This Way to Heaven

by Barbara Cartland

  He shivered as a gust of freezing wind blew in from the hills above his castle and tipping his head back gazed up into a sky that was heavy and sullen with snow clouds before striding back to the Rolls Royce.

  If he could not reach the main road in the next ten minutes, he knew the pass over the moors would be closed probably for days and the valley would be cut off from the outside world.

  He understood this winter weather only too well. Once it came in from the North and East, the snow settled on the hard Yorkshire ground and drifted in the wind.

  Part of him knew that he should follow the girl and make sure she was safe, but, as he glanced at the slim black briefcase on the seat next to him, he realised that he must take these important papers to London. They were vital for the talks that were to take place in Whitehall in the New Year.

  ‘Well, no doubt Miss America is nearly home by now – wherever home might be or else she’s tipped into a ditch!’ he muttered to himself.

  He started the engine and drove away, refusing to admit how startling and unsettling the incident had made him feel.

  Memories of Millicent and her tragic accident came crowding in on him yet again, and the sparkle that his encounter with the blonde rider had brought back to his eyes vanished as he felt the weight of a familiar black depression settle on his shoulders.

  *

  Jasmina slowed Lightning to a walk, glancing back over her shoulder to make quite certain that the dark-eyed stranger had not followed her in his car.

  What a very odd man!

  The passion and anger in his voice and on his face had left her strangely disturbed.

  She could still see those piercing dark eyes gazing up at her. Admittedly they had looked angry, but they had also held an expression of great sadness.

  ‘I declare I expect he has some poor wife at home, who has always had to put up with that bad temper of his,’ she conjectured. ‘I pity her with all my heart. I for one could never marry a man with such a bad nature!’

  Jasmina tossed her head again.

  She had most decided views about who she would marry one day.

  She knew she would only link her life with a man for love because it would have to be forever.

  She had known too many friends who had travelled to England with their inheritance in order to marry some impoverished Duke or Earl and help rebuild his rundown estate.

  Well, that certainly was not going to happen to her. ‘No way,’ as Jeremy, her old groom would say back home.

  Fancy being faced with that bad-tempered man and being told he was your future husband!

  She could feel her heart beating faster than usual and her forehead was hot even though the temperature had fallen dramatically in the last few minutes.

  Jasmina gazed up at the sky just as the wind began to sweep icily down the track from the hills and the first fat flakes of snow began to fall.

  ‘Oh jeez, the weather’s changing, just as Reid said it would. We had better hurry up, Lightning. We need to get to the Parsonage at Debbingford and fast!’

  She came to a fork in the track and hesitated.

  The signpost said she should ride straight on, but surely if she cut downwards into the valley, she could ride round the lake she could see and then straight up the hill to the pass?

  That would save a good five miles and she would be in Debbingford inside twenty minutes.

  The wind whistled shrilly as she turned Lightning off the beaten path, but she ignored all her misgivings.

  She was from Missouri and she was used to riding in bad weather.

  There was no chance she was going to meekly trot home and confess to the staff of Harley Grange that she was not as strong and resourceful as an English girl!

  She pulled a waterproof cape from her saddlebag and slid it over her head. It would help keep her dry.

  Urging Lightning into a fast walk, Jasmina did not look back and therefore failed to see that her wallet with her passport, money and all the letters of introduction the Duchess had given her, had been pulled out of her bag with the cape and now lay at the side of the road, being swiftly buried under inches of snow.

  *

  George Radford trudged wearily through the snow, leading his stocky little grey pony.

  The blizzard howled bleakly through the trees and every now and then he could hear an ominous crack as yet another branch finally gave up its fight against the weight of snow.

  George pulled his collar tight round his mouth and chin.

  He had been lucky to get out of Debbingford when he did.

  A few minutes later and the only pass over the hills would have been closed.

  As it was it had been difficult and his trousers were soaked up to his knees where he had struggled through a deep drift.

  He plodded on slowly with a heavy heart, hardly able to feel his feet and fingers.

  Getting up before dawn, travelling all that way into the next valley and what for? Just to sell a few eggs and parsnips!

  The money he had taken had gone straight into the pockets of the corn merchants for next year’s seed! Well, Christmas would indeed be a gloomy affair this year.

  ‘And Mary reckons I could afford to marry ’er and keep a home!’ he muttered. ‘If the Earl would only sell me another couple of acres, I might well do so, but he’s like all the aristocracy. They ’ang on to every inch of their land, whether they need it or not.’

  George felt the familiar anger building up inside him. The Earl wanted him to sell the plot of land that had been in his family for so long so that two parts of his estate could be connected.

  But that piece of land had belonged to the Radfords for centuries.

  No Somerton had ever asked to buy it before and George was determined he would never sell it.

  His old Dad would surely turn in his grave at the very thought.

  Now he peered into the swirling blizzard to check where he was. Even with the path under a foot of snow, these woods were an open book to him.

  There was the old dead oak tree and the great holly bush right next to it, the berries gleaming scarlet through the white covering.

