The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28)

by Barbara Cartland

  It was dusk outside and the light in the small room with its dirty windows was dim. The fire cast deep shadows and somehow it was easy to talk without feeling antagonistic.

  “So many ... things,” Vesta answered.

  “Tell me what you were thinking as we rode through the woods today,” the Count suggested.

  Vesta knew that, if she told the truth, she would have to say she was thinking most of the time of the Prince. But he was not a subject she wished to discuss with the Count, so she answered quickly:

  “When I was looking at the flowers, and I have never seen anything so beautiful, I thought that they must be alive ... just as we ... are.”

  She paused and continued, choosing her words carefully.

  “So perhaps it is cruel to ... pick them. When we do so and they die, it may be as painful to them as it is to us if we are killed ... or murdered.”

  Her voice died away and now she was suddenly apprehensive. How could she have told her secret thoughts to the Count of all people?

  She expected him to laugh, and as she waited for him to do so it was like anticipating a physical blow. She could almost feel the pain of it!

  Instead he answered quietly.

  “Some Buddhists believe that to be the truth—as they will not take life, so they will not pick flowers.”

  Vesta’s eyes were alight as she looked at him across the table.

  “I imagined that ... only I ... had thought of ... that.”

  “I am sure that as people develop spiritually in themselves and grow wiser, they all in their own way discover the same fundamental truths,” the Count replied.

  Vesta was silent. She turned over what he had said in her mind and exclaimed:

  “That is one of the ... nicest things ... anyone has ever said to me!”

  Then as if she felt shy, she rose to her feet.

  “I must go and ... help with the ... chicken for ... tomorrow,” she said almost incoherently and sped from the room.

  It was a long time before she returned, but the Count could hear voices and laughter coming from the kitchen. Somehow the two women were making themselves mutually understood.

  Vesta came back into the room accompanied by the Inn-Keeper’s wife, a lighted taper in her hand.

  “She wants to show me the way to my bedroom,” Vesta said to the Count.

  “I will bring up the bucket,” he answered and went through the kitchen to fetch it.

  When he came back they climbed the steep wooden staircase. The woman went first with the taper, Vesta following her.

  “You are honoured,” the Count said as they reached the landing. “Candles are treasured in this part of the world. People go to bed before it is dark.”

  “I am very grateful!” Vesta smiled.

  There were only two bed-rooms upstairs. They were side by side and the rickety doors did not fit. Vesta followed the woman into the first one and realised why she needed the lighted candle.

  There was no glass in the window, which was stuffed with rags and old sacks so there was no light and no air.

  A bed-stead of rough unpolished wood stood against one wall, by the other there was a table holding a basin.

  There was nothing else, not even a chair, and at a glance Vesta could see that the blankets were not only full of holes but extremely dirty.

  The Count poured some of the water into the basin and put the bucket on the floor.

  “Good night, Ma’am,” he said politely.

  She thought, as he withdrew from the room in the light of the candle, that he was smiling unpleasantly.

  She had forgotten her hatred of him while they had been eating the dinner she had cooked. But now it returned with a new force.

  She was quite certain he was gloating over the fact that she would never have seen a room that was quite so unpleasant or horrible as this one.

  It smelt of dust, dirt and the sweat of those who had used it. She was quite certain there would be fleas in the bed, if nothing worse!

  The woman put the candle down on the table.

  “Good night,” she said.

  She was smiling and she even dropped an awkward curtsey.

  “Good night and thank you,” Vesta replied.

  The candlelight cast strange shadows on the ceiling. Vesta looked at the bed with horror. Then she crossed the room to the basin and washed her hands and face in the cold water.

  It was only when her face was already wet that she looked apprehensively for a towel, and having seen it decided nothing would induce her to use it.

  Instead she drew her handkerchief from her pocket and was wiping her face when there came a knock on the door.

  “Who is it?” she asked nervously.

  “I have brought you your things from my saddlebag,” the Count answered. “I thought you must have forgotten them.”

  “Oh yes, as a matter of fact I had,” Vesta said. “Thank you for bringing them.”

  She opened the door and took the bundle from him.

  “Good night, Ma’am,” he said with a little bow, “I hope you sleep well.”

  “I hope, Count, you also enjoy a good night,” she replied sweetly.

  She shut the door and heard him go into the room next door. She held her little bundle containing her pretty nightgown and brushes closely in her arms.

  She had no intention of undressing in this squalor. She was also aware that it was growing cold.

  She could hear the Count moving about next door and suddenly she came to a decision. She sat down on the edge of the bed, but fearing the dirt of it would mark the skirt of her riding-habit, she put her black cloak under her.

  She waited for what seemed to her a long time until there were no longer any sounds from the next room. Then she slipped off her small kid boots which undid at her ankles, and picking up everything she possessed including her brushes and nightgown she very quietly opened the door.

  With her boots in her hand, fearful of every creak of the stairs, she moved as softly as she could down to the front room with the fire.

