A Flight To Heaven Page 3

  Chiara moved several large volumes from the chair that faced the Dean’s desk and sat down.

  “These are hard times for you,” he began, “and it is always difficult for a young girl to lose her Papa.”

  Chiara nodded, not trusting herself to say anything.

  “And you have come here to stay with us so that you can enjoy the company of your friend Elizabeth – and the thoughtless girl has gone and fallen in love and has got herself engaged!”

  The Dean’s eyes looked at her kindly from under his bushy brows.

  “I am happy for her,” Chiara replied. “It’s just – ”

  Suddenly she found herself telling the Dean how upset she was to think that her own dear Papa would not be here to meet her own fiancé when she became engaged.

  The Dean nodded.

  “That is, indeed, a great pity,” he said, “but is there a young man?”

  Chiara was horrified to find that tears were spilling out of her eyes and running down her face.

  “No, no – there is no one,” she replied, struggling to control the sobs that threatened to overcome her. “I am quite sure that I will never fall in love – or that anyone will ever fall in love with me.”

  The Dean shook his head.

  “Nonsense! You have only just suffered a terrible bereavement and you are feeling very low and sad because of it. Also it is January, the darkest time of the year. Only someone as impulsive and foolish as my dearest Elizabeth would think of falling in love in January!”

  The proud look Chiara had noticed earlier returned to his face for a moment.

  “I really am so happy for her,” she said, blinking back the tears, “and I think it will be great fun to help her with her trousseau.”

  “Bravely spoken, my dear. You will pull through this dark time and you are a charming girl. Very pretty indeed. You will have any number of young men pursuing you before too long. I shall be delighted to look them over for you and give my approval!”

  In spite of herself, Chiara found she was laughing.

  The idea of bringing all her prospective beaux to Ely to be interviewed by the Dean was very amusing.

  “I shall not like any of them, I am sure!” she said. “I shall never fall in love.”

  The Dean’s expression became serious now and he looked into her eyes.

  “You must trust in Providence, my dear. Love will come to you in its own good time and, when it comes, you must welcome it and give thanks to God.”

  Once again Chiara was surprised. She had certainly not expected that Elizabeth’s Papa would give her a lecture about love.

  “But – how will I know?” she asked.

  “I think you had better ask Elizabeth about that. I am sure she will have plenty to say on that subject. And now I really must think about Sunday’s sermon.”

  He picked up a pen and began to shuffle the papers on his desk.

  Chiara thanked him for speaking to her and, as she left the study, the Dean looked up at her in a steady grave way that made her suddenly feel strong and, if not actually happy, brighter than she had felt since her Papa’s death.

  Elizabeth met her in the hall.

  “Arthur has gone,” she said in a shaky voice. “He has to go back to his Regiment this afternoon. I shall not see him now for ages.”

  She looked flushed, as if she had been crying.

  “Perhaps we should go into the town and have a look at the local shops,” Chiara suggested, remembering the Dean’s words before luncheon. “You are going to need so many new clothes.”

  Elizabeth gave a little sniff and wiped her eyes.

  “There’s a new shop that has just opened,” she said. “Les Cygnes. It’s run by a Frenchwoman and Mama says that the dresses are lovely.”

  “Then let’s go there right away!” Chiara proposed and the two girls hurried to fetch their cloaks and gloves.

  *

  “So – just how big is your Palace in St. Petersburg, Count Dimitrov?” Marigold, the younger one of the Misses Fulwell, asked.

  Arkady was now beginning to regret his decision to invite the very charming widow, Mrs. Fulwell, and her two daughters for Russian tea.

  Marigold was most definitely the prettier of the two sisters, he surmised, with her soft round cheeks and pale blonde hair. In fact she was probably one of the prettier girls he had met in his stay in London. But her constant questions were beginning to irritate him.

  “I have never actually measured it,” he replied, “but I believe that, after the Czar’s residence, it is one of the finest Palaces in the City.”

  Marigold gave a little giggle.

