A Marriage Made In Heaven

by Barbara Cartland

  When they were not actually eating together there was little sign of him, and Samala wondered what he found to occupy himself with in the woods or the unkempt garden or riding over the un-ploughed fields.

  She knew with an instinct that made words unnecessary that Maureen Henley loved her father, and she was almost certain that he loved her.

  ‘What can I do about them?’ she asked herself and found herself lying awake thinking about their problems, when she wanted really to think about her own life and what lay ahead.

  She could not bear to think of her father being unhappy, for until now he had filled her whole life and she loved him more than it was possible to say to him or to anybody else.

  She knew she would be miserable if she thought of him lonely in the great empty house where there was only Mrs. Brigstock, who was growing blind, and old Brigstock, who was really useless, to look after him.

  If Maureen Henley missed the large staff of excellent servants she employed at her own house, she certainly showed no sign of it.

  She sometimes required Samala to do up one of her gowns, but otherwise she looked after herself very ably without a lady’s maid.

  She was also very content to sleep in the beautiful room where it was rumoured that Queen Elizabeth herself had slept, but where everything was now falling into disrepair and even the curtains round the bed were tattered and torn.

  “I cannot bear it!” Maureen said one evening when, on going upstairs to bed, she and Samala found that in her bedroom one of the legs had broken off a fine old Elizabethan chair that had collapsed from wood-rot.

  “We must get it mended,” she said as they picked it up from the floor.

  “We cannot afford to,” Samala answered. “In fact the attics at the top of the house contain a number of chairs like this, all broken, and although Papa tried to mend some of them, they are still not safe to use.”

  Maureen sat down on the side of the bed in a gesture of despair.

  “I cannot bear it!” she said again. “This is the most beautiful house I have ever seen in my life and is a part of history. We cannot just let it crumble into dust when it should be a heritage for the future.”

  “I know,” Samala replied. “I feel like that, but what can Papa do? He has no money and he is far too proud to be a fortune-hunter.”

  There was a little silence after she had spoken. Then, as if she felt she had said too much, Samala jumped to her feet and kissed Maureen, saying,

  “There is no use in ‘crying over spilt milk’, as my Nanny used to say and what cannot be cured must be endured.”

  “That is true of some problems,” Maureen answered, “but there must be a different answer to this one.”

  “Then I hope you find it,” Samala said lightly, “because Papa and I have tried and failed.”

  She said goodnight and went to her own room, knowing that she had been right in thinking that Maureen Henley loved her father and that the only difficulty lay with him.

  When she heard him come upstairs, she went along in her dressing gown to the Master bedroom, in which the Earl slept in the bed of his ancestors, their coat-of-arms emblazoned on the faded damask over the pillows.

  “I came to say goodnight, Papa.”

  “I am glad you did,” he replied. “I was thinking as I came upstairs how much I shall miss you when I am alone here and the only sound will be the squeaks of the mice in the wainscoting.”

  There was a depressed note in his voice and Samala remarked,

  “At least the Priory is beautiful, and when you look at it you can forget its dilapidated state.”

  “Unfortunately, I cannot forget,” the Earl replied. “I am also acutely conscious that it is like an injured person who needs attention.”

  “But I would rather live here than in Mrs. Henley’s house,” Samala persisted. “It is ugly, pompous, stiff and I know she feels that she never really belongs, as we feel we belong here.”

  “It is hers,” the Earl objected, “and she can afford to live in style.”

  “I am sure Mama would say that is very cold comfort. It is love that counts in a house, Papa, and that is what The Priory has always given us. I am sure that you are conscious, as I am, of love from the Wynns who have lived here for generations and who love us because we are one of them.”

  Her father put his arm round her and held her close to him.

  “I love your imagination and your clever little brain, my dearest,” he said. “I only hope the ghosts of our ancestors, which you think are all round us, will enjoy what I have to say to them, because when you are gone I shall have nobody else to talk to!”

  “I hope they will make you laugh,” Samala said. “It makes me want to cry to think that you will be lonely and I can do nothing about it. Maureen Henley will be terribly lonely too and I cannot help her either. Oh, dear, if I am happy I want everybody I love to be happy too!”

  She put her arms round her father’s neck and kissed him affectionately, then slipped away, thinking that perhaps she had given him something to consider that might prevent him from falling asleep for some time.

  *

  The next day, instead of seeming closer, Maureen Henley and her father appeared to go out of their way to avoid each other and if they exchanged six words during the day, Samala was not aware of it.

  In fact her father was not at luncheon and it was only when dinner came that they all sat down to what was an exceptionally good meal because it consisted of food that Maureen had ordered to be sent over from her own house.

  To the Earl’s surprise, there was also champagne, instead of the claret they had been drinking every night.

  “What is this?” he asked when he saw the bottle standing in the ice-cooler that Samala had brought to the table.

