'Indeed?'
Though the word itself was a question, his tone implied disinterest, which was just as well since she would have been hard put to explain why she felt like his nanny. Flinging a look of dislike at her black-covered arms, she vowed that the minute his car disappeared down the drive she would put on something less conducive to depression.
'Will that be all, sir?' she asked primly.
He nodded and she went out, careful to close the door quietly behind her. His first weekend had come to an end. Thank goodness nothing had gone wrong. She only hoped she would be able to say the same when next Monday dawned.
She was eating her own egg when she heard the car revving up in the garage. Within a few moments all was quiet and she went back into the breakfast-room. There was no need for her to have come in here again—she would leave the tray for the maid to clear—but curiosity had made her do so and she looked at the napkin folded on the table, the knife set on the plate and the silver lid replaced on the marmalade jar. Mr. Allen did not only require tidiness in others, he was equally tidy himself. 'A paragon of virtue,' she muttered, and walked out.
On Tuesday morning she checked with his secretary to confirm the names of the weekend guests. As well as the Godericks, there were a Mr. and Mrs. Frankenheim from Texas and a Lady Wittle who would be acting as hostess.
Anthea was startled by the curiosity this raised in her, and a quick glance through the guest book showed that Lady Wittle was an even more frequent visitor here than the Godericks. Again she was annoyed for not having spoken to Mrs. Goodbody about this guest book. Still, having assumed Mr. Allen to be a crotchety old man, it would not have entered her mind to find out whether he had any romantic interest in his life, nor to care even if he had. Not that she was interested now, she told herself. Her curiosity only stemmed from curiosity. The thought made her grin.
'You're a nosey parker, Anthea my girl,' she said aloud, and deliberately put all thoughts of her employer and his friends out of her mind.
On Thursday Monsieur Marcel, the French chef, arrived from London. He was a nattily dressed little man and drove a Renault shooting brake from which he unloaded basket after basket of provisions.
Within an hour he had taken control of the kitchen and Anthea, apprehensive as to how Mrs. Leggat would react, heaved a sigh of relief when the woman discarded her apron and retired to spend the weekend at her sister's cottage, leaving her husband—who was the butler—to perform his usual duties.
Surprisingly, Monsieur Marcel was not a temperamental chef—apart from the idiosyncrasy of bringing with him all his own knives—but glimpsing him at work as he cut and chopped and peeled, Anthea appreciated why he did so.
'Mr. Allen has given me a list of the wines he wants,' the Frenchman said, handing her a typewritten sheet of paper. 'But he's leaving the choice of soft drinks to you.'
'I'll pick vintage orange 1960!' she grinned, and handed the list to Leggat. 'Shall we go to the wine cellar now?'
The butler nodded, and feeling like a true chatelaine, Anthea went down to the basement—as clean here as the rest of the house—and unlocked a heavy oak door. Here were row after row of wines; all in racks, all stored at the correct temperature: not too warm to spoil the white and not too cold to spoil die reds.
Gently she and Leggat carried the necessary bottles up to the butler's pantry, where they would be decanted in good time and poured into beautiful crystal glass decanters.
'What about the soft drinks?' she enquired.
The butler smiled. 'That was Mr. Allen's little joke. Probably his way of telling you not to worry about anything.'
Doubtful that this was the reason—she saw her employer's remark more as sarcasm than reassurance—Anthea diplomatically held her tongue. It would not do to disclose her feelings about Mr. Allen to anyone else, particularly members of the staff.
On Friday afternoon she arranged all the flowers. It was luxurious to be able to go to the huge greenhouses and choose from a magnificent assortment of blooms, and she spent a long time there before coming away with several laden baskets. Mr. Allen preferred plants to cut flowers in the hall and library—again she gave thanks to the notes she had made during her first week here with Mrs. Good- body—and she ordered the gardener to bring in pots of hydrangeas, bright green bamboo and darker leaved palms.
At five-thirty she had arranged both flowers and plants to her satisfaction, and went to her room to change into her party black. It was still two sizes too large and had a bunchy skirt and white collar and cuffs. Sturdy black shoes and thick stockings successfully spoiled her long and lovely legs, and beige powder and mauve lipstick immediately aged her ten years, making her look so plain that she burst out laughing.
