A Collector of Hearts

by Sally Quilford

  A Collector of Hearts

  Copyright © 2010 All Rights Reserved

  Sally Quilford

  A Collector of Hearts

  Chapter One

  29th October 1936

  Dear Aunt Millie and Uncle Jim,

  Just a quick note to let you know that we are staying at Stony Grange Abbey for Halloween. It’s all very gothic, with gargoyles and suchlike. Last night the guests told each other ghost stories, after which most of the ladies insisted that the gentlemen escort them to their rooms. You’ll be glad to know I did not give in to such girlish silliness and managed to find my own way to bed! On Saturday night – Halloween – there is to be a masked ball, and we’re promised all manner of ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. Oh, and we await the imminent arrival of Prince Henri of Cariastan, known as The Forgotten Prince, which is causing even more goose bumps among the ladies than the threat of the supernatural. I haven’t given in to that silliness either.

  I know you worried about me taking the post as Mrs Oakengate’s companion, but she’s not so bad once you get to know her. At least nothing I can’t handle. You were quite right about her bragging about my parents’ notoriety to our hosts the moment we arrived, but I remembered what you have always taught me. My parents’ crime is not my crime.

  Oh, Mrs Oakengate said she would be delighted to join you for Christmas, which means I shall also be seeing you then. Be honest, Aunt Millie, that was why you invited her!

  I cannot wait. I miss you all dreadfully. Give Amelia a hug from me and tell Richard that if he does not do his algebra homework, Caroline the Witch will turn him into a frog!

  My love to you all,

  Caroline x

  Caroline Conrad popped her letter into the post box and started walking back up the hill to the Abbey. The crisp autumn weather had given way to the dull, damp skies that heralded the arrival of a long, dark winter. Despite it only being four in the afternoon, it had already begun to turn dark, the night bringing with it a thick fog, which glided in front of her. By the light of the gas lamps the swirls of mist looked like hunchback pilgrims crawling across the road in search of a prayer. Once or twice, Caroline mistook one of the shapes for a real person, until it dissipated before her eyes. Not that it frightened her. She was of the belief that real life held far more terrors than the spirit world.

  In the distance she could just make out the large black sprawl of Stony Gate Abbey. Their hosts, The Hendersons, told them at dinner the night before that it had been one of the many religious houses dissolved during Henry VIII’s reign, and as such, haunted by some very put out monks. The house was enormous, and very easy to get lost in, as Caroline had found several times in the twenty-four hours they had been staying there. It contained rooms within rooms, and passageways that seemed to lead nowhere. Not all the abbey was from Henry VIII’s time. Some newer extensions had been added over the years, so that the entire building sprawled across the Derbyshire countryside like a bat stretching its wings.

  “But,” Jack Henderson, had said, “The real star attraction here is Lady Cassandra. She was a seventeenth century witch, who cut out the hearts of young lovers and kept them in a bejewelled box. She was burned as a witch.”

  Whilst all the other guests had listened with awe, Caroline had silently scoffed at the idea of ghosts in a world where aeroplanes flew and science had pushed back many of the boundaries of superstition.

  Despite her pragmatism, Caroline appreciated, when they first arrived and she could see it clearly, that the village of Stony Grange had an atmosphere all of its own. Tiny cottages nestled together against the cold. She tried to imagine them in summer, with roses around the door, but failed, perhaps because of the sheer drabness of the October weather. No, this was a winter village, almost Dickensian in nature. She guessed that it would come into its own when it snowed, turning the streets into a veritable chocolate box of prettiness. There were few cars in the area, apart from those in which the guests arrived and no electricity. The milkman came by cart, and brought the post with him. Meat was delivered in a van from the nearest town. It was almost as if they had stepped back in time, finding a forgotten part of England, which had been very slow to catch up to modern life. The only nod to modernity at the abbey was a telephone. Caroline had been going to ring her aunt and uncle, but she desired a few minutes away from Mrs Oakengate, just to take a breath ready for the next onslaught.

