The Goddess and the Gaiety Girl Page 4

  “Suppose they – turn me out of the house?” Larentia asked.

  “They are not likely to do that when you can prove that you are the Duke’s wife.”

  “Suppose they – tear up the Marriage – Certificate?”

  “The Marriage will be recorded in the Church in which it took place,” Harry said, “but I do not think the Dowager Marchioness is likely to behave in such an uncontrolled fashion. No, what she will do, Miss Braintree, is to pay up.”

  “Will that mean I will be given quite a large sum of money?”

  “A very large sum! “ Harry said firmly, “for the simple reason that you are not going to ask for the small annual allowance which the Duke paid his wife, but for a substantial capital payment in return for which you will promise to disappear out of their lives forever.”

  “All we really want is enough for the two operations,” Larentia said quickly.

  “Katie wants a great deal more than that,” Harry replied. “Can you imagine what her position has been like, knowing that because she was married to the Duke when she was too young to know what she was doing, she could never marry anybody else?”

  Harry made his voice sound very confidential as he said,

  “I do not mind telling you that because she is so beautiful, like yourself, she has had some marvellous offers from men who have watched her dance and afterwards fallen in love with her.”

  He sighed and asked,

  “But what could she do but refuse them without an explanation, leaving them bewildered, and in many cases bitter, because they could not understand why she would not make them happy?”

  “I can see it is a very unfortunate predicament to be – in.”

  “Now, on top of everything else, when she has a golden future in front of her on the stage, she has been stricken down in a way which would make you weep to see her.”

  There was a throb in Harry’s voice, which was very moving.

  “I am – sorry – very – very – sorry.”

  “Just as Katie was sorry for you when she heard that your father must die unless we save them both.”

  “Are you quite – certain that I shall not – let you down?” Larentia asked.

  “Having met you, Miss Braintree,” Harry replied, “I can see that you are not only beautiful, but as intelligent as your father.”

  “That is not true!” she protested. “What you – ask, is a very – frightening thing to do. Besides, what – explanation will I make to Papa?”

  “I have been thinking about that,” Harry replied, “and what I have to do first, is to borrow the money for your father’s and Katie’s operation because, as I expect Dr. Medwin has told you, the sooner it is performed, the greater the chance of it’s being successful.”

  “Do you mean there is a chance that Papa would be able to go to Mr. Sheldon Curtis?” Larentia said, a sudden lightness in her voice.

  “As soon as I can get the money. Listen, if you agree to do what I ask, I will bring one person to see you, Isaac Levy. He is not a nice creature, but he is rich, and if he agrees to lend you the money until we get it from the Duke’s family, you can go ahead. We will, of course, have to pay him back.”

  “Of course,” Larentia agreed.

  Then she looked at him and a worried look crept across her brow,

  “I feel, Mr. Carrington, that you are talking about a money lender.”

  “I said you were intelligent!”

  “Papa has always told me such men are dangerous and demand a very high rate of interest.”

  “There is no alternative way to get the money.” he said firmly, “and if the operations are successful, does it matter?”

  “No – I suppose not,” Larentia agreed cautiously. “How much should I ask for?”

  “Five thousand,” Harry realised as he spoke, that he had taken Larentia’s breath away.

  “Five – thousand – pounds?” she stammered. “It would be – impossible for me to ask for – so much.”

  Harry smiled.

  “The Duke of Tregaron doubtless spends more than that on his race-horses! He has several large estates and also owns priceless works of art. I am quite certain that the family will be only too ready to pay off an unknown Duchess to prevent a scandal.”

  There was a hard note in Harry’s voice.

  “Of course,” he added, “imagine if the Duke had acknowledged Katie as his wife. What would she be entitled to then when he dies?”

  “I understand – ” Larentia said in a small voice.

  “And,” Harry went on, “Once we have paid back the money we have borrowed, we are entitled to a share of what is left. It will help pay for both your father’s and Miss King’s recuperation.”

  “Are you quite certain that Miss King will not mind my pretending to be her?” Larentia asked.

  “I can assure you that Katie King will be extremely grateful to you for helping to save her life, as will your father.”

  Harry smiled.

  “I promise you that your script will be well written. I will go over it with you in great detail so that you can ask me questions about anything of which you are uncertain. All you have to do is to have confidence in yourself, Miss Braintree. That is important for any actress, whatever part she undertakes.”

  “Then – I will try,” Larentia said humbly, “but I am very – nervous – and I am sure I will make many mistakes.”

  “Not as many as Katie King would do in the same position. Remember that your background is very different from hers.”

  He saw the question in Larentia’s eyes and said,

  “I will tell you everything about her and her struggle to get into the Gaiety, but what I have to do now is to arrange to borrow the money and hand it over to Dr. Medwin, so that he can get both your father and Katie to the surgeon as quickly as possible.”

  “That is all that matters,” Larentia agreed, “because I can see Papa – deteriorating a little every day.”

  “Just like Katie,” Harry said, almost under his breath.

  He rose to his feet and held out his hand.

