Look Listen and Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “How can it possibly interest you?” Tempera asked almost passionately. “When you possess pictures which are so wonderful, so perfect, that all I would ask of life would be to look at them and understand what they are trying to – say.”

  The words seemed to be forced from her, and even as she heard her own voice dying away in the stillness she thought again how reprehensible this all was.

  “About which picture in particular do you feel like that?” the Duke asked.

  Tempera paused.

  She had meant to leave the one which moved her most of all to her stepmother, and she felt it would be betraying her trust if she told the truth.

  “Tell me,” the Duke asked. “I want to know.”

  There was a note of command in his voice. It seemed to Tempera to vibrate through her and at the same time compel her to tell him what he wanted to know.

  It was something he had done ever since they had met, she thought, compelling her to behave in a way she did not wish – compelling her to talk to him, compelling her to reveal her secret thoughts that were hers and hers alone.

  Almost as if he felt she resented his authority he said in a very different voice,

  “I am waiting. Please tell me.”

  As if it was impossible to resist him Tempera answered,

  “The ‘Madonna in the Church.’”

  Without looking at him she knew he smiled.

  “I might have guessed that was the one,” he said. “It is my favourite and I bought it myself. It was not in my father’s collection.”

  “There is something about – it which is – different,” Tempera murmured.

  “I know,” the Duke agreed. “It is nothing that can be expressed in words, but it is there, and I know that we both feel the same about it.”

  “Perhaps Artists like Van Eyck painted what they saw not with their eyes but – with their – souls.”

  Tempera did not know why she went on trying to express what the Duke had already said was inexpressible.

  She turned her head after she had spoken and found he was nearer to her than she had expected and in the moonlight it was easy to see his face.

  His eyes were on hers and she had a feeling that he looked deep into her heart and they spoke to each other with their souls.

  For a long, long moment she was very still.

  Then with what was a physical effort she rose to her feet, saying almost incoherently,

  “I – must go – Your Grace. Thank you for your kindness – but it is getting late.”

  “Not too late for there to be a likelihood of anyone returning from the Paradise of gamblers.”

  The scathing note in the Duke’s voice was unmistakable, and Tempera realised with a sense of guilt that knowing he hated gambling she should have told her stepmother to say it bored her too.

  Belle-mère should have returned with him – that was obvious.

  “It is the second time she has let the Duke slip away on his own while she stayed on at the Casino,” Tempera told herself.

  “What are you thinking about?” the Duke asked.

  He had not risen when Tempera had, but now slowly he did so and she felt as if he towered over her.

  “I am – finding it difficult to – express my thoughts, Your Grace.”

  “There is no need. Nor should you thank me. The moonlight and the sea are free for those who can interpret them.”

  She felt as if her whole being responded to the note in his voice and there was something else, the closeness of him, the sudden realisation that he was a man and she was a woman and they were alone together.

  She looked up into his face, her eyes very wide and dark in the moonlight.

  Then because she longed to stay and because she knew that he wanted her to do so, she turned and hurried away. She walked quickly until she descended the steps and was moving through the green tunnel which the moonlight intersected with silver beams.

  Then suddenly she began to run wildly in a panic-stricken manner towards the safety of the lighted Chateau.

  Chapter Four

  It was only when Tempera had put her stepmother to bed and was alone in the darkness of her own room that she could think clearly of what she had said to the Duke as they sat in the moonlight.

  It was then, she told herself, that once again she had behaved in an extremely reprehensible manner and most of all her behaviour with regard to the picture was inexcusable. It was all so simple.

  Out of his charity he had given her some canvases and he had asked in return that he should see the picture she had painted of his flowers.

  Why in those, circumstances should she behave like a self-conscious, hysterical schoolgirl?

  All she had to do was to leave the picture on his desk as she had intended, and if he wished to keep it was no reason why she should argue.

  He had recompensed her most generously, and to keep repeating that her work was not good enough and all the other foolish things she had said would, she knew, have aroused her father’s contempt.

  He had disliked artists who disparaged their own work in the hope that they would be contradicted.

  “There is nothing more infuriating,” he had said often enough, “than those who are too humble. I prefer those who blow their own trumpet loudly.”

  Tempera had laughed.

  “I do not believe you, Papa! You would slap down anybody who was boastful about a painting you did not consider good enough.”

  “An artist should have self-confidence in his Art,” her father had replied evasively.

  But she had known what he meant and now it seemed to her she was being excessively, obsequiously humble, instead of accepting her work at its face value, as apparently the Duke was prepared to do.

  Where she was at fault was that instead of thinking of his interest as a kind gesture from a nobleman to a servant, she had talked to him almost as if she were his equal.

  “Everything has gone wrong since the moment he first found me painting in the garden,” she told herself miserably.

  And yet she was honest enough to admit that it had been a delight that she had never anticipated to sit with him looking at that exquisite and perfect view of sea and sky and know that he understood what she was feeling.

