Son of Adam

by Margaret Rome

  ‘Now, Miss Grey,’ she rustled through a pile of papers in search of Dove’s application, ‘from information contained in your letter I gather you have all the qualifications we seek—and more.’ She shot a look of encouragement across the width of the desk, but her smile faded when she noted Dove’s pinched features, the grey eyes wide with shock. ‘My dear,’ she half-rose, then changed her mind and resumed her seat, ‘that distasteful scene has upset you more than I’d imagined. Are you wondering if all my clients are like Monsieur Blais?’ Her tone went dry. ‘Believe me, if they were I would close up shop this very minute!’

  Dove had to smile. ‘I’m not shocked, Mrs. Todd, just startled. I hate rows ...” she trailed off, wondering herself why the actions of a complete stranger should have affected her so adversely. Schooldays spent in the company of girls whose Army background had instilled into them instant obedience, the serene tenor of her own homelife, and the ultra-civilised households in which she had worked had rendered her a total stranger to violent abuse. No wonder her hands and knees were shaking, her mouth dry with fear. The man had reacted like a barbarian—a species she had thought extinct!

  ‘I agree,’ Mrs. Todd nodded, ‘rows are not pleasant, but to be quite fair to Monsieur Blais I feel I must explain a little of his background. Perhaps then you may feel able to make allowances.’

  ‘Allowances? You mean you’re able to excuse ...’

  ‘As I’m sure you will, too, my dear, if only you’ll give me time to explain.’ Dove’s shrug indicated that she would be wasting her time, nevertheless Mrs. Todd went on firmly, ‘The most frequent complaint I’ve received about that man is that he’s too strict a disciplinarian, yet this quality, among many others, is essential to the success of the very important, potentially dangerous job he has elected to do—that of ensuring the safety of a family with, as its head, one of the richest men in the world.’ Catching the sound of Dove’s startled gasp, she smiled. ‘Ah, I thought that would make you sit up and take notice! Sheikh Rahma bin Jabir is head of one of the most noble and respected families in Neffe, a country which, since the discovery of oil, has become the richest place for its size on earth. However, just as in suburbia, or indeed any stratum of society, one person’s good fortune gives rise to jealousy in his neighbours. Such is the state in Neffe. It’s become an inflammable corner of the world, where assassination plots are commonplace, where sheikh turns upon sheikh and even brother upon brother. So you see, Monsieur Blais hasn’t the most enviable job in the world.’ Tiring of the subject, she reached for Dove’s application form. ‘I consider we’ve wasted quite enough time on that gentleman this morning, let’s get on with the matter of finding you a suitable situation.’

  It took great effort to clear her mind of Monsieur Blais’s exotic life and to concentrate upon her own mundane affairs, but as Mrs. Todd began shooting questions across the desk Dove gathered her wits and made her replies equally concise and businesslike. After fifteen minutes’ intensive grilling, Mrs. Todd asked to see her references and after thorough scrutiny allowed her lips to relax into a pleased smile.

  ‘I shall need to go through the usual formality of checking these, of course,’ she tapped the letters with a thumbnail, ‘but once that’s been done I shall have no difficulty whatsoever in placing you in a satisfactory situation. Sir Joshua Arcourt, for example,’ once again she rummaged through the letters on her desk, ‘has pestered me for weeks to find him a suitable nanny. How would you like to work for one of our country’s foremost ambassadors?’

  ‘Oh, but ...’ Belatedly Dove remembered the most vital stipulation. ‘I want to work abroad, preferably in the Middle East’

  Mrs. Todd looked stunned and seemed incapable for a second of finding words. ‘The Middle East? You...? My dear child, are you sure you know all that such a job would entail?’

  ‘Probably not,’ Dove admitted, then went on firmly, ‘nevertheless, that’s where I want to go.’

  ‘But why? With your qualifications I could let you take your pick of half a dozen plum jobs right here in this country.’

  Dove’s chin thrust stubbornly. ‘If I’d wanted to stay in this country,’ she explained carefully, not wanting to sound bigheaded, ‘I wouldn’t have needed to come to you nor to any other agency. You see, I too have a waiting list of people, all very well connected—even some minor royalty—who’ve begged me to work for them. But for personal reasons I want to work abroad.’

