As Viola began to think more rationally again, she looked around. No one was in the corridor to see her at the moment, but at any time servants might pass through to the kitchens.
She took another look at the other shorter passage and saw that the private parlour had an inside window that looked over it, no doubt intended to bring some light to that rather dark area.
It did not seem to be very successful. Beyond the window through the gloom, Viola could see that there was a small table and two chairs. If she went and sat there, it would look as though she was waiting for someone.
She walked along the little passage. As she passed the inside window, she cast a glance through it.
There, with his back to her, was her stepfather.
But it was the man he was with who made her heart once again race.
Seated sideways to the inside window was Richard, the Earl of Galhampton!
Both men were laughing loudly.
It took most of Viola’s strength to keep on walking past the window until she could collapse into a chair.
Bitterly she recalled confiding her story to the Earl. She had trusted him and he must have gone straight down to The Castle and told Sir Rudolph where she was.
Was it because she had been so cold to him after the race when he had behaved so despicably?
BARBARA CARTLAND
www.barbaracartland.com
Copyright © 2017 by Cartland Promotions
First published on the internet in June 2017
ISBNs
978-1-78213-985-0 Epub
978-1-78213-966-9 Print
The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent.
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Barbara Cartland was the most prolific bestselling author in the history of the world. She was frequently in the Guinness Book of Records for writing more books in a year than any other living author. In fact her most amazing literary feat was when her publishers asked for more Barbara Cartland romances, she doubled her output from 10 books a year to over 20 books a year, when she was 77.
She went on writing continuously at this rate for 20 years and wrote her last book at the age of 97, thus completing 400 books between the ages of 77 and 97.
Her publishers finally could not keep up with this phenomenal output, so at her death she left 160 unpublished manuscripts, something again that no other author has ever achieved.
Now the exciting news is that these 160 original unpublished Barbara Cartland books are ready for publication and they will be published by Barbaracartland.com exclusively on the internet, as the web is the best possible way to reach so many Barbara Cartland readers around the world.
The 160 books will be published monthly and will be numbered in sequence.
The series is called the Pink Collection as a tribute to Barbara Cartland whose favourite colour was pink and it became very much her trademark over the years.
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“When you fall in love, the world becomes a different place. The sky is bluer, the garden is greener, the air is sweeter and tired sandwiches taste like nectar. And your loved one is the most perfect and adorable human being in the entire Universe.”
Barbara Cartland
Barbara Cartland, who sadly died in May 2000 at the grand age of ninety eight, remains one of the world’s most famous romantic novelists. With worldwide sales of over one billion, her outstanding 723 books have been translated into thirty six different languages, to be enjoyed by readers of romance globally.
Writing her first book ‘Jigsaw’ at the age of 21, Barbara became an immediate bestseller. Building upon this initial success, she wrote continuously throughout her life, producing bestsellers for an astonishing 76 years. In addition to Barbara Cartland’s legion of fans in the UK and across Europe, her books have always been immensely popular in the USA. In 1976 she achieved the unprecedented feat of having books at numbers 1 & 2 in the prestigious B. Dalton Bookseller bestsellers list.
Although she is often referred to as the ‘Queen of Romance’, Barbara Cartland also wrote several historical biographies, six autobiographies and numerous theatrical plays as well as books on life, love, health and cookery. Becoming one of Britain's most popular media personalities and dressed in her trademark pink, Barbara spoke on radio and television about social and political issues, as well as making many public appearances.
In 1991 she became a Dame of the Order of the British Empire for her contribution to literature and her work for humanitarian and charitable causes.
Known for her glamour, style, and vitality Barbara Cartland became a legend in her own lifetime. Best remembered for her wonderful romantic novels and loved by millions of readers worldwide, her books remain treasured for their heroic heroes, plucky heroines and traditional values. But above all, it was Barbara Cartland’s overriding belief in the positive power of love to help, heal and improve the quality of life for everyone that made her truly unique.
Viola and her stepfather, Sir Rudolph Vane, were eating an interminable dinner in the formal dining room of The Castle, Viola’s ancestral home.
Lined in fine oak panelling that dated back some four hundred years or even more, it had always been one of Viola’s favourite rooms, she loved its austere atmosphere and portraits of her forebears.
Tonight the dining room gave her no pleasure nor did she have any appetite for fillet of beef.
She put down her knife and fork and sighed.
Since her mother had followed her father, the Earl of Galhampton, into the grave, her life was not only sad it had become increasingly unpleasant.
The servants had left the room and Sir Rudolph was in the middle of a boring story about meeting some friends during one of his regular stays in London.
“One gave me the welcome news that a dear friend of mine, Lady Carncross, has very recently moved into the neighbourhood. She is a widow and I am sure that you will find her son, Lancelot, a delightful companion. I have sent them both an invitation to luncheon.”
