A Collector of Hearts

A Collector of Hearts

Copyright © 2010 All Rights Reserved

Sally Quilford

A Collector of Hearts

Chapter One

29
^th
October
1936

Dear Aunt Millie and
Uncle Jim,

           
Just a quick note to let you know that we are staying at
Stony Grange Abbey for Halloween.
 
It’s
all very gothic, with gargoyles and suchlike. Last night the guests told each
other ghost stories, after which most of the ladies insisted that the gentlemen
escort them to their rooms. You’ll be glad to know I did not give in to such
girlish silliness and managed to find my own way to bed! On Saturday night –
Halloween – there is to be a masked ball, and we’re promised all manner of
ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night. Oh, and we await
the imminent arrival of Prince Henri of Cariastan, known as The Forgotten
Prince, which is causing even more goose bumps among the ladies than the threat
of the supernatural. I haven’t given in to that silliness either.

           
I know you worried about me taking the post as Mrs
Oakengate’s companion, but she’s not so bad once you get to know her. At least
nothing I can’t handle. You were quite right about her bragging about my
parents’ notoriety to our hosts the moment we arrived, but I remembered what
you have always taught me. My parents’ crime is not my crime.

           
Oh, Mrs Oakengate said she would be delighted to join you
for Christmas, which means I shall also be seeing you then. Be honest, Aunt
Millie, that was why you invited her!

I cannot wait. I miss you
all dreadfully. Give Amelia a hug from me and tell Richard that if he does not
do his algebra homework, Caroline the Witch will turn him into a frog!

           
My love to you all,

           
Caroline x

Caroline Conrad popped her
letter into the post box and started walking back up the hill to the Abbey. The
crisp autumn weather had given way to the dull, damp skies that heralded the
arrival of a long, dark winter. Despite it only being four in the afternoon, it
had already begun to turn dark, the night bringing with it a thick fog, which
glided in front of her. By the light of the gas lamps the swirls of mist looked
like hunchback pilgrims crawling across the road in search of a prayer. Once or
twice, Caroline mistook one of the shapes for a real person, until it
dissipated before her eyes. Not that it frightened her. She was of the belief
that real life held far more terrors than the spirit world.

In the distance she could
just make out the large black sprawl of Stony Gate Abbey. Their hosts, The
Hendersons, told them at dinner the night before that it had been one of the
many religious houses dissolved during Henry VIII’s reign, and as such, haunted
by some very put out monks. The house was enormous, and very easy to get lost
in, as Caroline had found several times in the twenty-four hours they had been
staying there. It contained rooms within rooms, and passageways that seemed to
lead nowhere. Not all the abbey was from Henry VIII’s time. Some newer
extensions had been added over the years, so that the entire building sprawled
across the Derbyshire countryside like a bat stretching its wings.

“But,” Jack Henderson, had
said, “The real star attraction here is Lady Cassandra. She was a seventeenth
century witch, who cut out the hearts of young lovers and kept them in a
bejewelled box. She was burned as a witch.”

Whilst all the other guests
had listened with awe, Caroline had silently scoffed at the idea of ghosts in a
world where aeroplanes flew and science had pushed back many of the boundaries
of superstition.

Despite her pragmatism,
Caroline appreciated, when they first arrived and she could see it clearly,
that the village of Stony Grange had an atmosphere all of its own. Tiny
cottages nestled together against the cold. She tried to imagine them in
summer, with roses around the door, but failed, perhaps because of the sheer
drabness of the October weather. No, this was a winter village, almost
Dickensian in nature. She guessed that it would come into its own when it
snowed, turning the streets into a veritable chocolate box of prettiness. There
were few cars in the area, apart from those in which the guests arrived and no
electricity. The milkman came by cart, and brought the post with him. Meat was
delivered in a van from the nearest town. It was almost as if they had stepped
back in time, finding a forgotten part of England, which had been very slow to
catch up to modern life. The only nod to modernity at the abbey was a
telephone. Caroline had been going to ring her aunt and uncle, but she desired
a few minutes away from Mrs Oakengate, just to take a breath ready for the next
onslaught.

