A Perfect Way To Heaven

CHAPTER ONE - 1849

CHAPTER ONE

-

1849Elvira Carrisford repressed a yawn.

She had been travelling since early morning and the air in the coach was stale. The plump lady opposite had insisted that the windows be kept closed all the way for fear of catching a chill in the November air.

Besides the plump lady there was a cleric, who licked his finger every time he turned a page in his missal, a farmer’s wife who shared out her loaf of bread and cheese when everyone started to get hungry, two spinster sisters with yellow mittens and a young man and a young lady in whom Elvira felt a particular interest.

These two looked at each other so often and with such devotion that she was certain they were eloping.

The young man’s shirt cuffs were ragged and his boots were scuffed. He was obviously poor and the young lady looked as if she came from a more significant background.

She wore calf leather shoes and her hands were thrust deep into a white fur muff. Elvira decided that the young lady’s parents had objected to her interest in the lowly clerk and so she had agreed to run away with him.

Elvira watched intently as the young man gently rearranged the young lady’s cloak about her shoulders.

With a pang she wondered if anyone would ever look at her in such an adoring manner.

She turned her head and stared out of the grimy window. The reason she found the young couple so fascinating was that they made her think of her own parents. They too had eloped. Her father had been poor – a musician, not a clerk and her mother had come from a well-to-do and disapproving family.

Elvira wondered if her mother had worn calf leather shoes on her flight and if her father’s boots had been scuffed and his cuffs ragged.

She sighed and leaned her head against the window.

She had never known her father. He had died before she was born. Her mother had died two years later and Elvira had been brought up by her mother’s elder sister, Aunt Willis.

Aunt Willis had never married. She disliked men almost as much as she disliked children and she had not been particularly pleased to be entrusted with little Elvira, but she was a religious woman and considered it her duty. It was also her duty to ensure that Elvira was brought up in such a way that she would never make the same mistake as her mother, Winona.

“If one has to marry,” said Aunt Willis – and she supposed that most girls, being of a weak disposition, could think of nothing else in life – “if one has to marry, then let it be to a gentleman, such as my elder sister Wilhelmina married.”

She had married Lord Baseheart, a rich and powerful grandee with a handsome castle and vast lands in the County of Herefordshire, not an impecunious, sickly musician like Elvira’s father, who could not even live long enough to see his daughter brought into the world!

“My poor, silly sister Winona!” Aunt Willis would often lament to Elvira. “I am sure she would be alive now if it was not for you and your father. His death broke her spirit and your birth weakened her body. Nobody could save her!”

Here Aunt Willis would pause and blow her long bony nose.

“But – but at least they both knew what it was to love,” Elvira once unwisely ventured.

“Love!” exploded Aunt Willis. “Pah! An over-rated emotion. Be sure you never succumb.”

Elvira thought it unlikely she ever would succumb, since it was Aunt Willis’s habit never to invite anyone under sixty to visit.

Moreover, Aunt Willis so disapproved of love and romance that she went out of her way to ensure that Elvira never thought of herself as a candidate for such nonsense. She kept only one mirror in the house and that was so cracked and mottled with age that it was almost impossible to determine one’s own features in its depths.

Since no young person came to the house there was never anyone to quarrel with Aunt Willis’s assessment of Elvira’s beauty, or lack of it, or proffer the temptation of a pocket mirror.

The only time Elvira ever met anyone her own age was the one occasion when Aunt Willis decided to make the long journey west to Baseheart Castle to visit her remaining sister, Wilhelmina. Elvira went too and met her cousin Delphine, the daughter of Aunt Wilhelmina and Lord Baseheart.

Baseheart!

With a finger, Elvira idly traced the name on the steamy carriage window.

She remembered spires and turrets and long corridors silent as the tomb along which she and Delphine had chased each other like puppies. She remembered silk sheets and hot chocolate and her Aunt Wilhelmina coming to tuck her in at night. She had kissed the tip of her nose and whispered that she was going to grow up a beauty like her mother.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” responded the four year old Elvira with great solemnity. “My nose is too snub and my hair too red. Aunt Willis said so.”