  It was still burning because the Count had put a lot of wood on it. Vesta set down her possessions on one wooden settle and lying on the other covered herself with her black cloak.

  It was uncomfortable not to have a pillow and after a moment she rose to put more wood on the fire, moving very quietly in case someone should hear her.

  Then she slipped off her smart white braided jacket and rolled it up to make a pillow for her head, and lay down once again.

  The seat was hard under her body, but the fire was warm and she suddenly realised she was very tired.

  She had been through so much. The worry over her arrival, the agony and fear she had experienced on the ride, her battle, with the Count, had all taken their toll.

  She felt her eyelids closing and then almost before she was aware of it she was fast asleep.

  A log falling in the fire brought Vesta back through layers of sleep to consciousness.

  She opened her eyes and she saw she was not alone.

  Sitting on the wooden settle on the other side of the hearth was the Count. He was looking at her and she felt hazily it was perhaps the penetrating look in his dark eyes which had awoken her.

  She stared at him for a moment and then drowsily still half asleep she said:

  “I ... thought ... you were an ... eagle but you ... saved ... me.”

  “An eagle?” he questioned in a deep voice.

  “I was ... falling,” she murmured.

  Then her eyes closed again and she went back to her dreams.

  Chapter Four

  Vesta awoke and saw light percolating through the dirty windows. For a moment she could not remember where she was.

  Then she saw the dying embers of the fire still glowing red, and opposite her, stretched out on the other wooden settle so that she had not noticed him at first, the Count was lying fast asleep.

  Very gently, so as not to awaken him, she stood up.

  Her hip felt numb fr
om the hardness of the wood, but she was no longer tired and the deep sleep she had enjoyed all night had left her refreshed and full of energy.

  She glanced down at the Count and saw once again that he had taken off his cravat and his shirt was open.

  She turned her eyes away, feeling she should not stare at him while he was unconscious. At the same time she could not help noticing that when he was relaxed he looked much younger and less intimidating.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she told herself, ‘it is because his eyes are closed.’

  Carrying her thick cloak over her arm and taking up the parcel which contained her only possessions from the floor where the Count must have put it, she crept towards the stairs.

  They creaked as she climbed them, but when she reached the top and looked back, the Count was still asleep.

  She went into the bed-room which she had been given to sleep in.

  It smelt worse, she thought, even than it had the night before, and crossing the dark room she pulled away the rubbish which had been stuffed into the window and let in the first gleams of sunlight.

  She was determined to tidy herself up before they set out once again on their journey. Perhaps today, she thought, they would reach Djilas and she had no wish to arrive looking like a gypsy.

  Standing on the table was the basin of water in which she had washed the night before. The bucket was still half full.

  She went to the window, saw that there was nothing below but bushes, and flung the dirty water out.

  Then she undressed, but was careful to put her clothes not on the floor which could not have been scrubbed for years, but onto her cloak.

  She washed in the cold water and felt it fresh and invigorating and dried herself on her nightgown.

  ‘When I get to Djilas someone will lend me a nightgown until my luggage arrives,’ she thought confidently.

  Then she dressed again, brushed her hair and tried to arrange it as best she could with the aid of a small piece of cracked mirror she found fixed to the wall.

  Then having put a little powder on her small nose she went downstairs.

  This had all taken some time and she was not surprised to find the front room was empty. She went towards the kitchen and met the Count coming out from it. He had shaved and his cravat was round his neck once again.

  “You got up early,” he said.

  “I wanted to tidy myself,” she answered.

  “You look very elegant,” he replied, and she was not certain whether it was a compliment or a criticism.

  The Inn-Keeper’s wife was boiling them eggs for breakfast. Vesta was too late to prevent them being hard boiled, but she felt it would be churlish to complain.

  The old hen which she had shown the woman how to cook the night before appeared to be tender and not unappetising. The onions and milk which Vesta had added to the pot had given it a flavour.

  Vesta carved it from the bone and finding nothing clean to pack it in, used the paper which had covered her nightgown.

  There was no other food to supplement the chicken, but she hoped that perhaps they would come across orange trees such as they had seen on their way up the mountain or some other fruit which grew in such profusion near the valley.

  The Count ate his breakfast of eggs and butterless black bread quickly and, although he did not say so, Vesta had the impression that he was anxious to be off. “Have we far to go today?” she asked.

  “It depends,” he replied. “I have not been on this track for some time and naturally the snows and the torrents change it year by year until it becomes almost unrecognisable. We may have to make a detour.”

  She thought he was deliberately attempting to discourage her, and she was sure of it when he fetched the horses round to the front of the Inn and said:

  “Are you quite certain you would not rather turn back, Ma’am?”

  She had the feeling that he was teasing rather than taunting her, but she replied in all seriousness:

  “As I have told you before I have every intention of reaching Djilas.”

  Even if she had wished to return, she knew she could not have faced again the terror of that ride across the barren rock.

