Love Joins the Clans (eBook)

Barbara Cartland (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2018 | 1. Auflage
298 Seiten
Barbara Cartland eBooks Ltd (Verlag)
978-1-78867-125-5 (ISBN)

Infos

After her mother Lottie's death in Paris, penniless young Clova has no one to turn to, so she heads for Scotland - to the Clan Lottie abandoned when Clova was just seven. Then fate intervenes and a vast inheritance from her dead mother's former lover makes her a rich woman.
Nevertheless, she is afraid that her kin will despise her as they did her mother, who ran away with a 'Sassenach' to a life of 'sin' in Paris and Monte Carlo. But to her amazement, she is told that she has inherited the title of Marchioness of Strathblane and Chieftain of the McBlane Clan!
But her new wealth and power are double-edged swords. Not only is her Clan embroiled in a bitter feud with the neighbouring McCowans, but her cousin Euan is also plotting to seize her title - by the foulest of means.
Winning the hearts of her Clan with her brave leadership, she loses her own to the 'enemy' Laird - and if wicked Cousin Euan gets his way she will lose her life too.

Textauszug

Chapter Two

Lottie was buried with a pomp and style that would have delighted her.

Clova found that the Bank was only too pleased to advance her any amount she required until the money from South Africa arrived and Monsieur Beauvais himself undertook to look after her affairs.

When the funeral was over, Clova realised sadly that the only other mourners had been a representative from the Bank and the concierge’s wife, who had wept copiously through the Service.

It seemed horrifying that Lottie, who had been such a success in Paris when she was with Lionel Arkwright and for many years after he had left her, should now have had no one else to mourn her.

As they had gradually become poorer and poorer and moved to lower and cheaper accommodation, Lottie had been too proud to contact her old friends.

Moreover, although she would not admit it to herself, she had not felt well enough to make the effort.

But to Clova it seemed bitter that she had not been able to enjoy the money that Jan Maskill had so kindly left her.

There had not even been time to buy the sables that had delighted her so much in the Rue Royale.

Going back to the two empty bedrooms after the funeral was over, Clova looked around her as if she was seeing them for the first time and realised how squalid and uncomfortable they were.

She thought of all the elegant houses and apartments that they had lived in before and knew that those who had disapproved of Lottie would say she had got what she deserved.

Yet it was impossible to forget her laughter, her irresistible enjoyment of life and the happiness she brought, even if it was a fleeting one, to so many different men.

At least Jan Maskill had appreciated her and Clova thought that perhaps he and her mother would find happiness together in that other world that they had travelled to within a few weeks of each other.

Now she had to decide what she was going to do and for the first time she realised how lonely and friendless she was.

She had been so intent on looking after Lottie this last year ever since she had known it was impossible to save her life that she could hardly remember talking to anyone except shop assistants and lodging house keepers.

There was therefore literally no one she could visit in Paris and ask to advise her.

As she thought about it, she knew that it would be difficult as a young unmarried woman to obtain decent accommodation.

And it was unlikely that any responsible hotel would accept her.

She was sure that most landlords would refuse to rent her an apartment when she had no personal credentials and no older woman to chaperone her.

She went to the window to look out over the roofs of Paris and think how frightening it was to be so completely alone and without her mother.

She had loved Lottie with a childlike devotion and, although Lottie had expected her to wait on her hand and foot, she had always felt that by being with her mother she was protected and also had a purpose in life.

Now that was gone and there would be nothing to replace her it in the future

She put her hands up over her face and instinctively she was praying fervently and agonisingly for God’s help.

Lottie had never felt the need or inclination to attend a Church Service and, living in France, they had not taken the trouble to find a Protestant Church, although it had been a Clergyman from the British Embassy who had taken the Burial Service.

That had been arranged by the Bank Manager and Clova had only exchanged a few words with the English Parson, who was an elderly man with white hair.

Perhaps, Clova thought, she should ask him for assistance and it would certainly be a sensible thing to do.

But it would be embarrassing when he enquired where she worshipped and her only answer could be that she and her mother sometimes went into Catholic Churches, lit a candle and prayed for anything that they particularly wanted at that moment.

Clova had the idea that what her mother prayed for was that there would be another man in her life.

She was sure when one did appear that Lottie attributed it to the candle she had lit in the Madeleine, in Notre Dame or when they were in Monte Carlo in the Chapel of Ste-Dévote.

