My Lady Destiny

by Denise Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

The lovely, lonely child named Destiny, grows up a drudge in a poor parsonage, until aged fifteen, she discovers that she is the daughter of the Earl of Destermere, and the richest heiress in Queen Anne?s England! Stephen Godwin, the Earl?s secretary, traces her to Bath and carries her off to Richmond where she is caught up in the social whirl. But the Countess, her beautiful and unscrupulous stepmother, resents her coming. She plans to marry Destiny to her own brother, the depraved, sadistic Baron who is out to gain control of Destiny?s fortune. As Destiny rises from kitchen drudge to social beauty, will her fate be love or misery?

Release date: February 27, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 400

Sample

Lord Destermere lay dying.

His wife, Mahla, her brother Humbert, and a white-capped nun, sat on either side the big canopied bed, watching and waiting for the end.

It was in the year 1708 on the second day of February.

Dawn was breaking. Birds in the thickly-wooded grounds of the Château des Cygnes – one of the loveliest buildings on Lac Leman – had begun to wake. The plaintive intermittent piping was the only sound to break the intense silence. Lord Destermere hardly breathed. Now and again the nun leaned over him and put a mirror against his lips to see if it became moist.

Each time the religious woman made this gesture Lady Destermere put a hand to her throat and clutched the thick rope of jet beads which were wound around her long throat. Her eyes dilated. She drew closer to her brother. His handsome, florid face wore a faint derisive smile. Then as the nun drew back, whispering that “milord still drew breath”, her ladyship relaxed. Her gaze met that of her brother with what could only be termed a slightly sinister look. Certainly it brooked neither pleasure nor relief.

A thin elderly man clad in black and wearing a bob-wig and Steinkirk which showed white around his lean neck, was standing by one of the tall windows which opened out on to a veranda. He had been there for some time, his hands behind his back. Now he drew aside the heavy velvet curtains. At once the melancholy flickering candles burning in tall candelabra on the mantelpiece paled before the sudden light of morning as it filled the lofty chamber.

In the pearl-grey light of morning everything seemed to assume a different aspect. The features of the dying man in his white frilled bedgown became sharper. The magnificent red hair which Lady Destermere wore tied back with a girlish bow – black like her beads – seemed to coil and glow with the voluptuous colour and movement of serpents. The square face of the massive Baron Faramund her brother, appeared dissipated and brooding. He wore a purple robe which gave him something of a look of a dissolute emperor; he had those heavily-lidded eyes and curled lips. His scant fair curls and the very blueness of his eyes were however essentially Germanic. He had been born and bred in Hanover.

Only the face of the nun remained serene and pure, unaffrighted, unchanged by the searching light of the day. Her lips moved in prayer. A rosary slipped through her ivory fingers.

Lady Destermere watched this rosary as though fascinated for a while then rose and yawned, stretching her arms above her head. The Baron looked at his sister through half-shut eyes. He was quite attached to her. They had had the same father, and in general the same interests. They were both greedy for money and for power. Mahla was in her late twenties – he, nearing thirty-five. She was ageing, he thought this morning, with a cruelty that was part of his character. Nevertheless he admitted she still had strong sensual appeal and an almost unspoiled beauty, (if anything so fiercely feline could be so called by that name. She had been wasted, he thought, on Claud Destermere. After ten years of marriage, Claud had given her nothing but his name and the choice between this dreary Château in Switzerland which bored her to tears, or life in England at Destermere House in Richmondwyke, which was the family seat. That she found gloomy. For a time they lived in Paris. But Destermere’s health had been poor for a long time now and his medical advisers had sent him here to Geneva to breathe the pure air which blew down from the mountain peaks.

The old fool had been dying on his feet almost since the day he married Mahla, Humbert reflected, with a savage discontent which he knew his sister shared. It would be intolerable if Claud did not succumb this very dawn to the ravages of the wasting disease which had been consuming him. They had waited long enough.

Once he was gone, Mahla would have control of the Destermere fortune. That was what she had bargained for when she first left Hanover to marry the Earl.

The soberly-attired gentleman who had just drawn the curtains was his lordship’s Swiss notary, Monsieur Bertian. He had come from Geneva with a document which his lordship had signed last night. Milord had made a great effort to hold the quill, supported on one side by his secretary, Stephen Godwin, and on the other by Monsieur Bertian.

The contents of that document were as yet unknown to anyone in the Château save Mr. Godwin and the Swiss.

Baron Faramund gazed thoughtfully at his sister. He was amused by her appearance. She wore a white velvet mantua edged with black fur. With those jet beads, she already presented a spectacle of mourning. Quite charming and sad. What an actress she was, he thought. At will she could bring tears to glisten upon those fabulous lashes of hers.

