A Lucky Star

by Barbara Cartland

  “Elliot, go home now and stop being so ridiculous,” sneered Lord Hayworth.

  “At least the wee boy has a shred of decency in his body!” shouted Alistair furiously. “Now, are you goin’ to divorce that wife of yours and make a honest woman of my daughter – or am I going to have to kill ye?”

  From the look on his face, Lord Hayworth realised that these were not idle words. He hung his head miserably and examined the fine stitching on his gloves.

  “Well?” demanded Alistair.

  “It is impossible – I cannot.”

  “Then, ye know the consequences!”

  McGregor strode over to his rifle that hung on the wall and took it down. Slipping off the catch, he pointed it straight into Lord Hayworth’s face.

  “Then, ye leave me no choice – ” he hissed.

  “Stop!” shouted Elliot, throwing himself in front of his brother, pushing the muzzle of the gun away. “I will marry Maureen! I am almost sixteen! But for pity’s sake, spare my brother!”

  Alistair eyed the boy and slowly lowered the rifle.

  “Ye’re a fine wee laddy and I do admire yer spirit. Hayworth, I will let ye go on condition the boy marries my Maureen as soon as she is recovered. Will ye shake on it?”

  Lord Hayworth went as white as a sheet.

  For all his fine manners and airs, he was a coward. He could not speak, but simply held out his leather-gloved hand to McGregor.

  Taking it, he shook it and then turned his back on both Elliot and his brother.

  “Ye’d better come in and meet her,” he said to the boy in a matter-of-fact fashion. “You will wantin’ to see the bairn that will become yer ain.”

  “You have done a noble thing, Elliot,” intoned Lord Hayworth, as the boy was led to the bedroom door. “I shall not forget it.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  1892

  “No! No!”

  A long wail like that of a wounded animal came from the small frame of Anthea Preston as she let the sheet of paper fall to the floor in the fashionable drawing room of her home in Mount Street, Mayfair.

  “Darling! What on earth is the matter?”

  Lady Preston came hurrying into the room, her eyes staring with fear as her daughter slowly crumpled in a heap by the blue silk-covered sofa.

  “Anthea! Speak to me. What is the matter?”

  Sobs wracked her slender frame and tears flooded from her blue eyes. She raised her face to her mother and, unable to speak, simply gestured at the letter on the floor.

  Picking it up, Lady Preston scanned the lines of the familiar handwriting. She knew at once who it was from, having seen many an envelope addressed in the same hand over the past six months.

  Her expression rapidly turned from bewilderment to sorrow as she finished reading the letter.

  “Oh, my darling!” she cried, moving over to where Anthea sat sobbing. “I am so very sorry. Jolyon – he has married someone else?”

  “Oh, Mama!” sobbed Anthea. “How could he do this to me? How could he?”

  “He is such a stupid and selfish young man and he has shown his true colours, you have had a narrow escape.”

  “But, Mama, I love him! I thought I was going to be his wife and now I find some French trollop has stolen him from me!”

  “Darling, I blame Jolyon. I can say now that I am not at all sorry to see the last of him. I know how much you cared for him and, because you did, neither your father nor I voiced our concerns. Anthea – he has proved himself not to be a gentleman and you are well rid of him.”

  “Then why do I feel just as if someone has torn my heart out? Oh, Mama! I cannot bear this.”

  “It is better to find out what kind of man he is now, rather than after you have married him. You should keep the ring – he does not deserve to have it back.”

  Anthea looked at the sparkling diamond solitaire on her finger and immediately wrenched it off.

  “Here,” she cried, handing it to her mother. “Give it to one of the servants or sell it and use the money for the poor. I don’t care if I ever see it again!”

  At that moment, Sir Edward Preston came into the drawing room and almost dropped his newspaper when he came across the scene that greeted him.

  “What the devil? Anthea dearest. What ails you?”

  “Sir Jolyon Burnside has jilted her,” answered Lady Preston. “He has married another – he has written from his honeymoon.”