  “Is it as big as Buckingham Palace?” she enquired.

  Arkady was saved from having to reply to this by the entrance of his impeccable English butler, Jesmond, followed by a footman carrying a large samovar.

  This exquisite piece of tea-making equipment was silver, decorated with brilliant blue enamel.

  The footman set it down on a small table and then a parlourmaid placed a tray of tea-glasses with pretty blue and silver handles next to the samovar.

  “I hope everything is to your satisfaction, Count Dimitrov. The lemons are fresh from Covent Garden this morning and the plum jam is from the country estate of my previous employer, Lord Hunsbury,” the butler stated in a low voice.

  “How marvellous!” Mrs. Fulwell said, as Jesmond filled a glass from the samovar and offered it to her. “Such a treat, girls. We are going to have real Russian tea.”

  Eglantine, her elder daughter, with the same blonde hair as her sister, but a bit taller with high cheekbones and a long chin, looked down her nose as Jesmond asked her if she would prefer sugar or jam with her tea.

  “I normally take jam with scones,” the Count heard her say, although she was speaking very quietly to avoid her mother’s attention. “So sugar, I suppose.”

  “Well, how many bedrooms does the Palace have?” Marigold persisted.

  “I have no idea,” Arkady replied, which was the perfect truth.

  There were many rooms in his St. Petersburg home that he had never even seen. It was the job of his staff to keep them clean and beautifully decorated and he never concerned himself with such trivia.

  “Marigold!” Mrs. Fulwell had gone rather pink. “Drink your tea, dear.”

  Marigold picked up her glass and took a sip.

  “Ouch!” she squeaked. “It’s so bitter!”

  Jesmond was at her side at once, holding out a blue enamel dish.

  “Perhaps the young lady would care for some more sugar? The lemon can be a bit sharp if one isn’t used to it.”

  Arkady was the last to be served and he put a very large spoonful of plum jam in his glass.

  It was his favourite way to take tea, reminding him of a happy childhood on his vast country estate, where his beautiful Mama would hold court in the salon, gossiping with friends and relatives and where there was always a glass of strong tea sweetened with jam to welcome him back from one of his adventures in the countryside.

  He was beginning to feel homesick for the wide open spaces of his Russian homeland. Here in London the streets were always crowded with carriages and people.

  Perhaps he should take up the invitation that he had received only yesterday over dinner at Buckingham Palace.

  Arkady now turned and spoke to Mrs. Fulwell.

  “His Majesty the King, has invited me to visit him next month at his house in – where is it, Jesmond?”

  “Norfolk, Count Dimitrov,” Jesmond answered him with a bow. “The King’s country house at Sandringham.”

  “I cannot make up my mind to go or not – ”

  “How lovely!” Mrs. Fulwell simpered as she took another sip of her tea and held her lips in a determined smile in spite of the lemon.

  “Norfolk is very boring,” Eglantine piped up. She had managed to drink all of her tea with the help of several extra spoons of sugar.

  “Why is that?” Arkady quizzed her, thinking that Eglantine
might be an attractive young woman, if only she would smile a little more and allow her stiff back to relax so that she could sit a little more gracefully on the sofa.

  “There’s nothing there,” Eglantine replied. “It’s flat and very cold and goes on for miles and miles.”

  “Eglantine – whatever are you talking about!” Mrs. Fulwell had now turned very pink. “Norfolk is perfectly charming. Why your Uncle Mervyn is there at the moment, enjoying the finest shooting in England.”

  She turned to the Count.

  “I am speaking of my brother, the racehorse trainer, Mr. Mervyn Hunter. Perhaps you have heard of him?”

  Arkady was not listening.

  Eglantine’s words had conjured up a vision of the Russian Steppes, where the grassland stretched away for ever and above the glorious skies were limitless.

  He gave a little sigh. He was now definitely feeling homesick.

  “I think that perhaps I should take up the King’s invitation,” he muttered. “Ladies, would you care for some more tea?”

