Stars in the Sky

by Barbara Cartland

  "Yes, it is," nodded Sylvia. "I used to dream of finding the treasure when I was little, but I don't think I ever could have done as I don't really believe it exists. I think it was just a story circulated by the nephew to explain why so much of the property disappeared while the Duke was still alive, living in France. I think the nephew was a bad lot and he took the opportunity of the Duke's exile to sell things off."

  Her companion was about to comment when a figure came out onto the terrace of the house and started to call. "Sylvia? Are you out there? If you are, you must come in at once. We are preparing to leave."

  Sylvia leapt to her feet. "That's my step-mother. I must go. I must go." She ran forward a few steps and then stopped in her tracks and whirled round. "Oh, your cape, I forgot." She hurried back and handed the cape to the tall, dark haired figure. "I really enjoyed talking to you…it was so much better than dancing with all those tedious society gentlemen! Good-bye, good-bye."

  With a wave of her pretty, white hand she turned and raced away over the lawn.

  The dark, masked gentleman watched her slender, retreating figure for a moment. Then, noticing something in the grass at his feet, he stooped to pick it up.

  It was a delicate, gold trimmed white mask.

  *

  When Sylvia reached the terrace the Duchess greeted her crossly.

  "Look at your dress! The hem is wet and covered in grass stains. Oh, you are hopeless! And who was that you were talking to out there?"

  Sylvia glanced helplessly back at the fountain. The mysterious gentleman had gone but obviously the Duchess had seen him sitting there with her.

  "I don't know," she admitted.

  "You were out there on your own with a total stranger? Do you have no sense of propriety at all? What are we going to do with you?"

  "I don't know," said Sylvia again, gazing down at the tips of her satin shoes. A sudden flush rose to her cheeks as she remembered the gentleman slipping them gently on to her feet.

  "We shall have to send you away to finishing school," muttered the Duchess darkly. "Now your sisters and I are ready to leave, but we cannot find your father. Have you any idea where he is?"

  "I could go and look," suggested Sylvia, anxious to get away from the Duchess in her scolding mood.

  "Yes, you do that, and tell him to hurry."

  Sylvia slipped back into the ballroom through the French window. Couples were still gliding about the floor to the sound of a waltz, although when Sylvia looked at the musicians, they seemed ready to drop with exhaustion. She hurried out of the ballroom and into a wide corridor. Doors opened on to cosy drawing rooms where ladies sat chatting on vast sofas.

  At the end of the corridor she came across the library. There was a great deal of cigar smoke in the air, firelight glinted on half empty bottles of port, and gentlemen sat hunched in expectation at a series of card tables.

  Sylvia's heart sank as she recognised one of the hunched figures.

  "Papa!" she murmured to herself sadly.

  He had promised them all that he would gamble no more. He had lost so much money on their last visit to the Riviera. Sylvia moved swiftly forward and put a hand on her father's shoulder. He gave a guilty start.

  "Why, Sylvia, I – I came in here to smoke a cigar, don't you know, and I was inveigled into making up a set."

  "Yes, Papa," said Sylvia gently. She knew how hard he found it to resist the lure of a game. He was convinced he could win back all he had lost, if only his family would let him.

  "Doing rather well, m'dear. If you could let me alone for another half hour or so."

  "But Mama is ready to go," said Sylvia. "We are all ready."

  "Perhaps," suggested the Duke weakly, "I could come on – later."

  "No Papa, that's not a good idea. If you don't come with me, Mama will surely come to get you."

  At the thought of the Duchess catching him at cards, the Duke rose hastily to his feet. He made his excuses to his partners in the game and followed Sylvia morosely to the carriage that awaited them.

  *

  The Duchess sliced off the top of her egg with a silver knife. "It's so hard to get a good duck egg, you know," she commented. "I'm very satisfied with these. I always send cook to Fortnum's to get them. Sylvia, won't you eat one?"

  "Thank you, but I'm not really hungry."

  The Duchess looked at her sharply. "You're spoiling for a cold, I'm sure. Sitting out in the garden last night without a shawl."

