Dance on my Heart by Barbara Cartland

Author:Barbara Cartland
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781788675796
Publisher: Barbara Cartland Ebooks ltd
Published: 2022-03-24T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER SIX

The Doctor, the proprietor, furious that anyone should die in his hotel, curious femmes de chambre, valets eager to see if there were any pickings to be made amongst the deceased’s clothes, telegrams to be sent to relations.

Fiona could never remember afterwards whom she had seen and whom she had not, what she had done and what she had not done.

All she could understand was that Andrew, her dear Andrew who loved her, was dead, dead in a strange hotel where only she knew him well.

He had died with a smile on his lips and Fiona was glad that their last night together had been such a happy one.

‘The last month of his life was one of happiness,’ she told herself. ‘I have nothing at all to regret.’

The Doctor, who was French, was very kind and understanding. It was he who took most of the arrangements out of her hands.

“We must find out if his family wish him to be sent home,” he said. “Don’t worry, dear madame, I will arrange everything for you.”

Finally Fiona went to her room at his insistence and, taking the sleeping draught he gave her, lay down and slept.

She awoke three or four hours later and it was afternoon. There was a tap at the door and a boy brought her a message from the Doctor, to say that he had now received a telegram from Mrs. Uckfield that she was starting at once for Monte Carlo.

Fiona rose from her bed, her head a little stupid from the sleeping draught and, finding her bag, she opened it for a franc to give to the boy.

It was only as she did so that a sudden thought made her stand so very still that the boy, thinking she had forgotten him, coughed sharply.

Hastily she pushed two francs into his hand and with a swift “Merci, madame,” he went from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Alone, Fiona stared at her bag again and slowly took out the notes that it contained. Five hundred francs and some loose change. That was all she possessed in cash in the world.

She went to the blotter in the sitting room and, opening it, found the will that Andrew had made the night before.

When she read it, she felt a warm glow of gratitude towards him for all that he had meant to do for her.

He had left her eight hundred pounds a year for life, the money to be held in a Trust for her, so that the capital should not be dissipated.

‘Dear Andrew,’ she thought.

At the same time came the sickening certainty that she would never get the money now.

Fiona was not a fool. She knew that she might expect no kindness at the hands of Mrs. Uckfield. Andrew had never found fault with or abused his wife in any way, but Fiona knew all too well the type of woman she was.

No woman could have lived for thirty-five years with Andrew Uckfield and not found out the charm and kindliness of his character, unless she was an extraordinarily hard person.

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