An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  Was it a party that had drawn Francis from his home tonight on so late a visit to his friends, or was it something far more sinister? Lizbeth had heard her father’s arguments against Dr. Keen too often for her to forget them. There was no doubt that the Doctor was a clever man. The results of his experiments had brought him both scientific and social recognition, and yet there had always been something strange and slightly suspicious about him.

  He spoke very seldom of his life before he had settled in England, but it was understood that he had lived for many years in Spain. Local gossip related that he had friends who visited him late at night, cloaked and masked, and that, when visitors stayed with him, they were never seen even by the servants of the house and were waited on only by the master or his daughter.

  There were those who swore that his visitors were Jesuits, members of the Mission which had come to England in 1580 and aroused great alarm. Their aim, the Jesuits said, was to save souls and they were forbidden to meddle in politics, but the Government had denounced them as traitors and had declared that they were working for the destruction of the Queen.

  Despite stringent penalties if they were caught, the work of the priests went on with striking success. Moving about the country in disguise, hidden in gentlemen’s houses, they inspired Catholics with their fanatical fervour, and the fact that they were spied upon, hunted and persecuted only resulted in their being venerated as martyrs.

  Lizbeth knew it would be disastrous for her brother to be discovered associating with Jesuits either at Dr. Keen’s house or elsewhere. It was for Sir Harry Gillingham, as Lord Lieutenant of the County, not only to uphold the Queen’s dignity, but also to ferret out and destroy her enemies.

  He was, as he had said so often, deeply suspicious of Dr. Keen, but as yet nothing had been proved against him, and the Queen’s interest in his work had, for the moment at any rate, lulled many people’s suspicions into quiescence.

  Lizbeth’s dislike of Francis being a visitor to Dr. Keen’s house was also a feminine one. She distrusted Elita and believed that, if she was pretending an affection for her brother, it was not a sincere one. Elita would demand virility and passion from a man and Francis’ pale posturings would, Lizbeth was sure, be more likely to arouse amusement than any deeper emotion.

  And yet there was no doubt that the girl was encouraging him, but for what reason Lizbeth could not guess. Elita was the first girl in whom Francis had ever been interested. Always when women came to the house he paid little attention to them, hardly speaking save out of the most ordinary politeness. When not at his studies, he seemed most content to be alone, reading or writing the poems which aroused his father’s fury, but which seemed to give Francis, if no one else, a good deal of satisfaction.

  There was a sudden sound outside on the stairs, which made Lizbeth sit up suddenly in her bed. Was it Francis returning? She hoped it was so, only to realise that what had aroused her was nothing more than the creaking of the panelling. All was silent again, but because she was restless and worried, Lizbeth rose once more from her bed, and crossed the room to the window.

  It was chilly and cold outside. It had been raining earlier in the evening and the rain clouds were still heavy in the sky, partially obscuring the light of the moon. It was, however, possible to see the outline of the garden below, the great trees silhouetted high and dark around the house. There was no sign of anyone moving through the garden or coming round the sweep of the drive.

  Lizbeth sighed and then shivered a little from the night air. She could do no good standing there waiting for Francis, and yet she hated to turn away from the window with only that sense of anxiety and frustration for company. She wished now that she had run after him when she saw him descending the stairs, and pleaded with him not to go. Yet she knew he would not have listened to her. Like all weak people Francis could be incredibly obstinate on occasions.

  There was another sound on the stairs and, thinking perhaps she had missed Francis’ return, Lizbeth opened her door, hoping to see a flicker of light coming up the stairs. But there was only the darkness and the throbbing silence of the sleeping house, and then, as she stood there, Lizbeth heard something else – a strange, a different sound, but one that was continuous – from the room next door, the room where Phillida slept.

  For a moment Lizbeth hesitated. She looked towards the Great Staircase with its carved balustrade and heraldic murals-if only she could see Francis! Instead of that the stairway was empty. She glanced in fear towards the oak door of the bedroom on the south side which housed her father and stepmother.

