THE TENDER FLAME
THE TENDER FLAME
Anne Saunders
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available
This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.
Published by arrangement with the Author
Epub ISBN 9781445829470
Copyright © Anne Saunders 1980
All rights reserved
Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com
CHAPTER ONE
It was decision time again for Jan. Annabel Spedding, her employer, had died unexpectedly. Any day now, Annabel’s husband, David Spedding, would turn up with instructions for her. Until then, Jan could remain at the cottage to look after Stephanie, Annabel’s four year old daughter.
Jan, a copper-knob with hazel eyes, was fortunately blessed with an easy going temperament. Recent events, because she had coped with Annabel single-handed, had proved that she was sensible and level-headed in a crisis. She was also a caring sort of girl who could raise a spirited temper when she sensed injustice. Well-liked herself, there was only one person she actively disliked, and that was David Spedding, her late employer’s husband. The fact that she had never met him was irrelevant. When his wife and daughter had needed him most, he hadn’t been there.
Jan had applied for the job in this rather remote and lovely part of Yorkshire to get away from a man by the name of Martin Groves. While she hadn’t entirely forgotten Martin, she remembered him in a different way, so you could say the experiment had worked. She couldn’t possibly have known she would be escaping one problem merely to land herself in another.
When David Spedding turned up would he dismiss her on the spot, or would he ask her to stay on to look after Stephanie? Could she work for a man she had no respect for and looked upon with contempt? Her affection for the child provided the answer to that. She must. For Stephanie’s sake she must swallow her scruples and, if necessary, fight to stay.
Last time she had reached a crossroad situation—when Martin had dropped her for someone else—she had been knocked off balance. This time . . . it was difficult to peel away the numbness to assess her true feelings. The sudden, unexpected death of Annabel Spedding had brought her up against hard reality with a jolt. She grieved at a comparatively young life being snuffed out as effortlessly as a candle, even though she never got to know her as she should have done. She had eaten, slept, worked, and spent her leisure hours under the same tiny roof as her employer, but she had never got close to her. Now that Annabel was dead, she wished she had. She didn’t weep because she had lost a dearly loved friend, but because she hadn’t.
Annabel had been too young to die. And her small daughter, four-year-old Stephanie, was too young to be caught up in the tragic tangle of it all. Stephanie was the one who mattered now. Stephanie was the only consideration. It must all, somehow, be put behind her. For a while the child would be bruised, that was inevitable, but she must not be allowed to carry the type of scar that would mar her sunny temperament for the rest of her life. Perhaps it was no more than a comforting myth at that, but Jan believed she could help to preserve the little girl’s happy serenity.
Blessed of parents who were devoted to each other, her own childhood had known no such torment or trauma. During her formative years the illusion had held steady that the world was a fun playground, and if she had ever stopped to think about it, she would have held firm to the conviction that she was going to skip through schooldays and walk on through adult life with a charmed step. She hadn’t stopped to think about it because it was something that was and would always be.
At school she had been a popular girl, not a brilliant scholar, but industrious enough to get by. She was a plodder. Not like Martin who’d worn the tag of lazy genius. He was the tall, good-looking son of ‘Aunt’ Dora. ‘Aunt’ was the courtesy title she gave to her mother’s best friend. As a smitten schoolgirl she had looked at Martin with adoration in her eyes. The first time he asked her for a date she almost died on the spot from an overdose of pure delight. Wow! She couldn’t believe her luck. She took hours to get ready, selecting and discarding until she got it right. To look as though you’ve casually thrown on a few things is the most time-consuming look to achieve. Her efforts paid off and Martin told her she was pretty. Unfortunately she blushed a fiery red and couldn’t think of a thing to say. For an hour and a half!
That’s it, she thought. A boy who could have his pick isn’t going to waste his time on a struck-dumb idiot like me. He’ll never ask me out again.
