by Sharon Booth
I tutted. There I went again, letting my overactive imagination run away with me. Concentrate on the party, Cara!
My gaze fell on my new dress, and as time seemed to stand still, my mouth dropped open. Icy fingers ran up and down my spine, every one of my nerve endings jangled, and my heart thudded with fear.
The towel hung limply from my hand as I stared at the garment on the hanger, hardly able to make sense of what I was seeing. It was slashed, practically from top to bottom—not just once, but several times. Huge gashes severed the dress almost in half, beyond repair. I crept over to it, half afraid that someone would jump out of the wardrobe and attack me with the same knife. My fingers gathered the remnants, and I stared at the scraps of material, feeling a lump in my throat and blinking away tears.
Who would do that?
Why?
I could only think of Briony. She clearly looked down on me, but then again, why would she bother to destroy a cheap market dress belonging to a member of staff? I was no threat to her. Besides, she didn't even know which was my room. Another guest, perhaps? Someone who'd had too much to drink and had wandered into the bedroom by mistake?
What, carrying a knife?
Fair point.
My mind flickered over to Jennifer Rochester, lying in Ethan's room just along the landing. I had no idea what was wrong with her. She'd had some sort of procedure done, but what sort? No one had told me why she'd been in hospital. And why was she closeted away there in Ethan's suite, hiding away from everyone else in the house? Maybe she wasn't hiding. Maybe she was hidden. There was a big difference. What if she was mad? What if she was a lunatic who crept into people's rooms with a knife in her hand, sick with jealousy and rage when she saw evidence of another woman in the house?
God, calm down, Cara. You're being ridiculous.
But was I? What other explanation was there for the state of the dress?
#
"Mrs Fairweather?" Tamsin's suggestion was ludicrous, of course.
I'd rung her for advice, not because I really expected to get any, but because I needed to talk to someone. Anyone. And frankly, I wasn't sure who I could trust any more.
"Mrs F? Why would she cut my dress?"
"Jealousy, perhaps? Maybe she thinks you're getting too cosy with her precious Mr Rochester?" She giggled. "Are you?"
"You're being silly now," I told her. "And this isn't funny. Some lunatic with a knife is on the loose. What if it hadn't been my dress he cut up? What if it had been me?"
Oh, hell! I'd just realised that I must have been in the shower when he entered the room. It could have been like Psycho.
A sudden vision of Mr Rochester dressed as Norman Bates's mother entered my head, and I shivered. I was getting hysterical. But then again, I'd never actually seen Jennifer, had I? What if she didn't exist? What if she was a skeleton sitting in an armchair in his bedroom? What if he donned her clothes every night and prowled the house, muttering to himself and cutting up unwary people's dresses?
What had I got myself into?
"Maybe I should have listened more to Redmond," I said faintly.
"Christ, don't tell him, for God's sake!" Tamsin sounded appalled. "He'll have the police round there before you can say scissors. Look, tell your boss what's happened. Insist he makes enquiries, or you'll have to involve them yourself. I know I'm laughing, but it's not funny, is it? It's downright creepy."
"I know. It is."
"Bet you a pound to a penny it's a woman."
"Why do you say that?"
"Oh, come on! A dress! It's jealousy that's at the heart of this. You have to figure out who would be jealous. So, which women are there in the house that would be envious of you? How old's this girl you're looking after?"
I laughed. "Adele? You have to be kidding me. She's four years old, and she's a darling. She's hardly likely to be prowling around with a dagger. She's only allowed to use safety scissors when I'm with her."
"So, we're back to Mrs Fairweather."
"Mrs F would never do anything like that," I protested. "We get on really well, and she's the most sensible person I know."
"Well, what other women are around?"
"There are a couple of suspects," I admitted. I told her briefly about Briony and Jennifer.
"Ooh, well, they sound intriguing. I particularly like the sound of the mad mother locked away from everyone."
She would. She watched far too much American television. Then again .... I shivered anxiously. The mad woman in the attic. I'd heard noises coming from up there, I was sure of it, and I couldn't help but remember what Bertha Rochester had done to Jane Eyre's wedding veil.
