An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition Read online

  Her eyes were the translucent blue of a thrush’s egg, the nose between them was very straight, her lips drooping a little as if she were shy or afraid.

  Rodney took her hand with an eagerness he was unable to repress and then felt rebuked because her fingers were cold and stiff in his, giving him no response and seeming rather to rebuff his impetuosity. Yet nothing mattered from that moment save that he could look at her.

  He felt that his eyes must tell her all that his lips dare not say. That he wanted to take her into his arms, to feel the soft loveliness of her close against him, to find her mouth and hold her captive with his passion.

  He was aware of a fire rising within himself at the thought of it. His veins were tingling and he knew the thrill of being the hunter with his prey in sight.

  “I love you,” his eyes told her. “I love you. You are mine. You shall not escape me.”

  But aloud he spoke conventionally even while there was a depth and a resonance in his voice that had not been there before.

  Phillida said very little, uttering only monosyllables with downcast eyes while Sir Harry talked and Lady Gillingham strove to attract his attention.

  How long they sat in the Great Chamber with its ornamental plasterwork ceiling and tall mantelpiece of mixed marble Rodney did not know. His thoughts and concentration were bemused by Phillida’s beauty, and when finally Sir Harry drew him aside into another room where they could talk undisturbed, he asked first, not for the gold for which he had come from London, but for Phillida’s hand in marriage.

  “I thought it was for another reason you honoured my house with a visit,” Sir Harry boomed, his eyes twinkling.

  “That is true, sir. My god-father will, I think, have given you some idea why I sought an introduction to you.”

  “There is a ship you wish to buy, I believe.”

  “Yes, sir. Sir Francis has advanced me two thousand pounds towards it. I can put up two thousand of my own money, and I need another two.”

  “And your aim?”

  “To do as I did with Sir Francis Drake on our voyage round the world – bring home the treasure of Spain for the glory of England and the discomfiture of our enemies.”

  “You hope to find another San Felipe!” Sir Harry smiled.

  “The cargo was valued at one hundred and fourteen thousand pounds sterling, sir”

  “And you aim to be as successful?”

  “If I am a quarter as successful, sir, the shareholders in my ship will not complain.”

  “God’s life, no! You think you have enough experience for command?”

  “I am sure of it, sir. For two years I served in the Queen’s ships. I bought myself free to sail with Drake on the Golden Hind. I was with him last year when he captured the San Felipe. Now I crave to be on my own. I wish to make a fortune – and to make it quickly”

  “Surely there is plenty of time? You are a young man”

  Rodney hesitated for a moment and then spoke the truth.

  “I have a feeling, sir, that things will not be as easy in the future as they are now. If the King of Spain sends an Armada against us, we shall be at war, and war is never conducive to great profits or indeed to the finding of a large treasure trove.”

  “Yes, I see your point,” Sir Harry said, “but do they really believe at Whitehall that the Armada will come?”

  “From what I have heard, sir, there is no doubt at all that the Spaniards are planning an invasion of this country. Every seaman is convinced that sooner or later an attack will be made.”

  “Why, truly, you may be right,” Sir Harry said. “Yet, personally, I am optimistic enough to hope that the Queen’s diplomacy will be able to prevent it, even at the last moment.”

  Rodney did not answer. He was among those who thought that Elizabeth’s desperate searchings for peace were completely useless. Spain intended war and the best thing England could do was to realise this and be ready to meet her.

  “If I give you this money,” Sir Harry said, “ and, mind you, I have not made up my mind yet whether I shall or not, how soon could you put to sea?”

  “In under a month, sir. The ship I wish to buy belongs to some London merchants. They will sell it for five thousand pounds, and I require the other thousand for provisions and weapons.”

  “I see.” Sir Harry scratched his chin. “You spoke of marriage. Was it your intention to be married before you sail?”

  “No, sir,” Rodney answered. “I intend to return from this voyage rich. With my share of the treasure I shall buy an estate and it is then I need a wife to share it with me.”

