AUTHOR’S NOTE
The caves of the Dordogne were there for thousands of years before they were discovered.
One of the most significant was found in 1868 and revealed, in addition to flints and carved bones of the Aurignacian Age, three skeletons of adults.
They were studied by Paul Broca, the surgeon and anthropologist who founded the School of Anthropology in France.
The discoveries in this cave, known as the Cro-Magnon, were of prime importance in prehistoric studies.
Some of the caves are exceptionally beautiful with stalactites and stalagmites.
In 1901 a cave was discovered which demonstrated the importance of the Magdalenian Age at a time when all the anthropologists were becoming sceptical about prehistoric studies.
A secondary passage with cave drawings was the stage on which prehistoric man acted out his life.
This can be seen from the traces of a domestic midden and the tools of the Magdalenian men, which have also been unearthed.
Later still, in 1940, the Lascaux Cave was held as one of the greatest prehistoric finds in Europe for the large number and life-like quality of the paintings on the walls.
This cave was discovered by four boys looking for their dog, which had disappeared down a hole.
The majority of the animals that appear on the walls are female and pregnant, symbolising fertility and some appear to be transfixed by arrows.
The gorges for which the Dordogne is famous are so enormous that there are very likely to be a great many more hidden, which have yet to be discovered.
CHAPTER ONE 1876
The Dowagers sitting on slightly raised divans at the end of the ballroom stiffened.
Then immediately their heads turned towards one another whispering.
Anyone watching them would have realised that Lady Marcia Woode had come into the room.
“Have you heard the latest?” one of the Dowagers murmured. “She rode alone against Lord Ilchester’s chestnut three times round Regent’s Park.”
“And she won!” another Dowager exclaimed. “It must have been a blow for Ilchester, who has grown far too big for his boots!”
“That is not the point,” the first Dowager insisted. “She is behaving disgracefully and I have made up my mind that I shall have to speak to her father.”
“I doubt if the Earl will listen,” one of her friends retorted. “He adores Marcia, as an only child and who can blame him? She is so beautiful!”
Several of the Dowagers sniffed.
At the same time they could not deny that Lady Marcia was outstandingly lovely.
As she hesitated in the doorway as if looking for someone, candles in the huge crystal chandeliers picked out the gold of her hair.
They made her huge grey eyes shine like stars.
She was beautiful in a very different way from the debutantes who had preceded her.
In their first Season they were usually gauche, besides being shy and having nothing to say.
Lady Marcia had been brought up by her father, the Earl of Grateswoode, to know how to express herself on any subject.
She was to be to him the son he had never had, as after Lady Marcia was born it was impossible for the Countess to have any more children.
The Earl therefore had made the best of what, to him, was an exceedingly bad job.
He had treated Marcia almost from the time she could walk as if she was a boy.
She rode his most obstreperous horses and she shot with him over his huge estate. She took part in fact in every pursuit he was interested in.
This, of course, included most especially his horses, which were outstanding.
Lady Marcia’s exploits with them had become the talk of London almost immediately after she had made her curtsey to Queen Victoria at Buckingham Palace.
When she rode in Hyde Park, which she did early every morning, there was always a posse of men eager to escort her.
They were usually obliged to move with her in a body and then to shake them off she would laughingly ride ahead, galloping in what was considered an outrageous manner.
She would head towards the North side of the Park, which was not so fashionable.
Well-behaved young ladies rode quite slowly and never, it was emphasised, galloped.
There was no doubt that Lady Marcia, in this her second London Season, was galloping in every way she pleased.
There appeared to be no one able to control her.
She had paused for only a moment at the doorway of the ballroom and a second later there were half a dozen men asking her to dance with them.
She deliberately prevaricated, teased them provocatively and finally chose the Duke of Buckstead to be her partner.
There was a little sigh amongst the Dowagers as they watched them moving round the room.
“I suppose she intends to accept Buckstead,” one of them mumbled. “After all she will hardly get a better chance.”
“They say he is frantic about her,” another remarked, “like quite a number of other men. But she turns them all down.”
“If she goes on like this, she will end up an old maid,” another woman said spitefully.
No one bothered to reply.
It was obvious that, as long as Lady Marcia looked as lovely as she did tonight, there was no chance of her remaining unmarried for very much longer.
Ever since she had first appeared on the London scene she had been the talk of the town.
It was not just her beauty, but the way she behaved. She appeared to enjoy life in an almost outrageous fashion.
Every day she thought of something new and unusual to do and refused suitor after suitor for no good reason.
It was supposed that she must be expecting someone more important than the man who had just offered his hand, his heart and, of course, his title!
Marcia’s relations had long since given up expostulating with her or her father and it was quite obvious that neither of them listened.
