A Perfect Way to Heaven Read online

  Delphine sensed that the valet would never dare complain about his treatment to his Master.

  “The Prince is just too besotted with me,” she would sigh contentedly.

  Elvira looked down at Serge searching for loose stones and on an impulse, she knelt beside him. He regarded her with surprise.

  “I’ll help you,” she offered, removing her gloves with her teeth.

  Moving snow aside with her bare hands, she quickly uncovered four stones, which she held out in triumph. Serge had found four as well and he took Elvira’s with a nod. Delphine grabbed them without a by-your-leave and she and the Prince began to skim them over the frozen lake.

  Elvira’s hands were feeling numb and she blew on her fingers to warm them. Serge regarded her sternly.

  “You have no fur muff?”

  “No,” she shrugged.

  Abruptly Serge seized her hand and began to chaff it between his own. Elvira was too taken aback to react.

  Her hands seemed lost in Serge’s clasp, his palms were warm and gradually her fingers began to tingle with returning blood. He raised his eyes and she blinked.

  For a second his expression was almost ardent. Then that look was gone to be replaced by his usual remote gaze. She withdrew her hands.

  “T-thank you.”

  Serge gave a curt nod, turned towards the lake and a scowl crossed his brow.

  The Prince and Delphine had used up their stones and she had picked up a fallen bough and was leaning out over the lake, attempting to break a section of ice with the Prince holding her by the waist.

  Elvira, sharing Serge’s displeasure, began to pull on her gloves.

  “They are so – happy together,” she sighed, disguising her unhappiness with a smile.

  Serge’s jaw clenched.

  “You think so?”

  “Yes. They are well suited.”

  Serge gave a harsh laugh.

  “You could not be more wrong. The truth is, she is far too good for him.”

  Elvira could not contain her astonishment.

  “But he is a Prince! How could she be too good for him? He is so – so handsome – his every gesture so regal.”

  Serge’s pupils became as dark as the night sky and she almost shrank before their baleful expression.

  “So regal, eh? Do you not mistake the apparel for the man?”

  Elvira drew herself up with indignation.

  “You think me so shallow, sir?”

  “I think you – so inexperienced,” replied Serge.

  “You do not have to be experienced to know a Royal nature when you see it.”

  “You would never mistake me then for a Prince?”

  “You? Never!”

  Hardly had she spoken than Elvira felt ashamed. Serge was suffering as she was and just as she longed to be in Delphine’s place, he longed to be in the Prince’s. It was cruel of her to be so dismissive.

  “Perhaps,” she relented, “if you were wearing just such a cloak – with its fur collar – and just such diamonds.”

  “Perhaps –”

  Another squeal of delight from Delphine and he had lost interest in Elvira’s thoughts. His eyes once more settled on the couple at the lakeside.

  “Have you been in the Prince’s employ long?” she ventured.

  “He and I have known each other many years.”

  “Has he been – a good Master?”

  Serge hesitated.

  “Perhaps it is he who should answer that question, not me,” he replied at last.

  Elvira was perplexed by this answer, but had no time to brood over it.

  Delphine had announced that she was ready for tea and the party made its way back to the castle, where the table was laid out in Delphine’s sitting room.

  Serge made his excuses and left, while Elvira took her cup and plate to the window seat. From there she had a view of the glittering white world outside.

  It was her only distraction as Delphine and the Prince had not one word to say to her. She was describing the plans for the coming Christmas Ball and he nodded and smiled over his hot chocolate as if he followed every word.

  Every loving look the Prince cast Delphine’s way was a knife in Elvira’s heart.

  *

  The day of the ball dawned and Elvira was summoned to Delphine’s room. Seated at her dressing table she looked up as Elvira entered.

  “The Prince is going to propose to me tonight, I am certain,” she said breathlessly. “Have you ever seen a man more in love than he, Elvira?”

  “No,” agreed Elvira. She could not help but stare at her cousin in the dressing table mirror.

