Only a Dream

by Barbara Cartland

  He realised too from what she had told him that she had never been completely alone before.

  Although it seemed incredible, she appeared to have no relatives and no friends.

  *

  The Marquis slept very little that night, thinking of Isla and knowing that he had not been mistaken in thinking that he loved her.

  He was well aware that he should not only control his love, but, if possible, dismiss it from his mind and his heart.

  It was inconceivable that a man in his position with the prospect in a few months of becoming the Lord Lieutenant should take as his wife the daughter of a Music Hall actor.

  Isla was a lady, there was no disputing that, but her father’s notoriety on the stage would prevent her from being accepted in the Social world.

  Certainly the doors of Buckingham Palace would be closed to her.

  He knew the answer was quite obvious. It was what Lord Polegate had suggested and frightened her into running away from him.

  The Marquis was therefore sure that was something that he could not suggest to Isla. But what was the alternative?

  He tossed and turned in his bed, finally ringing for his valet at six o’clock.

  Having ordered his horses, he left an hour later for London, first writing a short note for Isla and giving instructions that she was not to be called until she rang.

  As he departed, although he was not aware of it, there was a grim look on his handsome face.

  He was not looking forward to confronting Lord Polegate, as his journey might entail, over the dead body of Keegan Kenway.

  *

  Isla again awoke late, which was not surprising, as she had cried herself to sleep.

  Her mother had always said that it was extremely vulgar to cry in public and she had therefore kept her tears until she was alone in the darkness of her bed and no one could hear her.

  She was sensible enough to realise that she was crying for herself more than for her father.

  She believed absolutely that he was with her mother and they were now as happy as they had been before her mother had died.

  She felt she could almost see them laughing with joy, forgetting that she was alone and lost in what was a really frightening world.

  When finally she rang for the maid who was looking after her, she found that it was late in the morning.

  It was a relief when she found a note from the Marquis, to know that he had gone to London.

  Therefore she did not have to make an effort to go downstairs.

  In fact, it was teatime when finally she went down to the library, thinking that to look at the books would take her mind off what had happened.

  She did not like to think of what she would do in the future or where she would live.

  When she tried to remember the few friends who had come to the house, they none of them seemed the sort of people she could turn to for help.

  ‘What can I do, Mama? What can I do?’ she kept asking, as she took down books from the shelves.

  But when they were in her hands she found it difficult to concentrate on reading them.

  Then at last the library door opened and she knew that the Marquis had returned.

  He was looking, she thought, so strong, so kind and understanding that without even thinking she ran towards him.

  Only when she had reached his side did she bring herself to a stop and make him a little curtsey.

  “You are – back! You are – back!” she cried.

  The Marquis thought the relief in her voice was like the song of the birds.

  “I am back,” he declared, “and I have a great deal to tell you!”

  Holding hands, they walked to the sofa and sat down side by side.

  “Papa?” Isla asked as if she was prompting him.

  “I saw Sir Martin,” the Marquis replied, “and everything is arranged for your father to be buried tomorrow.”

  He saw the expression in Isla’s eyes and went on,

  “It is unusually quick, but you will understand that Lord Polegate does not want him to remain in the house longer than is necessary. Sir Martin has therefore arranged for the funeral to take place at St. Paul’s Church, Covent Garden, which is in the theatre world and all his friends will wish to be present.”

  Isla made a little murmur and the Marquis said,

  “I don’t want to upset you, Isla, but I think it would be a mistake for you to be present.”

  “But surely I – ought to go to – Papa’s funeral?”

  “Most of the people there would not know who you were and there is no doubt that Lord Polegate will be present.”

  He saw Isla stiffen and said,

  “Sir Martin told me that he is making it into a big event as far as he is concerned and is giving a huge luncheon when the Service is over.”

  “I-I cannot – meet him!” Isla said quickly.

  “No, of course not!” the Marquis agreed. “That is why I suggest that you stay here and, as very few people are aware that you are your father’s daughter, no one will notice or be surprised by your absence.”

  Isla knew that this was true.

  Although she felt it wrong that she should not follow her father to his last resting place, she remembered that nobody in the theatre had known when her mother had died.

  In fact she and her father had been the only mourners in the cemetery.

  “You – are right,” she said after a moment in a very low voice, “and I – will stay – here.”

  “What I am going to suggest,” the Marquis said, “is that while we know that Lord Polegate is fully occupied with your father’s funeral and the luncheon, I take you to London and you can pick up everything you require from your house.”

  “I may – not go – back there to live?” Isla asked.

  “I think it would be a mistake, unless you wish to meet Lord Polegate again!”

  “No – no! Of course – not! But – where am I – to go?”

  “I am suggesting that you stay here while we think it over.”

