by Sharon Booth
He laughed again, and I found my face had shaped itself into a smile, without me even asking it to. "It could have been worse. My sister got her Rosary beads and a really unnerving picture of the Pope."
His laughter heightened again. Eventually, he said, "So, you have a sister."
"I do," I said, adding slyly, "as do you."
"Yes." He stopped laughing then, all right. "Adele was something of a surprise."
I'll bet she was! "There's quite an age gap," I said, rather daringly. "Must be, what, thirty-one years between you?"
"Thereabouts." He shrugged. "These things happen. It was unexpected, but I'm glad she arrived. She's a joy."
I couldn't argue with that. "She's adorable," I agreed, smiling up at him. "Impossible not to love her, really."
He stared down at me, as if considering me. Mrs F was quite right, I decided. He did need a haircut. It curled over his collar and looked quite casual for such an important businessman. "I'd better go," he said suddenly, then leapt from the swing without warning.
I just managed to grab the other rope and steady myself, and when I looked up, he was walking away.
"Stay as long as you like," he called over his shoulder. "I'll be with Adele all day today. I'm taking her to Scarborough, so feel free to make as much use of the swing as you wish."
I stared after him, thinking I'd never met anyone like him before. Strangely, and annoyingly, the swing seemed to have quite lost its charm since he’d stepped off, and I had to admit, a day in Scarborough seemed much more appealing.
Chapter Ten
After staying a couple more days at Moreland Hall, during which time he rarely left Adele's side, Mr Rochester headed back to London.
"Never known him so reluctant to leave," mused Mrs Fairweather, as she returned to the kitchen after waving him off, like a fond mother bidding farewell to her favourite son. "Mind, he's had a bad time of it in London lately, what with one thing, and another."
"What sort of thing?" I asked.
She handed me a cup of tea and sat beside me at the table. "Not for me to say," she said.
"Of course. Sorry."
Quietly sipping my tea, I could tell that she was dying to tell me something, and sure enough, when I didn't push her, she spilled.
"He gets mithered left, right, and centre," she burst out suddenly. "If it's not one thing, it's another. I mean, as if running that empire isn't enough! And then he's got all his in-laws on his case, and that ridiculous woman and her antics, and all that business with Jodie, and now his mother's back home, which won't help. She's already giving him a headache. She wouldn't come up to see Adele, and she's asked him not to bring her down to London to see her because she has plans. Plans! What plans are so important that you don't want to see your own child?"
Reddening, she muttered, "And I shouldn't have said any of that. Not like me to be so indiscreet. Just that, ooh, it makes me that mad. He deserves better from all of them. And as for that child .... If it wasn't for him, God help her."
I didn't know what to make of any of that. It was obvious that Jennifer Rochester had no real maternal feelings for Adele, but then, why would she? Nothing had convinced me that she was truly the little girl's mother. Certain the whole thing was a cover-up, I couldn't get as worked up about her lack of parenting skills as Mrs F, because, in my opinion, it was Mr Rochester who should’ve been making more time for her.
The other things she'd mentioned were far more intriguing, though. What was the business with Jodie, the previous nanny? And why were his in-laws on his case? I assumed the ridiculous woman was Antonia.
"What's his wife been up to?" I said, unable to resist asking any longer. I had, I was rather ashamed to admit, Googled Antonia Rochester, to try finding out more about her. She seemed fairly reclusive. Not much came up—at least, not much recent stuff. There was a bit about her birth and early life, and then quite a lot about her surprise wedding. And she was mentioned by name in a few articles about her father, a wealthy landowner called Simon Wilson-Smythe, but other than that, there was nothing about her, or what she was up to, or even where lived.
Where did she live? Was she in London? Did she share a home with her husband, or had they unofficially separated? It was quite intriguing. The most recent photo of her was taken at an airport five years previously. I'd expected her to be all tall, slender and gorgeous, but she seemed surprisingly normal, and had quite a friendly, open expression on her round, smiling face.
She raised an eyebrow. "His wife? Why do you mention her?"
"You said that ridiculous woman and her antics. I presumed you mean her?"