  Delphine looked almost pretty, her skin glowed and her eyes were shining.

  Without thinking, Elvira took up a hairbrush and ran its bristles across her fingers.

  “Don’t just stand there playing!” scolded Delphine. “Brush my hair for me!”

  Elvira obeyed.

  “The Prince will propose while we’re dancing,” mused Delphine. “I’m sure of it. I’ll be in his arms and my heart will be pounding and he will say ‘will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ And I’ll say, ‘yes, my darling, yes!’ Then Papa will announce the betrothal before all the guests and – ouch! That hurt.”

  “I’m s-sorry!” mumbled Elvira.

  Delphine, too absorbed in her fantasy to be other than quickly mollified, began toying with her perfume bottles.

  “It’s a pity you won’t be there to see it all. I think it’s truly horrid of Aunt Cruddock and Papa. What harm would it do?”

  “None, I’m sure,” replied Elvira. “But I daresay I should look out of place without a gown.”

  A spasm of sympathy crossed Delphine’s face and she sprang up from the stool.

  “Look – here in my wardrobe, I have so many gowns, please take one!”

  “I-I couldn’t!”

  “Of course you could. Why not? Take this one.”

  Elvira stared at the coral pink dress that Delphine held up before her.

  “It’s – beautiful,” she sighed faintly. “But I am sure your aunt will not agree to let me come to the ball.”

  “Maybe not, but have it anyway.” She thrust the gown into Elvira’s arms. “You may have occasion to wear it one day and then you can think of me. I’m really quite generous, aren’t I?”

  Elvira nodded, stupefied, as she caught the gown against her breast.

  “You better take it away now,” warned Delphine. “Cassie will be here any minute to dress me.”

  Elvira hurried back to her room. She spread the coral pink dress on her bed and sat, chin in hand, gazing at it.

  The guests began to arrive at seven o’clock and Elvira could hear the carriages roll up to the front door.

  Then she heard the orchestra strike up, far away, as if in some distant and subterranean cavern.

  She went to the window and stared out. The glitter of candlelight was thrown onto the lawn from the ballroom windows.

  She turned and looked at the dress again.

  What harm would it do to put on the dress and pretend she was going to the ball!

  She took off the brown dress she was wearing and quickly slipped on the coral dress. Holding the back together with one hand, she gazed at herself in the pier glass.

  She did not dare call for Beth to hook her up, so she cast around for a pin.

  Finding one she finally succeeded in securing the dress half way up her back. It would not do, but she was not going to be seen anyway!

  Fixing Beth’s tortoiseshell clasp on the side of her head, she stepped before the pier glass.

  If only the Prince could see her now!

  The ballroom below must have become stuffy for someone threw open the French windows and the strains of the violins spilled out into the night. The sound lured Elvira as if by a magnet to be nearer the music, to catch a forbidden glimpse of the ladies in their ball-gowns!

  Silent as a shadow she left her room, gliding along the corridor and down th
e stairs. It was pure chance that she met no one.

  She crossed the Great Hall and crept along a corridor that led to the kitchen garden. Opening the last door, she walked outside.

  The air was sharp as a blade but she barely felt it. Holding the hem of her dress high, she made her way round to the terrace outside the ballroom.

  Apart from where light flowed out from the long windows, the terrace was in darkness and Elvira was invisible to the dancers she saw moving in silhouette in the ballroom.

  She stood listening as a faint breeze fluttered the net of her gown.

  ‘This is my very own ballroom,’ she decided and began to dance.

  She imagined she was in his arms, the Prince’s arms. She imagined his breath on her cheek, his arm about her waist.

  Eyes closed she danced like a silver moonbeam across the terrace.

  The waltz ended and in the lull, Elvira stretched forth her arms with longing, imagining they might enfold the Prince. Eyes still closed, she could almost sense him in front of her.

  Someone grasped her hands and drew her close. Her heart hammered violently within her breast.

