Читать книгу Desire of the Heart - Barbara Cartland - Страница 4

Cornelia awoke with a feeling that something wonderful was going to happen.

Unable to recall exactly where she was, she lay in bed with her eyes closed against the sunshine seeping in through the curtains and fancying that she was back again at Rosaril.

Then, as the noise of traffic came to her ears and the sound of horses’ hoofs clattering down Park Lane, she remembered that she was in London and opened her eyes to see the big luxuriously decorated room that gave her a faint sense of surprise.

Everything in her uncle’s house was outstandingly luxurious compared with the simple shabbiness of Rosaril and, snuggling down against the pillows, she thought that her mattress was as soft as the clouds that drifted over the Atlantic on a summer wind.

Suddenly she felt an overwhelming desire to be outside and in the sunshine.

All her life she had been used to rising as soon as she awoke, to run down to the stables before breakfast, to saddle a horse and gallop away over the fields long before anyone else in the house was awake.

Late though she had been last night she was not at all tired and once again that feeling that something exciting and wonderful was near came flooding over her so that the sunshine seemed suddenly more golden and the sound of the horses trotting outside had a music that was echoed in her heart

She jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The trees were still encircled with mist, but through it she could see the faint glimmer of the Serpentine.

Without ringing for a maid, she dressed herself quickly, bundling her hair up on to her head regardless of what it might look like and pinning on top of it the first hat that came to her hand from her wardrobe.

London, she thought at once had a different appearance at this hour from what it looked like when Society folk were awake. There were no smart carriages perambulating in the Park or down Park Lane, but drays and tradesmen’s carts with heavy horses to pull them.

Most of the houses had their shutters closed although outside one or two a mob-capped housemaid was scrubbing the steps. They stared at Cornelia in surprise and she regretted, as she met their curious eyes, that she had not kept her travelling clothes for such an occasion.

Her new walking dress of pale fawn serge was far too smart and her hat with its feathers and flowers was more suitable for watching polo at Hurlingham than for taking a promenade in Hyde Park before the dew was off the grass.

But not even the consciousness of being incorrectly dressed and the cynosure of curious eyes could damp Cornelia’s elation or her feeling of being free.

A soft wind was playing through the trees in the Park and, as it touched her cheeks, she felt happier than at any time since she came to London.

For a moment she forgot her shyness, her fear of people, her despair at wondering what she must say and her embarrassment at doing the wrong thing. Here she was just herself and only the fullness of her skirts prevented her from running in the sheer joy of being young and alive.

Not remembering that a lady should take small, rather mincing steps, she strode out until she came to the Serpentine. It was vividly blue from the reflection of the sky above it and iridescent in the sunshine.

There seemed to be no one about and Cornelia pretended that she was walking along the deserted sands near Rosaril with the Atlantic breakers rolling in in all the might and majesty of their white-crested beauty.

And then, as she moved slowly along the edge of the water, her thoughts far away, she heard a sound that made her turn her head swiftly.

It was unmistakably the sound of someone sobbing.

For a moment Cornelia wondered where it could have come from and then she saw that on a bench beneath the trees a young woman was crying as if her heart would break.

Cornelia looked around to see if someone might appear to help this strange woman in distress. But there was no one, only sunshine on the water, ducks flapping their wings and dipping their heads in search of food and pigeons fluttering beneath the trees.

‘It is none of my business if a stranger is unhappy,’ Cornelia thought to herself.

Common sense told her to walk on and take no notice and then the utter abandonment of the woman on the bench made her feel that she must help and that she could not pass by and ignore such suffering.

Shyly she approached the bench.

As she drew nearer, she could see that it was a girl who cried, a girl of perhaps her own age, neatly and plainly dressed and there was something innately respectable about her stout shoes and the black cotton umbrella that lay there on the bench. She was suddenly aware of Cornelia’s presence and checked her sobs, biting her lower lip as she fought for self-control and mopped her streaming eyes with a neatly hemmed handkerchief of clean white linen.

“Can – can I – help you?” Cornelia spoke the words softly, with her shyness making her stammer a little.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t know that anyone was about.”

