This Way to Heaven

by Barbara Cartland

  What had happened? Where was she now? Back at Harley Grange?

  No – the woman who had placed the cool bandage on her forehead was not someone she had ever met before.

  And this strange bedroom with its lace trimmings and its beautiful turquoise and gold curtains embroidered with wonderful peacock tails was certainly not the one she had used in her aunt’s home.

  Jasmina struggled to sit up and groaned as a flash of pain shot through her head. She sank back again, but her memory was returning.

  She had had an accident – but how?

  Her horse! Lightning – the snow – had he fallen in a drift?

  All she could recall was galloping wildly through the blizzard – then – nothing.

  ‘Oh, my goodness! I reckon I am lucky to be alive. I wonder what happened to Lightning. Oh, I do hope he is not hurt. But who found me and why did they bring me here? Where is here and why did that woman want me to be quiet?’

  Once more she tried to get out of bed, but her head was spinning and she knew she would faint if she stood up.

  *

  Downstairs in the great castle, the Earl crossed to the velvet bell pull by the fireplace in his study and tugged at it in irritation.

  He had tried calling for Pardew when he had found the main castle door unlocked on his return home, but there had been no reply.

  He was cold, tired and hungry.

  He knew that he had not been expected, as he had told his housekeeper that he would be away in London for several days, but surely some members of his staff were on duty?

  There was suddenly a gentle knock on the door and Mary hurried in.

  Some of the Earl’s temper vanished at the sight of her calm face.

  He had always liked the girl who had served as his wife’s personal lady’s maid.

  Her smooth dark hair was neatly plaited, arranged round her ears in two thick coils. The white collar of her black dress was as pristine as ever and the keys at her waist jingled in a familiar manner.

  “Ah, Mary. As you can see, I am back home again. Where’s Pardew? He should still be about, surely. I need a hot drink and something to eat – some soup, cold beef and pickles, perhaps? See what cook can provide.”

  Mary nodded, trying to keep her breathing steady.

  She had run all the way from the South Turret and her heart was racing. She was certain that the Earl could see it beating under her thin black dress.

  “I believe Mr. Pardew has retired by now, my Lord. He felt – I think he felt unwell.”

  It was impossible for her to inform the Earl that his butler had poured half a bottle of the castle’s best brandy into his tea and was even now lying fast asleep and snoring in his pantry!

  The Earl looked up sharply from some documents he was studying. He had a very good idea what ailed his butler and knew he had to do something about it very soon. But now was not the time.

  He was well aware in his heart of hearts that he was neglecting his servants and that he was not living up to the responsibilities of his position, but somehow he could not summon up the energy to tackle the problem.

  “Did the snow prevent you from travelling down to London, my Lord?” Mary asked as she banked up the fire.

  “Yes, the pass is closed. No one is getting in or out of the valley for days, perhaps weeks! It is still snowing, harder than ever!”

  Mary hesitated. What on earth was she now supposed to do about the poor girl lying in bed upstairs? How would she be able to return to her own home?

  Gathering up her courage she was about to speak out and confess what had happened, when the Earl said,

  “That will be all for now, Mary. The food and the drink, if you please.”

  Mary returned to the kitchen and gave the order to Mrs. Rush.

  “Does he know about old Pardew?” the cook asked as she took a side of beef from the larder and began to cut slices and place them on a plate.

  “I have no idea. He used to be concerned about all the servants, but since my Lady died, he does not seem interested.”

  Mrs. Rush sniffed.

  “That’s so true! A drunken butler, no entertainin’, not even receivin’ any calls from the local gentry and no Christmas party for the castle staff this year! Bless me, I have never heard of such a thing in a well-run house!”

  She paused briefly from her tirade before asking,

  “Mary, what are you goin’ to do about the young lass upstairs?”

  George was sitting at the kitchen table, eating a late supper of bread and cheese.

  He had looked out at the falling snow and knew it would be very dangerous to try and return to his farm until the morning when the drifts would be easier to see.

  Mary hushed her, glancing round to make sure none of the other servants were in the kitchen.

  “Hopefully she will be recovered enough to travel by tomorrow. Once she tells us where she is from, perhaps you could help her home, George. Or if she is still cut off by the blizzard, take her to The Golden Lion in the village. One thing is certain, she cannot stay here now the Master is home.”

  “Once his Lordship’s supper has been served, I will go and sit with her,” offered Mrs. Rush. “You look worn out, young Mary.

  “Sit and talk to George here and try and make him see some sense about sellin’ his old farm to our Master. Hopefully this young lady will be able to tell me who she is and we can then get this whole problem sorted out before tomorrow.”

  Mary nodded her thanks.

  She was always very grateful for any chance to be in George’s company, but realised that nothing she could say would push him into changing his mind about selling his farm.

  Those few damp acres had taken on a whole new significance to the young Yorkshireman since the Earl had asked him to sell them to him.

  Somehow it was no longer about the land, but two men from different walks of life trying to best each other.