But he had. He’d asked her out so many times that their names became inseparable. Jan-and-Martin. When party time came round it was unheard of to invite one without the other. They were the perfect pair, as right as coffee and cream. She was the coffee, the stability in the partnership. Martin was the luxury cream topping.
When did the cream start to sour? Should she have known that Martin was beginning to tire of her? Weren’t there supposed to be unmistakable signs? Was she so smug and happy that she failed to notice that their friendship had a hollow core? Without a solid centre it was doomed from the beginning and eventual collapse was inevitable.
Sylvia Friers, a so-called friend who had wanted Martin for herself and had never forgiven Jan for getting him, whispered maliciously in her ear that he was seeing another girl on the quiet. A girl with round moon eyes, silver blonde hair, and a gentle, ethereal beauty that was almost mystic. Her name was Tara Smith and while Jan was consumed with jealousy, her mind was surprisingly free of bitterness as she acknowledged that if it were true, Martin had improved on her. Jan wisely did not act on the warning. Alone, it did not merit positive steps being taken. She waited, watched, her mind on the alert. Was the unexpected, extravagant gift of a mid-week bouquet of flowers, when it wasn’t her birthday or a day marking something special like the anniversary of their first date, a sop to his guilt for too much inattentiveness, too many broken dates? Or was it his way of saying, ‘I’ve been a naughty boy. I strayed. But I’ve learnt my lesson and I’m back for good now.’?
The only way Jan could be sure which of these applied was to ask him outright. And she couldn’t do that. Couldn’t she? Why couldn’t she?
Perhaps it wasn’t the best style in the world to ask, but it was honest, and whatever else was missing between them, it wasn’t honesty.
‘Do you want to call it a day, Martin? If there’s someone else, I’ll understand.’ For his sake she had kept the silly hope out of her eyes, but when she saw the relief flood into his she was glad for her own pride’s sake.
Very gently he had taken her hands. ‘I think I’m the biggest fool in creation, but yes I do. Because yes there is.’
She had wished him all the luck in the world, and even managed to aim a goodbye kiss at his cheek. So far so good. But then she turned coward. Much as it would pain her to leave her happy home, she had to get away. Her heart pleaded for it not to be so far away that she couldn’t hop on a bus or a train for dutiful daughterly visits home. Her head knew it must be as far away as possible to abolish the risk of bumping into Martin and Tara until such times as she did not go weak with longing for a glimpse of blue eyes with back-curling lashes, straw-coloured hair and a lopsided grin. She wouldn’t need to pack a photo of Martin in her suitcase when she left. His face was too bright in her mind to fade in a hurry.
She scoured the adverts in the situations vacant columns of every newspaper she could lay her hands on, and this one caught her eye. Wanted: Pleasantly disposed female to care for disabled young woman and daughter. Expected to live in. Nursing experience is not essential. A sense of humour is.
Jan had phoned to apply for the job one day, attended the interview the next day, and before the week was out she found herself installed at Larks
pur Cottage in Willowbridge which, at two hundred miles from her home town, was just the right distance away.
It was a snowdrop sweet, Winter-crisp day with baby drifts of snow cradled in unexpected nooks and crannies, and although she was staggering at the speed with which her life had changed course, she had found her new surroundings delightful.
Grey-stone cottages haphazardly climbed the hillside to curl round the fourteenth century church. The main essential shops, Johnson the butcher, Beevers the baker, and Spink the post office and general purpose store, were all family concerns that had been handed down from generation to generation. Even the newcomer, Studio Pottery, had been trading since 1951. It was a tightly loyal, fiercely feuding little community. These plain-speaking people were as honest as the carbolic soap sold over Alice Spink’s counter. Even in awe of them, Jan genuinely liked them, and was touched when, in their blunt way, they made it known that they were willing to give her a try.
