An Introduction to the Pink Collection. Barbara Cartland

worked on the drive. When she moved into the fields on one side of it, they, too, had been neglected. It was depressing. But the birds were singing, the sun was shining, and sometimes she saw a rabbit or a squirrel moving through the grass ahead of her.

      Just before her were the woods, with the trees in bud. And there was the stream, and beside it what she always thought of as her father’s cross, looking incredibly lovely because the kingcups had come into flower at the foot of it. Golden in the sunshine flickering through the trees, they made the cross itself seem to stand out firmly because the wood was dark.

      She read again the words carved on the cross which she could see quite clearly, and instinctively she began to pray. As she did so, she looked down at the kingcups, and one side of them she saw a thistle. It was green and ugly and was spoiling one side of the cross.

      It seemed dark and mysterious. Then she remembered that she had a pair of gloves in the pocket of her jacket. They were thick and lined with leather.

      When she put them on, she attacked the thistle, finding that she had to pull it with both hands as hard as she could before it finally came out.

      And then, she saw to her astonishment that attached to the roots were several coins. She picked them up and started to rub away the mud.

      Then stared, thinking she must be dreaming.

      They were gold.

      And there were more of them in the hole she had made in pulling out the thistle. They were ancient, maybe two hundred years old.

      And solid gold.

      For a moment she was dazzled. Then she took a deep breath and reminded herself sternly that these coins belonged to the owner of The Grange – whoever he was.

      She remembered the open gates, the rumour that The Grange had been re-opened. Now was the moment to find out.

      She removed two more of the coins under the thistle, then she put the thistle back where she had found it, pressing it into the earth, so that no passing stranger could make this discovery.

      First she took the coins from it before pressing it back into the ground.

      Then she stood for a moment looking up at the top of the cross.

      “Perhaps you have answered my prayer,” she said.

      Then she almost laughed at herself for being so optimistic.

      “If the owner is a generous man he’ll give me at least, one of the coins I found for him. Couldn’t I just take one – to help me find some work?”

      But it was impossible. She was too much her father’s daughter to take anything secretly. Every coin must be handed over to its rightful owner.

      At once.

      Walking out of the woods she began to move through the field, then into the garden towards the great house.

      *

      It was a long time since Rena had been to The Grange, and she had forgotten how attractive it was.

      It was about four hundred years old, a long, grey stone building, stretching to two wings, and with a tower in the centre.

      The tower was an oddity. It had been added about a century after the house was first built, and was topped by small mediaeval style turrets, which clashed with almost everything else about the building. But to the people of the village it was a treasured landmark, and they would not hear a word against it.

      The house even maintained its beauty despite its poor condition. Many of the diamond-paned windows were broken and the rest badly needed cleaning.

      There had been no gardeners here for a long time, but the flower-beds were brilliant with colour. Even the many weeds somehow seemed part of the picture rather than to spoil it.

      On a day like this it was hard to remember the rumours that The Grange was haunted. There were old people in the village who said they had seen and heard strange noises when they visited it.

      A surprise awaited her when she reached the front door. It was open. Perhaps there was a new owner, and servants had arrived.

      “Or maybe,” she thought wryly, “it’s the famous ghost.”

      Hearing no sound, she walked into the hall. Like the rest of the house it was in a very bad way, with dust up the stairs that was so obvious that she looked away from it immediately. The passage which she reached at the end of the hall was not much better. The carpets were grey with dirt and so was the furniture.

      “Ugh!” she thought.

      There was only silence around her.

      Then she thought she heard a slight sound on her left, which was the way to the dining-room and beyond that the kitchen. For a moment she hesitated. Propriety dictated that she return to the front door and ring the bell.

      But curiosity urged her forward, along the passage. Curiosity won.

      As she moved quietly through the dining room she couldn’t help noticing that the table wanted polishing and the top of the fireplace was thick with dust. Probably the glass vases on the sideboard were half full of dust she decided. Really this place needed the touch of a good housekeeper.

      Then she heard a sound behind the door that led to the kitchen and the pantry. Now she knew there must be someone in the kitchen.

      Quietly she opened the door and crept along the passage which led to the pantry, then to the kitchen, from where the noise seemed to come. The door was ajar and she pushed it open. To her surprise she saw a man struggling to light a fire, and obviously not succeeding.

      She could see only his back, but the very shape of it was redolent of exasperation and frustration. He’d stripped off his jacket, revealing a tall, well-made frame in breeches, shirt and waistcoat. She contemplated him.

      Then something seemed to make him aware of her presence and he spoke sharply, without turning round.

      “Perhaps you can make this damned fire burn! I want some breakfast and the coal and wood are conspiring to prevent me from having it.”

      There was so much resentment in his voice that Rena could not help laughing.

      “Let me do it,” she said. “These old fires are very troublesome at times.”

      The sound of her voice made the man turn round. He was young and unexpectedly good-looking, although his face was partly hidden by a smudge of coal. For a moment they both looked at each other with interest and pleasure.

      Then he rose and said, “I do apologise. I don’t know who you are, but if you could make this fire burn I could have something to eat. I’m ravenous. I’ve eaten all the food I brought with me last night, and this kitchen has defeated me. In fact the whole house defeats me. Wretched place!”

      She couldn’t help laughing again, and assumed a shocked tone. “Do you know, sir, that this house has been called one of the most beautiful houses in the whole of England.”

      “I could think of several things to call it, but that wouldn’t be among them.”

      “Don’t let the new owner hear you say that!”

      “It’s all right. I am the new owner.”

      “Oh heavens!” she cried. “And I thought you were a ghost!”

      He grinned. “A pretty solid sort of ghost. A pretty filthy one, too. Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. My name is John and I’m the Earl.”

      “The Earl? You mean – Lord Lansdale?”

      “Yes. I don’t look much like an Earl do I? More like a pot boy, I suppose.”

      “My name is Rena Colwell. My father was the vicar here until his death. He brought me to this house several times when the old Earl was still alive. It’s such a beautiful place, and I’ve always loved it. Is something wrong?”

      For his face had fallen.