  “Do not look so worried, Miss Braintree,” he said. “I know you are going to be magnificent, and when you are thinking not of yourself but of the people we both love, then you will find it far easier than it seems now.”

  “I hope so,” Larentia said simply.

  But when she put her hand in his, Harry was aware that she was trembling.

  *

  Dinner in the Comte de Roques palatial house in the Champs Elysees had been delectable, and the conversation had been stimulating and extremely amusing.

  Justin Garon had enjoyed himself more, he thought, than he had done for a long time.

  He had always found the wit and quick repartee of the French different from the somewhat ponderous conversation that took place at English dinner parties.

  There was, moreover, a diversion this evening in that the Comtesse de Roques was making it very clear that she was prepared to offer him a very different amusement from what was taking place round her husband’s dinner table.

  She was very attractive with a joie de vivre which was characteristic of the French, and Justin Garon had been aware on the last two occasions they had met that she had singled him out as a recipient of her very exceptional favours.

  Although he was a friend of her husband’s, he realised that he would not be betraying the Comte in any way, if he became his wife’s lover.

  All Paris knew that the Comte was spending his time and his money on the alluring Madame Mustard, who was in the forefront of the famous demi-mondaines, whose extravagances had shocked Europe.

  In what was known as the ‘Second Empire’, high society paraded their liaisons.

  The Emperor made no secret of his love affairs, and his cousin Prince Napoleon flaunted his mistresses for all to see.

  Madame Mustard owed her vast wealth to her infatuated lover, the King of the Netherlands.

  His Majesty, however, occasionally had to return to ru
le over his own country, and the Comte de Roques took his place in adding to Madame’s enormous fortune, providing her with horses, carriages and jewellery which already exceeded that owned by any other lady of la vie galante.

  Justin Garon was seated on the Comtesse’s right and under the noise of the general conversation, which being on the subject of politics made everyone’s voices rise a little higher than usual, she said,

  “Will you dine with me tomorrow night?”

  “Can you tolerate my company again so soon?” Justin Garon asked.

  He knew the answer before he asked the question and there was a decided expression of amusement in his eyes and a twist to his lips.

  The Comtesse was extremely alluring, but like most Englishmen he preferred to do his own hunting.

  “Jacques will be away,” the Comtesse answered, “and I thought we might have a tête-à-tête.”

  There was no doubt from the look she gave him what this entailed, but as Justin wondered what he should reply, the Comte asked his opinion on some argument which was dividing the diners, and the moment of intimacy was lost.

  Later that evening the Comte said to his friend,

  “There is something I want to show you, Justin – something I know you admire but which you will see here in this house for the last time.”

  For a moment Justin Garon did not understand what he was talking about. Then as they walked towards one of the salons they were not using that evening he knew the Comte was taking him to look at a picture that had always been his favourite in all de Roques’ collection.

  In fact, he never came to Paris without asking if he could look at it.

  He was not mistaken.

  They walked into the empty salon to find the newly installed gas lamps lit and shining on a picture called ‘Le Bain de Diane’ by Francis Boucher.

  It was a picture that thrilled Justin Garon anew every time he looked at it.

  The Goddess Diana, with her exquisite, classical little nose in profile, was seated naked on a background of blue silk – the colour which the painter had made peculiarly his own.

  It threw into prominence the exquisite tones of her flesh and most of all the wonder of her red-gold hair.

  The whole picture with Diana’s attendant crouching beside her was so perfect in every particular, such a superb portrait of ideal beauty, that Justin Garon stood in front of it feeling as if Diana herself reached out and gave him something personal which he took to his very heart. Only after he had looked at the picture for some minutes did he ask,

  “Did you say I will not see it here again?”

  “I have sold it,” the Comte replied.

  “How can you possibly do that?”

  “Le Musee du Louvre has offered me a good price, and I need the money.”

  For one moment Justin Garon felt like telling his friend that he was a damned fool. How could he sell something so priceless, simply in order to squander the money he obtained for it on a woman who extorted money from her lovers as a tribute to her own ego?

  He had a strange feeling that he wanted to say that Boucher’s Diana could never be sold for money, but only for love.

  Then he thought his friend Jacques would not understand.

  They both stood in silence, almost as if they were at a shrine, looking at Diana, at the crescent on her forehead, and the curves of her body that had not yet come to full maturity.

  “I shall miss it,” the Comte said with a little sigh.

  “And so shall I,” Justin Garon replied.

  He felt that Diana would never look the same against the impersonal background of a Museum. Her loveliness needed a home, somewhere more intimate, where the atmosphere was fitting for her softness and her femininity.

  Then Justin told himself he was being ridiculous – thinking of Diana as if she was a human being instead of just a mythical figure, painted by a man who had a vision of beauty unsurpassed by any other artist who portrayed women.

  He walked out of the salon and, as he did so, he told himself it would be impossible for him to make love to the Comtesse in a house where the woman who embodied all his dreams was in another room.

  It was difficult to think how he could explain that it would be impossible for him to accept the invitation for the tête-à-tête dinner for tomorrow night, or any other night for that matter.