The girl fought to steady her voice, but the effort was pathetic and Cornelia sat down on the bench.

“You must be very unhappy,” she said gently. “Have you nowhere to go?”

“Nowhere!” The word was spoken impulsively and then as quickly regretted. “That is if it’s all right, thank you, ma’am. I’ll be gettin’ along now.”

The girl rose from the bench. There was an expression of such desperation in her white, drawn face that some instinct in Cornelia made her cry out,

“No, don’t go! I want to talk to you. You must tell me why you are so distressed.”

“It’s kind of you, ma’am, but no one can help me – no one! I’ll be – gettin’ along.”

“Where are you going?” Cornelia asked.

The girl looked at her and a dazed expression in her eyes gave her a look of desperation,

“I don’t know,” she answered dully, “the river, I think.”

It was as if the words were forced from her lips and then the horror of them was too much even for her to contemplate. With a little cry she put her hands over her face and her tears broke out afresh.

“You must not talk like that and you must not cry. Sit down, please. I can help you, I am sure of it,” Cornelia suggested.

The girl, as if in obedience to her command or because she was too weak to stand, sank down on the bench and crouched with her head bent and her tears shaking her whole body.

For the moment Cornelia said nothing, but waited for the paroxysm of weeping to stop. After a while it seemed as if the violence of it passed and the girl’s sobs grew quieter until gradually they ceased altogether.

“Do tell me what is distressing you,” she asked kindly. “You are from the country?”

“Yes, ma’am. I came to London about two months ago – ”

There was a pathetic little break at the end of the sentence.

“What part of the country did you come from?” Cornelia asked.

“From Worcestershire, ma’am. My father works there as a groom to Lord Coventry. I didn’t get on at home with my stepmother and it was decided I should get a job as housemaid in a gentleman’s house. Her Ladyship gave me a reference for I had worked at the Court for some years and I was so happy and proud to be on my own – ”

The girl’s voice trailed away as once again she fought for self-control.

“What happened?” Cornelia asked.

“It was the young gentleman, ma’am,” she answered. “He thought I was – pretty. He used to lie in wait for me on the stairs. I meant no harm – I swear to you I meant no harm – and then – the housekeeper saw us yesterday. She spoke to the Master when he came home and he turned me out there and then without any reference – I can’t go home, ma’am – and tell them what has – happened.”

“And the young gentleman?” Cornelia asked, “did he do nothing to help you?”

“He didn’t get a chance, ma’am. He was sent away last night to stay with his relations in Scotland – I heard that he was going when the orders came for the butler to pack for him – but I didn’t realise it was because of me – not until the Master told me that he was gone and turned me out of the house.”

“But that was cruel and unjust,” Cornelia cried.

“No, ma’am, I wasn’t doin’ the right thing and – I knew it. He shouldn’t have been spending his time with the likes of me – but I loved him, ma’am – oh, I did love him – ”

The words came out with a wail of despair and looking at the girl’s trembling lips and the tightness of her clenched hands, Cornelia could only feel overwhelmingly sorry for her. She was pretty despite the ravages that her misery and tears had made on her face.

She had brown eyes and brown hair that curled over her ears and round her forehead. There was freshness and a sweetness about her and Cornelia could understand how a young gentleman, bored with the girls of his own class, had found himself interested in the new and attractive face to be seen in the corridors of his home.

It was wrong, it was bound to end in tragedy and yet the only real sufferer was this girl from the country, an unsophisticated child who had lost her heart to a man who had found her an amusing plaything.

“You say you cannot go home?” Cornelia asked.

“Oh, ma’am, how can I? Everyone was so kind when I left. The servants at the Court gave me a present and the Vicar a Bible. My father paid for my fare to London and bought me a new coat. I’d be ashamed to tell them what happened and my stepmother never liked me. If I went back now, she’d see to it that I never had another chance. No, ma’am, I’d rather die, far – far rather!”

“It is wicked to talk of taking your life,” Cornelia said sternly, “besides, you are young – you will find something else to do.”

