The Saint and the Sinner

Table of Contents

Cover

The Saint and the Sinner

Chapter One 1819

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

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THE LATE DAME BARBARA CARTLAND

Copyright

The Saint and the Sinner

After the tragic death of her mother and father when their horses took fright and sent their carriage hurtling into a river, orphaned Pandora was taken in by her uncle, the Bishop of Lindchester. She has never been happy with him, but now she is horrified to overhear that he plans to marry her off to his Chaplin, the Honourable Prosper Witheridge. 

There is no denying the will of her Guardian – but just maybe she can fill her husband-to-be with revulsion at the very thought of marrying her! With this is mind she invites herself to stay with her cousin, the shockingly decadent Earl of Chartwood, who is notorious for ‘entertaining’ ‘droxies and play-actresses – women with whom no decent man would be associated...’ 

‘Perfect!’ she thinks. But arriving at the awesome Chart Hall she is appalled by the outrageous goings on. If only her Guardian would relent and release her to embrace the love she finds burgeoning in her heart...

Chapter One
1819

Pandora sewed the cover that she had washed and pressed back onto the cushion, thinking as she did so that it would be hard to choose a more hideous colour or design.

It was a kind of ‘liver’ brown and the embroidery on it was a sickly shade of green.

Her father had so often said that people could be associated with colours, and she thought that these were typical of her Aunt Sophie.

She gave a little sigh as she thought of how unhappy she had been since she had come to live in the Bishop’s Palace at Lindchester.

It was large, oppressive, cold, and in Pandora’s eyes excessively ugly. That was the word, she decided, that described her life ever since she had arrived there.

She had been so happy in the small Vicarage at Chart with its rose-filled gardens and the stables which held her father’s horses – the horses which her mother had often said with a laugh were the most important members of the family.

Her father had never really wished to be a Parson, but then, being the third son in a family dedicated to the Church, he had really had little choice.

However, he had been clever enough to obtain a living where there was little to do and he could ride and hunt to his heart’s content.

“The Hunting Parson” they called him, but more often than not they forgot that he preached on Sunday and instead thought of him just as an attractive, jovial man who was the friend of everyone in the hunting-field and everywhere else.

What fun it had been just being in his company, Pandora thought, and forced back the tears that immediately misted her eyes.

She had cried so desperately and uncontrollably, when she had first learnt of the accident that had killed her father and mother that she thought afterwards she had no tears left.

And yet, after more than a year of living with her uncle, the Bishop of Lindchester, she found it increasingly difficult not to cry, because everything seemed so bleak and she was so desperately alone.

Even now she could not bear to think of the accident which had taken her father and mother from her.

Because her father could not afford well-trained horses he usually broke them in himself.

He was trying out a pair that were still rather wild when he and his wife were enjoying a day’s hunting on the other side of the County.

The day before they were to ride, Charles Stratton had sent the two horses to a stable belonging to a friend, so that they would be fresh when he and his wife arrived in the gig in which he always travelled.

It was old and, as he admitted, somewhat rickety, but it carried him where he wished to go and that was all that mattered.

He left the gig and the horses which drew it in the stable which had housed the hunters and they had a glorious day with a long run, which was what Charles Stratton enjoyed more than anything else.

Both he and his wife were tired when as dusk was falling they set off home along the narrow lanes which led eventually to Chart.

It had been a crisp, bright day, but now there was undoubtedly a sharp frost and Charles Stratton said, somewhat ruefully,

“It looks as if we shall not be able to hunt for the rest of the week.”

“It may turn to snow,” his wife replied optimistically.

“I doubt it,” he said. “Are you warm enough, my darling?”

“Quite warm, thank you,” she answered, nestling a little closer to him.

They reached the top of a long hill which led down to a river, and Charles Stratton realised that there was ice on the road and he would have to drive carefully.

He reined in his horses, and was proceeding more slowly when suddenly a stag leapt over a fence in front of them and rushed across the road only a yard or so ahead.

It terrified the horses, who broke into a wild and uncontrollable gallop, and in a moment they were hurtling at a breakneck pace towards the river.

Pandora had been told exactly what happened: the old gig had smashed against the bridge and her father and mother had been thrown down a steep embankment and into the river itself.

Her father’s neck had been broken, while her mother, knocked unconscious, had fallen face downwards into the water and drowned.

Pandora often wished that she had been with them and that she too had died.

When her uncle, the Bishop, had with obvious reluctance and a great deal of hypocritical magnanimity taken her to live with him and his wife in the Palace, she had thought it would be impossible ever to laugh again.

Certainly there was nothing to laugh about in the company of her uncle and aunt.

They were not physically cruel to her but they obviously resented her presence, and everything she did was wrong in their eyes.

