A Perfect Way to Heaven
Page 3
Her frozen fingers clutched at her cape, certain that even if she was wearing the bonnet she had left behind in the carriage it would not have remained on long. Pins were snatched spitefully from her head and soon her hair was lashing at her cheeks. She reached her hands out in front of her as if to fend off blows.
Snow filled her mouth, her nostrils. Her breath froze her lungs. Her skirts seemed to be dragging at her slim frame, urging her to give up, to sink down. Would it be so bad to relinquish the struggle for a little while, she asked herself. She could not turn back now.
Yet she could not go on. Her limbs were aching so and her heart seemed to labour in her breast. Why not rest? Why not sleep for a few minutes? Why not let the soft snow mantle her?
She stood swaying, buffeted, trying to think and to reason. Then slowly she sank down, down, her skirts billowing out around her. It was calmer here, the wind raged above her.
She stretched out gratefully, laying her head on a pillow of such sweet softness that she was soon drifting into sleep.
*
How long she lay there she did not know.
Dimly she heard voices in the distance but she did not rise. She thought she glimpsed a light, hovering like a great yellow moth above her.
Someone cried out “over here!” And someone echoed strangely, “par ici, Maître.”
‘Ici Maître,’ Elvira thought dreamily.
Someone stooped to rub her hands between his own. She knew it was a he because his hands were large and strong. This same person brushed the snow from her face and she sensed him draw off his cloak and the next moment felt it thrown over her.
An arm about her shoulders pulled her up to a sitting position and a leather bottle was gently held to her icy lips.
She drank. It was not a taste she knew, but it quickly fired her veins.
The effort of holding up her head was too much, however, and she fell back, swimming into semi-consciousness. Arms reached under her and she was lifted onto the back of a horse.
She might have fallen but that someone quickly leapt up behind her and with one hand gripped her tight about the waist.
With a barely perceptible sigh, she leaned her head against a manly breast and slept –
*
Stirring awake, Elvira’s first thought was that she was warm. Warm! It was a glorious feeling.
She opened her eyes and saw a fire leaping merrily in a large stone hearth.
Her eyes travelled upwards to where a skirt hung on a drying rack. She blinked and looked more closely. It was her own skirt!
She looked down. She was in an armchair and a cushion had been set behind her head and a plaid shawl placed over her knees. Another shawl was around her shoulders and beneath these she wore only her petticoat and stiff under-bodice.
An eerily familiar voice spoke from the silence.
“You are awake?”
She turned with a start and there, opposite her, on a wooden pew with legs thrust out before him, lounged the stranger from the White Doe Inn.
His left hand dangled an empty wine glass and his glittering dark eyes were trained intently on her face. She had the impression he had been watching her as she slept.
Her heart quailed. Surely she was not alone here with this man – stripped as she was to her undergarments!
Was it he who had removed her skirt and blouse?
Face flushing, she clutched the shawl tighter to her trembling breast.
The stranger seemed to divine her fears.
“Do not agitate yourself,” he said softly. “You have a chaperone.”
Elvira looked wildly round and sure enough, in a shadowy corner of the room sat an old woman in a mob cap. Her gnarled hands lay in her lap and her chin rested on her chest.
“She is asleep,” Elvira observed uneasily.
“Ah, that I cannot help,” smiled the stranger. “Shall I clap my hands and startle her awake?”
Elvira looked again at the old woman.
“That would be cruel,” she replied.
“My thought entirely.” The stranger held up his glass. “Would you care for some liquid refreshment?”
Elvira shook her head.
“What I should like – is to know where I am.”
“Why,” answered the stranger, gesturing towards the sleeping woman, “in this kind lady’s cottage.”
Elvira looked around the room. It was indeed no more than a cottage, with walls of whitewashed stone and cured hams hung from the low rafters. A ladder in a corner led up to a loft and no doubt that was where the only bed was located.
It was unmistakably a peasant’s dwelling and the old woman was a peasant woman. It seemed most gallant of the stranger to call her a lady.
“Did she – undress me?” she asked tentatively.
The stranger took a sip of wine. He seemed amused by her discomfiture.
“She did indeed. I promise you we withdrew to the garden, despite the blizzard.”
Elvira considered this. ‘We?’ A phrase floated into her memory. ‘Ici Maître.’
“You mean you and your – Master?”
“Me and my – ?” For a moment the stranger looked puzzled. Then his face cleared and a twinkle appeared in his eye. “Yes. Just so. Me and my Master.”
“Was it he who brought me here? On his horse?”
“It was indeed – the Master – who brought you here.”
“I should like to thank him. W-where is he now?”
“My – Master – has gone with a note to fetch the doctor.”
Elvira wondered that the Master did not see fit to send his servant rather than go himself, but still she was glad it had been a somewhat familiar face she had seen when she first awoke.
“How is it that – you and – he came across me in the snow? The last I saw of you was at the White Doe Inn. It did not seem then that you intended to travel on. Indeed you thought my driver foolish to ignore the signs of bad weather ahead.”