Viola straightened her back and the black taffeta of her gown rustled as she shifted nervously at the table.
“But we are in mourning, sir!”
Her stepfather ate his beef greedily, as his fierce black eyes fastened their gaze upon her.
“It is six months since your dear Mama left us. It will be perfectly in order for you to receive Beatrice, Lady Carncross, that is. And we shall make arrangements for her to present you at Court next Season.”
Viola closed her eyes.
It had been her mother’s dearest wish that she could herself present her daughter to King Edward VII and his wife, Queen Alexandra.
“Sir,” Viola summoned up her courage. “You have no right to do this without consulting me.”
Sir Rudolph banged his heavy fist on the table in sudden rage.
“I have every right. I am your stepfather and your Guardian.”
Viola pushed away her plate and shot back at him,
“I don’t need a Guardian. I am eighteen years old and I do not wish to be presented or to undergo a Season.”
“You will do as I say.”
His rage departed as suddenly as it had arrived and Sir Rudolph’s voice became smooth as polished steel.
“I intend as well that you shall have contracted a suitable marriage before the Season’s end.”
Viola looked at Sir Rudolph in consternation.
“I do not wish to marry, sir.”
“What do you propose instead?”
“I shall fulfil my father’s great ambition and design a motor car engine that can be produced at a price that the ordinary man can afford.”
Her stepfather gazed at Viola contemptuously.
“I have never heard of anything more stupid. As though you could do any such thing. Your obsession with those motor carriages is quite ridiculous. If your mother was alive, she would agree with me.”
Viola wanted to burst out that her mother had been happy for her to pursue the late Earl’s passion, but instead she swallowed hard.
“You cannot deny, sir, that The Castle is now mine. I do not see why you should continue to live here.”
She gazed at him bravely and waited for his temper to erupt, her heart breaking as she remembered how her life had once been.
Viola’s parents had been devoted to each another and she had had an idyllic childhood surrounded by their love.
Two and a half years ago, the Earl had suffered a seizure and died. Viola and her mother, Emily, Countess of Galhampton, had been devastated.
At one terrible stroke all happiness had vanished.
The Countess had been a petite woman who had depended on her husband for every aspect of her life. She was full of laughter and enjoyed providing small surprises in the form of treats or special parties.
One time she had organised a meeting of motor carriages with the vehicles coming from far afield.
Viola had been twelve when the Earl had acquired his first motor car and she saw nothing strange in standing by his side as he worked on its engine with Joe Webster, his chauffeur and engineer.
Soon Viola too was wielding spanners and learning how to deal with punctured tyres.
As she grew older, there was nothing she enjoyed more than to spend hours with her father in his workshop.
The Earl’s funeral was attended by many friends and associates. He had been a well-known and loved figure in the County of Somerset and Viola was warmed by the number who turned out to say ‘goodbye’ to him.
Among the last of the mourners to leave was a tall distinguished figure with a prominent nose, straight black hair and fierce eyes.
“Your Ladyship,” he said, bending down over the Countess’s hand and looking up at her with hypnotic eyes. “I have been deeply grieved by the Earl’s death. He was a distant cousin of mine, maybe he mentioned my name, Sir Rudolph Vane?”
Viola could see that her mother had no idea who this man was.
And Viola thought that he had showed poor taste in introducing himself by his title.
“Sir Rudolph Vane,” Viola’s mother repeated. “I regret I cannot remember the Earl ever mentioning you.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Our fathers fell out over some stupid matter or other. I always hoped that our generation could forget their differences. I belong to a lesser branch of the family or else the Earldom might indeed have passed to me.”
He looked around at the few mourners still left.
“The new Earl did not attend today?”
The Countess shook her head.
“He is in America. I received a cable of apologies.”
“Ah, so. Maybe I can hope to contact him after he returns to take up residence here.”
The Countess looked taken aback.
“That will not happen, sir. The title passes down the male line but The Castle is not entailed. In due course it will pass to my daughter, Viola.”
“It must be a relief for you not to have to give up your home,” Sir Rudolph murmured. “On my return from the Antipodes, I took a house not far from here. It had been my hope that your husband and I would become friends. Now I would just hope that my cousin’s widow and his delightful daughter would be prepared to accept my very sincere commiserations on their sad loss.”
The Countess gave him a sweet bewildered smile and said nothing.
“I shall call upon you at some better time and hope that you may be prepared to receive me,” he stated.
He placed his gleaming black top hat on his head, gave a small salute with his gloves and left.
Later when and feeling exhausted, they sat drinking tea, the Countess said to her daughter,
“Just who was that distinguished-looking man who spoke to us at the end of the Service? He claimed that he was a cousin of your father’s.”
“He introduced himself as Sir Rudolph Vane,” said Viola. “I never heard Father mention him.”
The Countess put down her cup.
