by Anne Mather
‘No.’ There was only the faintest hesitation before Alix answered, and then Lady Morgan was moving across to a drinks trolley to examine the bottles before asking the younger girl what she would like. ‘Er—sherry, please,’ Alix replied, more easily. ‘This is a beautiful room, isn’t it?’
‘Yes.’ Lady Morgan spoke thoughtfully, pouring sherry into two glasses and then handing her one. ‘Oliver bought it furnished, of course, but the piano and one or two other articles were installed later.’
Alix’s tongue explored her upper lip. ‘I—I should imagine it was quite a—surprise to you when your daughter—when she and her husband decided to buy a place up here,’ she murmured, hoping it didn’t sound too probing.
But Lady Morgan was apparently not averse to discussing such things. ‘Oh, Joanne had nothing to do with it,’ she declared, indicating that Alix should sit down on one of the velvet-cushioned chairs. ‘Oliver bought this place without her knowledge, and when she found out she was rather put out about it. Then…’ She paused. ‘Then she found it rather pleasant up here, and started using the place herself. When Oliver wasn’t here, of course.’
Alix wondered why she said ‘of course’. The marriage had been known to be precarious, but it was Oliver who had been accused of caring too little.
Taking the seat opposite her, Lady Morgan gave her a faint smile. ‘Now tell me: how are you and Melissa getting along?’
Alix crossed her legs. ‘We aren’t,’ she said honestly. ‘At least, not so’s you’d notice.’
‘Oh!’ Lady Morgan’s smile disappeared. ‘I had hoped—did Oliver explain what he wanted you to do? I hope you didn’t object to that little subterfuge we arranged, but Oliver has to be so careful…’ She shook her head. ‘It isn’t that that’s causing the problem, is it?’
‘Oh, no.’ Alix made a negative gesture. ‘I—well, I agreed to stay on and—and do what I could, but—Melissa doesn’t seem to like work.’
‘And have you told Oliver?’
Alix hesitated. ‘Not exactly.’
‘Why not?’
Alix sighed. ‘Your—that is—Mr Morgan has been working.’
Lady Morgan sighed. ‘You mean he’s been spending his time at the old peel tower, I suppose.’
Alix bent her head. ‘Yes.’
Lady Morgan sipped her sherry rather absently. ‘I see. I ought to have guessed, of course. That terrible old place. Have you seen it, Mrs Thornton?’
‘I—call me Alix, do,’ exclaimed Alix quickly, avoiding a direct answer, and as she turned her head towards the door, Oliver himself appeared on the threshold.
In black velvet trousers and a ruffled silk shirt, he was disturbingly attractive; his attire as suitable to the nineteenth as to the twentieth century. The fine cloth stretched across his shoulders emphasised their muscled strength, and the close-fitting pants moulded the long legs and powerful thighs. Alix couldn’t suppress a momentary shiver at the remembrance that only hours before she had lain in his arms, had known the intimate pressure of his body on hers, and felt the demanding urgency of his mouth. Was he remembering it, too? As her eyes encountered his, she felt a sense of shock at the contemptuous hardness in their depths. His memories were not like hers, and he was not afraid to let her see it.
‘Oliver!’ Lady Morgan seemed entirely unaware of any undercurrent between her nephew and his young employee. ‘We’ve been helping ourselves to a drink. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Not at all.’ He strolled lazily into the room. ‘I’m sorry I was not here to offer you a drink myself, but Melissa insisted I read her a story before coming down.’
Alix looked down at her drink. So Melissa had got her father to herself at last. That would please her. But what about her lessons? Did she intend that things should go on as before, and if so had he made that plain to his daughter?
‘Alix…’ Lady Morgan’s smile encompassed the girl, ‘Alix tells me that Melissa refuses to work,’ she commented.
‘I didn’t say that exactly—’ Alix began hastily, only to be overridden by Oliver’s deeper tones.
‘Melissa has been ill,’ he stated curtly. ‘She has been unable to attend lessons for the last couple of days.’
‘Oh!’ Lady Morgan looked to Alix for confirmation, and realising that anything she said was likely to be suspect in Oliver’s eyes, Alix decided to be honest.
