The Goddess and the Gaiety Girl Read online

“What I am going to suggest to you, Aunt Muriel, is that you should meet this young woman and give me your advice on what we should do about her for the moment.”

  He saw the expression in the Marchioness’s eyes and went on quickly,

  “I have as it happens already sent a letter to Arran in London explaining the circumstances and asking him to make discreet enquiries about a Gaiety Girl called Katie King, and also of course to check if the marriage is entered in the Register at Southwark Cathedral.”

  “Did you say they were married at Southwark Cathedral?” the Marchioness asked.

  “That is what it says on the Marriage Certificate,” the Duke replied. “See for yourself.”

  He handed his aunt the Certificate.

  She looked at it then said,

  “This convinces me more than anything else that her story is untrue.”

  “Why?”

  “Because your uncle quarrelled with most of the Clergy but especially with the Bishop of Southwark.”

  The Marchioness thought for a moment, then she said,

  “It must have been eight, perhaps ten years ago when Her Majesty was distressed by some unpleasant and sensational reports of your uncle’s behaviour which appeared in the cheaper newspapers.”

  She gave a little sigh as if it hurt her to think of it before she continued,

  “I do not know who brought it to Her Majesty’s notice, but she spoke to me about it and I could only tell her how deeply distressed we were as a family at Murdoch’s behaviour.

  “‘I presume you can do nothing to prevent him from defaming his own name and bringing the whole of Society into disrepute?’ Her Majesty asked.

  “‘I am afraid not, Ma’am,’ I replied. ‘My brother will not listen to me, nor to anyone else.’

  “‘We cannot be sure of that until we try,’ the Queen replied. ‘I will speak to Dr. Goodwin, the Bishop of Southwark, and see if he can in any way bring the Duke to his senses.’”

  The Marchioness stopped speaking and the Duke enquired,

  “What happened?”

  “The Bishop who was a fine man, but very unworldly, approached your uncle and, we presumed, remonstrated with him.”

  A faint smile appeared on the Duke’s lips as he anticipated the end of the story.

  “Apparently,” the Marchioness went on, “your uncle raged at him, told him what he could do with his advice, and practically threw him out of Garon House!”

  There was a pause, and then the Duke said,

  “So in the circumstances you think it is very unlikely that he would have married Uncle Murdoch.”

  “He is the last person that your uncle would have asked to do so, and I am certain after what occurred that the Bishop would have refused such a request,” the Marchioness replied.

  “I see your point,” the Duke said.

  “The Certificate certainly looks genuine enough,” the Marchioness remarked, “but I suppose if there are people who can forge banknotes they can also forge Marriage Certificates.”

  “This is certainly something which Arran or the detective he employs should look into,” the Duke decided. “But we get back to the same question, Aunt Muriel, what are we going to do now about Miss King?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause before the Marchioness said,

  “I suppose I shall have to see her! I can only tell you, Justin, that I am appalled by her effrontery in coming here and forcing herself upon us, but I cannot help thinking we should be wiser to let her be dealt with by our lawyers.”

  “For the time being,” the Duke replied, “I think it is important that as few people as possible should know of this unfortunate claim. If the press got hold of it Heaven knows what might appear, and as Uncle Murdoch is now dead, my desire is that he should rest in peace.”

  “Yes, of course,” the Marchioness agreed. “That is what we all want and it is always a mistake to stir dirty water.”

  “That is why I think we should not antagonise Katie King. Investigations into the truth of her story will start immediately Arran receives my letter. In the meantime we must accept Miss King for what she says she is – the Duchess of Tregaron, who does not wish her identity to be known.”

  The Marchioness gave a little cry.

  “I cannot – I will not accept her! Never! Never! My father would turn in his grave at the idea!”

  “I think we must still face facts,” the Duke said firmly. “The evidence Katie King has brought with her is, superficially at any rate, very convincing.”

  There was silence, then the Marchioness said in a stifled voice,

  “Where is this creature?”

  “I have no idea,” the Duke replied. “I have been out riding and after I had breakfast in my own sitting room I came straight to see you.”

  “Then send for her,” the Marchioness said, “and we will see her in the morning room.”

  ‘Very good, Aunt Muriel,” the Duke replied, rising to his feet. “I will send a servant to tell her to be there within ten minutes.”

  He went from the boudoir as he spoke and the Marchioness put her hand up to her forehead as if she sought a calmness she was far from feeling.

  *

  Larentia had felt she was living in a dream world from the moment she had awoken to find herself in one of the loveliest bedrooms she had ever seen.

  She had lain for a little while looking in the half-light at the furniture, the pictures and the carved and gilded foot of her bed.

  Then she got out to run to the window.

  Last night when she had first seen the Castle, she had been too nervous and agitated by what lay ahead really to take in anything except that it was enormous, far bigger than she expected, and also surprisingly beautiful.

  She had arrived so late that the stars were out and there was a moon in the sky, and by its light the castellated towers of the Castle seemed to be touched with silver.