As the Earl was the Head of the Family and an exceedingly wealthy man, the majority of his relations were dependent on him. There was therefore little that they could do.
Marcia danced round the room with the Duke until the music stopped.
Then, as several other couples did, they walked out of the long windows and into the garden.
The garden at Devonshire House had always been noted as a place for lovers.
It was said that more proposals had taken place under its trees than anywhere else in London.
It also served as a meeting ground for many an affaire de coeur.
There was no doubt that tonight at any rate the air vibrated with love. The trees were hung with Chinese lanterns as the paths were lined with little flickering fairy lights.
Only where the garden sloped down the hill to Berkeley Square was there darkness except for the light of the moon.
Marcia moved over the soft green grass towards the fountain.
She was always fascinated by fountains and she thought that the drops of water thrown up into the sky were like tiny prayers moving towards Heaven.
She was thinking of the fountain that she had just persuaded her father to install in the garden at home.
It would look beautiful surrounded by the hedges with their elaborate topiary work.
This was characteristic of the garden, which had been laid out originally by the first Earl in the reign of King Charles II.
“You have not given me an answer, Marcia,” the Duke said almost sharply.
She had almost forgotten that he was there and his voice made her start.
“I am sorry, George,” she answered. “I was not listening. What was your question?”
“The question I have asked you before and you have never given me a direct
answer,” the Duke retorted. “I want you to marry me. I know I could make you happy.”
Marcia looked away from him towards the fountain.
The Cupid was holding a cornucopia in his arms and water surged from it.
There was the soft music of a dreamy waltz coming from the ballroom and it struck her that this was a very appropriate place for the Duke to propose.
Yet she knew that she could not give him the answer he wanted.
“It’s no use, George,” she said. “You know I will never marry until I am in love and I do not love you.”
“Why do you not love me?” he asked in a truculent tone.
At twenty-eight he had been pursued by every ambitious Mama in the whole of the Beau Monde.
It seemed to him extraordinary that, when he had finally made up his mind to marry, he should receive a refusal.
How could this mere girl be apparently the only young woman in London who did not love him?
“The fact is,” he said aloud, “you know nothing about love except what you have read in some rubbishy novelette or dreamt about when you were still at the age of enjoying Fairytales.”
“What is wrong with that?” Marcia asked.
“It’s not practical,” the Duke said. “You know as well as I do, Marcia, you will make a very beautiful and very much admired Duchess.”
Marcia turned from her contemplation of the fountain to look at him.
“My husband would be the Duke,” she said quietly.
“Well, what is wrong with that?” the Duke echoed her words.
He was well aware that he was spoken of not only as the most eligible bachelor in Society but also as the best-looking.
He had been painted by no fewer than three eminent artists and the portraits were hung in Buckstead Castle for everyone to see.
“Let’s talk of something else,” Marcia said unexpectedly. “I thought your horse ran very well at Ascot yesterday. It was a pity it did not win.”
“It was the jockey’s fault,” the Duke responded angrily. “I have sacked him and the next time I enter Champion in a race he will come in first.”
Marcia smiled at the determination in his tone and he added,
“And that is what I intend to do where you are concerned. We will have no more nonsense about it! You will marry me and we will announce our engagement next week.”
“We will do nothing of the sort,” Marcia declared. “I have told you, George, that while I like you as a friend I have no wish to have you as my husband.”
“Damn it!” the Duke swore. “You would try the patience of a Saint and I refuse to take ‘no’ as an answer.”
He put his arms round Marcia as he spoke.
She knew that he intended to kiss her, not gently but fiercely and demandingly, as if he believed that it was his right.
She did not struggle, she just quickly moved a little and in some way upset his balance.
His arms were already going round her, but his feet slipped.
As he fell sideways, he toppled over the stone bowl of the fountain into the water.
And as he fell, he swore.
Marcia did not stop either to listen or to see how wet he was.
She merely turned and walked away.
She disappeared among the trees that would lead her back into the house by a different route from the one they had come into the garden by.
*
Much later that evening Marcia was driving back with her father in his comfortable carriage to their house in Grosvenor Square.
“What happened to Buckstead?” the Earl asked. “I saw you dancing with him soon after we arrived and then he disappeared.”
Marcia did not answer and after a moment the Earl said,
“Don’t tell me that he asked you to marry him and you refused.”
“He asked me for at least the sixth time and yes, Papa, I refused.”
The Earl made an exasperated sound.
“You refused Buckstead! But why? Good God, girl, you will never have a better offer. He is undoubtedly the richest Duke in England.”
“You know the answer, Papa,” Marcia replied quietly.
The Earl was still feeling for words when the horses came to a standstill outside their house.