‘She has had a cold!’ she agreed flatly, addressing her remarks to the woman, ‘but before that she made no effort to learn anything. On the contrary, she deliberately wrote wrong answers to every question I gave her.’
‘Really!’ Lady Morgan looked askance at Oliver now. ‘Did you know about this?’
‘As Mrs Thornton hasn’t seen fit to tell me, how could I?’ Oliver’s mouth drew down at the corners.
‘You were never available to tell,’ declared Alix now, unable to remain silent in the face of such an oblique condemnation.
‘I understand you’ve been spending all your time at the old peel tower,’ added Lady Morgan, and Alix had the satisfaction of seeing him momentarily disconcerted.
‘I see that Mrs Thornton has briefed you very thoroughly in a very short time,’ he observed, pouring himself a generous Scotch and swallowing half of it at a gulp. Then: ‘I do have work to do, Grizelda. I thought you would appreciate that.’
Lady Morgan sighed. ‘Of course I understand, darling,’ she exclaimed, getting up from her chair to approach him. ‘But you have to accept that Melissa can be as wilful as her mother used to be.’
Alix felt a sudden shock. Did Lady Morgan actually know the child’s mother? What a curious situation, when a man’s mother-in-law could talk so casually of her son-in-law’s mistress!
She looked up and encountered Oliver’s eyes upon her. His face displayed the twisted cynicism she had come to know, and she looked away again as he said: ‘I don’t deny that Melissa isn’t the easiest child to deal with, but she does have a good brain if she can be persuaded to use it.’
‘I blame Makoto,’ decided Lady Morgan severely. ‘I don’t agree with the way she fusses over Melissa—giving the child a feeling of importance which is entirely misplaced. Melissa is eight years old, and I think it’s time she began behaving like other children.’
Mrs Brandon arrived to tell them that dinner was served, and the discussion was shelved for the duration of the meal. The housekeeper had excelled herself with the quality of the meal, and the roast duckling served with a tangy orange sauce was delicious. Alix ate little. For once her emotions had robbed her of all appetite, and in spite of the chaotic turmoil of her feelings, looking along the table at the inscrutable lord of the manor, she found the reality of that scene this afternoon less and less easy to believe.
Coffee was served in the drawing room this evening, and at Lady Morgan’s request, Oliver seated himself at the piano. He displayed no false modesty at her request, but merely sat down and played with a complete lack of self-consciousness. To Alix, this was an entirely new facet of his character, but his casual mastery of the instrument was not entirely unexpected. Unlike his aunt, he played jazz mostly, his long fingers moving over the keys with unerring accuracy, his dark hair falling across his forehead and giving him an air of detached concentration.
When his hands left the keys Alix got to her feet to excuse herself, and Lady Morgan looked at her in surprise. ‘You’re not leaving us, my dear?’
‘If you’ll forgive me, I—I have had rather a long day,’ she demurred.
Oliver rose from his seat at the piano. ‘Yes, you have, haven’t you?’ he agreed, and only she knew the meaning behind those cold words. ‘I’ll speak to Melissa in the morning. Goodnight, Mrs Thornton.’
‘Goodnight.’
Alix included Lady Morgan in her offering, and walked quickly out of the room. Nothing had been said about her leaving, and for the present she was still obliged to remain at Darkwater Hall.
* * *
There was a letter for her in the morning. The postma
rk was London, and although there was no indication of its source, she could tell by the handwriting that it was from Willie. Seth handed her the letter as she went down to breakfast, and she stuffed it nervously into the pocket of her black jeans, wishing she dared rush back up the stairs at once to read it. But there were voices in the dining room, and besides, the last thing she wanted was to draw attention to her mail.
Oliver and Melissa were seated together at the breakfast table, the first time this had occurred since Alix’s arrival here, and she entered the room somewhat diffidently, feeling very much the intruder. They both looked up at her entrance, and she ran a nervous hand over the buttons of her matching denim shirt before seating herself in her usual position.
