An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  ‘And if these are disposed of – what will Madame wear?’ she enquired.

  ‘New clothes – both day and evening gowns which must be made for me at once, and Mademoiselle’s need will be the same as mine. You will go immediately and ask Madame Guibout to call on us. Tell her it is of the utmost importance and an order of some magnitude.’

  ‘Madame Guibout! She will be expensive!’

  ‘I am well aware of that, Jeanne. This is a moment when we do not spare money. As I have told you, a new life begins.’

  Even as Emilie spoke, the tone of her voice seeming almost a trumpet call which echoed round the room, there came a knock on the door. For a second the eyes of mistress and maid met and neither spoke. Then almost as if it were an effort Emilie said,

  ‘Entrez!’

  The door opened and Mistral came in. She was still in her nightgown, a long white cambric robe which the Nuns made for their pupils, and round her shoulders for warmth she wore a white cashmere shawl. She came slowly into the room, her eyes alight, her lips smiling, and as she crossed to the foot of her Aunt’s bed the sunshine touched her head and turned it into a torch of living gold so that it seemed to illuminate the room with its very brilliance.

  Her hair, parted in the centre to frame her small face, fell over her breasts in two thick heavy plaits which reached below her knees. It was the colour of corn which is just ripening, of the sun when it first rises from the horizon. It was also, she was to learn later, the colour and softness of budding mimosa. It was hair which is only found on Anglo Saxons, the fair flaxen hair which goes with the blue eyes and pale complexions of the English.

  But astonishingly Mistral’s eyes were not blue. They were dark, almost purple in their depths, and fringed with dark eyelashes which gave her a strange and unexpected look of mystery.

  Watching her, Emilie wondered for a fleeting moment why she had ever thought that Mistral resembled her mother, and then, even as she wondered, the resemblance was there again. A turn of the head, a spontaneous smile, and it was Alice, not Mistral, who stood at the foot of the bed, her eyes looking at her with an expression of unsuppressed joy and happiness. Yet Alice’s eyes had been blue and she could never have been mistaken for anything but what she was – an Englishwoman and an aristocrat.

  But, Emilie acknowledged grudgingly, Mistral’s beauty was even more striking. That strange combination of golden hair and dark eyes was fascinatingly lovely, her lips, perfectly curved, were naturally red against the fairness of her skin. But there was just something faintly un-English about her, something which made one wonder what secrets those dark eyes held.

  Nevertheless there was no possibility of being mistaken about one thing – Mistral was a lady, as her mother had been. From the crown of her head, held proudly with an indescribable grace, to the soles of her small feet with their high-arched insteps she was an aristocrat. There was something in the manner in which she moved, in the long thin fingers and her tiny straight nose which proclaimed her blue blood as clearly as if she carried her pedigree in her hand.

  Emilie gave a little sigh and held out her hand. Mistral flew to her side.

  ‘Bonjour, Aunt Emilie. Do forgive me for having slept so late, but I was so tired last night that I remembered nothing until I awoke but a few moments ago and wondered where I was.’

  Mistral’s French was pure and perfect.

  ‘I wanted you to sleep late, dear,’ Emilie replied. ‘And now Jeanne will bring you your breakfast. Do you remember Jeanne?’

  As swift as a swallow’s flight Mistral had crossed the room and was holding out both her hands to Jeanne.

  ‘Of course I remember you,’ she cried. ‘I remember the bonbons you used to give me when you brushed my hair. When I first went to the Convent, I missed both your bonbons and you more than I can say. I had to brush my own hair then and how I hated it for being long and getting into tangles! I used to long to cut it off.’

  ‘Hélas, Mademoiselle, it would have been a crime!’ Jeanne exclaimed, beaming all over her face. ‘And to think you should remember me after twelve years! Tiens, but you were always the sweetest little girl in all Brittany.’

  ‘I missed Brittany too,’ Mistral said softly, then turning towards her Aunt, she added, ‘But oh, Aunt Emilie, it is so exciting to be here, and this house is charming. Why have you never let me visit you before?’

