Miracle For a Madonna

by Barbara Cartland

  MIRACLE FOR A MADONNA

  Author’s Note

  Raphael, born in 1483, was one of the kindest and gentlest of the famous artists. Everyone loved him and he quarrelled with nobody.

  He painted many pictures of the Madonna and each one has a beauty and serenity that portrays the perfection all men seek in a woman.

  Few artists have been more loved and admired in their own lifetime and, after his death, he was posthumously enthroned as the perfect Master and ‘Prince’ of painters.

  Paul Martin, born in 1864, was the most famous pioneer of photography in England and the ‘Facsimile’ Hand Camera provided him with some of his best pictures. Made in 1889 the price was then three pounds and three shillings.

  Florence is still one of the treasure chests of Europe and the beauty of the City, the lucidity of the light and the very human qualities of its people remain unchanged over the centuries.

  Chapter One ~ 1893

  Lord Mere sat down to breakfast with a hearty appetite.

  When he was in London, he liked to ride early in the morning before Hyde Park became crowded.

  This morning he had been exercising a new horse he had recently bought at Tattersalls.

  It was a very spirited stallion and he had innumerable tussles with it before the animal came to realise that he had met his Master and settled down to behave respectably.

  This success had given Lord Mere, who was an outstanding horseman, a great deal of pleasure and had swept away the cobwebs of what had been a night that his contemporaries called ‘one of irrepressible gaiety’.

  He had, however, when he had left a house of pleasure in St. James’s that had been taken over for the evening by a rich Peer who was celebrating a sensational win on the Grand National, realised that he had over-indulged himself like a child let loose in a sweet shop.

  Lord Mere, who as a rule enjoyed life to the full, also had a serious side to his nature which few people realised.

  He had, in fact, become deeply involved in secret exchanges between France and England and had also visited unofficially on behalf of the Government various other countries in Europe.

  Only the Foreign Secretary was aware that Lord Mere had other interests in visiting the country in question besides what appeared to be, on the surface, his endless search for pleasure.

  Exceedingly good-looking, wealthy and the titled member of a family which won frequent acclaim in the history books, he had managed with some dexterity to reach the age of twenty-nine without being pressured into marriage.

  There had, however, been aspiring mothers pursuing him ever since he had left Eton.

  Only by confining himself to the fascinations of women who were already married had he managed so far to avoid them.

  His house in Park Lane, which had been built and furnished by his grandfather, was run as a bachelor household with a smoothness and expertise that he had achieved after years of studying his own comfort and in consequence other people’s.

  “I have always said, Ingram, that you are the best host in England,” the Prince of Wales had said only a week ago when he dined at Mere House. “I cannot think why my chef is incapable of producing a dinner to equal yours!”

  Lord Mere had acknowledged the compliment, but had not elaborated on the reason for what he thought of as the perfection of his household.

  Part of it was undoubtedly due to the efficiency of his secretary but, as he had learned in the Army, reform should begin at the top and he took a personal interest in even the smallest detail where it concerned himself.

  He also extended his personal jurisdiction to the management of his estates with the result that his family seat in Buckinghamshire was a model of its kind.

  His stable at Newmarket was the envy of his competitors and to their chagrin he walked away with all the Classic races.

  As Lord Mere finished the excellent dish of lamb cutlets served with mushrooms that had arrived yesterday from his house in the country, he made a gesture to indicate that he would like another cup of coffee.

  The footman who had been standing stiffly to attention behind his chair moved to obey his Master.

  As he did so, the door opened and the butler announced in pontifical tone,

  “The Marchioness of Kirkham, my Lord!”

  Lord Mere looked up in surprise as his sister, looking exceedingly attractive in a spring ensemble in the fashionable shade of green, came hurrying into the dining room.

  As she reached the end of the table, he rose to his feet saying,

  “This is certainly a surprise, Jennie. I have never known you to be awake at this hour let alone out in the fresh air!”

  “I have to talk to you, Ingram!” the Marchioness said urgently.

  The note in her voice and an expression of agitation in her blue eyes made Lord Mere realise that she wished to speak to him alone.

  “Will you have a cup of coffee or something to eat?” he asked.

  “No, no!” the Marchioness replied. “I want nothing!”

  Lord Mere had only to look at the footman for him to know what his orders were and he quickly left the dining room by the pantry door, closing it behind him.

  Lord Mere sat back in his chair, which, carved with a crown supported by angels, made him appear positively regal.

  “What is the matter?” he enquired.

  To his surprise his sister gave a little sob.

  “Oh, Ingram, I don’t know – how to – tell you!”

  There was so much pain in her voice that Lord Mere reached out to take her hand and hold it comfortingly in his.

  “What has upset you?” he asked. “It’s not like you, Jennie, to be down in the dumps!”

  He smiled as he spoke remembering that it was a phrase they had used to each other as children.

  But his sister gave another little sob and, holding tightly onto his hand with both of hers, she said,

  “Oh, Ingram, if you don’t help me I am – completely and – absolutely lost!”

