Journey To Paradise E-Book

Barbara Cartland

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

Seitenzahl: 369

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Desperate to escape her fate, Kamala runs away from her brutal uncle who was to force her into a marriage with an even more brutal man of sixty. On her way to Southampton she meets a stranger, but after a hunting accident she nurses him back to health, which is the beginning of a series of adventures for them both. An audacious plan sees them boarding a ship destined for Mexico. But when they arrive, they have to face the deadly threats of a Spanish Don who has set his sights on only one prize… Set in 1839, this thrilling tale across land and sea charters their exciting but dangerous journey, before their mutual bravery and love takes them to paradise.

Leseprobe

Author’s Note

The cruelty and discipline of parents and guardians in the 19th century is an historic fact. My grandfather always made his four daughters read aloud at breakfast the letters they received from their friends.

Vaccination for smallpox was introduced to the world by Dr. Jenner in his book published in 1789. Bavaria made it compulsory in 1807, Denmark in 1810, Sweden in 1814. It was not compulsory in Great Britain until 1853.

When I was in Mexico I was given a fascinating and most detailed diary written about a visit to the country in 1839 by Fanny de Caldeion de la Barca. All descriptions in this story, which is set in the same year, therefore come from an authentic eyewitness.

With the ending of the East India Company’s monopoly of trade with the East in 1833, owners of ships began trading on their own, with fast vessels capable of carrying large cargos.

The first clipper ships were built in the U.S.A. in the same year and by 1840 were being produced in large numbers both sides of the Atlantic.

1 ~ 1839

“I see you have a letter, Kamala.”

The heavy voice seemed to boom down the breakfast table, making Kamala jump before she replied.

“Yes, Uncle Marcus.”

She had seen the letter as soon as she entered the room.

The butler’s instructions were to place the post on the table at breakfast, an order which Kamala knew was one of the many ways in which her uncle kept track of what was happening in his household.

There was in fact little that escaped his sharp eyes and he saw with a faint smile of satisfaction that the colour had left Kamala’s face.

“Who is your correspondent?”

She might have guessed, she thought, he would not leave the matter alone.

“I do not know Uncle Marcus.”

“You were not expecting a letter?”

“No, Uncle Marcus.”

“Then naturally you must be curious to know who the writer may be. I suggest you open the letter and read its contents aloud to us.”

Kamala looked towards the end of the table nervously.

Her uncle was a large, red-faced, overpowering man. He ruled his wife and his servants with a rod of iron. He was in fact a domestic tyrant whom few were brave enough to defy.

“I do not know why Kamala should have a letter,” Sophie complained petulantly.

She was a large and plain girl, not unlike her father, and Kamala knew only too well that Sophie was jealous of her. The mere fact that her cousin should receive a letter addressed to her individually, even if it were only from a shop, would arouse Sophie’s envy.

Kamala was quite certain that if her uncle did not make a scene about the letter, Sophie would do so later.

“I do not know who it could be from,” Kamala said miserably, staring at the envelope in front of her as if it contained a booby-trap.

“Then let us not prolong our speculation on the identity of your correspondent,” Marcus Pleyton said sarcastically.

His hard eyes seemed to linger on Kamala’s pale cheeks and there was a cruel smile about his lips, as he saw that the hand she put out towards the letter was trembling.

It would have been difficult to find two girls in such complete contrast to each other as Sophie and Kamala. It was in fact hard to believe that they could be related.

Kamala was small, fine-boned, and very lovely. She had eyes that seemed almost too big for her small, pointed face, and her hair was the colour of the first golden fingers of dawn creeping up the sky. Her eyes were deep blue, the colour of a stormy sea, and some Irish ancestor had given her dark lashes to accentuate the pale fragility of her skin. She had a grace of movement that made her slim figure seem to sway like a flower in the breeze, and everything about her had an exquisite perfection.

Sophie on the other hand was fat, clumsy, and commonplace. Her hair was a straight and uncompromising brown, her skin inclined to be sallow and was not improved by the quantities of sweetmeats and chocolates with which she stuffed her already over-fat body.

She had little intelligence, unlike her father who was extremely clever, and had little desire to improve herself. She just wanted what other people had, and apart from being petulant and self-assertive, would not even struggle to fulfil her own ambitions.

Kamala picked up the letter and opened the envelope. The writing was unknown to her, but as she saw the signature she drew in her breath. She had met the writer only once.

“Well,” her uncle asked, “can you tell us now who has written to you?”

