A Heart in the Highlands E-Book

Barbara Cartland

• Herausgeber: Barbara Cartland Ebooks Ltd
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Eternal Collection
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 199

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

When the Duke's affair is discovered and he is challenged to a dual by the angry husband, he escapes to Scotland in search of a wife. The Duke's mother invites three society girls to a ball she has organised in their magnificent castle, one of which, she tells the Duke, he must choose as a bride. However the father of one of the girls refuses to send his only daughter, and hatches a plot to disgrace the Duke by sending instead his niece Yseulta, to whom he is bitterly unkind as her father had disgraced the family name. Dressed in a threadbare old black dress, Yseulta is distressed and frightened but happy to be far away from her abusive step-father, and soon falls in love with the beauty of the highlands, the home of her ancestors. But the beauty is tarnished as she discovers a starving family and then, as events turn against her, in desperation she tries to throw herself into the sea. In this beautifully told story, reminiscent of a fairy tale, we discover how love and kindness can truly conquer all.

Leseprobe

AUTHOR’S NOTE

“My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer.

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,

My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go.”

This verse, written by Robert Burns, is true of every Scot.

It is difficult to explain how the spirit of Scotland is so much a part of one’s breathing and feeling that the moment one crosses the border, one is vitally aware of it. I am extremely proud that my grandmother – my father’s mother – was a Falkner and a descendant of Robert the Bruce.

My great-grandmother was a descendant of the Dukes of Hamilton. My mother was a Scobell, one of the oldest Saxon families in existence, who were living in Devonshire long before the Norman Conquest in 1066. Yet she had both my brothers and me all christened with “Hamilton” as one of our names.

My married name was McCorquodale, and when I caught my first salmon in the Helmsdale River in 1928, it was one of the most exciting experiences of my life.

The story is really set in Sutherland, and the castle I describe is the magnificent home of the Dukes of Sutherland.

Marriage by Consent was legal in Scotland until 1949.

Yseulta is Celtic and is pronounced “Eezulta”.

CHAPTER ONE ~ 1885

The Duke of Strathvegon thought with a sigh of relief that the state dinner was coming to an end. He felt the quality of the food had not done justice to the beauty of the dining room, which owed its proportions and its pictures to George IV.

Whenever possible, he avoided the invitations that he received so frequently from the Prince of Wales. Princess Alexandra, looking ravishingly lovely as usual, rose to her feet and the ladies processed with a fluttering of gowns and a glitter of jewels towards the door.

As they did so the Duke looked at the Countess of Wallington and thought she was looking unusually pale. She was, without exception, the most beautiful woman in London. The diamonds and sapphires of her necklace showed off the translucent whiteness of her skin, and her blue eyes shone like stars.

As she passed him there was an expression in them that he did not understand, but he knew perceptively that something was wrong. He wondered what it could possibly be, and as the Prince of Wales beckoned to him to come to the top of the table and sit next to him, he found it difficult to concentrate on what His Royal Highness was saying.

The Duke was in fact thinking of how passionate Hermione Wallington had been last night.

He had thought as he walked home at dawn that he had seldom been involved in a more satisfactory affaire de coeur. Now as the Prince of Wales began to talk about horses and the rest of the male guests joined in, the Duke for the moment forgot the Countess. In fact he made several witty remarks, which caused His Royal Highness to laugh uproariously.

When they joined the ladies, already some of the guests wore the restless look of those who wished the evening would come to a close.

As soon as the Prince and Princess of Wales had said goodnight to their Guest of Honour and processed from the room, there was a general chorus of goodbyes among everybody who remained.

Hermione Wallington, as one of Princess Alexandra’s ladies-in-waiting, was expected to follow almost immediately in the wake of the royal couple. She therefore curtsied to the Guest of Honour with a grace that the Duke appreciated, then held out her hand to him. As she did so he felt something pressed against his palm, and he quickly closed his fingers over it.

“Goodnight, Your Grace,” Hermione murmured formally.

Then after bidding several other goodnights, she moved towards the door. It was impossible for the Duke to see what she had handed to him until some of the other guests had said their farewells and moved away. Only by walking to one of the windows, as if anxious to see if it was raining or fine, was he able to look surreptitiously at what he had transferred to his left hand.

On a tiny slip of paper was written in very small handwriting,

‘Come to me at once – I am desperate!’

For a moment the Duke stared as if he could not believe his eyes. Then a deep voice beside him said,

“Are you worrying, My Lord Duke, in case it is raining and the ground is too soft for your horse tomorrow?”

With an effort the Duke remembered that he had a horse running at Epsom, and he replied,

“Actually, Prime Minister, I was thinking of how unpleasant it will be if I have to watch him in the pouring rain!”

The Prime Minister smiled.

“I sympathise with you, but I think in fact the weather will be fine.”

