The Overlord

by Susanna Firth

  The Overlord

  By

  Susanna Firth

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE OVERLORD

  Although it was her father's job that was at stake, not hers, when the overbearing Ramón Vance came to inspect the estancia that had been running into so much trouble, it was Verity who hated the man; everyone else was eating out of his hand in no time. But come hell or high water, Verity was not going to join their number!

  Books you will enjoy

  by

  SUSANNA FIRTH

  MASTER OF SHADOWS

  The drama critic Max Anderson had wrecked Vanessa's promising acting career with one vicious notice. But beggars can't be choosers, and when she was offered a job as his secretary Vanessa was forced to take it. But at least it led to her meeting the delightful Daniel Jensen!

  PRINCE OF DARKNESS

  After five years' separation from her husband Elliott, Cassie was just about getting over it, and settling happily in Provence, when Elliott turned up again—as her boss.

  DARK ENCOUNTER

  'For the salary you're offering I'd work for the devil himself,' Kate Sherwood told Nicholas Blake when she took the job as his secretary. Rash words—because she soon began to wonder if that wasn't just what she was doing!

  First published 1982

  Australian copyright 1982

  Philippine copyright 1982

  This edition 1982

  © Susanna Firth 1982

  ISBN 0 263 73780 2

  CHAPTER ONE

  'Dad, I want to talk to you.'

  Verity poured herself some more strong black coffee and sat cradling the cup in her hands, wondering how best to broach what was on her mind. She had tried various oblique approaches to the subject in the last few days, but none of them had got her very far. Perhaps it was time for some plain speaking.

  She looked across the dinner table to where her father sat, his plate pushed aside, absorbed in reading a letter. They were lucky at Vista Hermosa to receive a daily delivery, unlike the more remote estancias which had to rely on a twice-weekly service unless someone was going into town, but her father left the house at sun-up and was often not back until late, and the evening ritual of opening the mail was a tradition that was one of her earliest childhood memories.

  'Dad?' she repeated anxiously.

  Mark Williams looked up at that. 'Sorry, love, I'm neglecting you. I suppose I've been on my own for so long now that I've become rather anti-social in my habits. It's too late to reform me, I think.' He smiled ruefully at her. 'Your first trip home in quite a while and your only relative totally ignores you! Will I ever be forgiven?'

  'Don't be silly.' Verity gave him an affectionate glance. 'I know you're busy. When aren't you?'

  'You must be very bored here on your own all day, and I'm not the most scintillating of companions in the evening, am I? Would you like to change your mind about that invitation you had to stay with your school friend in Córdoba? I expect I could spare someone to drive you there. I can't let you drive yourself—I need the car at this end—but—'

  'No, Dad.'

  'That sounded very definite.'

  'It was meant to be.' She played nervously with her coffee spoon, then let it drop with a clatter again. 'I'm not a child that needs amusing every moment of the day. In fact, I'm not a child at all. I'm grown up now.'

  'All of eighteen.'

  'Nineteen next month,' she, corrected him.

  'Nearly ready for drawing your old age pension!'

  'Don't tease me, Dad. I'm trying to be serious.'

  'About what? There's no need to be bothering your head about anything—even at what you consider to be a ripe old age. You haven't a scrap to worry about.'

  'Haven't I?' She spoke sharply.

  He frowned. 'What do you mean? If it's university you're on about, I thought that was all settled. We agreed that you wouldn't go to England until next year. There's plenty of time for all that, and you know how I'd worry about you on your own in London. Another year will let you do a bit of growing up, learn about life. I was sixteen when I left home for Argentina and, believe me, I know how tough it is starting again in a strange country, whether you've friends there or not.'

  'No, it's not that,' she told him.

  'Then what?'

  'Dad, there's something wrong, isn't there?' Well, it was out in the open at last. Verity gave a sigh of relief.

  Her father attempted a laugh. 'You're imagining things.'

  'No, I'm not. I thought at first that perhaps I was, but not now. I've been home for a week, long enough to be sure that there's something in the wind.' Verity studied his face, trying to find an answer there and failing.

  'You've hardly seen anything of me since you've been back—'

  'I know, and that's partly the point. You've always worked hard and been caught up in the business of the estancia, found it a challenge. But you made time to relax too. And, suddenly, you don't any more, do you? And you've a permanently preoccupied look about you, as if there's some problem that you're trying to get to grips with and not succeeding.'

  Mark Williams sighed and ran a hand over his hair. It had gone a lot greyer since she was home last and Verity noticed that the lines of strain had deepened across his forehead. He was looking older, she thought with a pang. And it wasn't fair. He was only in his forties and, although he led a hard, outdoor life, it was a healthy one. It was worry that had brought this on.

  'I don't know what to tell you,' he said at last.

  'Why not the truth?'

  He sighed again. 'It's too much to burden you with.'

  'We've always faced things together, haven't we? We've been close enough for that. Don't shut me out now.'

  'Yes. Since your mother died I suppose I've confided in you a lot. You've been a comfort to me, Verity.'

