And in a moment of madness he had invited her to dinner at the castle. He would have given anything to cancel it all.
He drank a large glass of whisky before going to bed. It was the only way to sleep.
*
Despite his good resolutions he found, when he mounted Lightning next morning that he instinctively turned in the direction of the wood.
There was, after all, no reason why he shouldn’t ride in his own woods.
But she was not there.
To his astonishment he found himself angry. She had asked him yesterday if this was his time for riding here, which was as good as a hint that she would join him. But then she had let him down.
He drew a sharp breath, realising that his violent disappointment was a warning.
He rode on, not looking where he was going nor caring very much.
But then, from somewhere up ahead, he heard the sound of splashing and he urged Lightning forward, hardly daring to hope.
He saw her horse first. The splendid white stallion she had ridden yesterday was there, tied to a tree, nibbling contentedly at the grass.
From somewhere past the bushes the sound of splashing water became louder now. Dismounting, he tied Lightning to a post and walked forward quietly until he could part the leaves.
And there he saw a nymph, a water Goddess.
She was standing in the river, the water up to her waist, bringing first one hand then the other down on the surface, so that water shot up in sprays.
As each spray peaked in the light, it fragmented the sun into sparkling coloured droplets, so that the girl seemed to be surrounded by rainbows.
She was laughing with the blissful exuberance of a child who had forgotten the world and was totally involved with the beauty she was creating. And, watching such a creature, he too could forget the world, he realised.
He could see only the top half of her. She seemed to be wearing a bathing costume of deep blue. Probably the same blue as her eyes, he thought, wishing he was close enough to tell. It showed off her long neck and the short sleeves revealed her pretty arms.
On her head she wore a cap, decorated with daisies, which covered her hair, except for a few shining strands.
He realised that, in watching her, unseen, he was behaving in a disgraceful and ungentlemanly fashion and should leave immediately.
But suppose she got into difficulties, with nobody here to help her? No gentleman could depart and leave a girl at risk of drowning.
The fact that she herself seemed untroubled by any danger briefly sank this argument, but he remembered in time that it was for a man’s superior intellect to judge these things. Women were frail and should be protected from their own rashness.
So he remained where he was, watching her with a kind of aching delight.
She stopped splashing and began to swim, making incisive strokes through the water. Charles remembered her on horseback, controlling the big animal with a strength that was belied by her slight appearance.
He could see that strength again now, and he thought that this was no frail little creature who would always have to be propped up by a man. She was a force in her own right, ready to stand by the man she had chosen and add her power to his.
Then he told himself that he had no right to think such thoughts.
She had reached a part of the river where he knew the water was deeper. There was a large rock and she hauled herself up onto it, finding a foothold and climbing to the top.
Now he could not help seeing that the rest of her shape was as beautiful as the upper part. The swimming costume flared into a little skirt, beneath which were drawers that came down almost to her knees.
She had long, graceful legs and slim ankles. Charles knew that he should avert his eyes modestly from her ankles, so he did so, looking upwards instead.
But this was no better, since she had now placed her hands behind her and thrown back her head so that the sun gleamed directly onto her throat and neck, making a long, beautiful line down to her bosom.
She was magnificent, voluptuous. Her abandoned attitude left no doubt of it. He stood transfixed, despising himself, yet fearful lest she see him and lose her charming unselfconsciousness.
But then she did something that took his breath away. Sitting forward, she brought her hands to her front and clasped them together, bending her head so that he could no longer see her face. She became very still.
It looked as though she were praying, Charles thought and knew that now he had to leave. But before he could move, she lifted her head, gazing into the sky, as though communing directly with Heaven.
She seemed to be speaking directly to a friend in whom she had total confidence, and saying,
‘You have understood, haven’t you? I can leave it with you?’
He was so sure that those words were coming from her heart that he could almost hear them.
And suddenly he knew that she was praying for himself. It was completely irrational. Why should he think she was remembering him?
But he knew that she was. This was the place where they had been together and where she had promised to pray for him.
He held his breath.
She rose to her feet, placed her hands together and dived swiftly. He had a vision of a blue mermaid flying through the air, then vanishing into the water. A moment later he saw her striking out for the bank.
He waited until she had reached it safely and was on dry land. Then he backed quietly away, retrieved his horse and departed from the wood.
He supposed that he should be ashamed of having watched her while she was unaware and in a sense he was. Not for gazing on her pretty figure, but for intruding on her prayers.
And yet, when he thought that he might be the beneficiary of those generous, innocent prayers, he knew that he would not have given up that knowledge for anything the world had to offer.
CHAPTER FIVE
Charles was in a dark mood as he dressed for dinner the following evening. How could he be pleasant to people when his misery dominated his mind to the exclusion of all else? He wanted only to be left alone.
His exhilaration at seeing Cliona the previous day had abated. The thought of her saddened him. Now that he knew himself to be cut off from her by family duty, he did not even want to see her. It seemed to him as if he was caught in some terrible trap from which there was no escape. And he was resolved not to embroil her in it.
