An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  It seemed to Rodney as he rose to his feet that the glory of his return was already tarnished. It was as if the sun had gone from the sky and he felt instead the chill wind of loneliness sweep round him.

  It was hard to make haste when the whole of officialdom was against it. Rodney, fretting and fuming at Plymouth, could not hurry matters more quickly than clerks could make an inventory in their spidery writing with their squeaking quill pens.

  Lizbeth, waiting for him at Camfield, felt as if the delay of his arrival grew more and more intolerable as the days passed. She found it hard to concentrate on the clothes that were being made for her on her stepmother’s instructions. There were gowns of satin, brocades and velvet and embroidery finer than anything she had ever owned in the whole of her life, but somehow they seemed as shadowy as everything else that existed either in the present or in the future.

  It was the past that was real, the past that she was remembering every moment of the day and night, hugging it close in her heart as if it were some secret no one could share with her. Even Phillida’s pale, frightened face and her, whispered terror of being married seemed somehow insubstantial beside her own memories of Rodney.

  That he who was so virile, so endowed with vigour and enthusiasm, should have anything in common with the limp, miserable Phillida was not to be credited. Her half sister had never seemed a very strong personality to Lizbeth, and now she took on a ghost-like air as she lay weeping in the shadows of her curtained bed or knelt beseechingly at her prie-dieu – praying, Lizbeth knew, for deliverance from Rodney.

  Even though Lizbeth was aware that her love was hopeless, she could not mope and moan as Phillida did. Love, even frustrated love, seemed to vitalise her so that she wanted to shout and laugh and clap her hands and tell the world that she loved Rodney. She knew now that one of the things they had in common was that they were both so thrillingly alive. They were both young in an age when there was adventure, excitement, fine deeds to be done and great victories to be won.

  She felt that if only she could see Rodney she could tell him this, but she knew that, when he did come, she must stand aside and watch him take Phillida in his arms.

  She persuaded her half-sister to rise from her bed, to come downstairs and sit by the log fire in the Great Chamber. Weak with weeping and apprehension, frail with fear, Phillida was still beautiful, Lizbeth thought with a pang. Her eyes, vividly blue against the transparency of her white skin, seemed to shine with the intensity of her feelings and the yearning of her soul for things that were of the spirit. Her hair, pale gold as the sunshine after rain, framed her face, which was pale and thin but had not lost its exquisite contours.

  Yes, Phillida was beautiful, Lizbeth thought, more beautiful than when Rodney had last seen her.

  Sir Harry was pressing Lizbeth to leave for London, but she dared not go from Camfield until Rodney arrived. He must know of her lies about Francis before he shattered them by a careless or unconsidered word.

  From the night she had arrived she had not gone near the Keens’ house nor made any enquiries about Elita. Sometimes she wondered if the girl was starving to death behind the shutters or whether her friends had come to rescue her and had smuggled her away to Spain. Cruel though it might be, she did not care what happened. She was concerned now with preserving the honour of the family and her father’s illusions about Francis’ death.

  Rodney would help her in this, she was certain of that and yet the days were passing and he did not come, while Sir Harry was afraid lest the post of Maid of Honour at Whitehall should be filled.

  Lizbeth had little time to think of what awaited her when she arrived in London. She could think only of Rodney and the moment when she must see him again.

  It was evening when he came – a blustering, cold night with a hint of snow in the wind. Lizbeth had been hoping that he would arrive in the daytime. She had arranged that the servants on the estate should be continually on the look-out for him, promising that they should be rewarded should they inform her before anyone else that the visitor was approaching the house, but it was impossible to arrange for them to watch at night.

  They were at supper when Sir Harry was informed of Rodney’s arrival. They all hurried then from the Banqueting Hall into the Great Chamber to find Rodney already in the house, standing with his back to the fire waiting to greet them.