  There was silence and after a moment the Marquis declared,

  “I should be delighted to have you as my guest.”

  “But you did not – know I existed until I – climbed into your carriage – and you cannot – want me now.”

  “Shall I say I do want you and I am very happy to help you?”

  He chose his words carefully and tried not to let his real feelings show in his voice.

  “Did you – really mean – that?” Isla asked.

  “I mean it and I want you to be sensible and give us both time to find a solution to your problem. Nothing must be done in a hurry.”

  He thought as he spoke that, when she knew him better, she might fall in love with him in the same way that he had fallen in love with her.

  Then he almost laughed at his own thoughts.

  Could he really be so unsure of himself, considering that for the last two years he had been pursued, enticed and seduced by almost every beautiful woman he had met?

  The Marquis was not a conceited man, but he would have been very stupid if he had not been aware that besides his title, his wealth and his extraordinary good looks, he had also what people called ‘charisma’.

  It was something women always found irresistible.

  Yet at this moment he was very uncertain as to how a girl of her age, who knew nothing of the Social world, would accept his advances!

  It was his instinct that told him he would have to tread very carefully.

  Otherwise she would run from him in disgust and horror as she had run away from Lord Polegate.

  There was no doubt that Isla was unique.

  Although she was helpless, he was aware that she had a quick brain and surprisingly was exceptionally well educated.

  He knew that it was all these qualities that had made her agree finally to everything he suggested.

  It was not just because she felt helpless, but because, logically, she decided that what he proposed was the sensible
thing to do.

  They had dinner together and, when the Marquis set himself out to interest and amuse her, she responded with a courage that he admired more and more.

  He was surprised to find how much she knew about art and architecture, besides being knowledgeable about the breeding of horses.

  “How do you know about that?” he asked.

  “Papa always took the sporting papers, because he said that the people in the theatre bet on everything that moved!” she replied. “But because he sometimes had no time to read them himself, I used to read about which horses had won the Classic races and their breeding interested me.”

  “Also their owners, I suppose!” the Marquis said cynically without thinking.

  Isla smiled.

  “They were only names to me, but Papa had met quite a number of them.”

  By the end of the evening the Marquis was comparing Isla in his mind to a Madonna lily.

  He thought it would be impossible for her to be so beautiful without having a character and a personality to match her looks.

  He wanted to take her to Florence to see the paintings by Botticelli, of which she reminded him.

  He wanted to compare her with the Greek statues in Rome and the figures on the Acropolis in Athens.

  There were a thousand places against which he thought her beauty would stand out like a precious gem.

  Then he was back with the same unanswerable question, which was what was he to do with her when they were back in England.

  Before she went upstairs to bed, Isla said,

  “I want to thank you, my Lord – but somehow there are no words – in which I can – do so.”

  She walked across the drawing room as she spoke to stand gazing out into the darkness.

  Because they had come into the room when the sun was still setting behind the oak trees, the Marquis had ordered the curtains not to be closed.

  Now Isla, in the simple muslin gown that Mrs. Lancaster had found for her to wear, lifted her head to the stars.

  Watching her the Marquis drew in his breath.

  Every moment they were together he thought that he fell more in love.

  It was as if he were being tormented by a battle taking place between his brain and his heart.

  “If I could – give you a present,” Isla said in her soft musical voice, “I would take a – star out of the – sky and put it amongst your – treasures.”

  “But instead I am very content to have you among them!” the Marquis replied.

  “I should be very – very honoured if you thought of me – as a treasure – when you have so many and such magnificent collections!”

  It was almost a cue, the Marquis thought, to say what he really felt.

  Then he knew that Isla was speaking quite impersonally.

  She was comparing herself to one of his pictures or his collection of jewelled snuff boxes, which she had admired before dinner.

  It never entered her mind that he desired her as a woman or that she was anything more to him than an object of pity.

  ‘Perhaps in time – ’ he reassured himself.

  But now he was desperately afraid of moving too quickly and frightening her.

  As a child, when he had tried to approach a fawn in the Park, he had learned that one quick movement or faint sound of his voice would send them scampering away.

  It would take hours, perhaps days, before he could coax them back into trusting him again.

  “What I want you to do is to try to be happy,” he said aloud. “I know it is difficult, but everything that happens to us is an adventure and that is the best way to think of it.”

  “Now you are talking just like Mama,” Isla said. “She told me when I was very young that life was like the waves of the sea – they come up – they go down – and we cannot expect everything to be smooth all the time.”

  “I can see your mother was very wise,” the Marquis commented.

  “She taught me so many things and I missed her not only as a mother when she died, but because she was so – knowledgeable.”

  “And you told me that you also learnt a lot at school.”

  “I learnt about places and people at school, but Mama taught me about – life.”

