Stars in the Sky

by Barbara Cartland

  Sylvia flinched. "You are, sir, a man with neither principles nor courtesy."

  "But you are still going to marry me, yes?" sneered the Count.

  Sylvia bit her lip. "Yes," she said in a small voice.

  She thought that her reply would lessen the Count's agitation but to her surprise it did not. He stood biting the inside of his thumb – another habit, thought Sylvia, that she would have to accustom herself to. He obviously had something else he wished to confront his fiancée with, but before he had made his mind up to speak Sylvia heard the Duchess's voice behind her.

  "Count von Brauer! How delightful to see you."

  Hand extended to greet the Count, the Duchess swooped by Sylvia.

  The Count bent over the Duchess's hand, murmuring pleasantries that Sylvia suspected were mere artifice.

  The Duchess had no such suspicions and seemed positively skittish with the Count. "What a naughty man you are, leaving it till now to come to see us! Why, Sylvia's been home two days! I'm not going to monopolise your attention, never fear. I'm sure you have much to discuss!"

  With this, the Duchess retired to her wing chair where a book lay open on a cushion. Sitting there, she was turned away from the room and was to all intents and purposes unable to see the engaged couple.

  The Count indicated to Sylvia that they should draw to one side. Without a word, she followed him across to the window where they sat together on the window seat. Sylvia endeavoured to move even her skirt away from his person. She wished no part of her body or attire to touch his.

  The Count crossed a leg over his knee and drummed his fingers on his thigh, his eyes fixed on the chair where the Duchess sat.

  "I regret you did not appreciate my attempt to add spice to your dreary existence," he muttered at last.

  "I should never appreciate such…spice, as you call it. Neither now nor when we are…married."

  "When we are married – " repeated the Count, with a strange growl.

  Sylvia closed her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of his thin, leering lips and vicious gaze. She opened them again quickly, as she felt the Count lift her chin and turn her face toward him.

  "You were not alone with me in my lodgings," he hissed.

  "N..no," she admitted.

  "It will be the worse for Lord Farron if I catch him in your company again."

  "That is unlikely," said Sylvia bitterly.

  "What did you see there?"

  "W..where?"

  "In Cutler Street."

  "C..Cutler Street?"

  "Damn you!" The Count pinched Sylvia's flesh tight. "My lodgings. Something is missing. What did you – or he – find there?"

  "NOTHING!" shouted Sylvia, so loudly that the Duchess shifted in her chair and looked round. The Count immediately released Sylvia from his grip.

  "Did you call me, dear?" the Duchess asked Sylvia.

  "No, Mama," said Sylvia as calmly as she could.

  "Oh," said the Duchess. "Well, I will order tea in a moment. As soon as I've finished this chapter." She took up her book again and turned away from the window.

  Sylvia blinked away tears. The Count had hurt her. The lower part of her face actually felt bruised. She did not know the significance of the astronomy book nor the riddle written on the piece of cloth that had so interested Lord Farron, but of one thing she was sure. She would not reveal anything to the Count of what Lord Farron had said or done or found, beyond the obvious.

  "Lord Farron carried you to your room after you had…attacked him. I bathed your injuries. That is all there is to tell," said Sylvia stoutly.

  The Count sprung to his feet and looked down at his fiancée, biting his thumb again.

  "Even if he has it," he muttered, almost to himself, "what good will it do him, eh? It will do him no good at all. Why? Because he lacks the final key. He lacks – ha ha ha – he lacks Lady Sylvia. Yes. You're the prize, my dear."

  "Prize?" repeated Sylvia. "I…the prize?"

  "Oh, you are, my beauty, you are. But let all this deuced waiting be over. Let me have you – ha ha – in my bed, in my possession – no more of these tedious conventions."

  Sylvia felt chilled.

  Why was the Count so eager to marry her when he was patently less than enchanted by her, and she by him? Or was it perhaps that last fact that lured him on – the challenge of breaking her will, her heart?

  The Count spun round as the Duchess said something from her seat by the fire.

  "What?" he growled.

