by Rose Amberly
She lost her breath for an instant. The cart turned off the lane into a private drive. A wooden bridge over a long, wide ditch. A moat? She wanted to laugh. Are we going to a castle?
But when they emerged from the small wood which screened them, there was no castle. Instead, there were emerald-green lawns, ornamental gardens, a lily pond and finally a modern mansion.
If one could call eighteenth century modern. She took in the grey stone walls, three stories high, the bay windows and stone balustrades covered in climbing ivy.
They should have a fleet of limousines and Rolls-Royces, surely! Instead there was a bicycle rack with a dozen bikes parked into it.
Evans took them round the side to the kitchen entrance, where a woman waited for them, looking anxious.
“Evans, what took you so long? The master has been waiting.”
Without pause, she turned to Millie. “You must be Emeline Wainwright. You’d better leave the luggage and come inside before the master gives himself an aneurysm—we were expecting you after lunch.” She took Millie’s hand and led her inside.
“I didn’t know you expected me early.” Millie stopped to straighten her clothes and hair, which the wet sea air on the ferry had mussed. “I had to change ferries in Guernsey, and there was quite a wait. The agency never mentioned a specific time.”
The woman leading Millie stopped. “You mean you were coming from the mainland?”
“Actually, from London.”
“All that way? Oh, my dear, I had no idea. I thought for sure you’d have spent the night in Guernsey. You must have had a terrible journey, poor you. Please excuse me. I forget myself when the master is anxious. I’m Mrs Baxter by the way, housekeeper, but everyone calls me Mrs B.” The woman spoke without pause while she bustled around. She opened the door into a warm country kitchen with flagstone flooring, curved bay windows, and close to fifty copper pots hanging from hooks on the walls around an enormous AGA cooker. Mrs B pulled a rocking chair closer to a massive kitchen table. “Come, let’s give you a minute to catch your breath—Joanie, get Mrs Wainwright a cup of tea and some biscuits.”
Joanie was a tall, slender woman with North African good looks and an apron over her jeans. She got busy with kettle and teapot while Mrs B pulled Millie by the hand towards the rocking chair. “Here, sit by the AGA—Joanie, will you tell Nurse Ann and see if the new physio is here still.”
Millie would have loved a few minutes in the warm kitchen. “But didn’t you say Mr Du Montfort was anxious and waiting for me?”
Mrs B stopped her dashing around for a minute. “Oh, he’s been anxious all day. Another five minutes won’t make a blind bit of difference. Sit yourself down.”
“Let’s go and meet him,” Millie said. “I can have tea after.”
“Oh, bless you. What a sweet girl. Well, if you’re sure. Come, then.” Mrs B led Millie into the main hall, and Millie nearly gasped at the size of the elegant entrance hall, but there was no time to stop and look. Mrs B took her up to the first floor. “Don’t call him ‘my lord’ or ‘sir’ or anything like that. He prefers to go by plain mister.”
Good! The house alone had taken her breath away—and, if she was honest, also climbing the stairs at Mrs B’s urgent speed; she didn’t think she could manage anything surreal like addressing a lord.
The upstairs gallery led to a set of ornate double doors, slightly ajar. Her footsteps were barely audible on the thick rug, but someone must have had good hearing because as soon as she and Mrs B approached the doors, a voice from inside the room startled her.
“At long, bloody, last!” The tone might have been peevish, but the voice was strong and commanding.
Millie had time to notice patterned royal-blue curtains, a coffered wood ceiling and a wall covered in leather-bound books before her attention was pulled to a wheelchair by the window.
They’d told her at the agency that she’d be working for a sick old man. Du Montfort didn’t look like any sick old man she’d ever seen.
He’d clearly been tall and handsome in his youth. Even sitting in his wheelchair, he was imposing. He held his head high and shoulders straight. One hand was stuffed in a pocket, but the other gripped the arm of his chair like it was a sword he was about to wield in some heroic battle. His piercing blue eyes passed over her for an instant, then moved to Mrs B.