  “The bounder!” murmured Sir Edward, stopping in his tracks. “Could he not at least come and see her?”

  “He is in Paris. Apparently he had met this woman in Biarritz and they were married a week ago. His parents threatened to cut him out of the will unless he owned up.”

  “I should jolly well think so too! Damn fine people – the Burnsides. Shame they have a cad for a son.”

  “He always was rather spoiled – ” murmured Lady Preston, stroking Anthea’s fine hair.

  They shared the same colours – harebell-blue eyes, golden-brown hair with a peaches-and-cream skin.

  In her day Lady Preston had been a great beauty and she had been very proud when Anthea had been voted debutante of the year for the Season. Even the Queen had remarked on how charming Anthea was and both she and Sir Edward had had high hopes for a good match.

  Sir Jolyon Burnside was a dashing young Baronet who had been endlessly indulged by his parents and now he had run off to Paris with a common actress, whilst back home in England, his fiancée’s world was in tatters.

  Lady Preston rang for one of the servants to take Anthea to her room. As she was led away by Mrs. Denton, her old Nanny, Lady Preston closed the drawing room door and turned to face her husband.

  “She will have to be sent away.”

  “What, a holiday?” asked Sir Edward.

  “Recuperation. We must do our utmost to shield her from the inevitable gossip. Once news spreads of this, we shall be besieged by the usual round of nosy dowagers with nothing better to occupy themselves.”

  “Well, there’s the house at Loch Earn. I know it isn’t the season for house parties or shoots, but she will be well cared for and Mrs. McFee will make a good companion.”

  “Yes. You are right, as always, Edward. The fine Highland air will do her good and soon she will forget all about Jolyon Burnside.”

  Tucking the engagement ring into the pocket on her skirt, she went into the study to write a letter to ask Mrs. McFee to make Loch View ready for Anthea’s arrival.

  ‘Poor, poor dear,’ she said to herself, as she dipped her nib into the inkwell. ‘Only twenty and so much to look forward to, I could murder Jolyon Burnside! However, he is best forgotten now.

  ‘The sooner she gets to the Highlands, the better. Yes, Scotland will be good for her.’

  *

  The following week Anthea was put on the train to Scotland. Her parents came to Euston Station to see her off and her maid, Sally, accompanied her as chaperone.

  At Edinburgh Station they were met by the family’s carriage to take them on the long journey to the village of Loch Earnhead, where their house overlooked the Loch.

  Anthea spent six months at Loch View and for the first month did not leave her room. Both her parents came to celebrate Christmas with her that year and then returned home to Mayfair.

  Slowly she began to recuperate.

  As spring bloomed at Loch Earn, so did she.

  “I think I am almost ready to return to London,” she told Sally, as they walked by the Loch one day. “I shall write to Mama and tell her that I shall come home for her birthday in June.”

  “She will be very pleased to see you, miss,” replied Sally, who was longing to return to London to see her own family again.

  But no sooner had she made plans to travel back home than a dreadful telegram arrived one day in late May.

  Mrs. McFee was grey as she accepted the missive that had been brought out by the postman from the village.

  ‘I hope this isn’t more bad news.’ said Mrs. McFee to herself,
as she carried the telegram to where Anthea sat in the garden, enjoying the sunshine. ‘The poor lassie has had more than enough with a broken engagement.’

  But as soon as Anthea had opened the telegram and read it, Mrs. McFee’s worst fears were confirmed.

  Trying to keep her composure, Anthea stifled a sob and simply handed it to her so she might read for herself the awful news.

  “Her Ladyship! Oh, Lord, have mercy!”

  Having read it, Mrs. McFee ran inside and straight down the back stairs to the servants’ hall.

  “Finlay,” she cried, as the old butler came hobbling into the room. “Please assemble all the servants at once. I want everyone here – everyone! Her Ladyship has died.”

  *

  The funeral was a very grand affair.

  Most of Society turned out to pay their last respects at St. George’s Church, Hanover Square.

