A Very Special Love Page 2

  He knew that today he was supposed to have luncheon with the Prince of Wales and tonight there was a dinner party for a ball where he would meet his special friends and many of the beauties who were captivating the Social world at the moment.

  He had the feeling that every beautiful woman would look to him like Yasmin and he would be suspicious that beneath the surface there were lurking lies, deceptions and danger.

  ‘I will go to the country,’ the Marquis decided firmly.

  He rose from the breakfast table and walked into his study, which was an attractive room overlooking a small garden at the back of the house.

  He knew as he did so that the butler would notify his secretary where he was and his secretary would bring his letters to him there.

  Mr. Barrett was an elderly man, who had been with his father during the last years of his life and his staying on was the chief reason that the Marquis’s estates were run so well.

  His houses were kept stocked with excellent staff and his engagements carefully detailed so that none was ever forgotten.

  The Marquis had already seated himself at his flat-topped Georgian writing desk when Mr. Barrett came into the room.

  “Good morning, my Lord,” he said respectfully. “I am afraid I have rather more letters today than usual.”

  As he spoke, he placed two piles down on the desk, one the Marquis knew were private letters that Mr. Barrett was too discerning to open.

  The other and larger pile was of invitations and appeals from charities, which ran into an astronomical number during the year.

  “Is there anything pressing here, Barrett?” the Marquis asked.

  “No more than usual, my Lord, except that there is a Priest here who wishes to see you.”

  “A Priest?” the Marquis asked. “Begging, I suppose! Surely you can deal with him?”

  “He has called, my Lord, regarding Miss Zia Langley.”

  The Marquis stared at him as for a moment as he could not place the name.

  Then he asked,

  “Do you mean Colonel Langley’s daughter?”

  “Yes, my Lord. You will remember that she is your Lordship’s Ward.”

  “Good Heavens!” the Marquis exclaimed. “I had forgotten all about her! Now I think of it, the girl was being brought up by one of her relatives.”

  “That is correct, my Lord, I knew that I could rely on your memory,” Mr. Barrett said admiringly. “When Colonel Langley was killed, his sister-in-law, Lady Langley, had the young lady to live with her and sent her to a good school.”

  “And what has happened since? Why am I involved?” the Marquis asked.

  “I think your Lordship must have forgotten, although I did tell you six months ago, that Lady Langley had died.”

  The Marquis could not remember this, but he did not interrupt and Mr. Barrett went on,

  “The notice of it was in the newspapers because Lady Langley left her niece her fortune, which was a quite large one.”

  The Marquis thought in that case he would not be expected to support his Ward whom he had never seen.

  The background to all this was that Colonel Terence Langley had been his Commanding Officer when he was in the Household Brigade.

  He was a charming man and a magnificent rider and he had befriended the Marquis as soon as he joined the Regiment. Because they were both absorbedly interested in horses, they had spent a good deal of time together apart from their Regimental duties.

  Colonel Langley had stayed at Oke Castle and the Marquis had stayed in the Colonel’s house in the country when he was arranging a Point-to-Point or a Steeplechase.

  There had been one occasion, he now recalled, when there was a race on a particularly dangerous course and before they set out the Colonel had said,

  “I suggest that all you young men, if you have anything to leave, should make a will just in case anything nasty happens to you.”

  This advice was a tradition and they had all laughed. Some of them had made ridiculous wills, which they read out aloud.

  When they had finished, somebody had asked the Colonel somewhat impertinently,

  “What about you, sir? Have you not made your will?”

  “Not for a long time,” the Colonel admitted.

  “Then come on,” everybody shouted, “you cannot give orders and not do what is right yourself!”

  Good-humouredly and, the Marquis thought later, because they had all had a great deal to drink, the Colonel had written a will in which he distributed his worldly goods.

  He had left his house to his wife, his horses to his brother, his polo ponies to an Officer of the Regiment and his pigs and cows to various friends.

  Only when he had finished, after bequeathing a number of other items, did the Marquis ask,

  “What about your daughter? We have never been allowed to see her, but I believe you have one.”

  “I am not having all you young bloods turning her head,” the Colonel answered. “But now you mention it, Rayburn, I will leave her to you. You are the richest of this bunch and at least, if I am not here, you can give her a ball and make her the belle of the Season.”

  The others had laughed uproariously at this.

  But the Marquis, who had not then come into his title, had replied that, if the Colonel should die that day, the only ball he would be able to pay for would be a football!

  Everybody thought this very funny and they were cracking jokes as they mounted their horses for the Steeplechase in which fortunately nobody was killed.

  It was just over three years later that Colonel Langley was involved in a fatal carriage accident.

  After his death it was discovered he had never made a later will than the one that he had made before that Steeplechase.

  His wife was killed with him and the Marquis, as he was now, then found himself the Guardian of the Colonel’s daughter.

  He had, however, been staying abroad with friends when the Colonel and his wife were buried and Mr. Barrett had duly sent a wreath with the correct message to the funeral.

  He had waited until the Marquis returned before he told him of what had occurred.

