An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  It was with the greatest effort that she did not turn her head and look at him. She wanted to see his face and the expression in his eyes. She had never known that anyone could have so strong a personality that she could feel it physically. It was almost painful to force herself to attend to the attorney.

  Finally the last question was put to her.

  “You are anxious to prove yourself to be Lady Elspeth MacCraggan?”

  “I am anxious to prove that I have a name,” Iona answered in all sincerity. “I have never had one.”

  As she spoke she wondered if by any strange unpredictable coincidence she was in truth a MacCraggan, but then she remembered that her guardian had never spoken of them.

  Could that have been intentional? She thought not. He had been a blunt, unsubtle person. He had talked continually of his own family, the Drummonds, of their deeds of valour, of their successes and failures. Had he been in any way closely connected with the MacCraggan’s, she felt he must have talked to her of them, for he was interested only in Scotland and its people and could wander on by the hour, the past events of history being more real to him than the present with its limitations to his freedom.

  With a little sigh Iona remembered that to be a Scot and redheaded was commonplace enough. In France she had been outstanding because of the colour of her hair, but here every other person had hair the same colour.

  The attorney shut his notebook with a snap.

  “That will be all, ma’am, for today.”

  He rose to his feet and turned towards the Duke.

  “With your permission, Your Grace, I will send someone from my office immediately to France. We must, of course, interview the priest, make inquiries among the neighbours, and find, if we can, the fishermen who rescued the shipwrecked valet, nurse and Lady Elspeth seventeen years ago.”

  “It will not be easy,” the Duke said.

  “It will not be easy, it will take time and be extremely expensive,” the attorney agreed.

  “I would wish, of course,” the Duke said, “that no expense should be spared.”

  “I can understand that, Your Grace. May I take the letter with me? I will have a copy made of it in my office.”

  “Yes, take it,” the Duke replied, “but leave the miniature and the bracelet.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  The attorney bowed to the Duke and to Iona, then hesitated,

  “The lady – will be staying here?”

  “Certainly! At least until the inquiries in France are complete.”

  The attorney bowed again and left the room. Iona looked towards the Duke a little shyly.

  “It is kind of you to offer me your hospitality until my case is proven.”

  “It appears you have nowhere else to go,” the Duke replied.

  “That is true,” Iona answered, “but – I was thinking of the Duchess. I feel she would not be entirely agreeable to my remaining here.”

  “I think you will find that the Duchess will not oppose my wishes,” the Duke replied.

  His tone was final and there seemed nothing more to say. Because she was nervous, Iona impetuously asked the question which was uppermost in her mind.

  “Have you been married long, Your Grace?” The Duke’s eyebrows were raised in surprise.

  “I am not married,” he said.

  Iona felt the colour rush into her cheeks.

  “Oh,” she said in confusion, “I am sorry. I thought last night that – that – ”

  “ – the Duchess was my wife?” the Duke supplied. “No, you are wrong. She is my stepmother. Perhaps it would be wise for me to outline briefly our family relationship. It is somewhat complicated for a stranger.”

  Still confused by her mistake Iona murmured something incoherent and the Duke went on,

  “My father, the late Duke, married three times. My mother, his first wife, was married to him for twenty years before they had a child. She was over forty when I was born, and my coming into the world killed her. My father married again the following year.

  “His second wife was a distant cousin. She was a MacCraggan and she bore him two children – my half-brother, Niall – who is years younger than I am – was born in 1722, and my half-sister, Elspeth, eight years later. My father’s second wife was drowned when the yacht was wrecked in the Channel, and we believed that Elspeth was drowned at the same time.”

  “How terrible!” Iona exclaimed. “But you and your half-brother were saved.”

  “My father saved us,” the Duke replied. “Although he was not a young man he was a powerful swimmer. He guided both my brother and I to a raft. We drifted for two days and two nights, then we were picked up by a man of war.

  When we reached port we learned that two sailors had been drowned, but the rest had been saved in one way or another. Altogether it was calculated that six lives were lost, counting the crew, the other being the Duchess, Elspeth, her nurse, and Ewart – my father’s valet.”

  Iona felt her eyes drop beneath his.

  Quite suddenly she wished with all her heart and soul that she was the Lady Elspeth and that there was no deception in the part she had to play.

  “A year later,” the Duke continued, “my father married again. He was over seventy and I think he hated to be alone. His life with my mother had been, I am always told, a very happy one. He craved companionship and my brother and I were not old enough to give it to him. His third wife, the present Duchess, is an Englishwoman.”

  “English!”

  Iona was startled into repeating, the word.

  “Yes, English,” the Duke repeated. “My present stepmother was a Miss Howard. She was only twenty-five when my father saw her and fell in love with her. She came of a well-known and distinguished family who lived in Kent. She had never been to Scotland before and she found it uncongenial. In fact she has never been happy here.”

  “Then why, now that she is a widow, has she not returned to England?” Iona asked.

  Her question was obviously one that the Duke was not prepared to answer. He rose to his feet and Iona realised that their conversation was at an end. She felt that in not answering her question and merely ignoring it he had been, if not deliberately rude, almost unbearably autocratic.

