The Enchanting Evil E-Book

Barbara Cartland

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

Seitenzahl: 337

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Too beautiful and too enchanting not to attract the young man her cousin charlotte hoped to marry – Melinda felt only withering hatred from the family that had taken her in. Penniless and therefore of no consequence, she would be married off to the highest bidder – a lecherous old friend of her uncle's. After a brutal beating, she had no choice but to flee – to the callousness and terrors of Victorian London – and into the clutches of a seemingly kindly woman who offered her lodgings for the night. Drugged and locked in, she then receives a fantastic offer of five hundred guineas to pretend to marry the notorious Marquis of Chard. How Melinda accepts this extraordinary proposal, how she is shocked by the Marquis and his friends and how she saves his life, is all told in this thrilling and passionate romance.

Leseprobe

1

The schoolroom door burst open.

“Haven’t you finished mending my dress yet?” Charlotte enquired in a sharp voice.

Her cousin, Melinda, looked up from the window-seat where the sinking sun cast the last rays of light on the delicate pattern she was embroidering on a ballgown of pink taffeta.

“I’ve nearly finished, Charlotte,” she said in a soft voice. “I could not start until late.”

“You didn’t start because you were messing about at the stables with that horse of yours,” Charlotte retorted angrily. “Really, Melinda, if you go on like this I shall ask Papa if he will stop you from riding so that you will have more time to attend to your household duties.”

“Oh, Charlotte, you could not do anything so cruel!” Melinda cried.

“Cruel!” her cousin retorted. “You can hardly say we are cruel to you. Why, Sarah Ovington was telling me only this week how the poor relation who lives with them is never allowed downstairs to luncheon or dinner, and when they go driving, she always has to sit with her back to the horses. You know as well as I do, Melinda, that I let you sit beside me when we go out in the brougham.”

“You are very kind, Charlotte,” Melinda said quietly, “and I am sorry if I was delayed in mending your dress. It was only because Ned sent a message to say that Flash was off his food. Of course, when I went to feed him he ate his oats immediately.”

“You are quite nonsensical over that ridiculous horse,” Charlotte said crushingly.” I cannot think why Papa allows you the stable space when there is hardly enough room for our own horses.”

“Oh, please, Charlotte, please do not mention it to Uncle Hector,” Melinda begged. “I will do anything, anything you like – sit up all night to mend your gowns or embroider them from neck to hem. But do not put the idea into your father’s head that poor Flash is an encumbrance.”

There were tears in Melinda’s blue eyes and her voice broke a little with the passion of her feelings. For a moment her cousin stared at her in a hostile manner – then suddenly she relented.

“I’m sorry, Melinda. I’m being a beast to you. I didn’t mean it. Papa has been scolding me again.”

“What was it this time?” Melinda asked sympathetically.

“It was you,” Charlotte said.

“Me?” Melinda exclaimed.

“Yes, you!” her cousin repeated, and mimicking her father’s voice she asked “‘Why can’t you look neat and tidy like Melinda? Why does that dress fall so badly on you, while Melinda’s, old though it is, looks so elegant?’”

“I cannot believe Uncle Hector says things like that!” Melinda exclaimed.

“Indeed, he does,” Charlotte asserted. “And what is more, Mamma has been saying much the same. You know she dislikes you, Melinda.”

“Yes, I know,” Melinda agreed with a little sigh. “I have tried so hard to please Aunt Margaret, but everything I do seems to be wrong.”

“It is not what you do,” Charlotte said bluntly, “it is how you look. Oh, I’m not so stupid that I can’t understand why Mamma resents your being here. She wants me to get married, and if ever a gentleman comes to the house he has eyes only for you.”

Melinda laughed.

“That is the most foolish notion, Charlotte. You are imagining things. Why, Captain Parry was all attention to you last week. You said yourself that he never left your side at the garden party.”

“That was before he saw you,” Charlotte replied sulkily.

Quite suddenly she put out her hand and, taking hold of her cousin’s arm, pulled her to her feet.

“Come here and see what I mean,” she said.

“Whatever are you doing?” Melinda exclaimed. “Oh, do be careful of your gown! There will not be time to mend another tear.”

