Love and Lucia

by Barbara Cartland

  The Marquis groaned.

  “What a waste! What a terrible waste of his genius!”

  “I thought that at the time, but there was nothing I could do about it,” Lucia replied.

  “How can you have become so poor?”

  She hesitated and he wondered if she would tell him the truth. Then she said,

  “When Papa and Mama decided to come here two years ago, it was because Papa was certain that his pictures of Venice would be so – good and unusual that he would be acclaimed – and perhaps make a great deal of – money.

  Lucia spoke hesitatingly and the Marquis knew she was finding it hard to put into words exactly what had happened.

  “Go on,” he prompted as she paused. “I am very interested.”

  “Papa had made a little money painting conventional pictures, which he hated doing, for the local people where we were living.”

  Lucia glanced at the Marquis, then explained,

  “They were not grand people who could pay a lot of money. There was the Mayor of the Market Town near our village, two or three fairly wealthy farmers who wanted portraits of themselves, and the wives, and, one old lady who wanted her garden immortalised on canvas.”

  The way Lucia spoke made the Marquis smile and she said,

  “Papa hated every one of them! He felt as though he was degrading himself in painting what was saleable rather than what he believed was the real image of what he saw.”

  “I can understand that,” the Marquis said.

  “Very few people would understand,” Lucia answered. “When he had finished the old lady’s garden he said to Mama,

  “‘I must get away! I feel as if I am being constrained, chained to this place, and that it is imprisoning not me, but my soul!’”

  “Your mother understood?”

  “Of course she understood,” Lucia answered. “She and Papa loved each other so completely that if he had asked her to live on top of the Himalayas, or in a cave at the bottom of the sea, she would have agreed.”

  There was a little throb in Lucia’s voice which told the Marquis that the love between her father and mother had been very real to her too.

  As he waited for her to continue her story, he thought that he could almost read what she was saying in the expressions which flickered in her grey eyes.

  “They gave up the little cottage in which we had lived ever since I can remember,” Lucia continued. “In fact, I was born there. Papa sold the furniture and everything we possessed, except for what we were taking with us.”

  “Surely that was somewhat drastic?” the Marquis remarked.

  “Papa said we were starting a new life and it was always a mistake to be cluttered and encumbered when one was setting out on a crusade.”

  “And did your mother mind?”

  “Mama thought it was as exciting as I did, and we were so certain that Papa would succeed.”

  Her expression was very revealing as she said,

  “Papa wanted to be rich and important not for himself, but for us. There was so much he wanted to give us, horses, gowns, the possibility of going to London occasionally to attend the Opera, and of course to see pictures in the Royal Academy and the Galleries, which she had read about in the newspapers.”

  She gave a deep sigh, as if she realised now it had only been a dream,

  “So you came to Venice,” the Marquis remarked.

  “At first it was all very thrilling and everything Papa had hoped.”

  Then as she remembered what had happened the Marquis saw her eyes cloud over, and as she was silent he asked quietly,

  “Why did things go wrong?”

  “Everything was much more – expensive than we had anticipated – and our money dwindled quickly – while nobody was – interested in the pictures which – Papa painted.”

  It was what the Marquis had expected to hear, and he knew by the note in Lucia’s voice how worrying it had been as she said,

  “Then, when Mama was beginning to think we should return to England, she became ill.”

  “What was wrong?”

  “I think it was the water that upset her, and also the cold of the winter which somehow we had not expected. She grew worse – and because we had no money – Papa painted some ordinary pictures of Venice which he was able to sell – but for very small sums.”

  “By ordinary,” the Marquis observed, “I presume you mean the sort of pictures that visitors expect to be able to buy of the most beautiful City in the world.”

  “Exactly,” Lucia agreed, “and Papa hated doing them because he said they were ‘daubs’ and had no artistic feeling. But because he asked very little for them they were displayed in a shop in the Piazza and sold almost as soon as he finished them.”

  The Marquis could understand how degrading it must have been for a painter like Beaumont to have to prostitute himself in such a manner.

  “Then after Mama died, Papa was only happy when he was concentrating on the type of pictures he enjoyed painting – and because I did not wish to worry him – I suppose it was my fault that – things got so – bad.”

  She gave a deep sigh before she said,

  “Just when I was – determined to make Papa paint the pictures which would sell – he too became ill.”

  Now there was the fear in Lucia’s voice which the Marquis had heard before, and he said quickly,

  “I do not want you to go on with your story if it upsets you.”

  “It is best that you know the truth,” she said, “and I blame myself. Papa had always been – hopeless about money when he was painting and could think of nothing else – I should have been more like Mama – and made him understand that we should return home as soon as she had – left us.”

  Looking at her standing beside him, seeming so small and frail, the Marquis thought that Beaumont ought to have looked after his daughter better.

  How could he have expected anyone so young and insubstantial to be practical?

