Call of the Heart (6 page)

He almost spat the words and then he said furiously, his voice seeming to ring out in the Church-yard:

“Go back and tell your sister that she has taught me a lesson I shall never forget. What is more, I curse her even as I curse myself for trusting her.”

“No ... do not say . . . that,” Lalitha begged. “It is ... unlucky.”

“What has luck to do with it?” he asked. “Your sister has not only lost me a bride, she has also cost me ten thousand guineas!”

Lalitha looked up at the dark silhouette he made against the faint light in the back-ground.

Because she was curious she could not help asking: “How ... how can she have ... done that?”

“I wagered that amount of money in the belief that she was sincere and true; that she was not a snob as all other women are; that rank did not mean to her more than affection, a title more than the love they profess so easily with their lips.”

“It is . . . for some women,” Lalitha said quickly before she could prevent herself.

He laughed harshly.

“If there are, I have yet to find one!”

“Perhaps you ... will, one ... day.”

“Do you think I would bet on it?” he asked savagely. Then he said:

“Go on! Go home! What are you waiting for? Describe to your sister my rage, my frustration, and of course my despair because she will not become my wife!”

There was so much unbridled fury in his voice that Lalitha found it difficult to move.

She felt as if he mesmerised her by the sheer force of his emotion.

It seemed to flow out from him so that she was bemused to the point where she was unable to obey him. Yet at the same time she longed to run away.

“Ten thousand guineas!” Lord Rothwyn repeated. Almost as if he spoke to himself, but still in the loud, angry tones with which he had addressed Lalitha, he went on:

“I deserve it! How can I have been such a besotted fool? So brainless, so infantile, as to think she could be any different?” As if his words to himself galvanised him once again into an uncontrollable anger, he stormed at Lalitha: “Get out of my sight! Tell your sister if I ever set eyes on her again I will kill her! Do you hear me? I will kill her!”

He was so frightening that Lalitha turned to run from him, run away back to the lych-gate and to the carriage which was waiting.

As she turned, her head seemed to spin and she had to pause for a moment to steady herself.

Then as she took a step forward Lord Rothwyn said in a voice that was quieter but still menacing:

“Wait a moment! If you are Sophie’s sister then your name is Studley!”

Lalitha looked round in surprise.

She could not imagine why he was interested.

He was waiting for her answer and after a moment she said hesitantly:

“Y-yes.”

“I have an idea,” he said, “that I might save my money and perhaps my pride. Why not? Why the devil not?”

He put out his hand and took hold of Lalitha’s arm.

“You are coming with me.”

She looked up at him nervously.

“But ... where?” she asked.

“You will see,” he answered.

His fingers were hard and painful and they bruised her arm even though it was covered by her cloak.

He pulled her down the path towards the Church porch.

“What is . . . happening? Where are you ... taking me?” she asked in a sudden fear.

“You are going to marry me!” he replied. “One Miss Studley is doubtless very like another, and it would be a pity to keep the Parson waiting for nothing.”

“You ... cannot... mean what... you say!” Lalitha cried. “It is ... mad!” “You will learn that I always mean what I say,” Lord Rothwyn replied harshly. “You will marry me, and that will at least teach your lying, deceitful sister that there are other women in the world besides her!”

“No-no . . . no!” Lalitha said again. “I . . . cannot ... do such a thing!”

“You can and you will!” he said grimly.

They had reached the Church porch by now and she looked up.

In the light of the lantern she could see his face and thought he looked like the Devil.

Never had she seen a man so dark, so handsome, but at the same time obviously infuriated to the point where he had lost control of himself.

His eyes were narrow slits and there was a white line round his set lips.

He did not relinquish his hold of her arm but rather tightened it as he dragged her through the door and into the Church.

It was very quiet and their feet seemed to ring out as he pulled her down the aisle towards the Altar.

“No . . . no . . . you . . . c-cannot do . . . t-this!” Lalitha protested in a whisper because instinctively the atmosphere of the Church made it impossible for her to raise her voice.

There was no answer from Lord Rothwyn.