  The arrow-slit windows in the whole length and breadth of it made her feel as if it was part of a fairytale story that had no reality.

  She was aware, as her father had told her often enough, that many of the finest Castles in the whole country had been built in mediaeval times to keep the aggressive Welsh nation within their own borders.

  Edward II finally completed Garon Castle in the early 14th century, and at the time it had been considered one of the finest Castles ever to be built in the Middle Ages.

  The interior had been altered, improved and renovated over the centuries that passed, but at first sight Garon Castle had looked exactly as it had when as a Military headquarters it must certainly have awed, if not frightened, its enemies.

  But to Larentia it was as if unexpectedly she had come to Camelot.

  In the course of her father’s work on the legends of King Arthur she had read extensively with him, and sometimes for him, the books and treatises he had written about the legendary sovereign.

  To please him she had pored over the Historia Britonum of Nennius, a 9th century compilation culminating in the victory at the Battle of Badon. She studied the Annales Cambriae and was thrilled with all the splendour and glory that Tennyson had brought to the ‘Idylls of the King.

  To her King Arthur lived and breathed, as did his Knights of the Round Table, the heroic deeds they performed and the noble chivalry of their quests.

  But when she had entered the Castle and been confronted by the Duke she could think only that she might be exposed.

  Her terror of being sent back to London empty-handed had swept everything else from her mind, and her awe of the Duke himself as inquisitor and judge of the tale she had to tell left no room for fantasies.

  But this morning she could think only that she was in a magical Castle and from the windows of her bedroom she could see a mystical world.

  The Castle was built on a hill, and beneath it was a lake across which she could see mountains silhouetted against a blue sky.

  It was to Larentia both beautiful and mystical, so that once again she was dreaming o
f knights in armour dedicated to fight or die for their King and their God.

  She was still standing at the window when there was a knock on the door and a maid came to call her.

  “Ye’re early, Miss,” she said when Larentia turned to smile at her.

  “The view from this window is so beautiful and I have never been in a Castle before.”

  “Ye’ll not find a finer,” the maid replied.

  “That I can well believe! “ Larentia said, “and I hope I shall be allowed to look over it.”

  “All our visitors want t’do that, Miss, an’ if His Grace doesn’t show ye round, Mr. Webster, the curator’ll tell ye the history of th’ Barbican towers, th’ Keep and th’ Royal Tower. An’ of course ye’ll want to see th’ Baron’s Hall where those who fought would gather before they goes into battle.”

  The maid spoke in a way which made Larentia feel infected by her enthusiasm.

  “I can see you love the Castle,” she said softly.

  “I’ve lived here all m’ life, Miss, and m’ father an’ grandfather have served the Garons ever since they were small boys.”

  Larentia told herself she must see everything she could before she returned to London.

  She dressed hurriedly and was told that her breakfast would be served to her downstairs and a footman would tell her where to go.

  She felt a little shy in case the Duke would be breakfasting with her, but there was no sign of him, only the elderly butler to enquire what she would wish to eat while a footman waited on her.

  When she had finished Larentia asked if she could see a little of the Castle, unless of course the Duke had sent for her.

  “His Grace is out riding, Miss, but I’m sure Mr. Webster will show you some of the Castle while you are waiting for His Grace’s return.”

  Mr. Webster was an elderly man with white hair who had so obviously a great knowledge of history that Larentia longed to tell him who she was.

  She was certain he would have heard of her father and all the time she was being taken round the rooms inside the Castle, and when she stood in the keep where the animals and their owners were sheltered and protected when there was a battle, she kept wishing her father was with her.

  She knew how much he would have enjoyed seeing the ancient Chapel, which had been desecrated by the Roundheads and later restored to the way it had looked when it was erected in 1350.

  She was entranced by the Armoury with its ancient weapons and heavy armour, and knew her father would have been thrilled by the portraits of each successive generation of Garons, depicting many of them wearing shining breast-plates and with a battle taking place in the background.

  It was all so entrancing that Larentia had almost forgotten why she was in the Castle and the difficulties of her position when a footman came to her side to say,

  “His Grace requests, miss, that you meet him in the morning room. I will take you there, if you wish.”

  It was almost, Larentia thought, like having a jug of cold water thrown in her face to be brought back to reality.

  “Thank you, thank you,” she said to the Curator. “It has been more exciting than I can possibly tell you, to see this wonderful Castle filled with such fine treasures, and for you to tell me about it.”

  “It has been a pleasure, Miss King,” the Curator replied, “and there is no need for me to tell you that there is a great deal more to see.”

  “I hope you will show it to me,” Larentia replied.

  Because she did not wish to keep the Duke waiting, she followed the footman quickly down the long stone passages with their Gothic-shaped doorways back to the Great Hall.

  A footman opened the door of the morning room and when she entered, it was with a sense of relief that she found the Duke was not present and that she had not kept him waiting.

  It was a very attractive room with more portraits of the Garon family hanging on the silk-covered walls and heraldic shields portrayed on carved bosses of the mahogany ceiling.

