Call of the Heart Read online

  When Sir John was brought home dying after his accident it was only natural that Lalitha should turn to the older woman for help.

  “I’ll look after him, dear. Don’t you worry,” she had said.

  Lalitha, white-faced and incoherent with tears, had been content to let her manage things her way.

  Afterwards Lalitha used to think that she should have realised what was happening.

  But Mrs. Clements, soft-voiced, sympathetic, and compassionate, would have deceived a far more astute and worldly person than sixteen-year-old Lalitha.

  She moved into the house and her daughter came with her.

  Sophie put herself out to be as charming to Lalitha as her mother was, and Lalitha found in the incredibly beautiful girl the companion of her own age she had never had.

  Only sometimes she thought that Sophie was rather highhanded, borrowing her clothes and even taking away some small trifles such as gloves, scarves, and ribbons without asking her permission.

  Then Lalitha told herself that she was being selfish. She had so much and Sophie had nothing.

  It was after Sir John died, the funeral over and his friends gone, that Mrs. Clements showed herself in her true colours.

  The house was very quiet and Lalitha, wandering round in her black dress, thought how utterly and completely alone she was now that both her father and mother were gone.

  She realised that she must sit down and write to her mother’s brother who had moved from Norfolk to Cornwall.

  Many years previously he had bought an Estate for himself and had remained there even after his father had died.

  Her mother had always planned that they would one day go and visit him.

  “You will love Ambrose!” she told her daughter. “He is older than I, and I think it was he who taught me to love the country so much that I was never tempted by the Social whirl of London.”

  But somehow there had never seemed to be time or enough money to go to Cornwall and there had been no question of her Uncle coming to them.

  He had not even attended her mother’s funeral although he had sent a wreath and a long letter to her father telling him how deeply he regretted his sister’s death.

  “I must write to Uncle Ambrose now,” Lalitha told herself. “Perhaps he will ask me to come and live with him.”

  She had actually sat down at her father’s desk in the study and opened the blotter when Mrs. Clements came into the room.

  “I want to talk to you, Lalitha,” she said in a tone which had an authoritative note in it Lalitha had not noticed before.

  She also used Lalitha’s Christian name, something which her mother would have thought to be an impertinence.

  “Of course, Mrs. Clements,” Lalitha said. “What is it?”

  “I wish you to know,” Mrs. Clements replied, “that I was married to your father!”

  For a moment Lalitha thought she could not have heard right.

  “Married to Papa?” she exclaimed. “It is impossible!”

  “We were married and I was his wife,” Mrs. Clements said

  furiously. “From now on I am Lady Studley.”

  “But when were you married and at which Church?” Lalitha asked.

  “If you know what is best for you you will not ask me too many questions,” Mrs. Clements replied. “You will accept the situation and realise you are my Stepdaughter.”

  “I...I am afraid I do not... believe you,” Lalitha said quietly. “I am writing to my Uncle Ambrose to suggest that I should go and stay with him in Cornwall. He cannot know of my father’s death, otherwise I am certain he would have written to me.”

  “I forbid you to do so!”

  “Forbid?” Lalitha exclaimed in astonishment.

  “I am now your legal guardian,” Mrs. Clements replied, “and you will obey me. You will not communicate with your Uncle or any of your relations. You will stay with me, and make no mistake, I am Mistress in this house!”

  “But that is not right!” Lalitha protested. “Papa has always said that this would be my house if anything happened to him, and the Estate is mine too.”

  “I think you will have some difficulty in proving it,” Mrs. Clements replied and there was something evil in her smile.

  A strange Solicitor appeared, a man whom Lalitha had never seen before.

  He produced a Will written in a shaky hand which might have been her father’s after his accident, or might not.

  He had left everything to “my beloved wife, Gladys Clements,” and nothing to Lalitha.

  She felt that there must be something wrong, but the Solicitor showed her the Will and assured her that it was not only completely legal but her father’s wish.

  There was nothing she could say to him and when he had gone she sat down and wrote to her Uncle as she had intended to do.

  Mrs. Clements, or rather Lady Studley, as she now called herself, caught her going out of the house to take the letter to the post.

  It was then that she beat her for the first time. Beat her until Lalitha cried for mercy and promised, because she had no alternative, that she would not write to her Uncle again.

  It was perhaps because mentally, if unable to do so physically, Lalitha defied the woman who styled herself her Step-mother that she incurred her venom and spite.

  The new Lady Studley was clever enough not to try to associate with the neighbours.

  They learnt gradually of course that she had taken over the house and the Estate, and that she had married Sir John before he’d died. Few, if any, knew who she had been previously.

  The name “Clements” was dropped as if it had never existed.

  Nevertheless it gave Lalitha a shock when she realised that Sophie now called herself “Studley.”

  “You are not my sister!” Lalitha stormed at her, “and my father was not yours, so how can you bear my name?”

  Sophie’s mother had come into the room while Lalitha was speaking.

  “Who says that your father was not Sophie’s also?” she asked.