  “By St. George! You are a very determined young man. You seem to have made up your mind exactly how your life shall be planned. Suppose you are killed?”

  “In which case, sir, I would rather not leave a widow.”

  Sir Harry chuckled.

  “That is what I have always thought myself – that I would rather not leave a widow, so instead I have been a widower twice. Phillida is the child of my first marriage. Her mother died a year after she was born, begetting another child. She was a lovely creature, but perhaps too young when I married her to know the duties of a wife. She was but sixteen when Phillida was born.

  “Indeed, sir?”

  “I married again the following year. I am not a man to live alone, and that I gather is your feeling, too?”

  “I think a man needs to be married after he has seen the world and sown his wild oats.”

  Sir Harry laughed – a great, rich laugh that seemed to echo round the room.

  “By King Hal, I’ll wager your wild oats were sown thickly! What were the women like in the Azores and in the Indies? Were they pretty? One day you must tell me about them.”

  Sir Harry rose from his chair, moving his bulky form with difficulty.

  “I will agree to your request, Master Hawkhurst. I will lend you two thousand pounds to buy your ship and provision her, and I’ll take a third of your prize money.”

  “How can I thank you, sir? ... and, my other request?”

  “You speak of Phillida? There I can also give you a favourable answer. You may be betrothed to her, my boy. Your god-father has been my friend for many years – we were boys together – and I have the greatest respect for him. He speaks highly of you and that, combined with my own instinct where you are concerned, is enough. You shall be betrothed and Phillida will await your return as anxiously as I shall do.”

  “I thank you, sir.” Rodney smiled, and there was a lightness and gladness in his heart such as he had never known before.

  Phillida was his, that fair, golden beauty would belong to him. She was like a lily, he thought, a lily whose soft gentleness he could protect from the roughness and coarseness of the world.

  Yet he would not be able to protect her from himself. He was afire for her, and his breath came quickly as he imagined making her his own. He would be kind to her – but, God’s mercy, how he would love her!

  It was her beauty that he worshipped – beauty for which he had been starved for so long. But he would make Phillida’s cold, pale perfection glow with a new loveliness. Beneath his hands and in his arms she would come alive. Her lips would be warm and her eyes heavy with passion.

  He would teach her to love him, to thrill to him, to desire him, Phillida! Phillida! He felt crazed with the need of her.

  Sir Harry’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  “There is time before supper for you to come and inspect my horses,” Sir Harry said. “I have a mare which I consider the finest mount in the whole of Hertfordshire. Would you like to see her?”

  “I would indeed, sir.”

  Sir Harry led the way from the house into the sunshine outside. As they walked through the gardens towards the stables, Rodney was aware that someone was watching him from the bushes. He turned his head quickly and saw a small face which was hastily withdrawn, and he thought in that fleeting second he recognised the red-haired girl he had kissed in the drive.

  He consi
dered asking Sir Harry who she was, and then decided against it. There might be some rule against the children on the estate playing in the pleasure grounds, in which case he might get the girl into trouble.

  For the moment he could feel again her lips, soft beneath his, and the springing youth of her slim immaturity. It had been like holding a fluttering bird within his arms. She had been still for an instant and then she had fought herself free and fled.

  Strange that the memory of her kiss should linger on his lips. He had kissed so many women, but this had been different – the lips of a maid, unawakened,, as yet, to love. He could swear that this was the first kiss she had ever known. There had been a freshness about it that he had never known before.

  He had a sudden urge to see the young woman again, to find out if he were mistaken and she was just a merry wanton. No – he was sure of one thing – she was pure, and still a virgin. He could feel the quiver of her mouth, bear the quick intake of her breath, smell the fragrance of lilac – the perfume of spring.

  Sir Harry was talking about his horses, his voice booming out monotonously so that there was no need for Rodney to answer him or even to follow what he was saying. As they reached the end of the path, he glanced back, but there was no one in sight and he wondered to himself if the girl with the red hair was still watching him.