  Sylvia hoped her step-mother was not right, but her throat did indeed feel rather raw this morning and she could not bear the idea of food.

  "I don't know what I'm going to do with her, Charles," sighed the Duchess to her husband. "She danced only once with each of her partners last night. That is hardly giving them a fighting chance, is it?"

  "Perhaps not, m'dear." The Duke pushed back his chair and rose from the table. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I must go and attend to my post."

  The Duchess waved a hand. "Oh, I've told Carlton to bring the post in here to the breakfast room."

  The Duke, who had been very quiet all through breakfast, sank back into his seat with a defeated air. As if on cue the door opened and Carlton came in with the morning's post and a letter opener on a tray.

  "Your Grace," he said, depositing the bulk of the letters in front of the Duke before moving round the table to the Duchess.

  The Duke regarded the pile in front of him gloomily. He picked up one letter, glanced at it, threw it down, and chose another. He slit the second envelope open and stared into it without removing the enclosed correspondence.

  Sylvia watched him with concern.

  The Duchess was examining a postcard that had arrived for her. "From Lady Frambury," she exclaimed. "She has gone to the Riviera already and says it's terribly pleasant. Perhaps we should consider travelling out at Easter."

  The Duke did not seem to be listening. He put the second envelope down beside his plate and gazed into space.

  "Did you hear me, dear?" said the Duchess.

  The Duke looked absently at his wife. "What did you say, my darling?"

  "I said, perhaps we should consider going to the Riviera earlier this year."

  "I think – " said the Duke slowly, "that perhaps we should not. Fact is, m'dear we're – we're going to have to give up the house there."

  "Give it up?" echoed the Duchess in astonishment. "But why?"

  The Duke picked up the pile of letters before him and let them slide through his hands. "Here's why. Bills. Bills. And more bills. And I simply haven't the money to pay them. You may as well hear it before the bailiffs arrive."

  The Duchess looked faint. "B…bailiffs?"

  "Papa, you don't mean it, do you?" asked Sylvia in a low voice.

  "I nearly do, m'dear. We've spent a great deal of money on our – London life, while the land at Castle Belham – has been neglected. The fields that used to be put to the plough and the cattle that used to graze there are all neglected. I never replaced the manager who used to collect the rents from the farms. We've been living beyond our means and if we don't tighten our belts – I'll be declared a bankrupt."

  "And whose fault is that?" cried the Duchess. "Who lost thousands…yes, thousands…at the card tables in Monte Carlo?"

  "I am at fault," agreed the Duke sadly. "But – just think of what all those parties and balls – all that gallivanting through the fashionable resorts on the Continent – have cost us in dresses alone."

  The Duchess burst into tears. "Am I now to be blamed for trying to find husbands for your own daughters?"

  "Hush, m'dear, hush. You have been a most admirable mother to my girls."

  "And what about your favourite, Sylvia?" sobbed the Duchess. "How am I to find her a husband, if I can't spend tuppence ha'penny?"

  Such a look of strain passed across the Duke's face that Sylvia was alarmed.

  She rose swiftly from her chair and went to her father's side. "It's all right, Papa. I don't care much for shoes and
hats and things. I don't mind wearing this season's dresses next year. And I really don't mind if I don't go to so many balls."

  Her father took her hand and clasped it to his bosom. "Bless you, m'dear."

  "She is impossible!" wailed the Duchess. "She'll die an old maid and it won't be for want of trying. I suppose she won't want a coming-out party next."

  "I don't." said Sylvia stoutly.

  Even the Duke shook his head at this. "Oh, now that's a thing – you must have one, no question. Every girl must have – a coming-out party. But it can't be held here, that is all."

  "Where on earth can it be held, then?" demanded the Duchess.

  "Why, at – Castle Belham," said the Duke.

  Sylvia drew in her breath. There was nothing she would like more than to return to her childhood home.

  The Duchess, however, was horrified. "Castle Belham? We might as well throw a party on the moon. Who would come? Red faced Squires and…and…ploughmen! No, no, I can't countenance it."