  As Mary and George talked in the kitchen, the Earl absentmindedly nodded his thanks when Gladys brought in his supper on a silver tray.

  The beef looked fresh and succulent and the bread and pickles wholesome, but he found his appetite had gone.

  Moodily he drank the coffee and then pushed the rest aside.

  He sat for an hour staring into the dying embers of the fire.

  He knew he should be concentrating on what to do with these vital papers that now were not going to arrive in London in time for the meeting at the Foreign Office.

  But instead all he was able to think about was that impudent American girl riding a black horse that was far too strong for even a good rider such as herself.

  He could still see in his mind’s eye her sparkling blue eyes as she gazed down at him from her saddle.

  Had she reached her destination safely before the blizzard closed all the roads in the district?

  He hoped so.

  Perhaps he should ask someone – the doctor or the Rector, perhaps, who might possibly have heard about an American houseguest staying locally.

  After all she was a visitor to his country. It would only be courteous to check that she was safe and sound.

  He picked up the telephone receiver, then realised that the line was dead. Of course! He should have guessed that the snow would cut off all communication.

  Anyway, he thought impatiently, he was no longer on visiting terms with the local dignitaries.

  It would have sounded foolish in the extreme to suddenly enquire after a strange young woman he had only met for a few seconds in difficult circumstances!

  He shivered as a cold draught from the ancient ill-fitting casement window swept under the dark red velvet curtains. He realised the fire had long gone out and it was very late.

  The Earl picked up the papers and slipped them inside his thin black briefcase.

  For some reason he did not want to leave them in his study or even lock them in the safe.

  Their contents were crucial to the safety of several countries.

  If they f
ell into the wrong hands or were read by the wrong eyes, just anything could happen in that sensitive geographical area, the Balkans.

  He walked out into the cold echoing emptiness of the Great Hall.

  As always the Earl felt a surge of appreciation and deep love for his home.

  He ambled slowly through the Great Hall, admiring the beautiful tapestries, the collection of ancient spears and shields, the suits of armour his ancestors had worn in long ago battles, the stained and torn flags of the Regiment his family had given so many sons to over the centuries.

  He had always been destined for the Army and he had enjoyed his time in India, serving his Regiment with bravery and distinction.

  Then the blow had fallen.

  His father had not even been ill, but caught a nasty chill out hunting one bitter January morning. The chill had turned to pneumonia and within a week he had gone.

  He had received the astonishing and tragic news in India that he had inherited the castle and Somerton estates and fortune.

  Although he had hated doing so, he had been forced to give up his Commission and return to England.

  There he found the grieving Millicent, his father’s young ward and he had no idea how to handle the problem of being in charge of such a young woman.

  She had no relations and the castle was her home.

  Marrying her had seemed the right solution to so many problems.

  He knew in his heart of hearts that he had never loved her, but he had been very fond of the girl, although often exasperated by her light-hearted approach to life.

  The Earl sighed.

  He was well aware that he now had a responsibility to provide an heir to take on the castle and the estate.

  He had no brothers or sisters with families and if he should die, the whole estate would pass to a distant cousin, who was living in some outlandish place in the Outback of Australia!

  The future had seemed so easy and possible when Millicent had been alive.

  Now – he could see no future for the family line at all.

  He felt a surge of disgust at his predicament.

  What was he supposed to do?

  Marry some girl he did not know just to make her pregnant and produce an heir for the Somerton line?

  It was a disgraceful idea, although he was sure that some of his contemporaries would find nothing wrong with the plan.

  Indeed the Earl was only too well aware that shortly after Millicent’s death, the eligible daughters and sisters of friends had been paraded in front of him – as if they were in some sort of Arab bazaar and he was there bidding for a servant or slave-girl!

  And people were wondering why he had now shut himself away in the castle refusing to join in local Society!

  High above his head in the darkness, a long wooden gallery ran around all four sides of the Great Hall, linking the vast round turrets.

  The Earl found a candle and matches and holding the candlestick, he walked slowly up the polished stairs to the higher reaches of the castle.

  This part of his home was in fairly good repair, but he had noticed a few days ago that the wooden posts of the long gallery skirting the East Turret had rotted away and there was a dangerous gap.

  But luckily no one ever visited the East Turret and there was nothing there but empty bedrooms and attics full of centuries of junk.

  This would be just the place he needed to hide his important papers far away from prying eyes.

  The Earl edged round a clutter of broken wood and pushed open one of the attic doors. Just inside was an old walnut writing desk badly damaged by water and damp in the past and left to rot probably by his grandfather.

  Carefully he put down the candle, pulled open one of the drawers, wincing at the squealing of warped wood and placed the slim black leather case inside.

  Then with a sigh of relief he picked up the candle once more and returned to the corridor.

  He felt exhausted, but knew that when he went to bed he would just lie there for hours, unable to sleep, his mind full of memories and regrets.

  And sleep would never have come to him at all if he had known that Pardew had woken only a few minutes earlier from his drunken stupor.

  Desperate for more brandy he had set out towards the library where he knew there was a full decanter.

