Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise

by Rachel Lindsay

'I agree.' He signalled Leggat to leave them alone, saying he would pour the wine himself and ring if he needed anything. 'I have the feeling you're on the defensive when Leggatt is around,' he remarked as the door closed behind the butler.

  'Surely that's understandable? After all, I didn't get the impression from Mrs. Goodbody that you dined with her all that often!'

  'Never,' he grinned. 'And if you were like dear Mrs. Goodbody, you'd be on the never list too!'

  'I didn't realise I was so different.'

  'You're younger.' He smiled and leaned forward. 'You shouldn't wear such pale powder, Miss Wilmot. In fact you don't need powder at all. You have an excellent skin.'

  She concentrated on cutting her beef.

  'Now I've embarrassed you,' he said. 'I'm sorry. I didn't mean to do so.'

  It was too genuine an apology for her to ignore, and she gave him a beaming smile which elicited another penetrating glance from him. But he made no personal remarks and they chatted desultorily until the meal was over and they returned to the drawing-room for coffee.

  At ten o'clock he stood up reluctantly. 'I must get on with my work, I'm afraid. I have a meeting with Jasper Goderick in the morning.'

  'So you won't be here for the rest of the weekend?' She could not keep the disappointment from her voice, but he did not seem to be aware of it, his mind already back in the library among his papers.

  'Thank you for sharing my dinner, Miss Wilmot. I'll see you some time during the week.'

  He left in the morning without saying goodbye to her. There was no reason why he should have done, and she was angry for being disappointed. If she had known he was going to leave on Sunday she would have arranged to see Roger. She looked at the telephone, debating whether or not to call him, and then decided against it. Instead she went home.

  Only as Chrissy opened the door, her face looking first delighted and then upset, did Anthea discover that her father and stepmother had gone to the coast for the weekend.

  'Mrs. Wilmot thought the sea air would do your father good,' Chrissy sniffed.

  'It probably will,' Anthea said cheerily. 'Don't be so prejudiced !'

  'She takes a bit of getting used to,' Chrissy said lugubriously, 'but she's better than I expected.'

  'And my father is happy?' Anthea pressed home the point.

  'Yes, he is,' the housekeeper agreed. 'Mrs Wilmot dotes on him and he enjoys it.'

  'All men enjoy having women dote on them.' As Anthea spoke a picture of Claudine came into her mind. It refused to fade and marred her pleasure at being back among her own possessions and able to wear her normal clothes.

  Was Mark Allen seeing Jasper Goderick alone this afternoon or was the beautiful Frenchwoman with them? She would have given a great deal to know the answer, and because there was no likelihood of her doing so, she telephoned Roger. An evening with him would make her forget her intriguing employer.

  'How many girl-friends are sitting on your lap?' she asked as he answered.

  'I'm as free as a bird,' he said promptly.

  'Will you promise not to turn into a wolf if I go out with you this evening?'

  'Try me,' he whooped. 'I'll be round pronto!'

  He was as good as his word, and Anthea felt her spirits lift as she sat beside him in his open sports car and roared down the road an hour later. It was good to be herself again; to say what she wanted without having to monitor it and to refer to her past and future without feeling she was giving herself away. Not having to censor her thoughts, she was more relaxed and affectionate than she realised, a fact which he took advantage of when he finally brought her home, for he pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her passionately.

  She suffered his touch for a moment, but as his kisses intensified, she pushed him away. 'No, Roger. Please don't.'

  'What's wrong?' he asked.

  'You're a bird, remember? Not a wolf.'

  'At least let me be a cub?' He went to pull her close again, but she evaded him and jumped out of the car.

  'Three o'clock tomorrow,' he called. 'That's the time we arranged.'

  Unable to face seeing him again so soon, she lied, 'I can't make it, I'm afraid. I thought you realised that when I saw you today instead?'

  He looked so disconsolate that she almost changed her mind, but knowing she would regret it in the morning if she did, she remained silent.

  'What about next weekend?' he asked.

  'Let me phone you. I never know when I'm going to be free.'