  She wondered how many other men at this moment in the South of France intent on gambling at Monte Carlo would have had the least comprehension of what they had discussed – certainly none of the men her stepmother knew.

  Then she told herself that this was a dangerous path to follow.

  The Duke must not become interested in her, even in a very perfunctory way.

  He must be made to concentrate his attention on her stepmother.

  ‘There is no danger of my damaging Belle-mère’s chances where the Duke is concerned,’ Tempera thought. ‘We are not in the same category. At the same time any diversion from the main objective is dangerous.’

  She turned restlessly over and over on her pillow trying to think how she could in some way extract herself from this embarrassing situation.

  It was foolish to pretend that she had not aroused the Duke’s interest – for it was indeed unusual to find a servant painting as well as she could.

  At the same time, when they were together it was impossible not to realise that where painting was concerned they could talk on a different level from anything her stepmother could attempt.

  ‘I must not see him again,’ Tempera told herself, and knew that something within her rebelled at the thought. At the same time she had to be practical – the first thing was to rid herself of her obligation over the picture – and then hope that once having received it the Duke would shut it away in a drawer and forget about it.

  She decided that the sooner it was in his possession the better. Like all men, he would be irritated at not obtaining what he desired.

  Too late now she wished she had left it on his desk when she had first put it there.

  Tempera found it impossible to sleep and as the stars began to f
ade she decided what she would do.

  She would slip downstairs before the household was aroused, put the picture in the Duke’s room, then determinedly keep out of his way so that there would be no question of his demanding to see any other pictures she might paint.

  She was well aware that she would have to do this very early, otherwise during the rest of the day there would be people moving about and she might be seen.

  She had no wish to explain even to her stepmother what had occurred, and the idea of encountering Lord Eustace again made her shudder.

  She thought that if she went downstairs as soon as it was dawn she would be safe enough.

  She had learnt that the Duke, always considerate of his guests’ comfort, had given orders that the Sitting Rooms which were below the main bedrooms were not to be cleaned too early in the morning in case the noise should disturb those sleeping above.

  There was just the faintest glow in the sky, enough to cast a light through the long windows in the hall, as Tempera slipped along the passage and reached the top of the stairs.

  She thought that with her thin white wrap over her nightgown she must look almost like a ghost in the shadowy light and thought with a smile of amusement that if any of the housemaids saw her they might scream.

  Because her bedroom faced the back of the Chateau she usually heard the awakening staff but there was still no sound of them and in the huge cool hall there was only an utter quiet and the fragrance of lilies.

  In her heel-less slippers she crossed the marble floor. She could have entered the Duke’s private room through a door in the hall, but she chose to go through the Sitting Room.

  Here the curtains were drawn, but there was enough glow from the sky percolating from the sides of them for her to be able to see her way.

  The Rubens and the Ricci were dark against the white of the walls, very different from the flash of brilliant colour they were in the day-time.

  Tempera walked round the deep, soft sofas and comfortable armchairs towards the door which led into the Duke’s room.

  She held the picture in both hands and thought that she would prop it up against the big silver inkpot on the Duke’s desk. She wondered how soon it would be before he turned it over and saw the inscription on the back.

  Then as she reached the open door and was just about to step inside she realised there was someone there already. She stopped still and her heart gave a strange leap, although whether it was from fear or excitement she did not know.

  Then she realised that one of the curtains was pulled back and she could see quite clearly that the man standing with his back to her was not the Duke.

  In a flash she recognised the carriage of the head and saw it was Lord Eustace.

  For a moment it was hard to breathe and impossible even to move. Then silently on tip-toe Tempera turned and running from the Sitting Room sped through the hall and up the stairs.

  Only when she reached the sanctuary of her own room did she realise that her breath was coming quickly and her heart was throbbing.

  Lord Eustace! She might have encountered him dressed as she was in her thin wrap and nightgown!

  She was only too well aware of what his reaction would have been, and she would have had no-one to blame but herself.

  She supposed that like her he could not sleep.

  She knew that he had gone to his own room when her stepmother had returned, because she had heard the party saying goodnight to each other as they went up the stairs.

  “Goodnight, Lady Holcombe,” Lady Rothley had said, raising her voice a little so that if Tempera was asleep she would wake up.

  “Goodnight, Lady Rothley. I am sure you enjoyed yourself tonight.”

  There was just a little note of spite in Lady Holcombe’s voice and she accentuated the word ‘enjoy’.

  “Very much,” Lady Rothley answered. “Goodnight, Lady Barnard.”

  “Goodnight, my dear, you were very much admired. Everybody in the Casino who did not know you already was asking who you were.”

  “Thank you,” Lady Rothley replied. “You are very kind.”

  “That is what we always try to be,” Lady Barnard answered, and Tempera heard her going down the passage towards her own bedroom.

  Then as Lady Rothley had come into the room to fling her wrap down on the bed and cross to the mirror to look at her reflection, Tempera had heard the Duke’s voice and could not help standing listening to it.