‘Good morning,’ she said, and they both responded, Oliver thoughtfully, and Melissa decidedly offhand. ‘Are you feeling better today, Melissa?’ she added, picking up the glass of orange juice already set before her and sipping slowly.
Melissa did not immediately say anything, but then, after a brief look at her father, she said: ‘It’s Saturday. Daddy says I can wait until Monday to begin lessons again.’
Alix could feel a spurt of irritation. ‘That wasn’t what I asked, Melissa,’ she said carefully, putting down the orange juice. ‘I asked if you were feeling better.’
Myra appeared from the kitchen, and when she saw Alix at the table her lips grew sulky. ‘You want bacon, too?’ she demanded, and Alix glanced expressively at Oliver before shaking her head.
‘Mrs Thornton will have toast and coffee, Myra,’ he stated curtly. ‘See to it!’
‘Yes, sir.’
With an aggrieved air Myra disappeared again, and Alix returned her attention to the orange juice. If Willie wanted her back again she would go, she thought resentfully. Nothing was worth this kind of treatment. But then she looked up and found Oliver watching her, and in spite of the hardness of his gaze, all her reckless plans were nullified. And why? Because she was so afraid of what he would do when he discovered her real identity? Or because leaving here would inevitably entail telling her story to somebody, and she no longer felt she had that right…?
‘Melissa will begin lessons in earnest on Monday morning,’ Oliver said now. ‘There will be no games and no evasions, and if you have any trouble you’re to tell me.’
Alix caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘I’d rather not be accused of telling tales,’ she asserted, looking at the child. ‘If Melissa doesn’t want to learn, then perhaps it would be easier if you waited until she went to school.’
Melissa’s eyes widened apprehensively, and Oliver exhaled impatiently. ‘I wanted to break her into this gradually,’ he said, ‘and you agreed to it. Just because you’ve had to face one or two minor setbacks—’
‘Setbacks!’ Alex was indignant. ‘We’ve never made any progress!’
Oliver frowned. ‘You will.’
‘Will I?’ Alix looked squarely at him. ‘Can you guarantee that?’
‘I think so,’ he replied.
Melissa grimaced, and Alex felt a rising sense of frustration. What had she done wrong? Was it only the fact that she had insisted Melissa should work in the afternoons that had changed the child from a friendly little girl into an unfriendly one? It didn’t seem logical.
Myra returned with a huge plate of bacon, eggs and tomatoes for Oliver, and some fresh toast for Alix. She assured herself that her employer was satisfied, and then actually smiled at Melissa. It transformed her plain features, and her voice was gentle as she asked the little girl whether she would like a boiled egg. Melissa refused, saying she only wanted toast and jam, and Alix, buttering her own toast, reflected how much pleasanter life would be if Myra treated her like that.
Myra departed again, and for a while they all concentrated on the food. In spite of his meagre appetite at dinner last evening Oliver ate quite a hearty breakfast, and as she covertly watched him, Alix was disturbed anew by the feelings he aroused in her. What was there about him that interfered with her mental processes in such a way that she was powerless to ignore him, that just sitting with him at a table like this she was intensely aware of him? She knew he wouldn’t welcome her feelings, that in any case he didn’t think of her in that way. But for all that she could understand his frustration when family matters baulked his creativity, and she wished she had been able to remove the problem of his daughter from his shoulders.
When the meal was over, he got abruptly to his feet and said: ‘I’ve offered to take your grandmother into Bridleburn this morning, Melissa. Do you want to come?’
Melissa slid off her chair. ‘Is she going?’ she asked rudely, and Alix didn’t need to look up to know she meant her.
‘No,’ she answered now, before Oliver could say anything. ‘I have other things to do.’
‘Other things?’ Oliver’s brows descended. ‘What other things?’
Alix pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘This and that,’ she said, achieving a casual tone. ‘Besides, I’ve not been invited.’
Melissa pursed her lips as her father said curtly: ‘You wanted to leave the Hall a few days ago. Naturally, if you wish to join us—’
‘I don’t,’ retorted Alix, aware that just by saying these things she was hurting herself in some strange incomprehensible way. ‘If you’ll excuse me…’
She left him then, uncertain what either of them thought, and ran up the stairs to her room. At least she had her letter to read, she consoled herself bitterly, realising she had just passed up her first real opportunity to contact Willie since her arrival here.
