Love Is the Reason For Living

by Barbara Cartland

  “My Lady?” said Mrs. Armitage, quite puzzled.

  “She is asking for Papa. Mama, Papa is dead.”

  “Oh! Oh!” cried the Countess.

  “Shall I fetch his Lordship?” asked Mrs. Armitage, quite clearly unsure of what to do next.

  “No, he is busy and will not come. Stay with Mama and I shall go and hurry up that maid.”

  Novella kissed her mother on the cheek and then left. As she descended the stairs, she cast a murderous look in the direction of the library. Reaching the hall, she saw that the maid was scurrying towards her with a jar covered with a cloth.

  “Tell Mrs. Armitage that I am in the drawing room if she needs me when she has finished applying the embrocation.”

  “Very good, my Lady,”

  The maid bobbed a quick curtsy and then ran up the stairs as fast as she could manage.

  Inside the drawing room it was so cold that Novella shivered. The moon hung high and bright in the big picture window and illuminated the drive.

  Novella sat down on a chair in the window, her thoughts whirling.

  ‘What kind of man is this Lord Buckton?’ she reflected, becoming angrier by the second. ‘He shows no interest in Mama’s health and talks endlessly about money. I do not like the fact that he has already frittered away all of his own money and, it would seem, he has also managed to plough through most of Mama’s. What would Papa say? This is not what he would have wanted for her – no matter how lonely she was. Oh, Papa! Help us if you can! I fear for the very future of us all and that of Crownley Hall.’

  She began to cry softly. It was not long before the moon became a blur and, in spite of herself, her eyes began to close, utterly exhausted by the evening’s events.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next day dawned and still Novella was most concerned about her mother’s condition. Creeping into her bedroom as soon as she awoke, Novella found her coughing a great deal.

  Mrs. Armitage was already by the Countess’s side, with a cup of tea for her.

  “She is no better, my Lady,” she whispered, as Novella’s mother struggled to sit up and take a sip of her tea.

  “We should send for the doctor at once,” replied Novella, wringing her hands.

  “But his Lordship – he has said not to unless – ”

  “I do not care what his Lordship says, send the stable lad to fetch the doctor at once. He can take Folly – she is the swiftest horse we have.”

  “Very good, my Lady.”

  “And Mrs. Armitage – if his Lordship queries it, tell him that I will settle Doctor Jones’s account myself.”

  “Yes, my Lady.”

  Novella picked up the cup and held it to her mother’s lips.

  “Come, Mama, try and drink this, it will soothe your chest.”

  “Thank you, darling, I confess I feel somewhat weak this morning.”

  “Do not fret, Mama – Mrs. Armitage is sending for Doctor Jones.”

  “Oh, I do not wish to bother him – ”

  “I insist, Mama. We must find out what is causing this cough.”

  Just then, Mrs. Armitage returned to the bedroom.

  “Has the boy been sent?”

  “Yes, my Lady. Shall I take over?”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Armitage. Mama, I will return when the doctor has arrived. Please try and rest until then.”

  But the Countess was already asleep on the pillow, her mouth open, straining for breath.

  ‘This is not right,’ thought Novella, as she descended the stairs. She briefly visited the dining room to take some cold toast and then decided to proceed to her father’s old study.

  It was with bated breath that she opened the door – but sure enough, it was still as it had been on the day he died – with one exception.

  ‘Where is the painting of the hunt at Thaxby?’ questioned Novella for a second, before coming to the conclusion that it too had been a casualty of her stepfather’s greed.

  He had however shown a rare sensitivity in choosing not to occupy the study for his own. It was one of the smallest rooms in the house and did not afford a pleasant view out of the only window. Novella supposed that would have had something to do with it.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried, tears springing unbidden into her eyes, ‘apart from the absence of the painting, it is as if he had just stepped away from his chair.’

  Novella stroked the polished wood of his Moroccan leather-topped desk. The maid still came in here to clean so there was barely a speck of dust to be found.