  “Goodnight, George,” he said, speaking to Lord Holcombe. “Goodnight, Eustace.”

  “Goodnight, Velde,” Lord Eustace answered.

  “I hope you are quite comfortable in the tower,” the Duke said. “It is where I always used to sleep and it has a better view than any other room in the Chateau.”

  “Your hospitality is always superlative, Velde,” Lord Eustace replied. “My only complaint is that, while I feel ‘Monarch of all I survey’, I am at times a little lonely.”

  The Duke laughed.

  “What you are suggesting is the only comfort I do not feel qualified to supply!”

  Both men laughed and moved away, and while she could hear their voices in the distance Tempera could not discern what they said.

  She wondered now if it was because he felt lonely that Lord Eustace had been unable to sleep.

  Whatever the reason, he had come downstairs unaccountably early, and it was only by the greatest good fortune he had not realised she was there.

  ‘Another man I must avoid,’ she told herself.

  Then getting into bed she continued to lie sleepless until it was time to get up.

  All the morning Tempera tried to plan when she would have an opportunity of leaving the picture on the Duke’s desk.

  She had an uncomfortable feeling that if Colonel Anstruther saw it he would ask questions as to why it was there, and she felt a sudden shrinking within herself against anyone else knowing that she painted or that she had promised her picture to the Duke.

  Then somehow she had an inner conviction that he would know that was what she felt, and he would not talk of her talent to his Comptroller and certainly not to his other guests.

  She had no good reason for thinking this. Yet there was a certainty within herself that the Duke would understand her feelings and respect them.

  There were quite a lot of things to do in the morning for her stepmother.

  The hem of one of her gowns had come undone, and there was a spot on the front of one of the most expensive and most elaborate of Lucille’s models.

  It required removing very delicately so as not to affect the colour of the material, and it took Tempera a considerable time, in fact longer than to mend the hem.

  This morning Lady Rothley was drowsy and inclined to be petulant.

  She was always rather an indolent person, taking no exercise except on the Ballroom floor or moving serenely over a green lawn, and she was not used to the very late hours that were customary in the South of France.

  “I suppose I could not stay in bed today,” she suggested after she had eaten her breakfast.

  Tempera looked at her in horror.

  “How can you suggest such a thing, Belle-mère? You know every hour, every minute, is precious. Besides I have learnt there is a luncheon party here today.”

  Lady Rothley gave a little scream.

  “But of course there is! And the Count is coming! He told me so last night. This is exciting! I feel better already. I will have my bath, Tempera, then you shall do my hair and make me look really beautiful.”

  “Who is this Count?” Tempera asked. “We have talked about him often enough, but I have never asked you his name.”

  “He has a terrible name! I have the greatest difficulty in pronouncing it,” Lady Rothley answered. “It is Caravargio – that is it! Count Vincenzo Caravargio – Heavens, what a mouthful!”

  “Are you sure?” Tempera questioned.

  “Of course I am sure,” Lady Rothley replied.

  “But Vincenzo Caravargio was
a friend of Papa’s.”

  “Yes, I know. He told me so.”

  “Then listen, Belle-mère, I have met him, so you must be very careful what you say.”

  “You could not have made much of an impression. He has never spoken about you, although he has talked of your father. Apparently they had the same interests.”

  “But of course they did,” Tempera said almost impatiently. “Do you not know, Belle-mère, that Count Vincenzo Caravargio has one of the most famous collections of sculptures in the whole of Italy? The Villa Caravargio outside Rome is famous, almost as well known as the Villa Borghese, and Papa often spoke of it.”

  “I am not interested in his possessions, and if you try to describe a lot of statues to me I shall scream!” Lady Rothley said. “I am interested in the Count. If you only knew the delightful things that he says in that deep Latin voice of his.”

  “Belle-mère, listen to me,” Tempera begged. “I have heard Papa talk of the Count ever since I was a little girl. I know that he was married when he was very young and was extremely unhappy in consequence. He has been a widower for ten, perhaps fifteen years, and I am sure he has no intention of marrying again.”

  “He certainly does not speak of marriage, but of love!” Lady Rothley said.

  “Belle-mère, how can you listen? You know as well as I do that there are hundreds of men who want to make love to you because you are so beautiful. But we are interested in finding you a husband.”

  “I know,” Lady Rothley agreed. “You are quite right, Tempera, but husbands never seem to say the same fascinating things that the Count says so eloquently.”

  Tempera almost wrung her hands in despair.

  “What am I to say to you?” she asked. “You know why we are here. You know the Duke is interested in you, otherwise he would not have invited you. But now you are spending your time not with him, but with this Italian, whose intentions I am quite certain do not include a wedding ring.”

  Lady Rothley turned from the contemplation of her face in the mirror to look at her stepdaughter.

  “You are so sweet and so sensible, Tempera,” she said, “but you are trying to spoil my fun and I am enjoying myself so much.”