Barbara Cartland - Lovers In Paradise

“What has upset you?” he enquired. “If it concerns me, I can only express my deepest regrets. ma’am, that you should have been troubled.”

He always addressed the Queen Dowager formally and he knew that she liked the way he did not presume on their relationship.

“I am indeed upset,” she replied, “and I am afraid, Viktor, you are involved.”

The Count raised his eyebrows and waited.

He was not really apprehensive as to what might be disclosed. He knew only too well how any titbit of gossip could be mouthed over and exaggerated in Court circles and it was inevitable that he would always be suspected of the worst.

The Queen Dowager drew in a deep breath as if to sustain herself and then she started,

“Luise van Heydberg killed herself last night!”

She spoke without any emotion and yet it seemed as if the monotonous tone of her voice echoed and re-echoed around the room.

The Count stared at her incredulously.

“I ‒ don’t believe ‒ it!” he managed to stammer at last.

“It is true. She took enough laudanum to kill two strong men and, when her maid found her this morning, she must have been dead for eight or ten hours.”

“Good God!”

The Count expostulated the words. Then, forgetting all ceremony, he walked across the room to stand at the window gazing out onto the barren garden under a bleak November sky.

“I will do everything in my power to keep your name out of this,” the Queen Dowager added after a moment, “and to prevent there being a huge scandal.”

“Why should I get involved?” the Count asked her truculently.

“Because Luise had quarrelled with Willem over you.”

“Over me?”

“She had written a letter to you, an extremely indiscreet epistle, I understand, which any husband would resent.”

“How did Willem come to see it?”

“Luise was writing it in her private sitting room. He entered unexpectedly and, because she looked so guilty and tried to cover up the letter, he took it from her by force,”

“It is the kind of thing Willem would do!” the Count commented harshly.

The Queen Dowager sighed.

“You know just as well as I do how insanely jealous he is and, of course, where you are concerned he has had every justification.”

“It was all over two months – no, nearly three months ago.”

“Perhaps it was from your point of view,” the Queen Dowager said, “but Luise was still in love with you and behaved, I must admit, in an exceedingly hysterical manner.”

The Queen Dowager paused for a moment and then she added,

“So she died.”

The Count stared blindly out at the formal gardens. He was wishing, as he had wished so many times before, that he had never become involved with the Baroness van Heydberg, who had been the only attractive woman in attendance upon the Queen Dowager.

The other Ladies-in-Waiting were fat, middle-aged and dumpy and even to look at them made the Count think of suet puddings and dumplings that he had always disliked as a child.

In contrast Luise van Heydberg had been like a breath of spring on a winter’s day.

She had been beautiful, slim and very young for the post she occupied by right because her husband was of such high standing at Court.

The Baron’s second wife, Luise, was young enough to be his daughter and, as the Count quickly discovered, was not in the least in love with the man she had married.

Since she came from a family of no social importance, it had been for her a brilliant marriage accepted ecstatically by her parents who could hardly believe their good fortune.

It had not mattered to them that the Baron was now over fifty years of age or that his obsession for Luise from the moment he had seen her was likely at first to frighten and then revolt a very young girl.

All that mattered was that, as Baroness van Heydberg, she would become a hereditary Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen Dowager and have a position at Court which they had never imagined possible.

To the Count it had been just another of his light and amusing flirtations, which made the path of duty easier than it might have been otherwise.

He had no intention of embarking on anything serious with the wife of another man, nor did he intend, if he could help it, to add to the gossip writers’ store of incidents, which they repeated and re-repeated always to his disadvantage.

He had found Luise’s instantaneous response to his very first overtures intriguing and definitely flattering.

She had made it very clear that he embodied everything that she had dreamt about in her adolescent dreams and was the hero to whom she had been romantically inclined since she was a child.

“I worship you,” she had said to him once. “You are like Apollo. You bring a light to the darkness of my life.”

Satiated as he was with beautiful women and with affaires de coeur , which had occupied a great deal of his time since he was adolescent, the Count had been touched and at times moved by Luise’s passion for him.

Then about three months ago he had realised that it was getting out of hand.

She found it impossible, loving him as she did, to disguise her feelings even when they were surrounded by the stern disapproving eyes of those to whom protocol was a religion.

She began to plead with him to see her more than it was possible for him to do.

She wanted to take dangerous risks so that they could be together and for him to make love to her even when her husband was in the same building or only a room away.

The Count began to be afraid.

He felt like a man who had made a small hole in the dyke and now the whole sea was rushing in and threatening to overwhelm him and everyone else.

With an expertise that came from long practice, he began to disentangle himself both metaphorically as well as physically from the clinging arms of Luise, from her lips, hungry for his kisses, and from her insistent demands upon him.

She sensed, as a woman always can, what was happening.

So she bombarded him with letters and messages and, when they were alone, begged him to love her with an abandonment that made him uneasy.

Too late he realised that her nature was hysterical to the point where she could easily become unbalanced.

Too late he realised that he had started an avalanche that was now out of control.

“Listen, Luise, you are a married woman,” he said to her over and over again. “You have a duty to your husband. If you behave like this, he will take you away to the country and we shall never see each other again.”

He thought as he spoke that it would be the best thing that could happen, but his words brought a flood of tears and protestations.

On one occasion Luise even knelt at his feet, pleading with him, begging him with the tears falling down her cheeks not to leave her.

In his dealings with women the Count had always been very much the dominant figure.

In fact his name was apt in that he was indeed the victor, the conqueror, and the women he made love to invariably surrendered themselves completely to everything he demanded of them.

At the same time the majority were sensible and sophisticated enough to safeguard their reputations.

The Count often thought cynically that it was the women who listened, even when they were at their most abandoned, for a footstep on the stairs, a creak of the door or the faintest sound that might mean discovery.

He had made a mistake, he realised, in choosing someone as young as Luise, apart from the fact that her whole temperament was obviously unsuited to intrigue of any sort.

He might have been excused for not realising how she would behave in as much as she had been married for four years, given her husband the heir he craved and could therefore no longer be thought of as being a young and innocent bride.