A frown had crossed Aunt Wilhelmina’s features.

“Perhaps you need to spend more time here at Baseheart with us. You will soon have a better opinion of yourself. I will make sure that Lord Baseheart invites you next summer.”

Alas that invitation never came. Aunt Wilhelmina became ill and had to spend most of her time abroad. Delphine remained at Baseheart with her indulgent father.

Then news came that Aunt Wilhelmina had died. Aunt Willis attended the funeral, but after that there was little correspondence between herself and her wealthy brother-in-law.

Elvira rather suspected that Lord Baseheart found Aunt Willis too disapproving. She remembered Aunt Willis coughing loudly whenever Lord Baseheart took out a cigar, and tut-tutting even more loudly when he reached for the sherry.

At all events, Elvira had never been back to Baseheart Castle again. Until now!

Five days ago a letter had arrived for Aunt Willis from Lord Baseheart. She had turned it over and over in her hand in astonishment.

“Wonders will never cease!” she sighed.

At last she opened it, adjusted her lorgnette and read aloud over the teacups.

“My dear sister-in-law,

My daughter Delphine is now of an age to marry. I have sought high and low for someone I consider worthy of her hand and at last I have found him. His name is Charles Rowland, a distant Baseheart relation. He also happens to be, through his mother’s side of the family, nephew and sole heir to Prince Louis de Courel.

The inheritance depends entirely on Charles marrying whomsoever the Prince decrees and out of fond friendship with myself, he decrees that his nephew should marry my daughter. I have no doubt that when the young man in question sets eyes on my daughter, a great beauty, madam, and of uncommon intelligence, as I am sure you will recall – he will feel the alliance to be more of a pleasure than a duty.”

Here Aunt Willis lowered her lorgnette with a grunt.

“From what I have heard of that young creature, Delphine, he will be more likely to want to run a mile. Lord Baseheart has indulged her every whim since her mother died. She has only to click her fingers and she has her heart’s desire. On top of that, her eyes are too close together.”

“Are they, aunt? I don’t remember,” said Elvira politely.

“Well, take it from me, they are!” sniffed Aunt Willis. “Believe you me, the draw here is not the charms of Delphine Baseheart, but rather the c***k of her father’s money. The French aristocracy lost more than some of their heads in the Revolution, you know.”

“But the Revolution was over half a century ago, aunt,” commented Elvira as she reached for the sugar bowl.

“That may be!” retorted Aunt Willis. “But they never managed to recover all their wealth. Still it would be something of a coup to have a Prince in the family.”

“What else does the letter say, aunt?”

Aunt Willis raised her lorgnette again and read on,

“Charles Rowland is coming to Baseheart next week to meet his intended. My widowed sister, Lady Cruddock, is now in constant residence at Baseheart and has hitherto proved an admirable chaperone for Delphine.

Nevertheless, my daughter has now taken it into her head that she wants a companion of her own age when the Prince is here. It is with this in mind that I have taken up my pen to write to you.

Elvira is only a year younger than my daughter and would, I believe, be a suitable companion. Should the post suit Elvira, I would ask her to join us at Baseheart before the week is out. I believe the opportunity is too great for her to refuse.

Yours etc.

Rupert Baseheart.”

Elvira’s eyes widened as her aunt read out this last part of the letter.

“But I do refuse! I don’t want to leave here and I don’t want to leave you.”

Aunt Willis regarded her sternly.

“Elvira, you are now eighteen years of age. God knows that I have done my duty, but I want a life unencumbered with the worries of rearing a young girl of no means and little personal attractions. It may be that at Baseheart Castle you will encounter some young man, a secretary in his Lordship’s employ perhaps – who will see more in you than meets the eye. You cannot expect a Prince, after all!”

Elvira had listened bleakly.

“Don’t you – care for me at all, aunt?”

Aunt Willis set her lips firmly.

“I daresay I shall find the house rather quiet after you go, but I’ll get used to it.”

“G-go?” repeated Elvira. “I am truly to go, then?”