  *

  “I really must confess,” Elizabeth whispered, “that actually I really hate shopping for clothes.”

  “I never would have guessed!” Chiara answered. “Why?”

  The Proprietor of Les Cygnes, Madame Winterson, who was from Paris and had opened her little shop after her English husband had passed away, emerged from the back of the shop carrying two elegant wooden chairs.

  “Sit, if you please, mademoiselles, and I will bring some modes for you to see,” she suggested.

  The two girls sat down and Madame Winterson disappeared again.

  “Everybody thinks that red-haired girls should wear green and I really dislike green!” Elizabeth said.

  “Well, then you must not have it,” Chiara replied, looking up as Madame Winterson returned, expecting her to be bringing a variety of emerald and leafy green fabrics.

  But the armful of rustling silk the Frenchwoman carried was of a soft golden colour.

  “These warm tones, mademoiselle, will perfectly complement your lovely hair. Would you care to try one?”

  She held up a pretty dress, shaking out the soft bodice and the long full sleeves.

  Elizabeth gave a gasp of surprise and then followed Madame Winterson into the back of the shop.

  When she came back, Chiara clapped her hands in delight. The gold silk dress was in the very latest style, pulled in tightly at the waist and very loose and full over the bust and hips.

  Elizabeth looked very grown-up, Chiara thought.

  The elegant silhouette was so pretty that it made her look just like a proud soft-feathered pigeon as she twirled around, her long skirts sweeping over the floor.

  “What do you think?” she was asking anxiously. “I have never worn anything like this before.”

  “It’s wonderful!” Chiara cried. “You look, oh, you look like a beautiful golden dove, all ready to bill and coo with Arthur!”

  “But the colour?”

  “It’s perfect,” Chiara told her friend. “It makes your face glow and your hair look so warm and attractive.”

  Madame Winterson came bustling out again and this time her arms were full of russet brown velvet.

  “And now, what about this?” she said and draped a little fitted coat around Elizabeth’s shoulders.

  “You must have it!” Chiara said. “It goes perfectly with the dress and it brings out all the brown tones in your hair. It’s really lovely!”

  Elizabeth looked at herself in Madame Winterson’s long mirror.

  “You are right! I would never have thought to wear brown, but it really suits me. Thank you, madame. If you put these on one side for me, I will tell Papa that I should like to buy them.”

  The little Frenchwoman looked very pleased.

  “De rien, mademoiselle, and now for your friend?”

  She looked at Chiara.

  “Oh no, I don’t need anything,” Chiara said. “I am not the one who is going to be married very soon!”

  Madame Winterson shook her head.

  “Then we must put that right at once. I have just the creation that will bring all the young gentlemen tumbling to your feet!”

  She disappeared again.

  “Do let’s go,” Chiara urged, jumping to her feet.

  But Madame Winterson was back.

  She held up a little white dress, as fresh and bright as a snowflake, that was trimmed with delicate lace at the neck and round the elbow-length sleeves and wrapped at the waist with a blue silk sash.

  “Oh, Chiara!” Elizabeth breathed. “It’s just like a pretty white cloud.”

  A ray of sunshine shone through the shop window and touched the dress, lighting up the gleaming white silk.

  Chiara recalled the brilliant light reflecting from the lake she had walked to and the pure gleaming whiteness of the swans’ feathers as they glided over the water.

  “You must try it on,” Elizabeth was saying.

  Chiara went into the back of the shop and stood behind a thick velvet curtain as the Frenchwoman helped her into the dress.

  The waist was very tight and it was strange to feel the cool air on her bare forearms as she walked back out into the shop

  Now it was Elizabeth’s turn to clap her hands in delight.

  “It was made for you, Chiara! I can just see you dancing in it. You will be the loveliest girl at any ball.”

  Chiara caught a quick glimpse of herself in the long mirror. Her dark hair fell over the ruffles of lace at the neckline and her eyes shone a vivid blue, echoed by the sash at her waist.

