Love in the Moon

by Barbara Cartland

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  When I visited the Dordogne area in 1980, I thought it beautiful and I also enjoyed passing through the prolific and famous vineyards round Bordeaux.

  The depression, as I related in this story started in the early 1860s when phylloxera was introduced into France by infected stock from America,

  By the time the nature of the disease was fully understood, the pest had spread so rapidly that little could be done to check it.

  In Périgord the worst ravages occurred in the late 1870s and by 1892 the area devoted to vines was only a fifth of what it had been twenty years earlier.

  But, although the population is still less than it should be, crops are now well established. Strawberries are sent daily during the season by lorry to Paris and Dordogne is the leading Department in France for the production of walnuts and tobacco is often the peasant farmers’ best source of income.

  A dozen paper mills employ fifteen hundred workers, while the industries concerned with trees, fruit, and pedigree bulls employ many others.

  But tourism beats them all, and the fascination of ‘a corner of the moon’ lies in the battle cry of a Périgordin made a thousand years ago.

  “A stone for the wicked, a loving heart for one’s friends and a sword for the enemy – if you can find all three, you are a Périgordin.”

  Chapter One ~ 1878

  The Earl of Langstone helped himself to another lamb cutlet from a large silver dish as the door of the dining room opened and his sister came in.

  She was dressed in a riding habit and he looked up from the breakfast table with a smile to say,

  “You are late and I suppose the excuse is the usual one that your horse kept you.”

  “Of course he did,” Lady Canèda Lang replied. “Who else would be so alluring at this hour of the morning?”

  Her brother laughed.

  “That is for you to say. What happened with Warrington last night?”

  Canèda did not reply as she helped herself to bacon and eggs from a side table.

  Then, as she sat down opposite her brother, she said,

  “I think, Harry, you will have to speak to him. He is becoming a nuisance. He made me go with him into the Conservatory and kept me there practically by force!”

  “It would save a lot of trouble if you would accept him,” the Earl replied.

  His sister made a derisive sound.

  “I have no intention of marrying Lord Warrington or any other of those halfwits who have proposed to me these last two months. I keep remembering that they would not be so keen if you had not come into a title and a very large fortune.”

  The Earl laughed.

  “A cynic at nineteen,” he teased. “My dear Canèda, you are a very pretty girl and it is not surprising that men throw their hearts at your feet, especially when you are so well gowned.”

  Canèda’s eyes softened.

  “That I owe to you, Harry, and there is not a moment of the day when I do not enjoy feeling like a Princess in a Fairytale and remember that my wardrobe is full of other gowns just as delectable.”

  “I have the idea,” her brother answered, “that you are fishing for compliments, but I am sure you know without my telling you that ‘fine feathers make fine birds’.”

  “That is true,” Canèda replied, “but, Harry, it is exciting, is it not, to be rich, to be living here, having all those wonderful, wonderful horses you have bought me to ride, as well as Ariel?”

  “What have you been teaching him this morning?” the Earl enquired.

  “I have two new tricks for you to see as soon as you have the time. You never believe me, but I swear he understands every word I say to him. However many gorgeous horses fill your stable, there will never be one as marvellous as Ariel!”

  The Earl did not argue.

  He knew what his sister felt about the horse she had had since it was a foal and which when they were poor she had looked after herself.

  It had been an extravagance for her to have a horse of her own in addition to those shared between father and son.

  Canèda had always been crazy about horses ever since she was a child and the Earl had to admit that Ariel was, as a result of her teaching, a very remarkable horse indeed.

  But it was with almost the same enthusiasm as his sister showed, and with a sense of great satisfaction, when he thought of the stables at Langstone Park, which were now filled to capacity.

  He had plans being drawn up for extending the buildings to accommodate more horses, which he had every intention of buying in the near future.

  It was only nine months ago that Harry Lang had awakened one morning to find incredibly and with a distinct sense of shock that he had become an Earl.

  There had been three lives between him, the only son of a younger son, and the title and estates of the Earls of Langstone. His father had been killed in a hunting accident two years earlier and now a storm in the Irish Sea had caused the death of his uncle and his two sons as they were returning to England from the Emerald Isle.

  Because Harry’s father had never got on with his elder brother and, as it was up to the Head of the Family to finance the other members of it, they had been extremely poor.

  But they had also, Canèda often thought, been much happier in their small Manor House in an equally small village than their relations who lived in grandeur in the family mansion and apparently had a huge fortune to play with.

  The Earl’s two sons, both of whom were older than Harry, enjoyed themselves so much amongst the gaieties and frivolities of London that they had both, despite insistent pressure from their parents and other relations, refused to marry.

  One pursued social beauties who were inevitably already married and the other preferred the exceedingly attractive actresses who were to be found on stage at Drury Lane and The Gaiety Theatre, which was already becoming famous for its lovely women.