  Actually, she was waiting till the two men reached the end of the path and then, as they disappeared in the direction of the stables, she turned to the boy lying on the smooth grass of the bowling green which lay hidden behind the lilac bushes.

  “They have gone now,” she said. “Do you think I can get into the house without being seen?”

  “You had best be careful. If m’lady Catherine sees you looking like that, there’ll be the devil to pay.”

  The boy spoke languidly, his eyes closed against the sun, his head supported on his crossed arms, while the girl stood hesitating.

  It was obvious that they were brother and sister; they had the same red hair, the same fine bones and clear-cut features; but there the resemblance ended, for what was lovely and feminine in the girl was weak and effeminate in the boy.

  “You might go ahead of me and see if there is anyone about,” the girl suggested.

  “I might,” he agreed, “but I am going to lie here and think about my new poem – you know visitors always bore me.”

  “What has he come for anyway?” she asked.

  She spoke almost fiercely, and then one small hand touched her mouth and her green eyes looking straight ahead of her, were suddenly wide and apprehensive, as if she were remembering and savouring again that kiss, the first she had ever known.

  The sun coming through the branches of the tree glinted on her hair and made it seem alive, a glory of riotous curls. It was red and yet it held in it the burning gold of the heart of a fire. She was not exactly beautiful but, although she did not know it yet, her face would torment and haunt a man so that he could not forget her.

  Suddenly she sat down on the grass beside her brother.

  “Francis,” she said in the imperative tone of one who wishes to be attended to, “I am restless. If only we could go away, if only we could get to London.”

  “You know Catherine won’t allow that,” he answered.

  “Catherine! Catherine! Everything revolves round Catherine.”

  “You are jealous of her,” he said. “She is not too unpleasant at times.”

  “You say that because you are a man. She is always nice to men. Heaven knows why Father does not see through the way she makes eyes and postures at them. Not that I care, but when I remember how gentle and dignified our mother was and I see Catherine sitting in her chair, lying in her bed and running her house, it makes me sick.”

  The girl’s voice broke suddenly. She put up her hands to her eyes.

  “Poor Lizbeth,” Francis commiserated. “Do you still miss Mother so much? “’Tis four years now since she died.”

  “Yes, four years, and Catherine has been with us for two of them,” Lizbeth answered in a bitter voice, then she took her fingers away from her eyes and wiped away the tears that hung on her long dark lashes.

  “It is no use crying, I know that,” she said. “What can’t be cured must be endured. Wasn’t it Nanna who used to say that when we were children? ’Tis true enough. One can fight and struggle for things which are obtainable, but it is no use doing any of those things when people are dead. Nothing we can do can bring them back.”

  “Oh, Lizbeth, you torture yourself,” Francis said. “You have always been the same. You feel things too much. Let life take its course. It is no use fighting Catherine and it is no use fighting Father. Not openly, anyway. Just take things as they come. That’s what I try to do.”

  He sighed as if he confessed his failure.

  “Yes, I know,” Lizbeth exclaimed impatiently, “but where does it get you? Mother always used to say you ought to have been a girl and I ought to have been a boy. That is why she asked me to look after you before she died. She didn’t ask you to look after me.”

  “She knew you could do it very well for yourself. I’m lazy, Lizbeth, and I hate rows. I do everything I can to avoid them. And at the moment I don’t want to do anything except lie in the sun and enjoy myself.”

  “Yes, dear Francis, you are lazy,” Lizbeth said fondly, “and if you were not, I dare say I should not be so energetic. ’Tis your fault that I have shot an arrow through our guest’s hat. If you had been practising your archery, as Father told you, instead of lying on the grass, I should not have put up your bow and been tempted by that bobbing red plume going down the drive.”

  She paused for a moment.

  “Do you think he will tell Father?”

  “If he does, he’s a babbling knave,” Francis replied, “but then you can never tell with these rough, savage men who sail the sea.”