It was impossible to please them, however hard she tried, and after a while, because she was intelligent, she realised that it was her looks that offended her aunt more than anything else.

She was very like her mother, and her heart-shaped face and large pansy-coloured eyes were such a contrast to her aunt’s overblown figure and lined face that she could in fact understand why the older woman resented her.

There were always innumerable tasks for her to do, and although she was prepared to do them willingly, the results were never precisely what her aunt wanted.

Now she was quite sure that there would be something wrong with the cushion. She would have sewn it too tightly or too loosely, or it would not have been pressed to her aunt’s satisfaction, and there was every likelihood of her having to do it all over again.

Then, with a sigh of relief, she realised that her uncle and aunt were leaving at noon for London.

They had been invited to the garden-party to be given by the Bishop of London at Lambeth Palace.

It was an event which her aunt looked forward to year after year, and for three weeks Pandora had been altering her gown, including adding extra lace, refurbishing her bonnet, and doing innumerable renovations to the sunshade she would carry.

Whatever Aunt Sophie wore, with her stout figure she would look ungainly, and that was undoubtedly one of the reasons why at breakfast she looked with distinct animosity at Pandora’s slender figure, which could not be disguised by the plain, almost Puritan-like gown she was wearing.

It had been the usual silent meal because the Bishop did not like talking early in the morning.

Instead, he read
The Times,
propped up in front of him on a silver holder that was polished assiduously by the butler.

Two footmen handed round a large amount of food in silver dishes from which Augustus Stratton and his wife reinforced themselves for the journey which lay ahead.

Pandora ate very little and was relieved when her aunt gave her three lists on closely written sheets of paper.

“These are the things you are to do while I am away, Pandora,” she said in her hard voice. “There is no need to be slack and indolent because your uncle and I are not here. You will tick off each thing as you do it, and I shall expect every item to be completed before I return on Friday.”

“I will do my best, Aunt Sophie.”

“Then let us hope that your best is better than it usually is!” her aunt said scathingly.

Pandora took the lists, rose from the table, curtseyed, and left the room.

Once she had closed the door, she ran to the small Sitting-Room where she kept her sewing-basket and other personal things.

But, instead of reading the lists as she should have done, she went to the window to look out at the sunshine and thought with a feeling of joy that she was free!

Free for three days from fault-finding and grumbling, of veiled innuendos about her father and mother, and of undisguised criticisms of herself and her appearance.

“What shall I do? How shall I spend the time?” she asked, and knew the answer.

As soon as her uncle and aunt had left, she would ride over to Chart and talk to the villagers there who had loved her father and mother.

She would not go to the Vicarage, for she could not bear to see other people living in what she still thought of as her home.

But there were others who would welcome her gladly because she was her father’s daughter and because they had known her ever since she was a small child.

She put the cushion back onto the chair on which it belonged and thought again how ugly it was.

As she did so, the door by the fireplace in the corner of the room gave a little click and she realised it had blown open because someone had entered her uncle’s Study, which was next door.

Then she heard her aunt’s voice.

“Before we leave, Augustus, you will tell Pandora that she is not to go riding near Chart Hall.”

“I was just thinking of Pandora,” her uncle replied. “I have not had a chance to tell you, Sophie, that yesterday, before he left to visit his father, Prosper Witheridge asked me if he could pay his addresses to her.”

“You mean to say he wishes to marry Pandora?” Mrs. Stratton asked, as if such an unlikely idea had never crossed her mind.

“He says he has a deep regard for her,” the Bishop replied, “but, quite rightly, he has not spoken to her but instead has asked my permission to do so.”

“Then all I can say is that I should have thought he had more sense,” Mrs. Stratton said sharply. “But of course, as far as your niece is concerned she should be grateful, deeply grateful, that a good man should wish to make her his wife.”

“Pandora is very young,” the Bishop said reflectively. “I should have thought it better if she waited awhile before taking on the responsibility of marriage.”

“She will never get a better offer,” Mrs. Stratton said. “Of course, Lord Witshaw has two older sons, but nevertheless Prosper is an ‘Honourable’ and that amounts to something – in fact a great deal!”

“I was not particularly thinking of the Social World’s side,” the Bishop said.

“Then what else?” his wife asked quickly.

There was a pause before she added,

“How can you possibly hesitate in giving permission, if that is what you have done?”

“I told him I would think about it,” the Bishop answered, “and let him know my decision on our return from London.”

“Then it will be ‘yes,’ Augustus, an unequivocal ‘yes!’ For I assure you it will be a great relief for me to have Pandora off our hands. I only hope that Prosper Witheridge is strong enough to curb that regrettably wild streak in her, which undoubtedly she inherited from her mother’s family – not yours.”