But the pink taffeta dress fell to the floor and Charlotte pulled her cousin across the room to a long mirror framed in heavy mahogany. Charlotte pushed Melinda in front of it and stood beside her.

“Now look!” she bade her. “Just look!”

Almost fearfully Melinda did as she was told. She would have been very stupid indeed if she had not realised the poignant difference between herself and her cousin.

Charlotte was big-boned and inclined on the large side. She had a sallow, spotty complexion due to the inordinate number of puddings and chocolates she consumed. Her hair was a mousy brown and so limp that even with the ceaseless ministrations of Lady Stanyon’s lady’s maid, it always looked an untidy mess. Charlotte had good features, but there was a frown of disagreeableness between her eyes and her mouth turned down at the corners because she was continually complaining. She was not a bad-humoured girl but she would, indeed, have been inhuman if she had not been jealous of her cousin.

Melinda was small, slender, with thin, white hands and long fingers. When she moved she had an innate grace that made her seem almost ethereal. There was, too, something spiritual about her tiny, heart-shaped face. She had huge, blue eyes fringed with dark lashes, a legacy from an Irish forbear, and her hair, the colour of ripened corn, fell in soft, natural curls on either side of her face.

“Do you see what I mean?” Charlotte asked harshly.

Melinda turned hastily away from the mirror because she could see all too clearly why, in a burst of temper, Charlotte had recently called her ‘the cuckoo in the nest’.

“My mother always said that comparisons were odious,” Melinda said in her gentle voice. “Everybody is different – everybody has her own particular good qualities. Look how well you speak foreign languages. And your watercolours are far better than mine.”

“Who wants a watercolour?” Charlotte asked bitterly.

Melinda went back to the window-seat and picked up the fallen gown.

“This will be finished in five minutes,” she said soothingly. “You will look charming tonight when you dine with Lady Withering. Perhaps Captain Parry will be there, and you know I am not included in the invitation.”

“You were,” Charlotte replied gruffly, “but Mamma said you would be away from home.”

For one moment Melinda’s soft lips tightened. Then she said,

“Aunt Margaret was quite right to refuse on my behalf. You know I have nothing to wear.”

“You could ask Papa to let you have a new evening gown.”

“I am still in mourning,” Melinda replied.

“That’s untrue and you know it,” Charlotte protested. “You have had to go on wearing your greys and mauves because Mamma is frightened that if you branch out into colours she will have to take you to the parties that I go to, and then no one will look at me.”

“Oh, Charlotte, dear, I am so sorry,” Melinda exclaimed. “You know I do not do anything intentionally to call attention to myself.”

“I know and that is what makes it worse,” Charlotte answered. She turned again to the mirror. “I ought to get thinner! But I hate giving up the delicious puddings that Chef makes and his crisp, newly-baked bread for breakfast. I sometimes wonder if it’s worth bothering so much to attract a man – and yet what else can we do but get married?”

“I do not suppose I shall ever find a husband,” Melinda smiled. “Who would want a poor relation without even a fourpenny piece to bless herself with? – as Aunt Margaret always reminds me!”

“I cannot think why your father was so extravagant,” Charlotte said. “What did you all live on anyway, before he and your mother were killed in the carriage accident?”

“There always seemed to be a little money,” Melinda answered. “And, of course, there was the house and the garden and the servants who had been with us for years. We never thought of ourselves as being poor – but then darling, careless Papa had never paid his bills.”

“I remember how shocked my Papa and Mamma were when they learned of the extent to which he was in debt,” Charlotte said frankly. “It was then they decided that you would have to come and live with us. ‘No one else will take her,’ Papa said, ‘without even a pittance.’”

“I should have been more independent,” Melinda sighed. “I should have insisted on taking a position as a governess or a companion.”

“Papa would never have let you do that!” Charlotte asserted. “The neighbours would think it stingy of him not to look after his only niece. Papa is very sensitive about what the County says about him. It is just a pity, Melinda, that you’re so pretty.”

“I do not think I am really pretty,” Melinda interposed quickly, “it is just that I am smaller than you, Charlotte.”

