Help from the Heart E-Book

Barbara Cartland

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

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Sunny Naples is dark in the shadow of death as typhoid decimates its people, including the father lovely young Forella Claye adored with all her heart… Fleeing for her life, she arrives, forlorn, at her aunt and uncle's London house. Horrified to find they mean to offload her in marriage by hook or by crook, she flees again… this time on a horse from the stable of the impossibly handsome Hungarian Prince János Kovác. With the Prince hot on her heels, she gallops to faster and faster to freedom – until finally Forella is captured… And so is her heart.

Leseprobe

Author’s Note

It is true that the Prince of Wales, later King Edward VII, had a special way of finding the bedrooms of beautiful women who attracted him.

As the houses where His Royal Highness stayed were usually very large, he suggested that a rose placed outside the bedroom door would simplify his search and then prevent him from making embarrassing mistakes.

The Prince married the beautiful Alexandra of Denmark in 1863, but just five years later, when their third child, Princess Victoria, was born, his love affairs were already delighting the gossips.

There were tales of enticing beauties in Russia, where the Prince attended the Wedding of Princess Alexandra’s sister, Dagmar, to the Czarevitch Alexander and of many seductive Princesses and actresses in Paris, which he visited alone the following year.

There the Prince led the way and inevitably the younger members of Society followed.

To some it was a very welcome rebellion from the solemnity and the worthy preciseness of the Prince Consort and, after his early death, the gloom and boredom of Queen Victoria’s unceasing mourning at Windsor Castle.

Chapter One ~ 1870

Dinner was finished and the ladies moved into the large salon with its crystal chandeliers and masses of exotic flowers.

They looked like beautiful swans with their gowns swept back into the new bustle, which on Frederick Worth’s instructions, had just supplanted the crinoline.

The bustle accentuated their tiny waists and above it tight bodices outlined their curved breasts and seemed to draw the eye to the low décolletage, which again had just come into vogue.

An uninformed observer might well have been surprised at the sight of so many beautiful women congregated in one room if he had not known that their host was Prince János Kovác.

Everything in Alchester Castle seemed to have surrounding it an aura of wealth that was inescapable.

Only one or two of the older members of the large house party assembled there for the weekend could remember what The Castle had looked like before the Duke of Alchester had sold it to the Prince.

“One consolation,” said one Dowager glittering with a fortune in diamonds as she looked at the paintings hanging in the salon, “is that the Alchesters have not only been able to pay their bills but can now live in comparative comfort since they gave up The Castle.”

“My dear, can you remember what it was like?” her companion exclaimed.

“Bitterly cold in winter and the walls and ceilings damp because the roof leaked. Nothing has been repaired or mended for at least fifty years. And the food was quite inedible!”

The Dowager laughed.

“Rather different from tonight.”

There was silence as both of them thought how superb the dinner had been and how as course succeeded course the wines accompanying them had all been the joy of every epicure present.

It was inevitable that everybody should extol the Prince’s possessions until they ran out of adjectives.

Prince János Kovác, who reigned over thousands of acres in the East of Hungary, had come to England in the first place to hunt.

He had been so delighted with the sport he had enjoyed in the Shires that he had not only joined several famous packs but had also set up a Racing Stable, which had already begun to win the Classics one by one.

Had he been any other young man, he would have aroused the envy and hatred of those he competed with.

But Prince János was exceedingly popular not just with those who backed his horses and then cheered him past the Winning Post, but with the Jockey Club, of which he was now a member.

Those he entertained with lavishness and generosity acclaimed him as a true sportsman after every Englishman’s heart.

That invitations to his superb house parties were sought after went without saying and he contrived, someone said a little enviously, to pack more beauties into the square yard than any other host had ever managed to do.

Looking round the room at the ladies, whether they were blonde, brunette or red-headed, no one could doubt that if Paris himself had been present, he would have found it very hard to decide who he should award the Golden Apple to.

All the famous beauties of the time were known to the Prince and there was little doubt that they were fascinated, intrigued and often infatuated with him.

But strangely enough, even the most inquisitive gossipmongers of the Social world could find little to say about Prince János which was the least scandalous or even indiscreet.

However, that did not apply to his guests and, as Lady Esme Meldrum moved across the room to look at her reflection in one of the gold-framed mirrors, the Marchioness of Claydon followed her progress with hatred in her dark eyes.

There was no doubt that Lady Esme was exceedingly beautiful in the traditional mould that was accepted by all the artists of the time.