  ‘Tell me what is wrong!” he said quietly.

  “You will be – shocked.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You are the only person I can turn to and oh, Ingram, I have been such a stupid fool!”

  “That is something we all are at times,” he said consolingly, “but what can you have done?”

  She took her hand from his and, taking a lace-edged handkerchief from her belt, she raised it to her eyes.

  “He is so desperately – overwhelmingly attractive,” she said, “and I doubt if anybody could – resist him!”

  “Resisted whom?” Lord Mere asked.

  The Marchioness drew a deep breath.

  “Prince Antonio di Sogino.”

  Lord Mere did not speak, but his eyes expressed curiosity and there was a glint in them that those who had worked with him on some dangerous missions would have recognised.

  Because it seemed that for the moment his sister was incapable of continuing, he said,

  “I know who you are speaking about, but how does he concern you?”

  For a moment he thought that she was going to prevaricate and not tell him the truth.

  Then, as if she realised that he had to know exactly what had happened, she replied in a very low voice,

  “You know that Arthur is away in Paris at the moment?”

  Lord Mere was well aware of this and that Queen Victoria had sent his brother-in-law to remonstrate with the British Ambassador over some small item that had incurred her displeasure.

  When he heard about it, he had thought at the time that Her Majesty was making a mountain out of a molehill.

  It would have been far easier to send a letter than to ask the Marquis of Kirkham, who was approaching the
age of sixty and was not in good health, to journey to Paris on her behalf.

  The Queen was, however, so used to using him on missions that she thought of as her personal concerns that the Marquis had felt obliged to accede to her request.

  “Yes, I knew that he was in Paris,” Lord Mere said aloud.

  There was a little pause before his sister went on,

  “I met Prince Antonio about ten days ago at Marlborough House and, as he danced so divinely, I found it difficult to refuse to give him the two or three dances that be begged from me.”

  Looking back, Lord Mere remembered thinking that his sister was being somewhat indiscreet with the young Italian, knowing that, as they made such a handsome couple on the dance floor, they would not go unnoticed.

  “He begged me to let him call on me the next day,” Jennie went on, “and when he told me how much he loved me I cannot pretend, Ingram, that I was not – fascinated by – him.”

  She spoke in a very low voice without looking directly at her brother, her blue eyes lowered to the table, almost as if she was watching what had happened pass in front of her like a picture.

  “I drove in Hyde Park, I went to parties and wherever I was he seemed to be there too.”

  If his sister had been fascinated by Prince Antonio, Lord Mere could understand that he had found Jennie irresistible.

  Fair-haired, blue-eyed and with an exquisite complexion, she was an artist’s dream of the perfect ‘English Rose’.

  He had, however, often regretted when he became old enough to think about it that she had been married so young to a man twenty-five years older than herself.

  It had been a brilliant marriage from a social point of view.

  The Marquis of Kirkham was persona grata at Windsor Castle and rose, soon after their marriage, to the position of Master of the Horse.

  He had been married when he was young, but his first wife had died in childbirth and, because he was a very distinguished widower, there was much speculation as to who his next Marchioness would be.

  Then he had seen Jennifer, a young girl of eighteen, and lost his heart.

  He had swept her up the aisle almost before she had time to realise what was happening or her father and mother could question whether it was wise for her to marry a man so much older than herself.

  It did not seem to matter at the time, but now that Jennie was thirty-four and at the height of her beauty, her husband was nearing sixty and to all intents and purposes an elderly man.

  Although he could guess the end of the story, Lord Mere enquired,

  “Go on! Tell me what has happened.”

  “Last night,” Jennie said in a voice that was barely audible, “I gave in to Antonio’s pleadings. We had dined together the night before, and somehow, I don’t know how, I resisted him. I kept thinking that however – difficult Arthur might be, I was his wife and should – behave in the way he – expected me to.”

  “Of course,” her brother agreed.

  “Then last night we dined – alone and afterwards – ”

  The Marchioness stopped speaking and the colour rose in her cheeks before she said,

  “You can guess what happened!”

  Her brother’s fingers tightened on hers.

  “I can and I do understand.”

  He thought to himself as he spoke that it was something he was surprised had not happened a great deal sooner.

  The Marquis had not only grown pompous with age, but also sharp and dictatorial with everybody around him, especially his wife.

  At the same time he was an exceedingly proud man and Lord Mere knew that, if he had the slightest idea that Jennie was unfaithful, the consequences would be exceedingly unpleasant.

  “I am ashamed now that I could have done – anything so – wrong,” Jennie wailed, “but it is not – only that!”

  “Then what else?” her brother enquired.

  “Last night I wore, because I knew it would intrigue and interest him, the Florentine necklace.”

  Lord Mere knew exactly what she was referring to.

  Two years ago when, after the birth of two daughters, she had presented the Marquis with a son and heir he had bought her an exquisitely beautiful necklace.

