The Hostage Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  “I’ll think about it,” Emma promised. “Thanks, Ali.”

  Alison idled her way out, and Emma stared out of the window, thinking in surprise that she hadn’t realised Alison cared that much.

  Only a few minutes later there was another knock on her door, and this time it was Rachel who came in.

  “Am I disturbing you?”

  “No, it’s all right.” Rachel came in and stood looking at her, chewing her lip anxiously. “Have you come to reason with me too?”

  “Oh dear, I suppose I have. Emma, have you really thought about this? I know it’s none of my business, but it’s an awfully big step to take. You’ll lose your seniority, and then there’s the pension and everything. Teaching can be tough, but you’ve got security, and jobs aren’t easy to come by these days.”

  “It’s nice of you to worry about me,” Emma said, “but I’ve given in my notice now.”

  “Oh, but Mrs Petherbridge would let you withdraw that,” Rachel said eagerly. “She was asking me today if I thought you were determined to leave. She doesn’t want you to go. I don’t either.”

  “Thanks. But I’ve thought it out carefully. It wasn’t a sudden decision, you know. I really do mean to leave.”

  “Oh. Well, if you’re sure. It was just I didn’t think you’d be happy being a governess after teaching at a proper school.”

  “I haven’t got the job yet,” Emma pointed out patiently.

  “No,” Rachel said, brightening. “That’s right. You haven’t. Well, goodnight, then.”

  “Goodnight,” Emma said, and as the door closed behind Rachel she thought, whatever next?

  Emma was the first up next morning, as usual. She was in the kitchen making tea when Suzanne appeared, which was not at all usual: Suzanne did not normally get up until half past eight, and was always last through the bathroom, since she didn’t have to be at work until ten most days.

  “Hello,” Emma said. “Want some tea? It must be a shock to your system seeing the early morning light.”

  “Don’t get smart with me,” Suzanne said in mock exasperation. “Because of you I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.”

  “What, lying awake worrying about my welfare?”

  “No, lying awake trying to remember why I knew that address in Mayfair. I just knew it rang a bell, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

  “And you’ve got up at the crack of seven o’clock to tell me that?” Emma laughed.

  “I knew if I didn’t tell you I’d forget again and it would drive me crazy. It’s Akroyd.”

  “What is?”

  “Not Henderson, Akroyd. The people at 3 Audley Place. We did it up just before Christmas, but it was one of Simon’s jobs, so I didn’t have anything to do with it really, I just heard him talking about it.”

  “Akroyd, eh?” Emma said.

  “You know about Akroyd, don’t you?” Suzanne said suspiciously.

  “Not a thing.”

  “Ignorant! Akroyd Engineering. You must have seen the name on motorway bridges.”

  “Oh, that Akroyd!”

  “Yes, and she’s Lady Susan Stanley, the Earl of Cheshunt’s daughter. So they’re rich as Croesus on both sides, I hope you realise.” Her voice wavered between triumph and disapproval.

  “Look, I haven’t got the job yet,” Emma said for the nth time. “So who’s this Henderson person?”

  “Search me. But anyway, at least you can let me know what you think of the house. It was a no-expenses-spared job and Simon raved about it. If you get to see inside, I’d be interested to hear your opinion.”

  “At last, someone willing to use the word ‘if’,” Emma laughed.

  “I meant ‘when’ really. They’re bound to want to see you,” Suzanne corrected herself.

  “Oh really? Why?”

  “Because you’ll be the only person bonkers enough to apply, that’s why,” Suzanne said, turning round and heading back to bed. “Governess! I ask you!” She turned at the door for a parting shot. “And if you get white-slaved, don’t come running to me.”

  “I won’t,” Emma promised cheerfully.

  Chapter Two

  It seemed as if Suzanne’s cynicism was justified, for Emma received a very prompt reply to her application, asking her to come to Audley Place. The letter was signed by Mrs Henderson and Emma liked the way it was phrased. It didn’t sound at all like a job interview.

  ‘I should be glad if you would come and have tea with me at five o’clock next Tuesday. If that should not be convenient, please telephone me, and we’ll make another date.’

