Love in the Moon

by Barbara Cartland

  She knew by the expression on Canèda’s face that something had happened, but as it was obvious that she did not wish to speak about it, Madame forced herself to keep silent, even though it was difficult.

  Only when they were driving in the spring sunshine back to Angers did she say,

  “When I received your note yesterday afternoon, I thought that you were staying the night with friends, but I learnt this morning that you returned very late to the inn.”

  “It was more convenient for me to do so,” Canèda replied.

  Even as she spoke she could feel again that moment when she had come down to earth from the heights of ecstasy and realised what the Duc intended.

  When she had finally climbed into bed, she had lain awake throbbing with the rapture he had evoked in her, even though she tried to deny it.

  She had never believed that being kissed could be so ecstatic and so wonderful that she could cease to be herself and become a part of him.

  How, she asked herself, could she have surrendered to him so ignominiously and so quickly, without attempting to struggle?

  From the very first moment that she had set eyes on him she had known that he was different from other men, not only different in his appearance and behaviour but different in the way he affected her.

  None of the men she had met in London who had pursued her, courted her, wooed her and proposed to her had aroused her in any way, except that she found their persistence rather dull when the first interest in having a new admirer had passed.

  With the Duc she had been tinglingly aware of him from the moment she rode towards him in the riding school.

  She told herself that it was part of her goal and her objective in seeking revenge because of the way his father had treated hers.

  But if she was honest she knew that she had forgotten the feud and even the reason why she had come to Saumac and had been concerned only with the relationship between them, which had been dangerously attractive from the first few words that they had said to each other.

  Twisting and turning on the comfortable feather bed, Canèda could see in the darkness only the Duc’s grey eyes staring into hers and feel that surging rapture writhing in her breasts at the touch of his lips.

  ‘How can I ever forget him?’ she asked herself now as she looked out over the green sea.

  She wondered what he was feeling and what indeed he had felt when he had gone to her bedroom last night only to find it empty.

  ‘He had no right to try to seduce me,’ she tried to tell herself angrily.

  But she knew that it had not been a question of seduction, but of two people needing and wanting each other and finding that they belonged to each other in a strange unearthly manner that would have been unthinkable to refute.

  It was impossible for Canèda not to realise that she still wanted him and that her whole body ached for the feeling of his arms around her and his lips on hers.

  ‘It is just my imagination,’ she tried to say to herself. ‘I was amused and enchanted by the Château and by the fantasy that I was not on the Earth but on the moon and I was carried away by the romance of it.’

  Then she knew that it was not true. It was something much deeper and much more fundamental than that.

  They were a man and a woman, Adam and Eve, finding each other across Eternity and knowing that they were no longer two people but one.

  *

  As the yacht sailed on down the coast, Canèda asked herself how she could sink so low as to feel this way for a man whom, before she had left England, she had hated for what his father had done to her father, just as she hated her grandparents for their treatment of her mother.

  ‘I came to France for revenge,’ she chided herself, ‘and I wanted to make him suffer.’

  But instead she knew that she was suffering in a manner that she had never thought possible.

  How could anyone make her feel as she did now?

  Because she loved the Duc, it seemed as if she had lost something so precious and wonderful that the world would never be the same again.

  It took them two days to reach Bordeaux and to Canèda they were two days of introspection and misery.

  She gave up pretending that the Duc meant nothing to her and that in hurting him she had achieved what she had set out to do.

  There was no way of ascertaining that he missed her as much as she missed him and she would lie awake in her cabin, thinking that by now he had doubtless consoled himself very adequately with his horses and his – mistress.

  The last thought was like the stab of a dagger in her heart and she almost cried out at the pain of it.

  Canèda told herself that he had insulted her by suggesting that she should hold the same position in his life.

  Yet she had to admit that she had invited such a suggestion by her behaviour, not only in pretending that she was a circus performer but also in allowing him to kiss her.

  What else was he likely to think, except that she was a woman with easy morals, especially as she had been prepared to stay alone at the Château?

  ‘I must have been crazy to agree to it,’ Canèda whispered to herself and prayed that Harry would never find out what had happened.

  She knew that she had been absurdly naïve in thinking that she could handle any situation that arose and it was both her innocence and the fact that the Duc did not think of her as a lady that had resulted in a situation that now she was ashamed of.

  At the same time to be in the Duc’s arms had been the most marvellous and perfect thing that had ever happened to her in her whole life and she felt with a kind of despair that never again would she be able to feel the same for any other man.

  When they sailed into the harbour of Bordeaux, it was so interesting and so different from anywhere else she had been in the world that Canèda for a little while forgot her secret unhappiness.

  They stayed the night in a comfortable hotel, giving the horses a chance to recover from the sea passage, before Canèda put her second plan into operation.

  First she sent one of the outriders, resplendently dressed in his best livery, ahead to the Château de Bantôme to tell her grandparents that she had arrived in her brother’s yacht at Bordeaux and was on her way to visit them.