"Briony might just be a jealous cow who's determined not to be outshone by any other female," Tamsin continued, sounding thoughtful.
"Believe me, no one could outshine her. She's tall, skinny, with huge breasts, and long dark glossy hair and a very pretty face. She's also got pots of money, by the look of her. I seriously doubt she's given me a second thought since I left the room earlier."
"Well, I really think you should do as I say and tell Ethan," Tamsin said. "Unless," she said, sounding eager, "you think he might be responsible?"
"Why on earth would he do something like that?" I said, ignoring the fact that, just moments before, I'd practically decided he was a psychopathic drag queen. "You're right, I should tell him."
"And in the meantime," Tamsin advised, "lock your bedroom door."
"There isn't a lock on my door."
"Well, shove something in front of it to keep any nutters out. Now, just as a matter of interest, what are you going to wear tonight instead of your new dress?"
I sighed. "That's the least of my problems. I think I'll give the whole event a miss."
"Don't be daft," she shrieked. "Get yourself dolled up and get down there. Show whoever did it that you're not one to be pushed around, or put off. Someone doesn't want you at that party, Cara. Don't give them the satisfaction."
"But I don't understand," I said. "I'm not special. There's no reason to keep me away from the party."
"Someone evidently thinks you're a threat," she mused. "The question is, who? And what is it they're feeling threatened by?"
We were both quiet for a moment, then she said, "Ooh, this is quite exciting, isn't it? Like Midsomer Murders, or something."
"Thanks," I said. "Glad the fact that your sister is being stalked by a homicidal maniac is of some entertainment value to you."
"Well, I will admit, it makes a change from worrying about my own life. Ta very much for that. Seriously, though, Cara, promise me you'll tell your boss. I'd feel a lot safer if you had him onside."
"I will," I said. "I promise."
"And get yourself tarted up for that party," she added sternly. "No one's going to put Cara in a corner."
#
I couldn't get Mr Rochester to myself for a moment, so I didn’t have chance to tell him about the dress. It wasn't exactly something I wanted to announce to the whole room, and his friends seemed intent on keeping him close. I'd had to confide in Mrs F, because she knew about the new one, and I'd shown it to her. She'd raised an eyebrow when I'd made an appearance in my long black maxi dress, feeling ridiculously out of place.
"What happened to that nice mini dress?" she demanded immediately. "Don't tell me you chickened out. I told you, it's not too short, and the colouring suits you. Not like that one," she added, frowning at me. "If you don't mind me saying so, that black washes you out."
"Cheers," I said. "I don't have a choice. If I did, do you honestly think I'd be wearing this? Especially with these shoes?" I put on the new sandals because I needed a bit of height with the length of the dress, and flat shoes would have left me tripping over the hem, but it felt all wrong. The colour didn't match the dress, and I was only wearing them because I knew the bottom of the dress hid them from view.
I'd quickly filled her in on what had happened, and she was horrified. "Briony," she said from the off.
&nbs
p; "Really?" I pulled a face. "Why would someone like her do that? I'm insignificant. She can't feel threatened by me."
"It's not about that," she said. "She's a bitch. Simple as that. Probably took an instant dislike to you and decided to make life difficult for you. It probably wouldn't occur to her that you didn't have another party dress. She wouldn't have even needed a knife. Let's face it, those talons of hers would have done the job. You just wait ‘til I tell Michael."
"Don't tell Michael!" It’d occurred to me that he was also an unknown quantity. After all, he'd not been at the house long, and he knew all about the dress, having been the one who'd taken me to Helmston. I knew I was being ridiculous, but I couldn't rule anyone out.
She waved a hand dismissively and disappeared into the crowd, and I headed over to the table to get some food. If there was no one to talk to, the best thing to do was eat. At least it would give me something to do. I reckoned I'd hang around for an hour, tops, then retreat to Mrs F's sitting room. My own bedroom seemed strangely unappealing at the moment.