  “Tea!” Suzanne snorted. “How fraightfully naice! What kind of way is that to recruit staff?”

  “I don’t know,” Emma defended, “if you’re going to have someone living in your house, it’s important that you like them personally. Maybe you’d be more likely to find that out over tea than in an interview situation.”

  “She still doesn’t say who she is,” Suzanne went on. “I loathe that kind of inefficiency.”

  “Maybe she owns the place,” Ali said. “Maybe you got the name wrong, have you thought of that?”

  Suzanne gave her a dark look. “Not likely, is it?” she said, and stalked out.

  “I wish you wouldn’t tease her,” Rachel complained gently. “You know how touchy she is.”

  “Oh, never mind that,” Alison said blithely, “we’ve got more important things to worry about.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as what Emma’s going to wear to her interview.”

  They both turned to look consideringly at Emma, who immediately felt nervous. “My suit, of course,” she said. “What else?”

  “Your navy suit?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the red, white and navy scarf, I suppose?” Ali said witheringly.

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “It makes you look like British Airways ground staff, that’s what.”

  “It was a very good suit,” Emma protested feebly.

  “When?” Alison asked cruelly.

  “It’s classic,” Emma said. “It never goes out of style.”

  “True,” said Alison. “What was never in can never go out. Why don’t you let me lend you something?”

  Now Emma laughed. “Have you looked in the mirror? I’d never get into anything of yours, Stick Insect.”

  Alison looked her over. “True. You are a bit of a Muscle Mary. Well, what can we do with her, Rache?”

  “The suit’s all right,” Rachel said judiciously, “if she had it dry-cleaned. But she needs something better underneath it than a polyester blouse and that old scarf.”

  Alison’s eyes gleamed. “Right, we can soon sort that out. Come up and meet me at work tomorrow and I’ll find you something. And you must buy some decent shoes. Shoes are a dead giveaway, you know. If you’ve got decent leather on your feet, you can get away with murder, clothes-wise.”

  “Why, you dear old-fashioned thing,” Emma smiled. “My grandmother used to say that back in nineteen fifty-five.”

  “And some decent tights,” Alison went on firmly, ignoring her. “It’s the first thing this Henderson dame will look at, if she’s a real Upper.”

  “Just don’t let Suzanne hear you talk like that,” Emma warned.

  In her room that night when she was getting ready for bed, she paused to study herself in the mirror. It was something she didn’t often do. Usually she was rushing to get somewhere, and only glanced to see she was tidy, without really seeing what she looked like. She was accustomed to herself, comfortable with her looks; but now she stared and tried to see what a stranger would see. ‘Muscle Mary’, Alison had called her teasingly. Well, she did go to the gym twice a week, and she liked to keep fit, but she didn’t think she was over-muscled, just nicely trim. And she had curves: she wasn’t skinny like Ali and Suzanne, and sometimes beside them she felt practically gross, but in her heart of hearts she wouldn’t want to be stick-like, however fashionable it was. She ha
d nice legs, she thought. She would have liked her neck to be a bit longer; and she wished her hair was either dead straight or properly curly, rather than wavy and inclined to go fuzzy in damp weather. But it was a nice colour, what her mother called strawberry-blonde, which meant shades of wheat and barley and honey, naturally sun-streaked, and with threads of pure copper in it which gave it a reddish tinge in certain lights. Her nose was straight enough, her mouth wide, her eyes hazel. She was too used to it to know whether anyone else would find anything beautiful about it. She thought it was a pleasant face rather than a pretty one.

  And besides, however much you might admire someone else’s looks, you couldn’t really imagine yourself looking like them; deep down, you couldn’t really want to, because then you wouldn’t be you. But she had to admit that clothes looked better on the stick-insects of this world, and there was nothing, she told herself with a sigh, to be done about that.

  Audley Place was only a short walk from Marble Arch tube, and for a wonder it neither raining nor windy, so Emma had some hope of arriving looking tidy. She was glad Alison had persuaded her to improve her ‘interview outfit’. The blouse she had on under the suit was pure silk crepe, beautifully cut and with a double-stitched collar and cuffs which enclosed her neck and wrists softly and neatly. It gave you, she thought, a sense of confidence to be wearing something that felt as good as it looked. It was the same with the tights: she wouldn’t have thought there could be so much difference in a pair of tights, but what she was wearing now was a world away from the usual old Marks and Sparks multipack jobs that she usually wore. Her legs thought all their birthdays had come at once.