“Here is Mrs Emeline Wainwright.” Mrs B hurried over with Millie just behind. “She’s not late—she’s travelled all the way from London today.”
This Emeline business really had to stop; as for Wainwright—
She cleared her throat and smiled. “Hello. Please call me Millie Summers.”
“How long does the 24th Seigneur of La Canette have to wait for his own housekeeper to fetch him his evening newspapers and a gin and tonic?” Du Montfort demanded of Mrs B. “Have you had the lift repaired?”
“The engineer has been called—”
“Perhaps you want me to wheel myself down the stairs and break my neck?”
“I’m sorry. I knew how anxious you were to meet your new assistant and—”
“Go down now and bring my newspapers and my drink. I don’t want any phone calls tonight, and you can take Please-call-me-Millie Summers with you.”
“Oh. Well in that case, um.” Mrs B fidgeted. “Oh yes, Liam, the new physiotherapist will be here before dinner, shall I ask him to come up?”
“Just my newspapers.”
“Let me get your newspapers,” Millie said. “As soon as Mrs B shows me where you keep everything.”
He turned his eyes on her for a second, no more, but she was in no doubt he took in every little detail about her. She smiled as warmly as she could.
“Get out of my sight.” He turned back to the window.
THREE
Kitchen, early evening
“Drink your tea. You’ll soon feel better.” Mrs B placed a cup on the table in front of Millie, pretending not to notice the tears on Millie’s lashes. They were back in the kitchen, and the housekeeper was doing her best to console Millie.
“He didn’t hire you; he can’t fire you,” Joanie said while checking the oven. She had a strong French accent.
Ann, the capable-looking nurse, put away her reading glasses. “He’s just a bear with a sore head. You’ll get used to him.” She came to join them in the circle of easy chairs round the warm AGA. Nurse Ann looked about fifty and had an honest tell-it-like-it-is face. “He reduces me to tears once a fortnight. We’re used to it, and you’d better be, soon, because he’ll never change.”
Joanie scoffed from the other side of the kitchen. “He might if Millie, er, you know what.”
A look passed between Nurse Ann and Mrs B, but Millie couldn’t understand and decided not to try.
She was tired. Her day had started at 3 am. with a taxi to Waterloo station. Two trains followed by a seven-hour journey by sea. The last three days, she’d spent chasing paperwork. And the day before that, her marriage had ended.
Five days.
They felt like five months.
She took a deep breath and a grateful sip of Earl Grey tea. Why were men so horrible?
Unbidden, an image of the nameless stranger floated into her head. The tall man who had pulled a chair for her and whispered softly in her ear, his breath warm, his arm strong and gentle on her back.
“That’s better, you’re smiling,” Nurse Ann said.
Joanie pulled a tray of chocolate-chip cookies out of the oven and arranged a few on a plate, which she placed on the table by Millie’s elbow.
“Organic dark chocolate pieces,” she said. “It does wonders for your mental health, and believe me, you’ll need it to deal with old Du Montfort.”
She pronounced his name Du Monfoh like the French town. She was pretty in a dark, exotic way, with a silver bangle pushed all the way up her forearm to j
ust below her elbow. Millie loved silver jewellery. The first money I earn, I’ll buy a silver bangle.
Nurse Ann reached for a biscuit. “Joanie is a marvellous chef. Wait till you try her brownies.”
Millie shook her head. Smothering her feelings in pastries was part of the life she’d left behind. No man, no matter how awful, was going to drive her to binge on sweets anymore.
Joanie shrugged. “Watching your figure? If you want him upstairs”—Joanie flicked her eyes towards the ceiling—“to sweeten his temper, you should invest in a blond wig and some fake boobs.”
“Now, now.” Mrs B raised her eyebrows. “There is no need for disrespect.”
Joanie placed another heaped plate of cookies in the middle of the table. “Oh, come on, Mrs B, you may as well tell her the truth. She’ll find out soon enough.”
Mrs B pressed her lips together.