  Lizbeth felt her heart turn over at the sight of him. She felt that she had forgotten how handsome he was, how broad of shoulder, how graceful in his movements. She watched him shake hands with her father, saw him bend over Catherine’s hand and then, as he turned towards Phillida, she shut her eyes. She could not bear to see the expression in Rodney’s face as he beheld Phillida’s pale beauty again.

  She heard him say something she did not catch, and then she heard his voice, alive, gay and compelling, cry her own name,

  “Lizbeth! Little Lizbeth, have you forgotten me already?”

  Both her hands were in his and she was smiling up into his face, a sudden ridiculous and overwhelming joy making her oblivious of everything and everybody save that he was there.

  “Rodney! Oh, Rodney!”

  She found herself whispering his name; and then, even as her lips echoed the smile on his and she wondered if they all could hear the quick beating of her heart, she remembered what she had to say to him. Still holding tightly to his hands, her fingers digging into his warningly, she said,

  “I have told Father about Francis!”

  She saw the surprise in his face, and added quickly, “I have told how he died aboard the Santa Perpetua in our fight with the Spanish galleons. I have told them all how brave Francis was and how proud we were of him.”

  She saw Rodney’s expression change and knew that he understood. She felt his fingers tighten on hers comfortingly, reassuringly, and then easily he turned to Sir Harry.

  “ I am sorry, sir, that we had to bring you bad news as well as good.”

  Sir Harry put a heavy hand on Rodney’s shoulder.

  “I am proud to have given my son in such a cause.” he said. “We will speak further of it another time. We must not let our personal sadness dim the gladness you feel on your arrival here.”

  Lizbeth drew a deep breath of relief, the awkward moment was passed over. Wine and fresh dishes were brought to the Banqueting Hall. It seemed to Lizbeth for a moment as she listened to Rodney talking to her father that they might once again be seated round the table in the aft cabin.

  But Phillida was there listening too. There was a faint colour in her cheeks and her lips were smiling as they had not smiled for a long time.

  “She will learn to love him.” Lizbeth said to herself, and was startled by the pain she experienced at the thought. Rodney was talking in the way she knew so well, gesticulating occasionally with his hands, but needing no gesture to underline the fire and purpose behind his words. Lizbeth, who had heard him so often, could see now the effect of his words on the other members of her family.

  Sir Harry was leaning back in his chair, comfortably at his ease, yet attentive to everything that was said. Catherine, with her arms on the table, her chin cupped in her hands, was watching Rodney’s lips as he spoke, her eyes narrowed a little, her own mouth twisted enticingly; and Phillida was listening, While Lizbeth, watching her half-sister, saw that she was entranced by Rodney’s stories. She was leaning forward a little in her chair, the exquisite poised grace of her neck and shoulders was never shown to greater advantage. Lizbeth knew suddenly that she could bear it no more.

  When Rodney left the room after dinner to pay for the men and horses who had brought him to Camfield from Plymouth, and who wished to start the journey back at dawn, Lizbeth seized her opportunity.

  “I will leave for London early tomorrow morning,” she said. “It would be rude to linger now that Mister Hawkhurst has returned.

  She saw the relief on Sir Harry’s face.

  “Everything is in readiness,” Catherine said smoothly, and Lizbeth knew tha
t she was glad to be rid of her. She crept away then before Rodney came back. But as she crossed the Hall she met him face to face. Swiftly she looked around. There was no one within earshot. She laid her hand on his arm and spoke barely above a whisper,

  “Francis is dead. I have no time to relate how and why he died, but tell Father – and the others – that he was brave and that you were – proud of him. Her eyes besought him.

  “I will do as you ask,” Rodney replied.

  “Thank you! Oh, thank you.”

  Her eyes, soft and grateful, met Rodney’s and the words of gratitude died on her lips. She was so close to him that she could hear the quick intake of his breath. For a moment the Hall swam around her and was gone. They were alone – she and Rodney on the edge of the world, there was nothing and nobody else, only the two of them together.