  “A lot you know about them,” Lizbeth laughed scornfully. “Why don’t you take a ship and go out and plunder the Spanish Main? That is what I would do if I were a man!”

  “And a bloodthirsty sailor you would be,” Francis retorted. “Hadn’t you better be getting back to the house?”

  “Yes, I suppose I must,” Lizbeth said. “It means a scolding anyway. Catherine told me not to wash my hair and I washed it. She told me I was to stay in the store cupboard and put away her saffrons and cinnamon, and of course I did not do so, and she is certain to be furious.”

  “Well, don’t let her see you with your hair all over the place,” Francis continued. “Remember what a lecture she gave you last week for not looking ladylike.”

  “The foul fiend seize all ladies!” Lizbeth exclaimed. “I want to be a man and ride away from here. I want to sail with Drake and go to Court and fight in the Netherlands and kill the Spaniards.”

  “A delightful programme for a young lady of quality,” Francis teased.

  Lizbeth stamped her foot, but only for a moment, and then throwing herself on her knees beside him, she ruffled his hair.

  “And I hate you at times,” she said, “and yet I really love you. You are the nicest brother in the world when you are nice, but when you rile me I want to fight you.”

  “Keep that for our guest,” Francis answered. “If, as you say, you ruined his best hat, he has every reason to be annoyed with you.”

  “And yet he was not annoyed with me,” Lizbeth replied; “ . . . he kissed me!”

  She spoke the last words so low that Francis did not hear them.

  He had closed his eyes languidly and when he opened them again he was alone, and Lizbeth, creeping from bush to bush, was making her way towards the house.

  She reached it without being observed and ran upstairs to her own bedchamber. She opened the door expecting an empty room, but instead, her nurse was there, laying out a dress and muttering to herself as she did so. Nanna was old and her once rosy cheeks were wrinkled now like a shrivelled apple.

  “Oh, there you are, Mistress Mischief!” she exclaimed as Lizbeth
entered. “Where have you been, I should like to know? Her Ladyship was crying your name all over the house and exceedingly vexed she was when you could not be found. And a good thing for you she didn’t find you like that. What have you done to yourself?”

  “I ran out of the store cupboard, washed my hair and went outside. It was a lovely day. Why should I be kept indoors looking at ginger, cloves, raisins, almonds, spices and figs, and all the other dull things which Catherine keeps in the store cupboard?”

  “Her Ladyship’s a good housekeeper, I’ll say that for her,” Nanna replied.

  “Not as good as my mother,” Lizbeth said quickly.

  “Now, dearie, you know as well as I do that your sainted mother was ill for three years before she died, and there was a lot to be seen to in the house when her Ladyship came here. She’s got her faults, I’m not saying she hasn’t, but she’s house-proud and that’s a virtue in any woman, and well you know it.”

  “I hate her,” Lizbeth said.

  “Hush Hush!” Nanna looked over her shoulder as though she feared someone might be listening.

  “I hate her and she hates me,” Lizbeth cried.

  “Why you can’t be more like your half-sister I don’t know,” Nanna grumbled, unlacing Lizbeth’s dress as she spoke. “Now Mistress Phillida gets on happily with her Ladyship. Never a cross word between them.”

  “Oh, Phillida ! Phillida would get on with anyone,” Lizbeth said. “You know that as well as I do. Why, she lives in a world of her own. And she doesn’t care what happens to any of us. If the house fell down, I believe she would just walk quietly out and sit among the ruins. She doesn’t like anything, she doesn’t hate anything, she just exists. If I were like that, I would throw myself in the lake.”

  “’Tis a pity you are not a little more like it,” Nanna answered severely. “But there, you were always the same as a baby – screamed yourself into a fit if you didn’t get what you wanted the moment you wanted it. Many a time I have told your mother, ‘That child will take a lot of rearing, she will’, and sure enough, you were the difficult one. Master Francis was as placid and happy a baby as ever there was, Mistress Phillida as good as gold, and you a little limb of Satan himself.”