  In consequence they were both nearly thirty and unmarried, so that Harry at twenty-four stepped into their inheritance and became the ninth Earl.

  To Canèda it was as if Fate had waved a magic wand over them, so that, while sitting like Cinderella among the ashes, she was suddenly transplanted in a pumpkin carriage to a Prince’s Palace.

  Langstone Park, which she had visited only a few times in her life, certainly justified that description.

  Enormous, in the grandiose style of Blenheim Palace and Castle Howard and built by the same architect, Vanbrugh, it looked breathtaking as they drove down the drive.

  Although Harry said very little, she had known by the pulse throbbing at the side of his cheek that he was as thrilled as she was.

  First of all there had been the funeral of the late Earl and his two sons, when the great house had been filled with relatives from all over England, who had flocked there not only to pay their respects to the dead but also to inspect critically and a little apprehensively the inheritance.

  Because Gerald Lang had paid little attention to his relatives and they to him in the past twenty-five years, it was obvious that they were all wondering what the new Head of the Family would be like and if Harry would live up to its traditions.

  It would have been impossible, Canèda had thought as she watched their sideways glances at her brother for them not to be impressed by his appearance.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, fair and handsome in the Lang tradition.

  In fact it was difficult to imagine that he was not entirely English although his mother had been French.

  Canèda, on the other hand, resembled the exquisite Clémentine de Bantôme, whom Gerald Lang had met when he was exploring France and he had instantly determined that she should be his wife.

  It was not only the Langs who thought it an undoubted mistake
for one of their family to marry a foreigner, but also the de Bantômes, who were furious that an impecunious and to them unimportant Englishman should persuade Clémentine to run away with him on the eve of her marriage to another man.

  The Comtes de Bantôme had always given themselves great airs.

  Their estate in the Périgord region of France on the banks of the Dordogne had been theirs for centuries and they were also rich and powerful.

  Therefore, like all French aristocrats, they were determined that the noble strain in their blood should be matched by the nobility of those who sought their children’s hands in marriage.

  Clémentine had been betrothed to the Duc de Saumac, a man very much older than she was.

  In running away with her, Gerald Lang had offended not only the de Bantômes but the Duc, who was equally as powerful in the Loire Valley, where his large estate was situated.

  It was an insult that was translated into a vendetta against Gerald Lang and it had its repercussions in various ways.

  The first thing Gerald found after he married Clémentine was that it was impossible for him to visit France without being arrested on some trumped-up charge or another.

  At first he could hardly believe that it was not just chance that he, an ordinary tourist, was being continually taken to the nearest Gendarmerie for questioning.

  He soon discovered who was behind it and it became such a persecution that he knew it was impossible for either himself or his wife ever to stay in Paris again.

  He also suffered insults and hostility in London where the French Ambassador had obviously received instructions from the Duc to stir up trouble.

  It was therefore fortunate that Gerald Lang had no wish to shine socially and was perfectly content to settle down in the country with his wife, his children and, when he could afford them, his horses.

  Fortunately, as he was such an outstanding rider, he more often rode other people’s horses than his own.

  Neighbouring Squires liked the Langs and often lent both father and son their horses to ride in races, steeplechases, Point-to-Points and hunting.

  Because she was so attractive they would also gladly have mounted Canèda, but she had been content for the last three years with her own horse, which she loved more than anything else in the whole world.

  For Harry to become the owner of what was even before he added to it a first class stable and to know that he would have every facility for racing his own horses was a joy beyond words.

  The brother and sister had become an instant success when they opened Langstone House in Grosvenor Square.

  They had paid a perfunctory gesture in respect of mourning their uncle and had appeared in London in the sixth month to take the Social world by storm.

  Harry’s looks and charm in addition to his title and wealth threw every door open to him and Canèda had a very different type of success, but one that was no less gratifying.

  If Harry looked like his English forebears, Canèda was like her mother.

  She was small, her dark hair had mysterious blue lights in it, and her oval face was dominated by two huge eyes outlined by long dark eyelashes.

  But there the French resemblance ended and Canèda’s eyes were the same blue as her brothers, making her already lovely face even more arresting because the combination was so unusual.

  She was beautiful enough to make any man who looked at her want to look again and once his eyes were caught by her blue ones he became her captive and there was no escape.

  “It cannot be true, Harry,” Canèda said breathlessly a few weeks after they had been in London. “I have had no less than three proposals of marriage tonight!”

  “I am not surprised,” Harry replied.

  He had been aware during the ball that they had both attended that his sister shone like a star amongst the other rather gauche, tongue-tied, shy young women of the same age.

  Even compared with the dazzling, sophisticated older women she seemed to have a quality that was missing in them and which, even though she was his sister, Harry thought had something irresistible about it.

