The Island of Love (Camfield Series No. 15) Read Online Free
Author: Barbara Cartland
very long and thick merely twisted it into a chignon at the back of her head.
She supposed because she was like her mother that she had a certain prettiness, although it was not the flamboyant beauty of Heloise.
‘Compared to her I am just a pencil-sketch to the brilliant colours of a Rembrandt or a Van Dyck,’ she thought.
Then she laughed at her own fantasy.
It was true because in a way she knew from her position in her father’s house there was something a little ghost-like about her.
She often thought she was like a shadow flitting along behind people who did not even notice her.
Then, as if she must console herself, she looked at the pile of books which stood beside her bed and on the shelves which she had ordered the estate carpenter to erect on either side of the fireplace.
While one side was packed with books, the other still had a few empty spaces left.
She either bought books, which meant sacrificing a gown she really needed, or else she purloined them from the Library downstairs, being certain that her father would not realise they were missing, and that Heloise never read a book anyway.
There they were, her companions, her inspiration, and most of all her consolation.
They consoled her for the fact that her mother was dead, her father did not like her, and Heloise was only concerned with her when she wanted something.
Because she had so much to do in running the house, she had no intimate friends outside and it was therefore the books that filled her life and saved her from being unhappy.
They carried her away to far distant lands, introduced her to people who were as real to her as anybody she had ever met, and gave her the feeling that she was searching for something which would some day fulfil the yearnings of her mind.
“Yes, I have my books,” she murmured aloud.
She winced away from the thought that they were hardly to be compared with having the Earl.
The idea that he could ever be hers, even for the few minutes it took to waltz together, was so unthinkable that she laughed.
Downstairs he was proposing to Heloise, and it was understandable that he should want as his wife the most beautiful girl the London Season had ever seen.
Lydia thought that he must have come to the conclusion that it was time for him to marry, since in his t position it was imperative that he should have an heir.
She thought too that because of the way he lived it was unlikely that he had ever had close contact with unmarried girls.
She was well aware that the Earl belonged to the smart ‘Marlborough House Set’ centring round the Prince of Wales who had already scandalised a great number of people by his interest in other women.
His beautiful Danish Wife, Princess Alexandra, was an object of general pity, but at the same time it was expected that a dashing man, especially a Royal Prince, should enjoy himself as he wished.
‘I suppose Heloise will not mind if the Earl’s interests are often elsewhere,’ Lydia thought.
Then she knew that if she loved the Earl it would be an agony beyond words to know that he was no longer interested in her and that other women had taken her place even if only temporarily.
She knew that Heloise would not admit it, but her half-sister was not in love with anybody except herself.
If her pride was hurt by anything her husband did in the future, her heart would remain unaffected, if indeed she had a heart.
It was strange, Lydia thought looking back, how little affection Heloise had ever shown for anybody.
She certainly had not been fond of her mother and had found it increasingly boring to have to go to see her when she was ill.
Towards the end she had to be persuaded to do so by Lydia or Sir Robert.
“You have not been to see your mother for two days,” Lydia had heard her father say on one occasion.
“I know, Papa, but I thought I had a slight cold,” Heloise had replied, “and I knew it would be wrong to risk affecting Mama with it.”
It was an excuse that was
She supposed because she was like her mother that she had a certain prettiness, although it was not the flamboyant beauty of Heloise.
‘Compared to her I am just a pencil-sketch to the brilliant colours of a Rembrandt or a Van Dyck,’ she thought.
Then she laughed at her own fantasy.
It was true because in a way she knew from her position in her father’s house there was something a little ghost-like about her.
She often thought she was like a shadow flitting along behind people who did not even notice her.
Then, as if she must console herself, she looked at the pile of books which stood beside her bed and on the shelves which she had ordered the estate carpenter to erect on either side of the fireplace.
While one side was packed with books, the other still had a few empty spaces left.
She either bought books, which meant sacrificing a gown she really needed, or else she purloined them from the Library downstairs, being certain that her father would not realise they were missing, and that Heloise never read a book anyway.
There they were, her companions, her inspiration, and most of all her consolation.
They consoled her for the fact that her mother was dead, her father did not like her, and Heloise was only concerned with her when she wanted something.
Because she had so much to do in running the house, she had no intimate friends outside and it was therefore the books that filled her life and saved her from being unhappy.
They carried her away to far distant lands, introduced her to people who were as real to her as anybody she had ever met, and gave her the feeling that she was searching for something which would some day fulfil the yearnings of her mind.
“Yes, I have my books,” she murmured aloud.
She winced away from the thought that they were hardly to be compared with having the Earl.
The idea that he could ever be hers, even for the few minutes it took to waltz together, was so unthinkable that she laughed.
Downstairs he was proposing to Heloise, and it was understandable that he should want as his wife the most beautiful girl the London Season had ever seen.
Lydia thought that he must have come to the conclusion that it was time for him to marry, since in his t position it was imperative that he should have an heir.
She thought too that because of the way he lived it was unlikely that he had ever had close contact with unmarried girls.
She was well aware that the Earl belonged to the smart ‘Marlborough House Set’ centring round the Prince of Wales who had already scandalised a great number of people by his interest in other women.
His beautiful Danish Wife, Princess Alexandra, was an object of general pity, but at the same time it was expected that a dashing man, especially a Royal Prince, should enjoy himself as he wished.
‘I suppose Heloise will not mind if the Earl’s interests are often elsewhere,’ Lydia thought.
Then she knew that if she loved the Earl it would be an agony beyond words to know that he was no longer interested in her and that other women had taken her place even if only temporarily.
She knew that Heloise would not admit it, but her half-sister was not in love with anybody except herself.
If her pride was hurt by anything her husband did in the future, her heart would remain unaffected, if indeed she had a heart.
It was strange, Lydia thought looking back, how little affection Heloise had ever shown for anybody.
She certainly had not been fond of her mother and had found it increasingly boring to have to go to see her when she was ill.
Towards the end she had to be persuaded to do so by Lydia or Sir Robert.
“You have not been to see your mother for two days,” Lydia had heard her father say on one occasion.
“I know, Papa, but I thought I had a slight cold,” Heloise had replied, “and I knew it would be wrong to risk affecting Mama with it.”
It was an excuse that was
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