An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Once again she remembered the Duke’s face looking down into hers, the strange sound in his voice as he called her “m’eudail”.

  She was asleep when Dr. Farquharson returned, bursting into the room breezily, his heavy footsteps making the ornaments tinkle on the mantelpiece.

  Iowa awoke with a start.

  “I’m afraid I’ve been asleep.”

  “The best thing you could do,” the Doctor smiled, “and I have good news for you.”

  “A French ship?” Iona queried.

  “No, not as good as that,” the Doctor replied, “but good enough. A friend of mine, an honest-hearted man, is leaving within the hour for York. He is a salesman of wool and he has his own waggon, so when I explained the position to him, he said he would take you and welcome.”

  “To York?” Iona said. “But how will that help me?”

  “When you get to York, you can take the stagecoach straight through to London,” the Doctor explained. “They go every day I’ve heard tell, and I’ll give you the address of a gentleman in London who will find you a ship at the docks or send you through to Dover so that you can cross the Channel by that route.”

  “It is so very kind of you to take all this trouble,” Iona said.

  She tried to sound more enthusiastic, but the idea of such a long journey, with its inevitable dangers and hazards, was somehow infinitely frightening. The Doctor crossed to his writing table.

  “I’ll write down the name of the gentleman. He will look after you in London,” he said. “He’s a Scot like myself and you can trust him with all you have told me, but I should not confide too deeply in Willie Hogswell – that’s my friend from Yorkshire. He’s a good man, is Willie, but I’m not too sure of his politics.”

  “I’ll be careful,” Iona promised. “How – how soon do I go?”

  “There’s time for another cup of tea,” the Doctor replied. “And a bit of food as well. You’ll be needing to keep up your strength for such a long journey and Willie hopes to be ten miles away before it is dark.”

  Iona ate and drank as the Doctor suggested and then he led her through the narrow streets to where Willie Hogswell was waiting. Two large grey horses and a well-built waggon were standing in the yard of an inn.

  When Iona entered the courtyard, she recognised it. It was the inn where she and Hector had stayed on the eventful night of her arrival. But there was no time for reminiscences, no time to recall the past, for Willie Hogswell’s big rough hand was clasping hers and there was a welcome on his fat, good-natured face.

  With a broad Yorkshire accent he told her that he would be glad of her company and that she was putting him to no trouble. Then almost before Iona had time to thank the Doctor, Willie whipped up the grey horses and with the wooden wheels rumbling noisily over the cobbles the waggon moved slowly out of the yard and they turned their faces towards the South.

  17

  The fat woman beside Iona rambled on with the apparently endless story of her illnesses.

  “’Twas real queer I was taken that Wednesday – the very morning when m’ daughter was a-coming to stay – and he says to me, he says, ‘Mrs. Muggins, you’ve been overdoing it again’, and I says to him, ‘Doctor, I swear to you I have sat here quiet as a mouse and never a thing have I done contrary to your suggestions’. Then he says to me – ”

  But Iona was not listening.

  Dimly through the windows misty with the fug inside the coach, she could see houses, churches and shops. It was London at last. It seemed to her that she had been travelling for years rather than weeks, and although she had not yet reached the end of her journey, it was something to know that the first part had been completed.

  Looking back at the time it had taken to come from York, she had not believed that anything could move as slowly as the stagecoach except Willie Hogswell’s horses, which had appeared to crawl like snails between Inverness and York. Iona had sat beside Willie in the front of the waggon and felt herself torn in half by conflicting desires.

  One half, which was weak and vulnerable, wanted them to be slow, because there was just a chance in a million that the Duke might come after her and ask her to return.

  The other half, which was stern and matter of fact, wanted the horses to move quicker and still quicker, so that Skaig would be left far behind and she could force herself resolutely to start her life again in other surroundings.

  When they reached York, Iona had thanked Willie fervently for his kindness, but he brushed aside her thanks and almost brusquely bade her God speed.

  He had been extraordinarily kind, and under other circumstances Iona would have enjoyed listening to his drawling Yorkshire voice as they wandered up hill and down dale through wonderful scenery in all sorts and conditions of weather. But while Willie talked, her ears were hearing another voice, a voice that could be both firm and commanding, soft and tender.

  While Willie pointed out the beauty of the Lowlands of Scotland and the northern counties of England, Iona could only see Skaig, its grey walls proud against moor, sky and water.

  She found it hard to eat and Willie chid her in a friendly fashion about her appetite, striving to entice her with huge pastries, which he himself thought the most delectable food on earth. To please him Iona tried to force the food between her lips, but after a time her eating became only a pretence and her face grew thin.

  Her gown hung loosely and her eyes were enormous and dark-shadowed. And yet her suffering only seemed to increase her beauty. There was something almost transparent about her little face, as if the gallant spirit within was showing through the walls of the flesh as a light might shine through a thinly curtained window.

  At York Iona had taken the stagecoach, a big unwieldy affair drawn by four horses which, although changed at frequent intervals, never appeared to exert themselves unduly.