  The Marquis thought that this was a very intelligent thing for Isla to think.

  She had already told him that she had been to what he knew was a grand and expensive school, because his nieces were there.

  He had been surprised that they had accepted Keegan Kenway’s daughter, until a little shyly Isla had explained that she had been known by her grandmother’s name of Arkray.

  What was important, the Marquis thought, was that whether it was the school or her mother, her intelligence had been keenly developed.

  She was also undoubtedly far better read than the older women he had normally associated with.

  He had often thought, when he had not been making love to them, that their conversation was banal.

  Talking to Isla, every subject they touched seemed to sparkle and he thought that he might have been with one of his men-friends.

  Now, because he felt that he could not look at her silhouetted against the light without taking her into his arms and kissing her passionately, he said,

  “I think you should go to bed. I have to be up early, as you know.”

  “Of course – I should have thought of that!” she exclaimed. “How selfish of me!”

  She turned from the window to walk towards him.

  Once again the Marquis’s self-control prevented him from begging her to stay and telling her how much he wanted her.

  “Thank you – thank you!” she said as she reached him.

  Then, as he put out his hand, she took it and curtseyed – at the same time, he felt the softness of her lips on his skin.

  For a moment he was still as he felt a thrill strike through his body like forked lightning.

  Then she ran towards the door, opened it and before he could move was running across the hall and up the stairs to her room.

  *

  Isla lay awake for a little while saying a prayer of thanks to God.

  She tried not to worry about what would happen to her when the Marquis no longer wanted her here in his wonderful house.

  ‘I must not become a bore,’ she told her mother in her prayers, ‘and you have often said how people stay and stay and will not leave and that it is very bad manners to outstay one’s welcome.’

  She told herself that perhaps she could find work of some sort, but she had no idea what that could be.

  She was certain only that even if it meant starving to death, she would not go to the theatre and meet men like Lord Polegate.

  Mrs. Lancaster called her in the morning and brought her breakfast to her in bed.

  She was dressed in her own pretty gown and small bonnet five minutes before she had been told that his Lordship would be ready to leave.

  Nevertheless, he was already in the hall as she came down the stairs.

  She saw his chaise outside and remembered that he had promised he would drive his most outstanding team of horses.

  They drove off and, as they went down the drive, Isla looked back at the house.

  “What are you looking for?” the Marquis enquired.

  “It is so beautiful, and I am so – afraid I will not – see it again.”

  “You are coming back this evening!”

  “It – might be just a – dream.”

  “What do you mean by that?” he enquired.

  “Everything that has – happened has been so – strange,” she answered, “and I keep remembering – Papa’s song, It was only a dream, and being afraid I will – wake up.”

  “I promise you that Longridge Park will be here when we return,” the Marquis said with a smile. “If you would be disconcerted if it disappeared, think what I would be feeling!”

  Isla laughed and soon they were talking about the horses and she forgot what had worried her.

  They reached th
e little house in Chelsea in record time. As the groom opened the door with the key that Isla had handed to him, the Marquis said tactfully,

  “I expect that you would like to be alone while you sort out what you want to bring away with you. If there is too much for us to take, just leave it in a pile and I will send the servants with the brake to collect it later.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “It is now eleven o’clock,” he said. “I will come back for you at one and we will go out to luncheon. Keep the door locked and don’t answer it to anybody but me.”

  Isla smiled at him and, as he drove off, he thought that he heard her bolt the door.

  *

  Alone in the little house, Isla felt that it seemed so much smaller than she remembered and she could hardly believe that she had been away for such a short time.

  Then, because she knew that there was a great deal to be done, she went to her bedroom and began to pack the few gowns she possessed.

  She had already told the Marquis shyly that she could not afford to buy any mourning clothes.

  He repressed a desire to tell her that he would pay for anything she wanted and she said,

  “Papa always hated mourning and would not let me wear it when – Mama died. He liked bright colours and thought that in black women looked like – crows!”

  “I think the same,” the Marquis agreed. “As you don’t believe that your father and mother are dead, black would just be a waste of money and who are you to impress by wearing it?”

  “It is – so like you to – understand,” she sighed.

  It was, he knew, a compliment, and yet she spoke impersonally and would, he thought, have said the same to any other man who was with her.

  When her trunk was full and she had put in one or two of her mother’s gowns because she knew they would fit her, she went to her mother’s dressing table.

  She wondered if there was anything special that she should take away with her.

  She packed the silver hairbrushes and mirror that matched them and then opened the drawers.

  She knew only too well that her mother had no jewellery, as the few pieces she had owned had been sold long ago to pay for her school fees.

  She also knew that the small amount of money her mother had been left by the grandmother she had never seen had gone the same way.