Barbara Cartland - An Introduction to the Pink Collection

“A housekeeper is a servant.”

“Not you. Take this thing off your head.”

“Hey, let go.” He was pulling pins out. “Give that back at once.”

“I will not.”

“You will.” She stamped her foot. “Right now.”

He grinned at her, and the sun came out. “For a servant you’re very good at giving me orders.”

“John, will you try to be sensible?” She had already fallen into the habit of scolding him like a sister. “While we’re sharing the house alone, the plainer I look the better. And Mr Wyngate will notice.”

“Well, if he thinks you’re my – well, you know – he won’t want me to marry his daughter, will he?”

“Nonsense, of course he will. Where’s he going to find another coronet? And what about my reputation in the village? Have you thought of that?

“I didn’t even mean to be sleeping here. I was going to stay respectably in the vicarage before a crowd of strangers turned up, throwing me out, making fun of my mother’s clothes and trying to steal my chicken – ” her voice wobbled.

“Rena, Rena, I’m sorry.” His manner changed at once, becoming the gentle, kindly one that touched her heart. He took hold of her shoulders. “I’m a selfish beast. I forgot how much you’ve had to put up with. My poor, dear girl, are you crying?”

“No,” she said into her handkerchief.

“Well, nobody could blame you. Come here.”

He drew her against him and wrapped his arms about her, holding her in a warm, brotherly hug. It was the second time that day he had held her close to him, and it threw her into a state of confusion.

“You’ve been a tower of strength and I don’t know what I would have done without you,” he said tenderly. “And all I do is make your life difficult. I ought to be shot for my appalling behaviour, oughtn’t I?”

“Yes,” she mumbled.

He chuckled. “That’s my girl. Never mince matters. Heaven help me if I ever get on your wrong side.”

He tightened his arms so that she was held hard against a broad, comforting chest. He was taller by several inches, and she had a faint awareness of a soft thunder where his heart was.

Then there was another feeling, almost incredible, on the top of her head, as though he had planted a light kiss on her hair. But he released her straight after, so she might have imagined it.

“How do I put this back?” he asked, holding up the cap and pins.

“I’ll do it. You go and – I don’t know. Practise looking like an Earl.”

He grinned. “Do you think I’ll pass muster?”

He looked splendidly handsome in a dark suit. But it was his height that was impressive, plus his broad shoulders and long legs.

His face was good looking, but it was more than that, she decided, giving the matter her full attention. It was his proud carriage, the way he carried himself with an air. And then there was the indefinable something in his blue eyes, the gleam of humour and lust for life that was never far away.

It was hard to see how Miss Wyngate would not fall in love with him. In fact, she was probably the one behind this, and her father was acting at her wishes.

Rena had a sense of alarm, as though she could see some terrible danger rushing towards John, and she might pluck him from its path.

But then she realised that she was powerless to do any such thing. They might find more coins, but were unlikely to find enough to help.

She returned to work with a heavy heart.

An hour later there was a sound of wheels outside the front door. They were here at last. She and John had talked so much about them that they had come to feel strangely unreal.

But now they were very real, standing outside, demanding admittance. She felt herself become breathless and a little afraid.

She pulled herself together and tried to assume the demeanour of a servant.

After all, she had wanted to be an actress. This was her chance.

The front door bell rang.

Eyes cast down she crossed the great hall and opened the door.

Outside stood a man in his fifties who, despite his lack of inches, managed to be extremely impressive. He was not particularly attractive, but there was something about him that she had never seen before, an aura of wealth, and power.

It was not only the fact that his heavy Astrakhan coat and gleaming top hat were obviously new and expensive. Nor that his diamond tie-pin was sparkling in the sunshine or that the ring on his finger was also a diamond. It was something more.

She felt it come at her like a blast of air from the furnace of hell. Sheer brute determination to have his own way in all things.Callousness, cruelty, the hardness of rock. She sensed all these things.

Sinister. She had used the word to John almost without thinking, but now that she was faced with the reality she recognised it at once. He was sinister. He was frightening.

And he was something far worse. Rena was a parson’s daughter, subtly attuned to the vibrations of another world, and now the hairs stood up on the back of her neck as she recognised evil.

She had never met it before. It had been a theory, a biblical abstraction. Now, at this moment she knew, unmistakeably, that she was in its presence.

Standing beside him was his daughter. She was exquisitely dressed in what Rena assumed must be the very latest fashion. Her clothes were trimmed with fur, her brooch was pearl and her ear-rings were diamonds. Somebody was bent on announcing to the world that she was the daughter of a rich man.

And that same somebody had more money than taste, since Rena’s mother, who had belonged to the gentry in her youth, had once told her that no lady ever wore diamonds before six in the evening, and then never with pearls.

“Good afternoon, ma’am.”

“My name is Wyngate. Lansdale is expecting me.”

His voice was unpleasant and grating, and the way he said “Lansdale” made it clear that he already felt able to command here.

She murmured something respectful and stood back to let them pass. Mr Wyngate shrugged off his coat and tossed it to her without a second glance. His silver topped stick followed.

Now that he was divested of his top coat Rena could see that there was something strange about his body. He was not a tall man, but his shoulders were very broad and his arms very long. His head, too, was slightly too large for his body. In fact he reminded her of a picture of an ape that she had once seen in a picture book at home.

Then John was there, striding across the hall on his long legs, looking, Rena thought, more handsome than any man had the right to. And it seemed absurd to think that Miss Matilda Wyngate would not fall in love with him.

“Good to see you again Lansdale,” Wyngate grated. “You remember my daughter.” It was a statement, not a question.

“I remember Miss Wyngate with great pleasure,” John said politely.

Matilda smiled up at him in a way that reminded Rena of John’s words. “She’s very quiet, and some men might find that charming.”

It was true. Matilda was no beauty but neither was she plain. Her oval face was pale, her demeanour was shy, and she did have charm.

“I remember Your Lordship very well,” she said softly.

“None of that,” her father said curtly. “You don’t have to ‘lordship’ him. We’re Lansdale’s equals any day.”

“Indeed you are,” John said. “And you are both very welcome to my house. Rena – ” he turned to her unexpectedly, “please come and meet our guests.”

The idea of a man introducing his housekeeper was outrageous, and plainly Mr Wyngate thought so too, for he turned cold eyes on Rena.

“This is my cousin, Mrs. Colwell,” John continued, apparently oblivious to their astonishment. “She is visiting me to help me look after the house.”