Look Listen and Love Read online

  But that was not to say that the really superlative fakes which Lord Eustace had substituted for the original pictures were easily obtainable.

  “If I destroy the fakes in some way it will be a long time before Lord Eustace can get some more done, get another invitation to stay in the Chateau, and take away the originals,” Tempera told herself.

  It was reaching the end of the season and she was certain of one thing – it would be at least a year before he could make another attempt to steal the pictures from the Duke’s collection.

  This was somehow reassuring, and she thought that after all the only important thing she had to do was to replace the originals in their frames.

  It was certainly a far less complicated operation than she had planned originally and when Lord Eustace discovered his loss there would be nothing he could do about it.

  “At least I will have saved three masterpieces for the future,” Tempera murmured and added beneath her breath, “and for the Duke!”

  It was the one thing she could do for him, whatever his feelings for her – the one way in which she could express her love, even though he would never know it.

  She lay down on her stepmother’s bed but found it impossible to sleep.

  Her brain kept going over and over what she had to do, and when she shut her eyes all she could see was the expression of astonishment on the Duke’s face being replaced by one of contempt.

  “I am not like that!” she longed to cry aloud into the darkness.

  But the control she had always kept over herself made her lie silent and suffering until many hours later she heard her stepmother’s voice coming up the stairs.

  She was rather slow in getting off the bed so that she did not hear what Lady Rothley was saying, although there was a lilt in her voice which was only there when she was feeling gay and excited.

  Tempera opened the door, and as she came into the room her stepmother put her arms round her and hugged her.

  “Oh, Tempera, Tempera!” she cried. “It is so wonderful and I am so happy! I am engaged! Congratulate me, dearest! I can hardly believe it is true!”

  “The Count has asked you to marry him?”

  “He has not asked me, he has told me that I have to because he cannot live without me!” Lady Rothley replied. “I am the luckiest, most fortunate woman in the whole world!”

  She flung her wrap down on the chair to stand staring at herself in the long mirror which ornamented the front of the wardrobe.

  “Is this really me?” she asked in a wondering voice. “Can it be true that I am in love, as I never thought it possible to be, with the most wonderful man in the world?”

  “Oh, Belle-mère, Belle-mère! I am so happy for you!” Tempera cried.

  Lady Rothley turned to hug her again.

  “You thought he would not ask me,” she said, “but he has! He wants me to be his wife, and we are leaving for Italy the day after tomorrow so that he can present me to his family.”

  “You will be married there?”

  “That is what he plans, and I am happy to leave everything in his hands. All I want to do is to please him!” Lady Rothley gave a deep sigh of contentment.

  “He is so masterful, so completely sure of what he wants and determined to have it. That is what I love about him.” She sat down at her dressing table as she went on, “He says that he fell in love with me the moment he saw me, and that he has spent all his life looking for someone as beautiful as me!”

  “It all sounds too wonderful!” Tempera said.

  “It is!” Lady Rothley agreed. “It is so lucky we came here, but how horrifying it would have been if I had accepted the Duke before I met Vincenzo.”

  Tempera did not reply and after a moment her Stepmother said,

  “You must not think, dearest, that I shall forget you because I am to be married. You must go back to England and then I will send for you and you will be able to meet Vincenzo as your father’s daughter.”

  “I would not wish to be an encumbrance upon you, Belle-mère,” Tempera said humbly.

  “You could never be that!” Lady Rothley replied with a smile. “I know that it is partially due to your making me look so beautiful that Vincenzo fell in love with me.”

  She gave another deep sigh.

  “Thank goodness we spent that money at Lucille’s before we came here. Supposing he had not noticed me?”

  “It was your face he looked at, not your clothes.”

  “That sounds all right in a story book,” Lady Rothley said, “but you know as well as I do that clothes are terribly important. If I had gone to the Casino in any old rag, I would not have created a sensation and so made Vincenzo jealous because so many men were paying attention to me.”

  “Papa was very fond of the Count,” Tempera said quietly, “and I think, Belle-mère, he would be pleased to know of your happiness.”

  “Perhaps he does know,” Lady Rothley answered, “and I am glad Vincenzo was a friend of dear Francis. I am lucky, very lucky, to have had two such wonderful men in my life.”

  Tempera bent and kissed her stepmother’s cheek. Then she helped her to undress and get into bed.

  “Call me early tomorrow morning,” Lady Rothley said as she turned out the lights, “I could not bear to miss a moment of the time when I might be with Vincenzo.”

  Tempera went to her own room.

  Now at last her stepmother was safe for the future and happier than she had ever known her.

  But as far as she herself was concerned there was no happy ending, no light at the end of her dark tunnel.

  She could not help thinking that if it were not for Lord Eustace, she might no longer be feeling guilty about the interest the Duke was taking in her – or had it only been in her paintings?

  There would be no reason to run away from him or be afraid that any further interest might damage her stepmother’s chances.