“It is . . . Mr. Philip Radfield, Uncle Marcus,” Kamala faltered.

“Why has he written to you?” Sophie screamed from the other side of the table. “He came to see me! He is my friend. The letter must be for me.”

“Yes, I am sure it is for you” Kamala said quickly, holding out the letter to her cousin.

“Let me see the envelope,” Marcus Pleyton demanded.

Kamala picked up the envelope she had laid down on the table and passed it to her uncle. He scrutinised it, his heavy eyebrows meeting across his forehead as he did so.

“The address appears to be quite plain,” he said. “Miss Kamala Lindsey – that is I think your name?”

“Yes, Uncle Marcus”

“Then let us hear what this young man has to say.”

Kamala opened the folded writing paper with trembling fingers, then began, in a voice so low it was hardly audible.

“My dear Miss Lindsey. . .”

“I cannot hear!”

With an effort Kamala began again,

My dear Miss Lindsey,

It was a very great pleasure meeting you last Sunday and I have found myself thinking of you ever since. Would it be possible for us to meet somewhere where we can talk? Perhaps in the park or anywhere you suggest. Please do not refuse to see me as I have matters of the utmost importance to discuss with you. May I say once again what a very deep and lasting pleasure it was for me to make your acquaintance and I shall wait impatiently for your reply.

Yours most sincerely and admiringly,

Philip Radfield.

Kamala had read the letter hesitantly with little pauses between the sentences. When she had finished her voice seemed to die away into silence. She did not raise her eyes from the letter and sat staring at it as if she hoped it might vanish into thin air.

“Why has he written to you?” Sophie stormed. “Why does he not want to meet me? He was my friend, mine, until you took him from me. I do not believe that letter is for you.”

She sprang up from the table as she spoke, ran round behind her mother’s chair, and snatched the letter out of Kamala’s hands.

She stared at the writing for a moment before she screamed,

“You did it deliberately! You enticed him into talking to you and now you have concocted some secret that he wishes to discuss with you. I hate you, Kamala! Do you hear? I hate you!”

As she spoke Sophie flung the letter down on the table and then with her right hand, she slapped Kamala hard across the cheek. Kamala sank back in her chair while her pale skin flared crimson from the impact of Sophie’s hand.

“That is enough!” Marcus Pleyton commanded from the end of the table. “Come and sit down, Sophie, I have something to say to you.”

“It is not fair, Papa, it is not fair!” Sophie cried. “Kamala gets all the men who come to the house. She sets herself out to bewitch them. She uses black magic to lure them to her side.”

“Sit down at once, Sophie! I wish to speak to you,” her father said sharply.

Tossing her head, pouting her thick lips, Sophie obeyed him, casting a glance of enmity and hatred at her cousin as she did so.

“You will give me that letter, Kamala” Marcus Pleyton said, “and I will send that impudent young puppy a reply he will not forget in a hurry.”

As if she knew what was expected of her, Kamala picked up the letter from the table where Sophie had thrown it, placed it in the envelope and rising set it down at her uncle’s side.

“I am so sorry, Uncle Marcus” she murmured as she did so.

“Sit down and hear what I have to say,” Marcus Pleyton commanded.

Kamala returned to her seat, glancing as she did so at her aunt at the other end of the table. During the screaming from Sophie and the orders from Marcus Pleyton she had sat still as a silent spectator. Her expression was quite inscrutable and for a moment Kamala could not help wondering what she felt about the scene which had just taken place.

“I have been thinking about you, Sophie,” Marcus Pleyton said to his daughter. “And I have certain plans for your future, which I think will meet with your approval.”

“My future, Papa?” Sophie asked in surprise.

“That is what I said,” her father replied. “You are now twenty and it is time you were married.”

“Married!” Sophie cried, “but to whom? No-one has asked for my hand. And what man is likely to do so with Kamala enticing them away from me?”

She seemed almost to spit out the words, but Kamala with her head bowed made no response.

‘It is not my fault,’ she thought desperately.

How was it possible to make her uncle understand that if possible she avoided even speaking to the men who came to the house and certainly never tried to attract them. She knew only too well what Sophie’s feelings were on the matter, how she craved attention, how she longed to be courted, wooed by a man – any man – in order to boost her self-esteem.

But who was likely to look at the plain daughter of Marcus Pleyton, rich though she might be, when Kamala was about?

Kamala was not conceited. She had little opportunity to think of herself. But she would have been extremely stupid and unintelligent if she had not realised that her looks attracted attention wherever she went. Ever since she had been small there had been people to acclaim how lovely she was and to tell her that she was exactly like her mother.