“Yes,” insisted Aunt Willis impatiently. “Haven’t I indicated that? We must sort through your wardrobe this morning. This afternoon I shall write a reply to Lord Baseheart and tell him to expect you on Wednesday.”

In fact it had taken a day or two longer than expected to organise the journey.

Elvira was to take the coach to Gloucester, but was to stop at the White Doe Inn on the road to the Forest of Dean. There the Baseheart carriage would meet her and convey her on the last three hour lap to the castle.

Aunt Willis had purchased a second-hand trunk and a couple of carpet bags for Elvira’s belongings, which did not amount to much. Along with the usual camisoles and cotton under-bodices there were three dresses. These were all blue, which Aunt Willis deemed a perfectly reliable colour.

Besides, she added somewhat grudgingly, they matched Elvira’s sapphire eyes, her only redeeming feature!

It had been a shock to Elvira to find that Aunt Willis had been only too happy to part with her. She had never been demonstrative and often made sharp remarks, but nevertheless she and Elvira had managed to muddle along with little actual friction.

It had been a lonely life for Elvira, but she was aware that many young girls were far less lucky. At least Aunt Willis had provided her with a governess – the elderly, short-sighted but kindly Miss Hoot, who had taught Elvira reading, writing and arithmetic.

There were no books at Aunt Willis’s except the Bible and theological tracts, but Miss Hoot had dared to smuggle in some fairy tales and one or two classics such as Gulliver’s Travels. She had not, however, taught Elvira any languages, not even Latin or Greek, which Elvira regretted.

Remembering the letter from Delphine she had received the day before, her face clouded. She had not formed a favourable impression of her cousin’s character from the letter’s style and content.

Elvira sighed again. She was beginning to rub out the word Baseheart that she had traced on the steamy window when a voice hailed out from the coachman’s box.

“White Doe Inn approaching!”

Disregarding the health of the plump lady in her sudden excitement, Elvira threw down the window and peered out.

A moment later and she gave a start. It was late afternoon and the pale sun was sinking, but even so she could detect the black cloud of smoke that hovered over the roof of the galleried building ahead.

*

The White Doe Inn appeared to be on fire –

The yard of the inn was in chaos. Figures with soot smeared faces ran to and fro with pails, water slopping over the sides onto the cobbles. The air smelt of burnt wood.

A stable boy ran up to the coach and lowered the step for Elvira to descend as the other passengers peered after her through the open door.

“What happened here?” the coachman called out to the stable boy.

The boy, with soot-ringed eyes, grinned.

“Fire in the kitchen, sir. It was all ‘ands to help, us workers and the guests alike. It’s more nor less out. We’re just damping it down.”

Elvira looked about her in dismay. There was no sign of the Baseheart carriage.

“Only you, miss?” asked the stable boy.

The coachman answered for her. “She’s all.”

The boy gestured to another young fellow like himself and the two of them hauled down Elvira’s trunk and bags. The first boy then slammed the carriage door before Elvira could bid farewell to her fellow passengers.

The coachman cracked his whip and the coach wheeled round. It quickly passed out under the archway, carrying away the plump lady, cleric, spinster sisters, farmer’s wife and the devoted eloping couple.

Elvira stared after it, feeling strangely desolate.

“Will you come on into the parlour?” the stable boy asked.

Elvira glanced towards the inn and shook her head. The interior was bound to smell even more strongly of smoke than the yard. Timidly, she pressed a coin into the stable boy’s palm.

“I shall sit out here on my trunk,” she said. “I am expecting to be collected at any moment.”

“Suit yourself, miss,” he shrugged, pocketing the coin and loping off.

Elvira settled down onto her trunk, crossing her shawl more tightly over her breast. The sky was dark with something more than dusk. The air was chill and one or two tiny white flakes fluttered down through it, like the feathers of a ghostly bird. Servants began to light torches around the yard and one or two went over to the pump to wash their sooty faces.

“Fire out?” a serving wench asked them, pausing with a bag of flour balanced on her hip.