  ‘It is a long story, Mistral,’ Emilie replied. ‘And there are several other and more important things I want to talk to you about at this moment. Jeanne will fetch your breakfast here and we can talk as you eat.’

  ‘Oh, that will be lovely!’ Mistral exclaimed as Jeanne hurried from the room. ‘I am glad we can talk. There are such a lot of things I want to know. I am not complaining, you must not think that, I was happy at the Convent, but sometimes I felt lonely. All the other girls seemed to have families and lots of relations. I only had you. You have always been kind to me, but I saw so little of you and not having a home to come to in the holidays made me feel different.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Emilie replied, ‘but there were reasons why I could not have you. There is no need to go into them, for things have changed and now we can be together.’

  “That is wonderful, Aunt Emilie. If you only knew how happy that makes me. I was sometimes afraid, terribly afraid, that you would never take me away and that I should have to stay at the Convent forever and become a Nun.’

  ‘You would not have liked that?’ Emilie asked curiously. Mistral shook her head.

  ‘I knew in my heart of hearts that I had no vocation. I loved the Nuns. No one could help but love and admire them. They were saints most of them and always I used to pray that I would become as good as they were, but all the time something inside me seemed to say that I was not to stay. I wanted to know more about the world outside, I wanted to live a different life. Oh, perhaps I am being silly and you will laugh at me, but I sometimes felt as if voices were calling to me to live more fully, to enjoy the world before I dedicated myself unreservedly to the Service of Heaven.’

  Mistral’s voice was soft and almost mystical as she spoke. Emilie, watching her, taking in the sense of what she said, was yet acutely aware of many other things – the almost magnetic quality of the girl’s voice, the soft seduction of her parted lips, the pure unawakened loveliness of her widened eyes, and the emotions which seemed to radiate from her as she spoke.

  ‘You were right in what you thought,’ Emilie said after a moment. ‘You are young, Mistral, and it would be a pity to shut up anyone who is both young and pretty behind the high walls of a Convent.’

  ‘Pretty? Do you mean me?’ Mistral asked. ‘Oh, Aunt Emilie, do you really think so? I hoped I was, but I was never sure. I looked so different from the other girls.’

  ‘Didn’t they tell you you were pretty?’ Emilie enquired.

  Two dimples appeared in Mistral’s cheeks.

  ‘Sometimes! But at other times they teased me because my hair was so fair. I was the only English girl in the Convent and the only one who was not a brunette.’

  ‘The only English girl!’ Emilie repeated. ‘Yes, Mistral, you are English, for your mother was English.’

  ‘And my father?’

  Mistral asked the question quickly, and even as the words left her lips, she saw a shadow cross Emilie’s face and her expression change. The benevolent smiling Aunt who had been talking to her seemed to vanish, and instead there was a woman whose whole face seemed to be contorted.

  Mistral had never seen hatred before, but she recognised it now, recognised it in the clenched lips, the narrowed eyes, the lines which seemed to accentuate everywhere until Emilie’s face was as hideous as a gargoyle. But even as Mistral gasped, even as she felt fear like a dark cloud rise within her, Emilie’s expression changed again.

  ‘We will not speak of your father,’ she said. ‘Not now. One day I will tell you about him, but for the moment there are other and more important things for us to do. You have come to live
with me, Mistral, and I am glad to have you, but there is one thing that I must make clear – very clear – from the beginning. I expect obedience. You will obey me whether you understand the reason for my commands or whether you do not. You will obey me implicitly and without question from now onwards. Is that understood?’

  Emilie’s voice was hard and once again Mistral felt a sensation of fear, but resolutely she put it from her.

  ‘Of course I will, Aunt Emilie. I have no wish to do anything else.’

  ‘That is good! Then I will tell you what we are about to do. Today we will order your clothes. I have sent for Madame Guibout, one of the best couturiers in Paris. She is expensive, but rightly so, for she was trained by Monsieur Worth who is patronised by the Empress Eugénie. She will make you all the clothes you need. Yes, your gowns will be expensive, but they will be flattering and, when you wear them, you will feel confident and assured of your power to attract attention.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Aunt Emilie,’ Mistral breathed. ‘If you only knew how I have longed – ’

  ‘Let me continue,’ Emilie interrupted. ‘I have other things to tell you.’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Emilie.’