“It’s hardly a well-kept secret, Mrs B,” Nurse Ann said.
“I suppose we could just say the master tends to have a wandering eye.” Mrs B tried to be discreet.
Nurse Ann burst out laughing. “Wandering eye? Wandering everything else, too. A few months ago, he was about to marry his secretary. Every girl he ever employed fell out of the pages of Playboy.”
“Yes, but they never lasted.” Mrs B said, still loyal.
Joanie snorted. “Because the old man’s temper would drive away a saint.”
“But didn’t they all stay long enough to receive a nice birthday present?” Nurse Ann asked in her soft Irish accent. “Or Christmas present? Or Easter present?”
“From Cartier, from Prada, from Tiffany,” Joanie said with a wicked grin.
Millie had a fleeting memory of the designer lingerie on the woman she’d found in her husband’s bed. She banished the image and tried to focus on Joanie’s story.
“Only last year he had this PA, legs up to her armpits, long blond hair and very short dresses that barely covered her silicone assets. Never said hello to us, but she talked only with him. She finally came downstairs to show off her engagement ring. Mrs B was in tears.”
“Why?” asked Millie.
“I remembered the first Mrs Du Montfort, she was an angel. Eh,” Mrs B sighed with feeling. “Since she passed away, there’s been a line of gold diggers beating a path to this house, pretending to love the old man.”
“So what happened? Did he marry her?” Millie was curious about the obnoxious but apparently gullible man upstairs.
Mrs B sighed again. “Very nearly. The family lawyer tried advising him against it every day. In the end, he called the master’s son, who rushed here six hours before the wedding and put a stop to it.”
“You should have seen her,” Nurse Ann said. “Crying about how much she loved the old half-paralysed man.”
Joanie took a tea towel from the kitchen counter and pretended to dry her tears as she mimicked wickedly. “Please, sniff-sniff, all I want is, hiccup-sniff, to love and care for the sweetest man I ever met.”
“Until they told her that the sweetest man she ever met,” Nurse Ann said, “could not spend any money or sell any of the estate because it had all been tied up in trust.”
“At which point”—Joanie threw down the tea towel like a piece of rubbish—“the tears magically dried up, the avalanche of blond hair went into a practical ponytail, and the sexy curves were stuffed into a tracksuit. She left on the next ferry. Without even saying goodbye to her so-called fiancé.”
Mrs B shook her head sadly. “I feel sorry for him, I do. That’s when his son and the lawyer put their heads together and took charge of the household.” She looked at Millie. “It was them who recruited you, not the old man.”
Aha, now she understood the “Plain Jane” job advert—the lawyer or the mysterious son. Her eyes travelled around the kitchen to the windows at the end; the sun was setting over a forested hill, orange-and-gold clouds glowed on the horizon. She looked back at the friendly women around the table. Whoever took the decision to employ staff, they’d hardly keep her for long if Du Montfort refused to work with her.
Just then, a shrill and insistent bell rang. All three women looked at the board. Mrs B rushed out of the kitchen.
Nurse Ann smiled. “There he goes. He’ll be complaining about his dinner now.”
Within minutes, Mrs B returned looking upset. “Joanie, he says he doesn’t want dinner, just a salted caramel fondant, and he wants it right now along with his coffee.”
“Now? It takes thirty minutes to cook a fondant.” Joanie rushed to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients.
Mrs B went to prepare the coffee, and Nurse Ann gave Millie a look that said What did I tell you?
Millie got to her feet. If she didn’t keep this job, it wouldn’t be for lack of trying.
“Let me take him his coffee. By the time he’s finished shouting about that, Joanie will have finished the fondant.”
“Are you sure?” Mrs B didn’t sound convinced.
“Give me the tray, I’ll take it up,” Millie said with a brave smile.
* * *
Coffee tray held in careful hands, Millie climbed the staircase. Whoever had decorated the place had superb taste. The high ceiling, primrose walls and white wood, the two silk-covered chaise longue sofas under the wide, curving staircase all created a sense of opulence and space. The walls were hung with portraits of people in Victorian and Edwardian clothes. Family ancestors?