  As she walked up the hill, the fog became even thicker. She did not fear the spirit world, but she did worry about falling into one of the potholes in the un-kept road and twisting her ankle. She saw a clump of mist that instead of crossing the road, seemed to take a diagonal route, moving from further up the hill, down along the road, and towards Caroline. She made to walk straight through it, as she had all the others. She cried out in alarm when she realised it was a solid object.

  It was a man, but she could barely see him. Even close up he was little more than a shadow. He asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. His sudden appearance had knocked the wind out of her. “Yes, I’m fine, thank you. You just startled me. I thought you were a bit of fog.” Her senses started to clear, and she was finally able to make out his features by the light of the gas lamp. He had dark hair, and intelligent eyes, but the light was too bad to tell what colour they were. Caroline liked to be able to see peoples’ eyes. She believed you could tell much about a person that way.

  “You seem even more insubstantial than that. I should have known I’d bump into a witch this close to Halloween.” His voice was deep and low.

  “I’m not a witch.”

  “Are you sure? From what I’ve seen you have that deep red hair and green eyes. That voluminous black coat you’re wearing completes the picture.”

  “I’m not a witch. Excuse me, I have to get on.” His being there unnerved her. There was something about him, something watchful and alert. How had he seen so much of her when she could barely see him? It was then it occurred to her that he had seen her before, perhaps before the mist fell as she walked down to the post box.

  “Are you staying at the Abbey?” he asked.

  “Yes, that’s right. I’m a guest of the Hendersons. Are you?” It might explain where he had seen her. She had not yet remembered everyone who was staying.

  “No, I don’t have such exalted friends.”

  “But you’ve been there?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because this road doesn’t lead anywhere else. It’s a private road.”

  “Then I’m busted. Yes, I have been there. Just to look at the place. I hear one must if one is visiting this area.”

  “It’s all very gothic, isn’t it?” Caroline tried to talk lightly.

  “Yes, very. Lots of dark corners with dark secrets.”

  She felt a shiver pass down her spine. It was his voice, she told herself. It had a way of making the real seem unreal. “I really ought to get back. Prince Henri will be arriving soon.”

  “Who?” She could not see him, but she sensed he had become even more alert than before.

  “Prince Henri of Cariastan. He’s coming to attend the Halloween ball.”

  “Really? Who told you that?”

  “The Hendersons, of course. I really must be going. So long.” She walked on, giving him a cheery wave at odds with the way she felt inside.

  “So long, Caroline.”

  She spun around. “How did you know my name?” As she turned she tripped into one of the potholes she had thus far avoided, only for a strong hand to come out of the mist and grab her.

  “Be careful, Caroline.”

  “Oh, er … thank you.”

&n
bsp; “I’m not just talking about the potholes.” He disappeared into the mist.

  Chapter Two

  “Honestly, Caroline, where have you been?” Mrs Oakengate leant on her walking stick in the hallway. Caroline was tempted to ask to borrow it, as her ankle had begun to swell.

  “I went to post a letter, Mrs Oakengate. You did say I could.” Caroline removed her coat and hung it on the stand near the door.

  “Yes, yes. But the prince has arrived early and we’re all to meet with him for a little soiree before dinner.”

  “Has he?” Caroline had not seen any cars passing her on the road.

  “He came by horse,” said Mrs Oakengate, as if guessing her thoughts. “Riding across the fields in the most romantic way.”

  Caroline uneasiness grew. It would just be her luck that she had met a prince and not realised it. It was the way these stories usually went. One met a prince in disguise in embarrassing circumstances then he turned up later and revealed himself. Had there been a horse somewhere in the mist? “What is he like?”

  “You’ll see for yourself at the soiree. Now do hurry along and change out of that awful tweed suit. Put on the black satin. You look almost respectable in that.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Oakengate,” she said, the corners of her mouth turning up.