  ‘I reckon my Mary would like a bit of ’olly for the castle,’ George muttered to his pony. ‘Won’t take me a minute to cut ’er a bit. She can ’ang it in the servants’ hall if the Earl won’t ’ave it in the main rooms.’

  He tethered his mount in the shelter of a thick bush and then strode off the path.

  Suddenly he cursed and stumbled.

  “What the blazes?”

  He knelt down and scraped away at a covering of snow.

  To his astonishment, a dark waterproof cape came into his view and, as he pulled it back, the pale face of a beautiful young girl appeared, her skin almost as white as the snowflakes gently settling on her lips and eyelashes.

  *

  Mary and Mrs. Rush were alone in the vast castle kitchen sipping their afternoon tea.

  It was so dark outside that they had already lit the oil lamps that were now shining down onto the scrubbed wooden counter tops. The copper pans reflected back the light and on the great dark oak dressers, the blue and white kitchen china added a flash of colour.

  Most of the staff had been given the afternoon off, but because of the weather were sitting in the servants’ hall down the corridor gossiping.

  Pardew, the butler, had taken his cup of tea and a buttered scone and retired to his pantry, where he cleaned the family silver.

  Mary wondered if he might be slipping the odd tot of whisky into his tea. She had sometimes smelt it on his breath and he went to bed extremely early these days.

  She sighed.

  In a well-run establishment she would have been able to tackle Pardew and point out that his behaviour was not acceptable, but she knew he was bored because there was nothing to do here at the castle.

  The Earl no longer invited the local gentry to dinner parties or entertained in any fashion at all. Since his wife’s death he had retired completely from Society a
nd it made life for his butler extremely tame.

  And if Mary was to speak to the Earl about the butler’s shoddy ways, what would happen then? Probably nothing, she doubted if he would even support her decisions.

  No, she reflected sadly, he had simply ceased to care what happened below stairs, and didn’t want to be troubled by anything that might disturb his deep dark depressed solitude.

  Mary sighed again as she stared out of the window at the swirling snow.

  She knew only too well what a blizzard like this meant.

  The castle would be cut off for days, all the roads leading to it would become impassable and even when they cleared, the routes into the local towns would still be shut.

  “At least there’s no need to worry about what to serve our guests for Christmas,” she moaned to Mrs. Rush. “Seeing as we won’t be having any!”

  Mrs. Rush tutted and sipped her tea.

  “I’ve made some lovely Christmas puddings, just as usual, but I can’t see the Master eating any festive fare.”

  Mary stood up, smoothing down her dark dress and checking that the important household keys were hanging safely from her leather belt.

  Regardless of the empty castle she would do her rounds of the four turrets and all the rooms and corridors that linked them.

  With the Earl so distant from his staff it was easy for the younger maids to fall into bad habits.

  Sometimes Mary would find staircases that had not been swept or rooms where the drapes had not been dusted for weeks or the windows opened to prevent damp.

  She was more than conscious that she was so very young for such a responsible job and was determined not to disappoint the Earl in any way.

  A violent knocking at the scullery door made her jump.

  “Who on earth is that – out in this weather?” said Mrs. Rush.

  Mary ran into the scullery to unlatch the back door and had to fight to open it against the howling gale as the banging sounded again.

  To her astonishment, George, the man she loved so much, staggered indoors carrying a large burden covered in snow.

  He gasped for breath as the warmth of the kitchen caught in his throat.

  “George! Whatever’s happened?”

  “Here! Quick! It’s a young lady. Found her out in Bridgend Woods. Can’t tell if she’s alive or dead!”

  “What? Oh, my goodness! Mrs. Rush! Quickly, please bring towels and stoke up the fire. And we’ll need blankets and brandy too. Bring her over here, George, and lay her down alongside the fire. Where did you say you found her?”

  “Over in Bridgend Woods. She’s a-wearing ridin’ clothes and right strange ones at that, but there was no sign of any ’orse. I reckon she was thrown. Look – see that cut and bump on her forehead? She was lyin’ beside a big old tree trunk. That’s what I reckon she hit her ’ead on when she fell.”

  Mary smoothed the soaking wet hair back from the girl’s brow.

  She slid her finger to one side of her throat and frowned.

  Was there a pulse?

  “Yes! She’s alive! Thank God for that! Listen, we must call the doctor and hope he can take her away to a hospital immediately.”

  She glanced up at George and felt the colour rising in her cheeks at the warmth of his gaze.

  Then she realised the young farmer was shaking his head, the snowflakes melting on his dark red hair.

  “No, Mary. The nearest doctor is Doctor Meade in Debbingford and there’s no way he can get ’ere. The snow’s already several feet deep. The castle’s cut off from the town.”

  Mrs. Rush hurried into the room and helped Mary pull the waterproof cape from the girl’s still body.

  “We need to get her out of these wet clothes and into a warm bed or she won’t stay alive for long!”

  Mary bit her lip.

  “But we can’t possibly keep her in the castle, Mrs. Rush! The Earl would never allow it. Heavens, he refuses to even see callers, people he’s known all his life, let alone have a strange invalid staying here for goodness knows how long!”

  The elderly cook pursed her lips and chaffed at the girl’s hands.