  The Duke spoke wearily. "My dear wife, I am not as you know a firm man. I rarely ask you to do as I suggest. But I have to tell you, I sold my stocks and shares to finance Edith and Charlotte's weddings. I know I've been most improvident – I know it is my fault, but the fact of the matter is, the coffers are empty. We're going to have to shut up this house, until the situation improves. We're going to have to go and live at Castle Belham. It will be much cheaper to live in the country."

  "I shall never be able to bear it!" shrieked the Duchess. She rose and with her handkerchief pressed to her lips, hurried weeping from the room.

  The Duke slumped miserably in his chair. "My dear Sylvia – what have I brought upon us all?"

  Sylvia barely heard. Her heart was pounding in her breast and a voice seemed to be singing in her head.

  I'm going home, it sang. I'm finally going home.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Two weeks later, their London house shut up and most of the servants dismissed, the Duke and Duchess and Sylvia left for the country.

  When their train pulled into the town of Norwich, the Belham family coach was waiting at the station.

  The coach was something of a shock. The axles were rusty and the carriage caked with mud. The crest on the side of the coach had so weathered, it was barely visible. The driver wore no livery and there was no footman beside him on the box.

  The Duchess pursed her lips but managed to hold her tongue.

  The Duke put up a brave front as he gazed at the Belham coach.

  "A lick of paint is all it needs," he said.

  Sylvia felt sorry for her father, but she could barely repress her happiness at being on her way to Castle Belham.

  She had not been sorry to leave the tall house in Mayfair where she had lived for the past eight years. She had never felt at home in its over-furnished rooms. Her father was too fond of the Duchess to question her taste in décor, which ran to such horrors as olive wallpaper and tartan sofas.

  Sylvia had of course been sorry to say good-bye to some of the servants and to Tilly, the kitchen cat, who was a superb mouser. She had even been sorry to say good-bye to her elder sisters. They had sobbed bitterly when the Duchess told them of the unfortunate downturn in the family's fortunes. They had begged the Duke not to exile himself at Castle Belham. Their husbands, however – Lord Rossington and the Duke of Cranley, both sober and far-sighted gentleman – were secretly relieved. They had no wish to start digging into their own pockets to keep the Belham household afloat in London. No, they argued, the Duke's decision to retreat to Belham was a sound one.

  Sylvia had only one real regret at leaving London.

  The night before her departure, she had knelt at her window gazing out at the quiet gardens and the night sky.

  Arcturus, the Pathfinder, glittered brightly above the trees.

  Looking at it, Sylvia had sighed.

  Once secreted deep in the country, far from the round of parties and balls that defined London life, she had little chance of meeting her mysterious star-gazing gentleman again.

  "No, no – put the larger one at the bottom!"

  The Duchess was issuing loud instructions to the porters.

  The driver remained on his box, whistling under his breath as the porters heaved up some of the heavy trunks. The rest of the luggage – including the hatboxes and calf skin suitcases of the Duchess – would be sent on later.

  The Duke handed his wife and his daughter into the carriage. They sank onto the dusty leather seats and the coach set off.

  As the coach rolled out of town, Sylvia lowered the window and cried out excitedly at the view. The countryside wore all the gaiety of Spring. Buds were breaking on the trees, lambs were gambolling in the fields. The air was fresh and full of the scent of Spring flowers.

  Castle Belham was a long way from the country town of Norwich and nearly three hours passed before the coach came to a halt before a pair of ornate gates. The driver whistled and the gate-keeper hurried out of his lodge.

  "Oh, we still have a gatekeeper at least," said the Duchess bitterly.

  The gates groaned on their hinges as the keeper heaved them open. He tipped his hat as the coach trundled through.

  The drive was pitted with holes. A lot of trees on either side were cloaked in moss. The undergrowth was dense.

  The coach had to halt at one point as three sheep ambled across its path.

  "Whose sheep are those?" the Duke called up to the coachman.

  "Them're yours, Your Grace," replied the coachman. "The fences round their field is rotten and broken through. They goes where they pleases."

  "Hmmn," muttered the Duke to himself as he settled back in his seat.

