An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Little wonder then that he found it difficult to understand a son languid and effeminate, whose interest was in scribbling on parchment with a quill pen.

  There was another side to Sir Harry too. He was shrewd where money was concerned and with regard to obtaining an advantage for himself. Just before they retired for the night Rodney had caught a gleam in his host’s eye as he spoke of the marriage settlement which must be made upon Phillida before the actual ceremony took place.

  It was then, for a fleeting second, that Rodney had regretted that he had been so precipitate. There had been no reluctance on Sir Harry’s part to give his daughter’s hand to a man of whom he knew nothing save that he was the god-son of an old friend. Rodney had a sense of disappointment that it had not been difficult. He would like to have fought for Phillida as he had fought all his life for something he desired, and while he told himself he had still to gain her love, he was conscious of feeling cheated and also of being suspicious of Sir Harry’s motives, whereas before he had believed him to be overwhelmingly generous.

  “Breakfast and Phillida!” he repeated Lizbeth’s words to himself now as he skirted the lawn and came through the rose garden on to the terrace of the house. Why had Lizbeth said just those words? There had been a sting in them, he was well aware of that, and even as he wondered, the woman of whom he was thinking came through the open door of the house across the terrace to his side.

  Phillida was looking almost lovelier this morning than she had looked the night before. Her ruff was starched stiffly behind her fair hair and even her farthingale detracted nothing from the grace of her movements.

  “You are up early, Mister Hawkhurst,” she said softly as Rodney bowed before her. “I saw you from my bedroom window and hurried so that we could speak together before the others appeared.”

  “You wished to speak to me alone?” Roger asked, and his tone was caressing.

  Her skin was flawless in the sunshine. She turned her blue eyes upon him.

  “Yes,” she replied, “there is something I would ask of you.”

  “Tell me what it is,” Rodney enquired, “and I promise to give you anything you ask of me – if it is within my power.”

  Phillida looked away from him across the garden to the park.

  “My father spoke of our marriage last night,” she said nervously. “It is just that I beg of you that it should not be too precipitate.” Her tone was quite expressionless and yet Rodney felt chilled.

  “There is no question of it being soon,” he replied. “I thought you understood that first I am going to sea. Your father has interests in my ship and I believe that what he has entrusted to me I shall be able to return a thousand fold. It is only when I return that we can be married.”

  Phillida’s face did not alter and yet he knew that some of the tenseness had left her body and she was relieved.

  “I did not understand,” she said quietly.

  Rodney took a step nearer to her.

  “Phillida, you must not be afraid of me,” he said, “I will teach you to love me. I will make you happy. I swear it.”

  “Thank you.”

  She did not move away from him and yet he felt as if she had withdrawn herself to where he could not touch her.

  “God’s light, but you are so exquisite,” he exclaimed. “I never dreamed of such beauty. I long for you, Phillida. Will you think of me when I am away from you at sea?”

  She looked at him then – a glance which told him nothing, but which somehow managed to make his words sound empty.

  “I shall think of you,” she answered, as if she were a child repeating parrot-wise a lesson.

  Rodney stood looking at her. He felt suddenly helpless. He longed above all things to take her in his arms, to kiss her as he had kissed so many women before, to wake within her a passion equal to his own, to feel the flame flickering within himself ignite a flame within her. And yet her very beauty, the gold and white of her, made her seem inviolate. There was a purity about her that he had never met before and before which he stood abashed.

  “I love you,” he said and felt the words were utterly meaningless and lacking in conviction.

  “When are you going away?” Phillida asked.

  “Tomorrow!” At the thought of parting from her Rodney laid his hand on her arm. “I must see you alone,” he said. “Where can we meet in the garden or the house where no one will see us, where I can tell you a little of my love and the happiness we shall find together?”

  She moved away from him then, slowly and still with that grace which made nothing she did seem abrupt or ugly.

  “We must go in,” she said. “Breakfast will be waiting for you and my father will wonder where I am.”

  “You have not answered me,” Rodney cried hoarsely. “Where can we meet together, if only for a few moments?”

  “I do not know; it is impossible,” Phillida replied. She did not seem frightened so much as repelled by the idea. “We must go in,” she added firmly and before Rodney could plead with her again, she had moved towards the house and disappeared through the door from which she had come on to the terrace.

  He stared after her, frowning a little, his chin square set as it always was when he was opposed in anything he desired. He was not used to women refusing him. He told himself that was because he had had little to do in the past with virgins and maidens, and yet his pride told him this could not entirely account for Phillida’s reluctance.

  Moodily and in no good humour, he followed her into the house,

  All through the day that followed Rodney strove and manoeuvred to get his own way and be alone with Phillida. It seemed to him as if everyone was on his side and willing to help him save Phillida herself.

  When others were present, she was there in the room, composed and lovely, if, as always, a little silent and apart from the general hubbub of the family. But when they were not there, she, too, had vanished into some fastness where Rodney could not find her.

  Even Francis, usually obtuse where the family was concerned, realised that something was occurring and said to Lizbeth in a low voice,

  “What is Phillida playing at? She has refused to show Hawkhurst both the Picture Gallery and the Maze.”