  The Duchess's head appeared around the side of the wing chair. "I said, what a satisfying conclusion?"

  "To what, madam?"

  "Why, to this." The Duchess held up the book. "After many vicissitudes – mistaken identity – kidnap – murder – earthquakes – after many delays, the young lovers are finally united!"

  She rose magisterially and beamed at the Count and Sylvia.

  "Don't give me vicissitudes!" cried the Count. "Don't give me delays. I've had enough! Let's get this wedding over and done with."

  The Duchess was taken aback. "Well of course, we are all anxious to – "

  "Not anxious enough," snarled the Count. He took up his whip from where he had left it on a side table. "Let's set it for the end of this week."

  The Duchess cast a frantic eye at Sylvia. "The end of – but that's two weeks earlier than planned,"

  "The end of this week or forget it," snapped the Count.

  Sylvia clasped her hands before her, taking an almost grim satisfaction at the sight of the Duchess almost lost for words.

  Her step-mother was at last catching a glimpse of Count Von Brauer's other face!

  "Which day do you mean exactly?" spluttered the Duchess, coming closer.

  The Count raised his whip and appeared to trace extravagant letters in the air.

  "Do you read that?" he asked.

  The Duchess stared into the air. "I'm not sure I – followed."

  "I'LL DO IT AGAIN," scowled the Count.

  This time the Duchess diligently followed each flourish of the whip with her eye.

  "F – R – I – D – A – Y?" she ventured.

  "Bravo!" The Count bowed, first to Sylvia, then to the Duchess. "How simple it all is when you decide. Friday, then. I leave the rest of the details to you."

  With that, thrusting his whip under his arm, the Count strode from the room.

  "Well I never," murmured the Duchess. "He must be head over heels in love, my dear."

  Sylvia did not reply. Her gaze was fixed at the point in the air where the Count had spelled out that suddenly ominous word. She could almost see the letters hovering there, dark and threatening silhouettes.

  Friday. The day when her fate would be sealed forever.

  *

  Sylvia stood patiently in her wedding dress while the dress-maker teased out the folds of white satin that made up the train.

  "Beautiful," breathed the Duchess,

  "If I say so myself, Your Grace," simpered the dressmaker, "it's a gorgeous dress and it was no trouble at all to take it in."

  "Well, you didn't have to take it in by much!" said the Duchess with a toss of her head.

  "Oh, not by the width of a mouse-tail," said the dressmaker quickly.

  The Duchess, not sure if she was being made fun of, stared hard at the dress-maker, who bent to her task with redoubled interest. She was shortening the train as the Duchess thought it would look too long in the small chapel where the marriage would take place. It had been appropriate for her when she married the Duke because their wedding had taken place in a cathedral.

  "Do you wish the train to be shortened by three feet or four?" the Duchess asked Sylvia.

  "I leave the decision to you, mama," said Sylvia wearily. She had not even looked at her reflection in the pier glass.

  "Four!" the Duchess commanded the dress-maker.

  A few more pins were put in place and then Sylvia was allowed to slip out of the dress.

  It was indeed a beautiful dr
ess, thought Sylvia, but to her it might as well have been a shroud.

  She excused herself and said she wanted some fresh air.

  As she stepped out of the castle she saw a figure with a parasol approach through the trees.

  Her heart began to pound as she recognised the figure to be that of Charity Farron!

  Charity stopped a foot or so away. The two women stood facing each other in silence for a few moments. Then Charity smiled and held out a hand.

  "Oh, it is so good to see you!" exclaimed Sylvia, rushing to clasp her friend's hand. "But where is your carriage?"

  "I left it at the gates and walked. The air is so fresh and fragrant. Besides, I was not sure of a general welcome, so I did not wish to advertise my arrival. I was hoping I would be able to get a message to you."

  Sylvia looked bewildered. "Not sure of a welcome?"

  "Your step-mother would associate me with my brother, and she turned him away from your London house. You told me so yourself in your recent letter."

  Sylvia blushed. "Oh, yes, I was so ashamed…of her behaviour…when I found out."

  "Don't be," said Charity. "She meant it for the best. She was – afraid of your friendship with my brother."