“My – Master and I had merely stopped at the inn for supper when the fire broke out and we helped fight it. Once it was out my – Master decided to continue with his plan to reach Gloucester and spend the night there.
“We took a wrong turn and found ourselves on the forest road and we reined in at this cottage to ask directions. Then your driver appeared seeking help and the old lady directed him to a nearby cottage where three strong young labourers live.
“I am sure he and they are even now hauling the carriage from the snow. My – Master and I, meanwhile, rode straight out to rescue you.”
Elvira murmured her gratitude. Her moment of lucidity was over and during the stranger’s explanation both he and the room had begun to swim.
Her breath had quickened and she felt feverish and when a knock came at the door it sounded like a bone on a muffled drum.
She was aware of the stranger rising and dimly aware of two figures entering amid a flurry of snow.
‘The stranger’s Master,’ she thought, ‘returning with the doctor.’
She had not the strength to focus on the figure of this elusive Master or note his features. She could barely keep her eyes open and her head seemed to grow heavy.
The old woman must have awakened, for now she came limping into view to relieve the doctor of his cape. At a nod from him the stranger and his Master departed, disappearing into the fierce white storm outside.
The doctor approached Elvira and his face with its stern brow and grizzled beard loomed over her.
“And how are you feeling, young lady?”
“I am feeling – very warm,” she assured him with some effort.
“Ah, but we don’t want you too warm, do we?” muttered the doctor, feeling her pulse with a frown.
Elvira’s head lolled as the doctor examined her and she heard him call over the old woman and bid her give Elvira only warm drinks.
He then went to the door and opened it, letting in a blast of icy air. Elvira shivered and looked up as the stranger had reappeared alone.
He put on his cape and departed in another brief frenzy of snow and the old woman bolted the door behind him before shuffling back to her corner.
Elvira shivered again. The stranger frowned and came quickly to adjust the shawl around her shoulders.
She blinked up at him. She did not even know his name. She must know his name. Yet that was not the question that rose feebly to her lips.
“Am I – am I – ill?” she murmured.
The stranger looked sombre.
“You have been literally chilled to the bone. We must keep you warm and alert.”
He glanced round and took down the medicine bottle and a spoon from the mantelshelf. Shaking it, he poured a little into the spoon and held it to her lips.
Elvira, like a child in her fevered state, turned her face away.
“I don’t like the smell.”
“You must take it.”
“I w-won’t.”
The stranger regarded her sternly.
“Make no mistake, I will take a whip to you if you continue to refuse.”
Elvira looked, round eyes widening.
“Y-you would not do such a thing!”
“Would I not?” growled the strange grimly. Without more ado, he grasped Elvira’s chin in his free hand and then levered the spoon between her lips and thus forced, she took a sip.
“All of it,” ordered the stranger.
Elvira took a full gulp and swallowed.
“Urgh!”
“Good. In another hour we will repeat the exercise.”
“You – you mean to kill me,” groaned Elvira.
“No, madam. I mean to cure you.”
Elvira turned her head to and fro against the pillow.
“You are cruel. I am sure your Master wouldn’t be so cruel to me.”
The stranger regarded her, his dark brow ravelled.
“Ah. My Master.”
“I do not even k-know his name,” complained Elvira. “Or yours.”
The stranger gave a thin smile.
“You forget that I do not know yours either, madam. I haven’t the least idea who you are.”
He paused as Elvira had grown still and was staring up at him. In the dancing firelight she was pale as a wraith, her fevered irises large and the colour of crushed violets. The stranger drew in his breath.
“Perhaps,” he said softly, “perhaps you are a sprite, a beautiful winter sprite.”
His eyes lingered for a moment on her glistening lips. Then his gaze travelled on and Elvira blushed, mindful that she wore only her bodice. She lifted her hand to draw the shawl over her breast, but was arrested by the sudden flame that flared in the stranger’s features.
“So marble white,” he muttered. Then, as if to check himself, he turned abruptly away, throwing himself onto the pew opposite and staring into the fire.
It felt to Elvira as if a searching light had passed from her face, so intent had been his gaze. Her face felt hot with more than fever.
“I should very much – like something to drink,” she asked in a faltering voice.
The old woman was fast asleep again and after a glance her way the stranger rose and took a pewter mug. He drew a leather flask from his waistcoat pocket, poured a little of its contents into the mug and added hot water.
Without looking directly at Elvira, he proffered her the mug.
“Drink this. It’s warm, as the doctor ordered.”
Gratefully, Elvira took the concoction and drank. It coursed with immediate heat through her veins.
The stranger sat back down, resting his elbow on the pew’s arm and his forehead on his hand. Still he seemed reluctant to look Elvira’s way.
“How long will the storm last, do you think?” asked Elvira tentatively, cradling the cup in her hands.
“You wish to be out of my company so soon?” retorted the stranger dryly.
“Why no. I almost wish – I did not have to leave this place at all, for I have no idea – what manner of welcome I shall receive – at Baseheart.”
Slowly the stranger lowered his hand from his face.
“Baseheart?” he repeated.