“Quite out,” responded one of the two men at the pump. “Not enough flame to fry an egg now!”

The wench laughed as Elvira’s eyes strayed beyond her and alighted on a tall stranger leaning against a post and wiping his brow with his sleeve.

He had obviously been helping to put out the fire, for his shirt was open at the neck and his sleeves were rolled up. His forearms looked very strong and brown and Elvira supposed he was an employee at the inn.

The wench noticed him too, as she shifted her bag of floor on her hip and sauntered over to speak to him.

Elvira wondered at her forwardness.

For some reason this scene made her think of Delphine and she turned to the reticule on her lap, opened it and took out the letter she had received from her cousin.

“Dearest Elvira,

Papa has told me you have agreed to come and live here as my companion. What fun!

My aunt Lady Cruddock’s nose is a little put out of joint, but I won’t mind her and nor should you. I didn’t want her watching my every move when the Prince comes courting.

I do hope you’re passably pretty for I don’t like to look at ugly things. Why, there are mornings when the sight of my Aunt Cruddock quite turns my stomach. People say I am the perfect image of my mother, and she was a great beauty.

Your mother had lovely hair, but Aunt Willis is a horror. I remember wanting to take the garden shears to those hairs on her chin!

Anyway, won’t it be a lark to have a Prince here? Well, someone who is nearly a Prince. I shan’t let myself love him, my aunt says that would be a huge mistake. But I shall let him love ME. Which he will do. I always have a full card at the ball. Shall I let you in on a secret? I am going to make him my slave. There! Don’t be shocked. It’s what all girls should do to their suitors.

Well, come quickly. I am very impatient, you know, and don’t like to be kept waiting.

It’s my only shortcoming, Papa says so.

Your affectionate cousin,

Delphine.”

From the tone of the letter, Elvira rather doubted that impatience was Delphine’s only flaw.

She stared down at the large untidy handwriting. Could she and the writer have anything in common?

She heard a rattle of wheels approach the inn and looked up expectantly. Sure enough, it was a private carriage, but as it rolled in under the arch she was certain it was not for her.

It was a rickety old-fashioned carriage, bouncing violently up and down on its springs. Its exterior was shabby and unpainted and there was no crest on its door. The two horses pulling it held the air of creatures coaxed out of retirement.

She was returning Delphine’s letter to her reticule when she heard herself addressed in rather rough tones.

“You ‘appen to be this Miss Elvira?”

She looked up. The driver of the rickety carriage was staring down at her.

“I – I am,” she stammered with trepidation.

“I’m ‘ere to take you to the castle.”

“B-Baseheart?” questioned Elvira, peering at the carriage to see whether she had indeed missed a crest.

The driver seemed to know what she was seeking and gave a sly chortle.

“Oh, you won’t find a crest, Miss This is the old governess’s carriage that’s been a-mouldering in the barn.”

“I see.”

“Lord Baseheart, Lady Cruddock, Miss Delphine – they were all out visitin’ in theirs and the axle is off the guest carriage. And the other one’s bein’ polished up for the use of Mr Charles Rowland, when he comes. And the last one is too grand altogether for the present purpose. So this is what you get!”

Hiding her humiliation at not being considered important enough to be collected in a crested carriage, Elvira rose from her trunk.

“This is all I have,” she gestured.

“Haul it aboard, then.”

Elvira blinked. Was he not even going to help? Since the driver turned idly whistling from her she saw that no, he was not. So she dragged one of the two carpet bags over to the back of the carriage and attempted to hoist it on to the luggage rack herself.

“May I help?”

In the dimming light, Elvira made out the sooty features of the stranger who had been leaning against the post. The wench had obviously received short shrift.

“Why, thank you, yes,” she said. “I should be very grateful.”

The driver had stopped whistling and turned at the sound of the stranger’s voice. The stranger regarded him sternly.

“Could you not have shifted yourself, man, to help the young lady?”

The driver excused himself in wheedling tones.

“I’ve a gammy arm. Injured at Waterloo.”

The stranger raised an eyebrow.