  The sound from Phillida’s room continued and now Lizbeth made up her mind. Closing her bedroom door behind her, she crept with bare feet over the polished boards. She lifted the latch of Phillida’s door and entered. Phillida was kneeling at a prie-dieu by her bed. The candles on the table had spluttered low, but by their light Lizbeth could see Phillida’s head bowed in her arms and her shoulders heaving with the storm of her weeping.

  Quickly she closed the door behind her and sped across the room.

  “Phillida, dear, what can be the matter?” she asked as she put her arms round her half-sister.

  At the sound of her voice and the touch of her arms Phillida was suddenly still, her weeping ceased, but she did not move save to stiffen her shoulders and become, so it seemed to Lizbeth, resentful of being interrupted.

  “Go away!” Her voice was muffled but clear.

  “No, I will not leave you,” Lizbeth replied in a low voice, “not until you tell me what distressed you.”

  Phillida raised her face at that. It was white and drawn and streaked with tears as though she had been weeping for a long time.

  “I want to be alone. Why must you plague me?”

  “You are unhappy,” Lizbeth answered. “Is it for Rodney that you are crying?”

  “You call him Rodney!” Phillida’s lips seemed to twist as she spoke his name.

  “Why not when he will be my brother-in-law?” Lizbeth asked. “And do not weep for him. He will be a success. I know it as clearly as I know the sun will rise to-morrow morning. You know how I am always right about such things. I have seen it in his face – or is it some aura which lies about him? Whatever it is, I know for a certainty that he will return rich and successful, and then you can be married.

  Phillida had been staring at Lizbeth as she spoke, now she gave a muffled cry and put her hands to her face.

  “Married!” She whispered the word and there was an intonation of horror about it which made Lizbeth pause and look at her in surprise.

  She saw then that Phillida, still on her knees, was trembling. Her night robe was thin and the room was cold.

  “You will catch a chill,” Lizbeth said. “Get into bed, Phillida, and then we can talk. Come on now”

  She put out her arms as she spoke to help her sister, and Phillida, taking her hands from her face, allowed herself to be half-lifted into the big oak four-poster with its curtains of Chinese silk. Lizbeth tucked the sheets round her and then, pulling up the bed-spread, wrapped it round her own shoulders.

  “Tell me what is the matter,” she said coaxingly, taking Phillida’s hand in hers.

  Phillida turned her head away wearily.

  “I cannot tell you,” she said.

  “But you must,” Lizbeth answered. “There is no one else you can talk to. Catherine would not listen, and besides, I am sure you have no wish to tell her your secrets. Tell me, Phillida. It is easier to bear a sorrow if it is shared.”

  “There is nothing to tell,” Phillida said stubbornly.

  “Then why are you crying?” Lizbeth said.

  Phillida tried to take her hand away from Lizbeth’s firm grasp,

  “You would not understated,” she said.

  “Try me and see,” Lizbeth replied. “’Tis about Rodney, is it not? Can it be that you have no desire to wed him?”

  She saw Phillida press her lips together and knew she had struck the right note.


  “You do not love him, is that it?” she went on. “Perhaps there is someone else you love – another man?”

  “No, there is no one,” Phillida answered hastily.

  “Then I cannot understand you,” Lizbeth said. “If there is no one else, you should be happy to marry Rodney. I like him. He will be kind to you, I am sure of that, and he loves you.”

  She shut her eyes for a moment. She could see Rodney’s face as he watched Phillida intent on her embroidery; she saw the look in his eyes as he said goodbye to her. It was the look of a man who finds beauty a priceless treasure.

  “I cannot marry him!” The words seemed to be wrung from Phillida’s lips almost as if they tortured her.

  “Why not?” Lizbeth asked. “You will have to marry someone.”

  “No! No! No!” Phillida answered, and then suddenly she was crying again, bitter tears which seemed to shake her tempestuously.

  “Oh! poor Phillida!” Lizbeth’s arms went out impulsively, then Phillida’s head was against her shoulder and she cradled her in her arms, rocking her as one might rock a frightened child.