As she walked up the hill,
the fog became even thicker. She did not fear the spirit world, but she did
worry about falling into one of the potholes in the un-kept road and twisting
her ankle. She saw a clump of mist that instead of crossing the road, seemed to
take a diagonal route, moving from further up the hill, down along the road,
and towards Caroline. She made to walk straight through it, as she had all the
others. She cried out in alarm when she realised it was a solid object.

It was a man, but she could
barely see him. Even close up he was little more than a shadow. He asked, “Are
you okay?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice
barely above a whisper. His sudden appearance had knocked the wind out of her.
“Yes, I’m fine, thank you. You just startled me. I thought you were a bit of
fog.” Her senses started to clear, and she was finally able to make out his
features by the light of the gas lamp. He had dark hair, and intelligent eyes,
but the light was too bad to tell what colour they were. Caroline liked to be
able to see peoples’ eyes. She believed you could tell much about a person that
way.

“You seem even more
insubstantial than that. I should have known I’d bump into a witch this close
to Halloween.” His voice was deep and low.

“I’m not a witch.”

“Are you sure? From what
I’ve seen you have that deep red hair and green eyes. That voluminous black
coat you’re wearing completes the picture.”

“I’m not a witch. Excuse me,
I have to get on.” His being there unnerved her. There was something about him,
something watchful and alert. How had he seen so much of her when she could
barely see him? It was then it occurred to her that he had seen her before,
perhaps before the mist fell as she walked down to the post box.

“Are you staying at the
Abbey?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s right. I’m a
guest of the Hendersons. Are you?” It might explain where he had seen her. She
had not yet remembered everyone who was staying.

“No, I don’t have such
exalted friends.”

“But you’ve been there?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because this road doesn’t
lead anywhere else. It’s a private road.”

“Then I’m busted. Yes, I
have been there. Just to look at the place. I hear one must if one is visiting
this area.”

“It’s all very gothic, isn’t
it?” Caroline tried to talk lightly.

“Yes, very. Lots of dark
corners with dark secrets.”

She felt a shiver pass down
her spine. It was his voice, she told herself. It had a way of making the real
seem unreal. “I really ought to get back. Prince Henri will be arriving soon.”

“Who?” She could not see
him, but she sensed he had become even more alert than before.

“Prince Henri of Cariastan.
He’s coming to attend the Halloween ball.”

“Really? Who told you that?”

“The Hendersons, of course.
I really must be going. So long.” She walked on, giving him a cheery wave at
odds with the way she felt inside.

“So long, Caroline.”

She spun around. “How did
you know my name?” As she turned she tripped into one of the potholes she had
thus far avoided, only for a strong hand to come out of the mist and grab her.

“Be careful, Caroline.”

“Oh, er … thank you.”

“I’m not just talking about
the potholes.” He disappeared into the mist.

Chapter Two

“Honestly, Caroline, where
have you been?” Mrs Oakengate leant on her walking stick in the hallway.
Caroline was tempted to ask to borrow it, as her ankle had begun to swell.

“I went to post a letter,
Mrs Oakengate. You did say I could.” Caroline removed her coat and hung it on
the stand near the door.

“Yes, yes. But the prince
has arrived early and we’re all to meet with him for a little soiree before
dinner.”

“Has he?” Caroline had not
seen any cars passing her on the road.

“He came by horse,” said Mrs
Oakengate, as if guessing her thoughts. “Riding across the fields in the most
romantic way.”

Caroline uneasiness grew. It
would just be her luck that she had met a prince and not realised it. It was
the way these stories usually went. One met a prince in disguise in
embarrassing circumstances then he turned up later and revealed himself. Had
there been a horse somewhere in the mist? “What is he like?”