"You presume wrong, then," she said. "She's an entirely different kettle of fish."
"So, why are his in-laws on his case?"
She set her cup down on the table. "It's not for me to say, and I've said more than enough already. Now, shouldn't you be getting Adele up and dressed? I'm sure she's awake by now."
She'd made her point, so I didn't push her. I finished my tea and headed upstairs to see to Adele.
Adele and I had quickly formed a real bond, and the days and weeks flew by in her company. She was a well-behaved child, with a great sense of humour and an infectious giggle. Obviously, she had the occasional tantrum, but she was four, after all, and it came as quite a relief to find out that she wasn't too good. She’d soon become my little companion, and I was gratified to realise that she'd grown quite attached to me, too.
As April gave way to May, and the days passed, she and I had great fun, painting, baking, playing on the swing, and helping Ken in the garden. She loved pulling on her wellies and getting her little trowel out, crouching beside him as he planted and dug and weeded. She even had a little watering can, and made it her business to ensure that no flower ever went thirsty.
We caught the moorland bus one day and headed down to Pickering, catching the steam train and travelling the North Yorkshire Moors Railway line up to Whitby. Adele absolutely loved the whole experience, and by the time we'd caught the bus back to Hasedale, and got a taxi home to the Hall, she was happy but exhausted. After coaxing her into eating a sandwich, I’d quickly washed and changed her, then put her to bed, where she slept right through until almost nine the following morning.
One glorious day in mid-June, Adele and I decided to have a picnic. Mrs F kindly packed us a feast that would have satisfied four adults, never mind one adult and a child, and we headed into the secret garden, where I rolled out a blanket in the shade of the sycamore tree, and we sat down to tuck in to our outdoor banquet. Around us, daisies and buttercups peeped through the grass, freckles of white and yellow on a perfect green face.
"This is the life, eh, Adele?" I said, smiling at her as she chomped happily on an egg sandwich.
She nodded, grinning widely at me, which was rather off-putting, given the amount of half chewed food covering her teeth and tongue. Eventually, she managed to swallow her mouthful and said, "Jodie never did picnics. I'm glad she went and you came, Cara."
"Well, I'm very glad, too," I said. "Although, I expect Jodie misses you a lot."
"Not really," she said considering. "She wasn't really my friend. She was mostly on her phone."
"Oh, dear." Not so good, then.
"She liked Ethan, best." Her eyes twinkled with mischief. "She said he was gorgeous." She giggled and helped herself to a Scotch egg.
"Did she really?" I wasn't sure whether to continue that conversation. Dodgy territory. "Well, she shouldn't really have said that to you, should she?"
"She didn't. She was saying it to someone on the phone. Don't you think Ethan's gorgeous?"
Her face was alight with amusement, and I knew that, whichever way I answered, it would be in grave danger of being reported back to someone—possibly, God forbid, Ethan himself. I decided to change the subject. "He'll be back soon, I dare say. I expect you've missed him."
"Yes. I always miss him. Mummy's home from holidays, too. I spoke to her on the phone, and she says she'll come a
nd see me soon. She can't come just now, but that's okay."
She sounded quite unperturbed by her mother's absence. I wasn't sure whether to feel glad, or angry about that. I supposed, for Adele's sake, it was best that way.
"Mummy didn't like Jodie," Adele informed me. "She said she was a bossy madam."
"Did she indeed?" I murmured. "Would you like a drink of squash?"
Adele nodded, and I poured her a cup of squash from the flask we'd brought with us. I ate a ham sandwich and tried not to dig for more information, as tempting as the thought was. It wasn't fair to use Adele in that way.
"Jodie told Mummy that she should spend more time with me, and Mummy got cross and said it was none of her business."
"Er, quite right," I said, thinking that Jodie had more courage—and more cheek—than I'd ever possess.
"Mummy said Jodie didn't understand, and she wasn't my natchell mother, anyway." Adele tilted her head to one side and stared at me. "What does natchell mother mean? I asked Ethan, and he said it was a made-up word and didn't mean anything."