  “Good God!” the Marquis had exclaimed. “What am I to do with a child on my hands? How old is she, by the way?”

  “She is fifteen, my Lord, and there is no necessity for you to worry about her. In your absence I was in touch with her aunt, Lady Langley, the Colonel’s older sister. She is having Miss Zia to live with her and will arrange for her education.”

  The Marquis had given a sigh of relief.

  “Thank you, Barrett, I might have known I could rely on you.”

  “Lady Langley is very well off, my Lord, so, although the Colonel was unable to leave his daughter very much money, she will have everything she could possibly need.”

  The Marquis had never thought about her again.

  Now he asked,

  “Why has this Priest come to see me?”

  “He has brought with him a letter from Miss Zia Langley,” Mr. Barrett replied, “and here it is.”

  He put the letter in front of the Marquis and, because there was something a little odd about the way he spoke, the Marquis remarked,

  “I presume you have already read it. What does it say?”

  “Miss Langley asks your permission to become a nun!”

  “A Nun?” the Marquis exclaimed.

  He picked up the letter as he spoke and read it.

  “Dear Guardian,

  I wish to take the veil in the Convent of the Holy Thorn and I am told that I have to ask your permission to do so.

  I should be grateful if you would allow this for I know that here I shall be able to devote myself to the worship of God.

  I remain,

  Yours respectfully,

  Zia Langley.”

  The Marquis read the letter and then he said,

  “This seems somewhat extraordinary! How old is the girl now?”

  “The Priest says that she is just eighteen.”

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p; “And you say that she has recently inherited a large fortune from her aunt?”

  “Yes, my Lord.”

  The Marquis looked down again at the letter.

  Then he muttered,

  “I think I had better see this Priest.”

  “I thought that was what your Lordship would wish,” Mr. Barrett said.

  “What did you think of him?” the Marquis enquired.

  Mr. Barrett hesitated.

  “I may be mistaken, but I have a feeling that he is not a particularly Holy man. Of course your Lordship may think differently.”

  “Have you any reason apart from your instinct for thinking this?” the Marquis asked.

  “He was here before I was down this morning,” Mr. Barrett answered, “and, when the servants offered him a cup of coffee, he asked for a brandy! He explained that he had had a long journey from Cornwall, but it seemed odd for a Priest.”

  “I agree with you,” the Marquis said briefly. “Send him in.”

  He knew as he waited by his desk that Mr. Barrett had a particularly shrewd instinct and seldom made a mistake where the staff in his houses were concerned.

  Only a few moments elapsed before the butler opened the door to announce,

  “Father Proteus, my Lord.”

  A man came into the room wearing a cassock.

  He looked over forty with just a touch of grey at his temples.

  He was a fairly large man, well-built and certainly, the Marquis thought, he did not look as if he denied himself in any way.

  He wore a large decorative crucifix on his chest and he moved with a deliberately slow dignity across the room to where the Marquis was sitting.

  The Marquis held out his hand saying,

  “Good morning, Father, I understand that you wish to see me.

  “God bless you, my son,” the Priest said and sat down opposite the desk in the chair that the Marquis indicated.

  “This is a very great pleasure for me, your Lordship,” he began. “I have heard about your success on the Racecourse and you must have been very gratified at winning so many of the Classics.”

  “I am indeed,” the Marquis answered. “You are interested in racing?”

  “I try in a very limited way to be aware of what goes on in the world outside,” the Priest replied, “and, of course, Zia Langley has spoken of what a fine horseman her father was.”

  “He was indeed,” the Marquis agreed. “It is very sad that he should die when he was a comparatively young man.”

  “Very sad indeed,” the Priest said, “but he is undoubtedly in Heaven and all he will worry about is that his daughter should be looked after and protected.”

  “Protected from what?” the Marquis asked bluntly.

  “The wiles and wickedness of this dreadful world. Frankly, my Lord, Zia wishes to take the veil and I can promise you that we will look after her and keep her happy until she joins her father in Heaven.”

  “And you need my approval for this?” the Marquis asked.

  It seemed to him that there was a slight change of tone in the Priest’s voice as he said,

  “If your Lordship would just sign these papers, then I will trouble you no further.”

  As the Priest spoke, he put two papers down on the table, one, the Marquis saw, gave his permission as Guardian for Zia Langley to take the veil.

  The other paper was a form that instructed a Bank to transfer money they held in her name to the Convent of the Holy Thorn.

  The Marquis stared at the second paper.

  Then he asked Father Proteus,

  “Is this transference of money necessary?”

  “Those who dedicate themselves to God give up their personal possessions,” the Priest pointed out.

  “I know that this, where Miss Langley is concerned, will be quite a considerable sum of money,” the Marquis remarked.

  “It does not matter to us, when a woman wishes to take the veil, if there is very little or a great deal,” the Priest responded pompously. “Everything is dedicated to helping the poor and needy and there are, as your Lordship well knows, a great many of those at this present time.”

  “The poor and needy who will benefit are in Cornwall?” the Marquis asked him.