It was a very impressive building and the Earl had had a great deal of redecorating done to it the previous year before Marcia made her debut.
He had thought then that it was unlikely that he would spend another Season in London.
It was quite obvious that with her beauty and her background Marcia would be feted and pursued.
Every eligible bachelor who felt the time had come when he must take a wife and settle down had proposed. But her relations and the Society Dowagers were all stunned when she had refused them one after another.
The Earl, however, had thought when the Duke of Buckstead became interested that his daughter had been right in taking her time in choosing a husband.
Buckstead, as he had just said, was the richest Duke in England and was also among the most prestigious.
His wife would be by tradition appointed a Lady of the Bedchamber to Queen Victoria.
Buckstead himself was spoken of with respect by the Prime Minister and quite a number of other leading Statesmen.
What also pleased the Earl was that the Duke had a racing stable as outstanding as his own and he thought that between them they could produce horses that would enhance the already great reputation of English horseflesh.
A footman hurried down the steps to open the carriage door.
As the Earl climbed out, he said,
“I want to speak to you, Marcia. So let’s go into my study.”
She gave no answer.
She merely walked into the house and handed her evening cloak to one of the footmen.
Then after a somewhat wistful look at the staircase she followed her father across the hall and down the passage to his study.
It was a room that was entirely masculine.
When they were in London, Marcia had spent a great deal of time in it when she was young because it contained a great number of heavily laden bookshelves.
At Woode Hall in the country there was a huge library.
Marcia would, however, have felt deprived of something very essential if there had not been books for her to read wherever she was.
The candelabrum was still lit on the Earl’s desk and the candles were alight on the mantelpiece.
As Marcia entered the room, the butler waited in the doorway in case there were any orders.
“There is nothing else, thank you, Bowles,” the Earl said.
“Goodnight, my Lord.”
The butler bowed before he closed the door.
Marcia gave a little yawn.
“It’s too late, Papa,” she then remarked, “for one of your lectures. I know that you are upset that I will not marry George, but there is nothing I can do about it.”
“What do you mean there is nothing you can do about it?” the Earl asked. “As I have told you, you will never have a better offer and his racehorses are magnificent.”
“I agree with you, Papa, but unfortunately I do not have to marry his horses, but him!”
The Earl, who had sat down at his desk, brought his fist down with a bang.
“You are making a joke of it and, quite frankly, Marcia, it is nothing to joke about. You will have to marry someone. I am quite convinced that Buckstead will suit you admirably.”
“And I am quite convinced that he will not,” Marcia answered. “So what are we to do about it?”
“The whole thing is ridiculous,” the Earl raged. “I let you refuse one offer after another, starting with a Viscount, when you were only just eighteen. I thought at the time that it was a mistake.”
Marcia stood on tiptoe to look at her reflection in the mirror over the fireplace.
“I cannot understand, Papa, why you are in such a hurry to get rid of me. I am always so happy with you and you know that we have so many i
nterests in common.”
The Earl’s expression softened.
“And I like having you with me,” he said. “But you know perfectly well that you have to be married and nothing will delight those evil-tongued old women more than to say that you are getting past your best and I am spoiling your chances by keeping you at home.”
Marcia laughed and it was a very pretty sound.
“Of course they will say that, Papa,” she agreed. “But does it really matter? They are simply jealous because I am your daughter and are angry because you have never married again after Mama died.”
There was a moment’s silence before the Earl reflected,
“You know how much I miss your mother. It would be impossible to find anyone to take her place.”
“Yes, Papa, I know that. That is why I have tried to look after you as Mama would have liked me to do and to keep you amused. I can hardly do that and have a husband on my hands as well.”
The Earl rose from his desk.
“You are twisting me round your little finger, as you always do. You know perfectly well that you have to be married and it is normal in families like ours for your father to choose a husband for you and for you to accept that I am a better judge of men than you are.”
Marcia laughed.
“Oh, Papa, you cannot bring up all that nonsense again. I have heard it all before. You agreed with me then that arranged marriages are uncivilised and the direct way to disaster.”
“I did nothing of the sort,” the Earl protested.
Marcia, however, carried on,
“But because you loved Mama from the first moment you met, you promised that you would not force me to marry any man I did not like.”
“I promised that within reason,” the Earl conceded. “But now things have gone too far. You did not tell me that Buckstead had already proposed to you before. Now I know about it, you will tell him that your answer is ‘yes’ and we will have no more arguments about it.”
There was silence until Marcia, smiling a little wryly, commented,
“I think it unlikely that George will ask me again to be his wife after what happened this evening.”
“What happened,” the Earl asked sharply.
“He tried to kiss me, saying somewhat unromantically that I would try the patience of a Saint.”
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