  In the dark he had seen the Earl walking upstairs with a candle and intrigued had followed him.

  And as the Earl hid the briefcase Pardew watched him from the shadows, a sneer on his lips, and then slipped away before his Master spotted him.

  *

  Inside the ornate gold and turquoise bedroom in the South Turret a soft and gentle snoring showed where Mrs. Rush had fallen asleep in her comfortable armchair.

  The cook had sat by the young lady’s bedside for hours, but apart from tossing and turning restlessly in her sleep the girl had not woken and finally the long day had taken its toll on the plump Yorkshire woman.

  Somewhere in the unfathomable depths of the great castle, a clock struck two and Jasmina woke with a start – she felt hot and desperately thirsty.

  In her still fevered state she did not notice the water carafe on the bedside table.

  Instead she slipped out of bed, her feet silent on the thick rugs. The room was still spinning darkly around her, but somehow she reached the door and stepped out into the stone flagged corridor.

  The sharp cold air now hit her fevered skin and she walked forward slowly, dreamily, almost unconscious, her temperature soaring.

  Unknowing Jasmina passed by the top of the great stairway in the dark.

  Her bare feet were taking her straight towards the East Turret, the jagged edges of broken beams and a deadly plunge down to the stone floor below!

  The Earl turned from closing the attic door behind him, when suddenly a movement at the end of the corridor made him look up sharply and the flickering candle jerked in his hand, sending mad amber shadows dancing across the old grey stones.

  “A ghost! Damn it. I believe I have seen a ghost!” he exclaimed out aloud, almost laughing for the first time in months.

  He had been brought up by his old Nanny with tales of a castle ghost – the Grey Lady, who haunted the upper passages after dark.

  As a story to keep a mischievous small child firmly in his bed at night, it had not been that successful. The young boy had often crept out of his room when Nanny or his nursery maid had gone downstairs for supper.

  He had wandered all round the castle in the dark as sure-footed as a young goat, discovering all sorts of hidden doorways and passages, but he had never seen the famous ghost.

  ‘All these years and I thought it was make-believe,’ he chuckled to himself.

  Then the laughter died from his eyes.

  In the glow from his candle he could see that this was no ghost!

  A young woman in a lace nightgown was walking slowly towards him and what was more terrifying towards the very place in the East Turret where the banister rails were broken!

  He could see bright golden hair cascading down her back and although her bare feet were hesitant in their steps, they were leading her slowly but surely towards her doom.

  The Earl dropped the candle which blew out and hurled himself forwards.

  “Stop! Wait! Do not move!”

  Through the swirling heat of her fever, Jasmina was only aware of the dark all around her.

  Then just as she was about to step out into nothing but space, she was swept off her feet into two strong arms.

  The Earl fell to the floor, clutching the girl with all his strength, his face buried in tresses of gold hair.

  He felt his heart racing.

  She had been within inches of death!

  “Mary! Pardew! Hey, there! Someone! Come at once. I need help here! Mary!”

  His clear voice rang out urgently through the silent castle.

  Just at that moment there was a break in the snow clouds and the moon shone through a high window, its rays illuminating the couple locked in
each other’s arms.

  Carefully he pushed the golden hair back from the girl’s face as hurrying feet sounded from below.

  Mrs. Rush appeared, scurrying along the corridor just as Mary came running from the direction of the West wing where the servants’ living-quarters were situated.

  “What the – ” the Earl swore under his breath in astonishment, because he recognised the beautiful pale face beneath his questing fingers.

  In the fitful moonlight he could see that lying in his arms was the very same young American girl he had last seen riding away on that great black horse!

  Mary arrived carrying an oil lamp.

  “My Lord, I can explain – ”

  “Oh, my dear Heavens, I must have fallen asleep,” stammered Mrs. Rush, fanning her red face with her apron. “The poor child. Oh, thank goodness you stopped her, my Lord. She could have fallen to her death!”

  The Earl climbed to his feet still holding Jasmina in his arms.

  “Explanations will have to wait. I take it from her attire that you have had this lady ensconced in a bedroom somewhere, Mary?”

  The young housekeeper flinched at the tone of his voice and Mrs. Rush fell silent and backed away from the anger on her employer’s face.

  “Yes, my Lord,” replied Mary quietly, refusing to show just how scared and upset she was. “George Radford found her lying injured in the snow and there was no way we could – ”

  “Which room?” the Earl interrupted walking back along the corridor.

  Mary hurried after him, the oil lamp swaying in her grasp.

  “The Peacock room, my Lord.”

  The Earl felt his breath catch in his throat.

  They had dared to give this stranger his dead wife’s room!

  When Millicent had been alive, the door between the Peacock room and the big Master bedroom had always stood open.

  Since her accident the Earl had moved to another part of the castle and had never been inside her room since the day of the funeral.

  Without another word he strode into the room and placed the girl gently onto the bed.

  By the light of the oil lamps he could see that she was very pale, but when he touched her forehead it was hot and damp.

  “She is running a fever,” he said shortly. “We must call a doctor.”