“You’re lovely!” Charlotte contradicted. “Do you know what I heard Lord Ovington say the other day?”

“No, what did he say?” Melinda asked, stitching away as she spoke, her fair head bent over her work.

“Of course, he didn’t know I was listening,” Charlotte explained, “but he said to Colonel Gillingham, ‘That niece of Hector’s is going to be a beauty. He’ll have a lot of trouble with her if he doesn’t look out.’”

“Did Lord Ovington really say that?” Melinda asked in an astonished voice.

“He did, and I wasn’t going to tell you,” Charlotte said, “but somehow you’ve wormed it out of me. I never can keep any secrets from you, Melinda.”

“What did Colonel Gillingham reply?” Melinda enquired. “There is something horrible about that man, Charlotte. Last time he dined here I saw him watching me. I do not know why, but it sent a cold shiver down my back. I think he is perhaps a devil in human guise.”

“Really, Melinda! How you do exaggerate!” Charlotte exclaimed. “Colonel Gillingham’s only a crotchety old crony of Papa’s. He shoots with him and they sit in the smoking room until all hours of the night, which annoys Mamma. But he’s as dull as ditch water, like all Papa’s friends.”

“I really do dislike him,” Melinda reaffirmed, “and you haven’t told me how he answered Lord Ovington?

“I’m not quite certain that I heard it right,” Charlotte answered, “but I think he said, ‘Just what I had thought myself – a high-stepping filly if given the chance!’”

“How dare he speak of me like that?” Melinda exclaimed, the colour coming into her cheeks. When she was angry it seemed as if there were sparks in her eyes.

“Don’t worry about it!” Charlotte laughed. “I’m sorry I told you. I only wish I could overhear some compliments about myself.”

“I am sure you will tonight,” Melinda suggested soothingly. “There, the dress is finished and you know Charlotte, it becomes you better than any other gown you possess.”

“Mamma always says there is nothing like a colour to make a girl stand out in a ballroom,” Charlotte agreed. She was silent for a moment and then added wistfully, “I wonder if Captain Parry likes pink?”

“I am sure he will like you in it,” Melinda assured her.

“I do hope so,” Charlotte said uncertainly. “And I think it’s a very good thing, Melinda, that you are not going to be there.”

There was a knock at the door.

“Come in!” Melinda called.

The door opened and one of the younger housemaids appeared, her white, starched mob-cap slightly awry as she said breathlessly,

“Sir Hector wants Miss Melinda downstairs in the library at once.”

The two girls turned to look at each other in consternation.

“What can I have done now?” Melinda asked. “Charlotte! You didn’t say anything to him about Flash?”

“No, of course I didn’t,” Charlotte answered. “I was only teasing you.”

“Then why does he want to see me,” Melinda asked, “at this time of day? It is very unusual.”

She glanced at the clock over the mantelpiece and saw that the hands stood at six o’clock.

“Well, I had best go and start dressing for the party,” Charlotte said. “Come up and tell me what he wanted. I do hope it is nothing that concerns me.”

Melinda did not answer. Her little face was pale and worried as she glanced at herself swiftly in the mirror to tidy her hair and adjust the prim white collar that she wore at the neck of her grey cotton dress. It was a drab, dreary cotton, cut in unfashionable lines and without the crinoline that made Charlotte’s dresses stand out elegantly and gave them a swing. But somehow, ordinary though it was, Melinda invested it with an air of grace as she ran almost silently down the thick-carpeted stairway and across the marble hall towards the library.

Just for a moment, as she grasped the handle of the library door, she paused and drew a deep breath. Then her chin went up and she told herself she must not be afraid.

“You sent for me, Uncle Hector?”

Her voice seemed very small and somehow lost in the heavy pomposity of the great, high-ceilinged room, with its velvet curtains, huge Chippendale bookcases and leather-covered furniture.

Sir Hector Stanyon rose from the desk at which he had been writing and stood in front of the fireplace. He was a heavily built man of over fifty, He had dark, beetling eyebrows and hair that had just begun turning grey. His deep, booming voice seemed almost to shake the crystals of the chandelier as he replied,

“Come in, Melinda. I wish to speak to you.”