  Caroline climbed the staircase to the upper floor. She still marvelled at inside of the abbey, despite having been there twenty-four hours. It was as if someone had said ‘build me a haunted house’. It reminded her of a film set, with its high, vaulted ceilings, and carved balustrades around a galleried landing. The staircase, which swept in a semi-circular shape around one wall of the building, was one on which Douglas Fairbanks would be proud to sword fence. The Hendersons had added a few extra touches for Halloween. Artfully placed fake cobwebs, giant spiders and bats, and in the hallway below suits of armour that, by some mysterious mechanical means, moved their arms up and down. In Caroline’s opinion, the house did not need them. It fulfilled its purpose as a haunted house without embellishment.

  At the top of the gallery hung a portrait of the ethereal Lady Cassandra. She had windswept auburn hair and green eyes that seemed to follow one’s every movement. She wore a sumptuous emerald green velvet gown under a black silk hooded cloak, which rose out behind her, caught by the same breeze as her luscious hair. In the background one could a faint outline of the abbey, set high upon the hill.

  Caroline could not fail to stop and look at the portrait for a moment or two. Everyone who passed along the gallery did, particularly the men in the party. Every one of them would have risked having a spell put upon them for a few moments in Lady Cassandra’s arms.

  Remembering she had to hurry, Caroline rushed along to her room. It was more of a vestibule than a room, with a small single bed. Mrs Oakengate’s room could only be reached via the vestibule, which had a lockable door so that anyone who wanted to see Mrs Oakengate whilst she was still in her boudoir had to go through Caroline first. A fact that Mrs Oakengate said made her feel like the queen, with a lady-in-waiting. Earlier that morning, as people came along to pay court to the famous actress and ex-mistress of a prince – whilst Mrs Oakengate sat up in bed wearing a satin throw – it had made Caroline feel that her room was akin to Piccadilly Circus. Hence her needing to get out for a few minutes alone. She had known, because her Aunt Millie had warned her, that life as a companion meant that one had very little life of one’s own at all, but she had decided it was worth it for the sake of seeing something of the world.

  Changing quickly into her black satin gown, and eager to see if the prince was the man she had met in the lane, she pinned her unruly locks back with a couple of small silver clips, and dabbed on a smear of lipstick and some rouge. She checked her appearance, and decided it would have to do. She had no interest in snaring a prince, even if he was able to appear out of a misty evening. The gaslight flickered slightly, almost going out completely. Caroline looked up at the lantern, and then, just as she was about to move away from the mirror, she felt a sudden draft, and was sure that she saw reflected in the mirror, the vague outline of someone standing at the end of her bed. By the time she turned around, there was no one there.

  “Now, Caroline,” she said to herself, sternly, “don’t go letting this silly place spook you.”

  She left the room, making sure she locked the door after her, and made her way back downstairs to the hallway, where other guests had started to assemble. Servants passed amongst them with cocktails.

  “There you are at last,” said Mrs Oakengate. “Really Caroline, you needn’t have gone to all that trouble. I’m sure the prince won’t be looking at you.”

  “Did the gaslight just go down?” she asked, ignoring the comment.

  “Gaslight? No, not that I know. Why?”

  “Oh, it seemed to go a bit fainter when I was in my room.”

  Mrs Oakengate wandered away as if the subject were too trivial for her to discuss.

  “That happens if someone else switches on a lamp elsewhere,” said one of the guests. She was a young woman, plain in her features, with small round spectacles and dark hair swept into a tight bun. She wore a shapeless grey dress. Caroline could not remember her name, only that she was a secretary to a dizzy blonde actress.

  “Thank you erm…Miss…”

  “Anderson. Anna Anderson.”

  “Sorry, I’ve met so many people. I’m Caroline Conrad, companion to Mrs Oakengate.”

  “It is hard to remember everyone’s name, isn’t it? You employer is a real grande dame, isn’t she? I feel I should know her.” Mrs Oakengate had wandered off to speak to someone more important.

  “She’s Victoria Oakengate. A very famous actress,” Caroline added for emphasis. “She played Juliet at the age of fifteen. Or it may have been thirteen. I forget which.”