  “Shall I escort you to the salon?” the Duke asked. “My stepmother should be there by now.”

  “I thank Your Grace.”

  Iona’s tone was almost as frigid as his. As they reached the door, he paused and looked down at her.

  “You will oblige me,” he said quietly, “if you will not mention to my stepmother that you saw me in Paris.”

  Iona glanced up at him quickly. She was surprised by his request, yet the expression on his face was as reserved and autocratic as always. If he was forced to ask a favour, he was not prepared to unbend or be friendly about it.

  “I will not mention the incident,” Iona replied briefly.

  “Thank you.”

  The Duke opened the door. In the passage outside a footman was on duty. The Duke beckoned him.

  “Show Miss Iona the way to the grand salon,” he commanded.

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  Iona dropped the Duke a curtsey and as she moved away feeling that he was relieved to be rid of her, she heard the library door close decisively and firmly behind him. She felt that the sound was an answer to all her hopes and plans. How could she learn anything from a man like that?

  Iona reached the drawing room and found the Duchess sitting before the fire, a glass of wine in her hand. She acknowledged Iona’s curtsey with a curt nod and asked the footman,

  “Has Lord Niall returned yet?”

  “Not yet, Your Grace.”

  “You are certain?”

  “I will inquire again, Your Grace.”

  “Then do so. If his Lordship has not arrived yet, bring me tidings immediately the carriage is seen descending the hill.”

  “Very good, Your Grace.”

  The footman closed the doors behind him
. The Duchess looked at Iona and in almost a friendly tone asked,

  “How long did it take you to come from Inverness yesterday?”

  “I left at seven o’clock in the morning, ma’am. The stagecoach is slow and stopped continually. We did not reach Fort Augustus until three o’clock in the afternoon.”

  “The stagecoach!” the Duchess said with contempt. “It is hopeless to compare that creeping hearse with the pace of well-bred horses drawing a light chaise.”

  She put down her glass of wine and shivered.

  “It is cold this morning,” she said peevishly. “Is there a window open?”

  Iona glanced round the room.

  “No, ma’am, but the sunshine is warm.”

  “It is never warm here,” the Duchess grumbled.

  She put out her hands to the blaze. The veins showed startlingly blue.

  Iona looked at the Duchess’s face. She was rouged, yet it could not disguise the unhealthy pallor of her skin. She must be anaemic or ill, Iona thought, for the heat of the fire was almost overpowering.

  The Duchess thrust her hands into a little ermine muff that lay on her lap.

  “Have you regaled His Grace’s attorney with your sensational resurrection from a watery grave?” she asked disagreeably. “What did he think of your fairy tale?”

  “He expressed no opinion, ma’am,” Iona answered. “But with His Grace’s permission he is sending someone to France to make inquiries.”

  “And if they prove you to be an imposter, what then?” the Duchess asked.

  “In that case I shall return to France,” Iona answered calmly. “I can always find work in Paris.”

  “Work? What sort of work?”

  “I have been a milliner these past two years.”

  “A milliner in Paris?” the Duchess mused. “It makes a good story, but you can hardly expect me to believe that with your looks and hair you live a life of honest toil.”

  “I am sorry to disappoint you, ma’am, but it happens to be the truth.”

  Iona felt her temper rising. The Duchess’s sneers were hard to bear.

  “Then if that is the truth, you must indeed be a Scot,” the Duchess said. “There is a streak of the Puritan in all of them, though it’s my belief it is not because they wish to be good but because they are sore afraid of the fires of Hell.”

  Iona managed to smile.

  “I am not afraid of Hell, ma’am.”

  The Duchess looked at her speculatively.

  “Doubtless in time we shall learn of what you are afraid,” she said.

  “I hope not!” Iona parried.

  The Duchess took up her glass again and sipped the ruby wine.

  “Do you know many people in Paris?” she asked.

  Her voice was almost affable and Iona was instantly on her guard.

  “Very few, ma’am. I lived in straitened circumstances.”

  “But even so,” the Duchess went on, “you must have heard talk of the great personages. The French people are fluent talkers, aren’t they? They must have gossiped about the King and Queen, the Court, and those who visited France.”

  “Yes, I suppose one heard gossip of that sort, ma’am.”

  “Did you hear them speak of the Young Pretender, Charles Stuart?” the Duchess asked casually.

  “I have heard talk of him, of course,” Iona replied slowly. “Did you ever meet him when he was in Scotland, ma’am?”

  The Duchess glanced sharply at Iona, but her eyes were wide with innocence.

  “I did not,” the Duchess said quickly, then added, this time in the disarming tone she had used before, “But perhaps you have seen him in Paris? Is he there now, do you know?”

  “I heard tell,” Iona answered, “that the Prince was not allowed into France by order of King Louis.”

  “Yes, yes,” the Duchess said, “but there are rumours that he returns when it pleases him.”

  “Are there?” Iona questioned. “But surely, ma’am that would be rash of His Royal Highness?”

  The Duchess shrugged her shoulders.

  “You have heard naught of this?”

  “Nobody has ever spoken to me of Prince Charles’s return to Paris,” Iona said in all truth.