  Because she was too nervous to sit down, Larentia remained standing. Then seeing some books arranged on a round table in the window she found that among them was the latest volume published by Alfred Tennyson, ‘The Holy Grail and Other Poems’.

  Because she had wanted so much to read it, she picked it up and opened it.

  Instinctively she was once again swept away into the world in which her father lived and breathed and which for them both was Camelot.

  She was just reading, ‘At once I saw him far on the great Sea In silver-shining armour starry clear – ’ when the door opened and the Duke came into the room.

  As her eyes were still bemused with what she had seen with the Curator and what she had just read she thought for one moment that he was in fact clad in silver shining armour. He was not a modern man, but a Knight of the Round Table dedicated to defeating evil and proclaiming good. Because for a few seconds she could not make herself step out of the past and into the present, she just stood looking at him, the book in her hand.

  The sunlight pouring in from the window behind her turned her hair into flaming gold.

  It seemed as if the Duke was as bemused as she was, for he stood still just inside the door, and their eyes met across the length of the room.

  How long they were both of them immobile could not be counted in time. Then the Duke moved forward and the spell was broken.

  As if she had been caught doing something she should not do, Larentia put down the book.

  He came to her side to look down at what she had been reading and said,

  “I see you have discovered Tennyson’s latest poems! You like what he writes?”

  “Y – yes – Your Grace.”

  “Have you read any of his other works? “

  “But of course! The Idylls of the King was based on what my father – ”

  Larentia stopped quickly.

  She was suddenly aware that she had as the Duke approached her forgotten that she was supposed to be Katie King.

  “You were speaking about your father,” the Duke prompted.

  “Yes, but it was not – particularly interesting.”

  “I should be interested, especially if it concerns King Arthur and his Knights.”

  “Why do you say – that?”

  “Because here at the Castle I always feel that I am inspired by the Arthurian myths and legends and personally I like to believe that contrary to the opinion of many scholars, Arthur actually did exist.”

  Larentia clasped her hands together.

  “But of course he did!” she exclaimed. “How can anybody doubt it when his victories in battle are described so vividly in many of the compilations? How can anybody not believe the early Welsh literature which makes him into a King of wonders and marvels?”

  Only as she finished speaking, putting forward the arguments she had heard so often from her father and his friends, did she realise the Duke was looking at her with astonishment in his eyes.

  “How can you be so well informed?” he asked. “Or did Mr. Webster tell you this when you were going round the Castle with him just now?”

  “Actually we did not talk about King Arthur,” Larentia replied, “but I have read about him ever since I was a child.”

  “What particular books?” the Duke asked.

  Again without thinking, because the whole subject was so familiar to her, Larentia replied,

  “Mirabilia, and of course Monmouth’s Historia regum Britanniae.”

  As she looked up again at the Duke and saw the expression on his face, she thought that his astonishment was almost insulting.

  There was no reason, she told herself, why he should think that she or even Katie King should be an ignoramus. Larentia actually knew very few girls of her own age, and it had never struck her that it was very unlikely that anyone except her father’s daughter would be so familiar with not only mediaeval history but also manuscripts that were only of interest to scholars.

  The whole story was to her fascinating and
the ancient writings as easy to read as the fairy stories that most children had in their nursery. But to the Duke just her appearance had taken his breath away, and now the way she was speaking made him feel utterly and completely bewildered.

  “I must be dreaming,” he told himself.

  He knew that even more than she had done last night Larentia personified the Goddess Diana and he felt as if she had stepped out of a picture, or from Olympus, and now stood beside him in human guise still with her divinity about her.

  With an effort to become more normal he said,

  “As I see how greatly Tennyson’s poems interest you, Miss King, I hope you will accept them to read while you are here. You may also take them away with you, if you wish.”

  “May I do that?” Larentia asked. “How very kind! I have wanted so much to read this latest book of his poems.”

  The way she spoke told the Duke, without words, that she had been unable to afford to buy it and he wondered why she had not asked one of her many admirers while she was on stage, to give her a copy as a gift.

  Then as Larentia looked down at the book and the Duke looked at her, the door opened and the Marchioness came in.

  “Oh, here you are, Aunt Muriel!” the Duke exclaimed. “May I present Miss Katie King who, as you already know, arrived late last night to see you.”

  Larentia curtsied. Then as she looked into the Marchioness’s face she thought with a sudden sinking of her heart, that here was somebody who not only disliked but also despised her.

  It was something she had not expected and instantly the nervousness she had felt when she first arrived at the Castle, returned. She told herself she must be very careful what she said and not make any mistakes.

  The Marchioness did not speak but merely looked at Larentia in a way that was extremely intimidating, and it was the Duke who said,

  “I think we should sit down by the fire. There is a sharp wind today, even though the sun is warm.”

  The Marchioness did not reply, she merely walked towards the fireplace, the Duke followed her and Larentia came behind them reluctantly.

  As she sat down in a chair, she was well aware that the atmosphere had changed, and now the bearing of the Marchioness and the expression in her eyes told her that she had to face an inquisition that was likely to be an unpleasant one.