“There’s no respectable house as will take me in without a reference,” the girl answered.

Cornelia sat and wondered what she should do. It was no use giving this girl money for, if she was to live alone, it was obvious that more and even worse trouble could come to her.

It was not the sort of story that she could tell to anyone else and ask their help. Neither her aunt or uncle would be sympathetic nor would they be willing to assist someone whom she had met in such unusual circumstances.

Then an idea came to Cornelia.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“Violet, ma’am – Violet Walters.”

“Well, listen to me, Violet, I will engage you as my lady’s maid.”

“No, ma’am, I can’t let you do that!” Violet cried. “I am not experienced enough – and besides, you know nothin’ about me except what I told you and that’s not to my good.”

“I am sorry for you and I like you,” Cornelia replied. “We all make mistakes in our lives but you have been punished for yours while others often seem to get off scot-free. I want you to come to me, will you?”

The girl lifted her face and stared at Cornelia. She saw the dawning hope in the tired eyes. Then, with a little sob, Violet turned her head away.

“You’re ever so kind, ma’am, but it wouldn’t be right for me to take advantage of your kindness. The Master said I was a bad lot and perhaps he’s right. It was wrong of me to so much as lift my eyes to the young Master – I knew it and yet I did what was wrong – because – ”

“ – because you loved him,” Cornelia finished.

“Yes, that’s true. I loved him, but that sort of love is no good to a girl, ma’am. I should have cut it out of my heart, had I done what was right, but somehow – it was there all of a sudden like and there was nothing I could do it about it except – go on lovin’ him.”

Cornelia sat very still. She was looking across the water. So that was how love came to one, she thought, suddenly, before one was aware of it, creeping into one’s heart like a thief in the night.

She felt a sudden ecstasy inside her, a weird feeling as if something within herself was opening, shining and beautiful and then, even as she shrank from the glory of the revelation, she knew the truth.

Love had come to her, even as it had come to poor unhappy Violet. It was there and it was too late now to do anything about it.

Impulsively she turned to the girl at her side.

“Forget the past Violet,” she said. “I will help you and I want you to help me. Now, listen to me carefully while I tell you what to do.”

The idea came to her of just how Violet could come to her uncle’s house and she would engage her. She felt a new confidence in herself and a sureness in what she said that had not been there before. It was as if in trying to help someone else a new strength of character was born in herself. She had felt lost and bewildered and utterly purposeless ever since she had left Rosaril, yet now this stranger had brought her self-assurance and a sense of direction.

“First, you must have something to eat,” Cornelia said firmly. “Have you been in the Park all night?”

“I took my trunk to Paddington Station first of all, ma’am. The Master had told me to go home. I meant to obey him, but when I got to the Station, I knew I could not do it. I could not confess to them what had happened to me – I couldn’t go creepin’ back, shamed and humiliated – I walked about the streets – men spoke to me, but I ran away from them and then, when the Park opened, I came in here. It was peaceful and I thought that if I cried no one would hear me.”

“But I heard you. And now you must promise me to do exactly as I tell you.”

“You are sure, ma’am, that you really want me? You believe me, but I might have been lyin’ to you – I might be a thief as well as everythin’ else.”

“I am not afraid,” Cornelia said gently. “I have a feeling, Violet, that it was meant for us to meet each other and that, once we are together, you will not let me down,”

“I swear to you, ma’am, I will serve you to the end of my life,” Violet cried fervently.

“Thank you, now please do as I tell you and when you come to my uncle’s house, you must call me ‘miss’, not ‘ma’am’. Ask for Miss Bedlington and don’t forget the story I have told you.”

“I won’t forget, miss.”

Cornelia gave her some money and she promised to eat some breakfast, to tidy herself up and come to 94 Park Lane about eleven o’clock.

Cornelia, rising to her feet, then held out her hand. Violet took it shyly in her own work roughened fingers, then she bent her head suddenly and pressed her lips against it

“God bless you, miss,” she said and there were tears in her eyes again, but this time they were tears of gratitude.