  “What the eyes don’t see, the heart won’t grieve over.”

  Mary stared at her for a second and then made up her mind.

  “George – you must carry her upstairs. We can’t deal with her on the kitchen floor! Mrs. Rush, bring the hot water and brandy.”

  George picked up the girl as if she weighed nothing and followed Mary out of the kitchen and down the long staff corridor.

  Their feet were very silent on the rough matting and then they ascended the cold winding stone steps the maids climbed to reach the top floors of the castle without using the main staircase.

  Mary now picked up an oil lamp and hurried along a narrow corridor to a room in the South turret of the castle.

  “Quick! In here! Put her down on the bed – gently now, George. The poor thing. I wonder who she is? She certainly isn’t anyone who lives locally.”

  “Well, reckon we just won’t know until she comes round – if she ever does!” said George gloomily.

  He backed right away from the bed, glancing round nervously at the fine curtains and thick rugs on the floor.

  “Whose room is this then, Mary? It’s all made up ready. Is the Earl expecting guests for Christmas?”

  Mary was about to answer when Mrs. Rush hurried in with a large bowl of hot water and George hastily left the room as the women began to strip off the girl’s soaking wet clothes.

  “Why put her in this room?” Mrs. Rush enquired, anxiously. “It hasn’t been used since – ”

  “It’s the only one with the bed made up and furthest away from the North Turret and his Lordship’s room.”

  “You’ll lose your place here if he ever finds out!”

  Mary hesitated for just a second and then shrugged as they wrapped the warm towels around the girl.

  A small moan escaped her lips – that was indeed marvellous! It proved she was still alive.

  “Shall I fetch one of my nightgowns?” asked Mrs. Rush. “Although it would go round her several times, I’m thinking!”

  Mary blotted the girl’s hair again with a thin linen towel. Under her hands the water was vanishing and a riot of blonde curls was appearing.

  “No – wait – in that dresser, Mrs. Rush. Yes, that big one over there in the corner. In the top drawer, you’ll find a nightgown.”

  Mrs. Rush looked startled, but obediently pulled a fine white silk nightdress from the drawer. It was beautiful with exquisite lace frills sewn at the neck and cuffs of the long sleeves.

  The cook fingered the soft material before looking across questioningly at the housekeeper, her face creased and worried.

  “Mary! Surely this is – ”

  “Yes, it belonged to the Mistress. But there is no one here to worry about that now. This poor girl needs it.”

  Once the stranger was warm and dry she lay on the pillows and the two women stood back and stared down at her.

  “She looks like one of those angels you see in some of them art books the Master keeps down in his library,” whispered Mrs. Rush. “Do you reckon she’ll recover?”

  Mary put out a hand to feel the girl’s forehead. The cut was close to her hairline and hardly noticeable now, but there was a dark bruise forming.

  “She’s very hot. I do hope she hasn’t taken a chill, but Heavens knows it will be a real miracle if she has come through all this unscathed.”

  “She seems to be sleepin’.”

  Mary nodded.

  “Yes, and that’s a good thing. Hopefully she will waken in the morning with only a bad headache to remind her of her adventure.”

  “And then she can tell us just who she is,” the cook said, busily tidying the towels and basin away. “How she got into Bridgend Woods is anyone’s guess. There must be her people out there worried sick that she hasn’t returned home. And with Christmas nearly on us, too.”

  “I’ll sit with her,”
said Mary quietly. “Tell George, if he’s still here, that I’ll try and speak to him tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Rush sniffed.

  “He’ll be lucky to get back to his farm through the snow tonight. Reckon he’ll bed down in the stables. Still, that’ll be warmer than that damp old farm house of his!”

  Mary did not reply. Cook knew how she felt about George Radford. Talking did not help. She loved him so much and would have been proud to be his wife.

  But George just refused to marry her. He was as stubborn as his old Dad had been. Completely stuck in the past, refusing to move with the times.

  She turned down the oil lamp to a small glimmer and sat quietly by the side of the bed.

  The minutes ticked past and the girl was breathing a little easier now, but her forehead still felt very hot.

  Suddenly as Mary was applying a cool strip of linen soaked in lavender water to her patient’s head, there came the sound of a commotion and dogs barking downstairs in the Great Hall.

  She spun round and pulled the bedroom door open.

  That voice – calling for Mr. Pardew!

  It was the Earl.

  He had come back. Obviously he had not been able to get through the pass to the main road.

  Mary closed the door and turned back towards the bed, feeling sick with worry and apprehension.

  Then she gasped.

  Two very blue eyes were open and staring up at her from the pale face on the lace pillow.

  A hand lifted from the coverlet towards her.

  “Where – am – I?” the girl whispered, but as Mary was about to answer her, she heard the Earl calling out,

  “Mary! Mary!”

  And she knew she must go to him immediately.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mary down bent over the bed and put her finger to her lips as the girl was about to speak.

  “Hush!” she cautioned. “Don’t say a word. You must stay silent. I will be back in an instant.”

  And she hurried out.

  Jasmina lay very still.

  She felt most dreadfully hot, her head ached and the room was spinning around her in a most alarming fashion.