I nearly choked on my ham sandwich. What the hell could I say to that? So, Jennifer Rochester had admitted—to the nanny, of all people—that she wasn't Adele's real mother! Sadly, Adele had overheard. How did I get out of this tricky situation?
"I don't know what it means," I said, thinking the best bet was to take Ethan's lead. "Maybe you heard it wrong?"
She sighed. "Maybe. I like that word. Natchell. I like other words, too, but I'm not allowed to say them. Ethan heard me say one once and got very cross. Jodie said it was his own fault because he said it, too, and Ethan got even crosser, but then he said sorry, and after that he promised me fifty pence every time he said a bad word." She beamed at me. "Jodie said I should be glad when he has a bad day at work because I'll make a fortune."
Charming. Their London nanny sounded like a real piece of work, although, it had to be said, Jennifer Rochester impressed me even less. And then there was Ethan, who, it seemed, had to be Adele's real father. What a family. Poor Adele.
We finished up our picnic, chatting about food rather than nannies, thank goodness, before packing up. Mrs F seemed quite flustered when we arrived back at the house.
"Delicious picnic," I told her, smiling. "You look a bit harassed. Everything okay?"
"Well, Ethan's just rung me," she said, switching on a smile for Adele's benefit. "You'll be pleased to hear he's coming home in a few days, Adele. And not only that, but he's decided to have a party for his birthday. The house will be full of guests for the first time in years. Quite an event, and very little notice."
"A party!" Adele looked delighted, but Mrs F shook her head.
"Not your sort of party, my love, I'm sure." She glanced over at me, her eyes betraying some annoyance. "Honestly, he could have given me a bit more notice. Oh, well, we'll cope. We always do."
I had no doubt about it. I wasn't worried about the party. I was more worried by the fact that, in spite of all my misgivings about men in general, and Mr Rochester in particular, I couldn't deny that my heart had leapt when I'd heard that he was coming home again, at last. What on earth was that all about?
#
"It will be good to have people in the house again," Mrs Fairweather said the next day, evidently torn about the party. "but I'm not keen on some of his friends. One, in particular."
"Oh? Who's that?" I enquired, reaching over and dipping my finger in the mixing bowl. She'd been baking some of her fabulous ginger cake, and always let me finish off the mixture afterwards. It tasted almost as good as the cake itself, and because it was unbaked, I sort of kidded myself that it didn't contain as many calories—obviously rubbish, but it was extraordinary what you tell yourself when you're trying to lose weight.
"Not for me to say," she said. "Mind you, I reckon you'll figure it out for yourself when you meet her."
"Her?" I felt a pang of something that I couldn't quite put a name to and shrugged it off. "What about his wife? Will she be coming up to celebrate his birthday?"
"I shouldn't think so for a moment." She closed the oven door and wiped her hands on her apron.
"It's a strange sort of marriage, isn't it?" I mused. "She never comes here, and he doesn't seem to spend much time with her in London."
"She—"
"Likes to travel," I finished for her. "So everyone keeps saying. But what sort of marriage is it, when they're never together? Was it always like this?"
"What Mr and Mrs Rochester do is entirely their business," she said, eyeing me sternly.
I arranged my features to look suitably chastened, and she seemed satisfied that I'd learned my lesson.
"Mind, he could be a bit less thoughtless—springing a visit on me one minute, then a party on me the next," she conceded.
"I suppose he could have warned you."
"Huh. I suppose he did, if you count casually dropping the fact that he's invited twelve guests to stay the night, to celebrate his thirty-sixth birthday, into a phone conversation as a warning. I've got to work out a menu yet, and I'll have to air all the rooms and put fresh bedding everywhere. By the way, did I tell you, you're invited?"
"Me? But I'm staff! Why would he invite me?"
She shrugged. "Why not? He's asked me, too. It's not the dark ages, you know."
"Really? Yet, I have to call him Mr Rochester, and he calls me Miss Truelove, even though he apparently called Jodie by her first name. It may not be the dark ages, but you can't deny, he's a bit formal with me, isn't he?"