She flung herself on her stomach on the bed and tore open the envelope. Willie’s distinctive scrawl covered two pages, but the letter’s content was evident in the first few lines:
‘What is going on, Alix? Why haven’t we heard from you? Why haven’t you phoned? I expect you to reply by return of post, or I shall consider taking action myself.’
Alix sighed, and rolled on to her back, holding the letter up so that she could read the rest of it. It was all pretty much along the same lines:
‘You haven’t written to your mother either, and she was quite concerned when I told her I hadn’t heard from you.’
Trust Willie to get in touch with her mother, Alix thought cynically. Anything to shift responsibility if things got tough.
‘How much longer do you expect to be away?
How long does cataloguing a library take?’
If only he knew!
‘Linsey’s sent in a great feature about Harland Cosmetics, and she even had Mac go out there and take some pictures of Gertrude Harland. She’s a clever girl, our Linsey, considering old Gert has always refused to have her photograph taken.’
Alix expelled her breath on a sigh. That little bit was Willie’s psychology, put in purposefully to stir her up, to make her envious. Linsey Morris was younger than she was, and had only been working for the magazine for about eighteen months. But already she had proved herself capable of asking the most outrageous questions of a number of prominent people, and Willie was already talking of creating a regular column for her. Alix, on the other hand, had worked her way up from being a very junior reporter, anxiously suspecting that she would never achieve that kind of insensitivity to other people’s feelings. That was why she had been so keen to come here—to prove herself! And look what had happened.
Willie’s last words were typically insensitive:
‘Is it at all possible to give me a brief outline of what you’ve learned so far? Or has the whole exercise been a complete waste of time?’
Alix finished reading, and allowed the hand holding the letter to fall on to the bed beside her. It was typical of Willie to hold a gun to her head, so to speak. Demanding a reply by return! He had no conception of the situation here.
She got up off the bed and walked to the window. Frost had gilded the trees, creating a tracery of white, and there was something incredibly beautiful about fields rimed like the sprinkling of icing on a cake. Oh, God, she thou
ght despairingly, what would Linsey do in her position?
The answer was simple, of course. She would write to Willie, and get Lady Morgan to post the letter for her in Bridleburn.
Alix turned back to face the room. She had some writing paper and envelopes in her suitcase. She could write to her mother as well, and reassure her that she had not disappeared off the face of the earth. But what could she say to Willie?
She was sitting at the table, chewing the end of her pen, when the bedroom door opened and Myra came into the room. She looked surprised to see Alix, and then gestured sullenly towards the bed.
‘Didn’t know you were here,’ she mumbled. ‘Came to make the bed.’
Alix made an indifferent movement with her shoulders. ‘Well, as you can see, it’s made,’ she said, although she was almost glad of the interruption. She would have thought Myra would have gathered that she always made her own bed by now, but the girl wasn’t very bright, as Oliver had said, and her mother probably made her check every day.
Myra departed again, and Alix returned to her letter. Apart from ‘Dear Willie’ she had written nothing else, and it was galling to admit that she felt incapable of imparting the startling information about Melissa’s Japanese ancestry. She sighed. She was not the stuff of which reporters were made, and perhaps a tendering of her resignation might be in order.
Then she remembered Joanne Morgan’s death and hardened her heart. Willie would say that the most villainous men in history had often been irresistibly attractive to women, and here she was, jeopardising her career just because Oliver Morgan had displayed a physical attraction towards her. An attraction, moreover, which he had swiftly rejected. Was she so immature that she couldn’t see what he was doing? That by making love to her he might ensure a loyalty above and beyond the bounds of duty! Was that why he was prepared to take her to Bridleburn this morning, because he thought he had made a slave of her?
And yet last night his attitude had hardly been that of a lover. He had behaved as if he disliked her utterly, and Alix was not experienced enough to know whether that was a deliberate ploy or not.