  'That Allen certainly keeps your nose to the grindstone,' he grumbled. 'Doesn't he know Abraham Lincoln abolished slavery?'

  'I'm a willing slave,' she smiled, and sidestepped him as his arms came out to catch her. 'Goodnight, Roger.'

  'What's good about it?' he grumbled.

  'I'm good!' she laughed, and closed the door before he could think up a suitable reply.

  Lying in her bed staring at the pink roses climbing the walls, she found she was homesick for her bedroom at Bartham Manor. Yet it was not the house itself which drew her back but the fact that when she was in it she felt closer to its owner. It was a sobering thought and conjured up other more frightening ones. Resolutely she pushed them away and thought instead of October.

  In another six weeks Betsy would be ready to start work and she herself would be free. But she was not going to come back here. She would go to London and try to get another temporary job as a housekeeper. There was a lot to be said for a position that gave her room and board and sufficient free time to continue her studies. Of course a job like her present one would not be easy to find, but she was sure she could obtain one that was nearly as good. It might be better to find a woman employer instead of a man. They could be more difficult, it was true, but it was less likely to give her any emotional problems.

  Once more her thoughts had come full circle, and agitated at where they had led her, she sat up in bed. It was stupid of her to continue thinking of Mark Allen. As far as he was concerned she was someone who looked after his country house; someone with whom he could while away a few tedious hours. When he was in London he probably never even gave her a thought. Sobered by this knowledge, she settled back on her pillow, though it was a long time before she finally fell asleep.

  Anthea waited at home until mid-afternoon the following day in the hope of seeing her father, but when three o'clock came and went she was reluctantly forced to leave. Chrissy had gone out shopping and she was able to braid her hair and put on her dowdy dress in safety.

  As she rode along the country lanes she felt her spirits lift. It was another lovely day with the temperature well in the high sixties. What a pity there was no swimming pool at Bartham Manor. She was surprised Mark Allen had not put one in.

  The wrought iron gates of his home loomed ahead of her and she signalled the conductor to stop the bus, then ambled leisurely up the drive.

  As she came in sight of the Manor she stopped with a gasp. Her father's car was parked by the side of a flowering acacia. He and Maude must have come to see her.

  Heart pounding, she sped through the courtyard to the back of the house, and it was here that she received her second shock. Mark Allen's Rolls gleamed darkly in the garage. Oh no! That was all she needed.

  The urge to turn tail and run was so strong that it required all her will power not to give in to it. Instead she raced indoors in search of Leggat.

  He was polishing some silver in the butler's pantry and he looked up at her precipitate entry and spoke before she had a chance to do so herself. 'Your parents are here, Miss Wilmot. I've just served them tea in the rose arbour.'

  Nodding her thanks, she hurried out and across the lawn. Long before she reached the arbour she heard her stepmother's booming voice and slackened her step.

  'Anthea made us promise not to come and see her without telephoning first,' Maude was saying, 'but the Professor and I were passing and it seemed silly not to call in.'

  'I'm glad you did,' a quiet voice said, and Anthea gave a shiver of app
rehension. Mark Allen couldn't be talking to her stepmother. But he was, and very pleasant he sounded too, as he went into a discourse on roses.

  'I am extremely fond of gardening,' Maude Wilmot told him. 'But unfortunately Anthea and my husband aren't. They are great ones for picking but not for growing!'

  'Miss Wilmot is excellent at arranging flowers,' Anthea heard her employer say.

  'Better than her typing, I should think,' Professor Wilmot chuckled. 'How are you finding that?'

  'Your daughter has not done any typing for me.'

  'Surely you can't correct your notes from a dictaphone? I thought Anthea was typing them back?'

  'I think Anthea is doing research, dear,' Maude put in. 'That may not require typing.'

  'Your daughter definitely doesn't do any typing for me,' Mark Allen repeated. 'I certainly wouldn't expect her to be my secretary as well.'

  'As well as what?' asked Maude ominously.

  'As well as being my housekeeper.'

  'Your housekeeper?' The shocked tones reminded Anthea of Dame Edith Evans as Lady Bracknell; and she waited for her stepmother to say: 'A handbag?'