Cornelia walked back the way she had come. As she went, she felt that she had grown older in some subtle way since she had left her uncle’s house. She had seen suffering and misery, she had seen too an expression of love and devotion. It had been strangely moving and it had awakened her to new and hitherto unknown emotions within herself.

Even now she hardly dared to acknowledge the feelings in her heart and yet she was acutely conscious of it.

She could see his face quite clearly, it was almost as if he walked beside her wherever she went. If only, Cornelia thought, she had not been so tongue-tied the night before, she could have talked to him, she could have asked him about himself and she could have told him about Rosaril and her life there.

And yet perhaps it had been quite enough that they had been beside each other, that their hands had touched and that his arm had been around her waist, the thought of it made her pulses quicken.

It seemed to her that, at that very first moment when she saw him driving down Upper Grosvenor Street, she knew that he was to mean everything in her life.

Her memory of him had been so vivid and, as he had come across the ballroom towards her last night, she had felt her heart turn over at the sight of him. So tall, so handsome and so unlike any other man she had seen in her life before.

And he had taken her down to supper and he had said that he would call on her this afternoon. Why – why – had he said that?

Cornelia had reached her uncle’s house in Park Lane without being conscious that her feet were carrying her there. A footman opened the door and looked astonished to see her on the doorstep. It was only eight o’clock and Cornelia was surprised to find that so little time had passed since she had left the house.

She ran up the stairs to her bedroom to find it exactly as she had left it. She remembered then that she was not to be called until nine o’clock.

“I expect you will be tired and want to spend the morning in bed,” Aunt Lily had said and Cornelia had agreed to the suggestion because it had been the easiest thing to do.

Now she thought what a waste of time it would be. Of course, she reasoned, her aunt was old and these late nights must seem trying to her. At eighteen a few hours’ sleep was enough. If she was tired, she could always rest before dinner when, she had discovered already, her aunt always lay down so as to be fresh and beautiful in the evening.

‘I am young. It is only the old people who want to rest so much,’ Cornelia thought to herself with the scornful intolerance of youth.

She pulled her spectacles from her eyes and stared at herself in the mirror. One day she would stop wearing them, but not yet. She had not forgotten what Jimmy had said about her eyes but now it was not hatred she was hiding, but love.

She shivered at the thought and remembered the throb in Violet’s voice when she spoke of love and wondered if her own voice would throb in the same way and her eyes soften and glow because of the feelings within her heart.

Hastily she put on her glasses again.

It was too soon, much too soon to think of removing them. The day would come when she no longer had anything to hide –

Employing Violet was not nearly as difficult as she feared that it might be. Her aunt had already agreed that she must have her own lady’s maid and had been in touch with various Register Offices and, when Cornelia informed her that a maid from Ireland wished to apply for the post, she asked very few questions.

“You are sure that she knows her job?” Lily enquired. “She must be able to do your hair when you are in the country and she must be a good packer, that is essential.”

“I have been told that she is excellent at all these things,” Cornelia replied.

“Very well, dear, you engage her, Lily said, lying back against her pillows and looking amazingly lovely despite her protestations that she was exhausted and her head ached.

“She is free now,” Cornelia said. “May she come today?”

“Any time you want,” Lily answered as one who does not wish to be bothered.

Cornelia hurried away and took Violet up to her bedroom so that they could talk.

“Can you do hair?”

“I will learn, miss, I am quick at pickin’ things up.”

Violet’s face was still pale and there were dark lines under her eyes, but she looked neat and composed and Cornelia noticed that she had not seemed at all overawed or bewildered by the house or indeed by the other servants.

She showed Violet her clothes and then told her how she herself had only just arrived in London from Ireland and that all this was strange to her.

“You’ll be havin’ a real wonderful time, miss,” Violet said. “Her Ladyship knows all the best people. I have seen her photograph lots of times and heard people say as how she is one of the most beautiful ladies in all England.”

“Yes, she is – very lovely,” Cornelia agreed.

She saw Violet looking at her and realised that they were both thinking the same thing, that no one who went about with Lady Bedlington had much chance of being noticed.

And then she remembered who was coming that afternoon.