  ‘I remember Papa sitting at this desk, working away until Mama begged him to put down his pen.’

  Her father had been a keen writer as well as managing the estates. A slim volume of his poetry had been published and he had written a few songs.

  ‘I shall never meet a more talented man,’ thought Novella. She also privately felt she would never love another as much as she had her father.

  ‘I wonder what else my stepfather has seen fit to sell?’ thought Novella, as she looked around the room. Then, it occurred to her that she should look in the drawers of the desk.

  ‘I seem to recall that Papa kept some of his valuables here.’

  She felt quite uncomfortable searching the drawers – it still felt like an intrusion of privacy. Novella found a gold pocket watch stuffed right at the back of the first drawer she opened, so she tucked it into the waistband of her skirt.

  ‘I will keep this safe for Mama when she is well again,’ she mused.

  The next drawer was full of papers and little more of interest, but when she pulled open the bottom drawer, she was stunned to find, right on the very top of yet more papers, an envelope addressed to her.

  ‘It is in Papa’s hand!’ she cried, her hands shaking.

  For long moments, she simply sat and stared at it.

  With a beating heart, she picked up her father’s brass letter opener – the one with the owl on the top of it – and slid the blade underneath the seal.

  Spreading out the sheet of paper flat so that she could read it, she found herself overcome with emotion at seeing that familiar hand once more.

  The letter read,

  “My dearest daughter,

  I am no longer a young man, and even though I have not reached my three-score years and ten by a good mark, it is right that I make some provision for you should I die suddenly. My thoughts have been turning to my demise more frequently as I approach the age that my own dear father was taken from us.”

  ‘Goodness!’ gasped Novella, ‘I had quite forgotten that both Papa and Grandpapa died at the same age.’

  She continued to read,

  “As I love you and your Mama more than you can ever know, and I love Crownley Hall almost as much, I have made sure that your futures will be secure. As you will both be ladies of considerable financial means upon my death, you will naturally become attractive to certain unsavoury elements – men who would court you only for your wealth.

  Much as I would hope that neither of you will fall prey to those with unscrupulous intent, I have decided to put aside a large portion of money that is held in trust by my dear friend and banker of many years – Mr. Hubert Longridge of the National Bank in Stockington.

  If you are reading this, then I am gone and you must, in all haste, go to see him to stake your claim.

  Only you or your mother can access these funds and Mr. Longridge has, in his possession, a legal document that states quite clearly that this account is free of the usual marital claim by a husband when a woman weds.

  My darling, even if you have now spent all the money that was left to you in my original will, there is more where that came from.

  The money will be made available to you on two conditions – that you will continue the upkeep of Crownley Hall and that you will NEVER sell it. It is for your children and in turn, theirs.

  Darling, I kiss you fervently from beyond the grave – I will always watch over you, no matter what.

  Your affectionate father


  George Crownley, Fifth Earl.”

  ‘Oh, Papa!’ cried Novella, wiping away the tears and kissing the signature repeatedly, ‘I miss you so much and we need your strength now more than ever.’

  But tears soon gave way to elation as Novella realised that at last she possessed a way of safeguarding herself, her mother and the Hall from the excesses of Lord Buckton.

  ‘I shall return the Hall to its former glory,’ she said to herself, ‘no matter what the expense. And now, I shall write to Mr. Longridge and request an appointment with him at his earliest convenience.’

  Novella was just about to pull out a clean sheet of paper and begin to write when there came a soft knock at the door. Hastily, she hid her father’s letter up her sleeve and bid whomever stood there to enter.

  It was Mrs. Armitage – even so, she did not trust her not to go telling tales to Lord Buckton. Novella felt sure that the fact that she was found in her father’s old study would go flying back to him.

  “My Lady, Doctor Jones has just arrived.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Armitage, I will come at once.”

  Novella shut the drawers of the desk and rose as calmly as she could.