  ‘I take it that for “personal reasons” I can read money?’ Mrs. Todd enquired dryly.

  ‘That among other things,’ Dove admitted, feeling a humiliated blush staining her cheeks.

  A shade of disappointment crossed the older woman’s face. She began gathering up papers and secured them with a wire clip. ‘In that case, Miss Grey,’ her tone was one of finality, ‘I’m afraid we’ve both been wasting our time. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing I can do to help you.’

  Dove got to her feet. ‘Nothing ...? But why? You admit to having many vacancies on your books and say that you’re short of well trained nannies, so why ...?’

  ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you why.’ Grimly Mrs. Todd waited until Dove obeyed. ‘I may give an impression of being hard and very much the business woman, and perhaps to a certain extent I am, but I refuse to suffer months of agonised conscience on your behalf—which is what would be in store for me were I to send an innocent such as yourself abroad. Wait!’ she commanded when Dove tried to argue. ‘Even had I not seen with my own eyes the havoc wreaked upon your nerves by a man’s Middle Eastern manners, instinct alone would have sufficed to warn me not to fall in with your request. As it is, Miss Grey, I’ve seen you reduced to a quaking jelly by words not even intended for you. Mark my words, Monsieur Blais is typical, not unique. Arabs—and if it’s money you’re after you’ve no doubt set your sights upon a job in one of the Arab States—have an unnerving contempt for women. You’ll probably find it difficult to believe, but among the older generation of Arabs especially, any man without sons is pitied for being childless—no matter how many daughters he may have.’

  Dove tried to hide the nervous tremor in her voice as she countered, ‘Other girls have managed to overcome such obstacles, so why shouldn’t I? I’m not on the lookout for a husband, merely a job.’

  ‘Then you won’t get any help from me.’ Purposefully Mrs. Todd rose to her feet and walked around the desk. Almost sadly she held out her hand. ‘Goodbye, Miss Grey. If ever you should change your mind please contact me. But if, heaven forbid, you should decide to continue with such folly then all I can do is wish you good luck—you’ll certainly need it!’

  Dove strode into the outer office with her head held high. In many ways Mrs. Todd had been kind, but such an abrupt dismissal had left her feeling humiliated. With much interest the young receptionist noted flags of colour flying high in Dove’s cheeks and her sympathy was obvious as she consoled,

  ‘Gave you a rough time, did she? Never mind, there are other agencies. If at first you don’t succeed ... that’s what I always say.’ Seemingly unaware that her conversation consisted entirely of platitudes, she aired yet another. ‘Count your blessings as I do! So you have no job. But at least you haven’t an employer like Monsieur Blais either! I feel sorry for anyone forced to work for a man like him. I don’t mind betting that even the staff at the Dorchester will heave a sigh of relief when the time comes for him to leave.’

  Dove thanked her for her condolences and left the office to stumble her way downstairs. When she reached the pavement she hesitated, wondering which direction to choose. Her train was not due to leave for hours yet. She had planned, once she had the promise of a job, to spend the rest of the day shopping for clothes suitable for a Middle Eastern climate, but now even window-shopping held no appeal. She felt depressed, weary and chilled to the bone.

  Count your blessings, the young receptionist had said. What blessings? Would she have been so blithely unconcerned if she faced the prospect of seeing her elderly parents tu
rned out of their home, deprived of their livelihood, unless she could find a job well paid enough to ease the financial mess?

  ‘Oh, blast!’ she muttered into her collar as she faced an icy wind. ‘Why couldn’t I have pulled it off? I didn’t realise until now how much I’d been looking forward to a change of scenery, a change of climate, away from this temperamental spring weather—one day basking in sunshine and the next freezing cold. I do believe I’d even be tempted to work for that tyrannical Frenchman ... ’ She stopped so abruptly that a man following behind cannoned into her.

  ‘So sorry .. .”

  ‘Oh, no, it was my fault, really,’ she stammered when with gentlemanly concern he tried to accept the blame. He continued on his way with a smile, wishing he were thirty years younger so that he, too, might share some of the optimism, the surging hope, he had seen reflected in the face of a lovely young girl.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It was not until after Dove had hailed a taxi, told the driver her destination, then collapsed into the back seat, that she began feeling shivers of apprehension.

