by Sharon Booth
"Job's a good 'un," she said, folding her arms in satisfaction. "So, you've to go over there at three o'clock."
I gulped down my tea. "Three o'clock? You mean today?"
"Of course I mean today." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "You've got just over two hours. Have you got a car?"
"No, I haven't," I said, panicking slightly. "And I'm hardly dressed for a job interview, am I? How far away is this house?"
"About twenty to thirty minutes if you go by car," she said. "Tell you what, you get yourself to the caravan and get changed, and I'll send a taxi to pick you up at half two. I'll book it now for you."
As she headed back to the counter, my phone beeped. I glanced down and pulled a face as I saw Seth's name on the screen. Things were going so well, and I didn't want him to ruin it all. I shook my head as I read his text.
O! My love how can you treat me so?
I sit alone, sorrow etched on broken face,
The light has gone from this wretched place,
My heart is heavy, my spirit low.
Come home, sweet love, as soon you can.
Come home and save this lonely man.
Did you cancel my subscription to Quill Magazine? The latest issue hasn't arrived.
Honestly! I put my phone back in my pocket and finished my tea. I wasn't going to give Heathcliff a second thought.
Hearing Rhoda on the phone, I listened in, feeling a flutter of nerves at her words.
"Moreland Hall, and don't be late, 'cause she's got a job interview. That's right, Ned. Moreland Hall. You know, Mr Rochester's place."
My heart seemed to fly up into my mouth, and I gaped at her in horror. She put the phone down and turned to me, her smile dying as she looked at my stricken face. "What is it, love?"
"Who did you say the house belonged to?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you? That's who you'll be working for. Mr Rochester."
#
Trust me! Only I could contemplate swapping Heathcliff for bloody Mr Rochester. Well, I reminded myself, as I scrabbled around in the caravan, trying to find something suitable for a job interview, he was a father, which meant he was probably married, or, at the very least, romantically entangled with someone, so at least I'd have no trouble sticking to my resolution not to fall for any man ever again.
Half my clothes didn't fit me. Comfort eating, combined with lack of exercise for the last fortnight, had ensured that I'd packed more weight on. My size fourteen jeans were uncomfortably tight, and I could only hope that my one decent black skirt would still do up.
I frantically unrolled the only pair of tights in my suitcase and pulled them on, groaning as my nail caught and ripped a hole in them. Great, so I’d be turning up for the interview in laddered tights. I hunted around in my makeup bag and found an old bottle of nail varnish, which I dabbed hopefully on the edge of the hole, praying it would stop it from running any farther. My skirt took some squeezing into and did me no favours whatsoever. I decided against wearing my white shirt, which I'd planned to tuck into my skirt, and instead found a reasonably smart grey jumper, which was long enough to cover the waistband and my rounded stomach.
I decided, there and then, to cut out the Carroll's Caramel Choc Bloc.
As the taxi pulled up at the gate to the field, and the driver beeped his horn, I hastily zipped up my boots, threw on my duffle coat, wishing I'd thought to bring my only decent jacket with me instead, and rushed out of the caravan. I was halfway across the field when I remembered the diploma, and had to wade back through the mud to get it, and by the time I finally got to the taxi, the soles of my boots were caked in thick mud, and I could only hope the driver didn't notice and refuse to take me.
Luckily, he didn't.
"So," he said, quite cheerfully, as we headed down the farm track, "we're off to Mr Rochester's place, eh?"
Even the sound of it was quite daunting. "Er, yes. Moreland Hall, isn't it?"
He shrugged. "Probably. It's always been called Rochester's place ‘round here. Business, or pleasure?"
Bit cheeky, asking, in my opinion. "Definitely business," I said. And no pleasure, whatsoever. I was done with pleasure. Well, that kind of pleasure, at least. "I've got a job interview."
"Oh, right. What sort of job?"
Were all taxi drivers ‘round there so nosy? Back in Oddborough, you’d be lucky to get a grunt from most of them. I supposed I just wasn't used to it, and he was being friendly, after all. Well, we were in Yorkshire. "Nanny," I said, not wanting to go into details. I didn't have any details to go into, to be honest.
