A Nightingale Sang Read online

  “Well, it’s not right, and that’s a fact!” Mrs. Abbott said. “If you ask me, that new doctor doesn’t know his job. If only Dr. Goodwin had been here, I’m certain he’d have found someone.”

  “But he’s away,” Aleta replied, “so go to bed. Otherwise you will be no use tomorrow and you know we will all be relying on you, especially Mr. Wardolf. He’s in a tizzy about his precious Duke.”

  “That’s true, miss. He couldn’t have made more of a to-do if the gentleman had been the King himself! Now I remember when King Edward – ”

  “Go to bed, Abby!” Aleta interrupted, knowing how interminable Mrs. Abbott’s stories could be.

  “Very well, miss, but you promise you’ll come and call me if there’s any change in the gentleman’s condition!”

  “I promise,” Aleta persisted. “Goodnight, Abby.”

  “Goodnight, miss. I hopes as I’m doin’ right in leavin’ you.”

  “Go to bed!” Aleta said firmly.

  Shutting the door quietly behind the housekeeper she walked to the side of the bed to stand looking down at the Duke.

  He wondered if he should open his eyes and see what the owner of the soft voice looked like. He had not understood half she said, but he had listened to her voice.

  Somehow it seemed to be vaguely familiar but he was not sure. Anyway he was too tired and was still far down the dark tunnel, although it was not as long as it had seemed at first.

  Then it was too much of an effort to think and everything faded away –

  *

  The Duke awoke and heard a voice he did not recognise as his own calling out,

  “Look out! Look out, you fool!”

  He was struggling to put his hands in front of his face when he felt a cool hand on his forehead and the voice he had heard before say,

  “It’s all right. You are quite safe. Nothing will hurt you. Go to sleep.”

  He still wanted to move his hands, but he realised that they were under the blankets and the hand on his forehead was compelling.

  He murmured something and thought it sounded incoherent.

  “You’ve had an accident,” the soft voice said, “but not a very bad one and you will soon be quite all right. Just sleep. You are very tired and you will feel better tomorrow.”

  The voice was almost hypnotic and he felt himself sinking down against the pillows and the tension leaving his body.

  Then the voice said almost as if she spoke to herself,

  “You may be thirsty.”

  She moved away and some moments later the Duke felt her lift his head and a glass was held to his lips.

  Automatically he swallowed what was tipped into his mouth and knew that it was lemonade.

  It took away a dryness that he had not realised was there.

  Then very gently his head was set down against the pillows.

  “Now go to sleep,” the voice said.

  He felt her hand on his forehead again, but now it was moving very gently, massaging his skin, soothing it, evoking a feeling of languor that was very pleasant.

  He knew he was drifting away – and it was like being carried on the softness of a cloud –

  *

  Aleta reached her own bedroom and started to undress.

  The light was coming through the sides of the curtains and she pulled them back to look out, seeing the mist over the lake and the trees in the Park silhouetted against a pale gold sky,

  She was tired, but at the same time she wondered if it would be possible to sleep.

  ‘If I do, it must not be for long,’ she told herself. ‘I am sure that there will be a lot to do in the house this morning.’

  She had not been surprised when Mrs. Abbott had come into the Queen’s room soon after five o’clock in the morning.

  That was the time the staff had always risen at Kings Wayte in the old days and, although Aleta would have liked the old woman to rest a little longer, she knew that it would be impossible for her to do so.

  “Is everythin’ all right, miss?” she asked as soon as she reached Aleta’s side.

  “Perfectly all right, Abby,” Aleta replied. “Our patient has been very quiet on the whole. He awoke once talking nonsense, but I gave him a drink and he went back to sleep again.”

  “He didn’t see you, miss?”

  “No. He didn’t open his eyes,” Aleta replied, “but even if he had, I doubt if he would have recognised anything or anybody.”

  “Well, thank goodness! If that new doctor’s to be believed, there’ll be a real nurse here tonight. Now you go off to bed, miss, and have a good sleep. I’ll take turns to be on duty here with Ethel and Rose until the nurse arrives.”

  “Then I need not worry about anything,” Aleta said with a smile.

  She had, as it happened, stood at the bedside several times during the night, looking at the Duke and wondering how he could marry for money.

  It was one thing to let a house as she and Harry had done to keep their heads above water, but marriage was something very different and she knew that the more she looked at the Duke the more she despised him for not trying to save his family estate by some other means, rather than sacrificing himself.

  It would be a sacrifice! No Englishman of the importance of the Duke of Stadhampton would contemplate marrying the daughter of an American millionaire for any other reason than to possess her money.

  Aleta was not a snob in the way that the Social world before the war had, her mother told her, thought position and breeding more important than anything else.

  But she realised that ingrained in every English man and woman of her generation was a deep respect and a pride in their antecedents and everything that they entailed.

  It was King Edward who had introduced into Society men who were rich and who advised him financially. For their services to him they expected to be received socially by his friends and His Majesty had made sure that they were.