Humbert was wholly German. But she, his half-sister, had been born of a mother who was an English Jewess. The little Mahalah whose Hebrew name had been shortened as she grew older to Mahla, had learned to speak the English tongue at an early age. After ten years as Lady Destermere, she retained only the slightest trace of German accent which most men found fascinating. Destermere had found it very fascinating indeed when he first met her at the schloss owned by her uncle; a certain German landowner of repute in whose mountain retreat some of the finest wild boar hunting was to be found. When Lord Destermere was in his twenties and still vital, he had been a remarkably fine sportsman. At the ball which followed a big day’s hunting, Destermere met and fell violently in love with his host’s captivating niece. He decided once again to risk a marriage.

Destermere was a charming but rather weak man who in middle age believed in virtue and deplored his own youthful departure from it. As he grew older he became religious and continually repented the sins of the past. He was a man of curiously naïve, trusting character. Until evil was spread before him, undisguised, he seldom recognized it. The red-headed Mahla with her strong sensual appeal, easily blinded him to the fact that she was as corrupt as she was beautiful. It had made Humbert laugh to see the virginal crown of lilies set upon his half-sister’s brow on the day of her bridal. He knew that she had lost her virginity before she was fourteen years of age. (Her singing-master had seduced her.)

The Faramund family were at that time involved in wars, heavy taxation and a variety of financial losses which had made it essential that the young Baroness should marry a wealthy man. Hence her acceptance of Claud Destermere. He bored her and she had never been faithful to him. Humbert knew that, also.

But she seemed to have maintained her sway over this kindly simple husband of hers. He could not bear her out of his sight. She had powers of persuasion and an aptitude for lies and intrigue which at times startled even her depraved brother.

The Baron, personally, had never been popular with Claud Destermere. He was received here only out of deference to Mahla, who was much attached to her brother. But now the end of Destermere and his disapproval is in sight, reflected the Baron. The tomb for him. The great riches of the House of Destermere for Mahla. Her unopposed authority over those full coffers.

Humbert waited impatiently for his brother-in-law to draw his last breath.

The notary pulled the curtains still further apart. Now all of them in the bedchamber turned to the majestic sight that met the gaze. A matutinal mist shrouded the peaks of the mountains facing them – heights still clad in winter’s white. Snow had fallen over the grounds last night. As though in sympathy, Nature had spread her own shroud for the English nobleman whose end was approaching. But to the east in the sky there appeared suddenly a chink of miraculous blue which was reflected in the deep waters of the lake. Geneva was calm at this early hour. The city was barely stirring. It was only in the Château des Cygnes that there was movement. Lights burned in all the upper windows.

Earl Destermere opened his eyes. They had become almost colourless as is the case with the dying. His body was wasted to a skeletal thinness. They had not bothered to shave him. A stubble of gold beard showed on his chin. He had the look of a suffering Christ. Indeed, he called voicelessly on that sacred Name, beseeching pardon for his sins. His mind travelled back a long way to one particular episode in his past which now seemed to him of paramount importance. He had done a great wrong. He wanted to live until he had put it right. He muttered a name.

“Stephen. …”

At once the nun took his wrist and pressed her finger against the pulse. She was of German-Swiss extraction. She whispered in German to her ladyship.

“It is a miracle … milord is a little stronger. …”

Mahla’s lashes drooped to hide the impatience and disappointment in eyes that were as purple and flagrant as bright pansies. She bent over her husband.

“Is it not I whom you wish to call upon, my dearest?” she murmured, and pressed a lace-edged handkerchief against her lips.

The dying man looked at her. Even now that he was finished with the lusts of the flesh, the peace of his passing was disturbed by the sight of his young wife’s flame-red hair, and the thick creamy skin of her matchless bosom.

“Mahla,” he whispered.

She bent and kissed his emaciated hands.

“What can I do for you, belovèd?”

He drew a deep sigh which seemed to come from the very depths of his heart. Her luxuriant hair was so close that he could inhale its musky fragrance. How madly he had loved this girl! He had always wondered why she should have devoted her youth and burning beauty to him, who at forty had become old and tired. He had wondered also, why none of his family in England – distant relatives, who used to visit the Destermere House (for Claud was the head of the family) had liked her. One of his aunts had hinted that he was a fool to trust the German Jewess. In consequence he had closed the door of the house to this particular lady. She was now dead. All his kinsmen were dead. Before his illness had brought him to bed he used to go to England. But of late he and the Countess had resided entirely in Geneva.

The Earl nursed another secret sorrow on account of the fact that Stephen Godwin who was his protégé as well as his secretary, never really made friends with the Countess.