  “You shall not marry him if you feel like that. You must tell Father and he must explain to Rodney. I cannot believe he will force you against your will.”

  Still Phillida wept.

  “I cannot understand your disliking him so much,” Lizbeth went on, “but you will find someone you like more. I thought that you might care for Sir Richard Sutton or Master Thomas Hunter who courted you last year. They came here often enough and yet they never asked Father for your hand.”

  Phillida still said nothing. A sudden suspicion made Lizbeth ask,

  “Phillida, did you send them away?”

  “Yes.” Phillida’s was muffled but clear.

  “But how?” Lizbeth asked.

  “I told them that I would never live with them as – as their wife.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper and yet Lizbeth heard the words.

  “Phillida!” She was both shocked and astounded. Everything she felt seemed to explode in her voice as she cried her sister’s name.

  “They believed me and they went away,” Phillida said, “but somehow I could not speak of such things to Master Hawkhurst. I felt he would not have listened to me. He wanted to be alone with me so that he could make love to me. He wanted to kiss me – he tried to – but – I managed to escape him.”

  The words were whispered, but even so they seemed to quiver raw and trembling on the air. Lizbeth’s arms tightened round her sister.

  “But I do not understand,” she said. “Why did you fear Rodney’s kiss? ’Tis not unpleasant.”

  “No man shall touch me.” Phillida moved now within Lizbeth’s arms, in the light of the candles her face was very white, her eyes wide and dilated. “Do you not understand? No man shall touch me.”

  “Do you mean you hate them all?” Lizbeth asked.

  “I hate them all,” Phillida repeated violently. “No, hate is not the right word, for we must hate no one, but I will not be touched. My body shall be given to no one it is – it is dedicated.

  “Phillida, you are not – a Catholic?” Lizbeth’s voice was hoarse.

  Phillida nodded.

  For a moment Lizbeth was speechless.

  “ But how – how did you become one?” she stammered at last.

  “You remember Mister Andrews?”

  “Francis’ tutor? But of course – You mean that he – ?”

  “He told me what I wanted to hear. I have always known that it was being kept from us. He took me several times, when we were supposed to go riding, to a friend’s house where Mass was celebrated. I was received into the Church by a priest who lay there in hiding. I am a Catholic, Lizbeth, and I wish above all things to became a nun.”

  For a moment Lizbeth was too aghast to speak and then she bent forward to kiss her sister’s white face.

  “You are braver than I ever guessed you could be.”

  The gentleness of her words brought tears to Phillida’s eyes.

  “You understand!” she said, “and I never dreamed I would find anyone in this house who would understand.”

  “I cannot pretend to understand your feelings,” Lizbeth answered, “but I admire you for doing what you wish to do. I thought that you had little interest in anything or anybody, which shows how mistaken one can be even in those one knows best.”

  “I dare not confide in anyone,” Phillida said. “Besides, it would be wrong to involve you in my secrets.”

  “To think that Mister Andrews was a Catholic and we never guessed it!”

  “He was desperately afraid of being discovered,” Phillida said. “Just as I, too, am afraid that Father will find me out.”

  “He will never guess unless you tell him,” Lizbeth said; “but he will think it strange if you refuse to be betrothed to Rodney.”

  “I know he will,” Phillida replied. “With the others I was able to speak to them first and send them away before they spoke to Father. Master Hawkhurst asked for my hand the very first night he came here.”

  “He wanted Father to give him money for his ship and he decided to offer for you even before he saw you, but when he did see you, he fell in love with you – that was what happened.”

  “It makes no difference how it happened. I cannot marry him. Jesus have mercy! I cannot. I have written to Mister Andrews asking him to help me.”

  “When did you send the letter?” Lizbeth asked.

  “Only today,” Phillida replied. “I gave it to one of the servants to take into Hatfield. He was just leaving, so there was no chance of Father seeing it.”