“Y-yes.” Elvira’s voice almost faded to a whisper. “It has lots of – turrets and – pinnacles. My uncle by marriage lives there and I am to be companion to his daughter – Delphine.”
“Delphine.” The stranger sat up, staring now with narrowed eyes. “You are well acquainted with her then?”
Elvira shook her head.
“I have not seen her since we were children and then only once.”
“Once?” The stranger seemed to marvel. “When you are cousins?”
Elvira lowered her head.
“After my aunt Lady Baseheart died – I was not invited to visit again. Until now.”
“Until now – as paid companion,” commented the stranger sardonically.
Elvira gave a start.
“Paid? Oh, I don’t think I shall be, but I shall be looked after.”
The stranger frowned.
“And your parents approve?”
Elvira’s eyes misted.
“My parents are dead. They eloped, you know.” She passed a hand across her brow. “My father was a poor musician, but he died before I was born and my mother not much later. My mother’s other sister brought me up. Aunt Willis.”
“Ah,” murmured the stranger in wry recognition. “Aunt Willis.”
“I am sorry to leave Aunt Willis. She doesn’t show affection, but you must not think – that she will not miss me. I am sure she will miss me and I just wish that Delphine – hadn’t been so cruel about her.”
The stranger leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“Cruel? Delphine? But you said you had not seen her for some time.”
“I haven’t,” cried Elvira, “but she sent me a letter and the letter made me think I might not like her.”
“What did she say that made you think such a thought?”
“She said she hoped I was passably pretty because she can’t bear ugly things. She said her Aunt Cruddock, Lord Baseheart’s sister, who lives with them at Baseheart – sometimes turns her stomach. And she said Aunt Willis was a horror and she would like to take the shears to – the hairs on her chin. ”
“I see.”
The stranger turned away, a curious look on his face.
“If she has an aunt who lives with her, why does she need a companion?”
“She wants someone her own age with her – someone who will not be too watchful – when her suitor comes.”
The stranger looked round.
“Her suitor?”
“Yes. He’s nearly a Prince. That is to say, he’s the heir to a Prince and she said she will make him her slave.”
“Did she indeed?”
Elvira wondered at the rapt way in which the stranger had listened to her for so long as her head sank back against the pillow.
“I have talked so much – about myself,” she sighed wearily.
“No, madam. I have tired you with my questions.” He took the empty mug from her hand. “Try to rest now. There is a bed in the loft that the old lady earlier assured me is freshly made. Do you think you have recovered your strength enough to climb the ladder?”
“I am not sure.” Elvira eyed the ladder doubtfully.
“Try,” urged the stranger. “I will aid you.”
He slipped an arm about her and helped her up. Together they crossed to the ladder. She set her foot on the lowest rung and paused, feeling faint. His arm gripped her tighter and she instinctively leaned into his strength.
For a moment they stood close, his breath on her neck, the scent of her hair in his nostrils. The room seemed suddenly suspended in time, lit on one side by the flames of the fire, on the other by a shaft of moonlight that filtered through the leaded window.
“The moonlight is bright,” Elvira murmured.
“Yes.” The stranger’s voice stirred her hair. “The snowstorm has ceased. The sky is now clear and the moon full. You will be able to journey on tomorrow.”
“To Baseheart,” sighed Elvira.
“To Baseheart. Yes.” The stranger’s voice was deep and soft.
Still they stood as if enraptured. A faint snore sounded from the old woman and a log in the fire fell to ashes.
“You must go up,” he muttered at last.
Almost reluctantly, Elvira released herself from his clasp and began to mount the ladder. The hem of her petticoat impeded her and at last she caught it up, all too aware that this now exposed her ankles to the stranger’s gaze. She was relieved to sense him turn his head away.
She reached the trap door and pushed it open. With one last effort, she pulled herself up.
The loft smelt of hay and apples and gratefully she crawled towards the pallet that lay under a small window.
The stranger’s head appeared in the aperture.
“I forgot. You must take this.”
He pushed across the medicine bottle and spoon and Elvira stared at it dully.
“Must I?”
“Yes. It has already helped you.”
Elvira reached for the bottle and poured out a spoonful and swallowed it under the stranger’s eye.
“Good,” he said with a smile. “I would not, after all, have you expire on my watch!”
Next he was gone, she heard him descend and imagined him setting himself down by the fire.
She lay back staring up at frosty stars. He had rescued her from the snow, threatened her with a beating, forced her to take medicine, listened to her rambling on about Baseheart and Delphine – and she still did not know his name.
‘I must find out tomorrow,’ she promised herself.
She drew the old woman’s quilt up to her chin and gave a sigh. She was drifting into sleep when she became aware of footsteps from the room below. She opened her eyes and listened.
Someone was pacing the room from corner to corner. It must be the stranger.
Obviously trying not to wake the old woman, his footfall was stealthy, yet to Elvira the sound was like the beating of a dark and troubled heart.
CHAPTER THREE
The sun was bright and birds were singing. Elvira breathed on the glass of the loft window until a hole formed in the ice and she could just see an edge of white thatch.