Watkins, his butler, who had been with him a long time, sensed that he was upset. He tried to cheer him up by talking of the forthcoming horse races, at which Charles, a keen racing man, was bound to have winners.
“Especially Firefly,” Watkins volunteered. “There are lots of people in the village who’ve been saving up so that they can go and see Firefly win, my Lord. In fact they’ve put a great deal of money on him.”
At one time this would have delighted Charles. Now it was another reminder of how people depended on him, and how his failure could injure them.
“I hope they haven’t taken too many risks,” he said gloomily.
“Oh, go on with you, my Lord. You and I know there’s no one to equal him when he gets going. There now, you look splendid, just as everyone will expect.”
“Yes,” Charles murmured heavily. “Everyone expects.”
But when it was time for his guests to arrive, he straightened his shoulders, fixed a smile on his face and walked downstairs to the drawing room, looking as though he did not have a care in the world.
From the hall below he could hear the first arrivals, the carriages halting on the gravel, the murmur of servants receiving cloaks and hats from the guests. Then footsteps climbing the stairs, Watkins entering the room announcing one couple after another.
The guests were in full evening dress, the men in white ties and the ladies in low cut evening gowns bedecked in sparkling jewels. Couple by couple they trooped in, the ladies slightly in advance of the gentlemen, as etiquette prescribed. Charles greeted them genially, while all the time
his mind was listening for the carriage that would bring her.
“Welcome to the castle,” he said a dozen times. “Delighted to see you again – yes – yes – ”
At last he heard the sounds he has been waiting for. Watkins entered the drawing room and announced,
“Sir Kenton and Lady Arnfield, and Lady Cliona Locksley.”
And there she was, so much more beautiful than in his imagination, a dream in pink silk and lace, pearls about her neck and in her hair. This was a new Cliona, different from the practical girl who had raced with him or the water nymph. This was a magnificent Cliona, a beauty who would attract the admiring glances of men and the envious ones of women.
As she glided towards him he heard Lady Arnfield say,
“Allow me to introduce my niece Cliona, who has just arrived to stay with us for a while. She has heard so much about you and is longing to meet you.”
Surprised by the word ‘introduce’ Charles raised his eyebrows at Cliona and received in return the slightest shake of the head.
So, he thought, she had not told anyone of their meeting.
He bowed gravely over her hand and their eyes met again. Hers were alight with amusement.
At his shoulder Freddy gave a significant cough.
“May I introduce my cousin, Frederick Mason?” he said.
“Sir.” Cliona gave Freddy a little curtsy and he offered her a look of blatant admiration, which Charles found strangely displeasing.
More introductions, Lady Hester, the Dowager Countess. At last the entire party had assembled.
Charles drew Cliona aside.
“It never occurred to me that you hadn’t told them we had already met,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” replied Cliona. “I should have found a way to warn you, although I’m not sure how. I was going to tell them and then – somehow I couldn’t. It would have spoilt it.”
He found that he understood her exactly. Those precious moments between them had been just for themselves, perfect, untouched by the world. To have let the world’s curious eyes witness their secret would have been to spoil it.
When everybody was assembled Watkins declared, “dinner is served.”
Freddy offered his arm to Lady Cliona.
“Allow me to escort you into dinner,” he said gallantly.
“Lady Cliona is the guest of honour,” said Charles firmly edging him aside. “And it is my privilege to take her in to dinner.”
Freddy accepted this rebuff with good humour and promptly turned his attention to another, less sought-after damsel.
Charles bowed to Cliona, who dropped him a pretty little curtsy and took his arm. Together they led the procession out of the drawing room and down the stairs to the dining room at the back of the house.
As they walked he saw her looking about her with admiration.
“I told you I was eager to see inside your house when I saw the towers,” she said. “I never thought that my wish would be granted so quickly.” Charles smiled as he handed her to her seat on his right.
“We often have to wait a long time before we get what we want,” he replied. “So you must not miss or forget anything you are seeking just in case the next time you look for it – it has gone.”
He had not meant to say such a thing, and told himself he should not have done so.
Yet somehow the words seemed to fall from his lips by themselves. He had told himself that perhaps this would be the last time visitors would see the castle as perfect as he had made it. John’s winning streak would not last and either he must start selling, or find an heiress ready to sell herself for his title as he would sell himself for her money.
The thought disgusted him. It seemed degrading, especially now that he had Cliona beside him, in all her fresh beauty.
“It is wonderful, just as I knew it would be,” she said. “Will you show me it all later.
“Of course I will.” ‘
I am glad,’ he thought to himself, ‘she will see the castle now in its perfection just as I wanted it to be. The next time she comes, there could be empty places on the walls and furniture missing from some of the rooms.’
Either that or the house would have a new mistress.
