A Flight To Heaven (2 page)

“Look at you, my darling baby! You are just like a little fairy,” Lord Fairfax would say to her in his deep voice, rumbling with laughter as Chiara tried to pull him to his feet so that he could dance with her.

“Well I never, Baby Chiara,” he would exclaim, as he balanced precariously on one foot and raised the other in the air in imitation of his daughter. “Who would think to see an old gentleman like myself taking part in a ballet?”

But that was a long time ago.

Chiara was seventeen now, quite grown up, and due to be presented at Court later in the year.

And her dear Papa was no more.

Elizabeth reached out and took Chiara’s hand.

“Poor Chiara!” she sighed. “We will do everything we can to make you comfortable here. Sit by the fire and get warm and I will go and see about tea.”

“Elizabeth – you are so kind – ” Chiara murmured, as her friend leapt up from the sofa. “But wait, you said you had something to tell me. Whatever is it?”

Elizabeth’s cheeks flushed softly pink.

“Oh – I’ll tell you later. Tea is more important.”

And she hurried away to speak to the cook.

Chiara lay back on the sofa cushions and closed her eyes, as her frozen hands came painfully back to life in the warmth from the fire.

But nothing could touch the icy pain that filled her heart.

She now thought back to the last time she had been happy. School had just finished and Chiara, together with two large trunks and an assortment of bags and boxes, was bowling through the Norfolk countryside in the beautiful Fairfax family coach.

The wintry sun shone down over the patchwork of fields and hedges and her heart had swelled with joy as she saw the graceful outline of Rensham Hall appear on the top of a low hill.

She had smiled to herself as she peered out of the coach window. It was only in Norfolk that anyone would think of Rensham Hall as being on top of a hill.

It was really more of a slight rise in the landscape, but Norfolk was so low-lying that any small bump that was not completely flat was always described as a hill.

Rensham Hall was built of pale yellow stone, which always seemed full of light, even on a dull day and it stood in the middle of a beautiful Park with wide acres of grass and many tall trees with spreading branches.

“Oh, quick, quick!” Chiara whispered, longing for the horses to break into a gallop, as they clattered through the gates and trotted up the long drive to Rensham Hall.

Her heart was beating as she jumped down from the coach and ran up the front steps and into the empty hall.

“I’m back!” she called out and could not help but spin round in a joyous pirouette, her skirt billowing out around her like the petals of a flower.

It was so good to be home, to see the great vase of yellow jasmine and winter honeysuckle that her Mama had placed on the round table at the foot of the stairs.

To smell the delicious mix of lavender wax, pipe tobacco and sweet gardenia that always lingered in the hall.

And now the scent of pipe tobacco was growing stronger.

“Is that my Chiara? My baby girl?” Lord Fairfax’s voice called out from the landing at the top of the stairs.

“Who else! Of course it’s me, Papa!”

Lord Fairfax’s tall body, stooped at the shoulders now, as he was a very old man, was approaching down the wide staircase.

He was wearing a heavy velvet dressing gown and Chiara was surprised to see that he was holding onto the banisters with his right hand. She could never remember seeing him do that before.

In his other hand he held his briarwood pipe and curling from its bowl was the sweet-scented smoke that she loved so much and on his grey-whiskered face was a smile of pure delight.

It was just another perfect homecoming. She stood at the foot of the stairs, smiling up at him, absolutely happy to be back home again.

“Chiara!” her Mama’s sweet voice rang out behind her. “
Mia cara
! You are home, how wonderful!”

There was a light tap of heels over the marble floor and then Mama’s gardenia scent filled Chiara’s nose.

Next her arms were around her in a passionate hug.

“And now you are home with us for good,” she said, stroking Chiara’s shining dark hair. “Until, of course, we find a handsome beau for you – ”

“Mama! I have only just walked through the door and already you are trying to marry me off!”

Lady Fairfax’s dark eyes glowed with mischief.

“Oh – to be so young again,” she sighed. “You are going to have so much fun,
cara
.” She turned and looked up at the staircase. “But look, Chiara – here is Papa! Oh, careful, my darling love,
be careful
!”

