A Marriage Made In Heaven Read online

  “If I could afford to provide a decent one, at least for the children of those I employ,” he said, “I would feel I was doing my duty for the next generation.”

  It was typical of him, Samala thought, to always be thinking of other people rather than of himself and she knew that her mother had been the same.

  ‘If only Papa had even a little money to spend,’ she whispered to herself as they put their horses in the dilapidated stables and saw that they had plenty of hay and water.

  Walters was so old that all he could do was to clean up the stalls and, when his rheumatism was not too bad, groom the horses.

  Otherwise, it meant that the Earl and Samala had to do everything themselves and, although neither of them minded, Samala often thought that there were far more important things her father should be engaged in and he was wasting his brain.

  Only she knew how intelligent he was and how when they talked together at meal times and could forget their immediate problems, their minds would range over subjects which embraced the whole Universe.

  She knew that however poor and shabby she might be, nobody would be able to say that she was not well educated.

  When her father and mother could afford it, she had always had good teachers for every important subject and, when that became impossible, they had taught her themselves.

  Her father had gained his degree at Oxford and, what was more important, he was an avid reader, as her mother had been.

  Ever since she had been a tiny child, Samala could remember that there had been spirited arguments at meal times on all sorts of subjects from Oriental religions to politics and economics and she had never been allowed to feel that she was too young to join in.

  Now, as she took off her riding habit and put on one of her old cotton gowns, she found herself wondering who her father would talk to if she were not there.

  So much had happened since the Marchioness had called so unexpectedly with her fantastic proposition that Samala felt that she had forgotten that, while her own life would change, her father’s life would remain the same.

  Except, of course, that it would be solitary and he would be alone in what already seemed sometimes like a ghost house.

  ‘What can I do about him? What can I do?’ she asked herself.

  Then suddenly, almost as if a voice were prompting her, she knew the answer to her problem.

  After they had had luncheon, which consisted as usual of pigeon, because there was very little else at this time of the year that could be shot in the Park, Samala asked tentatively,

  “What are you planning to do this afternoon, Papa?”

  The Earl sighed.

  “I am going through the farm accounts and the rents with Mr. Owen from the bank. As it will be a very dreary meeting and undoubtedly most depressing, I suggest you do not join us.”

  “I would much rather not, Papa,” Samala answered, “and I am sure Mr. Owen will advise you as best he can.”

  “The only thing he could do that would be really helpful,” the Earl said, “is to give me a large loan, but how can I ask for that when there is not a chance in a million of it ever being repaid?”

  He spoke unusually bitterly and Samala rose from the table, put her arms round his neck and kissed his cheek.

  “Perhaps, Papa, when we least expect it, we shall find a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Then everything will be changed.”

  The Earl put his arm round her and drew her close to him.

  “That is what I go on trying to believe,” he said, “but my hopes are beginning to die hard and the only thing I can be thankful for is that you at least will have everything you want in life.”

  Samala longed to say that she would share everything with him, but she knew that would only make him retort angrily that he was not taking charity from anybody – least of all his son-in-law.

  ‘Somehow I shall have to help him,’ she told herself, ‘but it’s going to be difficult.’

  When her father had gone to his study to await the arrival of the local bank manager, who, because he was fond of the Earl, helped with the accounts without charging him a penny, she went upstairs.

  She changed into her riding clothes and went to the stables to saddle their third horse, which, because he had not been exercised that morning, was fresh and frisky.

  He was by no means well bred and Samala did not love him as she loved Mercury, but he was a better carriage horse than the others and also provided a stand-by in case of emergencies.

  It was very much quicker for Samala to ride across country to reach her destination than if she had followed the twisting, turning lanes, which would have lengthened the journey considerably.

  Instead, in just over three-quarters-of-an-hour she arrived at the small Church and turned in at some impressive gates belonging to what was locally known as ‘The Big House’.

  It was very large, square and formidable and, in contrast to The Priory, undoubtedly ugly.

  Samala dismounted at the front door and a groom came hurrying from the stables to take her horse and, when she had climbed the steps, the front door was opened and a middle-aged butler said with a smile,

  “Good afternoon, Lady Samala, you’re quite a stranger.”

  “Good afternoon, White,” Samala replied. “Is Mrs. Henley at home?”

  “She’s not receiving, my Lady, but I’m sure she’d like to see your Ladyship,” the butler replied.

  He led the way across a stiff somewhat unwelcoming hall and opened the door into a square, high-ceilinged drawing room.

  “Lady Samala Wynn, madam!” he announced.

  There was a little cry from the end of the room, where a lady was sitting in the window working at a large piece of embroidery.

  She set it down and hurried towards Samala, holding out both her hands.

  “Samala, what a lovely surprise! I thought you had forgotten me.”

  “No, of course not,” Samala answered, “but there have been so many things happening that I have had no time to come and see you and certainly no time for writing.”

  “What has been happening?” Mrs. Henley asked. “Come and sit down and tell me all about it and I am sure that you would like some refreshment.”