  It was he, it was her beloved!

  She dared not look – she hardly dared breathe.

  Then an all too familiar voice murmured in her ear.

  “May I have the next dance?”

  With a gasp her eyes flew open.

  It was the valet, Serge!

  She struggled in his arms.

  “Let – me – go!” she whispered fiercely.

  “Let you go?” His voice was hoarse. “When the music will soon begin again?”

  His grip was irresistible. She felt the force of his will as his arm slid about her waist.

  ‘I am held together with a pin,’ she remembered in sudden panic and flinched as Serge’s hand discovered the unfastened back of her gown.

  He leaned his head back to stare down at her.

  “What’s this?”

  “I-I had no one to hook my dress.”

  His hand still lingered on her back and she felt her bare flesh ripple under the pressure of his warm fingers.

  With a shock, she realised that his touch aroused a degree of pleasure within her. What emotion Serge felt she could not tell, but she sensed a tremor run through his frame before he stepped away and turned her about.

  “I will do up your gown,” he proposed, his tone gentler than before.

  She stood trembling while Serge carefully began to slip each hook into its corresponding eye. Now and then she threw a fearful glance at the ballroom. Supposing someone should come out? But, though one or two windows were open, no one emerged.

  She seemed to be on fire. Her cheeks flamed, her bare shoulders felt flushed, but how could this be, when it was not the Prince who stood behind her but Serge, his valet?

  “It’s done,” murmured Serge.

  She thought he might move away, but he did not. She felt his hand move to her neck, where he ran his fingers up into her luxuriant mass of hair.

  She froze as she sensed him bring the tresses to his lips.

  The moon came riding out from behind a bank of inky cloud and its seemingly foolish face winked down at her. Stars sailed alongside, twinkling like – like the diamonds on the Prince’s fingers!

  Yes, she must think of the Prince. He was the one she loved, even if her love was illicit. She must resist this potent spell that Serge sought to cast upon her. She had seen the effect of his personality on that serving wench at the White Doe Inn.

  He was a seducer. Well, she, Elvira Carrisford, was not going to fall into his net!

  “Thank you for your help, sir,” she said stiffly.

  In response, Serge placed his hands on her shoulders and turned her round to face him. In the pale moonlight, his eyes seemed lit from within, their pupils large and black as a forest pool.

  She felt she was drowning in his intense gaze, while behind him, the orchestra struck up another waltz.

  “Dance with me,” he muttered softly and drew her again into his arms.

  She could no longer resist.

  She was light as gossamer, she was a note in the melody that streamed forth from the open windows. Treetops fluttered against the night sky, stars seemed to hover like silver moths.

  She yielded her whole being to the dance. Eyes closed, she was no longer sure who was leading her across the stone flagging of the terrace.

  Was it Serge or the Prince? They were becoming inextricably linked in her imagination. She did not know whose arms she would rather have around her.

  Then Serge leaned down, his lips brushing her temple as he spoke.

  “Elvira – tell me – who are you dreaming about?”

  At that moment, so confused was she, it might well have been Serge’s name that she uttered.

  But it was not.

  “The Prince,” she mumbled.

  She felt Serge stiffen and the hand that held hers relaxed its grip.

  Her eyes fluttered open as he stepped away.

  “The waltz has ended,” he said, turning towards the ballroom.

  She hung her head unhappily. Of course! She had overstepped the bounds of propriety by declaring an interest in his Master when he was as good as engaged to Delphine.

  Another door was flung open to allow air into the ballroom. Within the voice of a footman declared loudly that an announcement was about to be made.

  To Elvira’s surprise, Serge uttered a quiet oath under his breath and moved towards the nearest window.

  Elvira hesitated a moment and then followed to stand beside him. He did not so much as glance her way. His eyes were fixed rigidly on the figure of Lord Baseheart as he climbed the steps of the orchestra dais.