It was difficult to realise that Aunt Alice, Marcus Pleyton’s wife, was her mother’s elder sister. There had in fact been ten years between them and it was almost impossible to believe that in her youth Alice Pleyton had been attractive.

Now with prematurely grey hair and a thin wrinkled face she seemed a nondescript, ghost-like figure, whose personality made no impact whatsoever upon her husband’s household.

‘Mama was so different.’ Kamala thought to herself.

She remembered how lovely her mother had been, how their house even though it was small and poor, had always seemed filled with laughter and sunshine.

They had been so happy all together. So happy that the three years she had lived in her uncle Marcus’s house seemed but a nightmare, and the reality was still a home with a father and mother who had adored her.

“As I have said,” Marcus Pleyton was saying in his harsh ugly voice, “I have been making plans for your marriage, Sophie, and I have this morning heard that they are about to materialise.”

“What plans? Tell me, Papa! It sounds very exciting.”

“It is exciting,” Marcus Pleyton said. “I have arranged, Sophie, that you shall marry the Marquis of Truro.”

“A Marquis!”

For a moment Sophie could hardly breathe the words, and then she said,

“Papa, how could you find anyone so important? Are you sure he will offer for me?”

“He has already done so,” her father replied. “It has all been arranged by his trustee, with whom I have a personal friendship.”

“But he has not seen me,” Sophie said. “And I have not seen him!”

“You will meet very shortly,” Marcus Pleyton replied. “He is coming here to stay. He will make a formal offer for your hand in marriage, which I shall accept on your behalf. After that your betrothal will be announced.”

Sophie drew in a deep breath.

“And what does he look like? Is he handsome? How old is he?”

“All these questions will be answered in due course,” Marcus Pleyton replied, “and I think very much to your satisfaction. In the meantime, Sophie, you, and your mother will prepare to receive the Marquis in a proper fashion. We must entertain him. I wish him to realise how advantageous it will be to him to form an alliance with my only daughter.”

Sophie was silent for a moment and then she said,

“I think, Papa, you meant to imply that the Marquis is not well off.”

Her father smiled.

“At times, Sophie, I find flashes of intelligence in you, which I know can only have been derived from me. Yes, of course, you are right. The Marquis is impoverished and you are an heiress. What could be more sensible that I should bring you both together?”

“I shall be a Marchioness!” Sophie said almost as if she spoke to herself.

And then the satisfaction faded from her face and she looked across the table at Kamala.

“I am not having Kamala here when he comes to stay,” she said spitefully. “She will try to take him away from me as she has done with all the other men who have come to the house. Send her away, Papa, you have to send her away!”

“I have thought about Kamala as well,” Marcus Pleyton answered.

Now there was a note in his voice that made Kamala feel suddenly afraid.

“You will send her away?” Sophie asked impatiently.

“Kamala will be leaving here very shortly,” Marcus Pleyton replied. “She too is to be married!”

Kamala’s head came up with a jerk. She turned her face towards her uncle, her eyes very wide and frightened.

“This may come as a surprise to you, Kamala,” Marcus Pleyton said, “but I think that your disruptive influence and rebellious character would be best restrained by a husband. I have therefore chosen one for you.”

“You have chosen a husband for me,” Kamala said with a tremor in her voice.

“Yes, Kamala. I assure you, although you may not think so, I have your best interests at heart. And I consider you in fact an extremely fortunate young woman.”

There was silence as Marcus Pleyton expected Kamala to speak, but she was unable to do so. She could only sit looking at her uncle, her face very pale save for the crimson mark left by Sophie’s hand.

“It is with great pleasure,” Marcus Pleyton went on, “that I can inform you, Kamala, that General Warrington has asked for your hand in marriage.”

“General Warrington?” The words seemed to be forced between Kamala’s lips. “But he is an old man, very old!”

“He is a man of sensible age,” Marcus Pleyton replied, “not yet sixty, and as a widower he is an experienced husband. He will know how to deal with your somewhat exceptional qualities, Kamala.”

Her uncle was mocking her, and with a little glint of anger in her eyes Kamala said,

“I feel sure you will understand, Uncle Marcus, that I could not contemplate marriage with General Warrington.”

Her uncle stared at her.

“Are you presuming to tell me that you wish to refuse such an offer?”

“I could not marry anyone so old”, Kamala replied, “and I do not like General Warrington.”

