“I don’t – want to – leave you.”
“It will not be for long,” he replied reassuringly. “My clothes are at a hotel in the centre of the town. As soon as I have collected them and the letters, which I suspect will have accumulated while I have been away, I will follow you.”
He paused to say,
“You have not yet told me where you live.”
“The village is called St. Mert. It is very small. When you reach it just ask for The Château.”
Valda had taken off her straw hat while she drank her coffee and now Roydon drew her into his arms, first touching her hair gently with his fingers, then with his lips.
“Take care of yourself, my precious little love,” he said. “I am half-afraid that you are a mirage from one of the étangs and that you have no substance in fact. Suppose I never find you again?”
“I shall be waiting for you,” Valda replied. “And you will remember your promise? Whatever is said, whatever obstacles are put in our way, you will marry me?”
“I gave you my promise,” Roydon answered, “and I shall not break it.”
“Then remember if you cannot persuade my stepfather to let us marry, I shall run away again. I shall find you wherever you may have gone!”
She paused to say frantically,
“Give me an address where you will be in London.”
“You cannot travel to London by yourself!” Roydon protested.
“I can and I will – if I cannot reach you any other way!”
“You seem so certain that your stepfather will refuse to listen to me.”
Valda was sure that was what he would do, but she did not say so.
“We have to be prepared,” she said evasively. “We have to think of every detail. My father always said ‘no adventure can be successful unless one checks every detail’.”
There was a faint smile on Roydon’s face as if he humoured a child, while he went to a desk that stood in the corner of the room and wrote down two addresses.
“The first will find me in Paris,” he said. “If in actual fact I am turned away from your stepfather’s door, I will go there and wait for at least a week. The other will always find me in London.”
“I may not even be able to write to you,” Valda said. “I may just appear.”
“You are being very nervous about all this,” Roydon said soothingly.
“I am trying to be sensible. You know as well as I do that letters can be intercepted. It has happened in history and it could happen to us.”
Roydon gave her the piece of paper on which he had written the addresses.
“We must have faith, my sweet,” he said. “Faith in ourselves and faith in our fate.”
He did not give Valda a chance to reply. He kissed her until once again it was difficult to think of anything but him and the fire he evoked in her.
“I love you! I adore you!”
Those were the last words she said to him and the words she repeated to herself, as she drove away from the livery stable in the carriage Roydon had hired for her.
She did not look back as the horses turned into the crowded street.
Someone had once told her that to do so was unlucky and, as she drove along, she did not see the Churches and Palaces, the shops with their cheese and fruit, herbs, vegetables and flowers.
All she could see was Roydon’s face and all she could hear was Roydon’s voice saying that he loved her.
“The Gods have given – the Gods can take away.”
She could remember saying the words as if they were prophetic.
‘I cannot lose him! I cannot!’ she thought despairingly.
Then she remembered her fortune and knew how difficult it was going to be first to convince her stepfather that Roydon was not interested in that and then convince Roydon it was of no consequence.
She was concentrating intensely on what she must say when she told her mother and stepfather about Roydon.
At the same time she was praying with prayers that came from the very depths of her heart that they would understand. As a result she arrived at The Château almost before she realised she had left Arles behind.
As the horses drove up the avenue of ancient trees and came to a stop outside the magnificent doorway in the centre of the great sixteenth century building, she thought with a feeling of desperation that she was returning to prison.
The coachman drew the horses to a standstill and the footman came running down the steps to open the door. Valda entered the hall.
The Maitre des Chambres with an expression of stupefaction on his face hurried towards her.
“Mademoiselle Valda! You have returned!”
“Yes. I have come home.”
“Monsieur le Comte and Madame are in the salon, mademoiselle.”
“I will go to them,” Valda replied, “but listen.”
The Maitre des Chambres waited.
“A gentleman will be arriving in an hour or so. He will ask for Mademoiselle Burton. Bring him into the salon immediately!”
“Certainement, mademoiselle!” the Maitre des Chambres replied, looking slightly bemused by the unknown name.
He swept across the hall, obviously so delighted to be the bringer of good news that his voice seemed to ring out, as opening the door of the salon, he announced,
“Mademoiselle Valda, madame!”
The Comte and Comtesse were at the far end of the room. They were sitting side by side on a sofa and, as the Maitre des Chambres spoke, the Comtesse gave a little cry.
“Valda!”
Valda advanced towards them conscious that she must look a little strange without a hat, her elegant Parisian habit showing signs of wear and tear from her long ride and the thorny smilax, which had caught at it when they had forced their way through the thickets to photograph the wild horses.
“Valda – darling! Where have you been? How could you have done this to us?”
Valda kissed her mother and the Comtesse held her very close.
There were tears in her eyes.
“We have been so worried, so distraught! How could you have gone away like that?”
“I am very sorry to have upset you, Mama. I will tell you all about it,” Valda said and turned to her stepfather.