  “Ah, Lady Novella!” said Doctor Jones, as she entered her mother’s room, “how lovely to see you again. It is a shame it is not in happier circumstances.”

  “How is Mama?”

  “I feel we should go outside for a discussion,” replied the doctor in an undertone.

  He took Novella by the arm and led her outside.

  “It is not good news?”

  “I shall not lie to you, Lady Novella, for your mother is a very sick woman. I am afraid I cannot tell you what ails her exactly, for it is beyond my scope, but I would urge you to engage a specialist in these matters.”

  “But, surely you must have some notion of what her sickness can be?”

  “I cannot be certain – it appears to be some kind of weakness in the chest. But Doctor von Haydn will be able to diagnose it more accurately. Here is his address. I fear he is not cheap, however, but I am sure that Lord Buckton will not shrink from the cost.”

  Novella paused for a second – she did not feel it was right to air her true feelings about her new stepfather with the doctor, even though he was an old family friend. It would not do for gossip about the state of their finances to reach the village.

  “The cost will not be an issue, I can assure you,” she replied, “now, will you take refreshment before you leave?”

  The doctor put his hat on with a flourish and picked up his bag.

  “I am afraid I do not have time – I have to visit Farmer Compton now, as his wife is also sick.”

  “Perhaps Mama has caught some kind of fever?” asked Novella, probing for a reason for her mother’s sudden decline.

  “I could not say, Lady Novella, now, if you will excuse me, I must be on my way. Is my carriage ready?”

  “It is, doctor,” replied Mrs. Armitage. “Ned is standing with your horse as you left him.”

  Novella and the doctor walked downstairs in silence.

  She could tell that he was highly concerned about her mother, but she did not want to press him further.

  She felt an awful presentiment of doom that she was trying hard to ignore.

  As she watched the doctor drive off, Novella returned to her father’s study.

  Pulling out a clean sheet of paper from the pile on the desk, she began to write again to Mr. Hubert Longridge, asking to see him urgently.

  ‘There,’ she sighed, with a satisfied air as she addressed the letter. ‘Now, I shall drive to the Post Office myself – I do not trust Mrs. Armitage or that stupid maid with such a precious missive.’

  Pulling on a light wrap, as the day was warm, Novella ran to the stables and entreated Charles to make her buggy ready.

  “Shall you be taking Folly out again, my Lady?” asked Charles, as Ned dragged the buggy into the yard. “Perhaps Bluebell would like a canter into the village.”

  “Bluebell will suit me very well,” replied Novella, “and you are right, she will have precious little exercise whilst Mama is unwell.”

  “I see the doctor called this mornin’, my Lady.”

  “Yes, Charles, but now we are forced to call in a specialist who studies diseases of the chest.”

  “His Lordship will not like the expense,” warned Charles, a cross look on his face.

  “I shall take care of it, Charles, and any other expense that is necessary.”

  Novella waited patiently whilst Bluebell was led out of her stall and tethered to the buggy. She sighed as she remembered Flash and Jock, the two fine stallions who used to pull the Crownley family carriages.

  ‘I have yet to make my feelings known to Sir Edward,’ she thought, recalling his handsome profile and charming smile. ‘Once I have seen Mr. Longridge, then I shall pay him a visit too.’

  For some inexplicable reason, Novella found herself rather looking forward to that day.

  She was soon on her way up the drive. It had been some time since the buggy had been used and it was dusty and in need of repair. Novella thought that it would not look too good to be seen in the village in such a poor contraption, but she had no choice.

  Her stepfather, as usual, had taken the only decent carriage to London and she would have to put up with the buggy.

  Even so, as she drew into the main street, she could feel the eyes of the villagers upon her. A few waved in recognition, but there were also some who avoided her gaze.

  ‘No matter,’ she thought, as she pulled Bluebell up outside the Post Office. ‘I shall be glad of some friendly discourse with Mrs. Cruickshank – she is always so full of news.’

