An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition by Cartland Barbara

believed that, if she was pretending an affection for her brother, it was not a sincere one. Elita would demand virility and passion from a man and Francis’ pale posturings would, Lizbeth was sure, be more likely to arouse amusement than any deeper emotion.
    And yet there was no doubt that the girl was encouraging him, but for what reason Lizbeth could not guess. Elita was the first girl in whom Francis had ever been interested. Always when women came to the house he paid little attention to them, hardly speaking save out of the most ordinary politeness. When not at his studies, he seemed most content to be alone, reading or writing the poems which aroused his father’s fury, but which seemed to give Francis, if no one else, a good deal of satisfaction.
    There was a sudden sound outside on the stairs, which made Lizbeth sit up suddenly in her bed. Was it Francis returning? She hoped it was so, only to realise that what had aroused her was nothing more than the creaking of the panelling. All was silent again, but because she was restless and worried, Lizbeth rose once more from her bed, and crossed the room to the window.
    It was chilly and cold outside. It had been raining earlier in the evening and the rain clouds were still heavy in the sky, partially obscuring the light of the moon. It was, however, possible to see the outline of the garden below, the great trees silhouetted high and dark around the house. There was no sign of anyone moving through the garden or coming round the sweep of the drive.
    Lizbeth sighed and then shivered a little from the night air. She could do no good standing there waiting for Francis, and yet she hated to turn away from the window with only that sense of anxiety and frustration for company. She wished now that she had run after him when she saw him descending the stairs, and pleaded with him not to go. Yet she knew he would not have listened to her. Like all weak people Francis could be incredibly obstinate on occasions.
    There was another sound on the stairs and, thinking perhaps she had missed Francis’ return, Lizbeth opened her door, hoping to see a flicker of light coming up the stairs. But there was only the darkness and the throbbing silence of the sleeping house, and then, as she stood there, Lizbeth heard something else – a strange, a different sound, but one that was continuous – from the room next door, the room where Phillida slept.
    For a moment Lizbeth hesitated. She looked towards the Great Staircase with its carved balustrade and heraldic murals-if only she could see Francis! Instead of that the stairway was empty. She glanced in fear towards the oak door of the bedroom on the south side which housed her father and stepmother.
    The sound from Phillida’s room continued and now Lizbeth made up her mind. Closing her bedroom door behind her, she crept with bare feet over the polished boards. She lifted the latch of Phillida’s door and entered. Phillida was kneeling at a prie-dieu by her bed. The candles on the table had spluttered low, but by their light Lizbeth could see Phillida’s head bowed in her arms and her shoulders heaving with the storm of her weeping.
    Quickly she closed the door behind her and sped across the room.
    “Phillida, dear, what can be the matter?” she asked as she put her arms round her half-sister.
    At the sound of her voice and the touch of her arms Phillida was suddenly still, her weeping ceased, but she did not move save to stiffen her shoulders and become, so it seemed to Lizbeth, resentful of being interrupted.
    “Go away!” Her voice was muffled but clear.
    “No, I will not leave you,” Lizbeth replied in a low voice, “not until you tell me what distressed you.”
    Phillida raised her face at that. It was white and drawn and streaked with tears as though she had been weeping for a long time.
    “I want to be alone. Why must you plague me?”
    “You are unhappy,” Lizbeth answered. “Is it for Rodney that you are