  She spoke slowly and there was a look in her eyes as if an idea had suddenly come to her.

  “You know he was not,” Lalitha replied. “You only came here a year ago.”

  She realised that her Step-mother was not listening to her and for once she was not being punished for answering back.

  For a year nothing more was said.

  They kept very much to themselves, but Lalitha realised that Lady Studley was squeezing every penny she could out of the Estate.

  There was no question now of farmers being late with their rent or impoverished tenants being allowed any grace.

  The farms were sold off one by one; the cottages went to whoever could find the price for them; the gardeners were dismissed. The flowers which had given her mother so much joy were choked with weeds.

  Slowly too the more valuable things in the house disappeared. First a pair of Queen Anne mirrors which had once hung in her mother’s home were taken away to be repaired and were never returned.

  Then the family portraits were sent to London to an Auction. “You had no right to sell those,” Lalitha had challenged her Step-mother. “They belong to the family. As Papa had no son, I would wish my son to have them.”

  “Are you so sure you will have one?” Lady Studley sneered. “Do you imagine anyone would marry you? Or that I could dispense with your valuable services?”

  She spoke sarcastically; for by this time Lalitha had become nothing more nor less than an unpaid servant.

  She thought with a little throb of horror that this might be her position for the rest of her life.

  Sophie was eighteen the previous Summer and Lalitha was surprised that Lady Studley had made no attempt to take her to London or to entertain for her.

  By now she was overwhelmingly beautiful and Lalitha thought, in all sincerity, that it would be impossible for any other girl to be as lovely.

  It was after Christmas when she realised why there had been a delay.

  “So
phie is seventeen and a half,” Lady Studley said in January.

  Lalitha looked at her in surprise, knowing full well that Sophie was eighteen.

  But by now she had learnt not to contradict, nor to argue, unless she wished to be beaten violently for her impertinence. “She was born,” Lady Studley continued, “on the third day of May, on which day we will celebrate her birth-day.”

  “But that is my birth-day!” Lalitha exclaimed. “I shall be eighteen on the third of May.”

  “You have made a mistake,” Lady Studley replied. “You were eighteen last year on the tenth of July.” “No! That was Sophie’s birthday!” Lalitha said in bewilderment.

  “Are you really prepared to argue with me?” Lady Studley asked.

  There was an expression on her face which made Lalitha recoil from her.

  “No ... no,” she said in a frightened tone.

  “Sophie is my child and your father’s,” Lady Studley went on quietly. “She was born ten months after we were married and of course I can easily prove it. You are also my child and the child of your father, but unfortunately you were born out of wedlock!”

  “What are you saying? I do not . . . understand!” Lalitha cried. Lady Studley made it brutally clear.

  She was to be Sophie and Sophie was to be she. Only as a concession her father was not an unknown Army Officer but Sir John.

  “Do you suppose anyone will question what I say when we reach London?” Lady Studley had asked.

  Lalitha could not answer. She knew no-one in London and who would believe her word against Lady Studley’s?

  She was defeated. There was nothing she could do and nothing she could say.

  It was intolerable to think that this common, pushing woman was pretending to be her mother.

  She had taken her mother’s place and had appropriated every penny.

  But there was no-one to whom she could turn; no-one she felt would listen to her story.

  Beaten and knocked about by Lady Studley, she had no presence.

  She did not even look, she told herself, like a lady anymore, but the slatternly love-child who Lady Studley told her was kept only out of charity.

  She was also to call this usurper “Mama” as she had called her own mother.

  If she forgot to do so Lady Studley beat her, and after a time it was almost impossible to go on fighting, even for her mother’s memory.

  Lady Studley planned her entrance into Society on her arrival in London with a cleverness which Lalitha would have been bound to admire if she herself had not had to suffer in the process.

  The money that she had raised was not going to last long; only long enough, as far as Lady Studley was concerned, for Sophie to make an important marriage.

  For Lalitha there would not be a penny-piece and she had the feeling that once Lady Studley had achieved her ambition, she would be thrown into the gutter and they would wash their hands of her.

  In the meantime she waited on them as a servant.

  Sometimes she planned to write to her Uncle, but there were so many complications and such violent penalties if she were to be caught doing so.

  Then three weeks after they arrived in London Lady Studley threw the newspaper at her with a coarse laugh.

  “Your Uncle is dead,” she said. “You can read about it in the Death Column!”

  “Dead! ” Lalitha cried.

  “You will not be able to afford time to mourn him!” her Step-mother sneered. “So get on with your work!”

  Lalitha knew then that her last hope of escape had gone. She found herself just existing from day to day.

  When she had finished each of the innumerable tasks that were set for her she was too utterly exhausted to do anything but seek the oblivion of sleep.

  Lately Lalitha had begun to feel that her brain was affected. Lack of nourishment and continual beatings made her feel so stupid that it was hard not only to remember things that she had been told, but even at times to understand what people were saying.

  Now she tried to recall what Lady Studley had told her to say to Lord Rothwyn.

  Her mind seemed blank and all she could think of was the agony her back was causing her.