At any other time the Duke would have waited to talk to Mr. Gladstone. He was sorry for him because the Queen could not hide her dislike and mistrust of him. She blamed him for the death of General Gordon at Khartoum at the beginning of the year. In the music halls he was referred to as ‘M.O.G.’ – Murderer of Gordon.

The Duke always went out of his way to be pleasant to a man when he was “down”, and he was sure that as Prime Minister Mr. Gladstone’s days were numbered. But for the moment Hermione’s cry for help was all that mattered.

The servants in their powdered wigs called his, carriage and when he stepped into it, he looked again at the piece of paper. He found Hermione’s words hard to decipher in the flickering light of the candle-lanterns. But having re-read the message he wondered what could possibly have occurred. Last night they had agreed that they would not meet tonight but would dine together the following evening. The Earl of Wallington was not due back from Paris, where he had been sent on a special mission by the Prime Minister, until the following day.

“I shall be counting the hours until we can be together again,” Hermione had said in her soft seductive voice. “At the same time, it will be too obvious if we leave Buckingham Palace at the same time and neither of us is seen elsewhere that evening.”

“I agree with you,” the Duke answered, “And I will go to White’s. There will certainly be a number of gossip-mongers in the club who will be aware of my presence.”

Hermione moved a little closer to him before she said,

“I will look in at the party that is taking place at Devonshire House.”

She sighed before she added,

“It will be agony when we might be together, but we have to be careful because George is very jealous.”

The Duke had kissed her and thought as he did so that it was not surprising the Earl was jealous of anything so lovely Hermione Wallington had stunned London from the moment she had appeared on the social scene at the age of seventeen-and-a-half. It was impossible for the raffish members of the clubs in St. James’s Street not to go into eulogies over her beauty.

It was inevitable she should have made a brilliant marriage in her first Season. The betting had been at first on a somewhat elderly Marquess who was looking for a second wife to give him the heir he had not managed to produce with his first. Then the Earl of Wallington, rich, distinguished, and only twenty years older than Hermione, had swept her off her feet.

He married her, to the extreme satisfaction of her parents a month before the Season ended.

She had dutifully and rapidly produced a son and a daughter. Then she had emerged from the country. She had struck the social scene in London once again like a meteor from outer space.

By this time the Earl had an important post in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs which meant he was often absent on diplomatic missions abroad, for which it was impossible for his wife always to accompany him. She had no wish to miss the adulation of the men who flocked to her husband’s house in Berkeley Square.

When she took her first lover, Hermione was so terrified of being discovered that it was therefore not a very enjoyable episode. The next two were pleasant interludes, but when she met the Duke she fell in love.

It was not surprising. He stood out amongst the tall, distinguished aristocrats who filled the Drawing Rooms of the most brilliant and exclusive society in Europe. Being Scottish made the Duke seem different from other men. He had inherited not only his fair hair from a Viking ancestor who had invaded Scottish shores, but also his height and strong physique.

When he wore Highland dress, he was so devastatingly fascinating that no woman was too old to find her heart beating faster when she looked at him.

For the first time in her life Hermione lost her heart completely. She had been delighted to become a Countess before her eighteenth birthday and was fond of her husband, although she was frightened of him.

She had however, no idea of the delights and sensual joys of passion until she met the Duke. In fact he had awakened her to a womanhood she had never known before. She gave him not only her body and her heart but also what she believed was her soul.

Hermione was not particularly intelligent and as was then usual in aristocratic families had been inadequately educated by an inexperienced Governess. A middle-aged woman, she knew little herself, and what she did know she had no idea how to impart to her pupils.

Hermione’s brothers had been sent to Eton, then Oxford, while she read a few dull history books and fumbled over the multiplication tables. She found her lessons boring, especially those that involved writing out long extracts from what her Governess considered to be the classics.

The Duke, however, was not concerned with Hermione’s brain. Her body was entrancing, and he had only to look at her beauty to realise she had a charm that was the envy of every other woman in the room. He was too experienced not to realise that her love for him had changed her from being, despite her marriage, little more than an unopened bud into a rose in full bloom.

Because he was aware of how indiscreet and impulsive women could be, he had admonished her very seriously to be careful where her husband was concerned.

“You must show him a lot of affection,” he had said sternly, “And, for goodness’ sake, listen to what he is saying to you.”

“It is difficult, when I am thinking of you,” Hermione had replied.

“I know,” the Duke replied. “At the same time, if he suspects, he may prevent us from seeing each other.”

She had given a cry of horror and flung her arms around him.

“I cannot lose you, Kenyon! How can I? I love you, I love you! If I were not allowed to see you again … I should die!”

She spoke wildly and the Duke knew it was dangerous.

“Now listen, my beautiful one,” he said, “You have to be sensible and, promise me, as you have done before, that you will not confide in anyone.”