  ‘Well, why not?’ She hugged herself fiercely. ‘It’s worth a try—he wants a nanny and I want a job! The worst he can do is have me thrown out.’

  The taxi took an interminable time to weave a way through traffic jams, yet when they drew up outside the Dorchester it seemed mere foolhardy seconds since the plan had formulated in her mind. Forcing herself not to weaken, she paid off the taxi driver, marched into the hotel and went straight to the reception desk.

  ‘I should like to see Monsieur Blais, please,’ she told the young man behind the desk.

  ‘Is he expecting you?’ he asked, showing a kindling of interest as his gaze lit upon the small pointed face and grey eyes made enormous by either trepidation or excitement.

  ‘No,’ she admitted reluctantly. Then with a flash of inspiration, ‘But if you tell him I’m from the Chatsworth Nannies Agency I’m sure he’ll see me.’

  The young man lost interest. With such a face and figure he had imagined her to be a model at the very least!

  ‘Very well, I’ll tell him you’re here.’

  Dove was not certain whether her stomach was misbehaving because of nerves or whether it was simply the effect of the silently moving lift bearing her upwards towards a penthouse suite on the top floor.

  ‘Some of the oil shiekhs’ money must have rubbed off on Monsieur Blais,’ she muttered, swallowing back a nervous giggle as she dithered on the threshold of the room at present occupied by the formidable Frenchman. Then taking a deep, steadying breath she rapped hard on the door, straining her ears lest she should miss what she imagined would be a terse command to enter.

  She was standing with her head forward, one anxious ear almost pressed against the door panel, when the door opened suddenly and she all but overbalanced into the room. Feeling exceedingly foolish, she straightened and with an apology on her lips traced upwards with her eyes along a length of richly patterned red silk dressing gown in search of the face towering somewhere up above.

  ‘Who are you?’ The question came sharp as a shot from a rifle and as her eyes finally found his face its impact upon her senses was equally vital. All she remembered of the man was that he had a tall frame with military bearing and a stern, clipped voice. If she had seen his face she would not have come, never would have summoned up sufficient nerve to face features dark and sharply etched as the desert hawk; eyes of steel grey, and a rock-hard mouth tugged down at one corner into a permanent sneer by a puckered scar slicing deep from lip to chin.

  ‘I ... I ...’ Her throat seized up with fear.

  The black hawk-head swooped to peer into her face.

  ‘Do I know you, mademoiselle? Ah yes, I believe I do!’ He snapped his fingers, causing her to jump. ‘Did I not see you in the agency less than an hour ago? So Madame Todd has relented! I knew she would—you British will do anything for money! Don’t stand there dithering, come inside, we have much to discuss!’

  As he ushered her impatiently inside Dove managed a quick look around the apartment, noting letters that had cascaded from a pile jumbled on top of a writing desk and were now strewing the floor, an open briefcase bulging with correspondence, a half-filled coffee cup pushed to one side of a small table as if its recipient had found the contents disgusting. His suit jacket hung precariously over the back of a chair, but he made no effort to retrieve it, nor did he apologise for his casual attire. She stiffened with apprehension when he waved her towards a chair. The room and its occupant had an atmosphere of frustrated ill-temper, a suspicion that was borne out by his cold, clipped tone as he addressed her.

  ‘No doubt Mrs. Todd has supplied you with all the relevant details, but at the risk of sounding repetitious I prefer that you hear them from me. All too often in the past I have heard remonstrances from nannies who vowed they had no idea what they were letting themselves in for when they agreed to work in Neffe. I wish to ensure that you are under no misapprehensions. To begin with, there are no bars, no nightclubs or public dance halls. Your home will be a palace in the wilderness, an ultra-modern monstrosity which will, nevertheless, supply you with all the mod cons you are likely to need. The Neffetis, you understand, are following the behaviour pattern of the nouveaux riches. At present they are like children let loose in a sweet shop, wanting to try every flavour at one and the same time. To Europeans it would appear only common sense to build such palaces as are needed near to civilisation, but Arabs pride themselves on a liking for the rigours of the desert —they are, incidentally, a terribly snobbish race, very conscious of their nobility—so they follow tradition and build their new palaces in the isolation of the desert, then pay fantastic sums to foreign interior decorators—only the most famous will do—to cram the palaces with the most awful collection of bric-a-brac they can find.