  The blouse had been horribly expensive, even with the discount Ali had managed to wangle for her, but just at the moment it felt worth it. Ali said that as long as she didn’t spill anything on it she could probably take it back the next day: apparently it was called ‘unshopping’, and lots of people did it. Emma thought it didn’t sound honest – and told herself that she could really do with having one decent blouse to wear with the suit on important occasions.

  As she advanced into the residential streets of the most expensive real estate in the land, however, some of her confidence began to seep away. There was something about Mayfair! The houses looked so immaculate and so private; the little shops were so exclusive; and the further she got from Oxford Street the more select it became. The pavements looked cleaner, the cars more expensive – the very air seemed nicer to breathe. By the time she reached her destination she was feeling quite demoralised.

  The red and white house was obviously freshly decorated, the enormous double front door under the pillared porch as glossy as dark water. Emma felt the house was staring at her with those tall dark windows, saying, ‘What are you doing here? You’re out of your league, girl – go back to Muswell Hill where you belong.’

  Drawing her courage up from the toes of her shoes where it had slithered, she walked up the steps and rang the doorbell. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but it certainly wasn’t to have the door opened by a maid in a black dress and small white apron. A maid? She was really stepping out of her sphere.

  While she stood trying to gather her scattered wits, the maid smiled pleasantly and helped her out. “Good afternoon – Miss Ruskin, is it? Please come in – Mrs Henderson’s expecting you.”

  Inside the house was cool and dim, and smelled faintly and deliciously of beeswax. The floor was of polished wood, covered in the centre with a Turkish rug; the walls were panelled, and a staircase with a beautiful carved handrail curved upwards ahead of her.

  “This way, please.” The maid led the way directly upstairs. Underfoot the carpet felt like velvet, the handrail was so deeply polished it felt frictionless – it almost wasn’t there at all. Emma was enjoying the sensations of the house so much she had forgotten her nerves, and when the maid opened a door on the first floor and announced, “Miss Ruskin, madam,” Emma stepped over the threshold with an expression of confident eagerness which, though she didn’t know it, gave her face a most engaging look.

  She had only time to note that the room was well-lit from two large, tall windows, draped in voile, and observe the delicate pieces of antique furniture scattered about, before her attention was drawn to the woman seated in an armchair by the fireplace. She stood up with a ready smile, and at the same moment a clock on the mantelpiece chimed silverily.

  “Ah, perfect timing! I do like punctuality.”

  “So do I,” Emma said, smiling in response.

  “Come and sit down, Miss Ruskin. I’m Mrs Henderson. Yes, you can bring up the tea now, thank you, Pam,” she added to the maid, who nodded and went out.

  Emma advanced across what felt like an acre of soft carpetings towards the slim, smiling woman, who extended a welcoming hand and took Emma’s in a cool, firm grip. Mrs Henderson was probably, Emma thought, in her early forties, but was so exquisitely well-groomed she might have been either older or younger. She was dressed in a cocoa-brown jersey skirt and jacket over a silky blouse of gold-coloured fabric boldly patterned in black. Her dark hair was styled as only a hairdresser can do it and her make-up had been applied by a skilled and subtle hand. She wore no jewellery but an expensive-looking gold wristwatch and a plain gold wedding-band; and, applying the Alison test, Emma noted that her hosiery and shoes were impeccable.

  Most of all, Emma noticed that Mrs Henderson smelled expensive. The air around her was sweet with the subtle tones of her make-up, her perfume, and the new smells of her clothes and shoes. No matter how scrupulous you were in your personal habits, you never got to smell like that on a teacher’s wage and living in a shabby furnished flat in Muswell Hill.

  “Do sit down,” Mrs Henderson said, seating herself. “Tea will be here in a moment. Five o’clock’s rather late for tea, I know, but I thought you probably wouldn’t be able to get here earlier, if you were coming after school. What time do you finish?”