  Then as they reached the hall and were proceeding towards the salon where the rest of the guests were assembled, a servant came to Justin Garon’s side.

  “Pardon, Monsieur, but there is somebody here to see you. He asked to speak to you, Monsieur, in the antechamber.”

  The servant opened a door and as Justin walked in, he saw a man he recognised and immediately knew why he had come.

  *

  Starting off on what she knew was a long journey Larentia felt more frightened than she had ever been in her whole life.

  One part of her mind was singing with happiness because yesterday afternoon she had taken her father to Mr. Sheldon Curtis’s Nursing Home in North London.

  He had been given a small room, and the nurse who was to look after him was an elderly woman with a kind face. The moment Larentia met Mr. Sheldon Curtis she knew that she could trust him.

  When she said goodbye to her father Mr. Curtis had asked her to speak with him in his private office.

  “You are not to worry, Miss Braintree,” he said. “Dr. Medwin has told me all about your father and I have no reason to doubt that in three or four weeks I will send him back to you with every prospect of his living for another twenty to thirty years and doing a great deal more of his splendid work.”

  “You have heard of Papa?” Larentia asked.

  “I cannot pretend that I have read many of his books,” Mr. Curtis answered, “but I am aware in what estimation he is held by those who are interested in mediaeval history.”

  “I hope you will tell Papa so,” Larentia said. “He sometimes grows despondent and feels that all his work is ignored.”

  “It will never be that,” Mr. Curtis replied. “And I will do my best to convince him of his importance as soon as he is well enough to listen.”

  He would have said goodbye but Larentia said,

  “There is something I want to ask you.”

  Mr. Curtis waited.

  “I have to go away – for a few days – perhaps it will be – more. Can you make some excuse so that Papa does not – worry – or even feel curious as to why I am not – at his bed-side?”

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Curtis said. “It will in fact be quite easy for me to say I have kept you away because you have a cold. I never allow my patients to come in contact with any sort of infection.”

  “Thank you very much,” Larentia said. “I will return as soon as it is possible.”

  “I am sure you will, Miss Braintree, and now try not to worry. Have faith in me and in your father’s will to live.”

  “I will do that,” she answered.

  She gave Mr. Curtis a brave little smile and he thought he had never seen a more beautiful girl or one who behaved so admirably in a manner that commanded his approval.

  He disliked relatives who wept and sobbed and, in consequence, upset his patients who had to undergo operations.

  Before she had gone to the Nursing Home Larentia had asked Harry Carrington if she could speak to Katie King.

  “I think it would be a mistake,” he said, “and to tell you the truth, Miss Braintree, I have not yet told Katie that you intend to impersonate her and try to obtain the money we need so desperately. I thought it might upset her.”

  “I understand,” Larentia said, “but perhaps when it is all over I shall have the pleasure of meeting Miss King and telling her how difficult I found it to play a part that she could have done so much better.”

  Harry Carrington did not tell Larentia that Katie had said before he had even thought of it.

  “Better not let the Braintree girl meet me.”

  “Why not?” Harry had enquired.

/>   “I’m not a fool, Harry,” Katie answered. “You tell me she’s a lady, so all she’s got to be is herself. If she’s trying to act common, she’ll make a mess of it. You know that as well as I do.”

  “You’re very wise, my Katie,” Harry said, and kissed the top of her small nose.

  It was Katie who had helped him compose the letter in which the Duke was supposed to have said how much he wanted a son and what he would do for the woman who gave him one.

  “No! He didn’t talk like that, Harry,” Katie said a dozen times. “Ever so smarmy he was when he thought he could get anything out of it, but underneath he was as hard as nails. He was a two-headed eagle, and don’t you forget it!”

  “We have to make the letter sound convincing,” Harry said. “And no one could fault the hand-writing. Thank God you kept all those cards!”

  “I only hope Bodger’s as good as you crack him up to be.”

  “He’s the best forger outside Wormwood Scrubs,” Harry replied, “and I swear this Marriage Certificate will pass anywhere.”

  “Did you get the wedding recorded in the Church?”

  “Of course I did! “ Harry answered. “And where do you think we chose to have His Grace handcuffed in Holy Matrimony?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  “Southwark Cathedral!”

  Katie laughed.

  “Nothing but the best! “

  “That’s what I thought the Duke would want, and the Bishop has been dead for three years, so there’s no way of knowing whether he did or didn’t marry you quietly without anybody else knowing about it!”

  “How did you get into the Cathedral and find the register?”

  “Bodger broke into the vestry and found it where we thought it would be. We filled in the names and – Bob’s your uncle! Who’s likely to query it?”

  “No one, I hope,” Katie said quickly.

  She was very critical, but she had to admit that the letter supposedly written by the Duke sounded very much like him, and his signature, which had been copied from the cards that he had sent her with the bouquets of flowers which had been the envy of all the girls in the dressing room, was absolutely identical.

  “It will convince Isaac Levy, and he will pay up,” Harry said.