"Ah, I see. Laura mentioned the bairn was staying there. Quite rare to have one of the family at home, these days. They tend to stay in London, as you can imagine."
Could I? I made a sort of mumbling noise, since I didn't know what to say, and he frowned at me through the rear-view mirror.
"You do know who they are, right? I mean, you do realise he's the Mr Rochester?"
He was? I seriously doubted that. "Is he?" I said politely, thinking he couldn't possibly be. Mr Rochester was fictional, wasn't he? Unless he was based on someone Charlotte Brontë had actually met? But even so...
"'Course, it was his great-great-grandfather who started it, back in the nineteenth century," the driver added, clearly enjoying showing off his knowledge. "But this one's certainly done his fair share."
"Oh, good," I said, wondering what, exactly, he’d done his fair share of. Attempted bigamy? Locking up mad women? It wasn't reassuring, either way.
"Laura will see you right," he said. "Don't you go worrying." Clearly, he thought my reluctance to chat was down to nerves.
He was right, in a way, but I had more to think about than just a job interview. I wasn't entirely sure what I heading into, and I was beginning to think maybe I'd be better off if I didn't get the job.
We drove steadily on for nearly half an hour, the road cutting a swathe through the moors, which, at that time of year, looked bleak and desolate. Wondering how remote the house was, I was just about to ask, when the car pulled up outside a pair of wrought iron gates and the driver turned to me, smiling
"Far as I go," he said.
I stared at him. "As far as you go? What do you mean?"
He rolled his eyes. "The gates are shut, see? They always are. And it's a lot of palaver trying to get in touch with the main house to open them."
"Then, how—?" I stared doubtfully at the wall, which was about nine feet high and backed by a whole forest of trees, by the look of it.
"There's a small gate in the wall for pedestrians, over there, look. Just press the buzzer, and someone will answer you eventually, but it's not worth me hanging around, is it? It's only a short walk up the drive."
"Oh, right," I said, unfastening my seat belt. "Well, if you're sure."
I paid him his fare and climbed out of the car, walking uncertainly to the side gate in the wall. I pressed the buzzer on the stone pillar and waited. The taxi driver beeped his horn and drove off, leaving me standing all alone in that strange place, miles from Newarth. It suddenly occurred to me that I should have asked him to wait, or at least booked him for the return journey. Typical of me not to think ahead.
"Hello?"
I jumped upon hearing the voice crackling through the speaker. "Crikey, you scared me to death! I mean, er, hello."
"Can I help?"
"Yes, I have an interview at three o'clock with a Mrs Fairweather. I'm Cara Truelove. I believe she—"
The speaker crackled and the gate clicked. Tentatively, I pushed it open and followed a narrow path through the trees, hearing the gate click again behind me.
The path led me to a driveway, and I walked nervously towards the house, which lay at the end of the tree-lined drive. Whoever lived there, they certainly loved woodland, I thought. As I got nearer to the house, though, the trees gave way to a beautiful lawn, and I stared in awe at the imposing stone property set out before me. It was huge, with what seemed like dozens of casement windows, and a slate roof and lot
s of chimneys. Straight ahead was a massive oak door, and steps leading up to it. Mr Rochester certainly liked to make an impression.
The door opened, and a woman stepped outside and stood on the top step. I'd half been expecting her to be wearing a Victorian dress and apron, with her hair in a bun, but the woman was wearing trousers and a bright red jumper, and had her steel-grey hair cropped short, in a rather Judi Dench fashion. To my relief, she beamed at me and waved as I approached. "Hello! You found us all right, then. I'm Laura Fairweather. Pleased to meet you, Cara."
Relaxing, I took the hand she offered with some relief. "Hello. Pleased to meet you, too."
"Come into the kitchen, you must be freezing. The fire's going, and it's lovely and warm in there. Would you like a hot drink? Tea? Coffee?"
"A cup of tea would be lovely," I said gratefully. I'd half expected to be asked to enter via the back door, so it was a pleasant surprise to find myself standing in a huge, double-height hallway. It was even more surprising to see how modern and bright it looked. The walls had been painted white, and there was a warm, wooden floor beneath a cheerful stripy runner, and some rather cosy antique pine furniture. A grand staircase stood straight in front of me, with two flights branching off from the landing, one leading left, and one right.