He knew as he spoke how difficult it could be for a woman in love not to talk about it to her closest friend. The inevitable result was that the story was carried all over London within twenty-four hours.

“I have kept my promise,” Hermione assured him. “I have not told anyone, and the only person who is aware that I see you is my lady’s maid.”

The Duke knew that in any love affair there always had to be what the French called a complice d’amour. He had been assured over and over again, however, that Jones adored her mistress and would never betray her.

His carriage turned off the Mall, passed St. James’s Palace, and proceeded up St. James’s Street, as he wondered anxiously what could have gone wrong. As he passed White’s Club he thought it was a mistake that he was not going in, as they had planned.

He had told one of his friends earlier in the day that he would play cards with him as soon as he could get away from the Palace. The carriage drew up outside Wallington House in Berkeley Square. As the Duke stepped out he said to his footman,

“I will walk home.”

He did not raise his hand to the silver knocker but, as he expected, the door opened. As he went inside he saw there was only Jones, the lady’s maid, in the hall. The night-footman had been sent to bed and, as he had last night, the Duke moved towards the staircase.

“Her Ladyship’s in the Morning Room, Your Grace,” Jones said in a whisper.

The Duke raised his eyebrows, but he did not ask any questions. He merely walked from the staircase across the hall and into the Morning Room at the far end. It was an attractive room with windows looking on to a small garden at the back of the house, but Hermione had never waited for him there before. Always she had been in her boudoir when he arrived, wearing a diaphanous negligée that revealed rather than concealed her attractions.

Now as he entered the room he saw that she had not changed from the elaborate gown she had been wearing at Buckingham Palace, although she had removed her sapphire tiara. She gave a muffled cry as he entered and jumped up from the sofa on which she had been sitting.

The Duke shut the door and walked towards her.

“What has happened?” he asked.

The words had barely passed his lips before Hermione had flung herself against him, holding on to him convulsively and hiding her face against his shoulder.

His arms went round her and he asked again,

“What has upset you? What is wrong?”

“Oh, Kenyon … Kenyon, how can I tell you?” Hermione sobbed.

He could feel her body trembling against him.

He held her close, his lips on her hair, which smelt of an exotic French perfume.

“H-how, how can I bear it? Oh, Kenyon what am I to do?”

The Duke moved her gently towards the sofa.

He sat down and pulled her close against him saying as he did so.”

“Now stop crying, my sweet, and tell me exactly what has happened. Then we will decide what to do.”

“I-I was so frightened you would not come tonight.”

“But I am here!” he said. “So tell me what I have to hear.”

Hermione raised her head, and now in the candlelight he could see the tears running down her cheeks. He thought she looked even lovelier than she had at Buckingham Palace earlier in the evening.

“George has ... found out!” she stammered.

It was what the Duke had expected. At the same time, it was a shock to hear her say so.

“How does he know?” he asked. “Has he returned?”

“N-no. He has not yet returned. But when he does he is going to k-kill you!”

The Duke stared at her for a moment before he remarked,

“I think that is unlikely.”

“He is, he is!” Hermione insisted. “He is going to challenge you to a duel. And he is determined that you shall die.”

“I am sure you are exaggerating,” the Duke said dryly. “At the same time, how do you know this?”

As he spoke he took the handkerchief from his breast-pocket and gently wiped the tears from Hermione’s cheeks.

“What are we to do? How can we face it?” she asked.

“First of all answer my question,” the Duke said quietly. “How do you know that your husband is aware of what is happening?”

Hermione gave a little choked sob.

“George’s valet Dawkins is courting Jones. He wrote to her from Paris saying that George has had us watched for some time and that a report had come to him with some papers from the Foreign Office, which were carried by Courier because they were urgent.”

The Duke’s lips tightened before he asked,

“You had someone following you, and you had no idea of it?”

“How could I have known? How could I have guessed?” Hermione asked. “Oh, Kenyon, how can I let you die. How can I live without you?”

As she finished speaking, she flung her arms round the Duke’s neck and pulled his head down to hers. He kissed her, but his mind was concerned with what she had just told him. As he raised his head again he said,

“Tell me exactly what the valet said.”

“He said,” Hermione replied in a choked voice, “That George was furious and swore he would kill you! He will challenge you to a duel immediately on his return!”

“When is he coming back?” the Duke asked.

He knew as he did so that he was in a very compromising position.

“Not until Friday,” Hermione replied. “He has an important meeting tomorrow and there is a dinner that I am sure he cannot refuse to attend.”

The Duke thought that would give them a little time.

Then, as he did not speak, Hermione cried,

“Think of the scandal! Think how furious the Queen will be when she has forbidden duelling.”

“But it still takes place,” the Duke remarked.

“If George kills you, I shall have to go abroad with him for at least three or four years. Oh, Kenyon ... how could I bear that? How could I give up everything?”