  “When I saw my doctor,” Maureen answered, “he said that he thought the claret had done me a great deal of good and I could return to a lighter drink. As I do not like still white wine and find it rather acid, on his instructions I have chosen to drink champagne and you must tell me if you think my choice is a good one.”

  She spoke so ingenuously that the suspicion died in the Earl’s eyes and, without saying any more, he opened the bottle and filled their glasses.

  When dinner was over and her father had eaten it without comment, although the dishes were delicious and contained cream and many other ingredients they could seldom afford, Maureen Henley raised her glass.

  “I think,” she said, “as this is the first time we have had champagne, we should drink Samala’s health. I am praying, as I know you are, my Lord, that she will be very very happy.”

  “Of course,” the Earl replied a little heavily.

  They both raised their glasses to Samala who said,

  “It’s no use – I simply cannot do it! I cannot leave Papa – alone here with nobody to look after him!”

  The Earl and Maureen stared at her as she went on,

  “I thought I could go away and things would be all right – without me – but I know the Brigstocks are too old and too decrepit to do a tenth of the things I do – and it would be cruel and selfish of me to think only of my own – happiness and leave Papa here without – proper food and with the place growing more dirty and dilapidated than it is already!”

  She turned towards her father as she added,

  “Please, Papa, will you send a groom over to tell the Marchioness that I have – changed my mind? I am going to stay here with you – and the Duke will have to find himself – another bride.”

  As she spoke, she rose from the table and ran from the room.

  Maureen Henley put down her glass, while the Earl just stared at the chair his daughter had been sitting in as if he could not believe what he had heard. Then he said,

  “She is just being hysterical because she is being married in such ridiculous haste. She will be all right in the morning.”

  “I don’t believe Samala is ever hysterical,” Maureen answered, “and I can understand exactly what she feels.�
��

  “I know! I know!” the Earl replied. “But there is nothing I can do about it.”

  There was silence and, as Maureen did not speak, he said,

  “How can I do anything? You can see the mess I am in?”

  “Samala understands that. That is why she knows she cannot leave you.”

  “She has to leave me,” the Earl said sharply. “I was surprised she accepted him, but at the same time, Buckhurst, as you probably know, is not only a very wealthy man but a great sportsman. No one could help admiring a man who has won the Derby twice and I understand will undoubtedly win the Gold Cup this year.”

  Maureen was still silent and after a moment he went on,

  “I visited Buckhurst Park several times when I was a boy. It is magnificent and the estate is a model of its kind. Samala will have everything – everything!”

  “How can she accept that and worry about you?”

  “You will have to talk to her.”

  “I don’t think she will listen to me.”

  “Then what can I do?” he asked. “I cannot allow her to throw away her chance of living as she should do just for my sake.”

  Again there was a long silence before Maureen said in a hesitating voice,

  “I think Samala – when she asked me here – thought that I might be – able to help you.”

  Her words seemed almost to vibrate on the air despite having been spoken so softly that they were only barely audible. Then the Earl spoke harshly,

  “You must know what I feel about you, as I have for a very long time, but I have nothing to offer you – nothing!”

  Maureen Henley did not speak. Her voice seemed to have died in her throat, but she put her hand very gently palm upwards on the table.

  The Earl’s hand closed over it, and she felt his fingers, strong, insistent, squeezing hers until they were almost bloodless. Then he said,

  “I want you – you know I want you – but I am humiliated and ashamed at having nothing to offer you.”

  Maureen found her voice.

  “Only the most beautiful house in England and – you!”

  *

  Upstairs in her own bedroom, Samala prayed.

  She felt she had done everything she could and the only possible help at this particular moment must come from God.

  She knew that her perception had been right when she had become aware that Maureen loved her father and her father loved Maureen, not perhaps in the same way he had loved her mother, but because she was a perfect companion as well as a sweet and very lovable person.

  Looking back, Samala knew now that in these last few years she should have persuaded her father to play a greater part in County affairs and spend more time socially with his friends.

  She should have swept away his objections and invited more people to The Priory, even if they had little to offer their guests.

  ‘Papa is a host in himself and the right people would not worry what they ate and drank so long as they could talk to him and realise how clever, intelligent and charming he is,’ she told herself.

  Her excuse for not doing anything was that she had been so young and also so content to be with her father alone that she had not realised that as a man he needed a woman whom he could love and who would love him.

  And, she thought now, if God was merciful, her father might still have an heir to follow him in the long tradition of the title and the estate passing from father to son.

  ‘I know if he will marry Maureen everything will be all right,’ she told herself and yet she was afraid that at the last moment the pride of the Wynn would prove stronger and more indomitable than love.

  ‘Please, dear God – please help him,’ Samala prayed.

  She thought how often her prayers had been answered and yet equally how her desperate pleas for money had been ignored.

  Then it struck her that in this case the two were synonymous.