Mrs Fairweather smiled at me. "Not what you were expecting?"
I shook my head. "Not really."
"I know. People always think it's going to be dark and gloomy in here, but the present Mr Rochester has done an awful lot of work to it. He hated coming here when he was young. It was practically gothic when I first started here, and he couldn't abide it. He's completely renovated the whole place. It's so luxurious now, I feel very lucky to live here."
I wasn't surprised, particularly when she led me into her own domain, which was the most gorgeous kitchen I'd ever seen. Tamsin would have been green with envy. Again, the walls were white and the floors wooden. At one end of the huge room was a beautiful fitted kitchen, complete with butler sink and large green range cooker. In the centre, stood an island with a modern hob built into its black Corian worktop. The white units around the side of the kitchen had thick wooden worktops. At the other end of the room, a flight of stairs led up to the first floor, and a large table and chairs stood in front of an inglenook fireplace, so tall it almost reached the ceiling, and within there was a wood-burning stove, which glowed brightly and threw out a heck of a lot of heat.
I defrosted immediately, and asked Mrs Fairweather if she minded if I removed my coat.
"Bless you, love," she said, reaching out a hand to take it from me. "You'll melt into a puddle, if you don't." She nodded towards the table. "Take a seat," she said. "I'll make that tea."
There was no waiting around for a kettle to boil in that house. Boiling water came straight out of a tap. Mrs Fairweather handed me a mug, which was reassuringly plain, and settled herself down opposite me. "Right, then. Let's get this over and done with," she said. "I'm the housekeeper here at Moreland Hall. It's my job to ensure the smooth running of this place. I do the cooking," she added, "and this is my kitchen, whatever his lordship likes to think." She winked at me. "I also see to the household budget, and I take charge of the indoor staff." She chuckled. "That sounds a heck of a lot grander than it is. When I say indoor staff, there's me, Mrs Jones and Mrs Turner. They come here three times a week and help me keep the place clean. Outside, there's Ken. He's the gardener and handyman. That's it for permanent staff. But soon there'll be you. That's if you get the job, of course." She gave me an encouraging smile. "Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"
"What would you like to know?"
I thought I'd have to be a bit selective. I told her about the nursery, leaving out the bit about the parents who frequently ignored our opening times and dropped their kids off early because they had appointments at the methadone clinic.
"I have my diploma," I finished, reaching into my bag and drawing it out. Thank God I'd had the foresight to pack that.
She took it from me and read it, nodding approvingly. "Would you mind if I kept this for now? Just until Mr Rochester has seen it." she said.
I felt a flutter of nerves, but nodded. "Of course. As long as I get it back."
"Oh, you will, never fear. And you'll be able to provide a reference?"
"The owner of Little Poppets Playschool will send one to you. I'll give you her address."
She shook her head. "Email address would do. Mr Rochester likes to do things quickly, and he's a great one for technology. I'll ask her to email it to him, and I'll scan this diploma and email that to him, too."
I was quite impressed. "Is Mr Rochester not here?" I asked, scribbling down Jilly's email address on the piece of paper Mrs Fairweather pushed towards me.
She stood and walked across the room, from where she collected a brightly-coloured biscuit tin off the worktop. "He's in London. He rarely comes up to Yorkshire these days," she said, returning to her seat. "Have a biscuit?"
I thought about the straining zip on my skirt and shook my head. "Better not. But thank you. So, his daughter's here just with her mother?"
She stared at me blankly for a moment, as she crunched on a custard cream. "Oh, I see what you mean. No, no. Adele's not his daughter."
Adele! Was she having me on? Mr Rochester was caring for a child who wasn't his, and her name was Adele? Had I entered The Twilight Zone? I seemed destined to spend my life living inside Brontë novels.
"Don't tell me," I said. "Adele is the daughter of his French mistress. And I don't mean his teacher."
She looked baffled. Evidently, she wasn't much of a reader. "Adele is Mr Rochester's little sister," she said.