She was hovering in the hall when the first guests arrived. They were Mr. and Mrs. Frankenheim, she with silver blue hair and silver mink coat, he wreathed in cigar smoke and aggressively new tweeds.
Hardly had she shown them to their room when Lady Wittle arrived, driving herself in a small and ancient car. She was not a day younger than seventy, and like Anthea made no concession to fashion, though her suit and brogues were obviously part of her character and not a disguise. She was tall and thin, with a strong face and a full lower lip similar to Mark Allen's, who Anthea learned with swiftly concealed astonishment was Lady Wittie's nephew.
'Either that young man gets married soon and has' a wife to act as his hostess, or he'll have to find someone in place of me,' she said cheerfully as she gave Anthea a hearty handshake and stomped up the stairs to the room she knew was always hers. 'Who's here this weekend?'
Anthea told her and Lady Wittle grunted. 'Do the Frankenheims look as if they play bridge?'
'I can't tell,' Anthea replied, 'but Mr. and Mrs. Goderick do.'
'Claudine never plays cards when she's here. She's always too busy with my nephew. Is there anyone else coming?' 'Those are the only guests.'
'Well, I've brought a good book with me, so I can always read.'
'I'm sure you'll find Mrs. Frankenheim amusing and friendly.'
'How old is she?'
'About sixty.'
'That should put Claudine in a good mood. She can be a real bitch if she thinks she has any competition!'
Anthea moved to the door and Lady Wittle chuckled. 'I see you don't like gossiping, Miss Wilmot. You don't only look the perfect housekeeper, you act it!'
Anthea flushed and turned to regard the older woman, surprising a look of amusement on the lined face.
'How do you like working here?' Lady Wittle continued.
'I'm only here until Miss Evans is well enough to take up the position.'
'So my nephew told me.'
Anthea was surprised that Mr. Allen had bothered to talk to his aunt about his housekeeper, though the surprise was less pleasurable as the woman continued.
'He is rather doubtful about your being able to manage. Acts younger than the experience she says she has but looks older than her years, was the way he put it!'
Anthea fled before Lady Wittle came out with any more indiscretions, though the chuckle as she closed the door told her that the woman had enjoyed teasing her. If Lady Wittle behaved this way to everyone, the weekend might be more interesting than she had expected. Yet somehow she could not believe Mark Allen would have an indiscreet woman to act as his hostess, and a little later, as she saw her deep in conversation with the American couple, she knew she was right.
The Godericks had not yet arrived and it was Leggat who told her they usually drove down with Mr. Allen in his Rolls.
'There's talk of Mr. Goderick merging his business with Mr. Allen,' he added, 'and they've certainly been spending a lot of time together in the last few months.'
There were many questions Anthea would have liked to ask, but she had made a vow not to show any curiosity over her employer's behaviour, and she quickly changed the subject. However, it didn't stop her from remaining within earshot as his car glided to a stop in the drive at six-thirty that evening.
&n
bsp; The other guests were in the drawing-room and she stood in the well of the stairs, ready to assign the Godericks to their respective suite.
Jasper Goderick came in first, a wizened man of indeterminate age with a wrinkled brown face and sparse hair. He had bright brown eyes that darted curiously around like a bird's, and a birdlike way of walking: quick jerky steps. But his voice was deep and booming, as if he had a built-in microphone in his throat.
Expecting his wife to be his contemporary, her appearance was a shock, for she was considerably younger and extremely beautiful: so beautiful that she took Anthea's breath away. Short black hair—as black as Mark Allen's own—curled riotously around her head, wisping on her forehead and over her shell-like ears. She had a small, full mouth, a delicate, straight nose and huge blue eyes. She looked as French as her christian name implied, though she was much taller than Frenchwomen normally were, and walked with an easy loping grace which wasn't French at all. A sensuously beautiful woman who also looked as though she enjoyed the outdoor life, Anthea thought with an inward frown. It seemed as if Claudine Goderick had everything. Not quite everything, Anthea amended as she saw the look that flashed on the girl's face as her husband's hand clutched possessively at her arm.