  He had a distinct feeling that the Priest was somewhat surprised by the question, but he answered,

  “There are some naturally within our jurisdiction, but we also contribute to the work of our Brothers and Sisters in London and in other great towns where there is suffering and in many cases starvation.”

  “I suppose I should have asked you this question before,” the Marquis said, “but I gather that yours is a Roman Catholic Convent, while Colonel Langley was, as I do know for a fact, a Protestant.”

  “No, my Lord, you are mistaken,” the Priest said. “We are a Teaching Convent for pupils who come to us for tuition not only in the Scriptures but in other subjects as well.”

  He paused and then went on,

  “I persuaded Lady Langley to send Zia to us because we have the best teachers in music and art and she is very interested in both. She came first to us as a day girl.”

  His voiced deepened dramatically as he continued,

  “When her Ladyship went to God, she voluntarily entered the Convent as a boarder and she has been so happy with us that she has no wish ever to leave us.”

  “It sounds very interesting,” the Marquis said, “and, of course, it is something that I would like to see for myself and also to make the acquaintance of my Ward.”

  Watching the Priest closely, the Marquis was sure that he stiffened before he replied,

  “That is quite unnecessary, my Lord, and I would not wish to impose on your Lordship’s good nature by asking you to make such a long journey.”

  He stopped to cough before he continued.

  “As Zia says in her letter, she is anxious to take the veil immediately and we shall have a special Service within a week or so when she can do so.”

  He learnt forward to say even more insistently,

  “All your Lordship has to do is to sign these two papers and I will not trouble you any further.”

  “It is really no trouble,” the Marquis said lightly. “I was intending in any case to leave London and instead of going to my Castle, as I had decided to do, I will come to Cornwall. I see from the address that your Convent is not far from Falmouth.”

  The Priest was silent and before he could speak the Marquis went on,

  “I will travel in my yacht and I should be able to call on you the day after tomorrow. Shall we say at twelve o’clock?”

  “This is all really quite unnecessary, my Lord,” the Priest protested. “I am quite sure that your Lordship will find such a long journey irksome just to see a young girl who will be at her prayers.”

  “Then I will wait until she has finished them!” the Marquis countered firmly.

  He rose to his feet as he spoke and very reluctantly the Priest rose too.

  “I am sure,” the Marquis said genially, “you would, Father, like some refreshment before you leave. Perhaps a light meal? It is, I know, difficult to find good food on the trains.”

  He held out his hand as he spoke.

  The Priest hesitated and then reluctantly, almost as if he was forced to do so, he shook the Marquis’s hand.

  “I wish I could persuade your Lordship not to waste your time,” he then commented.

  “I cannot believe it will be a waste of time,” the Marquis asserted, “and I think you will understand that I would not wish to be remiss in anything that might concern the Colonel’s daughter.”

  There was nothing that the Priest could then do but move towards the door and, as the Marquis rang the bell by his side, the butler opened it.

  “Goodbye, Father. I will see you on Thursday,” the Marquis called after him.

  If the Priest murmured anything in reply, he did not hear it.

  He waited until a few minutes later Mr. Barrett, as if he knew that he would be required, came
back into the room.

  “You were quite right, Barrett,” the Marquis said, “there is something wrong here.”

  He held out the two papers that the Priest had given to him as he spoke.

  Mr. Barrett read them and said,

  “I think, my Lord, that I should get in touch with the Head Office of this Bank and make enquiries as to exactly how much is deposited there in Miss Langley’s name.”

  “That is just what I expected you to say and I am suspicious, very suspicious, Barrett, about the whole set-up. Find out as well who the Convent of the Holy Thorn is affiliated to.”

  He paused and then continued,

  “I doubt if either the Archbishop of Canterbury or the Cardinal of Westminster Cathedral have any connections with it.”

  “I will find out everything I can,” Mr. Barrett affirmed. “In fact, my Lord, I have already heard somewhat strange stories about this particular place.”

  “You have?” the Marquis asked. “You did not mention anything before.”

  “I did not wish you to be prejudiced before you had seen the Priest,” Mr. Barrett said, “and I have really nothing specific to relate except that one of my relations lives in a village not far from the Convent.”

  “This might be useful. What does he say about it, Barrett?”

  “I saw him about a year ago and I just happened to mention Colonel Langley, whom he admired as he had sold him several horses for the Regiment.”

  “Go on,” the Marquis prompted him.

  “He had met the Colonel’s daughter, Zia, and he also knew that her aunt, Lady Langley, who sent her to the Convent as a day girl.”

  “That is what the Priest told me,” the Marquis remarked.

  “My relative said that he thought it was a strange set-up. There are several nuns, most of whom have been there a long time, and the school which is more or less separate from the Convent.”

  The Marquis was listening intently as Mr. Barrett went on,

  “They managed to collect a number of elderly teachers who had settled in that part of Cornwall.”

  Mr. Barrett paused and then resumed,

  “This naturally resulted, my Lord, in quite a number of the County families sending their daughters there for special lessons, music in particular and art for another.”