  She thought it would be a surprise to them that their invitation had been answered so quickly, and she instructed the outrider to inform the Comte and Comtesse of how many were in her entourage and what accommodation would be needed for the horses and attendants, besides herself.

  It would have been impossible to get all her luggage into the smart travelling chariot that she had brought with her in the yacht.

  She therefore hired the most impressive and expensive carriage available in Bordeaux, drawn by four horses, to go ahead.

  It carried her, her luggage and her lady’s maid, a Frenchwoman whom they had engaged with the help of the proprietor of the hotel to wait on Madame de Goucourt.

  By this time Madame was well aware that Canèda intended to impress her relatives and she said with a twinkle in her eye,

  “The Château de Bantôme is fortunately large enough to accommodate such an influx of visitors. I am still waiting, ma chérie, for you to tell me what happened when you met the Duc de Saumac.”

  Canèda started.

  “How do you know I met the Duc? she asked defensively.

  “I am not stupid,” Madame de Goucourt replied. “I realised that was why we stayed near Angers, which is not far from the Château de Saumac. I also guessed the reason for your disappearance.”

  “I don’t wish to talk about it.”

  Madame de Goucourt shook her head.

  “I am afraid the Duc has upset you. You have not seemed yourself since we left Angers. I warned you that he is a very strange man. I think he must loathe all women since his wife went mad.”

  Canèda wanted to tell her this was not true, but she could not bear to speak about him and after a short silence Madame said,

  “I will not plague you wit
h questions, ma petite, but you were so happy when we left England, and now you are suffering.”

  There was no response and, after giving a little sigh, she talked of other things.

  There was certainly plenty to see that was different from the part of France that Canèda had admired in the Loire Valley.

  When they reached the Dordogne River, there had obviously been quite a lot of rain, for it was swollen to what Canèda was sure was almost twice its normal size, as well as there being floods in the fields on either side of it.

  There also were forests and dark trees covering the hilltops that posed a background to the green valleys.

  The trees were all in bloom and with the white blackthorn, golden gorse and beside the roads a profusion of cowslips, the countryside had a beauty that Canèda could not help responding to.

  But all the time that she was trying to remember that this was her mother’s birthplace, she was conscious of a lump like a heavy stone within her breasts that would not go away.

  From what she had heard and from what she had read on the map, Canèda knew that the Château de Bantôme was not very far from Bordeaux.

  They stayed one night on the way and then they were in Périgord and Madame de Goucourt was full of stories of the old Abbeys, the Cathedrals and the Châteaux they passed.

  They drove into wine-growing country, and it seemed to Canèda that the vineyards they passed seemed in good heart and there appeared to be nothing wrong with them.

  In the afternoon of the second day, when they had been travelling for some hours, Madame de Goucourt pointed ahead and said,

  “There is the Château belonging to your grandparents!”

  It was about a mile off the road, standing on a steep incline with trees behind it. Built of white stone, it was very impressive and Canèda stared at it with a strange feeling that she had seen it before.

  She knew that it was because her mother had described it to her so often and had even attempted to draw sketches to explain to her children what her home looked like.

  Canèda knew that the building had been started in the middle of the sixteenth century and added to and altered by various Comtes de Bantôme.

  Each owner had embellished and enriched the Château until it looked more like a Palace than a mere Nobleman s residence and its beauty was enhanced by its gardens as well as the dark woods that framed it as if it was a precious jewel.

  As they drew nearer, they saw that there was a fountain playing in front of the house and in the sunshine the water, thrown high in the air, glittered with the colours of the rainbow.

  ‘I can easily understand why Mama loved it so much,’ Canèda thought.

  Then she steeled herself to remember that her mother had been exiled from her home and that she hated its occupants, every one of them!

  She hoped that her grandparents would be impressed by the magnificent horses drawing her chariot, by the outriders in their powdered wigs and by Ben, who had taken the place of the one who had gone ahead in a smart livery and cockaded top hat, riding Ariel.

  The coachman drew the carriage up with a flourish outside the front door and servants appeared as if they had been awaiting their arrival.

  The carriage door was opened and Canèda stepped out, followed by Madame de Goucourt

  “You go first,” Canèda said, but Madame shook her head.

  “This is your family you are meeting.”

  “Don’t forget that I hate them!” Canèda emphasised.

  “You cannot say that,” Madame persisted, “until you have met them and I think, ma chérie, you are in for a surprise.”

  Canèda raised her eyebrows, but there was no chance to answer, for, as she walked up the steps of the Château, a young man appeared and hurried towards them.

  “May I welcome you, Cousin Canèda, on behalf of my grandparents,” he said. “I am Armand.”

  He was dark-haired and attractive and, because he was smiling at her with a very obvious look of admiration in his eyes, Canèda found it difficult not to smile back instead of being cold and imperious as she had intended to be during the whole visit,

  However, she shook hands with him and presented him to Madame de Goucourt, who, as he kissed her hand, said,

  “I have not seen you since you were six years old, so it is quite unnecessary for me to add that you have grown.”

