Read Online The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) by Barbara Cartland - Free Book Online
Authors: Barbara Cartland
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doing the cooking,” the Count answered.
“I wondered what I would do if no-one came for me and I had to stay on at Jeno after my money ran out,” Vesta said. “I thought I might have to work in the orange-groves to pay for my keep, but now I realise I could have obtained a job as a cook. I would like to try to make the egg and lemon sauce that I had on my fish at luncheon.”
“I can see you are very practical,” the Count remarked.
Vesta smiled.
“I wish that were true! Mama is always scolding me for having my head in the clouds.”
“And what do you think about when it is up there?” the Count enquired.
It was dusk outside and the light in the small room with its dirty windows was dim. The fire cast deep shadows and somehow it was easy to talk without feeling antagonistic.
“So many ... things,” Vesta answered.
“Tell me what you were thinking as we rode through the woods today,” the Count suggested.
Vesta knew that, if she told the truth, she would have to say she was thinking most of the time of the Prince. But he was not a subject she wished to discuss with the Count, so she answered quickly:
“When I was looking at the flowers, and I have never seen anything so beautiful, I thought that they must be alive ... just as we ... are.”
She paused and continued, choosing her words carefully.
“So perhaps it is cruel to ... pick them. When we do so and they die, it may be as painful to them as it is to us if we are killed ... or murdered.”
Her voice died away and now she was suddenly apprehensive. How could she have told her secret thoughts to the Count of all people?
She expected him to laugh, and as she waited for him to do so it was like anticipating a physical blow. She could almost feel the pain of it!
Instead he answered quietly.
“Some Buddhists believe that to be the truth—as they will not take life, so they will not pick flowers.”
Vesta’s eyes were alight as she looked at him across the table.
“I imagined that ... only I ... had thought of ... that.”
“I am sure that as people develop spiritually in themselves and grow wiser, they all in their own way discover the same fundamental truths,” the Count replied.
Vesta was silent. She turned over what he had said in her mind and exclaimed:
“That is one of the ... nicest things ... anyone has ever said to me!”
Then as if she felt shy, she rose to her feet.
“I must go and ... help with the ... chicken for ... tomorrow,” she said almost incoherently and sped from the room.
It was a long time before she returned, but the Count could hear voices and laughter coming from the kitchen. Somehow the two women were making themselves mutually understood.
Vesta came back into the room accompanied by the Inn-Keeper’s wife, a lighted taper in her hand.
“She wants to show me the way to my bedroom,” Vesta said to the Count.
“I will bring up the bucket,” he answered and went through the kitchen to fetch it.
When he came back they climbed the steep wooden staircase. The woman went first with the taper, Vesta following her.
“You are honoured,” the Count said as they reached the landing. “Candles are treasured in this part of the world. People go to bed before it is dark.”
“I am very grateful!” Vesta smiled.
There were only two bed-rooms upstairs. They were side by side and the rickety doors did not fit. Vesta followed the woman into the first one and realised why she needed the lighted candle.
There was no glass in the window, which was stuffed with rags and old sacks so there was no light and no air.
A bed-stead of rough unpolished wood stood against one wall, by the other there was a table holding a basin.
There was nothing else, not even a chair, and at a glance Vesta could see that the blankets were not only full of holes but extremely dirty.
The Count poured some of the water into the basin and put the bucket on the floor.
“Good night, Ma’am,” he said politely.
She thought, as he
“I wondered what I would do if no-one came for me and I had to stay on at Jeno after my money ran out,” Vesta said. “I thought I might have to work in the orange-groves to pay for my keep, but now I realise I could have obtained a job as a cook. I would like to try to make the egg and lemon sauce that I had on my fish at luncheon.”
“I can see you are very practical,” the Count remarked.
Vesta smiled.
“I wish that were true! Mama is always scolding me for having my head in the clouds.”
“And what do you think about when it is up there?” the Count enquired.
It was dusk outside and the light in the small room with its dirty windows was dim. The fire cast deep shadows and somehow it was easy to talk without feeling antagonistic.
“So many ... things,” Vesta answered.
“Tell me what you were thinking as we rode through the woods today,” the Count suggested.
Vesta knew that, if she told the truth, she would have to say she was thinking most of the time of the Prince. But he was not a subject she wished to discuss with the Count, so she answered quickly:
“When I was looking at the flowers, and I have never seen anything so beautiful, I thought that they must be alive ... just as we ... are.”
She paused and continued, choosing her words carefully.
“So perhaps it is cruel to ... pick them. When we do so and they die, it may be as painful to them as it is to us if we are killed ... or murdered.”
Her voice died away and now she was suddenly apprehensive. How could she have told her secret thoughts to the Count of all people?
She expected him to laugh, and as she waited for him to do so it was like anticipating a physical blow. She could almost feel the pain of it!
Instead he answered quietly.
“Some Buddhists believe that to be the truth—as they will not take life, so they will not pick flowers.”
Vesta’s eyes were alight as she looked at him across the table.
“I imagined that ... only I ... had thought of ... that.”
“I am sure that as people develop spiritually in themselves and grow wiser, they all in their own way discover the same fundamental truths,” the Count replied.
Vesta was silent. She turned over what he had said in her mind and exclaimed:
“That is one of the ... nicest things ... anyone has ever said to me!”
Then as if she felt shy, she rose to her feet.
“I must go and ... help with the ... chicken for ... tomorrow,” she said almost incoherently and sped from the room.
It was a long time before she returned, but the Count could hear voices and laughter coming from the kitchen. Somehow the two women were making themselves mutually understood.
Vesta came back into the room accompanied by the Inn-Keeper’s wife, a lighted taper in her hand.
“She wants to show me the way to my bedroom,” Vesta said to the Count.
“I will bring up the bucket,” he answered and went through the kitchen to fetch it.
When he came back they climbed the steep wooden staircase. The woman went first with the taper, Vesta following her.
“You are honoured,” the Count said as they reached the landing. “Candles are treasured in this part of the world. People go to bed before it is dark.”
“I am very grateful!” Vesta smiled.
There were only two bed-rooms upstairs. They were side by side and the rickety doors did not fit. Vesta followed the woman into the first one and realised why she needed the lighted candle.
There was no glass in the window, which was stuffed with rags and old sacks so there was no light and no air.
A bed-stead of rough unpolished wood stood against one wall, by the other there was a table holding a basin.
There was nothing else, not even a chair, and at a glance Vesta could see that the blankets were not only full of holes but extremely dirty.
The Count poured some of the water into the basin and put the bucket on the floor.
“Good night, Ma’am,” he said politely.
She thought, as he
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