“Do my ears deceive me?” Marcus Pleyton thundered, “Can it be possible for an insignificant chit, a pauper, living on my bounty, should take upon herself to refuse a man of such distinction as the General? A man of wealth and position, who would be accepted with alacrity by half the women in the county.”

“Then let him ask one of them!” Kamala retorted. “I regret that I have no wish to marry the General.”

“Your wishes are of no consequence,” Marcus Pleyton snapped. “I consider him a very suitable husband for you, and as your guardian, I have, as you know, complete and absolute authority over you. You will marry the General whether you like it or not, because I say so.”

“Uncle Marcus, you cannot make me do this,” Kamala pleaded. “He is a horrible man! It is rumoured that he beat his wife to death.”

“Stuff and nonsense!” Marcus Pleyton shouted. “You have been listening to servants’ gossip. The woman was a weakly creature who could not even give him a child. He wants an heir, Kamala, and that you should be able to provide for him.”

Kamala clenched her fingers together in an effort to keep control of herself. She had met General Warrington on several occasions when he had come to luncheon, or to dinner. She could remember the last time all too vividly. She had been next to him at dinner and she had thought he seemed over attentive, talking to her when she wished to remain silent and unobserved in case Sophie or her uncle should think she was pushing herself forward.

“You have a very unusual name, Miss Lindsey,” the General had said.

“My father chose it,” Kamala explained. “He was very interested in Indian literature and Kamala means Lotus.”

“And a Lotus is soft and sweet to the touch,” the General had said slowly.

Kamala had looked at him in surprise – and then felt a sudden tremor of fear at the expression in his eyes. There was a smile on his thin lips and she had thought, as she had thought before, he was a horrible old man. There was something almost bestial about him, which made her believe that the tales of his brutality were not exaggerated.

Now she felt herself shiver, and difficult though it was for her to oppose her uncle, she managed to say firmly,

“I am sorry if I make you angry, Uncle Marcus, but I will not marry the General, not if he were the last man in the world!”

Marcus Pleyton brought his fist down on the table with so much force that all the plates and cups rattled.

“You dare to defy me!” he raged. “Let me inform you once and for all, Kamala, that I will not tolerate your impertinence. You will do as you are told! I shall inform the General today that your marriage will take place almost immediately.”

“I will not do it, Uncle Marcus!”

Kamala rose to her feet as she spoke.

“I will not marry him – not if you drag me to the altar! Do you understand? Papa and Mama would never have made me marry anyone I do not love.”

“Your impecunious father is dead,” Marcus Pleyton sneered. “He left you in my charge and I shall perform my duty as I believe it to be in your best interests. You need a strong hand, Kamala. You are wilful, rebellious and have an independence of mind that is most unbecoming. I consider General Warrington an excellent choice on my part. He will school you as you need to be schooled.”

“I will not marry him!”

“Very well then, I will have to employ slightly more forceful arguments,” her uncle said.

He rose as he spoke and drew his gold watch from the pocket of his waistcoat.

“I am going now to London to deal with Sophie’s affairs, but I shall be back here soon after six. At six-thirty exactly, Kamala, you will come to my study and tell me you are prepared to marry the General. If you do not do so, I shall obtain your consent in a manner that you will find extremely painful.”

Marcus Pleyton turned as he spoke and walked from the breakfast room. He did not say goodbye either to his wife or to his daughter but Sophie ran after him calling, “Papa! Papa!” as she followed him down the passage.

Kamala, her face very pale, turned to look at her aunt.

“Aunt Alice, help me! I cannot marry the General!”

“There is nothing I can do, Kamala,” Mrs. Pleyton said in an expressionless voice.

“Please, Aunt Alice, surely you can say something. You can make Uncle Marcus see it is impossible for me to marry such a man.”

“Your uncle always gets his own way,” Mrs. Pleyton replied.

“You were Mama’s sister. You know how happy Mama and Papa were together. They loved each other. Mama often spoke to me of marriage and said that when the time came, she hoped I would find someone like Papa whom I would love and who would love me. She would never permit me to be forced to marry an old man with a . . . reputation for cruelty.”

“I am sorry, Kamala,” Mrs. Pleyton said and for the first time there was something like sympathy in her voice. “But you have no money and if your uncle refuses to keep you any longer, what can you do?”

“Perhaps I could get a job,” Kamala replied, “as a governess or a teacher.”

“You are so young, only just eighteen,” her aunt said. “Do you suppose anyone would employ you without a reference?”

“You mean Uncle Marcus would not give me one?” Kamala said incredulously.