  The Post Office was also the general store and sold all manner of tinned and dried goods. It smelled of tea and brown paper – Novella had often visited it when she was a child and had not been inside for some two and a half years.

  “My Lady! What brings you to the village. I did not realise that you were back at the Hall.”

  Mrs. Cruickshank was tall and thin but with a friendly face. Her steel-grey hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she wore a blue shawl over her navy cotton dress. For an elderly lady of sixty years, she was very sprightly.

  “It is good to see you again.”

  “And how is your dear Mama? We do not hear much of the Countess since she married – him.”

  Novella ignored the barely concealed distaste that the old Postmistress displayed, but it gave her some satisfaction even so, knowing that she was not alone in her dislike of Lord Buckton.

  “She is a little unwell, I am sorry to say. We were forced to send for Doctor Jones only this morning.”

  “It will be the damp. Your Mama is too much of a lady to withstand this wet weather we’ve been having lately. But today is lovely, I am glad to say. Now, what can I do for you?”

  “I wish this letter to be sent to Stockington immediately.”

  Novella handed her the letter destined for Mr. Longridge.

  “Ah, I have a parcel to be delivered to that very same gentleman and that too is urgent. It will leave here almost before you have climbed back into your buggy.”

  “Mrs. Cruickshank, tell me some news. I have been starved of it whilst I was cloistered away at the girls’ school.”

  Mrs. Cruickshank positively beamed – if there was one thing she loved, it was a long chat on who was doing what in the village.

  “Will you take some tea? I can close up for just half an hour?”

  Novella nodded, smiling to herself all the while.

  ‘I do believe I have made Mrs. Cruickshank’s day,’ she thought, as the old lady ushered her to a chair by the counter.

  It was not long before she heard the kettle whistling in the back room. It made Novella feel really comfortable – she missed the fact that she could no longer run down into the kitchen and gossip with cook. She did not in the least like the look of Higgins, the new cook.

  She felt certain that she woul
d be in league with Mrs. Armitage, and she still did not trust her not to report back her every action and utterance to her and then to Lord Buckton.

  With her mother so ill, it made Novella feel so alone and in need of company.

  “Here you are, my Lady.”

  Mrs. Cruickshank bustled through from the back room carrying a tray laden with tea and biscuits.

  “Let me help you,” offered Novella, rising to her feet.

  “No, no, my Lady. There, it is all done.”

  She began to pour the tea and then proffered the cup – Novella noticed that it was barely used bone china – probably Mrs. Cruickshank’s best.

  “Now, where shall I begin?”

  “Tell me everything, Mrs. Cruickshank, I want to hear every last piece of news.”

  “Well, Mrs. Carburton has had twins, a boy and a girl and old Farmer Pete has packed up and left to live by the sea. Can you imagine such a thing? ‘You won’t find many pigs in Brighton,’ I told him.”

  “And what of the servants who used to work at Crownley Hall?”

  Mrs. Cruickshank looked down at her boots and coughed.

  “I am not sure I should say, my Lady. It was a terrible business, what happened when Lord Buckton came to Crownley Hall – ”

  The old lady hesitated and cast a worried glance at Novella.

  “Do go on, Mrs. Cruickshank, I shall not be offended. Please, say what is on your mind.”

  “Well, my Lady, we were all so shocked. Some of the servants had been under his Lordship, the Earl, since they were young ones. And, as for Wargrave, he started out as a footman to your father when he was just a boy.”

  “Tell me what happened, Mrs. Cruickshank.”

  Novella reached forward and squeezed the old lady’s hand.

  “I want to know everything.”

  Mrs. Cruickshank looked once over her shoulder and then leaned forward so that she was nearer to Novella.

  “It all happened one morning, my Lady. Lord Buckton had not been in the house five minutes afore he was throwing his weight around – ordering things to be taken down and sold off. And then there was that dreadful business with the Tower. Lord! What an omen for a marriage.”

  Mrs. Cruickshank crossed herself as if to protect herself from further harm.