  Then as if once again she could understand what he was thinking, Lucia said quickly,

  “You must not blame Papa, because he was so supremely confident that his pictures were real art – and would be appreciated by those who understand.”

  There was a sob in her voice as she went on,

  “He had no idea that we could come to the very – edge of – starvation and nobody – except your Lordship would – appreciate his pictures.”

  She drew in her breath before she said very quietly,

  “I – I was thinking last night that – God had sent you to us at the – last possible moment.”

  “I think you had something to do with it!” the Marquis replied dryly.

  “If I did – I can only say again how – grateful I am,” Lucia answered.

  She gave him a smile that was like the sunshine itself.

  Then, as if she felt she might have bored him by what she was saying, she said quickly,

  “I must go back to Papa and see if he is awake.”

  “I will come with you,” the Marquis said.

  Lucia turned as she spoke to enter the house, but now she stopped to say,

  “You are – quite certain that is something you – wish to do?”

  “As I am sure you realise, I very seldom do anything I do not want to do. So the answer is ‘yes’!”

  Lucia gave a little laugh.

  “I was sure that was the truth – in which case – despite being wonderfully kind – you must also be very – spoilt.”

  It was something no one had ever dared to say to the Marquis before, and he looked at her in surprise as she said quickly,

  “I – I am sorry if that was rude, but because you are so overwhelming, I feel you have the whole world at your feet! It must be difficult, therefore, to be like other men – always – grasping and – striving for – something that is out of – their reach.”

  They were at the bottom of the stairs by this time, and as Lucia put her hand on the banister the Marquis looked at her in sur
prise.

  “I think that is a rather strange thing to say,” he said, “and yet I understand what you are implying. At the same time, like everybody else, I have my ambitions and wish to ‘catch a falling star’.”

  He knew by the smile on Lucia’s lips that she recognised the quotation from John Donne and it rather surprised him.

  “Once again I am being rude and you must forgive me,” she said. “It is just that you seem so omnipotent, so unlike ordinary men, and I cannot really believe you are human.”

  The Marquis laughed.

  “I am not certain if that is a compliment or an insult.”

  “A compliment,” she said quickly. “Not that your Lordship needs it!”

  The Marquis laughed again.

  “I hope, Miss Beaumont, that in the future I shall not disillusion you, but I assure you that I am, in fact, very human.”

  His eyes twinkled as he continued,

  “In order to convince you, I will say that had I not been really impressed by your father’s pictures and been sure that he is a genius, I would not have shown you the kindness for which you are thanking me, and would have ‘passed by on the other side’.”

  “But because you did – understand what Papa was trying to say,” Lucia said in a low voice, “it makes you – different from anybody else, and, as I have already said – very wonderful!”

  The Marquis thought he had had many compliments in his life, but this was certainly different from any he had received before.

  He knew as they climbed the stairs that Lucia was not thinking of him as an attractive man, as every other woman he met had done.

  To her he was a super-human being who had swept down from the sky at the last moment to save them from destruction.

  He was not certain how he was aware exactly what she was feeling, and yet he was sure that it was the truth.

  They walked to the top of the stairs in silence, and when Lucia opened the door of the attic and went in, the Marquis followed her.

  The sunshine coming through the sky-light cast a golden circle on the bare boards of the floor, but beyond it, where Beaumont was sleeping, the room was in shadow.

  Lucia walked quickly towards him, but as she reached the bed she saw that her father was still asleep and said in a low voice,

  “Papa! Wake up, Papa! His Lordship is here, and I know you want to thank him for his kindness.”

  “Let him sleep – ” the Marquis began to say.

  Then he saw laid out on the table the food he had sent from the Palazzo, and thought that as Lucia was building up her father’s strength, it would be a good idea for him to be fed again before he went back to sleep.

  He was sure she felt the same thing as she leaned over her father and said,

  “Wake up, Papa! You have slept for quite a long time.”

  Then the Marquis, watching her, saw her put out her hand to touch her father’s where it lay outside the sheet, and as she did so she stiffened.

  He anticipated what she felt and moved towards her.

  Then, holding on to her father’s hand, she said in a different tone of voice,

  “Papa! Papa!”

  There was no response and she put her other hand on his forehead and must have found it as cold as his hand was.

  She gave a little cry which was frantic.

  Then, as the Marquis reached her she said in a voice that was almost incoherent,

  “It – cannot be! – how could it? Oh – no –! It is – not true!”

  Her voice broke on the last word and she turned almost as a child might have done towards the Marquis, as if he would convince her that she was mistaken.

  He put out his arm to support her and as he looked down at Bernard Beaumont, he was aware that he was dead.

  There was a smile on his lips, he looked happy and relaxed, but there was no mistaking that he had died quietly in his sleep and there was no life left in his body.

  Because it was the only thing he could say, the Marquis remarked very quietly,

  “He did not suffer, and you must be grateful for that.”

