important,” he said. “I have reason to believe that the Jacobites are trying to gain access to him. If he should decide to support the Pretender, the consequences might be serious.”

  “What do you know of him?” Beatrice asked.

  “He is young, handsome and wealthy. That at least should make your journey worthwhile, my dear,” he said, a faint smile twisting his hard lips.

  Beatrice turned her shoulder to him petulantly. She had been about to leave for a Ball when he had demanded her presence. She was dressed in a gown of shimmering silver brocade trimmed with lace and velvet ribbons.

  There was a fabulous necklace of sapphires and diamonds round her neck, and the same stones glittered in her ears and on her wrists. Her beauty was almost breathtaking as she stood there, her big eyes raised to his. But the Marquis seemed hardly to see her.

  “Yes, you should be able to manage Arkrae,” he said reflectively.

  Beatrice pouted a little.

  “And if he is pliable, what do you want of him?”

  “His assurance of absolute loyalty to the throne, his enmity towards the Pretender and all those who support him.”

  “And when he has promised me that, I can come home?”

  “Of course.”

  “And you will miss me?”

  The very feminine question seemed to remind the Marquis that he was dealing with a woman. He put out his hand and put it under her chin, then tilted her head back and looked into her eyes.

  “I shall not allow mys
elf to think of you,” he said quietly, “or I might be jealous.”

  It was the most revealing thing he had ever said to her and she was unable to prevent the elation she felt at his words from shining in her eyes. He saw she was triumphant at what she imagined was a revelation of weakness, and he laughed.

  “One day, my dear, you may fall in love,” he said. “It might be an amusing experience.”

  “But I am in love,” Beatrice protested, “with you.”

  The Marquis shook his head.

  “You are in love with what I stand for and what I can give you.”

  She would have protested, but he lifted his hand to silence the words bubbling on her lips.

  “You have not yet asked what payment there will be for this journey.”

  Beatrice dimpled at him.

  “If I told you I was not interested, you would not believe me.”

  It was rogue speaking to rogue, and the understanding which passed between them seemed to draw them closer. The Marquis named a sum that made even Beatrice look surprised.

  “And also those emeralds which belonged to my grandmother. The corsage is considered by those who know to be exceptionally fine and of some considerable value.”

  Beatrice was excited. She had wanted the emeralds for a long time. She gave a little exclamation of delight, but the Marquis interrupted her.

  “There is, however, a condition attached to the emeralds. They are yours if you bring me the ‘Tears of Torrish’.”

  “The ‘Tears of Torrish’? What are they?”

  “A necklace of diamonds, in the most magnificent setting, given by old Lady Torrish to the Prince on the eve of the battle of Culloden. After the battle they vanished, but they did not accompany the Prince to France. Recently I have had information that the Pretender’s spies are making inquiries about the necklace, and a few days ago a whisper came to my ears that the ‘Tears’ may be at Skaig. It was that which decided me, Beatrice, to send you on this very difficult mission.”

  “I should be flattered, I suppose, but the idea of visiting an uncivilised country so many miles away has few attractions for me.”

  “You forget the Duke,” the Marquis said with a smile.

  Beatrice shrugged her white shoulders.

  “He is doubtless as uncivilised and crude as the rest of his countrymen.”

  “I think you will not be disappointed when you see him,” the Marquis said grimly, “and while fulfilling the first part of your task, do not forget the second.”

  “But why are those diamonds, whatever they are called, so important?”

  The Marquis turned suddenly and she saw the steel in his eyes.

  “Because diamonds mean gold, and gold in the Pretender’s hands means weapons – weapons and soldiers, and the chance of another rebellion. We have defeated him once, we have driven him into exile, we have killed and tortured and rendered homeless those who followed him, and yet, fanatical fools that they are, the Scots still wait for his return and there are those who are ready to rise again and follow him.”

  The Marquis’s voice seemed to echo round the room. Beatrice, alive to his every mood, sensitive to the merest inflection of his voice, thought she had never seen him so moved before. She must obey him, she knew that, but even as she accepted his command, she shivered and felt strangely perturbed.

  In her mind’s eye she saw the long road leading north and at the end of it a darkness, a cloud sombre and somehow threatening. But she knew it was useless to argue. If she failed in what she set out to do, the Marquis might forgive her, but if she refused his command – for that there would be no forgiveness!

  She left him and went to the Ball, and when later that night he visited her and her head lay against his shoulder, she whispered.

  “Why do you send me away from you? I am happy and so, I think, are you. Must we risk our happiness?”

  He silenced her with a kiss, but his lips, passionate and possessive, were also masterful to the point of tyranny. She knew then that any plea she might make was useless. Once the Marquis had set his course, no one on earth could make him change it.

  The long lonely hours in the coach had given Beatrice time to think. For the first time she considered her life as a whole, not just as hours and days to be lived fully and excitingly as she schemed and plotted towards some particular objective. For the first time she asked herself where her adventuring would finally lead her – what lay ahead? She had gained so much, achieved in a few years more than most women attained in a lifetime, yet now she wondered if she had missed something by the very speed at which she had travelled. Had the Marquis been right when he inferred that she had never been in love?