  But when Mrs. Wilmot spoke, it was only to repeat her original words: 'Your housekeeper?'

  'Yes,' said Mark Allen. 'And an excellent one, I'm delighted to say.'

  'Frederick!' said his wife. 'Did you hear that?'

  'I did indeed.' Professor Wilmot's voice was mildly amused and Anthea could almost see the twinkle in his eyes. 'It seems my daughter is involved in a little charade. She informed us that she was here as your research assistant.'

  'She is standing in for a friend of hers, who is ill’ Mark Allen replied. 'A Miss Betsy Evans. I understood they are friends.'

  There was a short silence, broken finally by Professor Wilmot who murmured that his daughter must be referring to Betsy Evans, a friend of his housekeeper.

  'It's just the sort of thing Anthea would do,' he added. 'But kind of her, don't you drink?'

  'Frederick is so right.' Maude gushed back into the conversation, making the best of a situation she neither liked nor comprehended. 'Anthea is such an impulsive girl, you know. But then young people are like that these days, and Anthea is more impulsive than most.' 'I wouldn't have said so,' Mark Allen replied. 'She's always struck me as being eminently practical and serious.'

  'She's very gay and extrovert,' Mrs. Wilmot insisted. 'And so lovely. The young men just flock round her!'

  'Really?' Anthea squirmed at the disbelief in her employer's voice.

  'Indeed they do,' her stepmother continued. 'But she has no time for a serious romance. She wants to get her degree first.'

  'Very sensible too,' Professor Wilmot added. 'Marriage can always come afterwards.'

  'Your daughter is probably wise to concentrate on a career,' Mark Allen said.

  'She won't be allowed to concentrate on it for long.' Maude Wilmot was nothing if not persistent. 'She's far too beautiful to become a blue-stocking. Don't you think so, Mr. Allen?'

  'Beauty is relative,' came the cool response.

  'But Anthea is so striking. Everyone says so. She'll make a wonderful wife. Beauty and brains rarely go together, I find. I'm sure you agree with me, Mr. Allen. That's probably why you are still unmarried.'

  'I happen to prefer my freedom.' The words were sharp but not sharp enough to penetrate Maude's thick skin.

  'Stronger men than you have succumbed to my stepdaughter's charm,' she said archly. 'Does Anthea act as your hostess? It would be such a pity if she didn't.'

  'My aunt normally does that. I never use my housekeeper.'

  Unable to bear any more, Anthea braced her shoulders and stepped into the rose garden.

  'Hello,' she said brightly, and fixed her eyes on her father.

  'My dear,' he murmured. 'How lovely to see you.'

  'Why are you dressed like that?' Mrs. Wilmot asked.

  'And what on earth have you done to your hair?'

  Only then did Anthea remember her unbecoming black dress and ridiculous plait. 'I like to keep it out of my eyes,' she mumbled, and moving over to the tray on the wrought- iron table picked up the teapot.

  'Your parents assumed you were my secretary,' a quiet voice said beside her.

  'It was a slight misunderstanding.' Anthea could not keep the tremor out of her voice as she went on pouring the tea.

  'Very slight,' he said.

  Ignoring the comment, Anthea passed the tea to her father and stepmother. 'Will you have a cup, Mr. Allen?' she asked, still not looking at him.

  'No, thank you. But do have one yourself.'

  'I'm not thirsty.' The thought of trying to swallow tea was impossible. She glanced at her father and saw him looking at her with the bland expression he usually wore when he was trying to hide his amusement.

  'Why didn't you let me know you were coming?' she asked.

  'Maude wanted to surprise you.'

  'She's certainly done that,' said Mark Allen. 'She has surprised us both.' He glanced at Mrs. Wilmot. 'But I'm delighted you and your husband have paid me a visit. Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.'

  'Of course,' the good lady replied. 'I do hope you'll come and visit us one day.'

  'I'm sure Mr. Allen has more to do with his time than spend it with an elderly professor and his wife,' her husband said.

  'Not when the professor is Frederick Wilmot,' came the instant reply. 'I'm a great admirer of your work. I particularly enjoyed your last book.'