He was looking at her gravely and she thought with a sinking of her heart that he was not as glad to see her as her mother was.
She moved to his side and lifted her face to his.
“Forgive me, Beau-père.”
She felt it was an effort for him to kiss her and put his arms round her.
“Please forgive me,” she pleaded. “I have so much to tell you and I am safe, as you can see.”
“Your stepfather has only just returned from Paris,” her mother explained. “He has been searching for you, Valda. I cannot tell you how upset and anxious we have been.”
“Beau-père challenged me,” Valda said, “and although I did not journey to Paris without a courier, I have been to the Camargue!”
“To the Camargue?”
Both her mother and stepfather spoke simultaneously in sheer astonishment.
“I have brought back the most fascinating snapshots.” She smiled at her stepfather.
“You told me, Beau-père, that none of my talents are saleable. Well, I believe I can answer that by saying that I shall be very disappointed if I have not enough photographs to hold an exhibition.”
“An exhibition!” the Comtesse ejaculated.
“An exhibition of photographs of wild horses and flamingos,” Valda said. “You will be surprised – unless something has gone wrong with my camera.”
“I cannot believe that you have been to the Camargue!” her mother exclaimed. “How did you get away from here? We could not imagine, if you had gone to the station, who could have taken you there.”
“I travelled with the gypsies!”
“The gypsies?” the Comte’s voice seemed to echo round the room.
Then almost like Roydon he said,
“How could you have taken such crazy risks? How could you have done anything so dangerous – so irresponsible – as to go off on your own like that?”
“I wanted to prove that I was capable of looking after myself,” Valda replied quietly. “And also, Beau-père, of choosing my husband for myself.”
“And you think that is what you have proved?” he asked.
“I hope you will agree that this is what I have done. The man I want to marry will be arriving to see you in an hour or so.”
For a moment it seemed as if Valda had turned her mother and stepfather into stone.
They sat completely motionless, staring at her. Then, in a tone of voice by which Valda knew the Comte was keeping his temper rigidly under control, he said,
“I think you had better explain more clearly. I find this somewhat difficult to understand.”
A quarter of an hour later the Comte was still repeating again and again the same words,
“It is impossible! Quite impossible! How could you credit for a moment that I would permit you to marry this man Sanford, of whom you know nothing and whom you met by chance in the Camargue?”
“I love him and he loves me,” Valda insisted.
She had, however, a trump card to play.
It was inevitable that her stepfather should say,
“Do you suppose for one moment that this Englishman is not aware that you are an heiress?”
Valda had deliberately not mentioned before that Roydon was not aware of her real identity.
“Because at first I thought he might know the name, as Papa was so famous,” she said, “I told him my name was Burton. As far as he is concerned, I am Miss Valda Burton, a girl of no importance and he does not even know who you are. I just told him the name was Merlimont.”
“And you think he had never heard of me?” the Comte asked.
“He is English – why should he?” Valda retorted. The Comte looked at his wife.
“Do you know any Sanfords?” he enquired. “Is the name well known in England?”
“I cannot remember,” Valda’s mother replied. “But then I have lived in France for so long.”
She looked at Valda apologetically as she said,
“This young man may be very nice, my dearest, but you do understand that Beau-père and I cannot let you marry the first man who takes your fancy? He may in fact be a fortune-hunter!”
Valda rose to her feet.
“I have already made it very clear, Mama, that Roydon is not a fortune-hunter. He has no idea that I possess a fortune. What is more, he said quite clearly that he would never allow his wife to keep him.”
“You have discussed money?” her stepfather enquired. There seemed to Valda no point in not telling the truth. “Yes,” she answered. “And he is not well off at the moment because his mother had a long and expensive illness.”
She saw her stepfather’s lips tighten and knew exactly what he was thinking.
“I am going upstairs to change before he arrives,” Valda said. “I want to make one thing quite clear. I love you both and I am deeply grateful for all the affection you have given me and the way you have looked after me, but I love Roydon in the same way that you two love each other!”
She paused to say slowly,
“We are meant for each other. I intend to marry him and nothing anyone can say will stop me!”
She saw the arguments trembling on her stepfather’s lips and went quickly from the room.
Only as she ran upstairs to her own bedroom did she realise that she was trembling.
‘They will try to prevent us meeting each other!’ she thought.
She knew by the expression on the Comte’s face that he was at his most obstinate. He would be determined, relentless. And he would never give up doing what he thought was right for her.
‘I shall have to run away again!’ she told herself as she reached her bedroom. ‘It will be more difficult a second time because they are certain to take every precaution to prevent me. But somehow I will reach Roydon and we will be married before anyone can stop us!’
Her maid came hurrying to help her change, exclaiming in horror over the condition of her habit and the fact that she was wearing her red leather gypsy shoes instead of the short kid boots that had been made for her to wear riding.