  She was sure, since her father loved Maureen and she loved him, that the fact that she had money and a lot of it was not and could not be significant beside the wonder of their love.

  Samala sat at the open window looking out into the night, watching the stars coming out in the sky. Then it struck her that perhaps she should pray for herself.

  She was not so stupid that she did not realise that the Duke in asking her to become his wife did not love her for the obvious reason that he had never seen her.

  Because she was extremely well read, she was aware that where Royalty and great aristocrats were concerned, their marriages were always arranged.

  It was not a question of two people meeting each other and falling in love, but was one of breeding, suitability, environment and also where it was financially advantageous both to the bride and groom that the marriage should take place.

  Samala was aware that this had begun with the legal Contract of Marriage according to Roman Law, which had been entirely an exchange of land, goods or money.

  The Contract had been taken for legal approval to a priest, because in most cases he was the only person in the village who could read.

  Together with the Civil Contract and the exchange of goods had come the priest’s blessing, which gradually became the Church Service of Marriage.

  The Duke of Buckhurst required a wife because it was the correct procedure for him to marry, Samala reasoned and he would eventually require an heir to his title.

  That he had chosen her was incomprehensible, unless, for some strange reason, which she could not even begin to understand, he had preferred the Kenwyn family to all the other aristocrats who she was certain would have been only too proud and willing to forge an alliance with the Duke of Buckhurst.

  “I am lucky, so very very lucky,” she said to the stars. “But, please, greedy though it may seem, I want more. I want him to love me and, although it may be difficult for him to do so, please use your magic.”

  She drew in her breath and went on in a whisper,

  “When he sees me, let his heart leap towards me so that he will know that I am the bride that Fate has chosen for him and we have met again after perhaps a thousand years in which we have been apart.”

  It was all part of her reading, her dreams and her fantasies and she could clearly see it all happening.

  Yet, it seemed to her that the Duke would not be wearing the ordinary conventional clothes of this present day and age, but the shining silver armour of chivalry, while she would be in the long-sleeved gown of Mediaeval times with a pointed headdress from which a long white veil flowed to the ground.

  Then she laughed at her own ideas.

  ‘I should certainly look very strange if that is how I appeared as a bride!’

  But even as she laughed, she knew that her heart was still reaching up to the stars and she was praying for love.

  She heard the door open behind her and for a moment it was hard to come back to earth as she felt almost as if she was floating high above it on a magic carpet.

  Then she turned her head and, by the light of the candle she had lit by her bed, she saw Maureen looking for her.

  She jumped up from the window as Maureen crossed the room and put her arms round her and she could feel her heart beating excitedly.

  “Oh, dearest, dearest!” she exclaimed. “It is all right! Your father loves me. We are to be married and I am to live here in this glorious, beautiful house and look after him.”

  Samala gave a cry of delight.

  Then she realised that tears were running down Maureen’s cheeks and her eyes were shining like the stars.

  But she was also laughing with sheer happiness.

  Chapter 4

  The Duke arrived home the night before his wedding in an exceedingly bad temper.

  He was honest enough to admit that some of this was his own fault in that he had been beguiled by the Baroness into staying in Leicestershire for longer than he had intended.

  Again, when he had meant to leave London earlier, he found that her husband had left for an important
meeting in Holland and she was therefore alone in the Embassy.

  The temptation, or rather the temptress herself, was too alluring to resist and the Duke continued a liaison which was all the more intense and fiery because they were both aware that time was running out and a bride was waiting for him in the country.

  He still, of course, loathed the idea of being pressured into marriage after having fought against it for so long and it did not make things any better to learn that Edmund was making the very most of his position as heir presumptive.

  He was even declaring that he very much doubted if the Duke would father a son, alleging that soon after he was born Buck had been cursed by a witch who had prophesied that no child of his would ever inherit the Dukedom.

  This was entirely a fabrication of Edmund’s devious mind and the majority of people laughed and ignored such nonsense.

  But the Duke knew that his enemies, and actually he had quite a number, would make the most of the story and it was in fact the kind of lie that he most disliked, because it could only have come from somebody of Edmund’s calibre.

  The Duke therefore found consolation and forgetfulness in the arms of the Baroness, whose charms seemed to be magnified simply because he was well aware that he should be at home greeting his relatives who would be arriving in force to stay at Buckhurst Park for the wedding.

  When finally he started off from London, everything went well until one of his leading horses dropped a shoe.

  This was not an unusual occurrence, but it always infuriated anybody concerned with establishing a new record.

  Although fortunately the Duke had spare horses lodging on all the main roads, especially the one from London to Buckhurst Park, it meant that he had to proceed slowly and carefully for over five miles before he could change horses.

  Naturally this increased the delay and, when finally he drove down the drive of ancient oak trees and saw his house in the distance, he was aware that he would be late for dinner, which was something he disliked more than anything else.