Briony sidled up to me, wine glass in hand. "Enjoying yourself?" She looked beautiful in a tight-fitting red dress and bright red lipstick, her dark hair piled up on top of her head in a casual ‘do that had no doubt taken ages to achieve.
"Yes thanks." I watched her warily, noting the way her gaze skimmed over my own dress, the look of smug satisfaction in her eyes, and the way her lips twitched.
"Don't you look, er, lovely." She casually swilled the wine in her glass. "Ethan's been telling us all what a little treasure you are. So much more sensible than the previous nanny." She smiled—a fake smile that didn't go anywhere near her eyes. "Do you know about the other nanny?"
"Not really," I said. "Only that her name was Jodie."
She nodded. "Oh, that one really got ideas above her station. Australian. No idea how to behave. Honestly, Ethan did the right thing by sacking her. There's a line," she said firmly, "and staff have to know where it is. I'm afraid Ethan had to learn that the hard way. He always was too kind and generous. He made the mistake of treating his servants like friends. It never works out, of course. They take advantage, you see. I warned him about the nanny, and I warned him about the housekeeper, too."
"There's nothing wrong with Mrs F," I said angrily. Had she really just called us servants? Who called staff servants those days? It was real life, not Downton Abbey. "She's a good and loyal woman."
"Hmm. She's been with the family a long time," Briony informed me, as if I didn't know, "and I'm afraid that leads to misunderstandings. In my experience, long-standing servants tend to believe—quite mistakenly—that they're practically part of the family. They start issuing advice, voicing opinions about matters in which they have no experience. It's very tiresome."
"How awful of them," I said, wondering what Briony's immaculately made-up face would look like after I'd pushed it into Ethan's birthday cake.
"She's a good cook," Briony conceded generously. "Basic, but good. And I'm sure she runs the household perfectly adequately. But she's not his mother, or his auntie. She'd do well to remember that, before dispensing her homespun wisdom every five minutes."
Hmm. Briony was rattled about something. Clearly, she knew that Mrs F was not on her side, and she'd recognised that Mrs F's opinion counted for a lot with her precious Ethan, so she was on the attack. It struck me, as I saw the gleam of steel in her dark eyes, that Briony was exactly the sort of woman who refused to support other women because she saw them as her natural enemy. Granny Reed always said there were two types of women in the world: those who would do anything to support their sisters, and those who would do anything to tear them down. I could clearly see which type Briony was, and suddenly the idea of her in my bedroom with a knife didn't seem so implausible.
The real question was, what else was she capable of?
"Miss Truelove, you look lovely."
Noting with satisfaction a fleeting annoyance in Briony's expression, I turned toward Ethan. God, he looked gorgeous. He'd been wearing a dark charcoal suit, but he'd taken off the jacket to reveal a deep purple shirt under a waistcoat, which showed off his broad shoulders and chest and narrow waist. Sharp trousers emphasised his strong thighs, and his thick, dark hair was begging me to run my fingers through it.
I gulped, but then, remembering the dress, I blushed. I hardly thought lovely described my cobbled-together-at-the-last-minute outfit. "I'm so sorry I haven't had the chance to speak to you until now. I was rather, er, preoccupied."
Swamped would have been a better word. His London pals were all over him, in a rather nauseating way. The young man who'd put his arm on Briony's waist earlier had followed him over and stood at his side, hanging on his every word.
Mr Rochester turned his delicious smile on his bitchy guest. "I wonder, Briony, if you'd like Joel to teach you the rudiments of pool? The table appears to be free, at the moment."
"Oh, how lovely," she said, sounding as delighted as Brad had been at Tamsin's inheritance. "Let's make a start."
She hooked her arm through his, and I almost whooped with delight when he gently but firmly removed it. "Start without me," he told her. "I have some business to discuss with Miss Truelove first. I'll be over shortly, and then you can show me what you've learned."
"But it's your birthday party, darling," she cooed, giving me a look that could have curdled milk. "Surely, business can wait?"
"It's very important," he assured her. "Off you go, and I promise I won't be too long."