‘Perhaps I had better wait until tomorrow and ask Monsieur Beauvais, who has been so kind and helpful, if he will assist me,’ Clova decided finally.

Anyway she had to thank him for everything he had done for her and it would be easier to call and see him at his office.

She rose from the bed where she had been sitting and crossed the room to the looking glass, wiping her eyes as she did so.

One thing she could do would be to buy something decent to wear.

She had bought herself a simple black gown for the funeral and now, looking in the mirror, she thought that her mother had been right when she had said that, because of their fair hair and blue eyes and translucent white skin, black made both of them look theatrical.

Not that that had worried Lottie. Indeed she often added a black gown to the expensive garments she possessed when some man was paying for them.

But black, sparkling with diamanté, ornamented with flowers and feathers, was very different from the severe black of mourning.

As Clova looked at her reflection, she had the uncomfortable feeling that if she tried to find a position as a Teacher in a school or as a Governess in a Parisian household, her employer would think that she looked too sensational or perhaps ‘flamboyant’ was the right word.

‘I will not wear black,’ she decided, knowing that if Lottie knew why she did not appear in mourning she would think it sensible and not in the least insulting to herself.

“One must always make the best of oneself,” her mother had said not once but a hundred times as they moved about Paris or journeyed to Monte Carlo.

“No one could suggest that you do anything else, Mama,” Clova had answered.

“But you have not combed your hair properly this morning and your shoes are dusty,” Lottie had replied. “Appearances are always important and I would not want any of my friends to think that I neglected my little daughter.”

It was only as the years passed and Clova grew older and more mature that Lottie would make excuses to keep her in the background.

“I am lunching with a delightful gentleman, who asked me to bring you with me,” she would say, “but I know, darling, you would find it boring, listening to us talking about ourselves or rather him talking about me. So I am sure that you would rather have luncheon in our sitting room.”

“Yes, of course, Mama,” Clova would agree at once.

She was now no longer the little girl with golden curls who was an asset to Lottie’s beauty and her sparkling gaiety.

She had become another woman and Lottie had no wish, although Clova liked to think that she had not expressed it even to herself to find a rival in her own daughter.

But it had not been necessary for the last six months to keep out of sight of Lottie’s admirers for there had not been any and she had none of her own.

‘I have to do something,’ she told herself desperately and knew that it was the Bank Manager who she must turn to for help.

She looked at the hard, uncomfortable iron bedstead where she had been sleeping, at the wallpaper that was peeling from the walls and the curtains that would not pull completely across the window and decided that, when there was no necessity for it, she could not bear to stay here any longer.

She was also vividly conscious of the empty room across the passage where her mother had died.

She knew that crying would not bring her back. She had to start a new life on her own and the sooner she got down to business the better.

She thought that Monsieur Beauvais would be back in his office at about three o’clock, having like most Frenchmen doubtless enjoyed a long luncheon with perhaps a number of other business associates or with a pretty woman.

‘I will go to the Bank now,’ Clova resolved.

She put on the plain black hat that she had worn for the funeral and started to walk down the uncarpeted stairs.

As she reached the bottom, she saw a man standing at the desk speaking to the concierge.

“I am calling on Miss Clova McBlane,” he said in English.

He had a strange accent and the concierge, heaving himself out of his armchair with some difficulty, replied,

“Pardon, monsieur, qu’est-ce qu’il vous faut?”

“Miss McBlane,” the man replied in a slightly louder tone.

Clova walked towards him.

“I am Clova McBlane,” she said in English.

The man turned from the desk.

He was elderly with hair and side-whiskers that were turning white and dressed, she thought, in a somewhat severe fashion that made her think that he was perhaps a Minister of some sort.

“You are Clova McBlane?” he asked as if he must make sure of her identity.

Clova nodded and smiled.

“I was told that I would find you here,” he said, “but I thought I must be mistaken.”

Clova knew without his saying so that he was appalled by the sordidness of the entrance, the worn and none too clean linoleum on the stairs and walls that had not been painted for at least a dozen years.

For a moment she felt that she must apologise for being found in such unpleasant surroundings.

Then pride made her lift her chin a little before she asked him,

“May I enquire, sir, why you are here?”

“Yes, of course,” her visitor answered. “Is there somewhere where we can talk?”

Clova realised that she could not...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 3.12.2018
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Historische Romane
• ISBN-10: 1-78867-125-2 / 1788671252
• ISBN-13: 978-1-78867-125-5 / 9781788671255