An Introduction to The Barbara Cartland Pink Collection

CHAPTER ONE - 1864-2

He thought the top had somehow got broken. As it was near the stream it had perhaps been washed away. The large piece of wood was thick with mud, but when they washed it clean, they found engraved on it were some words that nobody could make out.

Her father had cleaned the wood until the words could be seen more clearly. He’d given orders for the cross to be driven back into the ground, high above the stream so that the water would not touch it again.

But they were unable to find the missing cross piece, which had made it look a little strange as it stood surrounded by the trees.

“How can you be certain it is a cross?” she remembered her mother asking, as they walked through the wood.

“You’ll be as certain as I am when you see it now,” the Reverend Colwell had told her. “It’s been cleaned and we can read what is engraved on it.”

It was spring and the trees were coming into blossom. Rena, holding her father’s hand, had been thrilled to walk through the woods which belonged to The Grange, and had thought what a wonderful place to play hide-and-seek.

At last they saw the tall, impressive piece of wood, that her father was so convinced was a cross. When she drew nearer, she saw the writing on it, and her father had translated:

“YE WHO ASK FOR HELP WILL FIND IT WHEN YE PRAY TO ME.”

“That’s what convinced me,” her father said when he read it aloud, “that it was originally a cross. I think perhaps it was placed here hundreds of years ago, when the house was being built or perhaps even before that.”

“It’s certainly very interesting,” her mother had said. “I only hope the people who prayed there got what they wanted.”

“If it has lasted so long, I’m sure they did,” her father replied.

He had given his orders that the cross should stay here, and it was still in place ten years later. Now it was the only thing left to which Rena could take her troubles, hoping that if she prayed hard enough some help might come to her.

Perhaps, she thought, it might even be her father telling her to go there.

“It’s really a very simple problem,” she told herself. “How to stop myself starving to death. What could be simpler than that?”

She often talked to herself in that ironic way, presenting her difficulties with a slightly wry twist. Her father was sometimes a little shocked by what he perceived as her levity. But Rena had found a sense of humour a great help in confronting the world.

She set out now to find the cross. It was spring again, a beautiful warm spring. She didn’t wear her best coat, but slipped on the jacket she used in the garden.

She walked through the village until she saw the gates of The Grange, which, unusually, were standing open. So perhaps the new Earl has really arrived, she thought hopefully.

How neglected it was, she thought. It was quite obvious that no one had worked on the drive. When she moved into the fields on one side of it, they, too, had been neglected. It was depressing. But the birds were singing, the sun was shining, and sometimes she saw a rabbit or a squirrel moving through the grass ahead of her.

Just before her were the woods, with the trees in bud. And there was the stream, and beside it what she always thought of as her father’s cross, looking incredibly lovely because the kingcups had come into flower at the foot of it. Golden in the sunshine flickering through the trees, they made the cross itself seem to stand out firmly because the wood was dark.

She read again the words carved on the cross which she could see quite clearly, and instinctively she began to pray. As she did so, she looked down at the kingcups, and one side of them she saw a thistle. It was green and ugly and was spoiling one side of the cross.

It seemed dark and mysterious. Then she remembered that she had a pair of gloves in the pocket of her jacket. They were thick and lined with leather.

When she put them on, she attacked the thistle, finding that she had to pull it with both hands as hard as she could before it finally came out.

And then, she saw to her astonishment that attached to the roots were several coins. She picked them up and started to rub away the mud.

Then stared, thinking she must be dreaming.

They were gold.

And there were more of them in the hole she had made in pulling out the thistle. They were ancient, maybe two hundred years old.

And solid gold.

For a moment she was dazzled. Then she took a deep breath and reminded herself sternly that these coins belonged to the owner of The Grange – whoever he was.

She remembered the open gates, the rumour that The Grange had been re-opened. Now was the moment to find out.

She removed two more of the coins under the thistle, then she put the thistle back where she had found it, pressing it into the earth, so that no passing stranger could make this discovery.

First she took the coins from it before pressing it back into the ground.

Then she stood for a moment looking up at the top of the cross.

“Perhaps you have answered my prayer,” she said.

Then she almost laughed at herself for being so optimistic.

“If the owner is a generous man he’ll give me at least, one of the coins I found for him. Couldn’t I just take one – to help me find some work?”