  Anthea tried her best to stay composed, but seeing her grieving father was almost too much for her.

  “Don’t you worry, Papa, I will not leave you,” she sniffed, clasping his arm as they walked back.

  “Promise me?” he responded, tears glistening in his eyes. “I could not bear it if I lost you as well.”

  Anthea knew only too well what he meant – he did not wish her to marry and leave the house in Mount Street.

  Forcing herself to smile, she squeezed his arm.

  “Of course, I promise. I will not leave you.”

  *

  Life at Mount Street soon fell into a routine and the years flew by.

  Anthea had stood by her promise to her father and steadfastly spurned the advances of any young man whom she might encounter.

  After a while her admirers found themselves others to marry and visits from potential suitors to Mount Street became less frequent.

  Anthea found herself staring out of the window one day at a young couple in the street outside. They were arm in arm and laughing, locked into their own private world.

  ‘They both appear so in love,’ reflected Anthea, as they looked into each other’s eyes with obvious adoration, ‘and now I am so old – twenty-six this year – no one will have me. I am destined to be an old maid.’

  It was without any hint of regret that she regarded them. She recalled a time when, with Sir Jolyon Burnside, they had strolled gaily through Hyde Park as his carriage followed behind them.

  He had bought endless bunches of fresh flowers for her from Covent Garden market.

  ‘And now, no man will ever buy me flowers again – apart from Papa,’ she mused, as his carriage drew up.

  He often brought her a bouquet to cheer her up as if to make up for potential sweethearts that were long gone.

  She heard the front door open and Fricker take her father’s hat and coat. She counted down the seconds until he entered the drawing room with a benign smile for her.

  “Anthea, dearest,” he called out, handing her some flowers. “These are for you.”

  “Thank you so much, Papa,” she murmured, taking the fragrant blooms from him. “Freesias! My favourites.”

  “Darling, you have been looking a bit pale of late,” he remarked, making himself comfortable in the armchair.

  “Papa, you must not concern yourself, it is just that I have not been able to shake off this horrible cold. It has been so persistent.”

  “It has been some time since you last had a holiday, has it not?”

  “Well, we went to Brighton for a long weekend last August. Does that not count?”

  Her father laughed.

  “Anthea, I have been thinking that you have kept me wonderful company since your Mama died without any thought to your own happiness. You are such an excellent daughter and now, I want to show you my appreciation.”

  “But, Papa,” she protested. “You make it sound as if it has been a chore looking after you. I love you dearly and I would not have had it any other way.”

  “Even so, Anthea, I am aware that you have made certain sacrifices so that you could remain at my side.”

  He looked at her meaningfully and Anthea blushed. She knew what he was hinting at.

  “So, with this in mind, I have decided to send you away on a really long trip. Just you and your maid – or a companion, if you so choose.”

  “Papa!”

  “Every young lady should do the Grand Tour and circumstances have hitherto prevented you from embarking upon such a trip. I am capable of looking after myself for a few months and the Season is in full swing, so I shall not want for entertainment or company. You leave for Paris in a fortnight and return in September.”

  “Oh, Papa! Thank you,” she cried, running over to him and throwing her arms around his neck. “I should like Sally to be with me. She is as good a friend as any I have. So few of my female friends are still unmarried – and I am not certain that their husbands would be too happy to allow them to swan off to the Continent for the summer.”

  “Well, there is the Dowager Duchess of Markyate. I know she is only a very distant relative, but I am certain she would be happy to accompany you if you would prefer her to travel with you.”

  “And I should be so bored that I would go out of my mind with her! No, Sally is young and vivacious and she will be the perfect companion.”

  “Excellent! The arrangements are in place. Now, I must run along, dearest – I have a rather dull dinner at Lord Morton’s house tonight and I expect he will want to play cards until the small hours. Don’t wait up for me.”

  With that he rose and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Europe!’ thought Anthea, dancing round the room and hugging herself. ‘Paris! Vienna! Florence! Greece!’

  She felt as if, at last, she had been set free from her gilded cage.