“I remember him once saying that many years ago that there was a black sheep of the family who went to Australia. I think that he had embezzled money from his Regiment and there had been a move to strip the man of the Baronetcy he had inherited, but nothing came of it.”
“Sir Rudolph mentioned about returning from the Antipodes, Mama, so it sounds as though he could be a member of that branch of the family,”
When Sir Rudolph called a week later, Viola had been working in her father’s garage with Joe Webster.
The Earl had held his chauffeur in high regard.
“Joe Webster is a very talented engineer,” the Earl had said. “With his help Viola and I will make a motor car that all England will want to buy.”
He had looked proudly at his pretty daughter.
“We shall form a Company and then build it into a flourishing concern.”
“But why should you want to?” the Countess said indulgently. “Viola is a great heiress. She has no need of income from any business selling these new-fangled motor cars, although I know that they are very expensive. They are also dangerous and very very dirty. I wish neither of you would spend so much time covered in oil!”
Viola’s father had laughed and replied,
“I don’t care about the money, my darling. The motor car is the vehicle of the future and I wish to be part of that future. The day will soon come when the horse will be an old-fashioned method of transport, the motor car will no longer be so very expensive and the ordinary man will be able to own one. Coaches will be motorised, so will delivery vans and cabs and our streets will no longer be littered with horse droppings. And I think that Viola agrees with me, don’t you, my angel?”
Viola nodded vigorously.
“And it’s such fun, Papa, working with you on your engines, trying out new ideas and parts, then assembling it all together and seeing if it will perform well.”
With her father gone, Viola had tried to forget her grief in continuing to work with Joe in the workshop that had been created out of part of the stables.
Then the message had been brought to her that Sir Rudolph Vane had called on her mother and she was to join them in the drawing room.
By the time she had washed her hands and changed, she found her mother chatting away in a cosy manner to the visitor.
After he had left, the Countess had said to Viola,
“What a charming man, my darling. I hope in due course we may see him again.”
As they were in mourning, the Countess was not entertaining, but she proved happy to receive Sir Rudolph for morning coffee or afternoon tea.
Then she took to driving with him in his carriage, drawn by a powerful pair of matched greys.
Very soon Viola found her mother consulting Sir Rudolph over questions involving matters of business.
“Surely,” she said, “Mr. Barnes, Father’s Agent, is the person who should be advising you.”
Her mother looked flustered and responded,
“Mr. Barnes is such an abrupt person. When talking with him, I always feel rather foolish. Sir Rudolph explains everything clearly and defers to what he calls ‘my excellent business head’ that I feel I can make a sensible decision.”
She smiled and was so obviously pleased that Viola had not had the heart to say anything more.
Although Viola was just sixteen years old when her father had died, she was intelligent and had been treated by the Earl as an equal.
She thought that she understood why Sir Rudolph was such a constant visitor, but she became troubled by his constant presence in her mother’s life.
By the time the Countess’s mourning period was over, Sir Rudolph had proposed and been accepted by her.
Viola had been shocked when her mother told her.
“Without someone to help me, my dearest girl,” the Countess said, “I find looking after The Castle, the estate and all your father’s business interests too difficult to cope with. Sir Rudolph is very understanding, so strong and so protective,” she added with a soft smile. “Of course he can never replace Hugh in my heart, but I feel very cared for when he is around.”
Viola tried to say that she was capable of looking after her mother and business and estate matters, but she gently laughed and added,
“I know how impossible it is for any man to take the place of your dear father, but Rudolph loves me very much and he thinks you are lovely. I hope with all my heart that you can like and respect him, if only for my sake.”
Viola did make every effort, but found she resented Sir Rudolph’s autocratic manner.
He had a temper that could flare without warning and the Countess constantly had to act as mediator between her husband and members of her staff after he had shouted at them and threatened dismissal.
After their Wedding, as the months went by, Viola gradually saw her mother lose her liveliness and become more and more withdrawn while her husband became more and more domineering.
Then one morning she had a bruise on her cheek.
“I fell and caught my face on a table, darling,” she said to Viola. “It’s nothing to – worry about, but I think I will keep – to my bed today.”
She was very pale and her voice trembled.
Viola went and accused Sir Rudolph of hitting her mother.
He was sitting at the desk in the library and his eyes flashed with anger and he gripped the pen he was holding so hard that his fingers turned white.
“Has your mother suggested that I was responsible for her fall? No? Then how dare you accuse me of such behaviour? I am not in the habit of hitting women.’
Sir Rudolph looked so outraged that Viola shrank back.
“I am – I am sorry,” she stammered. “I am j-just so upset and worried – about Mama.”
“Have I not been the most loving and caring of all husbands, eh?” he barked out. “You had better get back to her,” he added. “Remember I will take it grossly amiss if you dare to repeat your vile accusation.”