  She could feel her dress sticking to the open wounds that had been left by her Step-mother’s cane.

  She knew that when she came to take it off it would hurt excruciatingly and as she pulled the material away from the scars they would bleed again.

  Under her dark cloak she unbuttoned the back of her dress as far as she dared.

  No-one would see it and as soon as she had performed the errand on which she had been sent she would go back and bathe the parts which hurt the most.

  “If only this were over and I need not tell His Lordship,” she murmured to herself.

  She had a wild idea of running away, but where could she run to?

  She had no money and no-where to go and if she went back to the house without having confronted Lord Rothwyn, she knew only too well what would happen to her.

  The carriage was drawing nearer to the Church of St. Alphage. She could now see the spire, then the lych-gate, and beyond it the grave-yard.

  Her Step-mother had ordered the hired carriage from a place where she had an account and the men had been told to wait for her, which Lalitha knew was a concession.

  She might have been told to walk home.

  Now the horses were pulling up and she drew in her breath, trying frantically to think what she had to say as the carriages came to a stand-still.

  She pulled the hood of her dark, well-worn cloak down over her face. It covered her completely and was made of a warm material.

  She felt cold and shivery but she told herself it was not so much the air outside as the fact that she was frightened.

  “There is nothing to frighten me,” she thought, “I am not involved in this. I am only a . . . messenger.”

  Nevertheless she knew as she stepped out of the carriage and walked through the lych-gate that she was trembling.

  It was very dark in the Church-yard although there was a lantern hanging on the Church porch.

  The grave-stones stood sentinel-like and accusing, as if they were shocked at the lies she had to tell.

  Hesitantly she moved down the path towards the porch, the Church looming dark and somehow ominous ahead of her. Suddenly there came the sound of quick foot-steps, and before she had time to see who was approaching she felt strong arms go round her.

  “My dearest, you have come! I knew you would!”

  As she looked up to protest a man’s mouth was on hers.

  For a moment she was shocked into immobility.

  It was impossible to move and insistent, passionate, demanding lips kept her speechless.

  Vaguely, far away at the back of her mind, she thought that she had not known a kiss could be like this.

  Then with a tremendous effort she struggled and was free.

  “P-please . . . please,” she stammered, “I am . . . not. .. S-Sophie!”

  “So I perceive!”

  She looked up at him. In the light from the lantern she could see that he was taller than she had expected.

  He seemed dark and over-powering.

  There was a cloak hanging from his shoulders and she thought he looked like a huge bat, and just as frightening.

  “Who are you?” he asked sharply.

  “I-I... am Sophie’s ... sister,” Lalitha managed to gasp.

  She could still feel the pressure of his lips on hers. Although he was no longer touching her she felt that it was as if she were still in his arms.

  “Her sister?” he queried, “I did not know she had one.”

  Lalitha tried to collect her thoughts.

  What had she been told to say?

  “Where is Sophie?”

  His voice was harsh and seemed to her menacing.

  “I-I . . . came to . . . tell you, My Lord,” Lalitha faltered, “that she . . . cannot come.”

  “Why not?”

  His
abrupt questions disconcerted her.

  She was trying to remember the exact words which she was to speak to him.

  “S-she feels, My Lord, that. . . she must... do the . . . honourable thing . . . and she . . . must not break her... promise to Mr. Verton.”

  “Must you mouth that poppycock?” he asked harshly. “What you are saying is that your sister has been told that the Duke of Yelverton is dying. That is the truth, is it not?”

  “N-no . . . I . . . do! . . . No!” Lalitha and involuntarily.

  “You lie!” he snarled, “You lie as your sister has lied to me. I believed her when she said she loved me. Could any man have made a greater fool of himself?” There was so much contempt in his voice that Lalitha made a desperate attempt to save Sophie from his condemnation.

  “I-It was not ... like t-that,” she stammered. “S-she was . . . trying ... to keep her . . . promise that she had made . . . before she . . . met you.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that nonsense?” Lord Rothwyn demanded angrily. “Do not add lie upon lie. Your sister has made a fool of me, as you well know, but then what woman could resist seeing herself as a Duchess?”

  He almost spat the words and then he said furiously, his voice seeming to ring out in the Church-yard:

  “Go back and tell your sister that she has taught me a lesson I shall never forget. What is more, I curse her even as I curse myself for trusting her.”

  “No ... do not say . . . that,” Lalitha begged. “It is ... unlucky.”

  “What has luck to do with it?” he asked. “Your sister has not only lost me a bride, she has also cost me ten thousand guineas!”

  Lalitha looked up at the dark silhouette he made against the faint light in the back-ground.

  Because she was curious she could not help asking: “How ... how can she have ... done that?”

  “I wagered that amount of money in the belief that she was sincere and true; that she was not a snob as all other women are; that rank did not mean to her more than affection, a title more than the love they profess so easily with their lips.”

  “It is . . . for some women,” Lalitha said quickly before she could prevent herself.

  He laughed harshly.

  “If there are, I have yet to find one!”