  Then like a thunderbolt Sir Harry’s voice boomed out,

  “Come back to the fire, Hawkhurst. God’s mercy, but it is as cold as charity out here!”

  Lizbeth looked over her shoulder. Her father was standing in the doorway of the Great Chamber, a glass of wine in his hand.

  “I am coming, sir,” Rodney replied. “I was just speaking with Lizbeth about the voyage.

  “If the girl wants to talk, bring her back to the fire,” Sir Harry said testily.

  But Lizbeth was already running up the stairs.

  “Good night, Rodney.”

  Her voice seemed to echo and re-echo round the high walls. If he answered, she did not hear him, and the door of her bedroom closed behind her.

  She sat down at her dressing – table. He had gone back to Phillida! She had half-expected that Phillida would come upstairs with her but Phillida, who had been too weak to leave her bed but a few days before, was sitting listening to Rodney.

  Lizbeth let Nanna undress her and take away her clothes, and she made a pretence of settling herself among the pillows; but she knew she would not sleep. Taking a book, she attempted to read; but two hours later, when she heard the others coming upstairs to bed. She realised that not one word of the pages she had turned had penetrated her consciousness.

  Rodney was under the same roof. She had often thought of him lying in his bunk on the other side of the ship; and yet that he was here at Camfield, her own home, made him seem somehow closer than he had ever been before.

  She thought of the hardships and the dangers they had shared together and wondered if, lying in luxury on the thick feather mattress in one of the fine, panelled guest chambers, he too, was thinking of her.

  Then she remembered how Phillida had looked at him across the supper table, and she knew that she was only being foolish. Don Miguel might have called her lovely, but she had no beauty in comparison with the gold and white fairness of her half-sister.

  Lizbeth blew out the candles, crept from her bed and, drawing back the curtains, sat in the window-seat to look out on the darkness of the night. She could hear the wind whistling round the house and the rain pattering sharply against the diamond-paned casement. She felt desperately sad and utterly alone.

  Francis was gone, her mother was dead – there was no one left who really mattered to her. She would go away. Perhaps in service to the Queen she would find forgetfulness She heard the hours strike one by one and then she must have fallen asleep, for when she awoke she was cramped and cold and the night had passed. It was a grey, blustery day and yet she was glad – there was nothing about it to remind her of the Caribbean sun. Not long after eight o’clock, Lizbeth, having breakfasted in her room, came downstairs. Her horse and an escort of grooms and outriders were waiting for her outside the front door. Her luggage was piled up on a coach in which Nanna was also to travel to London. Lizbeth had wanted to say good-bye to Phillida, but she was told that Phillida was asleep. Catherine also would make no appearance at this hour in the morning, Lizbeth knew, and she was glad that she would not have to say farewell to her stepmother.

  Her father was up, as she had expected he would be. He kissed her boisterously, told her to behave herself, and put a heavy purse of money into her hand.

  “When you need more, you have but to send for it,” he said.

  “Thank you, Father.”

  His generosity, she knew, was not for herself but for the position she would hold as Maid of Honour, which he took as a personal tribute to his own importance.

  She said good-bye to the servants in the Hall and then the groom helped her to mount her favourite horse.

  She looked very different from what she usually did when she rode at Camfield. There were no high boots and short breeches upon her today to scandalise the citizens of London. Her full-skirted riding habit was of green velvet and the plume which decorated her hat was canary yellow and reached almost to her shoulders.

  She gathered up the reins in her gloved hand and even as she opened her lips to give the order to go, she saw someone come through the doorway of the house and walk towards her. She felt herself tingle and every vein and muscle in her body seemed to awake to a throbbing excitement.

  “You are leaving, Lizbeth?”

  She must have imagined the dismay in his voice.

  “I am going to London. Father will tell you that I am to become Maid of Honour to Her Majesty.”

  “I had no idea of this.”

  Was it only astonishment in his expression? she wondered.

  “I have not seen you alone,” he added. “ There is much we should discuss together.”