“I want to put on my prettiest gown, Violet. Which do you think is the prettiest?”

There were only two to choose from, for although Lily had ordered Cornelia dozens of dresses, they were not yet ready. One was white, trimmed with frills of pink chiffon and the other was pale blue, a colour that was vastly becoming to Lily, but which Cornelia had the feeling was somehow not right when she wore it

She chose the white and then, when she had put it on, regretted it. The pink chiffon frills were not flattering to her figure or to her skin, but it was too late to change. Violet arranged her hair and with a strange fluttering feeling within her throat Cornelia went downstairs to the drawing room.

Lily was still in bed, her headache was now worse she had said at luncheontime and she intended to rest in the afternoon as they were going to the Opera that evening and afterwards to a Reception at the French Embassy.

“Have you forgotten that the Duke is calling this afternoon?” Cornelia asked.

“Yes, I know,” Lily replied, “but he is coming to see you not me.”

There was something metallic in her voice and Cornelia found herself flushing.

“I cannot think why he wants to see me,” she muttered.

You must be extremely stupid then,” Lily said tartly and then before Cornelia could say any more, she added in a voice of exasperation, “do go away. Tell Dobson to bring me some eau-de-Cologne and lower the blinds. I want to be left alone.”

Cornelia felt that her aunt’s headache must be very bad for her voice sounded desperate and obediently she hurried from the room and found Dobson. Then she went downstairs to sit alone in the big, white and gold drawing room.

She thought that she ought to read, but somehow, when she had picked up a book, it was impossible to concentrate on it.

For the first time since she had come into all her money she realised that she could have redecorated Rosaril, but she had refused to spend the money because it came to her too late to bring happiness to her father and mother. They had hated poverty and it was so bitter that they should have been dead a year before she learned that she was rich.

Yet now Cornelia imagined the long low drawing room at Rosaril with new curtains and new furniture with great bowls of flowers on the tables and new pictures on the walls. Yet, even as she thought of it, the idea of altering the home she loved so well made it somehow a sacrilege. She loved Rosaril as it was, why should she want to change it?

But she knew the answer, because it came from her heart.

She wanted to change everything, including herself, at this moment so that she could be better, more beautiful and finer for the person she loved. Only the best was good enough for him, Cornelia thought and then she heard the door open.

“His Grace, the Duke of Roehampton, miss,” the butler’s stentorian tones seemed to shatter the atmosphere as if he had blown a trumpet

Cornelia saw the Duke coming towards her, tall and dark, but inexpressibly elegant in his frock coat, tall collar and white spats. He wore a carnation in his buttonhole and Cornelia wondered, as she saw it, if he liked carnations as much as her aunt did.

He came across the room towards her and she felt paralysed. She could not go towards him, she could not speak, she could not even hold out her hand in conventional greeting.

She could only tremble and was aware of an excitement mounting within her that made her feel breathless and that choked her so that the words died in her throat

“You are alone?”

It was a ridiculous question and yet she could not smile at it and could only incline her head dumbly.

“I wanted to see you alone.”

His voice was low and deep, yet still she stayed where he found her by the side of the piano, the silver frames with their smiling photographs making a background for her pale face and pink-frilled dress.

“Perhaps you have some idea of what I want to say to you?”

Cornelia could only stare at him through her darkened glasses.

She felt that they protected her, hid her feelings which she knew were shining from her eyes, revealing all that was throbbing in her heart. Never had she thought it possible for a man to seem so wonderful or so splendid.

He was waiting for her to answer him and at last she managed to force a monosyllable through her lips.

“No.”

As if her answer was disconcerting, he looked at her a little helplessly and she wondered if he was shy as well.

“I want to ask you to be my wife.”

He spoke slowly and with deliberation and yet Cornelia thought that she must be mad or dreaming.

He could not have said it, he could not have asked her this question of all questions. She stood trembling and then suddenly the full realisation of what he had just said swept over her so that she must faint from the very joy of it.

He loved her, he wanted her! He was feeling for her all that she was feeling for him.

She clasped her fingers together, but somehow it was impossible to make any reply.