  Lizbeth linked her arm through her brother’s and led him into the garden so that they should be out of earshot of the others.

  “If ever there was a reluctant sweetheart it is Phillida.”

  “ But why?” Francis asked. “’Tis time she was wed, she cannot wish to die an old maid.”

  “I do not understand her,” Lizbeth answered, “and never have. You would have thought she would have found Mister Hawkhurst attractive enough.”

  “Personally I find him a bore,” Francis answered. “I hate these hearty buccaneers, but women like such men and Phillida should be no exception.”

  Lizbeth shrugged her shoulders. She was looking unusually tidy and demure. Nanna had scolded her for going riding so early in the morning and had made her change into one of her best dresses and had braided her hair so tightly that even her most rebellious curls could not fight themselves free.

  She and Francis had reached the edge of the herb garden where the yew hedge divided it. They turned and looked back to where the rest of the family were seated around the sundial, Phillida busy with her embroidery, Catherine Gillingham watching Rodney’s efforts with a spiteful look on her face, Sir Harry, quite unaware of what was happening, telling story after story and laughing heartily at his own jokes.

  It was a pretty, domestic picture from where Lizbeth and Francis stood – if one was not aware of the undercurrents seething beneath the surface.

  “Walk with me to the gate,” Francis said hurriedly.

  “Why the gate?” Lizbeth asked.

  “I am going for a walk,” Francis replied in a voice which told Lizbeth all too clearly that something else was intended.

  “You are not,” she cried. “I know exactly where you are going – to see Dr. Keen and his daughter. Oh, F
rancis! I thought you had given them up!”

  “Why should I?” he asked sullenly. “’Tis no business of anyone else’s who are my friends.”

  “But Francis, Father has forbidden you to visit them. You know that Dr. Keen is suspected of having sympathies with Spain.”

  “It is a lie,” Francis said hotly. “Just because he lived in Spain when he was a boy and was friendly with the Spanish Ambassador that is no reason to believe he is a traitor to his own country.”

  “Dr. Keen never seems like an Englishman to me, and as for Elita, with her dark eyes and jet-black hair, she is a Spaniard if ever there was one.”

  “Her grandmother was Spanish,” Francis said, “but that does not make her a Spaniard”

  “Did she tell you that?” Lizbeth said interestedly. “I thought they always denied having any Spanish blood.”

  “They are not so stupid as not to tell the truth when there is nothing to hide.” Francis said. “Elita’s grandmother was Spanish. That was why Dr. Keen went out to stay in Spain after he had married Elita’s mother. They came back about fifteen years ago and have lived in this country ever since. It is wicked the way people try to slander decent, patriotic citizens for no reason other than that their hair is dark.”

  “All the same, Father has forbidden you to see them,” Lizbeth said.

  “I am interested in Dr. Keen’s experiments. He lets me watch him in his laboratory. I am no good at that sort of thing, but it interests me enormously.”

  “Does Elita watch with you?” Lizbeth asked.

  “What if she does?” Francis said sullenly. “God’s pity, Lizbeth, but I thought you would understand and stand by me, if no one else would.”

  “I do understand, Francis. We cannot help where we love or whom, but be careful Father does not find you out. He is angry as it is, because you dislike all the things he cares for, and he is suspicious of Dr. Keen for all the Queen has been gracious enough to take an interest in his experiments. He is afraid you are falling in love with Elita and so am I.”

  “And if I am in love with her, what can you do about it?” Francis said angrily.

  “Nothing at all,” Lizbeth answered, “but oh ! Francis, take care of yourself.”

  “Pray do not be frightened for me,” Francis answered. “Father will not find me out. And I am going to visit Dr. Keen and nobody in this world can stop me.”

  He spoke so loudly and angrily that Lizbeth put her fingers to his lips.

  “Hush,” she said “your voice will carry and Father will be curious about what you are saying.”

  “I am incensed with it all. Help me, little sister. When I go back to Oxford in a month’s time, I shall not see Elita all the summer. Help me, there’s no one else I can trust.”

  His appeal melted away all Lizbeth’s opposition, as he had known it would. He was weak and spineless and all his life he had relied on other people to cosset him and fight his battles for him and make life comfortable with the least exertion on his part.

  His affection for the Keens was the most important thing that had ever happened in his life. For the first time he was making decisions for himself and even daring his father’s anger in continuing a friendship that had been forbidden. And yet even in his new strength he must ease the burden of it upon his sister.

  “Hasten your return, Francis,” Lizbeth said as they reached the gates. “Promise me you will not be away for long.

  “I will be back before Father misses me,” Francis promised, and she watched him stride down the road towards the Keens” house, which was about half a mile distant.

  She watched him go with a beating heart. She had no liking herself for the Keens, and yet she told herself it was not for her to thrust her opinions upon Francis – a new Francis, aggressive and defiant, whom she had never known before. Yet she was sure in her heart that her father was right. Dr. Keen, for all he was a brilliant chemist, was not the sort of man one would trust. He had been close friends with Don Bernardino de Mendoza, the Spanish Ambassador who had recently been drummed out of the country for complicity in the Throckmorton conspiracy.