The dining room was a solid, oak-panelled room, one end of which featured a large stone, inglenook fireplace. In the centre was a long rosewood table, surrounded by carved chairs made of the same wood. Cascading flower arrangements from the castle’s gardens adorned the length of the table.
There were silver candlesticks and decanters in silver holders. The white napery gleamed, the silver and crystal shone. The china was the finest Sevres.
Charles might feel his world crumbling beneath him, but he could still provide a splendid table to delude the world.
“You are looking worried,” Lady Arnfield ventured. She was on his left. “Has anything happened to one of your horses?”
“Why should you think so?” Charles asked.
“Because of the coming race meeting. You always get worried then, in case one of your horses doesn’t excel itself.” She spoke across the table to Cliona. “I told you about Charles’s race horses, didn’t I? You will see them in action very soon.”
“I should love that,” said Cliona, beaming.
The Hartley cook was Mrs Watkins, wife of the butler and tonight she had outdone herself.
Never one to be behind the times, she had learned one of the new recipes that had been named after Miss Florence Nightingale, Riz à la Soeur Nightingale, as she proudly announced. True, her husband murmured that it was only kedgeree under another name, but nobody listened to him.
There was fresh trout, caught only that morning on the Hartley estate, gigot of lamb, followed by claret jelly, cabinet pudding, sponge cake and compôte of peaches. Each dish was served with the appropriate fine wine.
All round the table there were murmurings of admiration, and Charles knew that he could breathe again. Even if only for a little while.
At last the time came for the ladies to leave the gentlemen to their port. Nobody wanted to linger and when the port had made the rounds, they all rose to their feet with relief and headed for the music room, where Lady Hester had led the ladies.
As they walked down the passage, Charles could hear the sound of somebody singing. It was a sweet young voice, one that he had never heard before.
The men all entered the music room quietly, so as not to disturb the singer.
Lady Arnfield was sitting at the piano, playing the accompaniment, while Cliona stood beside her, singing in a pure, true voice that held everyone entranced.
It was a bright, happy song, about a girl who could not decide between three suitors. One was rich, one was handsome, and one loved her ‘more than the stars’.
Her audience was smiling and joining in the chorus.
“Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?
How do I know which choice to make?
Only one can be right for me,
But how do I know?”
Charles stayed back in the shadows as she embarked on the last verse, so that he could watch her unnoticed. At last the maiden chose the swain who loved her most.
“What shall I do? What shall I do?” Charles sang with the others, wishing his own problems could be solved in this delightful manner.
The audience applauded heartily when Cliona had finished and Freddy bounced forward.
“I know a good song,” he suggested. “It’s ever so jolly. I say, you don’t mind, do you?” This was to Lady Arnfield, who smiled and yielded her place at the piano. Freddy sat down and began to play. “Do you know this one?”
It was a currently popular song, and Cliona did know it. She sat down beside him at the piano and they thumped on the keys together with more vigour than skill, raising their voices in a merry duet.
Charles watched her, smiling, and was caught by surprise when she glanced up and met his eyes. Her smile matched his own, and for a moment it was as though they had excluded everyone
else.
‘This is my social duty,’ she said to him silently. ‘But I would rather be with you.’ ‘All I want is to get you to myself,’ his eyes replied.
At last the song was over and the musicians were rewarded with eager applause. They rose and stood side by side, holding hands as he bowed and she curtsied. Then Freddy bent low over her hand and touched the back of it with his lips.
Charles decided that this had gone on long enough.
“Lady Cliona,” he said, firmly engineering Freddy’s departure, “you wanted to see the castle.”
Lord Markham was heading for the spotlight to sing one of his funny songs. Everyone was enthusiastic, for his songs were much enjoyed in the locality. Under cover of the acclaim Charles and Cliona slipped out.
“I have never seen such a place,” she sighed as she put her hand into his arm. “Other houses are just boring and ordinary, but yours looks as though it is full of dark secrets.”
“Is that how you think a house should be? Full of dark secrets?” he replied.
“The darker the better,” she said with theatrical relish. “And a good few ghosts.”
“I’m afraid Hartley Castle has no ghosts.”
“No ghosts,” she cried indignantly. “Then it isn’t a proper castle.”
“I was afraid you might say that. The best I can offer is a few black sheep.”
“That sounds a bit more encouraging.”
“Come to the portrait gallery, and I’ll show you.” In the great gallery he led her down the length of the portraits.
“This unpleasant looking man is the first Baron,” he said, holding a lamp close. “He was a crony of Richard III, and the story goes that he was involved in the murder of the little Princes in the Tower of London.”
“I don’t believe it,” she countered at once. “One of my ancestors was reputed to have done that, and I know of at least two others. If you believe the stories, there must have been enough villains around that night to step on each other’s toes.”
Charles laughed. “I’ve often thought the same. Let’s see, who else can I find to impress you? Here’s the second Countess, who was a lady in waiting to Queen Elizabeth. She was also reputed to be a poisoner. She lost several husbands in suspicious circumstances.”
The Star of Love Page 6