Lord Fairfax seemed rather unsteady. His slippered foot caught on the carpet and his tall body wavered.

Lady Fairfax stepped swiftly towards him, but then suddenly his legs gave way beneath him and he fell heavily forward, tumbling awkwardly down the last few stairs and landing at Chiara’s feet.

“Papa!” she cried, bending over him.

His grey eyes stared up at her and a smile twitched on his thin lips.

“Why did you come downstairs? What were you thinking of? The doctor advised you to stay in your room.”

Lady Fairfax pushed Chiara aside and seized her husband’s shoulder.

“What have you done to yourself? Oh, my darling, you are hurt!”

Lord Fairfax lay motionless on the marble tiles. His eyes were wide open, gazing up at the painted ceiling.

“No, no, no!” Lady Fairfax’s voice rose in a shrill wail of fear, as she cried out to her husband in Italian, begging him to wake up, to speak to her.

Suddenly servants appeared, the housekeeper and the parlourmaids bringing water and towels and a bottle of brandy and a stocky footman, who said he would send for the doctor straight away.

But it was too late. Old Lord Fairfax heard nothing of the hubbub around him, saw nothing of the wife who stroked his face with her slender hand, felt nothing of the warm tears that splashed onto his face.

He had died from a sudden heart attack.

Chiara shivered in the warm parlour, as she recalled those awful moments, her Mama’s cries of despair and the terrible chill that crept into her heart when she understood that her beloved Papa was no more.

“Now then, we have tea and fruitcake and cook has given me some muffins we can toast ourselves!”

Elizabeth had returned, carrying a large tray piled high with good things.

Chiara picked up the toasting fork and speared a fat muffin on the end of it, so that she could hold it next to the red embers at the bottom of the fire.

The wonderful smell of the toasting muffin and the taste of the hot tea made her feel a little better.

“Goodness, these are doing very quickly!” she said, passing a nicely browned and crisp muffin to Elizabeth. “What is the news you were going to tell me?”

Elizabeth gave a little sigh, as she spread butter and jam over her muffin.

“Oh, Chiara! I have met a young man – Arthur! He is staying in Ely with some relatives.”

Her cheeks had turned pink.

“Elizabeth! So what is he like? Do your parents know about him?”

Chiara had never seen her friend look quite like this before, so shy and secretive and yet proud at the same time.

“I haven’t told them yet and he is quite marvellous, so handsome. He is an Officer in the Royal Navy.”

“But what will your Papa say?” Chiara asked.

Elizabeth’s father was the Dean of Ely Cathedral and a most important figure in the town.

“I am going to tell him tonight after Evensong and then, if he agrees, Arthur might come and pay us a visit tomorrow and you could meet him, Chiara.”

Chiara felt a little stab of pain in her heart. She was so cold and sad and empty now next to Elizabeth, who was glowing with excitement and happiness.

“And you never know, Chiara!” she was saying, “perhaps Arthur might know of a fellow Officer who could be your beau.”

Chiara shook her head.

“I don’t think so,” she said, “I just cannot imagine that I will ever – ” and her voice shook as she felt tears coming into her eyes again.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Of course the last thing you will want to do is start thinking about young men, when you feel so miserable. Don’t give it another thought. Will you come to the Cathedral for Evensong, Chiara?”

“I think I would rather just rest.”

Chiara did not think she could face the vast cold Cathedral with its echoing aisles and great ribbed ceiling, even though she loved to hear the choir singing.

Elizabeth took her upstairs to a pretty blue-painted bedroom and told her to lie down for just as long as she wanted.

It was dark outside now and the rain had stopped, and through the open curtains Chiara could see a single star shining down over the higgledy-piggledy roofs of the town.

She lay for a long time, watching the tiny point of light against the darkness and somehow it comforted her.

‘I
will
be happy again,’ she told herself. ‘I cannot see how, but I will.’

With a tiny glimmer of hope in her heart, Chiara turned over in the bed and then fell into the first deep and peaceful sleep she had enjoyed since her Papa had passed away.

*

Count Arkady Dimitrov turned away from the buzz of conversation and the clink of glasses in the drawing room of the fine house he had rented in Mayfair.