  At last the coach broke from the trees and drew up outside the castle. The Duke stepped out and then extended a hand to his wife and daughter.

  "Oh my goodness!" exclaimed the Duchess.

  The square stone castle looked horribly neglected. Ivy ran wild over the stone walls, covering some of the windows completely. Parapets had crumbled and the steps leading up to the front entrance were cracked. One of the ornamental lions that flanked the steps had lost its head.

  "Tut tut," muttered the Duke. "It's rather more dilapidated than I had expected."

  Sylvia blinked and said nothing. Despite its abandoned air, the castle still seemed to her the most romantic place in the world.

  The front door creaked open and out came a figure as cracked and neglected looking as the castle itself.

  "Why, it's old Tompkins!" exclaimed the Duke.

  Tompkins gave a toothless grin.

  "It's myself, indeed, Your Grace. Welcome home. And is that the young mistress, Lady Sylvia? I'd recognise that golden hair anywhere."

  The Duke seemed much cheered to re-encounter his old retainer. Sylvia was pleased too. She remembered Tompkins. He used to give her piggy-backs through the long corridors.

  "You'll be pleased to learn cook's still here, Your Grace," went on Tompkins. "She's baked as many pies and glazed as many hams since she heard you was coming, as would feed an army."

  The Duke rubbed his hands. "Well, well. I'm certainly looking forward to my supper now!"

  "How many staff are there?" the Duchess asked Tompkins imperiously.

  Tompkins glanced at the Duke before replying. "Not too many, Your Grace. Just myself, cook, a groom, a stable boy, a scullery maid and three housemaids."

  Castle Belham had once boasted a household staff of fifty.

  "But I shall need a lady's maid!" cried the Duchess.

  "Plenty of time to see to that!" said the Duke quickly. "One of the housemaids can help you for now. Come along now, let's see how the old castle is keeping inside."

  With a grim face, the Duchess followed her husband up the steps.

  *

  Sylvia threw open her window. The smell of a garden at dusk rose into the air. She turned and surveyed her room with satisfaction. The carpet was threadbare but she did not care. The canopies around the bed were moth-
eaten but she did not care. There was a crack in the pier glass but she did not care. This was the room she had slept in as a child and it was full of memories. Why, there was the chair in which her mother used to sit when she came at bed-time to read to her daughter. There, above the fireplace, was the familiar portrait of her beloved mother dressed in blue satin.

  A gong sounded from the entrance hall below. Throwing an embroidered Chinese shawl around her shoulders, Sylvia hurried down to supper. On the stairway she passed the painting of the Royalist, James, Duke of Belham. He looked very handsome in his plumed hat.

  The Duchess was complaining about the castle as Sylvia entered the dining room.

  "It needs a complete overhaul! Why, there's even mould growing on my dressing room wall."

  The Duke gave a weary smile at Sylvia. He and the Duchess sat at either end of the long oak table.

  Tompkins drew out a seat in the middle for Sylvia.

  "It's all so ghastly!" went on the Duchess. "How am I going to invite the local families to visit? How am I going to throw parties?"

  "Well – part of the plan in coming here was to get away from that sort of expense," said the Duke gently, watching as Tompkins served slices of glistening pink ham onto his plate.

  "You are mad!" declared the Duchess. "How are we to find a husband for Sylvia if we cannot throw parties? Even a country Squire as husband is better than nothing. No, we must set about repairs immediately. I shall order new curtains from London tomorrow."

  "But my dearest, there is no money," the Duke reminded her in a low voice, rather wishing for the moment when Tompkins were not present. The Duchess frowned at him from the other end of the table. "What, my dear?"

  The Duke gave up. "I said – there's no money."

  "No money to at least have new curtains? No money to redecorate the rooms? Then I shall simply die!"

  "You won't die when you're eating ham as good as this!" grunted the Duke, taking up his knife and fork.

  "What use is ham when you have an unmarried daughter!" wailed the Duchess.

  Sylvia caught Tompkin's eye. She barely suppressed a giggle while Tompkins had to cough into his white glove.

  "And what about Sylvia's coming-out ball?" went on the Duchess. "When is that supposed to happen?"