But it was impossible. She was too much her father’s daughter to take anything secretly. Every coin must be handed over to its rightful owner.

At once.

Walking out of the woods she began to move through the field, then into the garden towards the great house.

*

It was a long time since Rena had been to The Grange, and she had forgotten how attractive it was.

It was about four hundred years old, a long, grey stone building, stretching to two wings, and with a tower in the centre.

The tower was an oddity. It had been added about a century after the house was first built, and was topped by small mediaeval style turrets, which clashed with almost everything else about the building. But to the people of the village it was a treasured landmark, and they would not hear a word against it.

The house even maintained its beauty despite its poor condition. Many of the diamond-paned windows were broken and the rest badly needed cleaning.

There had been no gardeners here for a long time, but the flower-beds were brilliant with colour. Even the many weeds somehow seemed part of the picture rather than to spoil it.

On a day like this it was hard to remember the rumours that The Grange was haunted. There were old people in the village who said they had seen and heard strange noises when they visited it.

A surprise awaited her when she reached the front door. It was open. Perhaps there was a new owner, and servants had arrived.

“Or maybe,” she thought wryly, “it’s the famous ghost.”

Hearing no sound, she walked into the hall. Like the rest of the house it was in a very bad way, with dust up the stairs that was so obvious that she looked away from it immediately. The passage which she reached at the end of the hall was not much better. The carpets were grey with dirt and so was the furniture.

“Ugh!” she thought.

There was only silence around her.

Then she thought she heard a slight sound on her left, which was the way to the dining-room and beyond that the kitchen. For a moment she hesitated. Propriety dictated that she return to the front door and ring the bell.

But curiosity urged her forward, along the passage. Curiosity won.

As she moved quietly through the dining room she couldn’t help noticing that the table wanted polishing and the top of the fireplace was thick with dust. Probably the glass vases on the sideboard were half full of dust she decided. Really this place needed the touch of a good housekeeper.

Then she heard a sound behind the door that led to the kitchen and the pantry. Now she knew there must be someone in the kitchen.

Quietly she opened the door and crept along the passage which led to the pantry, then to the kitchen, from where the noise seemed to come. The door was ajar and she pushed it open. To her surprise she saw a man struggling to light a fire, and obviously not succeeding.

She could see only his back, but the very shape of it was redolent of exasperation and frustration. He’d stripped off his jacket, revealing a tall, well-made frame in breeches, shirt and waistcoat. She contemplated him.

Then something seemed to make him aware of her presence and he spoke sharply, without turning round.

“Perhaps you can make this damned fire burn! I want some breakfast and the coal and wood are conspiring to prevent me from having it.”

There was so much resentment in his voice that Rena could not help laughing.

“Let me do it,” she said. “These old fires are very troublesome at times.”

The sound of her voice made the man turn round. He was young and unexpectedly good-looking, although his face was partly hidden by a smudge of coal. For a moment they both looked at each other with interest and pleasure.

Then he rose and said, “I do apologise. I don’t know who you are, but if you could make this fire burn I could have something to eat. I’m ravenous. I’ve eaten all the food I brought with me last night, and this kitchen has defeated me. In fact the whole house defeats me. Wretched place!”

She couldn’t help laughing again, and assumed a shocked tone. “Do you know, sir, that this house has been called one of the most beautiful houses in the whole of England.”

“I could think of several things to call it, but that wouldn’t be among them.”

“Don’t let the new owner hear you say that!”

“It’s all right. I am the new owner.”

“Oh heavens!” she cried. “And I thought you were a ghost!”

He grinned. “A pretty solid sort of ghost. A pretty filthy one, too. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. My name is John and I’m the Earl.”

“The Earl? You mean – Lord Lansdale?”

“Yes. I don’t look much like an Earl do I? More like a pot boy, I suppose.”

“My name is Rena Colwell. My father was the vicar here until his death. He brought me to this house several times when the old Earl was still alive. It’s such a beautiful place, and I’ve always loved it. Is something wrong?”

For his face had fallen.

“Only that if you’re the vicar’s daughter it wouldn’t be quite proper for me to let you light the fire.”