Outside the tall bay window the street below was quiet and the pavements gleamed wet from heavy rain.

It was a far cry from the outstanding prospect over the River Neva that stretched away outside his Palace in St. Petersburg.

Everything in London seemed to him so small by comparison. Small and rather drab, like this house, that the agent had assured him was one of the best to be found with all its furniture and fittings brand new and in the very latest style.

The Count gave a wry little smile.

This drawing room was intensely bland, he thought, remembering all the gilded chairs, the great gold clock, the embroidered draperies of his own fabulous salon at home.

And it was impossible to obtain decent caviar here in London. Not that his guests complained. They would happily nibble on tiny sandwiches of thin white bread and cucumber!

A woman’s hand touched his arm.

“You are very thoughtful tonight, Count. Will you not share your musings with us?”

It was Mrs. Fulwell, a fair-haired English widow who had been very helpful throughout the Count’s stay in London, inviting him to dinner parties and the theatre and making sure that he was never short of entertainment or company.

Arkady took her hand and kissed it politely, bowing low.

Mrs. Fulwell, he reflected, was looking very smart tonight with her pale hair dressed in a soft flattering style and her plump face blushing sweetly in the candlelight.

The best thing, undoubtedly, about his stay so far, had been the prettiness of the English girls.

And indeed twenty years ago, Mrs. Fulwell must have been a very fine example of a classic ‘English Rose’.

But now her delicate rosy skin was showing signs of becoming lined and her hand, where it lay in his, was rather too large for Arkady’s taste.

He smiled politely at the widow.

“I am just thinking of home,” he told her. “I miss St. Petersburg and my country estate. I have been away for a long time.”

“Oh, but it seems no time at all since you arrived here and from what you tell us, it’s quite dreadfully cold in Russia at this time of year.”

“Yes, indeed.”

Arkady closed his eyes for a second and pictured the gleam of thick snow under the winter sky.

At least here in England you did not have to swathe yourself in furs before you stepped out of the door. He had not seen a single snowflake since his arrival in London – only what seemed like endless rain.

Perhaps it was all the moisture in the air that gave the women their exquisite soft complexions.

Mrs. Fulwell’s blue eyes were gazing imploringly up at him.

“I hope you are not thinking of leaving us so soon,” she said. “Why, my darling girls will be quite devastated! They are so longing to meet you.”

She had mentioned her two daughters before, but he had never actually met them. They seemed to be always busy with dressmakers and milliners and a constant stream of social engagements.

Mrs. Fulwell had assured him that they were bound to be engaged very soon, as they were both so very pretty.

He turned back to the window, suddenly longing for Russia, for the fresh icy air of St. Petersburg and the brilliance of the starlit sky on a clear winter’s night.

Tonight just one tiny star could be seen twinkling bravely through the hazy light of the London gas lamps.

“You are drifting away again,” Mrs. Fulwell was saying, her hand still on his arm.

“Oh, forgive me,” he smiled.

Perhaps, if her girls were as charming as she had obviously once been, it would be worth meeting them.

And, he thought, high above the London haze, the stars were shining just as brightly as they did over his homeland.

“St. Petersburg will wait,” he said. “So I shall be delighted to stay longer in London. You must bring your daughters for some Russian tea. Perhaps tomorrow?”

Mrs. Fulwell blushed red with pleasure and made a little curtsey to the Count.

*

“Oh, you are awake!” Elizabeth was bending over Chiara, her cheeks flushed and her eyes shining.

“I have brought you some tea, look! You were fast asleep when I came to tell you that dinner was ready last night and we decided to leave you alone and let you rest.”

Chiara yawned and sat up. She had been so deeply asleep that her head felt heavy and her eyelids wanted to sink down and close once more, but sunlight was shining in through the curtains and she must get up.

“I told Papa last night,” Elizabeth was saying, speaking quickly in an excited state, “and he wants to meet Arthur. He has asked him to come this morning and then join us for luncheon. Oh, I do hope they get on.”

Chiara sipped her tea and felt herself beginning to wake up.

“I am sure they will, Elizabeth,” she murmured.

“I hope Papa will not be too fierce with him.”