  She could have talked to him naturally as he talked to her, but all that was finished! He would never want to see her again and the sooner she left the Chateau the better.

  She realised that tomorrow she would have to plan very carefully if the Count was not to meet her before he and Belle-mère set off for Italy, and that she must think of an excuse for her stepmother as to why her maid would not travel with her.

  Perhaps if she packed everything ready, she might be able to slip away on an afternoon or evening train to London. Her whole being cried out at the thought of leaving the Duke behind, of going back to the loneliness of the house in Curzon Street with only old Agnes for company.

  And when her stepmother sent for her, what would be the point of her going to Italy and meeting new people, new men, or trying to find new interests when part of her – the part that mattered – would have been left behind with the Duke here in the South of France?

  She knew that spiritually she would never meet another man who could make her feel as the Duke had done.

  She knew that physically she would never meet another man who was as attractive or who made her heart leap at the sound of his voice.

  “The picture of myself which I shall present to the world in the future will always be a fake,” Tempera told herself whimsically. “The real me will be dead and no-one will ever resuscitate it.”

  She had left the door of her bedroom a little open and now, although it was round the corner, she could hear people and voices coming up the stairs.

  She realised that Sir William and Lady Barnard had returned and the Duke was with them, telling them what had happened to Lady Holcombe.

  “I am so sorry,” Lady Barnard was saying in her sweet voice, “what a terrible thing to happen! Poor Dottie! I would go and commiserate with her, but I expect she will be asleep.”

  “I am sure she will be,” the Duke answered, “and George retired over an hour ago.”

  “Then I must keep my condolences until the morning,” Lady Barnard said. “She missed such a delightful party, and so did you, Velde.”

  “It was too
late after the accident for me to start off again for Monte Carlo,” the Duke replied. “I will send His Serene Highness my apologies in the morning.”

  “It was a very glamorous party,” Lady Barnard said, “and everybody of any importance was there. Lady Rothley looked radiant!”

  “I am sure she will want to tell you the reason why in the morning,” the Duke replied.

  “Do you mean – ?” Lady Barnard was obviously curious.

  “Lady Rothley has made the Count very happy,” the Duke replied. “I have just been congratulating them.”

  “Oh, how delightful!” Lady Barnard exclaimed. “Did you hear that, William? Lady Rothley is engaged to that attractive Count Vincenzo Caravargio. They certainly had eyes for no-one else tonight.”

  “A good-looking woman!” Sir William remarked.

  “I expect you will be told all about it tomorrow,” the Duke said. “Goodnight, Lady Barnard, goodnight, Sir William.”

  Tempera heard the Barnards go into their room on the other side of Lady Rothley’s and close the door.

  Now, she thought, she had to wait for the three men to come to bed, then the way would be clear for her to go downstairs.

  She did not have to wait long before she heard the Duke and the Count.

  They were talking as they walked up the stairs side by side, and there was the sound of two doors shutting. But she realised that Lord Eustace had not been with them.

  It must have been half-an-hour later before she heard him come up the stairs alone, and she fancied, although she might have been mistaken, that his footsteps were heavy, as if he was either tired or had been drinking.

  Now she knew that with everyone back in the Chateau the night-footman in the hall would go to bed.

  She moved to the window and saw that the moon was shining silver over the valley behind the Chateau and the light was almost as clear as day, certainly as clear as it would be in the very early morning.

  Tempera took the pictures from the drawer in her dressing table and carried them to the window.

  She could see their beauty in the moonlight and thought as she had thought before that it would be impossible for anyone to copy adequately the ‘Madonna in the Church.’

  As always the spiritual quality of the painting seemed to stir her soul, and yet what she now felt was tinged with a sadness which only added to the misery and depression she already felt.

  Never again would she hold anything so exquisite in her hands, never again would she be able to think of this jewel without remembering the Duke.

  She had thought that the Christ-child blessed her, but instead the possession of it even for a few hours had brought her the greatest unhappiness she could ever experience.

  However, because she loved the Duke, she was glad that such a treasure would be returned to his keeping.

  “Take care of him,” she whispered to the Madonna in the picture, “watch over him, keep him free from harm and bring him happiness in his life.”

  It was the most unselfish prayer she could possibly make, yet it came from her heart, and she knew that even though she could not share it with him, because she loved the Duke she wanted him to be happy.

  Perhaps one day he would find love as her stepmother had.

  Perhaps one day he would know the ecstasy and the wonder of loving and being loved, which while he would never know that the maid-servant whom he despised would love him until the day she died.

  Tempera felt the tears come into her eyes, but fiercely she forced them away. Turning from the window, still carrying the three pictures in her hands, she went to the door to listen.

  There was only the quiet of utter silence, and moving stealthily, afraid that even through the thick carpet a floorboard might creak, she moved along the passage and holding onto the banister began to descend the stairs.

  The light was very faint in the Hall because although the windows were long and high the curtains which covered them were heavy so that the moonlight could not percolate through them.