“Oh never mind what’s proper,” she said at once. “Let’s just do what we want.” Then her hands flew to her mouth. “No – at least – what I meant was – ”

“Don’t,” he begged. “Don’t change it. I preferred the first version.”

“Well, so did I,” she admitted, “but it was the sort of thing Papa used to reprove me for saying. Now, let me do your fire. I shall need some paper – there should be some in one of the drawers of the table. Then I must have some small pieces of wood and matches with which to light the fire.”

“I suppose it is what I should have known,” the man answered ruefully. “But quite frankly I’m not used to making my own fire or cooking my own breakfast.”

“I promise that you won’t be hungry for very much longer.”

She had to chase some beetles out of the range before she could do anything else. But at last she got the fire burning and the water in the saucepan was hot enough to cook some eggs. The Earl had some provisions, coffee, a little milk, half a loaf of bread and a large pat of butter.

“I have an uneasy feeling that politeness dictates that I should ask you to share my breakfast,” he said. “But – forgive me, I’m too hungry to be polite.”

“I’m not hungry. I ate my breakfast before I left home.”

This was not quite true, because she had merely picked up some pieces of ham left over from her supper the night before. She was making her few remaining scraps of food last.

“I don’t think you can be real,” he said. “You’re a fairy creature who came by magic to save me from starving to death. What is it? What did I say?” He’d seen a sudden change in her face.

“Nothing,” she said hastily. His innocent remark had reminded her of the reality of her situation. “I just – thought of something. Go on with what you are saying.”

He raised his coffee cup to her in salute. “To the fairy who saved me. I’m very lucky to have found you.”

Rena smiled. “I thought actually I had found you. Whenever I’ve been here before the house has been completely empty, unless someone was thinking of becoming a tenant. Mind you, they always changed their mind as soon as they saw how much had to be done.”

“And now you expect me to do it,” the man remarked wryly. “But this place is too big and too expensive for me even to contemplate living in.”

Rena sighed.

“Oh, must you say that? I have often thought it would be very exciting if the house came alive again and was not left as it is now gradually to crumble until there is nothing left of it, or its beautiful gardens.”

“That’s a beautiful hope,” he said, “But there is one grave difficulty.”

“What is that?”

“I can say it in one word. Money! Money to make the house habitable. Money to employ gardeners, farmers, money for horses to fill the stables.”

“That would be wonderful!” she exclaimed. “I’ve always wanted to ride over your land, but as my father had a very small stipend, we could never afford a horse, much as we longed to have one.”

“Yes, of course, you said your father was the parson.”

“He was parson to the village and of course, this house, for over twenty years. Now when the bishop finds the right man another parson will prevail here and I will have to leave.”

There was a note of pain in her voice which the young man heard.

After a moment he said: “If I can afford it, I would do all those things. I would ask you to help me make this house as beautiful as it used to be, when it was first built.”

“Oh, how I would love that,” Rena answered. “But you speak as if it’s impossible!”

“It is. I’ve been abroad because I was serving in Her Majesty’s Navy. When my ship returned to England I learnt, to my astonishment, that they had discovered, after hunting high and low, that I was the only living relative of the last Earl who reigned here. I’m not sure how long ago that was.”

“He died ten years ago,” Rena said. “I know the search for his relatives has continued ever since, but people had given up hope.”

He sighed.

“At first it seemed part of a fairy story,” he explained. “Then I realised that what I had inherited was the title itself, and this house and estate. But as for money – not even a pittance.”

“You mean you have no money even though you are an Earl?” Rena asked. This was an entirely new idea to her.

“Not a penny. When I was told that this house came with the title, which had not been used for so long, I was, at first, thrilled at the thought of owning land and of course having a home of my own.”

He gave a rueful smile. “I didn’t think it was possible to be a poor Earl either. I know better now,” he added with a touch of bitterness.

“Surely you can sell some of the land, if nothing else,” Rena suggested.

“In this condition?”

“Can’t you put it to rights?”

“It would take thousands of pounds, and I have nothing, except what I saved out of my salary as a sailor which needless to say, was very little.

“Besides, it’s entailed. It has to go to the next Earl, who might be my son, but probably won’t be, since I can’t afford to marry. In fact, I can’t afford to do anything. I haven’t a penny to my name.”

“But you have,” breathed Rena in sudden excitement. “That’s what I came here to tell you!”