Melinda shut the door and moved across the Persian rugs to stand respectfully in front of her uncle, her hands clasped together, her eyes raised to his. He stared down at her with an almost inscrutable expression on his face.

“How old are you, Melinda?” he enquired.

“Eighteen ... Uncle Hector.”

“And you have lived here now for nearly a year.”

“Y-yes, Uncle Hector. After Papa and Mamma died, you most generously gave me a home.”

“I have sometimes regretted it,” Sir Hector replied.

“I won’t pretend to you, Melinda, that I have not, several times during this past year, thought it a mistake. You are not exactly the companion I should have chosen for Charlotte.”

“I-I am sorry about that,” Melinda said, “because I am f-fond of Charlotte and I think she is fond of me.”

“You put ideas into her head,” Sir Hector boomed accusingly. “Yesterday she answered me back. She would not have done that a year ago. That is your influence, Melinda. You have too much spirit, too much impertinence.”

“I try to-to be unassuming,” Melinda faltered, groping for what she thought would be the right word.

“Not very successfully,” Sir Hector said grimly.

“I am sorry,” Melinda said. “I have tried to please you and Aunt Margaret.”

“And so you should! So, indeed, you should!” Sir Hector snapped. “Do you realise that profligate brother of mine left you without a penny? Without a penny! In fact, the sale of the house hardly covered his debts.”

“I know,” Melinda said meekly.

She had heard this many times before and always she longed to throw up her head and defy her uncle, to tell him that somehow, by some method, she would pay back everything that he had done for her. But she knew that she was helpless – knew that she could only murmur, as she had murmured before, her gratitude at receiving the crumbs that fell from the rich man’s table.

“I don’t blame only my brother,” Sir Hector went on. “Your mother did not influence him as she should have. She may have been the grand-daughter of a duke, but there’s bad blood in the Melchesters and always has been – too wild, too undisciplined! They need to be curbed, just as you need to be, Melinda.”

“Yes, Uncle Hector,” Melinda murmured.

She wondered how long this harangue would go on. She had been subjected to many such exhortations since she came to live in her uncle’s house. At first, with blind stupidity, she had thought she was to be treated as an equal. It was only after many lectures, corrections, and punishments that she began to learn her place, to know that poor relations had no privileges and, least of all, the privilege of having pride. She had to force herself to be humble, to apologise for things she had not done, to be contrite for having an opinion of her own or, at least, for voicing it.

Now, almost automatically, she muttered,

“I am sorry, Uncle Hector. You have been very kind.”

“But now, I have news for you,” Sir Hector said unexpectedly. “And may I say, Melinda, I consider you a very fortunate girl! Very fortunate indeed!”

An answer seemed to be expected of her and Melinda automatically said,

“Yes, indeed, Uncle Hector. And I am very grateful.”

“You don’t know yet what you are to be grateful for,” Sir Hector said. “In fact, I have something of great importance to impart to you, Melinda. Something that will doubtless surprise you, and which, as I have said, is excessively fortunate for someone in your position.”

He paused and then said in a stentorian voice,

“You have received an offer of marriage.”

“An an offer of m-marriage!”

Melinda could hardly breathe the words. There was no mistaking her utter astonishment.

“That was something you were not expecting,” Sir Hector said with satisfaction. “To tell the truth, neither was I.”

Melinda’s mind was in a turmoil. Swiftly she considered the few men she had met in the last few weeks – for while she was in deep black her aunt had not permitted her to leave the house and grounds. The only man she could think of was Captain Parr – but she had not spoken to him more than to murmur, ‘How do you do,’ when Charlotte introduced them, and she prayed fervently that the man on whom Charlotte had fixed her affections should not have transferred his attentions to her.

“I can see you are confused,” Sir Hector said. “That is indeed right and proper. Had I thought, Melinda, that you had so much as looked at a man with interest before he had approached me, I should have been extremely angry. There is a great deal of talk today of girls encouraging a man before he has received paternal approval. That is something I would not tolerate in my house.”