With her golden hair, her eyes the colour of a thrush’s egg and a pink-and-white skin like transparent porcelain, it was impossible to think that anyone could be lovelier.

She carried herself superbly and her figure was like that of a young Goddess.

She had been married when she was eighteen to Sir Richard Meldrum, with whom she had fallen head-over-heels in love.

Her parents had expected her to make a much better match, but, as Richard Meldrum was already spoken of as one of the most promising Ambassadors in Europe, they became more reconciled to their daughter’s choice.

However, after eight years of marriage to a husband who was increasingly occupied by his duties, Lady Esme was looking round for amusement.

It was fortunate for her that the Earl of Sherburn should recognise her attractions just at the moment when she had decided that he was without exception the most attractive man she had seen since she fell in love so many years ago with her husband.

Osmond Sherburn was rich, handsome, slightly bored with his success and extremely elusive when it came to the question of matrimony.

A large number of ambitious Mamas had thought that their daughters would grace the Sherburn jewels and make a very charming Chatelaine in the Earl’s ancestral home and in the other houses he possessed.

But then he was wise enough to devote his attention to married women with complacent husbands. He certainly annoyed a large number of them to the point where they longed to call him out for a duel.

But the Earl’s friendship with the Prince of Wales and his position in Society made them think twice and decide that to challenge him would be an undoubted mistake.

The Earl therefore enjoyed himself as he wished and he found that few women, if any, refused what he desired.

He had just had a brief but enjoyable affaire de coeur with the Marchioness of Claydon.

As was usual, he had begun to cool off first and he was in fact wondering how he could extricate himself from the clinging and very possessive arms of the Marchioness when Lady Esme came into view.

To say that he was bowled over would be an exaggeration for the Earl always kept his feet very firmly on the ground.

His most ardent and tempestuous love affairs were conducted with a certain amount of discretion on his part, which meant that his head always ruled his heart.

It was perhaps this more than anything else which made the women who fell in love with him aware that he was never completely their captive.

However ‘siren-like’ they might be and however alluring and attractive, they could not hold him forever.

“I cannot think why I lost Osmond,” one beauty had sobbed to the Marchioness before she and the Earl had really become aware of each other.

“Perhaps, dear, you were too subservient,” Kathie Claydon had replied.

“How can you be anything else with Osmond?” the beauty had then asked. “He is so dominating, so masterful and, because one is so thrilled by his supremacy, it is impossible to do anything but what he wishes.”

The Marchioness had thought privately that from what she had seen of the Earl, she was sure that he needed a challenge.

When they next met at a house party, at which neither of them was particularly interested in anybody else, she had looked at him with Sphinx-like eyes.

She had been deliberately provocative and at the same time intriguing, inviting and very mysterious and, as she had hoped, he had responded by being ardent and possessive.

But she had found that, after the Earl had become her lover, her willpower had gone and she could no longer challenge him as she had intended.

Instead she became entirely submissive and obedient to everything he asked of her.

She was very experienced at the art of loving and finally, when she realised that he was beginning to draw away, she became frantic.

She realised then that she loved the Earl as she had never loved anyone else in the whole of her life.

Her marriage had been arranged for her by her parents and, as she had been extremely gratified and delighted to be the Marchioness of Claydon, she had never found any pleasure in the more intimate moments of marriage.

It was only when, after giving her husband two sons and a daughter, she had taken her first lover that she discovered passion.

After that she had realised what she had been missing.

Even then she had never really been in love until she met the Earl.

Then, having fallen so deeply in love that she had the greatest difficulty in not begging him on her knees to run away with her, she had realised that she was just living in a ‘Fool’s Paradise’.

That Lady Esme should have supplanted her made it, she thought, even more bitter than if it had been some unknown beauty who did not belong to the same circle they inevitably saw each other almost every day and every evening.

The Prince of Wales had begun to enjoy a new freedom in the last few years.

He had gathered round him the younger and more amusing members of London Society and certainly the richest and the most raffish.

He had been married to the exquisitely beautiful Alexandra of Denmark in 1863, but by the summer of 1868, when their third child, Princess Victoria, was born, his love affairs had grown too numerous to be hushed up or ignored.

Two years earlier, when he was visiting St. Petersburg to attend the Wedding of Princess Alexandra’s sister, Dagmar, to the Czarevitch Alexander, there already were whispers that he was doing more than just flirting with the alluring beauties of the Russian Capital.

More tales trickled back from Paris, which he visited, again by himself, the following year.