  She had known delirious moments of passion which had seemed to burn their way through her body like a flame, but which like a flame had died away to ashes. A hundred men had loved her, but had she ever really loved one of them in return? She asked herself the question, but she did not know the answer.

  Again she saw herself at fifteen, coming to London, her heart beating quickly beneath the budding outlines of her breasts, her eyes starry with anticipation, her lips parted. She had expected so much of life. She had dreamt that there was a man somewhere – a Prince Charming – who would awaken her heart. She had thought that she would know him instantly, that she would surrender herself to him in rapture, and at his touch she would savour heaven.

  How very far from her imaginings had been reality. She recalled Lord Wrexham on their wedding night – his eyes bright with lust – leering at her from – a network of wrinkles, his thin sensuous lips wet, his old hands outstretched –

  A deep sigh seemed to echo from the very depths of Beatrice’s soul. The voice of her maid interrupted her reverie.

  “I think we have reached Aviemore, my Lady.”

  Beatrice opened her eyes. She saw several grey stone crofts, and a crowd of children in tattered clothing with bare feet that stared open-mouthed at the splendour of the coach and its attendants.

  The postilions riding ahead turned into the courtyard of an inn, the coach followed them, the opening so narrow that the wheels almost scraped the sides of the walls. Ostlers came running, the landlord bowing an obsequious welcome as he hurried to the door.

  Pulling her ermine-lined pelisse around her, for the air was chilly, Beatrice slowly descended the steps of the coach.

  “You were expecting me?” she asked the landlord in a haughty manner.

  “Your Ladyship’s bedchamber has been ready these last two days,” he replied.

  “The roads were so excruciatingly bad that we were delayed,” Beatrice said.

  She swept in at the door of the inn, the width of her silk gown brushing against the side posts.

  “See that dinner and the best wine in your cellar are served to me immediately in my sitting room,” she said.

  The landlord coughed and stammered.

  “Your Ladyship’s pardon, but we were expecting your Ladyship yesterday. All was prepared and the fire was lit, the dinner was half cooked, but your Ladyship didn’t come. We thought you might be further delayed and – and that your Ladyship would understand and – be gracious.”

  “What are you trying to say, my good man?” Beatrice asked sharply.

  “The private sitting room, my Lady – it was reserved for you but a gentleman came but a few hours back – a gentleman who said – ”

  “Turn him out,” Beatrice said briefly.

  “But, my Lady, he is a gentleman of quality, a nobleman, of the greatest import in this part of the world. If your Ladyship would only understand, it is impossible for me.”

  Sweating with discomfort, the landlord failed to complete the sentence, his words seeming to trail away into an incoherent whisper.

  Beatrice drew herself up.

  She was about to show her anger in a way that her servants knew could annihilate those who encountered it. Then quite suddenly she changed her mind. She had been alone for so many days that ‘a gentleman of quality’ might we
ll prove a distraction.

  She hesitated, and the landlord, seeing her hesitation, felt relief surge over him.

  “This gentleman – ” Beatrice asked, “ – is he young?”

  “Indeed he is, my Lady. Young and of handsome countenance. If your Ladyship would only condescend.”

  “Her Ladyship will,” Beatrice said. “Pray give the gentleman in question my compliments and ask him if he will do me the favour of dining with me.”

  She turned and went upstairs.

  The chambermaids were sent scurrying to and fro as soon as she reached the bedroom.

  “More candles for her Ladyship!”

  “More towels for her Ladyship!”

  “Send up her Ladyship’s trunks!”

  “Another blanket for her Ladyship’s bed!”

  “A bottle of wine for her Ladyship immediately!”

  The inn seemed to buzz with the voice of retainers like a beehive that has been disturbed.

  Beatrice, washed and robed in a dress of oyster-tinted satin, sat at the small muslin-frilled dressing table and sipped a goblet of wine while her maid dressed her hair.

  “A simple style, woman,” she said crossly. “For God’s sake use your intelligence, if indeed you have any! I have no wish for this stranger to imagine that I bedeck myself for him. And now my pearls.”

  The maid opened the massive jewel box with difficulty. There, lying in velvet, was a priceless collection of gems, each one a tribute to Beatrice’s beauty. She took up a great rope of pearls.

  “I will wear these,” she said, “and the pearl earrings.” She put a patch – a tiny star – near the comer of her mouth. It was fascinating and provocative against the magnolia texture of her skin, and for a second her red lips smiled at her own reflection. Perhaps this nobleman might relieve her boredom and the inescapable depression that had followed her peregrinations into the past. How foolish she had been to try and recapture the thoughts and feelings of an inexperienced, idealistic child! What had she to regret? She had beauty, wealth and influence! What more could she ask, what more had life to offer?