'Would you like to go upstairs?' Mark Allen was asking his guests. 'Or do you want to come in and meet the Frankenheims first? My aunt you already know.'
'I'd like to meet the Frankenheims.' Jasper spoke before his wife could do so. 'That's the whole purpose of the weekend, isn't it?'
'You know it is,' Claudine said, only just managing to rob her words of sarcasm.
Her husband tilted his head and looked at her. She was several inches taller than he was but made no concession to this, for her heels were as high as fashion allowed. Lovely legs too, Anthea noted, and wished she could find something about Claudine that wasn't eye-catching.
'I think I'll go to my room anyway,' Claudine said, and glanced at the black-clad figure standing by the stairs.
'My new housekeeper,' Mark Allen said, intercepting her glance and moving over with Claudine as she approached Anthea. 'Good evening, Miss Wilmot. Is everything all right?'
'Yes, thank you, Mr. Allen.'
Holding herself stiffly, Anthea led the way up the stairs. Mrs. Goderick obviously knew which room she had, for she walked directly to it as they reached the corridor.
'So Mrs. Goodbody has finally left?' she remarked.
'Only because her daughter needed her.'
'How boring to be a housekeeper all your life.' Blue eyes glanced curiously at Anthea. 'Are you Austrian, Miss Wilmot?'
'No,' Anthea said in surprise. 'Why do you ask?'
'You look it. I suppose it's because of your plaits and dirndl dress.'
Anthea tugged at her bunchy skirt and hid a smile. 'I wear what's practical, Mrs. Goderick. I have no time for fashion.'
'How wise of you. Life is so much easier if you don't.' She glanced at two large pigskin cases which Elsie, the maid, was at that moment unpacking. 'What has Mr. Allen arranged for the weekend?' she asked casually.
'I don't know,' said Anthea, and remembered just in time to add the word "Madam". 'I believe Mr. Frankenheim will be going riding tomorrow, but————'
'Oh, I always do that when I'm here,' Claudine interrupted. 'I just wondered if anything else had been laid on— apart from Lady Wittle trying to enveigle me into one of her endless bridge games.'
Anthea chuckled, but as she saw the blue eyes widen, she set her lips together and put a forbidding frown on her face.
'Lady Wittle did mention something about bridge,' she said lugubriously, and went to the door. 'If there's anything else you require, Mrs. Goderick, please ask Elsie.'
A casual wave of the hand was her only reply, for the girl was busy examining her face in the dressing-table mirror. 'Run my bath,' she ordered Elsie, 'and then get out my black chiffon.'
Feeling like one of the Ugly Sisters, Anthea went down to the kitchen. It was amusing to play the part of a frump in front of an unsuspecting man but not quite so amusing to maintain the disguise when faced with a beautiful woman of her own age. But age was the only thing she and Claudine Goderick had in common. In every other respect they were worlds apart.
CHAPTER FIVE
Anxious for nothing to spoil the weekend, Anthea personally supervised everything. She knew she was being unnecessarily fussy but was determined not to give her employer any cause to complain about the way she carried out her duties. It was not so much because she wanted to keep the job for Betsy as a determination not to give him the satisfaction of being able to tell her she was no good, which she suspected he would dearly like to do.
Her disguise might have added tea years to her age, but in his eyes she was still too inexperienced for this job, and occasionally during the weekend she saw him watching her, a curious expression in his eyes as though he found her puzzling but did not know why.
She gave him full marks for perspicacity, realising somewhat wryly that his business success was based on his judgment. It was a good thing he only stayed at Bartham Manor for the weekends. If he were here the whole time she had a nervous suspicion he would quickly see through her.
On Sunday afternoon Mr. and Mrs. Frankenheim left, soon followed by Lady Wittle, who brusquely announced that her nephew did not need her to act as hostess for such good friends as the Godericks.
'It's unnecessary of Mark to bother you at all,' Anthea, who was hovering in the hall, heard Claudine say. 'He knows very well I'd be delighted to act as his hostess.'
'Mark doesn't feel it would be right to impose on another man's wife.'
'He's too old-fashioned,' Claudine retorted.
