The young man followed her into the drawing room gazing around at the dark outlines on the bare walls, which showed where pictures had once hung.
“We are in the same boat,” he said. “I am Richard, by the way. Richard Stanfield. I have just had to clear out our house and sell up.”
He held out his hand and took Elissa’s and even through her glove she could feel how warm his touch was.
“My Papa died, too, not so long ago. It’s hard, isn’t it?” he breathed.
Elissa did not trust herself to speak, but she nodded.
“Oh, goodness – your hair!” he exclaimed. “Your lovely golden hair! You must be the girl in the pictures of the cherry tree!”
Elissa nodded again and managed to blurt out,
“I would expect so. I was always here – and Papa often painted me.”
“And what will you do now?”
Richard was holding her hand tightly.
“Do you have somewhere to go?”
“I am going to stay with my grandmother.”
There was a loud rap at the door.
“I imagine that will be the House Agent,” he said. “No time for tea, then!”
Elissa shook her head.
“I’m going off to be a painter,” Richard was saying. “That is why I wanted to talk to your father, but – Miss Valentine – it’s been wonderful to see you. I’m sure we’ll meet again sometime.”
“Yes,” Elissa whispered.
It was all too much suddenly, this handsome young man was being so kind to her. And all the while she knew that in just a few minutes she would be walking out of the front door of her home perhaps for ever.
“I do hope so!” responded Richard enthusiastically, smiling at her.
Then he let go of her hand and was gone.
It was time for Elissa to leave too.
She picked up the keys and went to hand them over to the House Agent.
CHAPTER THREE
It was growing dark by the time the train drew into Fellbrook Station at five o’clock, and Elissa peered along the dimly-lit platform to see if anyone had come to meet her.
“How do, lass!” a deep gruff voice spoke up from the shadows. “Miss Valentine, is it?”
“Yes, that’s me!” acknowledged Elissa and as she spoke her breath formed a misty cloud in the cold air.
“Oldroyd it be, ma’am, coachman at The Towers,” the gruff voice came again and a squat man with broad shoulders stepped forward to pick up her bag.
He raised his hat and indicated for Elissa to follow him along the platform to where a carriage pulled by four horses was waiting.
“Is it far?” asked Elissa, as the coachman opened the door.
“Far enough,” grunted Oldroyd.
And then she was inside the carriage, sitting on soft leather cushions with her bag at her feet.
The carriage rattled and jolted as the horses swiftly trotted along the road and then it slowed down and Elissa realised they were climbing up a steep incline.
She pulled down the window to look out and a blast of bitterly cold air rushed into the carriage.
On the seat opposite lay a heavy fur rug and Elissa picked it up and wrapped it round her shoulders.
It felt soft and luxurious and, as she snuggled into its warm folds, a strong perfume of violets tickled her nose.
Outside a full moon was rising in the velvety dark sky and its silvery light shone over a barren hillside with just a few stunted trees dotted about.
She listened to the four horses’ hooves slipping and scraping as they pulled the carriage up the steep road, and every now and then Oldroyd shouted at them and clicked his tongue to hurry them along.
In spite of the warm fur Elissa felt cold inside.
Where were they going?
There were no buildings or lights anywhere on the hillside and she felt as if she was on her way to the end of the world.
The icy air drifting in through the window smelt of moorland herbs and wet marshland. Elissa had never smelt anything quite so clean and wild and fresh before.
Then she caught a more familiar scent – the tang of wood smoke.
There must be a house nearby, a farmhouse perhaps where there was a fire burning.
Elissa leaned her head out of the carriage window and caught her breath in astonishment when she saw what lay ahead.
It was no farmhouse.
A mass of dark battlemented towers crowned the brow of the hill and she might almost have thought that the carriage was taking her towards a huge Castle, except for the lights that shone out from the tall windows at the front of the building.
‘Of course,’ she whispered, ‘Grandmama’s address is Fellbrook Towers– and that must be what I can see.’
The carriage lurched up the last slope and came to a grinding halt.
Oldroyrd came to open the door for Elissa.
“Fellbrook Towers, miss,” he announced proudly.
The moon was now high and casting its silver light over the many roofs of The Towers, but as Elissa walked up to the huge front door, she felt as if she was stepping into a deep shadow.
‘I cannot stay here!’ she sighed, her heart fluttering in panic, as the great old door creaked in front of her and opened up a crack. ‘This is not my home!’
And she then turned to run back to the carriage, but Oldroyd was already leading the horses away towards the stables.
An eye was peering through the crack and after a moment a woman’s voice with a strong Yorkshire accent muttered,
“It be ’er, my Lady!”
The door then swung fully open to let Elissa inside.
The hall that she walked into was vast and gloomy, its vaulted ceiling so high above her head it was invisible in the darkness. It felt almost as big as the Railway Station at King’s Cross, where she had boarded the train that very morning.
Ahead of her to the right a staircase wide enough to drive a coach up it led up towards a balustraded landing.