  ‘For a few months I will not have to play the dutiful daughter,’ she said to herself, as her spirits soared. ‘And maybe, I will find a little romance – ’

  The very thought pleased her enormously as she ran upstairs to tell Sally the wonderful news.

  ‘A trip abroad,’ she said to herself joyously. ‘I feel as if I have been given a second chance for happiness.’

  *

  That summer was the best Anthea had ever spent.

  Once she stepped off English soil, she felt as if she was a different person. Whilst she still missed her home, the sights and sounds of the greatest Cities of Europe were sufficient to occupy her.

  She wandered round the galleries of Paris, admiring fine works of art, and enjoyed the very best gateaux in the teahouses of Vienna.

  Rome was steeped in so much history and Venice so romantic that by the time they arrived in Crete, she felt as if her life in England was but a distant dream.

  She wrote religiously every week to her father and eagerly awaited his replies. As he had planned her itinerary down to the last detail, there was always a cheerful letter waiting for her whenever she arrived at a new destination.

  Then one day the letters stopped.

  ‘This is extremely odd,’ she mused as they arrived in Athens, ‘as Papa always makes certain there is a letter to greet me, maybe the Greek postal service is not as efficient as it is elsewhere?’

  But, by the time their stay came to an end, there had still been no word from him.

  At last, worried sick, Anthea telegraphed the family Solicitor as soon as they disembarked in Dubrovnik, fearful of what news might be waiting for her in England.

  But the reply from Mr. Linton was as shocking as it was unexpected.

  She stared and stared again at the telegram, hoping that she would awake and find that it was not true.

  “What is it, miss?” enquired Sally.

  “We must go home at the end of the week,” replied Anthea in a daze. “Papa has married again and is on his honeymoon already. He returns to London on Saturday.”

  “Lawks!” cried Sally, dropping a pile of washing.

  “Hush, Sally, don’t curse. We will only be cutting our trip short by a week or two.”

  “But you so
wanted to see Naples, miss. And we were to visit it on our return journey.”

  “There’s no time for Naples now. I shall have the hotel contact the Ticket Office at once and arrange for us to sail back to England instead of going on to Ljubljana.”

  Sally watched her mistress closely as she tidied her hair and then left their suite to speak to the Concierge.

  “Well! I never. The master remarried? Whatever next?” muttered Sally.

  *

  Anthea and Sally arrived back in Mount Street the day before her father and his new wife.

  None of the servants would tell her a thing and it appeared as if the new Lady Preston had fallen out of the clouds.

  No one knew much about her, save that she was a wealthy widow and about the same age as Sir Edward.

  Anthea could not imagine anyone taking the place of her mother and, even before the new Lady Preston had set a foot in Mount Street, had made up her mind that she was not going to like her.

  The day of her father’s return, Anthea had all the servants dressed in their best uniforms turned out in the hall to greet him.

  Sir Edward seemed very different when he got out of the carriage, and did not, as Anthea expected, run and sweep her up in his arms and kiss her.

  Instead he patted her shoulder as he drew level with her and introduced her to his new wife.

  The new Lady Preston was a tall woman with thick black hair and eyes the colour of rainwater.

  She stared at Anthea without smiling and flinched slightly when Sir Edward ordered Anthea to kiss her.

  Over the next few days Anthea often found herself on the wrong end of her tongue as she criticised everything in the house, including the servants, the furnishings and the way that the sun did not come into the morning room until after luncheon.

  But the greatest change was in her father – he was not the loveable man she had left behind in Mount Street. There were times when he was almost a stranger to her.

  Then, one day as Anthea was wandering around the garden, she overheard her stepmother’s strident voice wafting loudly through the French doors.

  “Really, she is such a bore,” she heard her say. “I confess I cannot stand the sight of her whey face around the place.”

  “Then you must marry her off – and quickly,” replied her friend. “We must line up a series of suitable gentlemen who would be willing to marry her. I must admit, Frances, she is not as young as she could be, so we might find it a difficult task.”