  “I have heard my family speak of you so often, madame,” Armand replied, “and everything they have said was, of course, complimentary.”

  He certainly had the right sort of attitude for a Frenchman, Canèda thought scornfully.

  Then, turning to her, he said,

  “My grandparents are waiting for you in the salon. You must forgive their not coming to the door to meet you, but Grandpère has difficulty in walking.”

  Canèda inclined her head and they walked into a very impressive hall and down a passage that was decorated with very fine antique furniture and paintings that were, she supposed, of the de Bantôme ancestors.

  There seemed to be few servants about and it struck her that the place looked a little dull and dusty, as if it was in need not only of cleaning but of painting and decorating.

  She tried not to notice that the carpets were threadbare and the curtains at the windows were faded and in need of relining.

  Armand opened a door and she found herself in a large salon that overlooked an ornamental garden at the back of the Château.

  Seated in the window was an elderly woman with white hair and, after one glance at her, Canèda felt a sudden constriction in her heart, for the face turned towards her was that of her mother, although older and lined with age.

  “Here is Cousin Canèda, Grandmère,” Armand announced.

  The Comtesse held out her hands.

  “My dear child!” she exclaimed. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to see you or what it meant to learn that you had answered my letter so quickly.”

  Canèda curtseyed, then, as she put out her hand, the Comtesse took it between both of hers and pulled her forward.

  Canèda had told herself before she left England that nothing would make her show any gesture of affection towards her hated relatives and yet now it was impossible to avoid the kiss her grandmother gave her on her cheek.

  “Sit down, my dear,” the Comtesse said, indicating a chair beside her.

  Then with an undoubted tremor in her voice she added.

  “You are so like your mother, so very very like her and I have missed her so much all these years.”

  Canèda wanted to reply that the de Bantômes had shown no sign of it, but Armand was presenting Madame de Goucourt to his grandmother, before he said,

  “I must go and fetch Hélène. She did not expect them to arrive so soon.”

  “Yes, do that, dear boy,” the Comtesse replied, “and ask the servants to bring refreshments. I am sure they have forgotten .”

  “I will do that, Grandmère.”

  He smiled at Canèda before he left and again she had difficulty in not responding.

  She sat very stiffly and straight-backed in the chair beside the Comtesse and, as if she felt her antagonism, her grandmother talked to Madame de Goucourt, whom she had known for many years.

  “I could not believe it was true when the groom came with the message that you had arrived in Bordeaux on your yacht!” she exclaimed.

  She hesitated a moment and then she asked Canèda,

  “It is your yacht?”

  “It belongs to my brother, Harry ”

  “Is that what you call him? When I saw in the newspapers that he had inherited your uncle’s title, I wondered if you called him ‘Edward’. It always seems a rather dull name.”

  Again Canèda felt antagonistically that if Harry had not come into the title, her grandmother would certainly not have written to him and she would not be here at this moment.

  The door of the salon opened and Armand returned with a very pretty girl.

  Canèda could see some resemblance to herself,
although, of course, both Hélène and Armand had dark eyes instead of her sensational blue ones.

  She also accepted without conceit that Hélène was not as pretty as she was, because she resembled her mother.

  “It is so exciting to meet you, Cousin Canèda,” Hélène cried, “and I have longed to do so because I have always thought that the way your mother ran away to be married was the most thrilling and romantic story I have ever heard!”

  Canèda was astonished that her cousin should speak of it so openly and in front of the Comtesse, but she did not miss the opportunity of saying,

  “My mother was very very happy. At the same time she missed her family and it made her very sad that you all ostracised her for so many years.”

  Even to think of her mother’s suffering made her angry and her voice seemed to ring out in the salon and for a moment there was silence.

  Then her two cousins looked first at each other and then at the Comtesse.

  “I can understand, my dear,” the old lady said, “that you must feel very bitter that your mother was cut off from those she loved and it hurt me, because she was my daughter, more than I can ever express in words.”

  “Then why were you so cruel?” Canèda asked bluntly.

  The Comtesse made a nervous gesture with her blue-veined hands that was very eloquent, but at that moment the door opened and an old man came in supported on either side by servants.

  They almost carried him across the room to sit him down in a chair next to the Comtesse, putting a fur-lined rug over his knees.

  He did not speak and the Comtesse said,

  “François, dear, Canèda has arrived. I told you that she was coming today.”

  “Who? Who?” the old man asked.

  He had a fine head of hair and must, Canèda thought, have been exceedingly handsome when he was young.

  Now his hair was white and his face was deeply lined and yet she had the feeling that the Comtesse and his grandchildren were in awe of him.

  “Canèda,” the Comtesse answered. “She is here to visit us from England.”

  As she spoke she looked at Canèda, who realised that her grandmother wanted her to rise and go nearer to the Comte.

  She did so, pleased that she was wearing an exceedingly expensive and very elegant silk gown with a taffeta pelisse over it and a bonnet trimmed with small ostrich feathers that had been astronomically expensive.