“No, no, of course not!” Melinda assured him hastily. “In fact, I have no idea, Uncle Hector, of whom you are speaking.”

“Then let me inform you once again what a very lucky young woman you are,” Sir. Hector told her. “And now I will keep you no longer in suspense. The gentleman who has given you the great honour of asking you to become his wife is Colonel Randolph Gillingham.”

Melinda gave a little cry.

“Oh no!” she said. “No! I could not possibly, marry Colonel Gillingham.”

“You could not! And why not?” Sir Hector enquired.

“Because. B-because he is so o-old,” Melinda stammered.

There was a little pause.

“It may interest you to know,” Sir Hector said icily, “that Colonel Gillingham and I are the same age, and I do not consider myself old.”

“No ... no, I-I did not mean that,” Melinda forced the words out. “It is just that it-it would be old for me. After all, you are my uncle.”

“I have already told you, Melinda,” Sir Hector said heavily, “that you need curbing. You need more than that – you need a strong hand. You need a man to whom you can look up to, who will discipline you and correct you. You are, in fact, in great need of discipline, Melinda.”

“But I-I do not want to marry him!” Melinda cried. “In fact, I cannot contemplate such a step.”

“You cannot contemplate such a step?” Sir Hector echoed sarcastically. “And who are you, may I ask, to be so self-opinionated? Colonel Gillingham is a man of substance – in fact, I consider him very wealthy. I cannot understand why he should wish you to bear his name, but he assures me that he already cares for you deeply. You should go down on your knees, Melinda, and thank God that a noble and respected man is prepared to assume the responsibility of a flighty creature such as yourself.”

“It is kind, very kind,” Melinda said, “but I-I cannot marry him. Please, Uncle Hector, explain my gratitude and say that ... that while I am sensible of the honour he has done me I must decline his offer.”

“Do you really expect me to convey a message like that?” Sir Hector roared.

The loudness of his voice and the sudden expression of ferociousness that transformed his face would have frightened Melinda on any other occasion. But now she stood her ground.

“I am sorry, Uncle, but that is my answer and I shall not change my mind. Papa always said that he would never force me to marry a man I did not love.”

“Love!” Sir Hector exclaimed. “Your father must have been demented. I have heard that the ‘Modern Miss’ of 1856 thinks she can flout convention and ignore parental authority! But not in my house! Do you hear me? Not in my house! Decent girls still marry where their parents bid them, and as you have no father and I have undertaken to be responsible for your welfare, I shall decide whom you shall marry – and I have, in fact, already made my decision.”

“It is no use, Uncle, I cannot marry Colonel Gillingham. I do not like him. There is something about him that frightens and disgusts me.”

“You impertinent little chit!” Sir Hector shouted. “How dare you speak about one of my friends in such a manner? Here you are without a penny to your name, daring to refuse one of the wealthiest men in the county and a man who has honoured you far more than you deserve by offering to make you his wife! You will accept the Colonel, and your aunt, out of the goodness of her heart, will arrange the wedding reception here in this house. Go back to the schoolroom! The matter is decided.”

Melinda was very pale and her hands were clenched together until the knuckles showed white, but her voice was quite steady as she said,

“I am sorry if I anger you, Uncle Hector. But to tell Colonel Gillingham that I will marry him will put you in a false position. I will not marry him, and even if you drag me to the church, I shall still refuse.”

Sir. Hector gave a bellow of rage.

“Refuse, would you?” he roared. “Refuse an offer that most girls would accept gratefully? You’ll do as I say! Do you think you are going to make a fool of me in front of one of my greatest friends? What is more, the marriage will be announced in the Gazette and the Morning Post the day after tomorrow.”

“I do not care if it is announced by the town crier,” Melinda retorted defiantly.” I will not marry Colonel Gillingham! I hate him! I will not marry him whatever you do to me!”

“We’ll see about that,” Sir Hector growled.

He was shaking now with one of his frightening rages, which his wife and the household knew only too well. His face had become crimson, his beetling eyebrows seemed almost to meet across his nose, the words he spoke were spat between his lips.