  “I am afraid I must go.”

  Lizbeth spoke quickly. She was afraid, desperately afraid, of losing her self-control as she looked down into his eyes. She wanted, more than she had wanted anything in the whole of her life before, to lean down and press her lips against his. She felt as though everything would be worth the risk, even the horror, indignation and scandal it would cause. She dared not look at him again.

  “I must go,” she said, urging her horse forward. “Everything is arranged.”

  She was moving now – quicker and quicker.

  “Lizbeth, I beg of you – ”

  His voice was lost in the clatter of hoofs. She knew without turning that he was still standing there in the drive, watching the cavalcade of servants following her at a jog-trot. It was agony not to turn round. She felt the sweat break out on her forehead in spite of the cold of the day.

  There were the gates ahead; now he could no longer be looking at her – they were out of sight. She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream her love for him aloud so that all could hear. But she did none of these things; she just kept riding on down the twisting, narrow road, puddled and rutted, which would lead presently to the broader high road which led directly into London....

  Lizbeth had of course been to London on many occasions but always the City which had been called “the storehouse and mart of Europe” never ceased to thrill her. From the moment they came in sight of the old City wall, a relic of its battlemented past, she would feel excitement springing within her. Whatever the weather, it seemed to her that in winter, summer or spring London looked beautiful.

  Its spires and roofs today were silver against a grey sky and the Thames was a deep molten silver on which were reflected hundreds of snowy-plumaged swans which were as much a part of the river’s life as the great barges.

  Lizbeth loved travelling by water, and indeed, everyone preferred the river, for it was much more pleasant and in many ways safer than travelling by road. But today she only had a glimpse of the Thames as they rode through the crowded streets. As usual, she was amused and delighted by the hubbub and the noise.

  There were men and women crying hot apple-pies, live periwinkles and hot oat cakes. There was the sweep announcing himself with a lengthy call, and pretty girls selling oranges and lemons with a special song so that all should hear their clear musical notes arising from the general melée and come out to buy.

  Lizbeth found she had forgotten the diversity of things there were to see and hear in London. Porters staggering and sweating under eno
rmous burdens hurried past her. Grave-faced merchants bound for the Royal Exchange passed slowly by in their long, richly-furred robes and their fine gold chains; gallants resplendent in silks, satins and jewels made a glittering show as they swaggered past, envied by the countrymen in their russet jackets with blue cambric sleeves and buttons, their “slop” breeches, green bonnets and hose of grey kersey.

  Lizbeth rode along Cheapside – the Holborn highway, which was the most important road in all London. It was a broad, well-paved street, famous for all the gold and silver vessels displayed for sale in its shops.

  Everyone who visited London was well aware that it was dangerous to linger in many of the less-famous thoroughfares. Dirty and over-crowded, there were numberless streets in which Elizabeth was trying to force the rule of “one house-one family”. But even the Council was powerless against the network of narrow, badly paved lanes, half-darkened by the overhanging fronts of the houses and rendered unsanitary by the custom of their inhabitants of depositing their garbage outside the front door.

  In the better parts of the City there were gardens to all the grand houses; and though they were now flowerless and leafless, Lizbeth knew that when the spring and summer came they would be filled with flowers, fruit and shady trees. But for the moment there was no need to miss the beauties of spring and summer when the colourful trays of pedlars were held high in their arms for Lizbeth’s inspection as she rode through the crowds.

  “Fine Seville oranges, fine lemons!”

  “Hey ye any corns on your feet or toes?”

  “What do ye lack? Do ye buy, Mistress. See what ye lack: pins, points, garters, Spanish gloves or silk ribbons. Will ye buy any starch or clear complexion, Mistress?” Lizbeth was laughing as she brushed the importunate pedlars aside and came at length to the quiet and dignity of the Palace of Whitehall.

  For a moment she felt afraid as she looked at the great, sprawling grey building fronting on to the river, where waited the Queen’s state barge.