She hesitated, then shrugged and turned her saccharine smile on Joel instead. "Come on, then, Joel," she purred. "Show me what you can do with those balls." She giggled and nudged him. "That's your cue," she added, wrinkling her nose in a way I was sure she considered cute.
Joel, who was obviously as bright as a nineteen-forties living room with the blackout curtains closed, gazed at her with unmistakable adoration and practically dragged her across the room. Standing empty, the pool table had been abandoned, as people lost interest, having discovered that there was a games console attached to the forty-two inch television opposite the racing car sofa.
Mr Rochester heaved a big sigh—hopefully of relief—then turned to me, a frown creasing his forehead. "So," he said, "this dress."
"Oh. Who told you?"
"Michael had a quiet word. I'm so sorry, Cara. This is dreadful, and it must have been really scary. Are you all right?"
He'd called me Cara! He really was taking things seriously. "I'm fine. Now. Well, mostly. I was a bit shaken at the time," I admitted.
"I'm not surprised. I can't think who would have done such a thing. I know this lot are a bit tiresome, but they're not weirdos. At least, I don't think they are. I just can't imagine how this has happened. If it was someone's idea of a joke, it's not very funny."
"No," I said grimly. "It's not."
"I'll compensate you for the dress, of course," he said. "Just let me know how much it cost, and I'll make sure you get the money back."
God, no way did I want him to know it cost forty-five quid from a market stall! How humiliating would that be, given that Briony's dress probably cost ten times that, at least.
"It's okay," I said hurriedly. "It wasn't your fault, and I don't need compensation. I don't want your money, Mr Rochester. Mind you, I have to say, I'm glad Adele's safe at Mrs Turner's tonight."
His gaze lingered on me for what felt like forever. "You should have come straight to me," he said eventually. "I mean it, Cara. I hate to think of you feeling afraid in my home. It should never happen."
I'd never heard him speak so gently before, and it had a very disturbing effect on me. "No, well, I'll be pushing a chair against the bedroom door tonight." I shivered. To be honest, the shiver was likely more to do with the way he was looking at me with such kindness in his eyes, and the way his hand rested lightly on my arm. How had I ever thought he could be a psycho killer?
As if he’d felt the tremor beneath his hand and mistaken its source, his bro
ws lowered. "You're more scared than you're letting on. Look, take my mother's room tonight—we've swapped for the time being—and I'll sleep in yours. If anyone decides to come back and terrify you again, they're going to get a nasty shock. Keep it between ourselves, okay?"
"Don't be silly. I don't expect you to give up your room for me."
"I insist," he said. "Only my suite and my mother's room have locks on them. You can take my key, and then you'll be safe. I'd sleep easier if I knew no one could get in, although I'm sure nothing else will happen. Please, Cara?"
"Er, well, if you insist." I was going to sleep in the very bed Mr Rochester had been recently sleeping in! Wait 'til I told Tamsin that! Mind you, what a shame that he wouldn’t be in there with me.
I didn't mean that, I thought quickly. Really, I didn't.
He nodded and smiled, then rummaged in his pocket. "Here. My key," he said. "Remember, I'm not in my own room, I'm in my mother's room, for the time being."
"I know. And thank you." And thank God, too, that I'd tidied my own room before heading downstairs. Imagine if I'd left it a tip! How embarrassing would that have been?
I felt a thrill of anticipation, wondering what his room would look like. Even if it was his mother's usually, it would still have his stamp on it, given that he'd been sleeping in it for a while. It all felt very intimate somehow.
He smiled. "Don't worry. Mrs Turner and Mrs Jones changed all the bedding in every room today in preparation for our guests."
"I wasn't worried," I said, then blushed fiercely. I really hadn't been, either, and if the thought of sleeping on someone's used sheets didn't bother me, then I really did have a problem. I was going to have to do something about my situation. I was in massive danger of developing a huge crush on Ethan Rochester, and I simply couldn't afford to do so. "You'd better go and keep your guest company," I told him, noticing the icy glares Briony was casting our way, as poor Joel tried valiantly to show her how to hold a cue properly. "I think I've taken up enough of your time."