  And now at last she had reached London. Anxiously she felt in the pocket of her dress to see if the piece of paper Dr. Farquharson had given her was safe. If she had lost that, she would be lost indeed, for she had but a few shillings left in her purse.

  It was humiliating to realise that she would have to ask a stranger, however warm his sympathies might be to the Jacobite Cause, for the loan of her fare to France. But somehow, Iona thought, she would contrive to pay him back, however long it took her to earn it.

  At the back of her mind was a tiny aching fear that the gentleman whose name Dr. Farquharson had given her might be no longer there!

  Suppose he had gone away, suppose after all he had changed his mind and fugitive Jacobites could no longer be certain of his assistance. But as the torturing thoughts arose within her, Iona’s wholesome common sense managed to thrust them away. Fate had looked after her so far and it would not fail her now.

  The man sitting opposite her in the coach was, she had learned, connected with a Bank. Now he pulled a big gold watch from his pocket.

  “Nigh on three o’clock,” he announced. “This plaguey coach is five hours late again. I shall protest, as I have protested before. ’Tis disgraceful that they can’t run them to better time.”

  “You’re lucky it isn’t five days late,” someone said languidly from a far comer.

  “Lucky indeed!” the gentleman in banking snorted. “In these days of improved travelling facilities, when I make an appointment in London for 16th September, I expect to keep it.”

  So it was 16th September, Iona thought. She had lost count of the days, for one had seemed very like another since she left Skaig. She wondered on what date she would arrive in Paris, and then decided with a sudden unusual bitterness it would matter very little to anyone save herself.

  “We’re nearing the old Bedford, we are,” the fat woman said suddenly, bending forward to rub a large puffy hand against the window. “And ’tis glad I’ll be to see it. The ale they sell there is the best in London, and if I says that, I knows what I’m talking about, I can assure you.”

  The other passengers paid no attention to her. They were
gathering their belongings together, setting their hats on their heads, buttoning their gloves and generally titivating themselves in an effort to improve their travel-stained untidiness.

  Iona pulled her grey cloak over her shoulders and tied the ribbons at her neck. She was well aware that her gown was sadly creased after all the travelling. She had done her best to clean it every night and to start the day with a spotless muslin fichu round her shoulders, but nothing could really improve its shabbiness. It looked worn and a little grubby and it was a constant regret that she had not brought more gowns with her from Skaig.

  ‘After all,’ she thought to herself, ‘One dress is a pitiably poor wardrobe when journeying for such a wearisome length of time.’

  “Here we are!” the fat woman cried and, turning to Iona, she added, “Goodbye, my ducks, take care of yourself. I hope there’s someone meeting you. You oughtn’t to be walking about London with a pretty face like yours.”

  Iona smiled at her reassuringly, but at the same time she felt an aching loneliness at the thought that no one would be meeting her. It seemed that she alone of everyone in the coach was unsure where she would lay her head that night.

  The horses finally drew up. Ostlers came running to their heads, the doors were opened and the steps let down, as everyone pushed and shoved in their haste to descend.

  Iona was almost the last to leave the coach. She was in no particular hurry, so she sat back while the others hustled past her, and then, carrying her small bundle, she descended slowly and with a dignity that was an intrinsic part of her.

  Several coaches were drawn up outside the Bedford Inn. Some were just departing and their conductors had already raised the long brass horns to their lips, while the coachmen, red-faced and foul-mouthed, were whipping up the leaders.

  Others were arriving, the horses sweating and dusty, the passengers tired and disagreeable. It was a scene of turmoil and confusion and for a moment Iona, watching bustling ostlers, sweating porters and the embarking and disembarking passengers, felt bewildered and lost.

  Suddenly beside her a voice said,

  “At last! I knew, if I waited long enough, you would come.”

  She started violently and the last vestige of colour was drained from her already pale cheeks. Looking down at her, seeming immeasurably taller and bigger, stood the Duke.

  Speechlessly she stared at him and realised that he was smiling. She had never before seen him so happy. He bent down, took her hand in his, and raised it very gently to his lips.

  “I have waited for two weeks,” he said. “Where have you been? I was half afraid I would never find you again.”

  “ I have been – been coming – here,” Iona replied, “but why, oh why, have you been waiting for me?”

  “Do you really want me to answer that question?” the Duke asked, and something in his tone made her drop her eyes before his and sent the colour rushing tumultuously back into her cheeks.

  “My carriage is waiting,” the Duke said, “but first, you must be hungry. I have a private room in the hotel. Shall we repair there?”

  Without waiting for her permission he took her arm and escorted her through the melée of horses and pedestrians into the hotel. There he led the way to a small room at the back away from the noise of the bars and overlooking a well kept garden.

  A fire was burning brightly in an open fireplace, and the dark oak panelling was a perfect background to Iona’s shining head as she pushed back her hood. A waiter appeared and the Duke gave an order. The door shut behind him and they were alone.

  For a moment the Duke stood looking at Iona, making no effort to move to her side, only watching her intently from where he stood, his eyes taking in the sharpened lines of her heart-shaped face and the soft shadows beneath her eyes.