  “I would not refuse some of your delicious iced coffee,” Samala replied, “in fact I have been greedy enough to be thinking of it all the time I have been riding here.”

  Mrs. Henley laughed and the butler, who had been waiting in the doorway, hurried away to fetch it.

  Samala sat down on the window seat, pulling off her riding hat as she did so, so that the sun haloed her fair hair.

  “You look very pretty, dearest child,” Mrs. Henley said, “and I have missed you.”

  “I have missed you too,” Samala replied, “and I kept hoping that you would come over to see us.”

  Mrs. Henley looked down at the embroidery in her lap and, after a moment’s pause, she said,

  “You and your – father always seem so – busy that I don’t like to feel that I am – intruding.”

  Samala’s eyes were on her face as she said,

  “Papa misses you too. He said once that he wondered if perhaps you had gone to London to enjoy yourself.”

  She saw the colour rise in Mrs. Henley’s cheeks and it encouraged her to add,

  “It is actually about Papa that I have come to see you.”

  “About your – father?”

  There was no doubt of the surprise in Mrs. Henley’s voice and now the colour in her cheeks was accentuated and made her look very much younger than her thirty-five years.

  Maureen Henley was not a beauty, but she had a sweet, kind and attractive face that drew people to her like a magnet.

  Samala had loved her ever since she had first known her, which was soon after she came to live in the neighbourhood as the bride of General Alexander Henley.

  An avowed bachelor all his life, or rather, as he had said himself, forced to remain so because he was always on active service in some obscure
part of the world, he had only married when he retired and the girl he chose was very much younger than himself.

  She was the daughter of a brother Officer, who had died of the injuries he had received during active service.

  Because she was broken-hearted by her father’s death and because she was very much alone in the world, Maureen had felt that she would find security and comfort in the arms of a man who was actually old enough to be her grandfather.

  She had certainly made the General a very good wife and, as he had no children, when he died she had found herself with a large estate and enough money to go anywhere and do anything she wanted.

  Yet, because she had always lived so quietly, first with her wounded and crippled father, then with her elderly husband, she had no idea what to do with herself or with her money.

  She had therefore devoted herself to good works in the County and, very much to the Earl’s relief, had taken over the management of his orphanage, which was on the boundary of the Kenwyn estate, where it bordered the land belonging to Maureen.

  At first Mrs. Henley had come to The Priory with every problem she felt she could not solve herself.

  Then, strangely, as it seemed to Samala, her father began to avoid such meetings and on two occasions, when he had seen Maureen’s smart carriage coming down the drive, he had slipped out of the house by the garden door and stayed away until she had left.

  “Do you not want to see Mrs. Henley, Papa?” Samala had asked. “I thought you liked her.”

  “She is a marvellous person,” the Earl had replied, “but she should not be wasting her time on orphans, she should get married again and enjoy herself.”

  Samala had looked at him in surprise. Then she had said,

  “Perhaps she feels she is too old.”

  “Too old? I have never heard such nonsense!” her father had snapped. “She is young and lovely and should not waste herself in this dead-and-alive part of the world!”

  He had spoken so violently and had gone out of the room slamming the door behind him that Samala had been amazed.

  Wondering if Maureen Henley and her father had quarrelled over something she had not pressed him for an explanation. Nor had she expressed her surprise when Mrs. Henley no longer came to The Priory.

  Now, because she was older and looked at what had happened in a more intelligent way, she thought she understood and somehow she had to put things right.

  “First of all,” she said, “I must tell you my news. I am to be married!”

  “Married?” Maureen Henley exclaimed. “But, dearest one, that is wonderful! But to whom?”

  “It seems incredible,” Samala said, “but it’s true! The Duke of Buckhurst has asked me to marry him.”

  Because she felt a little shy in making such an announcement, she did not look at Maureen Henley as she spoke and therefore she did not see the look first of incredulity in her eyes, then an expression of concern.

  “The Duke of Buckhurst?” she repeated in a low voice. “Are you sure?”

  “That is what I ask myself,” Samala replied with a smile. “Yes, I am sure and I am to be married on the 2nd of June.”

  “But that is in a week’s time!”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “But why was I not told? Why is it a secret?”

  “It is not a secret after today,” Samala replied, “because it will be in The Gazette and I expect you will receive an invitation for the wedding either tomorrow or the next day. I know the Duke’s sister, the Marchioness of Hull, is sending out the invitations as soon as the announcement appears in the newspapers.”

  As she spoke, she had no idea that the Marquis and Marchioness had held up the announcement longer than was necessary, for the simple reason that they were hoping that the Duke would return to London from Leicestershire unaccompanied by the Baroness.

  Because there had been no sign of him, they had felt obliged, even though they were afraid of the gossip that might arise from it, to avoid letting the public know of the engagement while the bridegroom was still heavily engaged in Leicestershire with another ‘interest’.

  Samala, however, was fully preoccupied with the gowns that kept arriving from London and on two occasions the Marchioness had come to The Priory to help her inspect them and choose others with Madame Bertin.