'You'd do well to remember that, my dear.' There was a glint in Lady Wittle's eye; a glint that was still there as she sought Anthea out in the housekeeper's sitting-room before she finally left.
'You did very well, Miss Wilmot. I thought you'd like to know that my nephew is delighted.'
'It's Monsieur Marcel and Leggat who deserve the credit,' Anthea replied.
'Don't be so modest! You arranged the flowers beautifully, and Mark said it was particularly clever of you to have changed Saturday's menu.'
'I was a bit worried about that,' Anthea admitted. 'But the head gardener's brother came down from Scotland with a fresh salmon and it seemed a shame to put it in the deep freeze. So we put the fillet steaks in there instead!'
'The salmon was superb,' Lady Wittle enthused, 'and the sauce was out of this world.'
'So it should have been. It was made with champagne.'
'Don't tell me Marcel is giving you his secrets?'
'It's my secret, actually,' Anthea grinned. 'I gave him the recipe!'
Lady Wittle registered astonishment. 'Don't tell me cooking is yet another of your virtues?'
'Another?' Anthea smiled.
'I'm sure you have many!' The woman held out her hand. 'Goodbye, Miss Wilmot. I know we'll be meeting again.'
No sooner had she gone when Leggat came in to say the Godericks had also decided to leave.
'Mr. Goderick is another one for early morning meetings,' the butler explained, 'and as his wife doesn't like getting up at the crack of dawn, they're going tonight. Quite put out she was at having to go.'
'Won't they be staying for dinner, then?' Anthea asked, cutting short the gossip, and as Leggat shook his head, she added: 'In that case you can put back the bottles of claret.'
'I've already decanted one.'
'What a waste!'
'Mr. Allen will kill the best part of it,' the butler replied, 'and I'll see there's a glass left for you!'
'Don't corrupt me,' Anthea smiled, and wondered whether Mrs. Goderick would come and say goodbye to her.
But she and her husband left without a word to the staff, though when Leggat came into the sitting-room again he was holding a ten-pound note.
'For all of us,' he said, waving it in the air. 'Mrs. Good- body used to put all the tips in the cash box and
divide it at the end of each month.'
'Then I'll do the same,' said Anthea, and locked it away. She had no intention of accepting anything for herself from Mr. Allen's guests, but would put the money aside for Betsy.
'Is Monsieur Marcel leaving for London tonight as well?' she asked.
Leggat nodded and grinned. 'He's packing his knives now! I thought of going into the village myself, once Mr. Allen has had supper.'
'You might as well go now,' said Anthea. 'You've been run off your feet the whole weekend.'
'This weekend is nothing compared with what it sometimes is. I think I'll stay and serve Mr. Allen first.'
'There's no need. It's all cold, so he'll probably help himself. Do go off for a few hours. If Mr. Allen requires anything, I can always see to it.'
Smiling his thanks, the butler went away, and Anthea wandered into the kitchen to say goodbye to the chef. In the short space of a couple of days she and the Frenchman had become firm friends, and she had enjoyed watching him work, learning more from his preparation of a couple of meals than she had learned from watching Chrissy for years.
'If you ever wish to train as a cook,' he said as he left, 'let me know and I will train you myself!'
'I may take you up on that one day,' she grinned, and thought it could well prove more rewarding than trying to teach history to uninterested youngsters.
By the time she returned to her sitting-room she was glad of a chance to sit down and relax. She would take the day off tomorrow and go and see her father. During the months of his illness they had grown very close and she still missed not seeing him every day. It was a closeness which might never be re-established and the knowledge depressed her. He had Maude for companionship now and did not need his daughter. Anthea sighed. Never in a million years would she have imagined her father falling in love with someone like Maude. Love must be blind, she decided, and suddenly saw an image of Claudine and Jasper Goderick. He certainly loved his beautiful wife; it was obvious from the way his eyes followed her everywhere she went; the way his hands reached out to touch her whenever she came near him. But the motive that had prompted Claudine to marry him had not stemmed from a similar emotion. Money seemed the obvious reason. Money to buy the expensive clothes that adorned her body and the magnificent jewellery that clasped her beautiful throat and arms. Yet Mr. Goderick, clever and astute though he was, still loved her.
Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise Page 5