  Then, as she turned back to Elizabeth and Madame Winterson, the skirts drifted around her legs like soft white mist and she suddenly wanted to dance and would have taken a few steps, if the shop had not been so small.

  But then she remembered her Papa.

  “I am still in mourning,” she said. “It will be ages before I can go dancing again. I cannot have a lovely dress like this.”

  Both her friend and Madame Winterson tried hard to persuade her, but Chiara would not agree to take it.

  “It’s perfect,” she sighed, “But I cannot – not now.”

  She ran back into the changing room and took off the white dress, putting her own frock, which she had worn at school, back on.

  And then she left the shop and walked home with Elizabeth, as the afternoon sky was beginning to turn red with winter sunset.

  “Everything will be all right,” Elizabeth said and slid her arm through Chiara’s.

  Chiara nodded, but all her thoughts were far away, back at Rensham Hall, a few days after her Papa’s death.

  All through the dark days following the death of her husband, Lady Fairfax had stayed in her bedroom with the door locked.

  Chiara knocked many times and called out to her Mama, but only her maid, Margaret, was allowed to go inside.

  “Her Ladyship is so distressed, Lady Chiara. She needs plenty of sleep and rest. She will see you when she is feeling better,” Margaret said, when she found Chiara waiting outside the bedroom door.

  It was agony for Chiara not be able to go in and comfort her Mama and be soothed in her turn.

  At the same time she could not get out of her mind the feeling that, if she had not come home from school on that day and her Papa not come hurrying to greet her, he might not have died.

  Did her Mama blame her for what had happened, and was that why she would not speak to her?

  When Lady Fairfax finally emerged from her room on Christmas Day and came down to breakfast, she looked pale and wan and had dark circles under her eyes.

  Chiara ran to hug her before she could sit down.

  “Mama, I am so glad to see you. I have been so worried about you.”

  Lady Fairfax pushed her gently away.

  “I am fine, darling. It’s just – I have had such a terrible shock. But I am feeling better now and I could not bear to think of you spending Christmas Day alone. We must be together and struggle through as best
we can.”

  She sat down in her place and then began to pick at some toast and marmalade. Chiara thought that her heart might burst, if she did not speak the thoughts that had been tormenting her.

  “Mama, you are not angry with me, are you?” she asked, when she could wait no longer.

  Lady Fairfax sipped her coffee.

  “Why should I be angry with you?” she asked in a tired voice.

  Stumbling over her words, Chiara spoke of her fear that she might have been responsible for her Papa’s heart attack. It was so painful to do this that she found herself crying uncontrollably.

  Lady Fairfax stood up and came around the table to stroke her daughter’s hair.

  “Darling, you must absolutely forget such a foolish idea. Your dear Papa had been very ill for some time. We did not tell you because we knew you would be upset.”

  It was such a relief to hear those words, spoken so gently by her Mama, but then Chiara simply could not stop crying. Her whole body was shaking with violent sobs.

  After a moment, she heard her mother say,

  “My darling, I know how sad you are, but we have to get through today, when we will both be missing your Papa so terribly. And then – there is the funeral.”

  It had been arranged that Lord Fairfax would be buried before the New Year.

  Lady Fairfax took Chiara’s hand and gazed at her solemnly.

  “Once the funeral is over, my darling, I think it would be a good idea if you went away for a little while.”

  “But – why, Mama? I want to stay here and look after you,” Chiara exclaimed, unable to believe what she had just heard.

  “No, my darling. We will end up just making each other even more upset. You must go and be with someone of your own age, who will cheer you up and help you to look forward to the future. That will be much better for you than being here brooding over what has happened.”

  Chiara felt her heart freezing like an icy stone as she heard this. How could she bear to go away?

  But she could see that her mother was still full of grief and pain and had no strength to comfort her daughter. So she stopped crying.

  Somehow Chiara got through both the long empty Christmas Day and the painful ritual of the funeral a few days later with perfect composure.