“He does not like people to cross him, Kamala, you know that as well as I do. When you see him tonight, agree to marry the General! Otherwise he will beat you, as he has done before.”

“As he has done before,” Kamala said beneath her breath.

She knew only too well how savagely her uncle could punish her and she always had the feeling he enjoyed being in the position to do so.

He disliked her, she knew that, and had known it ever since she came to his house. And she was sure that it was because of his dislike that he had deliberately chosen for her an unpleasant and cruel husband.

“Aunt Alice, what can I do?” Kamala begged.

“There is nothing you can do, Kamala, except obey your uncle,” Mrs. Pleyton replied. “I learnt many years ago that it is quite hopeless to oppose him. He always wins, Kamala – he always wins.”

For the first time since she had known her, Kamala thought her aunt spoke as a human being. There was something in her voice which proclaimed that she was suffering, and with a kind of sick horror, Kamala realised now that her Aunt Alice’s colourlessness was the direct result of being subjected to the will of Marcus Pleyton.

Perhaps she too had been happy like her sister but he had either beaten it out of her, or forced her, by the sheer power of his personality, to become the ghost-like creature whom nobody noticed.

“Aunt Alice,” Kamala said impulsively, putting out her hands towards her aunt.

But already Mrs. Pleyton was leaving the breakfast room.

“There is nothing you can do but obey, Kamala,” she said in a flat voice.

Slowly Kamala folded her napkin, then went upstairs to her bedroom. She found it impossible to think.

She could only feel that the horror of this proposed marriage was like a great vampire hovering over her, menacing her so that she could only cower beneath it.

She looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. She had nine hours in which to make up her mind whether she would defy her uncle or acquiesce in his wishes and marry General Warrington.

She knew only too well what would happen if she continued to refuse. Ever since she had come to the Castle, her uncle had chosen to discipline her in a manner that was harsh to the point of cruelty. She had never experienced physical violence before. ‘Corporal punishment’ were but words in a book. But her uncle soon made it clear that he considered her upbringing had made her impertinent and forward.

Her father had always encouraged her to express her opinions, to discuss matters of national importance with him, to read the newspapers and to be well informed on current affairs as well as in the classics of English and French literature. Her uncle had, to her astonishment, acclaimed such accomplishments as being provocative and unfeminine. He restricted her reading – he denied her the newspapers. For every remark that he considered impertinent and every opinion he considered unfeminine, he punished her. Whenever he could find a good excuse, he beat her.

Kamala soon discovered that he enjoyed humiliating her, not only in public when he could pillory her in front of people, but also in private. When he beat her, she was made to fetch the whip, kneel in front of him and ask him to correct her. When the punishment was over, she was made to kiss the whip and thank him for teaching her how to behave.

At first she had fought him wildly, almost like an animal caught in a trap. Then when she realised there was no chance of her ever winning against his superior strength, she became more subtle. She was quiet and subdued in his presence and she felt almost a satisfaction in knowing by doing so, she denied him the excuse to beat her.

At times it was almost easier to cope with her uncle than with Sophie. Her cousin grew more and more dissatisfied with the difference in their appearance. Daily, Sophie became more jealous, more resentful as she focussed on Kamala all her own frustrations and limitations.

‘What am I to do?’ Kamala asked herself.

It seemed incredible that in 1839 a parent or a guardian should still have the power to force a woman into marriage against her will. But Kamala knew the law would uphold her uncle’s authority, and that legally he had a right to dispose of her in any way he thought fit.

Quite suddenly she put her hands up to her face.

“Oh Papa, Mama. . .” she sobbed, “how could you have died and let this happen to me?”

She knew now that her happiness had come to an end the day she learnt that the ship bringing her mother and father back from a holiday in Italy, had foundered in the Bay of Biscay.

They had gone off so happily.

“Our first holiday for sixteen years!” Kamala’s father had said. “You must forgive me, dearest child, for not taking you with us, but I do so want to be alone with Mama, for us both to recapture our youth.”

Because one of her father’s books had been accepted and the advance from the publishers was nearly one hundred pounds, the journey had been possible.

“It is extravagant,” Mrs. Lindsey had said hesitatingly when her husband suggested it.

“Of course it is extravagant!” Kamala had heard her father agree. “But what is life unless we are extravagant? Not only with money, my darling, but with our happiness, our laughter and most of all our love.”

He had caught her mother in his arms as he spoke and kissed her. She had looked up at him adoringly.