  ‘We have only seen each other, you and I, at short intervals since you went to the Convent twelve years ago. I do not know how much you know or remember about your childhood and your family history. Your grandfather was the Hon. John Wytham, youngest son of Lord Wytham, an English nobleman. I was his eldest child, but he never married my mother who was French. Your real grandmother was an Englishwoman belonging to a distinguished family. She died when your mother was five years old, leaving her to be brought up by her parents, Sir Hereward and Lady Burghfield. Your mother was neglected and treated harshly by her relatives, and your grandfather, when he discovered this, brought her to Brittany and left her in the charge of my mother – and myself. Your grandfather was not a rich man, and he was a very extravagant one. I have supported you – I alone! For those past twelve years during which you have been educated I have paid all your fees, I have bought your clothes, I arranged for you to have special instruction. I paid extra for your music and for your lessons in English, French and German. The classes you attended for elocution, dancing and deportment were all supplementary. I paid for them – I personally.’

  ‘I did not know of this,’ Mistral said. ‘Thank you, Aunt Emilie!’

  ‘I have no desire to be thanked,’ Emilie said quickly. ‘I am only telling you this so that you shall understand your own position. Your relatives in England made no attempt to find your mother when she left them, and as your grandfather had little communication with England during the last years of his life, I doubt if they were ever informed of your existence. I am therefore your only relative, your Aunt – your entire family.

  ‘Yes, Aunt Emilie.’

  Mistral was perturbed. There was something truculent, almost aggressive, in her Aunt’s way of speaking.

  ‘Sufficient then that we understand one another,’ Emilie went on. ‘Now I have something else to tell you – I am married. I married a Comte. He is dead, and there is no need for us to speak of him, but I am in fact Madame la Comtesse. Where we are going I shall not use my title. I shall use another name and remain incognito for reasons of my own.’

  ‘We are going away!’ Mistral exclaimed. ‘Where to?’

  ‘I am coming to that in due course,’ Emilie replied. ‘We are going a long journey and one which I have planned for many years.’

  ‘You planned to go – with me?’ Mistral enquired.

  ‘Yes, I planned to go with you,’ Emilie replied, ‘we will talk no more of it until we are ready, but you will remember one thing. You will not discuss my affairs or your own with anyone. It does not matter how many people ask or enquire about us, you will tell them nothing.’

  ‘But if people ask who I am?’ Mistral asked. ‘What am I to reply? Am I, too, to have another name?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Emilie replied. ‘You are to tell no one that your name is Wytham. Is that clear? The word Wytham must never pass your lips. I shall be – Madame – yes, Madame Secret! It is an appropriate nomination. People will be curious – I want them to be curious, people will ask questions – I want them to ask questions, people will talk – I want them to talk.’

  ‘But, Aunt Emilie, I do not understand.’

  ‘Does it matter if you do or not? I have already told you, Mistral, you must obey me. I must also add that you must trust me. I know what is best for you, as I know what is best for myself. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Aunt Emilie.’

  ‘Then we are agreed. We will journey together, you and I, and my reason for the journey will for the moment remain my secret.’

  Mistral would have said something, but at that moment there came a knock on the door and Jeanne came into the room. ‘Madame Guibout is here, Madame.’

  ‘Good,’ Emilie said. ‘Ask her to come in. Mistral, you go at once and put on your clothes with the exception of your gown. Madame will wish to fit you in your petticoats.’

  ‘But first Mademoiselle must have her breakfast,’ Jeanne exclaimed. ‘I put it in her room nearly twenty minutes ago, as I thought you desired me to do.’

  ‘How stupid you are, Jeanne! I wished Mademoiselle to have it here, but never mind! Eat it in your room while you dress, Mistral, but do not be too long.’

  ‘Very well, Aunt Emilie,’ Mistral said obediently and followed Jeanne from the room.