  She felt the tears prick her eyes. Ann Williams had died of cancer four years before, but, in some ways, it seemed a very recent loss and she knew that her father still grieved deeply. She blinked hard and tried to steady herself. 'So why can't I help now?'

  'I doubt if anyone could.'

  It was a long time since she had heard her father so utterly despondent, and fear clutched at her. Surely it couldn't be as bad as that? 'Tell me! Please, tell me what's wrong.'

  In answer he got to his feet and crossed to the old oak bureau that stood on the other side of the room. He rummaged inside in a mess of papers and folders, found what he was looking for and returned to her. 'Read that,' he said, tossing a typewritten letter on to the table in front of her. 'It explains how matters stand better than I could.'

  Verity picked it up and studied it. It wasn't a lengthy, epistle, but its tone was as forceful as the nearly illegible black scrawl of a signature at the bottom of it. 'Trouble,' she agreed. 'I see what you mean. Oh, Dad, why didn't you tell me? You shouldn't have kept it to yourself.'

  'I didn't want to bother you—that's why I've said nothing. I kept on hoping that something could be done, I suppose. But—'

  'Is it true?'

  Her father shrugged defeatedly. 'Quite true. And he's right—of course he's right. I should have faced facts long ago. It's my fault entirely.'

  'That's rubbish and you know it,' she told him vehemently. 'You could do that job with one hand tied behind your back.'

  'Thanks for the vote of confidence, love, but it's not well founded. Once upon a time, perhaps, when your mother was still alive. But since she died I suppose I've lost ground. Lost
heart as well. Things have gone downhill and I haven't cared enough to do anything about it.'

  'But he's suggesting,' Verity stabbed the letter viciously, 'that you're lazy. An incompetent idler, who's let things get in a mess.'

  'They are in a mess. With the rampant inflation that the country has been fighting for the last few years times have been hard. I haven't been able to spend money on replacing old equipment the way I once could. I've had to cut down on staff because there wasn't the money for wages. People drifted away into the towns where they were hoping for better rates of pay. And the prices we've got for stock in recent years have been way down.'

  'Well, shouldn't this—this—' Verity picked up the letter again and tried to make out the signature, 'Raymond Vance, it looks like, have considered all this before putting all the blame on you?'

  'It's not as simple as that. Owners of cattle ranches don't pay a manager to make excuses about the state of the economy. They expect him to take the right measures to fight back. And I haven't. It's all getting beyond my control. Sometimes I think it would take a miracle to put things back on an even footing again. I can't do it. I haven't got it in me any more.'

  'So what's to be done?' Verity asked despairingly.

  'It's out of my hands now. I've had warning letters before and managed to pull my socks up sufficiently for the powers-that-be in Buenos Aires to let matters ride. The owners have other business interests that occupied them and brought in money, and their man of affairs who dealt with the estancia was getting on in years and didn't really want to stir things up until he was forced to do something. The next thing I heard was that he'd retired and that in future a new firm would be handling matters. Obviously new brooms sweep clean. This new man wants to prove himself.'

  'You'll do as he asks you?'

  'I've no choice in the matter Yes, I'll send the detailed breakdown of the ranch accounts that he's asked for. It's time the truth was out, I suppose.'

  'What will happen then?' she wanted to know.

  'The figures will only bear out his suspicions that there's something sadly wrong. The ranch isn't a paying proposition any more. He already guesses that I can't cope with it any longer.'

  'So?'

  'So I'll have to face the inevitable—the sack and the prospect of moving elsewhere for a job. Although God knows where I'll find one at my age. I'm not a young man any more and the competition is fierce.'

  Verity sat in stunned silence. She thought it was bad, but nothing like as bad as this. To have to leave the only place that had ever been home to her, the gracious house that her mother had made into a warm and welcoming home, the wide-ranging pastures where she had ridden ever since she was old enough to sit astride her pony, was an appalling prospect. She just didn't want to face it. But how much more of a blow to her father, who had come here first as a newly married man in his twenties. He had worked his way up to the position of manager. It was a position of trust and he had earned it. How must he be feeling now?

  She leant across and took his work-calloused hand in a comforting grasp. 'Don't worry, Dad, we'll manage somehow. It'll be all right, you'll see.' Just words, the sort of words that he had used to a small Verity when she had gone running to him with her childish problems. 'Daddy'll make it better,' he had told her then. And, somehow, he always had. But he couldn't say that any more. Now it was her turn to try to comfort him and she was at a loss.

  'It's not myself I'm worrying about as much as you.' Now that the barriers were down it was as if he couldn't stem the flood of words. 'There's your career to think about, your future. It'll be wrecked. I haven't managed to save very much over the years. If I'm out of the job I doubt there'll be enough money to pay your university fees, let alone the fare to England. I don't even know if I'll be able to give you a roof over your head any more.' There was a grey look to his face. 'Verity, can you ever forgive me for letting things get in this terrible state?'