  Sylvia was not sure what Charity meant by this, but she was glad that it was Charity and not she who had introduced the topic of Lord Farron.

  "H..how is Lord Farron?" she asked eagerly.

  Charity stood tracing lines in the dust with the tip of her parasol. "He is well. He has gone away."

  Although Sylvia had harboured no hopes of seeing Lord Farron again, this news struck like a fist at her breast. "G..gone away?"

  "Yes. To Paris. On business."

  Sylvia heard the word 'Paris' and frowned. She had heard that city mentioned so recently, but where? Before she could dwell any further on the subject, however, Charity took her arm.

  "Come, you must tell me all your news. You are to be married at the end of June, I believe?"

  "The end of June? Oh, no," said Sylvia, her voice trembling. "It is to be sooner than that. I am to be married the day after tomorrow. Friday."

  Charity stood stock still. "Friday?"

  "Yes."

  "That is – very soon."

  Sylvia nodded slowly. "Yes. It is. But I hope, now that we are so happily re-acquainted, you will come to my wedding. It is to be very modest. It was decided that the castle is in too poor a state for a grand wedding breakfast…and then my…fiancé decided he wished the date to be brought forward, so there was no time to find another venue…it's all been rather rushed. But you will come, won't you? Say yes. I would so like there to be someone there who…understood me a little…please come, Charity."

  Charity raised her head and Sylvia was taken aback when she saw her friend's face.

  Charity's soft, brown eyes were full of tears.

  "Yes, Sylvia," she said quietly. "I will come."

  Even as she said these words, the tears spilled over and ran in two glistening rivulets down her cheeks.

  "It should be me who is weeping," said Sylvia in wonder. "It should be me!"

  CHAPTER TEN

  The wedding was over and the guests had assembled in the drawing room to take champagne.

  It was a small gathering. Apart from the Duke and Duchess, and of course the Count, there was the Count's Best Man, a club acquaintance called Braider, and Charity. Edith and Charlotte were also present, but the sudden change of the wedding date meant their husbands, both away on business, had not returned in time to join them.

  Sylvia, pale and silent, had gone upstairs to change her dress.

  The Count drank five glasses of champagne and then called for more.

  A different servant returned with the tray. When the Duchess saw who it was, her hand flew to her breast. The Count had said he would send someone from his own household to help out at the castle today, but the Duchess had not expected to see Polly.

  "What are you doing here, girl?" she asked bluntly.

  "I work for the Count," said Polly, sticking her chin out.

  "Is there a problem?" asked the Count, turning.

  "I – really would rather not have this girl working here," replied the Duchess.

  The Count narrowed his eyes. "He who pays the piper calls the tune, madam," he said.

  The Duchess was too stunned to reply.

  After the wedding breakfast the guests returned to the drawing room.

  The Count smoked cigars and talked loudly. The Duke dozed in his chair. Sylvia noticed that Charity kept throwing glances at the large grandfather clock that stood in the corner.

  "Surely…you do not wish to leave…so soon?" she asked sadly.

  Charity pressed her hand. "No, of course not."

  Sylvia gave a pale smile and wandered over to the window. Rain teemed down the panes and outside it was dark as a tomb.

  "Madam," said the Count's voice in her ear, "why won't you join the company?"

  "I do not care to," responded Sylvia, without turning.

  The Count leaned in closer. Sylvia could feel his breath stir the curls on her neck.

  "The hour is near when I will teach you what it is to be a wife," he hissed.

  "But until that hour, please leave me be!" Sylvia replied in a low voice.

  She was distracted by the reflection in the mirror of someone entering the room with a tray of coffee. The figure seemed familiar to Sylvia but for a moment she could not place her. She turned to look.

  It was Polly.

  Sylvia remembered that Polly had run away from Castle Belham, but she did not remember at that moment anything else about her.

  Polly advanced toward Sylvia and the Count.

  "Coffee, sir?" she asked.

  "Why, Polly, you should offer it to my – wife first."