Valda did not listen to what was being said.
She was hurrying to get downstairs in case Roydon should arrive before she was ready and also thinking out plausible and persuasive arguments with which to confront her stepfather.
She hardly noticed the very becoming gown her maid was helping her into.
It had in fact been most expensive and only when she looked at herself in the mirror did Valda wonder if Roydon would think she was deliberately flaunting her money when he had none.
It would be bad enough for him to find The Château was so large and impressive and that her stepfather was Le Comte de Merlimont, without any added contrasts to underline the position.
But it was too late to change, since she hoped at any moment to hear the sound of his wheels coming up the drive and she ran downstairs to find, as she expected, her mother and stepfather still in the salon earnestly conferring with each other.
“You certainly look better now, dearest,” her mother said when she joined them. “Did you have to sleep in some vulgar and uncomfortable inn? I cannot bear to think of it!”
“After I left the gypsies with whom I spent the first night,” Valda said and saw that her stepfather shuddered visibly, “I stayed in a delightful Mas. It was so pretty, Mama, you would have loved it. There were flowers everywhere. Wisteria was growing up its walls and climbing roses and honeysuckle scented my bedroom.”
“And what were the people like?” the Comtesse enquired.
“Very charming!” Valda answered. “Monsieur Porquier is a manadier in a big way, his wife looked after me and the food was delicious.”
“And was Mr. Sanford also staying there?” the Comtesse enquired.
“He was spending his holiday in the Camargue as he has done before,” Valda answered.
“Holiday?” the Comte enquired. “From what?”
Valda realised she had made a mistake.
Gentlemen who did not work had no reason to take a holiday. They might go on a visit, but a holiday implied that their time was not their own.
“Roydon told me he had been inspecting the vineyards of France,” she explained, “and it had in fact been quite exhausting.”
It sounded plausible, but she saw that her stepfather was still suspicious.
She knew by the manner in which he squared his chin and by the look in his eyes that when Roydon arrived his reception was not going to be a pleasant one.
Suddenly Valda was afraid.
She could feel and almost see the opposition gathering against her.
The Comte could be very formidable when he wished and there was no use appealing to her mother, because whatever he did or said she invariably thought he was right.
Valda could feel her happiness slipping away. She had been so sure, so convinced that the wonder of her love for Roydon and his for her was something that was not of this world but a gift from the Gods.
Beau-père was determined, Valda thought frantically, to make Roydon feel that he was an impostor – an adventurer.
He will make the difference between what he can offer me and what I already have seem so poignant, so ugly, that there will be nothing for him to do but go away.
She felt a panic rising inside her. She felt she must scream out as if her fear, like some dangerous animal, was starting to destroy her happiness.
The door opened and, before the Maitre des Chambres could speak, she saw that Roydon stood there.
He appeared very different from his appearance when she had last seen him. He was now dressed in conventional dark clothes and looked more impressive, more authoritative and somehow even autocratic.
Valda drew in her breath.
“My Lord
Linslade, madame!” the Maitre des Chambres announced in stentorian tones.
*
Much later that evening when the stars were coming out over the high trees in the Park and the setting sun was only a faint glow in the west, Valda and Roydon walked through the long French windows and out onto the terrace.
It was actually the Comtesse who suggested it and she gave her husband a little smile of understanding as Valda eagerly showed Roydon the way.
They walked in silence along the terrace until they stopped to lean over the balustrade out of reach of the golden light shining from the windows of the salon.
“Why did you not tell me?” Valda asked.
It was a question she had been longing to put to him all through dinner, when her mother and stepfather had toasted their happiness and she felt as if she must be in a dream.
“I had not the slightest idea it could happen,” Roydon answered. “My uncle was in early middle age and his son was only twenty-four. As it happens, I had seen neither of them for seven years!”
“But you could have told me you had such important relatives!”
“I never thought of it,” he answered. “They quarrelled with my father and the possibility of my succeeding to the title never entered my mind.”
He looked across the Park and added almost as if he spoke to himself,
“How could I imagine for a moment that a storm off the Isle of Wight, where they were yachting, would cause such a tragedy and mean the loss of two healthy lives?”
He drew in his breath as he finished,
“And also mean that I should find myself in the happy position of being able to marry someone I love without any opposition?”
“You do – love me?” Valda asked.
“More than I can ever tell you,” he answered. “But I admit, my precious, I was extremely apprehensive when you left me and I was well aware what you were feeling.”
“And yet you made me go home.”
“I told you I wanted you for my wife.”
“And now we can be married very soon.”
“As soon as your mother and stepfather consider it decent for me to do so, seeing that I am in mourning,” Roydon answered. “And besides I have to make the house ready for you and arrange for my aunt to move to the Dower House.”
He put his arm round Valda’s shoulder and drew her a little closer to him.
The Wild Cry of Love Page 15