  After a moment Iona quivered beneath his regard, her hands went first to her hair, then to her dress in a vain effort to smooth the creases from it.

  “I am untidy, Your Grace,” she said in a quick, breathless little voice. “I would not have you see me in such a state. But why have you come? You make it so much, much more – difficult.”

  There was a break in her voice and she turned half away from him towards the fire.

  “What do I make more difficult?” the Duke asked quietly.

  “For me to go away,” Iona answered miserably, almost as if she spoke to herself, and then with a great effort she raised her head and faced him squarely. “Can Your Grace not understand that I must go, that it is impossible for me to stay with you even if you would have me?”

  The Duke took several steps to her side, but there he stood silent, his eyes searching her averted face. At his coming Iona trembled and was conscious of a sudden flame leaping within herself so that she dropped her head and dared not look at him. The Duke waited a few seconds and then he said softly,

  “Will you not look at me, Iona?”

  She did not move or reply, and after a second he said,

  “Look at me!”

  This time his words were a command, and in answer Iona flung back her head suddenly. Her expression was strained, her lips tight-pressed against each other, and her eyes tragic. For a long, long moment the Duke looked down at her then he said,

  “Oh, my darling, did you think I would ever let you go?”

  At the words Iona swayed a little and would have fallen if he had not put out his arms and held her steady. As he did so, she cried out, her hands warding him off with an almost pitiful effort.

  “It is impossible, quite impossible,” she cried. “Please believe this and do not humiliate me by forcing me to tell you more. Only know that I cannot be yours. Never! Never! For your sake – for the sake of all you honour and hold most sacred.”

  It was as if the Duke had not heard her, for slowly, tenderly and with a strength she could not withstand, he overcame her resistance until at last she was encircled by his arms, her body close against his, her head against his shoulder.

  She felt a sudden joy invade her, yet still she strove against surrender, holding herself stiff and tense even while every nerve in her body cried out to her to let his love sweep her away in a flood tide of ecstasy.

  “Is there really anything you are afraid to tell me?” the Duke asked.

  “Not afraid,” Iona answered in a whisper, “but ashamed. Let me go!”

  “No!”

  His answer seemed to ring out and desperately, driven by her conscience and by her sense of honour, Iona made one last attempt at resistance. With a sudden movement she wrenched herself free from the Duke and, retreating from him, stood behind a wing-backed chair.

  “Listen to me,” she said. “You have got to listen – but if you touch me again I – cannot tell you – for I love you-love you with all my heart and soul – but it is because I love you so – so deeply that I cannot do – what you ask.”

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

  “Your Grace has a great position, you have a name respected and honoured throughout the length and breadth of Scotland. People look up to you and honour you as – indeed I do – and because of such things, and – because you are who you are – I can never be your wife.”

  “And why not?”

  For a moment Iona shut her eyes. For one despairing moment she wished she might die before she need answer the question she had most dreaded to hear from his lips.

  Then, not looking at him, her long lashes veiling her eyes as they stared unseeingly at her hands gripping the back of the chair, she stammered,

  “I have no name – I have never had one – I was brought up by my guardian, Major James Drummond. When I was old enough to understand, he told me that he could never reveal to me – the name of my parents. All that he could tell me was – that I was of Scottish blood and that – I had been christened Iona.”

  Iona’s voice broke completely and then wildly she cried out through her tears,

  “Now go – and go – quickly.”

  Her hands went up to her eyes
. She stood there trembling all over, fighting against the tempest of her tears which threatened to overwhelm her, and even as she strove for self control, she listened for the sound of the Duke’s footsteps retreating, the sound of the door closing as he went out of her life.

  Then suddenly she heard him make a movement and almost despite herself she looked from between her fingers. She had a glimpse of his face almost transfigured by the tenderness of his expression as he went down on one knee beside her and raising the hem of her dusty, creased gown, kissed it reverently. For a moment he knelt there, then he rose to his feet and drawing her hands from her face held them tightly in both of his.

  “My dear, foolish, little love,” he said very softly. “Have you forgotten that you are already my wife?”

  Iona’s fingers quivered in his, but he would not release them.

  “But that – that was not – binding,” she said. “It was just an expedient – to allow me to escape – from the hands of the English.”

  “Expedient or not,” the Duke replied firmly, “according to the law of Scotland – your law and mine, my darling – we are married.”

  “But – but – ” Iona faltered.

  “There is no but,” the Duke said masterfully. “You are mine and nothing that you can say or do will ever persuade me to let you go.”

  Now it was impossible for Iona to hide the happiness that enveloped her and left her speechless, lighting her eyes until they shone like stars, parting her lips through which her breath came quickly.

  The Duke drew her towards him, once again she was in his arms, and this time his mouth sought hers and found her lips.

  She felt him take possession of her, felt a wonder and a magic sweep over her in utter and complete surrender of herself. She clung to him, for a moment the world was lost and forgotten and she was carried into a heaven of sweet contentment where there was only the Duke and her overwhelming love for him.