  It was perhaps her vivacity, the way her eyes shone and her lips curved in a smile that made her appear more alive than anybody he had ever met.

  Because brother and sister were so close to each other and because all through their childhood they had had a companionship that was unusually intimate, Harry felt very protective about Canèda and was determined that no one should rush her into marriage.

  Elderly aunts who had constituted themselves Canèda’s chaperones were already pressing him to make her accept one of the very advantageous offers that she had received.

  “Lord Warrington is exceedingly rich,” they said, “and his house in Huntingdonshire is almost as fine as Langstone Park.”

  Harry had not been responsive and they had gone on almost angrily,

  “We are told that Canèda rejected the Earl of Headingly without even listening to what he had to say! How can she be so foolish?”

  Harry, who had his own opinion about the Earl of Headingly, had not been very impressed.

  “Canèda can marry whom and when she wants,” he said, “and the longer she takes about it, the better I shall be pleased, as I like to have her with me.”

  “You have no right to spoil her chances,” his aunts protested, but Harry had only laughed.

  He knew what his sister felt about marriage and he could understand how the men who pursued her must feel frustrated at her refusals to take them seriously.

  He was also aware that Lord Warrington in particular was growing more and more desperate.

  But before he could say any more, the butler came into the room carrying the morning’s post on a silver salver.

  There were three letters on it which he offered to Harry, saying,

  “Mr. Barnet’s compliments, my Lord, and, as he thought that these would be private communications, he didn’t open them.”

  “Thank you, Dawson.”

  Harry picked up the letters and opened the first one casually.

  As he did so, he realised that the others were from two attractive ladies he was paying court to.

  He had thought they would notice that he had not called on them for several days and he realised with a twinkle in his eye that he now had proof of it.

  It was only as he drew the letter he was opening from its envelope that he realised that it came from France.

  Then he saw to his astonishment that beneath an impressive crest, which was surmounted by a coronet, was an address that read, Château de Bantôme.

  Canèda had risen from the table to help herself to some freshly picked mushrooms from the country and cooked in cream.

  It was only after she had turned round that she saw the surprise on her brother’s face and realised that he was reading a letter with, for him, unusual concentration.

  He finished it and, as she sat down at the table, he flung the letter across to her, saying,

  “If that does not make you laugh, nothing will.”

  “Who is it from?” Canèda enquired.

  “You will not believe it,” Harry replied, “but it is from Mama’s relations! How dare they, after all these years, write to me just because I have come into a title? It makes me want to spit!”

  He spoke so derisively that Canèda laughed.

  At the same time she picked up the letter from the table and read it with interest.

  It was written in French, which, because she was bilingual, she had no need to have translated into English.

  In a firm authoritative hand someone had transcribed,

  Château de Bantôme

  “My dear Grandson,

  It is with great pleasure that your grandfather and I have learnt that you have inherited the Earldom of Langstone and are now the Head of such a distinguished Family.

  We think it is in the interests of both our families that the silence between us should end and that you should become acquainted not only with your older relatives li
ke your grandfather and myself but also with your young cousins Hélène and Armand, who are very anxious to visit England.

  It is time for Hélène, who is eighteen, to make her curtsey to Her Majesty the Queen and for Armand to attend a levée held by the Prince of Wales. But, of course, it could be much more pleasant for them if they had your support.

  But first your grandfather and I would like to extend to you an invitation to visit us here to meet the surviving members of the great historic family of Bantôme, to which you belong.

  We would, of course, be delighted if your sister could accompany you and we will do everything in our power to make your visit as pleasant and comfortable as possible.

  I remain in anticipation of a favourable reply,

  Your grandmother, whom unfortunately you have never met,

  Eugénie de Bantôme.”

  As she finished reading the letter, Canèda gave a little gasp.

  “You are right, Harry. It’s unbelievable! After ignoring Mama as if she had been swept off the face of the earth, how dare our grandmother write such a letter! I have never heard such cheek.”

  “I agree it is a damned impertinence on their part!” Harry exclaimed.

  “Mama told me once,” Canèda said in a low voice, “that when you were born she wrote to her mother telling her that she had a son because she thought it would please her.”

  “I can guess what happened,” Harry answered. “There was no reply.”

  “Worse than that, the letter was returned unopened.”

  “That is what I might have expected. So how dare they write to us now, just because our circumstances have changed? I suppose if Papa had been an Earl when he eloped with Mama, they might have forgiven her for chucking the Duc.”

  “I hate them!” Canèda cried. “Sometimes when Mama used to talk to me about her childhood, I knew how homesick she was and how much she longed to see not only her friends again but also the Dordogne.”

  “I know,” Harry agreed. “She loved it.”

  “She used to talk of the river and the Castles that gave it, she said, a Fairytale-like appearance. She used to make it sound so romantic that I longed to see it. But because Papa was barred from France, I never thought I would ever have the chance.”