And to the left in a huge fireplace a blazing fire was burning.
In front of the fire a woman was standing, but the flames were so bright that Elissa could only make out her silhouette.
She was very tall with hair piled on top of her head.
“Nantwich!” the woman called and her strong bell-like voice echoed around the hall. “Bring her to me!”
The stout housekeeper, who had opened the front door, now bustled forward and took Elissa’s bag.
“Go on, then,” she hissed. “Her Ladyship is waitin’ for you, can’t you see?”
Elissa approached the crackling fire, and now she could see the flickering flames reflected in the woman’s dark eyes, making sparkles in the cascades of jet beads that hung from her ears.
She stood there as straight and upright as a much younger woman, but the skin on her aristocratic fine-boned face was lined and drooping, although her elegant coiffure showed very few traces of grey.
Elissa noticed a strong scent of violets – the same perfume that had clung to the fur rug in the carriage.
“So you have come,” the woman said after a while. “But I cannot see your face. Take off your hat.”
Elissa drew out her hatpins and removed the straw hat she had worn for the journey.
Her heavy fair hair, which she had tied in a knot at the back of her neck, fell down over her shoulders.
The woman made an odd noise somewhere between a hiss and sigh.
“So – you are Elissa, are you?
“Yes, I am. And you must be – Lady Hartwell, my Grandmama.”
Elissa moved to step closer, but the woman raised a hand to stop her.
“That is so. Although now that I see you in front of me, I find it hard to believe that we could be related. I see nothing of our family in your face – and your hair – ”
“I take after my Papa! My hair is the same colour as his.”
“No!”
Lady Hartwell’s voice echoed off the walls of the vast hall.
Elissa was so shocked and confused that she did not know what to say.
“We Hartwells are dark-haired, all of us. It is a vast disappointment to me to see that you have not inherited my daughter Helena’s beauty.”
Lady Hartwell turned away to stare into the fire.
“Grandmama – ” Elissa began, struggling to collect her thoughts.
“No!” the old woman snorted. “You do not call me that. Lady Hartwell is my title.”
Her black eyes flashed in the light from the fire and Elissa could see just how striking she must have been as a young woman.
“I am sorry, Lady Hartwell. I was just going to say that mother was indeed very beautiful – ”
Elissa thought Lady Hartwell might be pleased if she went on to say that she must have passed on her good looks to her mother, but the old woman was not listening.
She was staring beyond Elissa into the shadows at the far end of the hall, her eyes fixed on some scene from the past.
“She was the most beautiful girl in London Society. She could have taken her pick of all the young aristocrats that Season and yet she chose to throw herself away on an ignorant and worthless young portrait painter!”
Lady Hartwell’s voice dropped dramatically as she spat out the words.
“She broke my heart, the cruel thoughtless hussy!”
Elissa could not think of anyone less heartless and unkind than her dear Mama, who had been so sensitive and loving. But it did not seem a good idea to contradict Lady Hartwell, whose thin black eyebrows were now lowered in a fierce frown.
So she simply added,
“My mother spoke of you often and said that she missed you.”
Lady Hartwell tossed her head and the jet earrings tinkled as the beads clicked together.
“That is as it may be. Helena made her choice and she suffered the consequences!”
She turned from Elissa to speak to the housekeeper.
“Nantwich, I feel rather disinclined to take dinner this evening.”
And with that she strode towards the wide staircase, the endless layers of her black satin skirts rustling over the flagstones and leaving behind them a faint flowery scent of violets.
Elissa watched Lady Hartwell’s aristocratic figure ascending until it merged into the darkness of the balcony and disappeared.
“If you would care to come with me, miss.”
They walked along a purple-carpeted corridor and then the housekeeper opened up a panelled door and Elissa could see a long dining table, which stretched away in front of her like a broad river of polished wood.
At the far end of the table, a blaze of candlelight was reflected in its shining surface, and here two places were laid with gold-rimmed plates, delicate glasses and an array of knives, forks and spoons.
“There you be, miss, and I shall now tell cook you are at table. We mustn’t keep the food waitin’.”
She then walked away down the dining room and disappeared through another door.
No one seemed to have thought that Elissa might like to change or brush her hair or even wash her hands.
She looked at the place opposite and tried to picture Lady Hartwell seated there.
The old lady was fierce and rather frightening, but Elissa would almost have preferred her company now to the total silence of the deserted dining room.
She could feel her eyes begin to sting as a wave of sadness welled up inside her.
‘I must not, I will not cry!’ she told herself firmly and closed her eyes tightly to hold back the tears.
Behind her closed lids she could see the winter sun shining over St. John’s Wood that morning and the face of the handsome young man who had knocked at the door.
Where was he now?
Something nudged against her foot and Elissa gave a little scream and leapt up – someone had come into the dining room and sat down in front of her.
She opened her eyes, but the chair opposite her was empty, its red velvet cushion glowing in the candlelight.