“You’ll obey me!” he shouted. “I won’t be defied by anyone, least of all you – a penniless chit to whom I have offered the protection of my house. You’ll marry him!”

“I will not! I will not marry a man I do not love!” Melinda cried. Her voice too had risen, if only to make herself heard.

The fact that she was now shouting seemed to break the last vestige of control that Sir Hector had over his temper. He picked up the riding whip that was lying on his desk and in one swift movement brought it down on Melinda’s shoulders with a savagery that almost knocked her off her feet. Somehow she did not fall but went on crying,

“I will not marry him! No! No! No!” while she held out her hands to protect herself.

Now quite insane with rage, Sir Hector seized her by the arm and raining blows upon her threw her down across the end of the sofa. Again and again the whip seared her shoulders and her back, the pain biting into her, but still she cried,

“No! No! No!” over and over again.

“You’ll marry him if I have to kill you,” Sir Hector threatened between gritted teeth, the whip seeming to cut the air, until finally, almost in surprise, he realised that Melinda was no longer speaking. She lay there across the end of the sofa, her hair falling forward over her face, one hand very limp and still. Just for a moment he was frightened. He threw the whip on to the floor.

“Get up,” he shouted. “You asked for it and you’ve got what you deserved.”

Melinda did not move. Breathing heavily he picked her up in his arms and laid her down on to the sofa. She was astonishingly light. Her head lolled limply on to one shoulder and her eyes were closed.

“Melinda!” Sir Hector called at her. “Melinda! Damn the little fool! She’s got to learn her lesson.”

He walked across to the drinks tray that stood in the corner of the room. There amid an impressive array of cut-glass decanters was a silver-crested jug containing water. He poured some into a cut-crystal tumbler and, walking back to Melinda, threw the water violently into her face.

For a moment she did not move – then her eyelids fluttered. If Sir Hector was relieved he did not show it.

“Get up,” he said roughly. “Go to your bedroom and stay there until tomorrow. You will have no food, and if you do not agree to marry Colonel Gillingham when I send for you, I shall beat you again – and again – and again. Your spirit’s got to be broken, girl, and I’ll brook no disobedience in this house. Do you hear me? Now, go to your room – and don’t go whining to your aunt. You will get no sympathy from her.”

He walked away from the sofa to stand at the drinks tray with his back towards her, pouring himself a large brandy with the air of a man who feels he has earned a drink,

Slowly, with her eyes half shut, Melinda struggled to her feet. Holding blindly first on to the corner of the sofa, then on to a chair and then on to the desk, she reached the door. Outside in the hall, she moved as if she were sleepwalking, almost as if her will had ceased to function and only her instinct told her where to go.

She climbed the stairs, one by one, like a child learning to walk, moving first one foot on to a step, then joining it with the other. Up, up, conscious all the time that at any moment darkness might encompass her and she would go no further. But her will prevailed and although it took her a long time she at last reached her small, cheerless bedroom at the end of the long passage and opposite the schoolroom. She shut the door, turned the key in the lock and collapsed on to the floor.

How long she lay there she had no idea. She only knew that, half-fainting, she still suffered agonisingly, not only from the pain but from the humiliation of what had occurred. It was dark and she was bitterly cold.

At last, she rose from the floor and groped her way towards the bed. As she did so there came a knock at the door.

“Who is it?” Melinda asked, her voice sharp with fear.

“It’s me, Miss,” a voice replied, and she knew it was Lucy, the young housemaid, who had come to turn down her bed for the night.

It is all right, Lucy. I will manage ... thank you,” Melinda managed to mumour.

“Very good, Miss.”

She heard Lucy’s steps recede down the passage and now, at last, Melinda forced herself to light the candles on the dressing table. She stared at her face in the mirror, feeling that in some way she had changed, that she would not see herself but someone else staring back at her in the mirror.

She saw a white, distraught face – eyes that were great pools of pain and darkness, her hair tangled and dishevelled around her cheeks. She turned sideways and now she could see how the blood from her back had soaked through her cotton dress leaving dark, wet patches. Slowly she began to undress – every movement was agony. She had to tear her dress and her underclothes from her back where the blood had congealed and stuck to the material. More than once she nearly fainted, but she knew she must rid herself of her stained clothing.