And from then on, his conquests, or what was described as his ‘troupe of fine ladies’, followed one another in quick succession.

The first of many actresses in his life was the alluring Hortense Schneider. And after her there were beautiful women ranging from debutantes whom he saw at Presentation Balls to mature married beauties in the Beau Monde.

When the Prince of Wales then set the pace, a very different one from what his father and mother had considered conformable, who was not ready to follow him?

What was more, as one cynic remarked,

“Having invented infidelity, the Prince of Wales is now overwhelmed by it.”

If the primrose path was made very easy for the Heir to the Throne, it likewise became increasingly easier for other gentlemen who up to now had led outwardly most circumspect lives.

Indeed, until the Prince Consort died, at even a breath of scandal they had always been liable to be scolded and more or less ostracised from Court.

Now the barriers were truly well down and so the Prince of Wales’s love affairs were openly accepted, except by some of the more strait-laced families like that of the Marquis of Salisbury.

So everything became far easier and considerably more pleasant for the aristocrats of the Prince’s age and those who were a little older.

But this did not make it any easier for the Marchioness of Claydon to accept that, to put it bluntly, the Earl of Sherburn was bored with her.

She had tried to delude herself into believing that it was just a transitory mood and he would return to her.

But the intervals between his visits became longer and longer and his explanations that he had other pressing business to attend to were not convincing.

When it became clear that ‘business’ was Lady Esme Meldrum, the Marchioness’s anger and jealousy were almost uncontainable.

Never in her whole life had she hated anybody as much as she hated Lady Esme.

She would stare in the mirror for hours, wondering why her beauty had failed to hold the Earl when, in the opinion of most people, with her dark hair, flashing eyes and distinguished features, she was far more attractive than her rival.

But at last she had to accept that the Earl had gone and for the last month she had not seen him until they had met today with all the other guests at Alchester Castle.

It had given her a terrible shock when he had come into the salon before dinner and to the Marchioness’s considerable annoyance her heart had turned a somersault and she had found it hard to breathe.

She had been very severe with herself during the last few weeks. .

Her pride had told her not to whine as so many other women had done when they lost the Earl and she had determined to pretend, even if nobody believed her, that she had been the first to bring their affair to an end because he no longer amused her.

The Marchioness might have had many faults, but she was not the type of woman to be crushed by adversity or to weep and wail even if she had lost what mattered most to her in life.

She told herself that she would fight and go on fighting and, even if in the end she did not get the Earl back, she would somehow make him sorry for the way he had treated her.

Sooner or later, she thought, she would take her revenge on Esme Meldrum as well and make her suffer as she was suffering.

Perhaps back in the Marchioness’s antecedents there was an Italian or a Spanish ancestor who understood what was meant by a vendetta.

All of the Earl’s other discarded women had wept helplessly, but had done nothing else.

The Marchioness was determined that she would be different.

‘I will punish him,’ she told her reflection in the mirror, ‘if it is the last thing I ever do.’

She would lie awake at night thinking of the misfortunes and disasters she would inflict upon the Earl, until one day he would crawl back to her on his hands and knees and beg for mercy.

It was a fantasy that for a few moments at any rate assuaged the pain of her loss, which was like a physical wound in her heart.

Now, as she watched him walk into the salon and greet the Prince, she knew that no man had ever made her feel as he had when he kissed her.

She despised herself for knowing that if at this moment he held out his arms to her, she would run towards him like a homing pigeon.

Instead, holding herself tightly erect, she said as he approached her,

“Good evening, Osmond. It is delightful to see you again.”

“There is no need for me to tell you that you are more beautiful than ever,” the Earl replied lightly.

His voice sounded as if he was speaking sincerely, but the expression in his eyes told the Marchioness what she already knew, that he no longer had any interest in her and she hated him anew.

With an effort, because it was difficult to find her voice, she then replied,

“George is so looking forward to seeing you and let me introduce you to George’s niece, poor Peter’s daughter, who has just come to live with us.”

As she spoke, she indicated a girl standing by her side, who was obviously very young and self-effacing.

“Forella,” the Marchioness continued, “this is the Earl of Sherburn, who owns the finest racehorses in England and is also renowned as a great sportsman.”

The Marchioness made the description sound almost an insult and the Earl, appreciating that she was being sarcastic, merely bowed to her niece and moved towards Lady Esme, who was standing at the other side of the room.

The way she held out her hand and the expression in her eyes as she looked at him told the Marchioness all too clearly what she already knew.

