Hiding from Love by Barbara Cartland Page B

the memory of her revolting stepfather, that she was now back at Schilling House, back in her own room with its window overlooking the garden – safe and still in her own dear bed.
    She felt so alone.
    If only she had not frightened Finny away with her questions.  If only – oh, if only her dearest Mama was here.
    Or Isobel, her friend Isobel, whose cool hand would sooth her brow to cajole her out of this obsession with Mr. Chandos – how she would gently chide her for losing her head in this irresponsible way.
    She had heard that love was a sickness and so it was.  Why the very blood in her body seemed to be on fire.
    This cabin was too stuffy.
    She could bear it no longer.  She needed air, air to blow her fevered thoughts away like so much thistledown.
    Struggling to sit upright, she swung her feet over the edge of the bed and felt for her shoes and shawl.
    She groaned, heaved herself to her feet and opened her cabin door.
    Her progress along the corridor and up the stairs was unsteady.
    As the ship ploughed unruly waves, Leonora clung to walls and banisters.  She never knew how she made it to the deck, but next she pushed through a heavy door and there she was.
    She had imagined a fierce wind blowing, but the night was strangely still and it was only the sea that reared angrily beyond the rail.
    Leonora staggered to a bench and dropped down, clutching her shawl about her.
    The brisk salty air was welcome and after a while she felt a little revived.
    She was leaning her head, staring out into the night, when a slight movement caught her eye.  She turned and what she saw made her heart sink as deep as the sea.
    Mr. Chandos and Desirée stood in the shadows of the overhanging upper deck.  His arm was clasped around her, whilst her head – that head with its pall of dingy hair – was leaning most intimately on his shoulder.
    Sick to her soul, Leonora rose and stumbled away, back to the dark confines of her cabin and a web of stormy bitter thoughts.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Leonora had no desire the next morning to go to the dining salon for breakfast, instead she asked Finny to bring coffee and bread rolls to her cabin.
    She had not slept well, plagued as she was by the recurring image of Desirée Griddle in Mr. Chandos’s arms.
    She had bunched up her pillow, sighed loudly and wept quietly as the night crawled by.
    Finny looked concerned when he saw that she had barely touched the bread rolls.
    â€œYou’ll look just like a broomstick when you arrive in Brazil,” he grumbled as he took up the tray.
    â€œDon’t scold me, Finny.  I have no appetite.”
    She waved her hand in a gesture of weary dismissal and Finny turned to go.
    â€œThey was asking for you at breakfast,” he said.
    Leonora’s heart gave a faint leap.
    â€œW-who, precisely?”
    â€œSeñor de Guarda and that Mr. and Mrs. Griddle.”
    â€œOh,” whispered Leonora.
    â€œIs there anything else you need, miss?”
    â€œWas no one else at the table?” she persisted.
    â€œNo.  But the daughter came in later – the thin girl with the lanky hair.”
    â€œWas she – alone?”
    â€œYes, miss.  She had red eyes and a red nose!”
    Leonora, despite herself, gave a sudden giggle.
    â€œOh, Finny.  You always cheer me up, do you think she has a cold?”
    â€œShe might have, miss.  She had a big handkerchief with her.  It was one of Mr. Chandos’s.  I recognised it ’cos it had that emblem on it.”
    Leonora turned her head away quickly.
    â€œI wonder how she came to have it?”
    â€œShe and Mr. Chandos were a-talkin’ on deck quite late last night.  Maybe he gave her the handkerchief then.”
    â€œDoes the whole world know about that late night tryst?” she asked with a hint of peevishness.
    Finny looked at her in surprise.
    â€œI don’t think so.  I only know ’cos Mr. Chandos told