He merely escorted her forward nearer and nearer to where, at the Altar steps, a Priest was waiting.

Frantic, Lalitha tried to release herself from his hold but it was impossible.

He was too strong and she was too weak to struggle with any fervency.

“I ... cannot ... please ... p-please ... it is w-wrong! It is ... c-crazy. Please stop ... please ... p-please.”

They had reached the Altar and Lalitha turned her eyes towards the Priest who was waiting for them.

She thought that perhaps she could appeal to him; tell him that something was wrong.

Then she saw he was a very old man with dead-white hair and a kind, wrinkled face.

He was almost blind and he peered at them as if it was difficult for him even to see that they were there.

Somehow the words of protest died on Lalitha’s lips and she could not say them.

“Dearly beloved ...” the old man began in a quavering voice. “I must ... stop him! I . . . must!” Lalitha told herself, but the words with which she would have broken in would not come to her lips.

She felt as if everything was slipping away from her and she could not quite bring it back into focus.

She was conscious of the heavy scent of lilies, with which the Chancel was decorated; of the lights flickering on the Altar; of the peace and silence of the Church itself.

“I will not say the ... words which make me his ... wife,” she told herself. “I will wait until we ... come to them and ... then I will say ... no!”

“Will you, Inigo Alexander, take this woman for your wedded wife?” she heard the old priest say.

He went on, the words soft and mesmeric, until Lord Rothwyn replied loudly in a voice that seemed to ring out in the Church:

“I will!”

He was still very angry, Lalitha thought with a quiver of fear. The Clergy-man turned towards her. Then there was an interruption.

“What is your name?” Lord Rothwyn asked.

“Lalitha ... but I ... cannot ...”

“Her name is Lalitha,” Lord Rothwyn said to the Clergy-man, as if she had not spoken.

He nodded. Then to Lalitha in his gentle, tired old voice: “Repeat after me—‘I, Lalitha . . .”

“I ... c-cannot, no ... I cannot!” she began in a whisper.

She felt the pressure of Lord Rothwyn’s fingers tighten on her arm.

They were extremely painful and compelled her as her Stepmother compelled her by sheer force to do what she was told to do.

She felt flickering through her the same fear that she felt when she waited for a blow of the cane on her back.

Now almost without conscious thought and without the agreement of her brain she heard herself stammer:

“I, L-Lalitha ... take ... t-thee ... I-Inigo ... A-Alexander ...”

They left the Church and were driving together through the darkness.

Not in the hired carriage in which Lalitha had arrived but in a luxurious vehicle with crested accoutrements of real silver and with a sable rug over her knees.

She did not speak but knew without words that Lord Rothwyn was still as angry as he had been before.

She could almost feel his fury bubbling within him.

She could feel it exuding from him like thunder to fill the carriage and frighten her with its intensity.

She tried to think of what the consequence for her would be for taking Sophie’s place at the Altar.

Somehow she could not believe that it was true. Everything was still out of focus.

“What will . . . happen to me? What will I . . . do?” she asked, yet the question somehow had no poignancy.

She only felt frightened to the point where it was hard to breathe, and so exhausted that if she were to fall on the floor of the carriage she would lie there forever and never get up again.

The carriage drew up at one of the large, magnificent houses in Park Lane.

There was golden light coming through an open door. Servants in claret livery decorated with gold braid ran a red carpet over the steps and opened the door of the carriage. Lalitha stepped out first and stood bewildered and frightened in the huge marble Hall in which there were life-sized gilded statues set in alcoves.

“Come this way!”

Again Lord Rothwyn had his hand on her arm and was leading her across the Hall and into a beautiful room. She recognised from the number of books which lined the walls that it was a Library.

There was a large flat desk in the centre of the room and he led her to it.

A footman hurriedly lit two candelabra on the desk although there was already light from the silver sconces which decorated the walls.

“Is there anything you require, M’Lord?” a Major-Domo asked respectfully.

“No. Leave us, but keep a groom. I have a note for him to deliver.”

“Very good, M’Lord.”

Lalitha heard the doors close and felt herself quiver.