Without thinking she glanced down at the miniature on her shoulder, which was worn by all the ladies-in-waiting to Princess Alexandra. The Duke rose from the sofa to walk to the fireplace and stand with his back to the flower-filled hearth.

“We have to be clever about this Hermione,” he said.

“How do you mean clever?” she asked. “George will come back and challenge you to a duel – and how can you refuse without being branded a coward?”

The Duke did not answer and she went on,

“I shall be accused of causing your death and no one will ever speak to me again.”

She burst into tears and there was nothing the Duke could do but go back to the sofa and put his arms around her. She wept against him, and he held her close for a little while before he said,

“Now listen, my dearest, what is important is that you must deny everything of which you are accused.”

“But George will not believe me!” Hermione sobbed. “You know how jealous he is. He has threatened before to leave one of his relatives in the house with me when he goes away.”

She sobbed again before she went on,

“What that means is that he would have somebody spying on me and telling him everything I do, everybody I meet.”

The Duke thought that perhaps a relative might have been easier to deal with than an unknown spy, but there seemed to be no point in saying so now. It seemed incredible that he had been so stupid as not to expect the jealous Earl might have had his wife watched.

As he thought about it, he remembered that George Wallington was known for his quick temper. He was also, in the words of some of his friends, “Unpredictably fiery when the occasion demanded it.”

He had the idea that when the Earl thought it over he would not kill him, as he had threatened to do, but he could quite easily wound him severely. Apart from the physical aspect of it, the scandal would undoubtedly reverberate throughout the whole of Mayfair.

It was inevitable that being so beautiful Hermione had made a great number of women envious. They would be only too delighted to have the chance of tipping her off the pedestal on which she had been placed.

This was not only because of her husband’s importance, but also as lady-in-waiting to Princess Alexandra.

The Duke, when he chose to use it, had a very quick brain. Now he was thinking intently of some way by which he could avoid what he was aware would be a catastrophe both for himself and for Hermione. He drew her a little closer to him. Then he said,

“Now listen, my sweet, it is very important that you should do exactly what I tell you.”

“How can I listen when all I want to do is cry?” Hermione asked.

“That is something you must not do,” the Duke replied.

“H-how can I help it?”

“You have to help it,” the Duke insisted, “Because you have to act your part very convincingly.”

“What part?”

She looked up at him pathetically, and he thought that although she was twenty-five she looked both young and helpless. There was a tender expression in his eyes as he said,

“We are in a mess, but somehow we are going to get out of it.”

“How ... how?” she asked.

“First you must pretend you know nothing of these accusations – do you understand? – nothing! When your husband comes back you must appear to be astounded and completely bewildered that he should think anything so unkind and so cruel when he knows you love him.”

“But I do not love him!” Hermione whispered. “I love you!”

Once again the tears filled her eyes and began to run down her cheeks.

“As I love you!” the Duke replied. “At the same time, I shall not be much use to you if I am dead, and you do not want to give up the parties and balls and be buried in the country where you will see no one.”

Hermione was listening.

Then as he finished speaking she gave a little cry.

“I forgot – I forgot to tell you. I shall not be buried in the country! George is going to divorce me!”

The Duke stiffened.

“Is that what he said?”

“Dawkins put it at the very end of the letter and I did not dare tell you. But if you are ... dead and am divorced – there will be no one to marry me!”

The Duke suddenly felt that he had stepped into a maze and could find no way out. Then he told himself that if Hermione was panicking he must keep his head. Once again she had hidden her face against his shoulder and was crying convulsively.

He held her close while his brain was racing round and round trying to find a way out of the prison walls which seemed to be closing in upon him. Once again he managed to say quietly,

“We have to save ourselves, and you must, and I repeat must, Hermione, do exactly what I am telling you to do.”

She raised her head.

“I-I will try.”

“That is what I want you to say,” he said, “And I want you, too, to be very brave.”

He repeated slowly as if to a small child exactly what he had already said. She must pretend complete innocence, and above all must look happy and untroubled. She must not for a moment let anyone suspect that she was at all worried about anything.

“H-how can I do that,” Hermione asked, “When I shall be waiting in terror for George’s return?”

“You have to act the part,” the Duke said quietly, “As cleverly as if you were on the stage at Drury Lane with an audience watching you.”

He went over it once again. Then he said,

“Tomorrow morning I shall go riding in the park, and if we meet, by chance, I shall be able to tell you what else I have planned.”

“Riding in the Park?” Hermione repeated he thought rather stupidly. “But why should we do that?”

“Then people who see you will not suspect that you are upset about anything, but we are only delighted to meet each other.”

“I-I do not understand.”

“The worst thing you could possibly do would be to sit in the house weeping,” the Duke said. “If we are being watched, perhaps by somebody in your household, then it will be reported to your husband who will undoubtedly take it as further evidence of your infidelity.”