  Seeing Delphine and the Prince make their way to stand beside him, Elvira’s heart began to thud.

  Delphine’s face was aglow, her hands clasped together with excitement.

  The Prince’s eyes were searching the crowd. They swept towards the window and settled on Serge’s face and for a moment, the two men, Master and valet, regarded each other in silence while the assembled guests jostled forward.

  Then, to Elvira’s astonishment, the Prince gave a slight and almost guilty shrug of his shoulders, as if to say that what was about to happen was out of his control.

  Serge lifted a hand and leaned it against the window. His other hand, Elvira noticed, clenched itself into a fist at his side.

  Lord Baseheart cleared his throat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen and dear friends. I wish to announce that I have just given my blessing to the betrothal of my beloved daughter, Delphine Juliet Baseheart to Prince Charles de Courel. The nuptials will take place in four months time.”

  Despite herself, Elvira let out a soft cry of anguish.

  Serge wheeled round to stare at her and then, eyes ablaze, he strode off into the darkness of the night.

  Unthinking, Elvira turned and stumbled two or three paces after him before stopping. Hand to her breast, she stood in heartfelt misery as his figure crossed the lawn and disappeared into the row of trees.

  ‘He is so in love with Delphine,’ thought Elvira. ‘But how can I console him? I who am so in love with his Master? What words of comfort can I give to one who is as desolate as he?’

  She wondered at the Prince’s guilty shrug just before the announcement. What had it signified? Perhaps the Prince knew that his valet was in love with Delphine.

  How kind of him and how very considerate to acknowledge in advance the despair that the news was bound to arouse in Serge’s breast!

  Elvira could hear the cries of congratulations that greeted Lord Baseheart’s speech. She stood for a moment staring at the figures on the other side of the window and then with a sigh she retraced her steps to her room.

  She found Beth in the act of turning down the bed.

  “Bless me, miss!” the maid cried in amazement. “What a picture you look. I never knew you had such a dress with you! Surely you didn’t go to the ball after all?�
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  Elvira did not reply but moved wearily to the pier glass.

  “Unhook me, please, will you?”

  “Who hooked you up in the first place, is what I’d like to know,” grumbled Beth, but a look from Elvira silenced her. She helped her out of the dress and stood with it draped over her arm as Elvira climbed into bed.

  “Have you heard the news, miss?” she asked warily.

  “About the betrothal? Yes, Beth, I have. I – would rather not discuss it at present, though. I am feeling rather tired.”

  She buried her face in the pillow in such a way as to indicate a dismissal. Beth hung the dress in the wardrobe and tiptoed out.

  The pillow was wet with tears before the door closed behind her.

  *

  Elvira heard the clock strike midnight and the sound of guests departing.

  She turned over and stared at the moonlit room.

  The noises of the house settling down for the night continued until the clock struck one, but she was still wide awake.

  After tossing and turning for another hour Elvira suddenly realised she was hungry. She had not eaten all evening and perhaps that was why she could not sleep.

  It would be quite unfair at this hour to ring for poor Beth, so there was only one thing to do and that was to go down to the kitchen herself.

  She climbed out of bed and put on her slippers. She groped for her candle, took it to the still glimmering coals in the grate and lit the wick.

  The house was quiet as a tomb and Elvira crept by the kitchen maids asleep on their cots in the scullery. In the pantry she found bread and cheese and a piece of game pie. With these in her hand she made her way back into the corridor.

  Glancing towards the door that led to the kitchen garden, she saw that it was ajar.

  Who could have been so careless as not to bolt it for the night?

  A second later she froze as she heard low voices in the garden beyond.

  Who was up at this hour besides herself?

  The voices moved out of earshot so Elvira tiptoed forward and peered out.

  Pacing the paths of the kitchen garden were two figures.

  She suppressed a gasp as she recognised Serge and the Prince.

  Whatever subject they were discussing, they were in obvious disagreement. Though their voices were low, they were heated.