  Polly made a face. "All right," she said sullenly. "Coffee, your – ladyship?." Sylvia shook her head. She passed a hand over her forehead.

  "What…what are you doing here, Polly?" she asked.

  Polly grunted with annoyance. "Why do people keep asking me that? I'm here because I work for him." She pointed at the Count.

  The Count grinned. "That's enough now, Polly, you naughty girl," he said.

  Sylvia's heart seemed to suddenly miss a beat.

  That's enough now, Polly, you naughty girl.

  Why did these words sound so familiar to her?

  Polly sauntered off with the tray. The Count moved away with his cup and saucer.

  Blood was beating loudly in Sylvia's ears.

  That's enough now, Polly, you naughty girl.

  She had heard it, spoken in just that way, somewhere else. Where?

  An image began to form. A room with red walls…an unlit fire…then she saw herself following Polly down some stairs. The Count on a sofa…Polly leaning down to place coffee before him and before Sylvia…you won't have need of a fire, not with his lordship there…the Count laughing, yes, laughing…that's enough now, Polly, you naughty girl…

  And then! And then! Sylvia felt blood drain from her face, as she remembered at last what had followed those words on that fateful night at Endecott… Her pulse raced and her heart thumped against her ribs. She sank, near fainting, onto the window seat. She could not breathe!

  "Sylvia, are you all right?"

  Charity hovered anxiously before her.

  "I remember, Charity. I remember. That night…when you encountered me on the road…I remember."

  Charity went pale. It was clear that the returning memory brought not relief, but further torment.

  "What happened?" she asked in a low voice.

  Sylvia opened her mouth to speak and then froze.

  What was the use? It was too late. To divulge what she now knew would only cause distress to her family, impede her father's recovery. And what after all could the truth alter now? It was too late. She was married!

  Sylvia shook her head and turned away. "Nothing. I…got lost in the storm, as we all supposed."

  Charity na
rrowed her eyes but said nothing. Her gaze moved beyond her friend to the dark, rainy night outside.

  She appeared to scan the darkness as if looking for someone, something. When nothing revealed itself, she dropped her hand and turned away.

  The Count had noticed Charity at the window with Sylvia and frowned to himself. He now weaved his way across the room and confronted his wife.

  "What did that woman have to say to you, eh?"

  "Nothing, nothing."

  "It is always 'nothing' with you," mimicked the Count. He tugged at his moustache and then suddenly made up his mind.

  "Come, madam," he said, holding out his hand with a leer. "Let us retire now."

  Sylvia shrank in horror against the window, the cold pane pressing at her back.

  Now that she knew the full extent of the Count's dastardliness, her courage was failing her.

  The Count's countenance darkened. "You must – obey me now," he said threateningly.

  It took all Sylvia's courage to rise, trembling, to her feet.

  "Good-night everybody," he said to the company en route to the door. "We are…about to retire."

  Edith and Charlotte began to clap. The Duchess bit her lip for a moment and then joined in. The Duke followed suit. Soon everyone was participating in the applause except Charity, whose face had crumpled in dismay at the Count's announcement.

  The Count's grip tightened on her in the hallway as he sensed Sylvia dragging her feet. When she stumbled on the stairway he pulled at her angrily.

  "Come on! Come on!"

  Sylvia put one foot before another in almost mechanical fashion.

  It was the Count who opened the double doors of the room that had been prepared as a bridal suite and thrust Sylvia through.

  Once inside he let go of Sylvia and started to undo his cravat. He flung it off into a corner and then staggered off to the dressing room.

  "Be ready – when I return," he called over his shoulder.

  As Sylvia was wondering where Jeannie was – Jeannie had been assigned to be her lady's maid tonight – there came a soft tap at the door.

  "Come in," said Sylvia, flooded with relief at the thought of a friendly face.

  But it was a grinning Polly who entered.

  "W..where's Jeannie?" asked Sylvia in dismay.

  "I let fall a tray and all the glasses broke and Jeannie cut her finger picking up the pieces and so she sent me up while she was getting it seen to." Polly spoke at careless speed, her eyes wandering all over the room and never settling on Sylvia.