  It had been made in Italy in the first half of the eighteenth century and was fashioned with a delicacy and brilliance that was typical of the Florentine jewellers.

  On a ribbon of brilliants were strung flowers fashioned of fine diamonds with leaves of emeralds.

  An elaborate pendant hung from the centre of the necklace in the form of a flower from which hung two smaller pink diamond pendants.

  Like all jewellery of the time it was set in silver and each stone was held in place by a convex element that enhanced the reflection of light.

  It was so lovely and so unusual that Jennie had been overwhelmed when she received it.

  The Marquis had explained that it had been offered to him by the ancient Florentine family to which it belonged with the explanation that, if they had to sell it, they would rather it was owned by him than by anybody else they had ever met.

  He had been so flattered by the compliment that Lord Mere had always suspected he had paid more for it than it was worth, but felt it was some recompense for Jennie for having, as he knew, a husband who was growing too old to be the ardent lover she desired.

  It had in fact surprised him that, unlike most of the beautiful women in the Marlborough House Set, Jennie had remained faithful to the Marquis for so long.

  As the fashion for promiscuity had been set by the Prince of Wales, it was accepted that the famous beauties, after they had presented their husbands with an heir and been married for at least ten years, should have discreet love affairs.

  It was also accepted that their husbands should turn a blind eye to what was happening.

  Lord Mere had always suspected that, if the situation in his sister’s case arose, the Marquis would do nothing of the sort.

  In fact he was sure that his brother-in-law would take up the attitude of a dog in the manger and, if he could not give his wife what she wanted, she would have to go without it.

  At the same time, because he loved his sister, he would have liked to see her happy.

  He had suspected for some time that Jennie was restless and frustrated although they had not discussed it and he thought now that what had happened was inevitable.

  However it was unfortunate that Jennie should have taken a foreigner as a lover.

  Not that Lord Mere had anything against foreigners in principle, except that they were usually unpredictable and unlikely to offer a woman the steadfast unswerving devotion that he would have liked his sister to receive.

  Now looking down at her frightened face, he realised that something was very wrong and he wondered apart from her guilty conscience what it could be.

  Because she knew that he was waiting, Jennie went on,

  “Antonio left – at dawn. In fact I was – worried in case the servants would be – moving about and they would – see him.”

  “And when he had gone?” Lord Mere asked.

  He felt certain that the Marquis could not have returned at such an early hour and he could not believe that there was anybody else in the household who would accuse her of infidelity.

  “When he had gone,” Jennie said in a whisper, “although I could not believe it – my necklace had – vanished!”

  There was silence as Lord Mere stared at her in sheer astonishment.

  “Are you saying,” he asked after a moment, “you think that the Prince stole it?”

  “It has gone, vanished completely! I put it back in its box, which lay on my dressing table. Then, after my maid brought me my breakfast, she asked,

  “‘Shall I put your jewellery in the safe, my Lady?’

  “It is something she always does, and I answered,

  “‘Yes, of course, Rose, but be careful with the necklace!’

  “It was then she opened the box, I suppose to see if the neckla
ce was properly arranged and exclaimed, ‘It’s not here, my Lady!’”

  Now, as Jennie looked up at her brother, her eyes were dark with fear.

  “It had gone and, although I searched everywhere, I remember absolutely clearly putting it carefully in its place and thinking as I did so how exquisite it looked against the black velvet that the box is lined with.”

  “You must be mistaken!”

  “No, I am not! Now, when I look back, I can remember I was wearing it the first night I met Antonio. He admired it and paid me compliments, saying that of all the necks it had encircled since it was first made in 1725 mine was the most beautiful!”

  Lord Mere did not speak and she went on,

  “It was only this morning that I remembered the conversation and thought it strange that he knew the actual date that the necklace had been made when Arthur was not certain of it himself.”

  “He might have been guessing,” Lord Mere suggested. “What else happened?”

  “After that, if I did not wear the necklace when I was at parties, he always said to me,

  ‘“Where is your Florentine necklace? I admire you in that and nothing else is beautiful enough to touch your skin.’”

  “So that is why you wore it last night when you were dining alone with him!”

  “Yes, of course,” Jennie answered, “and the moment he came into the drawing room, before he even kissed me, he said,

  “‘That is how I want you to look!’

  “I was slightly piqued because his eyes were on the necklace rather than on my face.”

  Lord Mere stirred a little restlessly.

  “That still does not prove that he stole it from you!”

  “He undid it for me and as he did so kissed my neck and said,

  “‘You are too lovely to need such ornamentation, even anything so perfect as your necklace from my country and fashioned by my people.’”

  Jennie gave a little sigh.

  “I was not really attending to what he was saying. I took the necklace from his hands and put it into the box. I wanted him to think of me and to talk to me.”

  “You are quite certain that is where you put it?”

  “Absolutely certain,” she replied. “As I told you, I arranged it carefully because it is so precious and valuable and I am always afraid that it might break and Arthur would be angry.”