  It had been, she learnt, such a revolutionary step that her grandfather and grandmother’s generation had been appalled at the King’s behaviour, although they were certainly not prepared to say so except secretly to their close friends.

  Aleta had been told, and she believed it, that the war had broken down a great number of class barriers and it was more her idealism than anything else that shocked her at the thought of a man like the Duke selling himself and his title to the highest bidder.

  She did not blame the Americans for wishing to acquire coronets for their daughters, in the same manner as they acquired pictures, furniture and anything else that took their fancy in impoverished Europe.

  What was wrong was that the owners of such treasures were over-eager to sell.

  What made it worse, she thought, was that the Duke was very good-looking.

  He was older than she had expected, perhaps twenty-eight or thirty and, although he was dark-haired, he had a characteristically English face and could never have been mistaken for any other nationality.

  She thought too looking at him that his broad forehead showed intelligence and she wondered why he did not use his brains to acquire the money he needed rather than barter for it with his title.

  Then she told herself that it was none of her business and yet looking at him when they were alone in the candlelight she thought that he presented an enigma that she would like to solve.

  Why did he make such a decision? How had it happened that he had no alternative except to marry an heiress?

  Then she asked herself somewhat cynically if it was in fact the only alternative.

  Was he not perhaps one of those men who never could have enough money? A sportsman who wished to have one of the huge covert shoots at which King Edward had been a frequent guest or a yachtsman who wanted to race at Cowes and entertain his friends on the grouse moors of Scotland.

  She remembered stories her mother had told her of the lavish hospitality that had taken place in her grandfather’s day when at Kings Wayte there would often be thirty or forty guests, each of
them attended by one or more personal servants.

  “It must have been very expensive, Mama,” Aleta remembered saying.

  “It was,” her mother replied with a sigh, “but your grandfather could afford it. We cannot.”

  ‘I suppose I despise you,’ Aleta said silently to the unconscious man lying on the bed. ‘And yet, if your house is as beautiful as Kings Wayte, then I suppose you feel that any sacrifice is worthwhile.’

  She knew that Harry was right when he had said that he had no wish to marry a woman who was very much richer than himself.

  A man must be master in his own house and to feel beholden to his wife for every penny he spent would be humiliating and degrading.

  ‘Harry and I will manage somehow,’ she said in her heart still speaking to the man on the bed. ‘We may have to do all sorts of strange things, like letting this house, but we will not surrender ourselves to financial slavery, because that is what it would be, of marrying without love, but only for gain.”

  Even as she thought about it, she remembered how many women did exactly that for a husband and a title, a place in Society. All of which she knew quite well, was the ambition of every girl of her generation.

  Something within her had always shrunk from the thought and she knew that she could never marry without love, however difficult it might be to remain single.

  ‘An old maid!’

  She found herself repeating the words beneath her breath and wondering if that was all that waited for her in the future.

  Then she told herself that anything would be preferable, even loneliness, than marriage with a man she did not love.

  She looked again at the Duke’s head on the pillow.

  It struck her because he was so good-looking that a lot of women must have loved him.

  ‘Perhaps I am wrong,’ she told herself. ‘Perhaps Lucy-May does love him and perhaps he loves her.’

  It was something she wanted to believe, like making a Fairytale come true.

  Then she knew that she was only making excuses for him – excuses because he was so handsome – just like the Prince in her Fairytale.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  There was a knock on the door and the Duke, who was sitting in the window with a rug over his knees, looked up.

  The door opened and Lucy-May’s smiling face appeared.

  “Are you ready for visitors?” she asked.

  “I am delighted to see you,” the Duke answered.

  Lucy-May walked into the bedroom. In her hand she carried a large parcel.

  “Now you are better I have a special present for you,” she said, “with love from Poppa and, of course, from me.”

  “A present?” the Duke queried.

  He was looking a little thinner after being laid up for nearly four days, but it made him perhaps even better looking than before.

  Lucy-May put the parcel she carried down on his knees.

  “Open it,” she suggested. “I want to see if you’re pleased.”

  The Duke pulled off the outer wrapping and found underneath that there was a picture, not a very large one, but when he looked at it he drew in his breath.

  For a moment he seemed stunned into silence.

  Then he said,

  “Is it really my Canaletto?”

  “I have the pair of it downstairs,” a voice came from the doorway, “and your Van Dyck.”

  Holding the picture in his hands, the Duke looked at Mr. Wardolf with a question in his eyes.

  The American walked towards him and explained,

  “I bought them in London yesterday. Why didn’t you tell me you were sellin’ them?”

  The Duke did not reply for a moment and Lucy-May then said,

  “Poppa is giving them to you. Tell him you are pleased.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” the Duke murmured.

  Mr. Wardolf put his hand on his guest’s shoulder.

  “Say nothing, my boy. They’re part of your weddin’ present and they must go back where they belong.”

  “Now, Poppa!” Lucy-May interposed, “I told you not to say anythin’ like that.”

  “Sorry, sorry!” the American said blithely, “I forgot.”