  “Twenty-five past three,” Emma said.

  “And did you have far to come?”

  “No, my school’s only ten minutes from where I live.”

  “Well, I’m sure you must be ready for something after a long day coping with children. What ages do you teach?”

  Emma had sent this information with her application, but she guessed that Mrs Henderson wanted to hear her talk, so she answered the questions easily, aware that she was being discreetly scrutinised by the woman opposite. But she was impressed that Mrs Henderson had arranged the interview so that she didn’t have to take time off work, and had guessed she would be an aching hollow by the time she got here. Such thoughtfulness argued kindness, and Emma was comforted by that; and as the conversation advanced and she told her questioner more about herself, she felt that Mrs Henderson liked her, and was glad to have her here.

  The maid came in with the tea-tray, followed by another bearing a cake-stand. Emma stared, bemused, at the kind of tea she had read about but which had never actually come in her way before: sandwiches cut into symmetrical fingers, hot scones wrapped in a napkin, and on the cake-stand squares of gingerbread, slices of Dundee and Battenburg, and a variety of small cakes.

  “How do you like your tea, Miss Ruskin? Will you have a sandwich first, or a scone? A scone? Yes, it seems a shame to let them get cold, doesn’t it? And which jam would you like? There’s strawberry, raspberry and greengage. The cook makes them, down at Long Hempdon – that’s our country place. Mrs Grainger is a cook in the old style, wonderful to say! How she finds time to make jam as well as everything else she does I don’t know. We’re always terrified she’s going to be head-hunted and leave us, but somehow it never happens.’

  Emma murmured an appreciative comment, and Mrs Henderson went on, taking over the burden of conversation so that Emma could eat and drink uninterrupted. “Well, I’m sure you’d like to know a little about the family. Mr Akroyd travels a good deal on business – he’s Akroyd Engineering, you know – but the family lives permanently at Long Hempdon. That’s in
Suffolk, not far from Bury St Edmunds. Do you know Suffolk at all?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “It’s a lovely county. Will you have another scone? They’re bought, I’m afraid. This house is really only a pied-a-terre, so we don’t keep a full staff here.”

  “So it’s Mr Akroyd who’s advertising for a governess?” Emma prompted.

  “Yes, for his youngest daughter. Ah, you’re wondering how I fit into the picture. I wonder that myself sometimes,” she laughed. “I was originally Lady Susan’s social secretary – Lady Susan is Mr Akroyd’s wife, did I mention that? When the family moved down to Suffolk Lady Susan didn’t need a full-time social secretary any more, but over the years I’ve added various other duties to my repertoire, including dealing with the staff. It’s hard to define my position, really – a sort of house-steward, I suppose. I deal with all the things Lady Susan doesn’t care to do herself. How is your cup?”

  Mrs Henderson plied the teapot again, and then resumed. “The child who needs the governess is the youngest, Arabella. She’s very much younger than her brothers and sister. The eldest, Gavin, is twenty-eight – he was the son of the first Mrs Akroyd. Then there’s Zara, who’s seventeen, the twins Harry and Jack, who are fourteen, and Arabella, who’s just ten. They’re all Lady Susan’s children. So you see Arabella is rather isolated, especially as the boys are away at school.”

  “Wouldn’t it be better for Arabella to go to school?” Emma asked, forgetting for the moment that if the child went to school there would be no job for Emma to apply for.

  “Normally I would agree with you,” Mrs Henderson said, examining Emma with her bright, curious eyes, which made Emma think of a Persian cat, “but Arabella is rather a special child.”

  Oh dear, Emma thought, here it comes. Everyone thinks their child is uniquely complex and difficult to understand. ‘Highly strung’ used to be the phrase – now it was ‘sensitive’.

  “She’s very sensitive and highly strung,” Mrs Henderson went on. “She was very unhappy at her last school, and fell far behind in her work, and what with one thing and another ended by making herself ill. What we need for her is someone able to ‘cram’ her so that she catches up, but that’s not all. She needs someone to spend time with her, understand her, love her, and give her back the confidence she has lost.”