‘Something – touched me – ’ Elissa whispered to herself. But perhaps it was her imagination playing tricks on her.
She looked around her, but there was nothing to be seen beyond the bright glow of the candles except a veil of shadows masking the dining room walls.
Then a door creaked open and a butler in black and flanked by two footmen, came slowly towards her, bearing an immense silver tureen.
Elissa sat down again still shaking from shock and hoped they had not heard her scream.
“Soup, miss?”
The butler, who sported long mutton-chop whiskers came and stood beside her.
Elissa nodded, hiding her trembling hands beneath the white linen tablecloth.
One of the footmen lifted the lid of the tureen and the other passed a silver ladle to the butler, who dipped it into the tureen and poured a small amount of brown liquid into Elissa’s soup bowl.
She was too shaken and too tired to feel hungry, but when she raised a spoonful of the soup to her lips, it tasted delicious.
Within a few moments the butler was bearing down upon her again, this time with a large silver platter.
He had just about reached her chair when she felt something brush against her leg again.
“Oh!” Elissa gasped and she would have jumped up again if the butler had not been stooping over her shoulder to serve the next course.
“Is something wrong, miss?” the butler asked her, sliding a piece of something drowned in a white sauce onto her plate.
“Nothing, it’s – nothing,” she replied and the butler and the two footmen retreated once more.
Now a strange noise could be heard and it seemed to be coming from under the dining table.
There was something familiar and quite comforting about this odd noise and Elissa plucked up her courage and lifted the edge of the tablecloth so she could peep under.
A pair of wide green eyes gazed up at her from the darkness.
“Oh my goodness, what are you doing there?” she whispered, as a fat ginger cat stood up and rubbed against her leg. “Oh, but it’s the fish course – and I expect that is your favourite.”
Quickly before the butler and the footmen returned, she broke off a piece of fish and passed it down to the cat. And then another and another until all of the fish had gone.
Through the rest of that long and lonely dinner, as the butler and the two footmen went back and forth with a succession of dishes for which she had no appetite, the cat kept her company, lying on her feet and purring softly.
Later that night when Elissa was lying wide awake in her luxurious bedroom, watching the moon travel slowly across the sky through the half-open curtains, she heard a scratching noise at her door.
“Hallo!” she called out, as she opened the door and the ginger cat slipped into the room and jumped onto her bed.
“So you found me up here too! What’s your name, puss? It should be ‘Marmalade’ as that is what you look like with your broad orange and red stripes! You are the brightest thing I have seen here so far at The Towers where everything seems to be black or grey or purple!”
The cat curled up at the foot of her four-poster bed and started purring loudly.
‘I have a friend,’ mused Elissa as she laid her head on the pillow and within moments she was fast asleep.
*
“Richard, you are many miles away!” Montgomery Milward said, punching his best friend on the arm. “Wake up, man!”
They were strolling along Regent’s Street towards Piccadilly and high up in the sky above the same moon that peeped in on Elissa in her new home was shining down on them.
“Sorry, Monty.”
“It’s your last night out in London, old chap! I’m taking time out from my legal studies to wine you and dine you and delight your eyes with some of the prettiest girls on the London stage – you might at least look like you’re enjoying yourself.
”
“I am Monty, I am – ”
“Just look on the bright side, Richard. You are now a free man, no ties to bind you and you’re going off to do what you’ve always wanted, trying your hand at painting.”
“Yes.”
Monty was right, he should be delighted.
He might have lost almost everything, but at least he had the opportunity to start a new life, doing something he loved.
“Oh, no!” Monty groaned and struck his forehead. “Don’t tell me, Richard, you are still mooning over that wicked woman who broke your heart and cheated you out of your fortune!”
“Absolutely not,” shuddered Richard.
“I know that lovesick look in your eyes – ”
“No, no, no!”
“Oh – it’s even worse! You have met another one, haven’t you?”
Richard shook his head vigorously, but Monty was not deterred and kept on pestering him until he was forced to admit it, that yes, he had met a beautiful young girl that very morning.
“Honestly, Richard, I can’t let you out of my sight! It’s a good job that I’ll be at the theatre with you tonight or you’d be running off with some silly actress.”
“This girl was – different, Monty.”
“Aren’t they all?” replied Monty with a cynical air.
Richard did not respond and Monty, seeing that he had upset his friend, continued,
“All right then, old man. Spill the beans. What is she like?”
“She has fair hair,” began Richard, seeing Elissa in his mind’s eye, answering the door with her long golden curls falling over the shoulders of her old black dress.
“Fair. Well, that’s a good start. If you’d said she was a redhead like that girl from Argentina, I would have been very worried. She’s very rich, I hope?”
“She’s an artist’s daughter.”
“Hmm.” Monty looked a bit doubtful. “Is her Papa famous?”
“He is dead. And he was not very well known.”
“Richaaard!” growled Monty, striking his forehead again. “You need a girl with a fortune, if you’re going to be a struggling painter!”
“But she – ”
The Trail to Love Page 4