“Are you quite sure we should do anything so irresponsible?” she asked.

“I want, as I have wanted for years, to show you Italy,” he replied. “Nothing and nobody is going to stop me now from taking you there.”

“Oh darling, it sounds so wonderful,” Kamala’s mother had cried. Then seeing her daughter’s face, she had put her arms round Kamala and held her close.

“Do not grudge me just a month alone with Papa,” she pleaded. “We will leave you with your governess, and you will be quite safe until we return.”

“Yes of course, Mama,” Kamala had said, “and I know you deserve a holiday.”

“No-one deserves one more!” her father said positively.

Kamala had known he spoke the truth. There had been years of struggle. Years when money had been very short, and they had not even been able to afford a governess for Kamala and her father had taught her himself. She had much preferred to be taught by him, but it meant that he could not get on with his own work, the literary research on which he was always engaged and his self-enforced charity in looking after sick children.

It was strange, Kamala thought, how her father was always drawn to help children, especially when they were injured or ill. The local doctor was an elderly man who found his scattered practice almost beyond his powers. He had been only too happy to let Andrew Lindsey set a broken leg, bandage a fractured arm, and even prescribe the herbs that he believed to be so efficacious, instead of the more orthodox medicines.

It seemed to Kamala, looking back, that their life had been very full and varied. They would drive miles in the ancient gig that was all her father could afford in the way of a vehicle, to visit a farmhouse where a boy had fallen off a haystack, or a child was coughing its heart out with some obscure complaint the doctor could not diagnose.

Kamala often thought it was her father’s presence, as much as his actual skill, that put his patients on the road to recovery. There was no doubt about it – the children he treated did recover and appeared to feel better almost as soon as he arrived. He would explain it all to Kamala, and because he believed certain herbs and plants were more effective than the manufactured medicines, he would show her old recipes in manuscripts from the East, in books that he had collected to prove his point.

But Kamala thought personally that he had a kind of intuition and understanding that was more important than any traditional book knowledge.

“Your Papa has green fingers, that’s what he has,” one old woman said. “When he touches me leg I feels the pain go. A man can’t learn that! ‘Tis summat that be given him by God.”

How happy they had been, Kamala thought. Her mother had seemed to radiate happiness however difficult the times through which they were passing, however hard the future might appear to be.

They died together as they would have wished to do, but Kamala had been left behind.

She could remember feeling numb with misery as she had begun to realise she would never see her father and mother again, and that her home henceforth must be at the Castle with her uncle and aunt. There had been no other relations to whom she could turn, and when Uncle Marcus had arrived to look contemptuously at her home, sneering at the threadbare carpets, the wildness of the garden and the lack of servants, she had known that her own happiness was over.

Marcus Pleyton made no bones about despising her father and having contempt for her mother for marrying him. He looked down on anyone who was poor. He thought a man who was intellectual and uninterested in making money must be a fool.

Kamala soon realised that her father had been everything Marcus Pleyton was not, a gentleman, a natural sportsman, a brilliant conversationalist, a man of taste, humanity, and compassion. It was perhaps the fact that Andrew Lindsey was well born that irritated her uncle the most.

Kamala sometimes thought as she grew older that her uncle, in asserting his power over her, was attempting to convince himself that he was physically and mentally her father’s superior.

“Your clever father who died without a penny to his name!”

“How intelligent is a man who cannot make enough to keep his wife and child?”

“Blue blood does not fill an empty stomach!”

Jibes of this sort were flung at Kamala, day after day. She learnt by bitter experience not to answer them. Not to spring to her father’s defence. That he should provoke her into answering him back, was just what her uncle wanted.

Marcus Pleyton had made a great fortune in commerce, and Kamala soon realised that he was now anxious to buy himself a social position and the respect that went with it. He had lived for not many years at the Castle, having purchased it from a family who had lived there for generations and who could no longer afford its upkeep.

Marcus Pleyton had embellished the inferior with every expensive luxury that money could buy. Yet Kamala could not help thinking that the Castle, with its ancient walls and historical legends, must have been far more beautiful before it was over-decorated with thick carpets, silk hangings and bright new furniture.

Sometimes she would creep up to the attic where pictures and furniture that the previous owners had left behind, had been stored. There were portraits of their ancestors, so old that they had not thought them worth taking away.

The men had thin aristocratic faces with clearcut features and were very different from Marcus Pleyton’s coarse, florid looks. And the women appeared gentle and well-bred and reminded Kamala of her mother. Also in the attic were curtains of faded velvet and torn embroidered hangings, which had once been tended by loving hands. There were chairs with broken seats, which had an elegance and delicacy very different from the heavy and overornamented chairs and sofas bought by Marcus Pleyton because they were expensive.