Nobody could ever complain of Stephen’s manners towards Mahla. They were impeccable. He was courteous but cold. Once, Destermere had taxed him with this coldness and asked why he did not show more warmth and admiration for Lady Destermere. In the old days when they used to entertain lavishly, she used to be surrounded by fervent admirers. But Stephen avoided her.

When Destermere touched on this subject, the young man appeared so embarrassed that Destermere tried to ignore it and believe that the boy meant no offence to her ladyship. He was reticent by nature – with an austerity which even the fascinating Countess could not break down.

Destermere, personally, loved Stephen. The boy had been almost as dear as a son to him during the last six years; since he had first come to live with the Earl he had proved himself both efficient and loyal.

“Now that I am dying, I have no qualms about placing my business affairs in Stephen’s hands,” reflected the dying man.

But the ghost of that old sin committed in his youth haunted the death-chamber this dawn. It seemed to lay an icy hand on Destermere’s failing heart.

“What can I do for you, beloved?” repeated Lady Destermere.

“I want to speak … to Stephen … and to Monsieur Bertian … alone. …” he gasped.

Mahla flicked her lashes at her brother, shrugged and moved with him out of the room.

“What has he in mind that he should be so secretive and banish you?” growled the Baron.

She shrugged again.

“Nothing. He hesitates to bore me with business matters. He has always been so – treating me like a child who must be protected from worries and troubles.” Mahla whispered back, and her lips curved into an ironic smile.

That smile faded when in the lofty, marble-floored corridor, she met the familiar figure of the English secretary hurrying towards his master’s room. They came face to face. Lady Destermere barred Stephen’s way. He was a tall youth but not much taller than her ladyship who was of exceptional height for a woman. She looked at him with those lustrous pansy-purple eyes which held more than an ordinary invitation. The Baron moved on, shrugging his shoulders, knowing well the passion which his sister had lately developed for her husband’s secretary. Mahla had ever been one to desire the unattainable. She would not rest, thought Humbert, until she had made Stephen Godwin her slave. (Wasting her time, in Humbert’s opinion).

After tomorrow, once she held the reins of office, she could undoubtedly fling Stephen Godwin out. She would have no further use for him and Humbert, himself, would see that the Englishman departed at speed. He thoroughly disliked him. The boy on occasions had shown a contempt for him which had fired the Baron’s blood. There had been an incident only a week ago when Stephen had surprised the Baron in the library whilst attempting to molest a young, struggling Swiss maid. A fragile child whose big eyes had momentarily attracted the sensual German. Stephen demanded that he should release the girl instantly. After she had rushed away, trembling and in tears, blessing Monsieur Godwin for her deliverance, the Baron had stormed at him. What right had he to interfere?

Stephen replied:

“The right of any decent gentleman, Baron, to protect the virginity of a mere child. Little Marie-Thérèse is scarce thirteen and must be allowed to perform her duties in this house without fear of your unwelcome attentions.”

At that, Humbert cooled and laughed in a sneering way. Looking Stephen up and down, he said:

“How come you know so much about Marie-Thérèse’s virginity? Could it be that you have already tested it, Mr. Godwin?”

Stephen had turned white, made as though to answer, then swung round and walked out of the room.

The following day the Baron had tried to find Marie-Thérèse and was told that the child had been sent home. An older coarser woman had been engaged in her place. He realized that he had the secretary to thank for this and cursed him for a pie-faced Puritan. But on telling his story to Mahla, Humbert was advised to say no more. Mahla did not want there to be trouble while Claud lived. She would deal with Stephen, she told the Baron, when the time was ripe. So the Baron took himself off on horseback to a nearby village to find a pretty peasant girl to take the place of Marie-Thérèse.

Now, outside the Earl’s bedchamber, Lady Destermere tried to wheedle Stephen.

“You look fatigued. You were up all night with my lord, were you not?”

“I was, but I am not tired. I am only too happy to serve his lordship while I can,” said Stephen quietly.

And he looked away from Lady Destermere scowling. Those huge lascivious eyes of hers made him uncomfortable. He had never been able to understand how a man like Destermere could be so blind to his wife’s true nature.

Stephen found the red-haired, handsome Countess utterly unworthy of her gentle husband’s kindness, and all the gifts that he lavished on her. Stephen knew too much about her lack of morals, and the atrocious way in which she managed to deceive her husband. There was a vein of stupidity in Destermere which young Stephen was forced to acknowledge. But the Earl was lovable and generous and Stephen respected him greatly and regarded him as a friend and benefactor. It had horrified him when Lady Destermere first began to display her passion for him. Some men in his position might have been flattered, but to Stephen, Lady Destermere’s interest in him was an abominable thing. Until a month ago the knowledge that this was the woman who would inherit all that the Earl had to leave; that the great noble house of Destermere would pass into her hands, worried the boy exceedingly.