  The Count paid the Inn-Keeper’s wife who was all smiles as she bade them goodbye.

  Vesta held out her hand.

  “Thank you very much,” she said in her halting Katonian.

  The woman asked a question and Vesta looked at the Count, wishing him to translate it for her.

  “Our hostess asks if you were comfortable last night,” he said.

  “Will you tell her that I was very comfortable,” Vesta replied.

  He raised his eyebrows and said in English:

  “I thought you were truthful.”

  “It is the truth,” Vesta replied. “I slept exceedingly well, as you know.”

  He conveyed literally what she had said and the woman clasped her hands together in pleasure, curtseying and obviously wishing them “God speed” on their journey.

  She stood waving to them and Vesta waved back until they were out of sight.

  “She did her best,” she said almost as if she spoke to herself.

  “You are very charitable,” the Count remarked.

  “It is what people try to do which matters,” Vesta replied, “and it is a mistake to expect too much.”

  She remembered as she spoke what her father and mother had said about her and added almost to herself:

  “We must never expect too much.”

  “As a safeguard against being disappointed,” the Count said and there was a touch of irony in his voice.

  Vesta did not answer. She was telling herself that when she arrived at Djilas she must not expect too much of the Prince.

  Perhaps he would not like her very much at first, but if they could only be friendly with each other, then one day love might come. It would be hard to be married without love.

  The path under the trees was much the same as it had been the day before. The sun was rising and there was every likelihood of it becoming very hot.

  Vesta untied the ribbons from under her chin and balanced her hat in front of her.

  Then she found this was uncomfortable and finally she tied the two ribbons together at their extreme ends and let her hat hang down her back. She also took off her gloves and put them into her jacket pocket.

  She knew her mother would not have approved of her appearing so unconventionally garbed. But here among the trees there was no-one to see her, and she decided later on she might even take off her jacket.

  She began to understand why the Count found it more comfortable to ride without a cravat round his neck.

  The horses plodded on neither hastening or slowing their pace, keeping up an even gait in a manner which showed they were used to long journeys and had no intention of over-exerting themselves.

  Vesta was soon lost in her day-dreams, finding the golden sunshine seeping through the leaves so lovely that it made her think of the stories from mythology that she had read about Greece. She felt they must also apply to Katona.

  She was beginning to feel hungry when at last the Count drew the horses to a halt.

  “I have the feeling,” he said, “that we should eat that so-called chicken you cooked last night before it grows even older in the saddle-bag.”

  “I admit to being quite hungry,” Vesta said.

  She slipped down from her horse, knowing there was no need to do anything but let the animal roam loose, and then she gave a little cry of delight.

  The trees here were thinner than in other parts of the forest, and where the sunshine pierced through there was everywhere grass and a few flowers.

  Amongst them she saw some small red strawberries, the fraises de bois of the Mediterranean. She ran towards them excited as a child.

  “Strawberries!” she exclaimed. “I felt certain we should find them here.”

  She tasted one. It was sweet and warm from the sunshine. Then she picked a handful and carried them to where the Count had
sat down with his back to the trunk of a tree, the sliced chicken at his side.

  Vesta put the strawberries down on the paper in which it had been wrapped and said:

  “I will find some more later. Let us eat the chicken first.”

  “If I were a better naturalist,” the Count said, “I would doubtless be able to find you some wild lettuce. I see that my education has been sadly neglected when it comes to the flora of my own country.”

  “I was thinking when I first arrived,” Vesta said, “that I must learn more about herbs that grow in Katona.”

  “Why?” he enquired.

  “Mama is very knowledgeable on such subjects as herbal medicines, salves and lotions,” Vesta replied. “We have a herb garden at home. It was laid out in the reign of Henry VIII.”

  She took a bite of the chicken and went on:

  “Now this would have been much improved if I could have found some Basil. I wonder what the right word for it is in Katonian.”

  “You will have to find a book on cookery,” the Count said.

  “Is there a large library at the Palace?” Vesta asked.

  “Quite a comprehensive one,” the Count replied. “The late Prince Andreas, His Royal Highness’s father, was a great reader.”

  “That will be wonderful for me,” Vesta said, “but first I must improve my knowledge of your language.”

  “You obviously intend to settle in and stay here,” the Count remarked.

  A flush rose to her cheeks as she said angrily:

  “Are you still intent on sending me home? You are very persistent, but I am as determined as you are that nothing will induce me to leave.”

  “Nothing?” he enquired.

  “Only if the Prince was dead,” she answered. “Do you imagine the Revolutionaries might kill him?”

  The Count shrugged his shoulders. Then he asked: “Would it sadden you very much?”

  The question was a surprise and Vesta replied: “Naturally ... I should be ... upset.”

  “Because you had lost a husband you had never seen?”

  She would have answered him, but she had the feeling that he was deliberately trying to make her feel uncomfortable.

  “I think, Count,” she said, “that once again you are encroaching on matters which do not concern you.”