“What on earth do you find in that dirty old attic to interest you?” Sophie had asked once.

“History and people who lived it,” Kamala had answered, but her cousin had not understood.

Now looking at her bedroom with its shining brass bedstead and flowery patterned carpet, Kamala knew that wealth could buy none of the things which had been hers when she lived at home with her father and mother.

‘I cannot marry without love,’ she told herself.

But even as she spoke she felt the sting of her uncle’s whip and knew that if she defied him he would beat her until she was senseless. Sooner or later she would have to give in. He would never allow her to defy him to the point when he must acknowledge her the victor and himself the vanquished.

Quite suddenly she made up her mind.

‘I must go away,’ she thought. ‘I cannot stay here to be beaten into submission. And I will not . . . I will not marry the General whatever Uncle Marcus may do!’

She put her fingers to her forehead, trying to think. Where could she go?

She was well-aware that if she left, she must disappear. When her uncle found she was gone, he would do everything in his power to bring her back. Then he would treat her as he had once treated a stable-boy who had run away after laming one of his horses by mistake. Her uncle had had the boy caught and brought back. He had then thrashed him, so that he had not been able to move from his bed for over two weeks.

‘That is what will happen to me.’ Kamala thought in a kind of sick horror. ‘I cannot endure it.’

There was a knock on her door and she started.

“Who is it?” she asked apprehensively.

She felt as if her thoughts must be already known to other people in the household.

The door opened. It was only one of the maids.

“Madam’s compliments, Miss Kamala,” she said, “and she told me to tell you that she and Miss Sophie are going into the town to do some shopping and they will not be back for luncheon.”

“Thank you, Lucy, for letting me know.”

The door shut behind the maid and Kamala walked to the window. This was her opportunity. If she was going to leave, she must leave now. But how and where should she go? There must be somewhere where her uncle could not find her! But where?

“I could go to France,” she said aloud. “Perhaps it would be best if I went into a convent. At least then I should be free from anxiety and from the unwelcome attentions of men.”

Something young and resolute within her rebelled at the thought.

‘Surely in France,’ she thought, ‘there must be people who wish to learn English.’

But she had to get there, and it would cost money.

Almost like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, she remembered the only valuables she possessed were her mother’s engagement ring, which she had left behind when she went abroad in case it should be stolen, and a brooch that had belonged to her grandmother. It was a star set with diamonds. Unfortunately, Kamala did not have them in her own possession. Her uncle had taken them from her and kept them in his safe.

“It is not correct for a young girl to wear jewellery,” he had said.

Sophie wore pearls and owned several brooches. Kamala knew his decision was only an excuse to deny her something which might have given her pleasure. Now she reckoned the diamonds must be worth at least a hundred pounds. She sat down at her desk and started to write a letter. When she had finished, she read it through.

Dear Uncle Marcus,

I cannot marry General Warrington and I know that Papa would not have wished me to do so. I am therefore going away where you will not be able to find me. I must thank you for having housed me since my parents’ death, but I realise I have for a long time been an unwelcome member of your household.

You have in your keeping a diamond ring and a diamond brooch that are mine. These must be worth at least one hundred pounds. I have therefore taken with me twenty-five pounds in cash and Rollo the horse, for which you paid seventy pounds a few weeks ago. The extra five pounds will pay for the saddle and bridle as I would not like to think I was in your debt.

Please forgive me for any worry and upset I may cause you by this decision, but I assure you that I will not marry any man I do not love.

I remain,

Your humble, if disobedient niece.

Kamala.

Kamala read the letter through again, placed it in an envelope, wrote her uncle’s name on it, and left it in her desk. If it was not found for some time after his return, that would give her a better chance to get away.

Quickly Kamala changed. She thought for a moment and then put on, under her riding habit, a thin silk dress as well as several petticoats. She packed as many things as possible in a basket, including a nightgown, her brush and comb and the blouse she usually wore with her habit. She covered the basket with a light wool shawl and putting it over her arm, left the room.

She went to her aunt’s sitting room. As it was the end of the month, she knew there would be cash in the locked drawer of her aunt’s desk. This was for the wages of the women servants. Her uncle paid the men, but her aunt was responsible for paying the housemaids, together with the still-room and scullery maids.