  “I – I cannot – lose him – how can he leave me –?” Lucia faltered.

  Then as if she could not believe it to be true, she hid her face against the Marquis’s shoulder and burst into tears.

  There was nothing else he could do but hold her closely and feel her tremble convulsively against him, her whole body shaking with the misery and despair of losing the only thing that mattered in her life.

  As he held her in his arms the Marquis knew that in the darkness of her sorrow she was not even aware that he was there, or that she was crying against him.

  She was just lost in an unhappiness and despondency that was so overwhelming that for a moment she could not think, but was as lost as if she was left alone on the moon or an uninhabited planet.

  “H – how – can he – leave me?” she asked again.

  The Marquis felt that it was a question she was asking of the God in whom she believed.

  He felt her tears abating a little. Then he said very quietly,

  “I think your father would rather have died than find himself helpless and unable to paint, and he was glad that his pictures had been sold to somebody who would appreciate them.”

  As if his words reached her, Lucia said,

  “He was – glad! When we talked – about it last night he said he – would rather – you owned them than – any other man in – England.”

  The Marquis looked down at the face of the painter and said,

  “I think when your father died he knew that one day not only I, but a great number of other people would proclaim his work. That is why he is smiling.”

  Very slowly Lucia raised her head from his shoulder and without moving away from the Marquis, looked at her father.

  “He – he does look – happy,” she said thoughtfully after a moment.

  “Very happy,” the Marquis agreed, “and that is why you must not cry for him, Lucia, but try to be brave, as he would want you to be.”

  “How can I be – brave when I am – all alone?”

  The Marquis knew as she spoke that it was not really a question to which she expected an answer, and yet, almost before he thought of it, he found himself saying,

  “I will take you back with me to England where I am sure you have relatives or friends who will look after you.”

  As if for the first time she was aware of him, Lucia looked up at him to ask,

  “Did you really – say that you – would take me – back to – England?”

  “Yes, I am returning myself, and you can come with me.”

  “I – I must not be – a nuisance – but I cannot stay here – alone.”

  Now there was a note of fear in her voice which told the Marquis she was afraid, as she had been when she told him about the men in the Piazza.

  He had been aware of how much it had frightened her when they pursued her because she was so young and lovely.

  He quickly made up his mind, and as usual when he made decisions, he swept away any opposition there might be.

  “Fetch your bonnet, or whatever you wear on your head,” he said. “I am taking you back now to my Palazzo. I will arrange your father’s funeral. Just leave it to me.”

  He felt her tremble against him before she said,

  “Thank you – I would not – know what to – do.”

  “I realise that,” he answered, “so you must just leave everything in my hands.”

  She looked at him and he saw her eyes were still wet with the tears that had also run down her cheeks. And yet, unlike most women who cried, she looked, he thought, even lovelier than she had before.

  “H – how – can I allow you to be so – kind?” she asked.

  “It is not a question of allowing,” the Marquis replied, “it is what I intend to do. There is no point in your staying here alone and upsetting yourself. I will arrange everything.”

  She looked at him for a long moment as if she cou
ld hardly believe what he was saying to her.

  Then she moved from the shelter of his arms and went down on her knees beside the bed.

  She bent her head and the Marquis knew she was praying for her father’s soul, and also was sure that wherever he was, he was with her mother.

  They were together and happy to know that their daughter was being looked after.

  How he knew such a thing he had no idea.

  He was only aware that it was almost as if Bernard Beaumont had actually said to him, “Look after Lucia,” and it was something he had to do.

  And yet some cynical part of his mind was asking him if he realised what he was undertaking, and why he should concern himself with some beggar-girl he had met only that morning?

  If he were sensible he would simply provide her with enough money to get to England, and forget her.

  Then, as he looked down at Lucia’s bowed head, the fairness of it was somehow strange against the darkness of the unpainted walls and the carpetless floor.

  He thought that, with her dead father beside her, it was a situation in which he had never found himself before, and certainly had never anticipated would happen.

  But it had, and just as Beaumont’s pictures had been a surprise and in fact a revelation, so he was surprised at himself and by his behaviour.

  He knew that in committing himself to taking Lucia back to England, he was doing something that might have far-reaching repercussions.

  ‘I am making a mistake,’ the Marquis’s brain told him.

  And yet when he looked at Lucia again, he knew he could not abandon her.

  It would be an unkind and certainly a most unsporting thing to do, he argued in his own defence.

  Then his mind asked him if there was not a British Consulate in Venice which could cope adequately with the situation, especially if he gave the girl enough money for her passage home.

  ‘That is what I ought to do,’ the Marquis thought.

  As he did so, Lucia raised her head and he saw that she was no longer crying.

  But as she looked at her father, then raised her eyes to the ceiling above, there was a light in them and an expression on her face which made the Marquis draw in his breath.

  It was as if she were seeing a vision, and because in some strange way he was attuned to her, he could see it too.