  “I told you not to forget,” Lucy-May added positively.

  There was a note of irritation in her voice that her father did not miss.

  “I suppose, like all women,” he drawled, “you want a proposal of marriage with all the violins playin’.”

  “Yes, I do!” Lucy-May snapped, “With a moon overhead and nightingales singin’ in the trees.”

  She was looking angrily at her father as she spoke, so she did not see the Duke stiffen or the strange look that came into his eyes as he repeated beneath his breath,

  “Nightingales!”

  Then, as if he was a trifle embarrassed by his daughter’s anger, Mr. Wardolf said,

  “I have a proposition to make to you, my boy, when you are feelin’ fit enough to hear it.”

  “I am fit now,” the Duke replied hastily, “but I must first say I cannot accept the present you have given me. It’s too generous.”

  “It’s common sense,” Mr. Wardolf retorted. “I don’t want to think of Hampton Castle depleted of all its treasures and another time let me know when you are puttin’ any of them up for sale.”

  The Duke’s lips tightened and there was an expression on his face that Lucy-May did not understand.

  “I’ll leave you two together,” she said blithely, “and come back later. Don’t tire Tybalt, Poppa, the first day he is up. You know what the doctor ordered.”

  “I don’t think what I’m goin’ to say will tire him,” Mr. Wardolf said, seating himself in a chair opposite the Duke.

  He waited until Lucy-May had left the room.

  And then he said,

  “From what I’ve heard, you’ve a very fine Castle and several other houses that contain objects of historical value.”

  “That’s true,” the Duke agreed, “but, as I have only just inherited them from my uncle, everything is somewhat chaotic, which is the reason why I have not asked you to stay.”

  “I understand that, of course,” Mr. Wardolf said. “I suppose havin’ been brought up with such a background you know a great deal about pictures and such like.”

  The Duke smiled.

  “I like to think I do. I certainly hate to part with any of the things that are not really mine but a heritage which should be handed on to the future generations that follow me.”

  Mr. Wardolf nodded his head.

  “That’s why you must put your Canalettos and the Van Dyck back in the places where they belong.”

  “It’s very kind of you,” the Duke said, “but – ”

  “I don’t want to argue about it,” the American interrupted. “I just want you to listen to what I have to suggest.”

  The Duke put the picture down beside his chair and sat back.

  “As you know,” Mr. Wardolf began, “I’m hopin’ that you and Lucy-May, who is the most precious thing I possess, will be happy together, but I realise that, although I have a very large fortune, and you know it’s one of the largest in America, there are things you possess that no money can buy.”

  The Duke was listening and it seemed that some of the stiffness with which he had held himself when Mr. Wardolf had started speaking was gradually ebbing away and now there was a more sympathetic look in his eyes.

  “I understand,” the American went on, “that not only you and a great number of other English Noblemen have to sell treasures, which have been accumulated by your ancestors over the centuries, but the same situation exists in Europe, particularly in France.”

  The Duke did not speak, he merely waited, his eyes on the older man’s face.

  “What I am suggestin’,” Mr. Wardolf continued, “is that, as you have an ingrained knowledge of art, you should acquire for me pictures and furniture that I can enjoy while I am alive and which, when I am dead, will form the nucleus of a Gallery.”


  The Duke was now interested and he bent forward.

  “Do you really mean that, sir?”

  “I mean it, for I think it’s important that we Americans should have a chance to appreciate the great Masters of the past.”

  There was a slightly cynical smile on his lips as he added,

  “I’m not a fool! I’ve heard the things that are said about the American ‘bargain hunters’, the tales that circulate of how they have been duped by sharp Italians and crafty Frenchmen into spendin’ enormous sums on fakes and forgeries. I don’t wish to make a fool of myself in the same way.”

  “I can understand that,” the Duke murmured.

  “What I’m askin’ you to do is to act as my Agent in Europe.”

  The Duke’s eyebrows went up and Mr. Wardolf continued,

  “I know there would be plenty of people only too willin’ to oblige me in this particular, but quite frankly I would rather trust you. I like you and I have a feelin’ you are a better judge of a picture than half the art dealers who are really only interested in their own commission.”

  He paused before he carried on,

  “The commission taken by the big art dealers like Lord Duveen fluctuates, I understand, between twenty-five per cent and one hundred per cent on the buyin’ price. I shall offer you fifty per cent. We will make a different arrangement for my other proposition.”

  “What is that, sir?” The Duke’s voice was slightly hoarse.

  “I intend to invest some money in Europe. The President has already said that the United States will help to rebuild and support European industries. I will do a little of that on my own.”

  “A good idea, sir,” the Duke answered.

  “I will be guided entirely by your advice.”

  The Duke did not speak for a moment.

  Then he said,

  “I am honoured by your trust in me, sir, but I am wondering if I know enough either about art or industry.”

  “I’ve an idea that your instinct in such matters would be just as valuable as another man’s acquired knowledge,” Mr. Wardolf replied.