I hadn’t been expecting that. "How old is she again?" I said.
"Four."
"Oh. Sorry, just that, I thought Mr Rochester would be older."
She grinned at me. "Than four? He is. He's nearly thirty-six. It's okay, my dear, I do see what you mean. There's quite an age gap."
She wasn't kidding. I wondered who was fooling whom, but thought it best to keep my opinions to myself. "Oh, right. So, is Adele's mother here?"
She looked disapproving. "No, she's staying in New York at the moment, visiting some friends. That's why he was a bit stuck, you see. Jodie—she was Adele's previous nanny—well, she had to leave suddenly, and there was no one to take care of Adele. I went down there for a while, but my place is here. Can't be doing with London. It was decided that Adele could spend the summer here, and it was thought that a local nanny would be preferable. Someone used to the city might not settle here, you see. Are you sure you wouldn't like a biscuit?"
I peered longingly into the tin. My hand hovered over a chocolate digestive, but as I reached forward, my waistband practically cut off my circulation until I was genuinely worried my button would pop and ping across the kitchen floor. Regretfully, I withdrew my hand. "No thanks."
She looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay. Well, would you like to have a look around the house and meet Adele?"
"I'd love to," I said, thinking it wasn't much of an interview. I wasn't going to point that out to her, though. Clearly, she was eager to hire someone, and I didn't want to do anything to make her think twice about choosing me. "I'll take off my boots," I added. "They're rather muddy, I'm afraid."
She seemed to approve of that, and gave me a smile that radiated as much warmth as the wood-burning stove.
The house was gorgeous. I mean, really, it was stunning. Clearly, no expense had been spared. Considering the taxi driver had said the Rochesters weren't often there, they'd gone to a lot of trouble to make it very luxurious, in a cosy and welcoming sort of way. Every room had a beauty and elegance of its own. I particularly loved the huge conservatory, or garden room, as Mrs Fairweather called it. It wasn't like the plastic monstrosity that Mum and Dad had stuck on the back of their house, but was a tasteful stone and glass extension, with views across the most beautiful gardens.
"There are twelve b
edrooms," Mrs Fairweather explained, as we made our way to the first floor. "Six of them are en-suite. Then there are three separate bathrooms. You'll never be caught short in this house," she said, her eyes twinkling.
I really liked her, and I had everything crossed that she liked me enough to recommend me to her employer for the job. I couldn't believe there was a chance I might live somewhere like that, and be paid to do so. Was I dreaming?
"This would be your room," she told me, opening a door into a room that was as big as both my old bedroom and living room combined. A soft cream carpet squished beneath my feet, a huge bay window looked out over the lawn and to the moors beyond, a king-size bed with a crisp white duvet cover and purple throw sat proud against one wall, and thick purple check curtains hung at the windows. Best of all, through an open door to the left of me, I spotted something I never thought I'd ever have in a million years. An en-suite bathroom! I had to have this job.
"Do you think it will do?" she said. "I know it's right at the end of the corridor, but it's next to Adele's room, and I think Mr Rochester would prefer that you were close."
"It's perfect," I assured her, trying to sound calm, even though inside I was mentally hopping up and down in excitement. I would have to take a photo of the place and send it to Tamsin. She'd be so envious. I knew I shouldn't be so mean, but I'd never had anything to show off about before. The job, the house, they could be my breakthrough!
"Wonderful," she said. "Well, I suppose the only thing left to do now is introduce you to Adele."
I felt a shadow pass over me. What if Adele didn't like me? What if I didn't like Adele? I remembered some of the aggressive little toddlers I'd dealt with at nursery and took a deep breath. I was up to the task. Once we'd established boundaries, we could make it work, I was sure of it.
Adele was apparently being entertained by Mrs Turner's teenage daughter. "We've had to rely on her a lot these past few days," Mrs Fairweather confided, as we headed back downstairs. "Really, it's all been very trying, I must say. Anyway, luckily for me, Susie works evenings at The Crown, so she's been able to come in every afternoon and take Adele off my hands for a few hours. I'm far too old for all this," she added, pushing open a door and ushering me into another stunning space.