  'How kind of you to say so.'

  Anthea remained staring down at the grass, and a pair of shiny leather shoes came within her vision. 'When your parents have gone, Miss Wilmot, perhaps you would come and see me in the library.'

  'Yes, Mr. Allen,' she said, and did not raise her eyes until she heard his steps recede across the flagstone path.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  With trepidation Anthea went in search of Mark Allen as soon as her father and stepmother had left. The hour she had spent with them had been a difficult one, not so much because of what they had said to her but because of what they had left unsaid. She had overheard enough of Maude's conversation with her employer to know that he must realise that her appearance was a fraud and that she had lied to her parents regarding the work she was doing for him. She could not blame him for being very angry about it and hoped he had sufficient sense of humour to see the funny side of the situation.

  One look at his face as she went into the library told her he was not amused at all. Indeed she had never seen him more angry, though it was a controlled anger which seemed to come from deep within him; a fact confirmed by his opening remark.

  'You're exactly like the rest of your sex—out to get what you want—and you don't give a tinker's cuss how you do it!'

  'There was no ulterior motive in what I did, Mr. Allen.'

  'Do you expect me to believe that?'

  'It's true.'

  'You came here to act as my housekeeper; you dressed up like something out of a Victorian orphanage! You told your parents you were my secretary and that I was an old man, and you expect me to believe you had no ulterior motive? My God, Miss Wilmot, I'd more easily swallow a whale than that lot!'

  'I don't see why you should be so annoyed,' she murmured. 'After all, I haven't done anything criminal.'

  'You don't think it was wrong to come here under false pretences?'

  'They weren't false pretences. I came here to save the job for Miss Evans. That's perfectly valid. The only thing that—the only way I pretended was by trying to make myself look older.'

  'As well as uglier and more stupid!' he spat out.

  'I don't think you ever believed me to be stupid,' she said quietly.

  He paused momentarily. 'That's true. I found you surprisingly intelligent and But I appear to have underestimated even that. You are not only intelligent but enterprising. It was a stroke of genius to insinuate yourself into my life the way you did. To pretend you didn't care about clothes and the way you looked; to encour
age me to relax with you and to be off my guard. When I think of it I could…' He banged his hand on the desk and swung round to face the window, as if he could not bear die sight of her.

  Anthea stared at his back in astonishment. Only now did she begin to understand why he was so bitter. His anger was not directed against her so much as all the other women he had known; women who had pretended to be what they were not in order to penetrate his guard. The sort of women who had seen him as a bank balance and not as a man. But surely he didn't believe she had adopted a disguise for the same reason? The thought made her hot with embarrassment, the more so as she realised that in the last few weeks she had seen him far less as a financier who lived in the rarefied atmosphere of city life, and more as a young man with too much responsibility; a man made old before his time by the mantie of success which he wore so well in public but which weighed so heavily on him in private.

  'I didn't come here for any ulterior motive,' she said firmly. 'The only reason I made myself look older and— and—and different was because I was afraid you wouldn't accept me in Miss Evans's place if I looked too young. Besides, I had to impress Mrs. Goodbody, and she'd never have taken me if she'd known my age.'

  He swung back to look at her. 'How old are you?'

  Anthea hesitated.

  'The truth, Miss Wilmot.'

  She swallowed. 'Twenty-two.'

  'Twenty-two! You're damn right she wouldn't have taken you! Any more than I'll take you…. I'd like you to pack your things and leave. Herbert will drive you to your home.'

  She looked at him in bewilderment. This was something she had never envisaged. 'Why are you dismissing me? I know I've satisfied you as a housekeeper and———'

  'That has nothing to do with it. You came here under false pretences and I have no intention of allowing you to remain.' He sat down at his desk and pulled some papers towards him, indicating that the interview was over.

  But Anthea had no intention of being dismissed so easily, and she advanced towards him, guilt at her subterfuge giving way to temper at his attitude.

  'How can you be so unfeeling!' she cried. 'If you were displeased with me I could understand you asking me to leave. But why does it matter what I look like or how old I am, so long as I do my job to your satisfaction?'