“Indeed? You must have been very young.”

“I were a lad of fourteen. The drummer boy. Played with me right ‘and. Can’t play no more.”

He raised an arm that was indeed puckered and twisted.

The stranger’s tone softened.

“No. I can see. That’s hard luck on a man.”

The driver was mollified.

“I’ll light the lantern to ‘elp you back there,” he offered.

Turning, he reached for the lantern that swung at the front of the coach and began to fumble with the wick.

The stranger meanwhile set about dealing with Elvira’s luggage.

Elvira could not help but marvel at the apparent ease with which he then hoisted it up on to the rack. He paused for a moment, passing his forearm across his brow.

“I hope you haven’t far to go,” he said. “There’s snow on the way.”

“I don’t know how far in miles,” answered Elvira. “But I was told it would take about three hours.”

The stranger gave a troubled frown.

“Three hours!” He stepped back and called up to the driver. “You surely don’t intend to travel for three hours with the weather so threatening?”

“I’ve my orders,” replied the driver loudly. “‘Sides, those ‘orses may look like nags but they’re ‘ardy.”

“I shouldn’t like to pass the night here anyway,” put in Elvira. “Not with the fire barely out.”

With a shrug, the stranger lifted the two carpet bags on top of the trunk and then he felt for the ropes that would secure the load.

“Light a-comin’,” called the coachman.

Elvira looked up into the soft yellow beam. The stranger glanced her way and then looked again, as if transfixed.

She could not read his expression, since he stood outside the small circle of light, but she felt herself scrutinised. She was not accustomed to this and began to blush. Had her hair come loose under her bonnet?

The driver was growing restive.

“We’ve got to be off. You said yourself the weather might turn rough. Best to get ahead of it.”

The stranger stirred in the darkness.

“My humble apologies,” he replied in so low a voice that the reply seemed hardly aimed at the driver’s ears. “I was momentarily dazzled.”

“Oh, by the light,” said Elvira with an understanding nod.

“No, young lady. By you.”

Elvira was astonished.

“By me? Why, what could dazzle you, sir, about me?”

The stranger gave a sceptical laugh .

“Come, come, young lady, you cannot be unaware of the effect of your beauty!”

“My beauty? You are not to mock me, sir. I know full well that I have a turned-up nose and too low a hairline.”

“Too low a hairline?” echoed the stranger.

“Yes. Aunt Willis said so.”

The stranger became immediately solemn.

“Oh. Aunt Willis. No arguing with her, I suspect.”

“No,” replied Elvira, a certain wistfulness in her voice. The stranger noticed and seemed about to respond when the driver threw out another impatient reprimand,

“What’s keepin’ you there?”

The stranger returned to his task without another word. He tightened the ropes around the trunk, hooking them through the handles of the carpet bags and tying them both in a firm knot.

When he had finished he wiped a hand on his shirt before extending it towards Elvira.

“Young lady.”

That he had extended his hand for Elvira to shake did not occur to her. Reddening, she groped in her reticule and withdrew a coin, which she attempted to press into the stranger’s palm.

He stepped back with a laugh and a shake of his head.

“It was a labour most willingly undertaken, ma’am. How could I have refused to aid a young lady possessing such – singular charms? Whatever Aunt Willis says.”

He opened the carriage door and handed Elvira in. Then he closed the door behind her and strode away towards the pump.

Pressing her face to the glass, Elvira saw that the wench had reappeared and seemed to be awaiting him with a fresh towel over her arm.

He certainly seemed a cut above the usual hostelry servant, she thought. She watched as he pressed down the handle and leaned his head into the flow of water.

The carriage gave a lurch and the two horses started off with greater vigour than Elvira would have supposed possible.

The stranger looked up from the pump, his face and hair dripping, the front of his shirt drenched. It was Elvira’s last image of him.

In an instant he and the wench and the still smoking inn were lost to sight.

With a heart grown suddenly heavy, Elvira turned her face towards Baseheart.

It struck her as fitting that the road ahead was dark and the moon was swallowed whole in a black and lowering sky.