Finally she was free, and wrapping herself in an old flannel dressing gown she sat down at the dressing table to stare, with sightless eyes, into the darkness of the room. She believed herself unconscious and yet she had heard her uncle’s words, ‘You will have no food and if you do not agree to marry Colonel Gillingham I shall beat you again – and again – and again.’

She knew now that he had been on the verge of beating her many times since she had come to the house, as he beat his dogs and his horses and – it was whispered in the house – as he had beaten one of the stable-lads so the boy’s parents had threatened to sue him.

He was a savage man with an uncontrollable temper, but she knew that what really infuriated him more than anything was the fact that if she refused Colonel Gillingham he, and other people in the county, would know that Sir Hector was not really master in his own house. It was the despot in him that demanded obedience from everyone, whoever they might be, and Melinda, like everyone else, must obey his commands.

“I will not marry Colonel Gillingham! I will not!” Melinda whispered. Then her voice broke and the tears came. Tears that seemed to well up from the very depth of her being, shaking her frail, tortured body until she trembled all over.

“Oh, Papa! Mamma! How could you let this happen to me?” she sobbed. “We were so happy – life was so wonderful until you...died. You could not have meant me to endure this.”

The tears blinded her and choked her voice, and yet she found herself murmuring over again, like a child who is lost,

“Papa! Mamma! I want you. Where are you?”

And almost as if they did, indeed, answer her from wherever they might be, she suddenly knew the answer to her problem. It came to her like a flash, clearly, unmistakably, just as if someone had spoken to her and told her what to do. Not for a moment did she question the rights or the wrongs of it, or even consider within herself whether it was good or bad for her and her future. She just knew the answer to her question was there. Her father and mother had not failed her.

She wiped her tears, rose from the dressing table and taking a small carpet bag from the shelf on the top of the wardrobe, started to pack it. She put in only very essential things – for she knew that she was not strong at the best of times and that to carry anything at the moment would be agony, however light the object might be.

Finally she dressed herself, putting on clean underwear, freshly washed petticoats, and her Sunday dress of lavender-coloured lawn with white collars and cuffs. There was a bonnet to match, plain and austere, for Aunt Margaret had allowed no frivolities while she was in mourning. There was a worn, paisley shawl which had belonged to her mother and she put this beside the carpet-bag, ready to be donned at the last moment.

She must have sat longer in front of the mirror than she had realised – for she heard the grandfather clock in the hall strike two. She opened her purse. It contained only a few shillings – all that she had saved from the meagre pocket-money that her uncle allowed her for the church collection and other very small expenses.

Still moving resolutely, as if every action had been planned beforehand, she took from her dressing table drawer, a velvet-covered box. She opened it. Inside was a small diamond crescent brooch – the only thing she had been allowed to keep when her home had been sold and every piece of property belonging to her parents had gone to defray her father’s debts. This little brooch had escaped because it was already hers, having been left to her by her grandmother when she died. It was little more than a child’s brooch, but the diamonds were brilliant and Melinda knew it had a certain value.

Holding the box in her hand, very, very cautiously she opened her bedroom door. She crept along the passage, frightened every time a board creaked, holding her breath and listening just in case someone should appear and ask what she was doing. But the house was silent and still, only the tick-tick of the hall clock disturbing the peace.

She reached her aunt’s boudoir, which was only a short distance away from the large bedroom where her uncle and aunt slept. Melinda moved like a ghost, her small feet seeming to glide rather than walk over the carpet. She opened the door. All was in darkness but she knew her way.

She crossed the room and pulled back the curtain a little to let in the moonlight. Her aunt’s secrétaire, an elegant piece of French Louis XV furniture inset with Sèvres plaques, stood in the window. Melinda knew only too well where the housekeeping money was kept; for every week she helped her aunt with the housekeeping bills and she remembered that even when the servants had been paid there was always a surplus for small purchases.

