The Lovelight of Apollo. Barbara CartlandЧитать онлайн книгу.
one can prevent it!” the Prince asserted.
He was, like Princess Marigold, head-over-heels in love.
He realised, of course, that it would indeed be of tremendous benefit to his Principality to be allied to the British Throne.
He had been attracted by a number of women in the past and they by him.
He had, however, never felt as he felt now. At the same time he was aware that he must keep his head.
He was trying to prevent Princess Marigold from doing something reckless that would incur the legendary wrath of Queen Victoria.
He was well aware that everyone was frightened of Her Majesty and intimidated by her including the Prince of Wales and his siblings.
He had thought at his first interview that she was the most awe-inspiring person he had ever met in the whole of his life.
He knew that his father would be extremely annoyed if the Queen turned her back on him and it would be a catastrophe if he and the Princess were not accepted at Windsor Castle in the future.
But the sun was shining and Princess Marigold loved him!
It seemed impossible at this very moment that the future could be dull and dismal for them both.
They reached the Duke’s house, which was only about six miles from Windsor Castle.
He owned a number of other houses in the London area, but Chester Park was one of the most impressive.
Set in five-thousand acres of land, it had been in the family for centuries and it had been added to by a number of different generations.
As they drove up the drive, Prince Holden thought that it was more of a Palace than a country house.
The Duchess greeted Princess Marigold affectionately, exclaiming as they entered the drawing room,
“It is delightful to see Your Royal Highness and such a lovely surprise.”
“I know your garden is beautiful,” the Princess replied, “and, as I had nothing dull and formal to do today, it was a perfect opportunity to come here with Prince Holden.”
The Prince bowed and then kissed the Duchess’s hand.
When the Duke joined them, they went into the dining room for luncheon.
Half-way through the meal the Duchess declared to Princess Marigold,
“Prince Holden tells me that you wish to speak with Mrs. Grandell, who is Greek.”
“I would love to do so, if it is not too much trouble,” Princess Marigold replied. “I am so frightened that now that Papa and Mama are dead I shall forget my Greek and have to learn it from a book, which is never the same as speaking the language with a native.”
“I am sure that is true,” the Duchess agreed, “and I have sent a message to Mrs. Grandell telling her that you, ma’am, would call on her at about three o’clock this afternoon.”
“That is very kind of you,” the Princess smiled. “Do tell me, where does she come from in Greece?”
It seemed to her that the Duchess was suddenly at a loss for words.
She looked across the table at her husband, who said quickly,
“Mrs. Grandell is a very reserved woman and seldom talks to anyone about Greece or the time when she left the country.”
The Duke then went on to discuss with Prince Holden some new horses that he had just bought and how pleased he was with them.
The conversation about Mrs. Grandell thus came to an abrupt end.
Princess Marigold, who was very quick-witted, guessed that there was some secret and it was something that she was not meant to find out and she wondered what it could possibly be.
She managed, however, to be extremely interested in the garden, which she was shown around after luncheon.
But she was really counting the minutes until they could leave the Duke’s house.
As they drove down the drive with Lady Bedstone following them, the Princess heaved a deep sigh of relief.
“I have never known time pass so slowly,” she complained to Prince Holden.
“You must not be disappointed, my darling,” he told her, “if Mrs. Grandell will not agree to what you suggest and then we will have to try and find somebody else.”
“I cannot imagine that there are many others in the world who look exactly like me,” the Princess replied.
“Maybe I was mistaken,” Prince Holden said a little uncomfortably. “After all I only saw the girl in Church.”
“We will soon know whether you are right or wrong,” the Prince said as he drew up his chaise at the front door of the Vicarage.
The Princess had been sensible enough to tell Lady Bedstone that it would be a mistake for her to come into the Vicarage with them.
“The Duchess said,” she told her when they were alone for just a moment, “that Mrs. Grandell is very reserved. I am sure therefore that you will understand when I ask you to wait outside.”
“I would much rather do that, ma’am,” Lady Bedstone replied. “I find getting in and out of carriages very tiring. And it was so hot walking round the garden.”
“Then you must rest in the shade,” the Princess said in a comforting tone. “We will not be long.”
The Vicar, the Reverend Patrick Grandell, was waiting for them with the front door open when they climbed out of the chaise.
He gave a very correct bow to the Princess as to Royalty, moving only his head and not his shoulders and he did the same to the Prince, who shook him warmly by the hand.
“My wife is waiting for you, ma’am, in the drawing room,” he related to the Princess. “I thought perhaps that His Royal Highness would like to come and look at my bowling green, which I have just completed, and also a target I have just erected for an archery contest.”
“I would very much like to see them both,” the Prince agreed.
The Vicar led him away across a small hall and opened a door on the other side of it.
“Her Royal Highness is here, Lycia,” he called out.
His wife, who had been sitting sewing in the window, hastily rose to her feet.
The girl who was sitting beside her rose as well.
When Princess Marigold looked at her, she gave a little gasp.
There was no doubt that the Prince was right.
Although it seemed so extraordinary, the daughter of the Vicar and his wife were indeed very much like her.
She had the same fair hair, which was very understandable as the Vicar himself was fair-haired and blue-eyed.
But she had her mother’s dark Greek eyes that seemed to be almost too big for her small pointed face.
She was just so like the Princess that it was uncanny.
She was, however, two years younger and there was something about Avila’s beauty that the Princess did not have.
There was, Prince Holden thought, something essentially spiritual about her.
Something which made her seem not quite human, as if she belonged to a different world from that of other people.
As the Vicar’s wife curtseyed very gracefully, her daughter did the same.
Then the Vicar said in a jovial manner,
“His Royal Highness and I are going to leave you, Lycia. I was never a particularly good linguist where Greek is concerned and I rather suspect His Royal Highness finds it a