  “Oh that’s Victoria Oakengate. Wasn’t she the lover of Prince Albert? The younger brother of the late King Philip of Cariastan?”

  “That’s right, yes. Before her marriage. Although she doesn’t use the word lover so I’d advise you not to say it in her hearing. Things, she tells me, were much more innocent then.”

  “Of course. All men give away a priceless diamond … innocently.”

  Caroline could not help but smile. It was what she had thought but been too kind to say when Mrs Oakengate told her the story. “So,” said Caroline, wanting to change the subject. “This prince. He’s the son of Prince Albert, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, so the rumour goes. So the story goes Prince Albert made a much frowned upon union with a chambermaid about thirty years ago, and this prince was the result. The union was then hushed up and Prince Albert married a proper princess, but they had no children. When the king died failing to name an heir, they searched for Prince Henri. But he and his mother had disappeared. Some think that they were murdered by the Cariastan secret police. Others think they were just a myth.”

  “But now he’s back.”

  “Yes, he came forward a short time ago, but with things as they are in Cariastan, with Russia just about to annexe them due to Hitler’s antics, the chances of him being able to go there and claim his throne are slim. Oh there’s my boss.”

  Stephens was escorting a blonde, of the type who would only be fleetingly beautiful, from the back of the house. “Sorry,” she was saying. “I was sure the dining room was that way.” She spoke in a baby voice, like a five year old, who had lost her mummy.

  “No, Miss, that was the kitchen.”

  “It had a big table.”

  “That was for preparation, miss.”

  “Oh, I see. Anna, there you are. I told you to wait for me. I got lost.” The blonde gave a high-pitched giggle that Caroline felt sure would bring the candelabra crashing to the ground.

  Soon after their host, Jack Henderson, and his wife, Penelope appeared at the top of the staircase. Jack was a handsome and distinguished man in his mid-forties. A heartthrob matinee idol turned film director. His wife was around thirty
years old, and breathtakingly glamorous with sleek blonde hair and wearing a tight fitting blue silk dress, as befitted a film actress.

  “Good evening,” said Jack. “We hope you are enjoying our humble abode.” Laughter followed. The abbey was anything but humble. “At least for this week. Though I’ve a hankering to buy this old abbey and live in it forever. I know I’ve thanked you all for coming, but I would like to say it again. Remember that if you need anything, you only have to ask. There is plenty of wine on stock and the servants are primed to make sure it flows freely.” He paused as if what he had to say next was of extreme importance. “Now, it is with great honour that I introduce our special guest, Prince Henri of Cariastan.” Jack raised his right arm in a dramatic flourish

  Caroline half hoped and half dreaded it would be the man she met in the lane, and felt her stomach tie into a knot accordingly. She was not the only one waiting with bated breath. The entire assembly of guests turned their faces up to the galleried landing, to get their first glimpse of the mysterious prince. At first all they saw was a large shadow moving across the wall. The shadow became a man, and finally he appeared at the top of the staircase, next to his hosts.

  If the audience were disappointed they were all far too well-bred to show it.

  Caroline’s relief was tinged with a little disappointment. He was not her handsome stranger. The man at the top of the staircase was hardly the epitome of a handsome prince at all, but she was realistic enough to know that princes seldom were like those found in fairytales. The stranger she had met in the lane was well over six feet tall, whereas the prince could not have been much more than five feet four inches. Her stranger had also been, as far as she could tell, lean in build. The prince was rather portly, and slightly balding. If Caroline had not been told the prince was near to thirty years of age, she would not have believed it. He looked older, by at least ten years. It was true he dressed as a prince should dress, in a black tuxedo, with a purple sash, and several medals pinned across his chest, and his black hair was slicked back to perfection. He bore himself proudly, and waved regally. Yes, he definitely behaved as a prince should behave, thought Caroline. She put her feelings of unease and anti-climax down to the stranger in the lane appearing in far more romantic circumstances, thus building up her expectations.