  Lizbeth did not trust Dr. Keen nor his daughter. She had never liked Elita though she had known her for many years, in fact, ever since the Keens had come to live near to Camfield Place. She had the dark hair, flashing dark eyes and olive complexion of a typical Spanish girl; she was bold and flirtatious in her manner and Lizbeth could see quite clearly how Francis, weak and inexperienced where women were concerned, could be flattered by her interest in him.

  Lizbeth’s face was worried as she walked slowly back up the garden to where the family was seated beside the sundial.

  “’Tis cold,” she heard Catherine say pettishly as she neared them. “I shall return to the house. April sunshine is always deceptive and it is easy enough to catch a chill if one trusts it too far.”

  “I will come with you,” Phillida said, rising to her feet.

  “Will you not show me the dovecote ?” Rodney asked almost desperately. “Your father tells me you have over a thousand doves there. I would like to see them.”

  “Father can show them to you so much better than I can,” Phillida answered, and Sir Harry, without realising what was occurring, agreed heartily with his daughter.

  “I’ve made a study of the birds,” he said. “Come, Hawkhurst, I would like you to see them. God’s death, but I often wonder what we would do without doves in the winter, and our cook makes the best pie of them I have ever tasted. Is that not the truth, Catherine, my dear?”

  But Catherine was not listening to him. She had turned to Lizbeth.

  “Where is Francis?” she asked.

  There was something in her voice and in her eyes which told Lizbeth all too surely that her stepmother guessed where Francis had gone. It was Catherine who had goaded Sir Harry into forbidding Francis the Keens house in the first place. It was Catherine who would make trouble now, if she could be sure that Francis had disobeyed his father.

  “Francis has gone to the stables,” Lizbeth lied. “He wishes to mount the new grey which Father was talking about last night.”

  She saw the suspicion in Catherine’s eyes change to uncertainty, while Sir Harry roared out his approval.

  “By my beard, I’ll make a horseman of the boy yet,” he smiled. “If he can ride the grey, I’ll make him a present of it. How would that be for a birthday present?”

  “Francis would be delighted, Father.”

  Lizbeth felt miserable, even as she spoke. Francis was afraid of the grey horse, she knew that.

  “We won’t tell him yet,” Sir Harry said; “we will keep it as a surprise. In the meantime, we will see how he manages the animal.”

  He turned as if he would go to the stables.

  “No, do not go and watch him, Father,” Lizbeth said quickly. “You know how nervous Francis is. He would fall off for a certainty if you were there. Besides, Master Hawkhurst wants you to show him the dovecote.”

  She looked towards Rodney as she spoke and he heard the appeal in her voice, and saw an expression of almost pleading in her eyes. Instinctively he responded to it.

  A woman in trouble or in need of his strength and protection was something he could never resist. It flattered his vanity, now, that Lizbeth should beg his help.

  How pretty she was, he thought. He would like to put his arms round her and tell her that he would chase away her troubles, whatever they might me. Was her heart beating as quickly as when he had last felt it thudding against his breast?

  He smiled at the thought, smiled also to Lizbeth and turned to her father.

  “Yes, do show me the dovecote, Sir Harry,” he said. “Well, of course, if you are really interested,” Sir Harry conceded. “Are you coming, Phillida?”

  But Phillida had gathered her embroidery together and, rising to her feet, was following her stepmother up the path towards the house.

  “If you will excuse me, Father,” she answered, “I would rather go into the house. ’Tis co
ld, and I have no liking for the dovecote.”

  3

  Lizbeth lay in the dark and listened. There was only the silence of the great house, which had long been closed for the night. Outside she could hear the hoot of an owl and occasionally far away in the woods the bark of a fox and the high scream of a jay.

  They were the usual sounds she heard at night when she was awake, sounds which were not only familiar, but dear so that often she deliberately lay awake to listen for them, feeling they were part of her life and being proud that she could identify each sound.

  But tonight she was listening for other noises and she lay rigid in the softness of her bed, waiting for the soft creaking of a door and for footsteps coming up the broad oak stairs. She had heard footsteps descending those same stairs two or three hours earlier, and wondering who could be creeping about in the darkness of the night, she had opened her door and looked down the passage.

  She had just a glimpse of a figure with a lighted taper in his hand disappearing round the bend of the staircase. That brief glimpse had been enough for her to recognise Francis wearing his cloak and hat. She had resisted an impulse to run after him and to ask him where he was going, for she knew the answer well enough.

  It was the risk he took which horrified her; it was still early enough for her father to be awake and to hear, as she had done, the opening of Francis” bedroom door and the sound of his footsteps descending the stairs. But she knew that nothing she could say would deter her brother from his purpose and to argue would only increase the danger of his being discovered.

  Softly she closed her door and forced herself to go back and lie down on her bed. Yet from that moment it was impossible for her to sleep. In her mind she followed Francis across the garden and out through the lodge gates. It would not take him long to walk to the Keens house and there her imagination ceased to guide her and she was beset by innumerable questions.