  Emilie watched her go. As she reached the door, Mistral glanced back over her shoulder, giving her Aunt a shy smile. She made a little gesture of farewell, and for a moment Emilie thought it was Alice who smiled, Alice who made the little gesture with her head. Emilie almost cried out at the resemblance, then the door closed behind Mistral and she was alone.

  ‘Alice!’

  She whispered the name to herself. It seemed only yesterday that she had seen her smile so sweetly. How lovely she had been and how lovable! How much those soft clinging arms had meant round her neck. She could see Alice now as she was when John Wytham brought her from England at the age of ten, a thin, frightened little girl, with eyes which seemed too big for her face – tear-drenched blue eyes, and lips which were ready to tremble at a harsh word.

  Emilie had been feeding the chickens on the farm when her father arrived. She could see him now driving up the lane, the black horses rearing and prancing as if they were just fresh from the stable. He drew up with a flourish, threw the reins to a groom, jumped down and held out his arms to a small child who had been seated beside him on the driving seat.

  He walked through the garden gate and up the cinder path, carrying Alice in his arms. She clung to him, hiding her face against his neck so that nothing could be seen of her except her long golden hair hanging down the back of her blue velvet jacket.

  John Wytham’s greeting of Emilie, his eldest daughter, had been robust and characteristic.

  ‘Well, Emilie – got yourself a husband yet?’

  Emilie might have replied to him in many different ways. She might have said that being the illegitimate result of a union between an English painter and the daughter of a French farmer was not exactly an asset when it came to marriage. She might have told him that the only men she met in this obscure if beautiful part of Brittany were peasants and farmers, none of whom interested her because her English blood made her unduly fastidious. She might have replied that, if he could only be unselfish enough to remember that a French girl needs a dowry, she might find a husband, but that with what money he had given her mother these past ten years they could not have kept an animal alive.

  But Emilie, tongue-tied as she always was in her father’s presence, could only answer his question with a stammered,

  ‘N – no – F – Father !’

  John Wytham pinched her cheek, and surrendering to his charm she smiled at him.

  ‘And you are over thirty! It’s time you hurried up and got a lover or you will be too late. Where’s your Mo
ther?’

  ‘Inside.’

  Without another word he passed her and went into the house. Emilie followed him into the big, oak-beamed kitchen.

  Her mother had been cooking supper, and there was a savoury smell coming from the pots and pans on the hearth. Marie Riguad’s face was flushed from the fire and her hair, now beginning to turn grey, was untidy, but her figure was slim as a girl’s and when she saw who stood there her voice rang out joyously, eager and excited as a young child’s.

  ‘John!’

  ‘Yes, John! Are you surprised to see me after all these years’?’

  ‘It is only four years since you last visited us, and I knew you would come again.’

  ‘You did, did you? And you were right. I have brought someone with me.’

  Very gently he set Alice down on the table. She gave an inarticulate murmur and continued to hide her face against him.

  ‘This is Alice,’ he said briefly to Marie.

  ‘I guessed that,’ she answered. ‘You spoke of her the last time you were here. You said your wife’s parents were looking after her.’

  ‘But I didn’t tell you how those damned in-laws of mine were treating her, did I? My stuck-up father-in-law, always too good for me, and his lady wife with her nose in the air and a patronising way of giving you two fingers, as if you might steal the rest of her hand if she parted with more. It’s not surprising that the child’s been unhappy with them, but I didn’t realise how unhappy until I went to see her a few days ago. It was not what she told me, for they had got her too cowed for her to say much, but I forced her nurse to tell me the truth. She told me Alice was bullied and punished, told continually that she was not wanted and that her father was a bad man.

  ‘I let them see how bad I was. I told them to go to the devil, and I took the child away with me. She is sick, and miserable, so I brought her to you, Marie. I’m finished with responsibility, I’m finished with England. I’m going off to paint, but I can’t lug an ailing brat around with me. Will you take her?’

  Emilie had hardly listened to her mother’s reply, for she knew what it would be even before it came swiftly from her parted lips.