Never would she forget her first sight of her employer. Annabel Spedding, a striking figure in a wheelchair, had waist-length black hair, cornflower blue eyes, and a face of riveting beauty. Jan believed Annabel’s claim that the boys used to go mad to take her out. With an amused, almost smug quirk in her eye she had confided that her marriage to David Spedding had caused quite a furore. He was the one least likely tipped to get her to the altar.
Tragedy had struck on their wedding day. They were being driven to the reception by a friend, when the car met with an accident. Annabel had given this information to Jan starkly and without any softening frills. The driver of the car, Stephen Grant, had died instantly and Annabel’s life had hung on a thread.
‘For a while it looked as though I would lose my baby.’ So saying, her lovely eyes had lifted to Jan’s, daring her to register surprise.
Jan had kept a non-committal face, thinking it was quaint of Annabel if she expected her to be shocked. Jan got the strangest feeling it was something more than that, something deeper. A wild sort of defiance crossed Annabel’s expression, at odds with the heart-tugging sadness of her smile.
‘Nobody lifted a scandalised eyebrow or made a single derogatory or harsh comment when it leaked out that a baby was on the way.’
‘Why should they?’ Jan had challenged. Even if times hadn’t changed, any normal, caring person would think that Annabel had been punished enough.
From her own observations, Jan knew that local feeling was warm towards Annabel. Everyone admired her for her courage. It took guts to tilt a chin at adversity. Instead of shrinking into herself she had been arrogant in her determination to live. Live, not exist as a pathetic figure in a wheelchair. Only Annabel could have used her chair to advantage, sitting as daintily as a queen, presiding over events, loving the fuss and attention that was lavished on her. Even Louisa Grant, who was considered to be Willowbridge’s first lady and lived in the Manor House, paid court to Annabel and made a lot of Stephanie.
Some did say, though, it wasn’t for love of Annabel that Stephanie was sought out for favours and attention. Wasn’t it her son Stephen’s careless driving that crashed the car? This fact was given to Jan in whisper-soft tones. Stephen Grant had failed to earn himself the respect and affection that was given to his mother, but he had paid for his folly with his life and it wasn’t done to talk ill of the dead. Tongues were more lively, less charitable, and not locked by superstitious fears when it came to Annabel’s husband, David Spedding. It was said the moment he knew the extent of her injuries, he took off as if the devil was at his heels. Desertion, they called it. Cruel, inhuman desertion.
In the six months Jan had been there he’d never visited. In view of this it was perhaps foolish of her, but she sometimes wondered if he was as unfeeling as local opinion made out. The cottage was his and he paid all the bills. Jan had been shocked at Annabel’s free spending and the careless way she ran up accounts. It was a wonder the poor man could hold his head above water.
Ralph Goodall, Willowbridge’s only solicitor and the man in charge of Annabel’s affairs, had instructed Jan to put the outstanding bills to one side until he could contact the husband. This he had done and David Spedding was presumably on his way home, unfortunately too late to attend Annabel’s funeral which had taken place two weeks ago. It made Jan realise that her earlier sympathies had been misplaced. What sort of person must he be? She couldn’t go on making excuses for a man who hadn’t made the effort to be at his wife’s funeral to pay his last respects. Apart from the common decency angle, he should have wanted to be there for Stephanie’s sake. Stephanie had needed a father’s comfort.
Jan’s own determination had strengthened. Come what may, she wasn’t going to add to Stephanie’s heartbreak by walking out on her, even though staying on presented difficulties.
Annabel had been dilatory in all respects where money was concerned. Jan hadn’t received remuneration for several weeks. She didn’t like to ask the solicitor for her back-wages, but without money she couldn’t buy food. She supposed she could have copied Annabel and run up a bill, but she felt there were enough of these to present to David Spedding as it was, without adding more.
She had made quite searching enquiries about getting a job locally. Something part-time because Stephanie mustn’t feel that she was being neglected, which brought in just enough ready cash to tide them over until Stephanie’s errant father put in an appearance. Everyone was sympathetic, but there was nothing suitable to be had. Of course, she hadn’t made her financial difficulties known, and it was thought she was suffering from a time-on-her-hands malaise.