"Yes, well, maybe he is, but then again …" She frowned, when my phone pinged and I stared at the screen in dismay. "What is it?"
I shook my head. "Nothing. I think I'll go up to my room, Mrs Fairweather. Just for an hour. I should catch up on my reading. Unless you want any help with anything, of course?"
"No, I'm fine, thanks. But what about your lunch? You didn't have breakfast. I can make you a sandwich, if you like."
Standing, I shoved my phone in my pocket and turned away. "No thanks. Not hungry. Catch you later."
Reaching my bedroom, I took out my phone and read the text in dismay. Seth! I'd been absolutely certain that he'd given up. What could have persuaded him to try again?
I wandered lonely as a cloud
Of sweet pink blossom, newly blown
From bare trees, which, like me did moan
And grieve their loss, and beg out loud
Come back to us, o! we implore,
And fill our empty arms once more.
You've broken my heart. Think carefully about what you're doing because I won't wait forever. Isolde has asked me to move in with her. I'm seriously considering it, you know. She makes a cracking lamb bhuna.
I was half tempted to reply with Go for it, but stuck to my plan of not responding. It was the only way he'd ever get the message. I checked on Facebook to see if Tamsin and Redmond had posted anything. There was nothing at all from Redmond, but Tamsin had posted a photograph of some gorgeous flowers in a crystal vase, with a cheerful update.
Beautiful flowers! Lucky girl!
Some people had commented, asking her if they'd forgotten her birthday, or was it her anniversary? Was it? I felt ashamed to admit I wasn't sure.
I decided to ring her, to check, since she hadn't responded to any questions.
She sounded awful on the phone. Really, really upset. My heart broke for her as she made a valiant effort to seem cheerful when, quite clearly, she wasn't.
"Are you okay, Tamsin? Did I forget your anniversary?"
"Wouldn't matter if you had," she said. "Brad wouldn't have remembered, either."
"Oh, no. Are things that bad?" I flopped onto the bed and stared unseeingly at the wall. "What's happened? Did Brad get you the flowers?"
She sniffed. "You must be joking. I bought them myself, from the market this morning, and arranged them for something to do. You know I love flowers. That status was just putting on a brave face. Truth is, I needed cheering up."
"Wh
y did you need cheering up?"
There was a deafening silence, then she burst out, "Brad's left me. He told me last night he was going. He's moved into a hotel for a while."
My mouth dropped open in shock. "Left you? But why?"
"I have no idea. I'm guessing there's another woman. What else could there be?"
"But haven't you asked him?"
"No. I don't want to hear it. He said he needed some space, time to think. That's basically code for I'm shagging someone else, isn't it? I'm not stupid."
"Oh, God. What did you say?"
"I told him to clear off, then. What else could I say? What do you want me to do? Beg? No chance. He's barely spent any time with me or the girls lately. I thought he was working overtime—putting in extra hours at the office. Bet he's been screwing some little tart all along. Well, she can have him, whoever she is. I won't beg for anyone, least of all a man who actually thinks it's okay to abandon his wife and children." She gave a big sob. "But what am I going to tell the girls? How do I explain it to them?"
"I don't know," I murmured. How awful. What could I do to help? I felt useless. "Do you want me to come and stay for a while? I could help you out." I wasn't sure how, but I wanted to do something.
"No, no. Don't be silly. You have work to do. The last thing I need is you getting the sack. I can't have something like that on my conscience, not when things are finally working out for you. I'll be fine. I'll sit the girls down and explain it all to them. There are going to have to be big changes, so they'll need to know."
"What big changes?"
"Well, all these after school activities, for a start. I may not be able to afford them now. I have no idea what—if anything—Brad will contribute, especially if he's got some slapper to pay for. I don't know. Maybe I'll have to take them out of private school. Send them back to the local primary. I may even have to sell the house. Oh, God!" A note of panic had entered her voice, as if she'd only just realised the possible repercussions of Brad's actions.
"Just calm down," I said, trying to soothe her. "You don't know what's going to happen yet. I'm sure Brad will be responsible. He's never kept you short of money before, has he?"