There was no one of the blood left to succeed the Earl. His only nephew who would have inherited the estate, had died in a hunting accident two years ago.

Stephen had confided his fears in the Swiss notary when Bertian came upon the scene. Bertian, elderly and astute, had talked some sense into the Earl and finally persuaded him to sign a new final testament which would not give his widow so much power nor allow the estates to fall into her profligate brother’s hands.

Then a month ago, Destermere had confided the story of his youth both in Bertian and Stephen. Since then Stephen had been to Paris on an exciting secret mission – and made various inquiries on behalf of the dying Earl.

Once armed with the fruits of this inquiry, Stephen was much relieved and could look with more confidence to the future.

He could look at the Countess this morning with less apprehension, too; knowing that a disagreeable shock awaited her and her brother.

“If your ladyship would kindly allow me to pass,” he murmured coldly but politely.

Mahla glanced around the corridor. It was in semi-darkness. The Baron had disappeared into his own bedchamber. She sighed and lifted her arms to the secretary’s shoulders. He shrank back but for a moment she pressed her sinuous body against his and looked with undisguised longing at his pale boyish face. The finely-cut lips … the wide eyes, grey and brilliant … the proud short nose … attracted her vastly. Stephen Godwin was not of aristocratic lineage but he looked noble, she thought, and Claud had told her that he was of decent birth. He did not wear a wig this morning. His own hair, dark brown, was tied back with a black bow. His coat and breeches were of clerical grey, relieved by the white of his Steinkirk.

His persistent coldness maddened the woman. There was something almost monkish about Stephen. He was clever and, in her opinion, much too studious. He seemed never to be interested in recreation of a frivolous kind. Claud, himself, had told Mahla that the young secretary had never yet been in love.

To be twenty-four and not to have had a woman in his life seemed incredible to Mahla. In her home in Hanover, the young gentlemen of the house slept with the maids, if with none other; and diced and danced and enjoyed every form of vicious amusement.

She was all the more determined to be the first with Stephen. It would amuse her. Often she lay awake at night thinking of him – longing to bring a different expression into those light grey eyes which she found as icy as the waters of the lake. There was passion in him – she was sure of it. She knew men. This one had a warmth, a depth, still to be plumbed. He smiled rarely, but when that smile broke through it had an odd charm and radiance. And that he could feel deeply, she was aware, because of his whole-hearted devotion to his master.

“Stephen, my love,” she whispered, and brushed a red coil of her perfumed hair across his lips. “When you have finished with your boring affairs, pray come to my room. My maid has orders to receive you. Knock twice. I shall be waiting.”

Stephen recoiled. All his Puritan blood rose and flamed against this wanton witch of a woman.

“How can you speak so when your husband lies dying, milady?” he said indignantly.

She stepped back, fingering her jet beads, laughing up at him.

“You are foolish, Stephen. You miss much. You should really enter a monastery and be done with the world.”

“I am not a Roman and I have no wish to become a monk,” he said. “But when I finally choose to lie with a woman it shall be with my wedded wife.”

Then he passed on and into the Earl’s chamber, leaving the Countess standing there, angry; but not too despairing. She knew Stephen, she thought. He was a man and if he was no monk, she was positive that she would win in the end.

Stephen Godwin stood beside the big bed gazing in grief upon his benefactor.

The colourless eyes opened and returned Stephen’s gaze with recognition. The bloodless lips whispered:

“My boy. …”

That was enough to make Stephen’s heart swell. He had been born with a sense of pride and individualism which had never found expression until he came in contact with Earl Destermere. In this bitter hour of impending loss, he remembered his first meeting with his benefactor; seven years ago when he was still in his teens, completing his studies at St. Paul’s School. It was a school patronized by the noble Earl from Richmondwyke.

At that time, young Stephen had just been orphaned and impoverished after the sweating sickness wiped out his entire family. His father had been a schoolmaster; his mother of gentle birth, and once he had had three adorable sisters and a happy carefree home. Then everything seemed to come to a full stop in his life.

He had been about to say good-bye to St. Paul’s and take a tiresome job in the City as a clerk when Destermere came across him. Stephen had heard what he had said to the headmaster.

“I am impressed by the reports of this boy’s talented work and read with pleasure one or two of his essays. He has a frank countenance and a curiously noble air. It would be a tragedy to hide such a light behind the bushel of poverty.”

Destermere, then paid himself for the completion of Stephen’s studies, and after a year took him into his house to work in a secretarial capacity. He also encouraged him to begin writing a book of essays on the Marlborough campaign in which the boy was interested. From that time onward Stephen found Destermere a lenient employer and he learned to forget the loss of his. . .