The grandmother clock chimed a reminder that it was nearing the hour to collect Stephanie from play-school. If she wasn’t among the first three to be collected, she created. Since her mother’s death she needed constant reassurance that someone was always on hand. Even with all Jan’s vigilance she had gone back to the babyish habit of sucking her thumb.
Sighing on feelings of helplessness and frustration—because what more could she do?—Jan dusted a powder-puff over her nose, smoothed a coral-pink lipstick across her mouth, which was about the most attention her face ever got. Her complexion had the quality of fine porcelain. Her nose was slightly pert, her chin small but determined. Unspectacular she thought. As though by token of apology, nature had endowed her with memorably large hazel eyes which were colour-linked to her mood. Predominantly green when she was in a good mood, lightening to gold when she was predisposed to laughter, but darkening to stormy brown at the first hint of temper. Her hair, inherited from Grandmother Ashton who had the reputation of being a firebrand, was a rich chestnut brown veering to red. Her crowning glory had earned her the nickname of Copper Knob at school. Grandmother Ashton was a flamboyant enough character to carry her distinctive hair colouring, Jan felt that she wasn’t.
She was barely a quarter way down the hill when a splash of rain on her nose drew her attention to the glowering sky. It was black, in a daytime way, and it would have been sensible to go back for protective clothing, but optimistically she hoped it would blow over. It didn’t. By the time she got to the square where the market traders were hastily packing up, she was squelching with every step she took.
Most of the refugees from the storm had packed into the Coffee Bean. It was the only place offering shelter that would give Jan a clear view of the play-school building, so she reluctantly followed suit. In her present financial straits she begrudged paying out for a cup of coffee; on the other hand she couldn’t afford to stay out in the downpour and risk catching a chill. As it was there was a tickle in her nose that erupted ominously into a sneeze.
The Coffee Bean was always well attended on market days, but today it was bulging at the seams. Jan made her way towards the only vacant chair and sat down at a table already occupied by a man with dark hair, nicely cut, and a slightly averted face. Her profile impression of him was of a good strong nose and chin, offset by high cheekbones and a mouth that was too sensitive to be permanently clamped in such an awesomely straight
line.
Jan had a tendency to reverse the proper order of things. It was typical of her to sit down first, and then ask permission to do so.
‘Excuse me, but is it all right for me to sit here?’
‘Yes, please do,’ he said, vaguely waving her down before he’d properly turned to look at her. ‘Ah! I see that you are already seated.’
The side view of him had given the impression of strength and power. It hadn’t prepared her for the dynamic effect of being the subject of his amused scrutiny. ‘M’m. You’re very wet.’
She agreed that she was, and her hands did something completely out of character. They lifted fussily to her hair, as if her fingers could magic the flattened, sorry little strands into some semblance of order.
He was attractive enough to be familiar with this kind of feminine response. The salacious twinkle in his eye confirmed this. But it was the quirk softening of his mouth that told Jan this same reaction in a damp mouse took him by surprise. He seemed to like damp mice.
‘The waitress doesn’t appear to be coming to take your order,’ he observed kindly.
‘No,’ Jan agreed, thankful for once she wasn’t the type to inspire quick service. With a bit of luck the waitress wouldn’t spot her before it was time to walk across the road to collect Stephanie, and she could have a warm through and a dry out without it having to cost her anything.
He snapped his fingers above her head, and wouldn’t you just know it, a waitress came at the double.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. What was it?’
‘Coffee, please,’ Jan said resignedly.
‘A cup or a pot?’
‘A pot,’ Awesome Mouth who was soon to be renicknamed Busybody answered for her. ‘And some hot buttered toast and a selection of cakes.’
‘Really!’ Jan said when the waitress had gone. ‘I’m capable of answering for myself. You shouldn’t have ordered the toast and cakes because I’m not hungry.’
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