Kamala knew where the key was kept, for her aunt had often taken it out in her presence. But when she drew it out from its hiding place, she felt a sudden pang of guilt because in a way she was behaving like a thief.

Then she said to herself,

‘I am taking only what I am owed. The ring and the brooch will undoubtedly fetch more than a hundred pounds, and when Uncle Marcus has got over his rage, he will in fact be glad to be rid of me.’

She took out twenty-five pounds and put it in the purse in her pocket. Then she locked the drawer and put the key back into its hiding place. Taking up the basket she went downstairs, and out to the stables.

“Will you please saddle Rollo?” she asked the Head Groom.

“Of course, Miss,” he answered. “Are you going for a ride? I’ll tell one of the grooms to accompany you.”

“No thank you,” Kamala said, “I would rather go alone and I am not going far.”

The Head Groom glanced at the basket and thought, as Kamala meant him to think, that she was visiting some sick woman in the village. It was quite usual for her to be sent on an errand of mercy to a sick tenant or an aged pensioner. Sophie would never bother herself with such things.

“Very well, Miss,” he said, “but be careful. Rollo be a bit frisky – he’s not been out these last few days.”

As the horse was led into the yard, Kamala knew she had chosen well.

Rollo was a large roan, well-bred and also well-built. He had stamina, and she was pleased to see that he was full of high spirits, bucking a little to show his independence, fidgeting while she was helped into the saddle, and obviously impatient to be off. She gave him his head as they crossed the park – then just before they reached the main gates, she pulled him to a standstill and dismounted.

Underneath one of the great oak trees she spread her shawl on the ground, rolled into it all the articles that the basket contained and tied the ends with pieces of ribbon.Then she attached the roll to her saddle, threw the basket into a briar bush and mounted Rollo again. Clear of the park and the village, Kamala started off in a southerly direction. The land was open and she avoided the highways with their fast traffic and clouds of dust.

She must have ridden for nearly three hours before she stopped at a small wayside inn to give Rollo a rest and a drink. She also needed something herself. The agitation of seeing the letter in front of her place when she had come down to breakfast, had made it impossible for her to eat and she was now extremely hungry.

There was only bread and cheese, but it seemed very palatable and the landlord persuaded her to have a small glass of home-made cider, which brought a faint flush to her cheeks. The whole meal cost her only a few pence, and then she was on her way again, still keeping to the fields.

It must have been two hours later when she realised that it was growing chilly. It had been such a fine warm autumn that she had forgotten that, now they were in November, it could be cold when the sun began to set. She wished now she had brought a cloak with her. Then she thought that would have been very difficult to explain to the Head Groom and quite impossible to conceal it in the basket.

Kamala was moving slowly over a ploughed field. There was a wood ahead. Suddenly she heard a huntsman’s horn and out from the wood came a fox. It ran across the field in front of her, its little body and red brush vivid against the dark soil, the swiftness of its movement having a grace that held Kamala spellbound.

She was watching the fox pass through a hedge and lope across the next field, when from the wood there emerged a number of hounds, their noses to the ground, their tongues hanging out, their tails held high. They tore after the fox, who by now was a field and a half away from them. Following came a lone huntsman. He was blowing his horn, but there appeared to be no-one to hear him. The field must have long been left behind.

“It seems an opportunity to be in at the kill,” a deep voice said beside Kamala.

She turned her head in surprise. While she had been watching the fox, a gentleman riding a black stallion had come up beside her. Their two horses were standing together and she found herself looking into a handsome, quizzical face and dark eyes that seemed to be appraising her almost critically.

“I am not hunting, Sir,” Kamala said quickly, with a dignity that she hoped rebuked him for speaking to her without an introduction.

“Nor am I,” he replied apparently unabashed, “although, as I have just said, it seems a pity to miss such a glorious opportunity.”

Kamala looked to where the fox was just disappearing out of sight, the hounds still some way behind him. Quite suddenly she felt the excitement of the chase well up inside her. It was, as the stranger had said, an opportunity that seldom came ones way, especially Kamala’s.

Her uncle seldom allowed her to hunt except when a meet was in the immediate neighbourhood. Otherwise, she had to be content with riding round the park. But Uncle Marcus was no longer of importance and she could do as she wished. Kamala felt carefree and excited.

If she desired to follow the hounds, she could do so! It was as if her unspoken decision communicated itself to Rollo. Without her urging him, he broke into a trot, then into a gallop, and in a minute they were tearing across the field, the stranger keeping pace beside them.

“We shall have to hurry to keep up,” Kamala thought.