As she got to the top, she was already out of breath. Anxiety about another interview with the man inside wasn’t helping her cardiovascular performance. In the upstairs hall, an antique polished table looked like a good place to rest the tray for a minute to steady her breathing. She rearranged the tall silver coffee pot and Wedgwood cup and saucer on the tray. Three letters were balanced between the matching creamer and sugar bowl. They’d just arrived with the evening post, and Mrs B had run after Millie, saying, “You’d better take him his post, he hates to miss it.”
On impulse, Millie took the letters off the tray and left them on the hall table before taking the tray through the double doors.
He was in his wheelchair by the fire with various sections of The Evening Messenger strewn across his lap, on the side table next to him and even on the floor. He watched her walk towards him with an expressionless face. Millie placed the tray on the desk and looked around for a small coffee table to put within his reach.
“Would you like me to clear away the papers and put your coffee by your side?”
“Forgive me, I am an old man,” he said, “and no doubt I am senile and forgetful, but I have a vague memory that I told you to bugger off.”
She kept her face and voice pleasant but detached. “Yes, you did. But the last ferry’s gone, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me until tomorrow. I thought I might make myself useful.”
“I don’t care what you make yourself for the rest of the night as long as you do it away from me. There are plenty of rooms in the house.”
“As you wish. Shall I leave the coffee there on the desk and ask Mrs B to come up? Only it might get cold by the time—”
“Oh, just pour the bloody thing, and then go.” He made a big production of glowering.
She pretended not to notice while she moved the papers from his little side table.
Oh, hell. How much cream and sugar does he take in his coffee? She should have asked Mrs B. There was nothing for it, now. Her granny used to say, If you have to grasp the nettle, do it right away; waiting won’t make it sting any less.
She poured the coffee and took the cup to the little table by his side. Since Mrs B had given her sugar, it was a safe bet he took at least one. Millie took the little silver tongs with one cube of sugar, dropped it in. She grasped another cube but hovered it above the cup, waiting for him to say.
“You’ve already forgotten Mrs B’s instructions?”
he asked. “Two.”
She dropped the second sugar cube, then poured cream slowly. “Say when.”
“When,” he said as soon as the coffee turned a muddy brown.
She stirred and left the spoon in the saucer.
“I’m no longer a baby. I can drink my coffee from the cup directly. I don’t need the spoon.”
She said nothing and removed the spoon.
“Go. And I don’t want to see you ever again.”
She walked almost as far as the door, then turned. “I have your post just outside. I was going to bring it in. Or shall I leave it for Mrs B? She’s busy, but I can try to look for her.”
“I don’t have time to wait.”
She brought in the post. He watched her walk towards the desk to find the letter opener.
“My son has a cruel sense of humour hiring you.”
“I don’t know about that. I was hired by a recruitment agency, Elite Appointments,” she said, putting the letter opener and envelopes on the little table by his side.
“They can’t be very ‘elite’ if they put you on their books.”
“Yes, well, I called them five days ago, April fool’s day.”
Du Montfort grunted, but his lips quivered.
With one hand in his pocket, she guessed he needed help opening letters, but she didn’t want to force him to admit it. “Which one would you like me to open first?”
“Start with the large one. It’ll be official reports. You don’t need to read everything out, just give me the gist.”
She pulled a chair and sat down to start her job.
Four
Two months later La Canette, 1pm
Millie stood on the flat rock near the top of East Hill. Tall pine and sweet chestnut trees behind her capped the only real hill on the island. It was her favourite spot because she could see the whole of La Canette from here. Her eyes scanned the sunny coast until she found it. Beyond the field of purple fireweed, the white sands and blue-green sea sparkling in the sun, there it was. A tiny dilapidated cottage with its own disused wooden jetty; she never tired of looking at it. Maybe one day, she’d have a chance to go there and take a closer look.