  'I blame myself for not noticing how matters were much sooner,' she said soberly. 'Perhaps I could have done something to help—left school and come back to work here. It would have been one more pair of hands around the place. If only you'd told me—' She broke off in despair. It was too late for recriminations now. It was a time to be practical and positive. 'Enough of that,' she told herself as much as her father. 'We're jumping the gun a bit, anticipating instant ruin. It doesn't have to be as black as all that. The new man may not be nearly as bad as the letter suggests. All right, he does sound a bit on his high horse, but he's not in possession of all the details yet. He's not got much to go on, so it's hardly surprising if he's rather offhand. He's—he's probably feeling his way.'

  'It's a fairly assertive letter for someone who's still sizing up the situation,' Mark Williams commented sourly. 'He sounds as if he's got the picture only too clearly and just wants confirmation of his opinion before acting on it.'

  'But he's never met you, never seen Vista Hermosa. He doesn't know anything about it.'

  'That doesn't come into it, love. If only it did! If knowing the place and caring about it was what made the difference, things wouldn't be in the state they are.'

  'It's not fair,' Verity said passionately. 'He's never ventured out of Buenos Aires in his life, I'll be bound.

  What does he know about the problems you're facing? Raymond Vance—what a name!' she said scornfully. 'Can't you just see him? An old fuddy-duddy just like the previous agent they had. About sixty, going bald and with a paunch from all the business lunches he takes. He's never sat on a horse or seen a cow, and he'd run a mile if he did!'

  Her father smiled at the picture she was painting. 'Maybe,' he said. 'If he is like the other chap, he might just leave us in peace.'

  'And even if he isn't,' Verity plunged on, 'he's not got the final word, has he? What about the owners? Couldn't you talk to them and persuade them to put more money in the place? Don't they care?'

  'Not a great deal, I'm afraid. In the old days when it rested with one person that might have been a possibility. But now Vista Hermosa is one of many properties owned by a big conglomerate. They delegate power to people like this Vance chap and don't really care how he runs the operation so long as it pays. If it doesn't, it's his head on the chopping block.'

  'I wish it was,' said Verity with a scowl. 'Why couldn't he pick on someone else and leave us in peace instead of poking his nose in where he isn't wanted?'

  'Why indeed?' her father echoed. 'But that doesn't help. The fact is that he has chosen to interfere and he has the authority to do so. I'll send the information he wants tomorrow, and then we'll wait for further developments.' For her sake he pinned on a smile. 'You may be right—it may all be a storm in a teacup.'

  'Of course I'm right!' Verity injected as much confidence as she could into her voice. 'We'll look back on this episode in a couple of years' time and wonder why we worried.'

  But later, as she undressed and got ready for bed in the small room overlooking the stables that had been hers since childhood, she felt considerably less certain about the future. It was all very well to sound optimistic about the future in an effort to cheer her father, but what if the worst happened and this overlord, hundreds of miles away, exercised his power on the owners' behalf and decided that it was best to replace her father with a younger man, someone with modern ideas and lots of drive and energy?

  Verity knew enough about the world of big business to realise that people did not matter when it was a question of finance and hard business tactics. In that world, so remote from their own little backwater, anyone who didn't pull his weight was weeded out mercilessly. She shivered. Her imagination took over. Would they end up walking the streets? Plenty of people did, she knew, even in a supposedly wealthy country like Argentina. They came up to you as you went shopping, their hands outstretched as they pleaded for 'just a few pesos, seňorita, to buy food'. They were the old, the crippled and society's other rejects, those who could not find work or who did not want to. How often had she felt in her purse f
or a coin or two to give them. Perhaps she might be one of the ones on the receiving end in a very short while.

  She gave herself a mental shake. That was foolish. She was getting carried away by self-pity, Verity told herself. She was young and she was strong and, in the unlikely event of her father looking for another job and failing to find one, she would get some kind of work herself. It would only be a temporary measure. She could be a maid or a cleaner; they were always in demand, it seemed. Or work in a shop. It was a pity that, in spite of the best education that was available in her part of the world, she wasn't actually better qualified for life, she thought ruefully.

  At the convent she had attended the nuns had said that she was a joy to teach and had prophesied an academic career of some kind for her. She might go into teaching herself, for she had always loved children. Or perhaps publishing or journalism. And her father, when she had put it to him, had encouraged her all the way. There was none of the male chauvinist about him. Although her mother had been satisfied with her quiet domestic life on the estancia, caring for her husband and child, if Verity wanted a career and a chance to see the world beyond there was no way Mark Williams would stand in her path.

  'That's not to say that I don't hope you'll meet the right man one day and settle down with him to make me a grandfather if the mood takes you,' he had joked, and she had teased him about it.

  'You're not old enough by a long chalk to think about being a grandfather yet,' she had laughed. 'Wait until you've got white hair and a stoop and really look the part!'

  She supposed he did now. That was what worry did to you. The bright chestnut hair—something that she had inherited from him—had dulled to a uniform grey that held nothing of her own glorious colouring. 'No doubt whose daughter you are,' her mother had laughed more than once. 'The same hair, the same dark eyes with tawny glints, the same spare frame, not an ounce of flesh going begging on either of you.'