“You’ll see for yourself at
the soiree. Now do hurry along and change out of that awful tweed suit. Put on
the black satin. You look almost respectable in that.”

“Thank you, Mrs Oakengate,”
she said, the corners of her mouth turning up.

Caroline climbed the
staircase to the upper floor. She still marvelled at inside of the abbey,
despite having been there twenty-four hours. It was as if someone had said
‘build me a haunted house’. It reminded her of a film set, with its high,
vaulted ceilings, and carved balustrades around a galleried landing. The
staircase, which swept in a semi-circular shape around one wall of the
building, was one on which Douglas Fairbanks would be proud to sword fence. The
Hendersons had added a few extra touches for Halloween. Artfully placed fake
cobwebs, giant spiders and bats, and in the hallway below suits of armour that,
by some mysterious mechanical means, moved their arms up and down. In
Caroline’s opinion, the house did not need them. It fulfilled its purpose as a
haunted house without embellishment.

At the top of the gallery
hung a portrait of the ethereal Lady Cassandra. She had windswept auburn hair
and green eyes that seemed to follow one’s every movement. She wore a sumptuous
emerald green velvet gown under a black silk hooded cloak, which rose out
behind her, caught by the same breeze as her luscious hair.
 
In the background one could a faint outline
of the abbey, set high upon the hill.

Caroline could not fail to
stop and look at the portrait for a moment or two. Everyone who passed along
the gallery did, particularly the men in the party. Every one of them would
have risked having a spell put upon them for a few moments in Lady Cassandra’s
arms.

Remembering she had to
hurry, Caroline rushed along to her room. It was more of a vestibule than a
room, with a small single bed. Mrs Oakengate’s room could only be reached via
the vestibule, which had a lockable door so that anyone who wanted to see Mrs
Oakengate whilst she was still in her boudoir had to go through Caroline first.
A fact that Mrs Oakengate said made her feel like the queen, with a
lady-in-waiting.
 
Earlier that morning,
as people came along to pay court to the famous actress and ex-mistress of a
prince – whilst Mrs Oakengate sat up in bed wearing a satin throw – it had made
Caroline feel that her room was akin to Piccadilly Circus. Hence her needing to
get out for a few minutes alone. She had known, because her Aunt Millie had
warned her, that life as a companion meant that one had very little life of
one’s own at all, but she had decided it was worth it for the sake of seeing
something of the world.

Changing quickly into her
black satin gown, and eager to see if the prince was the man she had met in the
lane, she pinned her unruly locks back with a couple of small silver clips, and
dabbed on a smear of lipstick and some rouge. She checked her appearance, and
decided it would have to do. She had no interest in snaring a prince, even if
he was able to appear out of a misty evening. The gaslight flickered slightly,
almost going out completely. Caroline looked up at the lantern, and then, just
as she was about to move away from the mirror, she felt a sudden draft, and was
sure that she saw reflected in the mirror, the vague outline of someone
standing at the end of her bed. By the time she turned around, there was no one
there.

“Now, Caroline,” she said to
herself, sternly, “don’t go letting this silly place spook you.”

She left the room, making
sure she locked the door after her, and made her way back downstairs to the
hallway, where other guests had started to assemble. Servants passed amongst
them with cocktails.

“There you are at last,”
said Mrs Oakengate. “Really Caroline, you needn’t have gone to all that
trouble. I’m sure the prince won’t be looking at you.”

“Did the gaslight just go
down?” she asked, ignoring the comment.

“Gaslight? No, not that I
know. Why?”

“Oh, it seemed to go a bit
fainter when I was in my room.”

Mrs Oakengate wandered away
as if the subject were too trivial for her to discuss.

“That happens if someone
else switches on a lamp elsewhere,” said one of the guests. She was a young
woman, plain in her features, with small round spectacles and dark hair swept
into a tight bun. She wore a shapeless grey dress. Caroline could not remember
her name, only that she was a secretary to a dizzy blonde actress.