  “Or Catherine, I hope!” Lizbeth added. “Catherine is far more dangerous than Father when it comes to being suspicious of or suspecting us of doing anything that is reprehensible.”

  “Yes, I know that. She merely despises me. She thinks I am a fool – a fool who cannot get herself a husband, but she is afraid and jealous of you.”

  “For no reason,” Lizbeth said.

  Phillida’s tired and miserable face suddenly lit with a smile.

  “You are very attractive, little Lizbeth. I hope you will find someone who loves you and whom you can love in return.”

  Lizbeth was silent, and Phillida went on,

  “What looks God has given me have brought me nothing but unhappiness. If I had been born plain or deformed, no man would have wanted me. It would have been easy for them to slip away from the world and be forgotten; but as it is...”

  She made a gesture with her hands.

  “As it is, Father is proud of you,” Lizbeth said. “He likes to see you admired, he wants you to be married.”

  “Yes, I know that,” Phillida said, “and he is ashamed to think I have remained single for so long. In some ways he thinks it is a reflection on himself. He is proud of his own charms and cannot credit that he has children who do not attract the opposite sex as readily as he does.”

  “He has often talked about Sir Richard and Tom and wondered why they never came here any more. I wondered, too. Oh, Phillida! Are you sure that you would like to be shut away in a Convent?”

  “I want it more than anything else in the whole world,” Phillida answered.

  Her face lit up, her eyes were shining and there was a look of spiritual ecstasy in her face which Lizbeth had never seen there before. She gave a little sigh. She realised that Phillida was asking for the moon.

  Nunneries no longer existed in England. They had been abolished by Henry VIII, reinstated by Mary and abolished again by Elizabeth. The latter had made a clean sweep of her sister’s efforts and the nuns had fled to Ireland and France, after which no one heard any more of them. If they communicated with their families it was kept a close secret.

  Lizbeth knew there was not a chance of Phillida’s attaining her desire, but she was kind enough not to say so. Instead, she put out her hand towards her half-sister and for the moment the two girls looked at each other, linked together in the dark shadows of the curtained four-po
ster.

  “If Father should discover what you are he would kill you – I think,” Lizbeth said in a low voice.

  “Yes, I know that,” Phillida replied.

  She spoke steadfastly with a strength which Lizbeth had never known she possessed. Then, as they sat there silent, one of the candles spluttered in its wick and went out. Lizbeth remembered Francis.

  “I must leave you now so that you will go to sleep,” she said to Phillida. “Promise me that you will cry no more.”

  “No more tonight. Thank you for comforting me, little Lizbeth. I somehow believe that things are not as hopeless as I thought they were earlier today. God will help me.”

  “I pray that He will,” Lizbeth answered.

  She bent to kiss Phillida, tucked her up and turned towards the door, blowing out the remaining candle.

  “Good night,” she whispered, her hand on the latch.

  “God bless you, Lizbeth,” Phillida replied.

  Lizbeth crept back to her room. Her thoughts were chaotic and she wondered, as she slipped between the sheets, whether what she had learned was true or whether it had just been a strange dream which had come to her in the night. She could hardly credit that Phillida, the quiet, rather stupid sister of whom she had often felt slightly contemptuous, was really the same Phillida whom she had just left – a woman fraught with emotion, fighting a lone battle for the sake of her Faith.

  Religious feelings ran high in the country and there was so much controversy that Lizbeth was content for it to mean little more to her than noisy, fiercely-contested arguments and lengthy, boring services every Sunday in the village church. There in the big family pew, with its high, oak sides screening them from the congregation, her father usually slept while her stepmother read from a book, Lizbeth could remember fidgeting endlessly as a child until, as the years passed, she managed to let her mind slip away to some imaginative place of her own so that she did not hear the long, laboured discourse which usually took the best part of two hours.

  Yet now she wondered whether religion should have meant more to her. The prayers she had said as a child had seemed adequate enough, yet beside the flame which was driving Phillida into rebellion against her father and the life in which she had been brought up they seemed insignificant and paltry, like Francis’ poetry.