Barbara Cartland - The Saint and the ...

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Table of Contents
Cover
The Saint and the Sinner
Chapter One 1819
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES
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.
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