There was murder in her heart as she turned with an exaggerated effusiveness to greet another of her fellow guests.

*

Standing beside her aunt, Forella wondered why she was so angry.

In the strange life that she had lived with her father, Forella had learnt not only to judge people by what they said and how they looked but to feel the vibrations that came from them.

She was well aware as soon as she arrived a week ago at her uncle’s house in Park Lane that her aunt was not at all pleased to see her.

She realised that the Marchioness was resenting with every nerve in her body that, since she had no other home, she was to live with them.

Although Forella had not been present at the arguments over what should be done about her, she was perceptively aware.

From the moment she had arrived from Italy, where her father had died in Naples during an epidemic of typhoid, she knew that, as far as her aunt was concerned, she was unwelcome.

“So are you telling me, George,” the Marchioness had asked incredulously, “that your brother’s child, whom I have never even seen, is to live with us? And I must present her at Court and bring her out as a debutante?”

“There is nothing else we can do, Kathie,’’ the Marquis had replied sharply. “Now that Peter is dead, I am the girl’s Guardian and, as she is nearly nineteen, she should have made her debut a year ago.”

“That was always unlikely to happen whilst she was rampaging around the world with her eccentric father,” the Marchioness replied harshly.

“I am aware of that,” the Marquis said, “but, if Peter liked to lead his life his way, it was no business of ours. But now that he is dead, we have to do what is right and proper for his daughter.”

“She must have other relations who would be only too glad to take care of her if you paid them enough money to do so.”

“They are not in the same position as we are,” the Marquis answered, “and I consider her my responsibility until she marries.”

There was a poinant silence.

Then the Marchioness exclaimed,

“What you are really saying is that I have to find her a husband!”

“Why not?” the Marquis asked. “You have plenty of eligible nincompoops hanging about the place, drinking my wine and availing themselves of my hospitality. Surely one of them would be suitable to marry my niece?”

“With no dowry?” the Marchioness asked scathingly. “And I imagine, after the life she led with your brother, with very few social graces.”

“She is an exceedingly pretty girl,” the Marquis replied, “and I suppose you can smarten her up and teach her what she needs to know.”

His wife did not reply and after a moment he said in a more conciliatory tone,

“Come on, Kathie, you were young yourself not so long ago and we can hardly leave the girl sitting in some slum in Naples with nobody to look after her except Peter’s servant, who has travelled with him all through the years.”

“You are not expecting to bring him here as well?” the Marchioness enquired.

“No, I intend to pension him off,” the Marquis replied. “He is a good man and the least I can do is to give him a cottage in the country.”

There was another silence for a moment.

Then the Marchioness queried,

“And the girl?”

“She will be arriving in three weeks’ time. I have arranged for a Nun and a Courier to bring her over France. I thought it only right that she should have time to get over her father’s death.”

The word ‘death’ seemed to offer a speck of light to the Marchioness in the darkness of what her husband was asking her to do.

“If Forella is in mourning, she can hardly expect to attend balls and nobody wants a little black crow at any party.”

“That is something that need not trouble you,” the Marquis replied.

“Why not?” his wife enquired.

“Because Peter, who, as you know, was always unconventional, left a note in his Will to the effect that nobody was to mourn for him, nobody was to wear black and he wished to be buried quietly without any fuss.”

The Marquis paused.

Then he added,

“My brother wrote to me,

“I have had a damned good life and have enjoyed every moment of it. If anybody misses me, then I do hope that they will drink a glass of champagne to my memory and wish me luck wherever I may be in the future.”

There was then a little break in the Marquis’s voice as he repeated what his brother had written, but the Marchioness merely snorted.

“It sounds just the sort of nonsense your brother would write,” she said, “but I suppose it makes it easier for me to do what you wish about his child. At the same time, George, do not think it will be easy for me, because it will not be!”

“What you are saying,” the Marquis replied, “is that you very much dislike the idea of having to chaperone a debutante. Because I am not a fool, I appreciate that, Kathie. So the best thing you can do is to get her married off quickly. Then she will be off your hands and mine.”

He paused before he added,

“I will give her three hundred pounds a year, which should make it easier, and you can spend what you like in decking her out.”

For the first time since he had started talking to her, the Marchioness’s eyes were less stormy.

“That is unusually generous of you, George!”

“I was fond of Peter,” the Marquis said reflectively, “and, although you may not believe it, I often envied him.”

He did not say anything more, but left the room while the Marchioness stared after him in astonishment.

How could George, who had everything, a famous title, great wealth and a position both at Court and in Society, envy his brother?