  “It would be amusing to know if he dared defy the French King, wouldn’t it?” the Duchess asked. “You have friends, perhaps, who could find out if such an escapade were likely?”

  “I am afraid not, ma’am.”

  Iona spoke decisively. The Duchess shrugged her shoulders again and leaned back in her chair.

  “How industrious you must have been in your milliner’s shop,” she said sourly. “It is a wonder you ever consented to leave it.”

  “I thought it my duty to come to Scotland,” Iona answered, “and I wanted above all things to see the country which I have always known was my own.”

  The Duchess gave a derisive sound.

  “You will be disappointed,” she said. “It is a bleak land, comfortless and unfriendly. When I first came here, I thought to find it charming, but I was mistaken. You will find out your mistake and you too will wish to go scuttling back to the gaiety and warmth of Paris.”

  “I think that is unlikely, ma’am,” Iona said quietly. She glanced out of the window and added, “It is sad that Your Grace does not like Scotland.”

  “Like it?” the Duchess’s voice was strangely shrill. “I hate it!”

  The words seemed to fall like a naked sword between the two women. For a moment there was silence and then the Duchess said,

  “Yes, I hate it! I hate the cold and the loneliness, the dreary monotonous life I live here, and I hate the people, too, with their sanctimonious expressions and their underlying treachery.”

  The Duchess spoke vehemently with a kind of smouldering passion, and when she had finished speaking, her mouth twitched and her whole body seemed to quiver, Iona felt there was nothing she could say. She realised the woman was a mass of nerves, that her body was tense, and that her eyes were dark with the tempest of her emotions.

  After a moment the Duchess finished her wine, put down the glass on the table and took up the golden bell standing there.

  She shook it violently.

  The door was opened almost instantly and a footman appeared.

  “I told them to bring me tidings the moment Lord Niall’s carriage appeared on the hill,” the Duchess said.

  “The order has been given, Your Grace,” the footman replied, “but there is as yet no sign of his Lordship.”

  “He should be here by now,” the Duchess said.

  “It is but half after noon, Your Grace,” the footman replied.

  “Go and see if there is any news in the stables,” the Duchess commanded. “A postilion may have been sent ahead with instructions.”

  “I will inquire, Your Grace.”

  The man left the room and the Duchess got to her feet and walked restlessly towards the window.

  “Niall promised to return yesterday,” she muttered, more to herself than to anybody in particular. “He is late, he should be back by now. Something must have happened to him.”

  There was a sudden pain in her querulous voice, and Iona wondered why the Duchess should care so deeply about the movements of her stepson.

  The door opened and the Duchess turned eagerly, but the expression on her face altered as she saw it was the Duke who entered. Iona rose to her feet at his entrance, but he looked only at his stepmother.

  “You have remembered that Lady Wrexham is arriving today?” he said. “I have sent a coach to Fort Augustus as arranged.”

  “Her room is prepared,” the Duchess said indifferently. “I cannot think why a woman with the whole of London to amuse her wishes to visit an outlandish spot like this.”

  “Doubtless she has her reasons,” the Duke said evasively.

  “I should be surprised if she hadn’t,” the Duchess said, and there was an unpleasant undertone in her words.

  The Duke looked at her.

  “
I have heard a great deal about Lady Wrexham,” he said. “Have you ever seen her?”

  “Not since she was a baby in arms,” the Duchess replied. “Her parents lived close to my home, as she reminded me in her letter inviting herself to stay. But I cannot believe it is my beaux yeux which have drawn Beatrice Wrexham from St. James’s to Skaig.”

  “And I am not conceited enough to imagine it is mine,” the Duke said impassively.

  The Duchess laughed unpleasantly.

  “Perhaps the Marquis of Severn is curious about you, my dear Ewan. I am told that his favourite method of inquisition is to send Beatrice Wrexham ahead of his executioner.”

  “That is indeed interesting,” the Duke said, “for you have put most ably into words something I have suspected, but hesitated to formulate even to myself.”

  Iona watching closely thought that the Duchess’s expression changed and she looked disconcerted. Then she shrugged her thin shoulders and turned towards the fire.

  “I am but funning, Ewan. Beatrice Wrexham has no ulterior motive in coming here other than to admire the Highland scenery and to enjoy the hospitality of Skaig.”

  The Duchess’s change of tone was entirely unconvincing and left both her listeners with the impression that she was anxious to cover up a previous indiscretion.

  The Duke glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf.

  “At any rate her Ladyship will not be arriving until the afternoon,” he said. “The road from Inverness is in bad repair and I should not imagine she will leave particularly early.”

  “I had forgotten she came from Inverness,” the Duchess exclaimed, and there was suddenly a strange and wary look in her eyes as if she found the knowledge strangely perturbing.

  6

  “There must have been an accident? Niall is three days overdue,” the Duchess said for the thousandth time.

  “His Lordship may have been held up by floods or by a bridge having been washed away,” Iona replied.

  She had made the suggestion before, in fact in the past three days she had put forward every possible explanation of Lord Niall’s absence in her efforts to soothe the anxiety of his stepmother.