She was seated at the desk. There was a huge blotter in front of her decorated with a gold coronet over an elaborate crest. Lord Rothwyn opened it.

“You are now,” he said, “going to write a letter to your sister.” He drew some writing-paper from a drawer, set it down on the blotter, and held out a big white quill pen.

Automatically Lalitha undid the clasp at the neck of her cloak and pushed the hood from her hair.

It was still difficult to move her arm so she eased the cloak back a little further and took the pen from him.

“Now write,” he commanded.

Obediently, because there was nothing she could do about it, Lalitha bent forward and put her hand on the paper to steady it.

“ ‘My dear Sophie,’ ” he dictated in a hard bitter voice, and she wrote it down as he went on:

‘“I gave Lord Rothwyn your message, and as he deemed it a pity to waste the services of the Priest and the festivities he had arranged for you, I have taken your place and I am now his wife.

“ ‘You will, I am sure, be delighted to learn that any fears for the health of the Duke of Yelverton were unfounded, and His Grace is expected to continue to enjoy good health for many years to come!’ ”

Lalitha stopped.

She had reached the word “unfounded.”

“How do you ... know this?” she asked.

She stared at what she had written, then said in a low voice: “His Grace ... lives in ... Hampshire.”

Suddenly she looked up at Lord Rothwyn standing beside her. “It was not ... true! It was you who sent that... note to Sophie! The Duke is... not dying at all!”

“No, he is not dying!” Lord Rothwyn replied. “It was a test—a test that your sister failed.”

“How could you have done such a thing?” Lalitha asked. “It was under-hand ... cruel!”

“Cruel?” he repeated. “Do you think it was cruel to query a love that had been professed again and again; a love in which I believed, but which existed only in my own damn-fool imagination?”

Again he was speaking violently and Lalitha felt almost as if he blasted her.

“Go on, finish your letter,” he ordered. “The groom is waiting.” “I—I... cannot... write . .. this,” she said. “They ... will... kill me. They will... kill me ... for having ... taken ... part in it!”

There was sheer terror in her voice.

She threw down the pen and tried to stare at the words she had written as they danced before her eyes.

“I am. . . mad! Mad to have ... let you ... do this ... to me!” she said, “and ... I cannot. . . stand any more. . .”

She put her hands over her face as she spoke and her head went forward onto the writing-table.

As she moved her cloak fell from her shoulders and slipped onto the chair behind her.

“Come!” Lord Rothwyn said harshly. “This is not the moment for weakness. They will not kill you for taking part in this masquerade. That I promise you!”

“I—I should ... not have ... done it,” Lalitha said.

There was a desperation in her voice which arrested the words he was about to speak.

Then he looked down at her and saw her back. He lifted one of the silver candelabra from the desk.

Held above Lalitha’s head, its light revealed the bleeding scars and weals on her back.

Her dress was unbuttoned to the waist and he could see the marks from Lady Studley’s cane crossing and re-crossing themselves.

Some were deep crimson, some were bleeding, and others were purple bruises so innumerable that there was little white flesh to be seen between them.

“My God!”

The exclamation seemed forced from between Lord Rothwyn’s lips.

Then he asked in a tone very different from the one he had used before:

“Who has treated you like this? Who has made those marks on your back?”

Wearily Lalitha raised her face from between her hands.

“Who can have done this to you?” Lord Rothwyn repeated.

He seemed to demand an answer and hazily, because her head was swimming and she could not think clearly, Lalitha answered:

“My ... Step-mother!”

Then as the words were said she cried frantically: “N-no ... no ... it was my ... mother. I did not say it! It was a ... mistake! I-it was ... my ... mother!” Lord Rothwyn, holding the candelabrum in his hand, looked at her in astonishment.

Rising from the desk, Lalitha turned towards him piteously.

“I ... I ... did not ... say it,” she said. “I ... swear I ... did not ... say it ... and . . . I . . . cannot . . .

stand any ... more---------I ... cannot! I . . . cannot!”

She looked at him wildly, as if afraid that he would not listen to her.