  In the Sitting Room the curtains were of silk, and from the windows which covered almost the whole side of the room there was a silver glow.

  Tempera moved quickly into the Duke’s room.

  She thought as she entered that the atmosphere was redolent of him and his personality.

  It seemed to strike her as it had never done before and she stood for a moment, feeling that he had impressed himself so vividly upon the room that it was almost as if he was there waiting for her.

  Then she told herself sharply that there was no time to be lost.

  She went to the window and very slowly, so that they made no sound, she drew back the curtains to let in the moonlight.

  It poured in, in a silver flood, touching the pictures on the walls with a magic light, and glimmering on the inkpot on the desk against which she had propped her painting.

  One ray seemed to spotlight the picture of the angel from Leonardo da Vinci’s masterpiece.

  Tense though she was, Tempera could not help wondering whether just sometimes, when the Duke looked up from his desk and his eyes alighted on the angel opposite him, he would think of her.

  There was no reason to believe that he had ever connected her in any way with the portrait, and yet she knew as her father had seen, that the shape of her face was the same as that of the angel, her eyes had the same slant, and her lips when she smiled the same curve.

  ‘If it does remind him of me,’ she thought unhappily, ‘he will either dismiss the thought from his mind or perhaps even dispose of the picture. To him I am not an angel but a fallen woman! And there will be no-one to tell him that he is wrong.’

  She put the three pictures down on the Duke’s desk and went to the wall to lift down the frame which contained the fake ‘Madonna in the Church’.

  By the light of the moon it was easy to see exactly how the canvas fitted into the frame, and Lord Eustace had replaced the nails in the same position as he must have found them.

  It was therefore not hard to pull them out, but Tempera had to lay the picture face downwards on the desk to do so. Only one nail resisted the pressure of her fingers so that she was obliged to use a gold paper-knife which lay beside the Duke’s blotter.

  It was easy then to lift out the fake picture and replace the original.

  She pressed the nails back into place and knew they would have held more effectively if she had been able to tap them into place but that would make a noise.

  So she merely used the strength of her thumb and fingers, hoping that it would hold the canvas at least until Lord Eustace had left the Villa.

  When she had finished as best she could, she picked up the picture and carried it from the desk to the wall.

  Just for one moment she stared down at it in the moonlight, feeling once again that it spoke to her as it had before.

  The sunlight shining through the Gothic windows sparkled on the precious stones on the Madonna’s crown and seemed to hold a special message of hope, but for her Tempera knew it was only an illusion.

  There could be no hope for her, no light in her darkness, and the picture would in the future speak only to the Duke.

  “Take care of him,” she prayed again.

  As she reached out to place the picture back on the wall she heard the door at the further end of the room open and turned her head.

  Someone entered and for a moment, because the moonlight did not, percolate so far, she could not see who it was. Then as a man advanced towards her she saw with a frightened leap of her heart that it was Lord Eustace.

  “So you are the one who has been interfering!” he said.

  There was a sharpness and venom in his voice that made her instinctively take a step backwards, still holding the picture in her hands.

  “Who are you and what the devil are you doing here in this house?” he asked.

  He seemed almost to snarl the words at her, and now to her surprise Tempera found her voice and an anger which for the moment overcame her fear.
<
br />   “Did you really believe that your fakes would be convincing to anyone who understands Art?” she enquired.

  “How did you know they were fakes?”

  “I used my eyes,” Tempera replied, “but I did not believe that any man of your rank would behave in such a despicable and criminal manner.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  Lord Eustace had come near to Tempera and was standing looking down at her, but strangely enough she was not so afraid of him as she had been when he first appeared.

  “I have put one picture back where it belongs,” she said, “and now I intend to replace the others. You can take your fakes and hide them away in your hat box!”

  “Do you really think I will allow you to do this?” Lord Eustace asked.

  He was still wearing the evening clothes in which he had gone out to dinner. She thought that for some reason he must have been concerned about the pictures and had wanted to examine them before going to bed, and thus had discovered they were missing.

  “How can you stop me?” she asked, replying to his question. “If you make a scene over my behaviour, you will have to explain your own.”

  “That is true,” Lord Eustace said. “You have put me in a very uncomfortable position, have you not – you bogus lady’s maid!”

  “I hope I have taught you a lesson,” Tempera retorted, “that your fakes are not good enough to deceive a connoisseur of paintings.”

  She looked up into Lord Eustace’s face as she spoke and saw there a strange expression which was hard to describe. She was certain it was not entirely one of frustration at being caught out, and it was certainly not embarrassment. He was in fact looking at her calculatingly, and she thought that he intended to bribe her not to reveal what had occurred.

  Unexpectedly he walked to the window and flung it open. It was hot in the room, and now the cool night air seemed to Tempera to relieve not only the heat but also her tension.

  “I will change the other two pictures over now,” she said to Lord Eustace, “and because I do not wish to be involved in this unpleasant scheme, I will say nothing to your host of your behaviour – I will leave it to your conscience.”