A Flight To Heaven Page 2

  “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.”

  Elizabeth looked a little anxious. Her Papa was a tall broad-shouldered man with thick bushy brows and a mane of iron-grey hair and, in the dark clothes he wore as Dean, he could look very stern and forbidding.

  “If Arthur loves you, he will not allow your Papa to upset him,” Chiara suggested. “You must not worry.”

  She could see that Elizabeth was very nervous.

  “And you must not think about me this morning,” Chiara continued. “I shall take myself out for a walk – look what a beautiful day it is – and you and Arthur can spend a little time together.”

  “Oh, but dear Chiara! You have only just arrived. I would not dream of turning you out of the house.”

  Chiara shook her head.

  “I am longing for some fresh air and I shall come back in good time for luncheon.”

  Elizabeth sighed.

  “Oh, I do hope that Papa will be pleasant to Arthur. But you must be hungry. I have brought you some toast. You cannot go out without eating anything.”

  Since her Papa died, Chiara had no appetite at all. But she nibbled a piece of the toast to please her friend and was surprised to find that she quite enjoyed it.

  There was so much sky, here in the Fen country, Chiara thought, and on a bright day like this everything seemed to shine with a bright clear light.

  She was warmly wrapped in her own cloak with its fur-lined hood and Elizabeth had lent her a pair of thick gloves to keep the icy wind from her hands.

  She walked through the winding streets of Ely and soon found herself at the edge of the town, looking out over a wide expanse of grass and glinting water, where the rivers and dykes ran through the fields.

  There was still a long while to go before luncheon and Chiara decided to explore one of the green tracks that ran between high hedges leading out into the countryside.

  Chiara walked briskly to keep warm. There was no one about on this cold day and no birds were singing.

  She was just thinking that perhaps she should turn back, when she heard a strange noise in the air above her head. A sort of creaking sound, the like of which she had never heard before.

  Chiara then looked up to see a flock of great white swans flying with their long necks stretched out and their wings beating swiftly.

  “Oh, you are just so beautiful!” she cried, as they sped past her like white arrows, the sun shining on their feathers. “Wait! Where are you going?”

  She gathered up her skirts and ran after the swans, leaping over clumps of grass as she struggled to keep up.

  ‘I will never catch them,’ she thought, ‘they are so wild and free, but I cannot bear to lose sight of them.’

  Ahead of her, she could see a mirror-like expanse of water, where one field had flooded with the winter rain and she gasped with delight as the swans turned in the sky and headed for the water. They were going to land there!

  She then threw her hood back and stood, panting, to watch them, one by one, as they splashed down onto the water, legs waving and just for a moment she thought that they looked rather clumsy.

  But next they ruffled and tidied their feathers and then they were gliding serenely over the water, their lovely necks arched and their proud eyes gazing all around.

  There were five of them.

  Now that she was close to the swans, Chiara could see that three of them still had some grey feathers, which meant that they were young, while the other two were both pristine brilliant white.

  “Oh, you must be a family,” she whispered.

  The two white swans were circling close to each other, now brushing their wings intimately and suddenly they arched their beautiful necks and twined them together in a gesture of affection.

  It was almost as if they were creating the shape of a heart with their necks.

  Spellbound, Chiara watched them. It was the most unexpected and exquisite thing she had ever seen and she could have stayed and watched for ever.

  But now the swans were separating and gliding off, dipping their heads under the water to search for food.

  It was time for Chiara to go back to Elizabeth’s house for luncheon and her heart sank. While she had been chasing the swans, all her sadness had disappeared.

  Why could she not be like these swans, free to fly wherever she chose, living out in this glorious world of light, space and joy?

  And how could she bear to feel so alone?

  Watching the two adult swans caressing each other with such perfect beauty had left her with a strange pain in her heart.

  ‘Is that what it is to love?’ she thought. ‘Will I ever find anyone who will touch my heart? Elizabeth has done it, but what lies in store for me?’

  And with slow steps she made her way back into the town.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Chiara, this is Arthur,” Elizabeth said and the tall fair-haired young man who sat beside her on the sofa leapt up to greet her.

  “My fiancé!” Elizabeth continued, her eyes shining with happiness.

  Arthur bowed low over Chiara’s hand.

  “I am delighted to meet you,” he said. “Elizabeth has told me so much about you

  And then, as if drawn by a magnet, he was back on the sofa again, slipping his arm through Elizabeth’s.

  Chiara was reminded of the beautiful swans she had just seen on the Fens and how they had twined their necks together so tenderly and passionately.

  “I am very very happy for you both,” she sighed.

  “Papa says that he has given us his blessing, but I think he might need a little while to get used to the idea,” Elizabeth added with a smile.

  “Not at all!” the Dean came and stood behind his daughter, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I must admit, I was taken a little by surprise, but I have spent a long time this morning talking to Arthur and I can see that you two are not only completely besotted with each other, but also very well suited and will be happy together.”

  Chiara’s eyes stung with tears as she thought of her own Papa and how he would never see the man that she might marry and would never have the same proud look in his eyes that the Dean had now as he gazed at Elizabeth.

  “Choosing the person you marry and spend the rest of your life with is the most important decision you will ever make,” he said.

  Arthur let go of Elizabeth’s arm and sat up straight on the sofa, looking serious.

  “Oh, Papa! Please don’t give us one of your long sermons, not today!” Elizabeth cried, recapturing Arthur’s hand. “Let’s just be happy and enjoy ourselves.”

  “It’s so easy to forget with all the excitement what a great venture you are embarking upon, becoming man and wife in the eyes of God,” the Dean continued, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his grey eyes.

  “And let’s remember that there are serious matters to be attended to before Arthur’s next leave is granted and the wedding can take place. There will be an inordinate numb
er of dresses and other fripperies to be bought and a myriad of arrangements to be put in place.”

  He turned to Chiara and smiled at her.

  “How fortuitous, my dear Elizabeth, that you have your friend, Chiara, at hand to help you and your Mama with the arduous task of choosing pretty clothes!”

  He held out his elbow to lead Chiara into luncheon.

  When they had finished eating and were leaving the table, Elizabeth said that she would like to show Arthur the garden and the shrubbery.

  “There will be very little to see, my dearest, at this time of year,” the Dean said.

  His wife put her hand on his arm and gave him a meaningful look.

  “Of course, Elizabeth, do take Arthur out for some fresh air. You can tell him about all the plants that will be coming up later on the in the spring and summer.”

  Elizabeth gave her Mama a grateful hug and left the dining room, her hand in Arthur’s.

  The Dean shook his head in disbelief as the door closed behind them.

  “Why on earth would anyone want to walk around the garden on a cold day like today with nothing but bare earth and leafless stems to look at?” he asked.

  “My dear, they are in love!” his wife replied. “It does not matter if the garden is completely bare. It might just as well be a hothouse full of tropical blooms for all they will notice it. They only have eyes for each other.”

  “Of course, you are right and I have spoken quite enough on serious matters already. Young Arthur seems a fine, sensible and well-brought up young man and I have no doubt that I can trust him to look after Elizabeth.”

  The Dean turned to Chiara,

  “I usually take a cup of coffee in my study after luncheon. Would you care to join me?”

  Chiara was surprised at this. The Dean was always such a busy man, either writing sermons or talking to his parishioners, who came to him with all their problems.

  “I should love to,” she replied, “but I don’t want to take up your time, if you have important things to do.”

  The Dean smiled at her.

  “And what makes you think you are not important, young lady? We have been neglecting you badly in all this excitement and that is most remiss of us.”

  She followed him into his study, where books not only lined the walls, but were heaped upon the chairs and even piled in towers on the floor.