She had not seen Peter Claye very often, but when she had, she had found him totally incomprehensible and, if she was honest, because she did not understand him, she disliked him.

Peter had been only the third son of the previous Marquis and he therefore had not the slightest chance of succeeding to the title.

By the time George had married and had a son, Peter had begun to live a very different life from the rest of his family.

It was, of course, traditional that the younger sons should have very little, while all the money and possessions were entailed onto the heir.

Therefore, knowing he could not live the social life that entertained and amused his two brothers, he had set off on his own to explore the world.

He had soon spent his small amount of capital and then had to rely on the allowance he received every six months from the family Solicitors.

It was enough to allow him to travel as he had wished and to marry and be exceedingly happy with a wife who enjoyed the same strange roving life that intrigued him.

Their only child, Forella, before she could walk had travelled over deserts on the back of a camel.

She was dragged up the sides of mountains and sailed in creaking ships across strange seas to places where an Englishman and woman were a rarity and where the natives either stared at them or threatened them.

Occasionally, when his wife compelled him, Peter Claye would sit down and write for the Royal Geographical Society of his journeys and the unusual things he had seen.

But, while he talked about writing a book, usually he was too busy living his life to the full to have the time to set it down on paper.

“I will do that when I am too old to put one foot in front of the other,” he would say, laughing.

Then they would go off again to some other place which Peter thought would be exciting and which he then wished to visit.

To Forella it was all a vast kaleidoscope of colour, new people, strange customs and she found them as absorbing as her father did.

Only when her mother had died did she realise that he was now her responsibility and that she must look after him as he was obviously quite incapable of looking after her.

Never in his life had Peter Claye been able to worry about tomorrow.

His whole philosophy had been,

‘Enjoy today for tomorrow may never come’.

It came to him when, desperately short of money, they had lodged in what was really the slums of Naples while he decided where they would go next.

They had been warned that there were a number of cases of typhoid in the City, but he had laughed.

“It may be dangerous, Papa,” Forella had insisted.

“I am indestructible,” he had boasted and a week later he had died.

It was Jackson, Peter’s servant, who had had the sense to write to the Marquis.

When he told Forella what he had done, she was angry with him.

“Why did you do that?” she asked. “Uncle George has paid no attention to us for years. Why should he worry about me now?”

“He has to worry about you, Miss Forella,” Jackson answered.

“Why?”

“Because now that your father’s dead, God rest his soul, his Lordship’s your Guardian and he’s got to do somethin’ about you.”

Forella looked with troubled eyes at the wiry little man.

“What do you mean by that? I don’t want anybody to look after me.”

“Now look ’ere, Miss Forella,” Jackson said. “Now that the Master’s no longer with us, we’ve got to do what’s right and proper and what your mother, lovely lady she were, would have wanted if she was alive.”

“I don’t know what you are saying,” Forella replied.

But indeed she had known and it terrified her.

Two weeks later the Marquis arrived in Naples in answer to Jackson’s letter.

Because he resembled her father in good looks and was extremely kind and unexpectedly understanding, Forella cried for the first time since her father had died.

“I miss him, Uncle George,” she said. “He was such fun to be with and nothing will ever be the same again.”

“I know, my dear,” the Marquis replied, “but now you have to live a new sort of life and that means coming to England with me.”

“Oh, no!” Forella exclaimed involuntarily.

“You do not like the idea?”

“It – it frightens me,” Forella explained. “Papa used to laugh and tell me how smart and important you and Aunt Kathie were.”

She paused before she went on,

“Sometimes we would read about you in a newspaper that was usually weeks old, when we were in Singapore or Hong Kong or somewhere like that and Papa would say,

“There you are, Forella, my brother George is lording it above them all and I am proud of him, very proud. But thank God I do not have to live his life, even if he is ‘Monarch of all he surveys’!”

The Marquis laughed.

“I can hear Peter saying that. He always thought Society a joke.”

There was silence.

Then Forella said in a very small voice,

“Please, Uncle George – could I not – stay here with Jackson?”

The Marquis took her hand in his.

“Now listen to me, Forella,” he said. “Jackson is a very nice little man, but he is getting on in years, while you are young, very young, and you have all your life in front of you.”

His fingers tightened comfortingly as he went on,

“Now that you have to become a lady in the full sense of the word. That is what is best for you and what I believe in his heart your father would have wanted for you.”

Because Forella had the uneasy feeling that this was true, she could not find words to go on arguing with.