  She had assured Samala in glowing terms how thrilled the Duke was that she had accepted his proposal and how much he was looking forward to their wedding.

  Now there was a strange silence before Maureen Henley said,

  “This is certainly a surprise and of course, dearest, I wish you every possible happiness.”

  “There is only one thing which is making me very worried and unhappy,” Samala said.

  “And what is – that?”

  Samala felt that Mrs. Henley was diffident about asking the question.

  “It is Papa. I feel he will be so lonely and, quite frankly, he will never be able to cope with the house without me.”

  When Mrs. Henley did not speak, Samala continued,

  “Of course he will have to try and, because he is already feeling a little low and depressed, I wonder if you will come over and stay for a few days while I am busy with the clothes that keep arriving and help me try to adjust him to the fact that when I am gone he will have to manage alone.”

  Maureen Henley drew in her breath.

  “You know I will do anything to help you, Samala,” she said, “but perhaps your father will not – want me.”

  “Of course, he will want you,” Samala replied, “and there are so many things you could help me with, if you could spare the time.”

  Mrs. Henley folded away her embroidery.

  “I am going to come back with you now,” she said. “It will not take my maids long to pack and a groom can return to The Priory with your horse, while we travel in the carriage and you can tell me everything you want me to do.”

  “That is so kind of you,” Samala said, “and I know it will cheer up Papa.”

  She paused, then added,

  “I am afraid you will not be very comfortable and, quite frankly, if you don’t like pigeon there is not going to be very much to eat.”

  Maureen Henley laughed and it made her look very young and attractive.

  “As it happens, I hate pigeon!” she replied. “Do you think that your father would be offended if I brought a chicken or two with me?”

  “If you put them in the kitchen the minute you arrive, he will never know it is not one of ours, which we are far too careful to kill at the moment because otherwise we would have no eggs.”

  Mrs. Henley laughed again. Then, almost like two schoolgirls, they were both laughing.

  When the carriage left an hour later, there was quite a pile of food on board and also a case of claret.

  A they started off, with a twinkle in her grey eyes, Maureen Henley confided,

  “I think I must tell you, Samala, that, as I have been a little run-down lately, the doctor has ordered me a special claret as a tonic. Since I must bring it with me, I should feel very embarrassed if you and your father did not join me.”

  Samala gave a little cry of delight, then bent forward and kissed her on the cheek.

  “You understand,” she said, “but do be very very careful. You know how proud Papa is.”

  The smile vanished from Maureen Henley’s lips.

  “Yes – I know,” she replied in a strange voice and turned her head away as she spoke.

  They drove back to The Priory along the twisting, narrow lanes, talking together like two girls of the same age.

  Only when they reached The Priory, which looked very beautiful in the last glory of the afternoon sun, did Samala feel a little worried in case her plans went awry.

  “I am afraid your footman will have to carry up your luggage,” she said. “Poor old Brigstock is crippled with rheumatism and is incapable of carrying anything.”

  “James will bring up my luggage and also take the other things we have brought
into the kitchen,” Maureen answered in a low voice.

  Samala smiled at her and, climbing out of the carriage first, ran up the steps and across the hall to the study.

  As she expected, her father was alone and Mr. Owen had left.

  “I have good news, Papa,” she said. “There is so much for me to do before I marry that I have asked Maureen Henley to come here and help me and she has very kindly agreed.”

  “I wondered where you had gone,” the Earl replied, “but how can Mrs. Henley possibly stay here?”

  “Why not? We have plenty of room.”

  Her father did not smile and she added,

  “She will not mind.”

  “I mind,” he said sharply, “but – ”

  Whatever else he had been about to say died on his lips, for at that moment Maureen Henley appeared in the doorway.

  She was looking very attractive.

  At the same time, astonishingly, her eyes were worried and her voice when she spoke seemed almost to tremble.

  “If you do not – want me,” she said to the Earl, “I will of course keep the – carriage and – go home.”

  “Of course I want you,” the Earl replied, and added hastily, “At least Samala does and I am very grateful for you coming to help her when she has no mother.”

  He walked across the room as he spoke and took Maureen Henley’s hand in his.

  “It is only,” he added, and his voice sounded very deep, “that I could not bear you to be uncomfortable.”

  “I shall be very comfortable,” she replied, “because I will be with Samala, and – you. I cannot tell you how much I have missed you – both.”

  As she spoke, it seemed that she had forgotten to take her hand from the Earl’s.

  Then abruptly, so abruptly that it was almost rude, the Earl walked back to his desk, as if he felt protected by it and stated in a very different tone of voice,

  “You will not be here for long, since Samala is being married, as I expect she has already told you, on the 2nd of June.”

  *

  The next two days were very difficult, Samala thought afterwards.

  They would be laughing at something that had amused them all, then suddenly the Earl’s mood would change and he would lapse into an uncomfortable silence or else with a muttered excuse get up from the table and leave the room, not to return.