She pulled open a drawer. There, as she expected, were ten golden guineas. She picked them up and put in their place the diamond brooch she had been given by her grandmother. She was quite aware that her uncle, when he learned of it, would acclaim her as a thief, but she was convinced that the brooch was worth more than ten guineas and that should Aunt Margaret wish to sell it, she would certainly not be out of pocket.

Melinda readjusted the curtain and groped her way to the boudoir door. She closed the door and went back to her own room. She knew, as she walked, that her back was stiffening, but it was useless now to think of her own aches and pains. If she was to escape she must go at once.

Putting the guineas in her purse, she looked round the room and blew out the candles. In the darkness she closed her eyes.

“Oh, Papa and Mamma!” she whispered. “Help me! Help me, for I am afraid to go away – but very much more afraid to stay! Help me because I am doing the only thing I can do.”

She finished speaking and waited, almost as if she expected a reply, but all she could hear was the tick of a clock on the mantelshelf telling her that time was passing. She picked up the carpet-bag and very, very quietly crept down the back staircase towards the kitchen entrance.

2

There was a fitful moon showing between windswept clouds, which lighted Melinda down the dark avenue of the drive to the wrought-iron gates that led on to the road. The big gates were closed but, fortunately, a small side-gate near one of the lodges was unlocked and Melinda slipped through, moving on tiptoe for fear the lodgekeeper should wonder who was abroad at such an early hour of the morning.

She set off down the twisting, dusty road at a sharp pace. She was soon aware that her back was hurting her excruciatingly and that the bag containing the few things she had brought with her seemed to grow heavier and heavier with each step she took. She changed it from one hand to another and wondered to herself if there was anything she could throw away as unnecessary – but she knew that it was not so much the weight of the bag as the fact that she was over-wrought and physically exhausted from the beating she had received from her uncle.

Her pace grew slower and soon a very faint glimmer on the horizon told her that the dawn was breaking. It was with a sense of dismay that Melinda realised that she had not yet got very far from her uncle’s house, should anyone come in search of her they would not have to seek long.

The thought of being captured after having run away was too unbearable to contemplate. She could almost see her uncle’s furious, red face, hear his bellows of rage as he reached once again for his riding whip. He would never forgive her, she knew, for trying to escape from his clutches.

She remembered him thrashing a dog that had ‘run-in’ at shooting.

“Oh God!” she whispered, “I cannot endure another whipping.”

She knew all too clearly what would happen to her if she returned. From sheer physical weakness she would eventually have to accede to her uncle’s wishes and agree to marry Colonel Gillingham. The mere thought of it made her shiver.

She did not know why she hated him so – she only knew that the idea of his touching her filled her with a repulsion that was almost like a nausea. She thought now that she might have guessed that his interest in her was not entirely casual. She had been aware that he had deliberately engaged her in conversation on one or two occasions when he had come to luncheon. They had merely exchanged a few commonplace words, but she had felt shy and embarrassed because of the expression on his face and the look in his eyes.

She had not, at the time, admitted even to herself why she had made an excuse to withdraw from his company, pretending that her aunt needed her assistance or that she had forgotten something in another room. She had only known that she had the same feeling for the Colonel as she had for snakes and that the idea of marriage to him was too horrible even to contemplate.

Her thoughts spurred her forward. For some minutes she walked so quickly she was almost running. But now, because the effort made her feel faint, she slowed down. It was almost light – the thin, yellow fingers of the sun were clearing away the sable of the night. The road was deserted. Soon, she knew, the first cottages of a little hamlet would come into sight – it was there she hoped she would be able to find a coach or a vehicle of some sort that would convey her to Leminster.

Leminster was five miles away and from there she could take a train to London. She had it all planned in her mind. The stagecoaches still ran regularly and were cheaper, but they were far too easily intercepted by a fast-travelling carriage or a man on horseback. Melinda had the idea that her uncle would expect her to travel by stagecoach. He did not hold with trains himself.

“New-fangled rubbish!” he often said. “Those puffing billies will never replace horses.”

He would grow quite vehement on the subject, asserting that he would never spend his money in such a ridiculous manner, and that he and his family would continue to travel like ladies and gentlemen behind their own horses, tooled by their own coachmen.