  ‘However, I am relieved to be able to say that at last some of the oil sheikhs are beginning to show qualities of intelligence by turning their attention to the welfare of the poor and needy of whom, even in Neffe, there are still very many. The sheikhs have now acquired a thirst for the benefits education bestows, and for their children they desire good manners and the air of refinement you English insist upon imposing upon your children from birth. Which is where you come in, Mademoiselle Grey. Your job will be to turn two desert cubs, with generations of nomadic freedom in their veins, into models of propriety.’

  His contemptuous tone aroused her indignation to the extent of helping her to forget that there were other more important matters on the agenda. ‘Why don’t you employ a Frenchwoman to look after the children if you despise the English so much?’

  His lips went, if possible, a trifle thinner. ‘On this issue the Sheikh is adamant. Since the days of your first Queen Elizabeth the British have wielded great influence over Neffetis who, in the manner of all impressionable children, have been quick to imitate the less endearing traits of their so-called betters. Arabs, as I have already stated, are innately snobbish, and close proximity to the British has succeeded in turning what was a slight infection into an epidemic.’

  Dove itched to slap her hand hard across the derogatory mouth, its sneer accentuated by the puckered scar. But too much was at stake, so she curbed the impulse and decided to ignore his taunts.

  ‘You haven’t given me time to explain,’ she began. ‘Mrs. Todd told me—’

  ‘To hold out for better terms?’ he interrupted unpleasantly. ‘Very well, you shall have more money. We usually pay a salary of four thousand pounds a year— if I increase it to five will that suffice? ’

  The offer rendered her speechless. Five thousand pounds for just one year’s work! For that amount she would work for the devil! Oh, the joy of being able to tell her parents that all their problems were solved. Already she felt a blissful sense of relief; it was as if a great load had slid from her shoulders. And it was all due to this man!

  When she searched for words to thank him his sardonic look reacted like the splash of co
ld water upon her hot cheeks. His contempt was so obvious she felt a quick spurt of tears, and recalled with shame the words he had hurled at Mrs. Todd. ‘Good riddance to your sex-starved, money-grabbing British nannies!’

  Then anger came to her aid. She had come prepared to be honest, to explain in detail why she so desperately needed the job, but his unjust prejudices made him unworthy of honesty. Besides that, it was doubtful whether he would believe a word she said ...

  ‘Thank you, monsieur, you’re very generous,’ she told him crisply. ‘Naturally I shall accept. But ...’ her courage wilted, ‘I must impose one condition.’

  His brows beetled as he sent her a look of dark hauteur. ‘It is lucky for you that you are in a seller’s market, mademoiselle. What is this condition?’

  Dove ran her tongue around lips that were suddenly dry. ‘That... I receive a year’s salary in advance.’ Frigid silence fell. He brooded down at her from his great height, eyes narrowed to slits, arms folded across his chest in the manner of an imperious caliph about to pass judgment upon a disrespectful slave girl. She wanted to flee from the room, but her feet felt enmeshed in the deep pile carpet.

  ‘Not one of your predecessors lasted more than a month,’ he accused finally. ‘What guarantee have I that you will remain longer?’

  ‘My solemn promise ...?’ she offered weakly.

  ‘Mon dieu!” The depths of feeling displayed consigned her promise to Limbo.

  Sensing her hopes fast disappearing, she pledged desperately, ‘I’ll put it in writing. Believe me, I’ll sign anything, do anything ... !’

  Immediately this confession was voiced she realised she had made a mistake in allowing him to see how badly she needed the job. A glint of satisfaction appeared in his eyes, a faint smile curled the twisted lip upwards.

  ‘So, there is turbulence beneath the ice! Panic beneath the cool English exterior!’ Once more, with irritating contempt, he snapped his fingers. ‘Very well,’ he decided, much to her surprise, ‘if you promise to remain in my employment for not less than one year I shall write you out a cheque immediately for five thousand pounds—which sum shall entitle me to possess in its entirety one full year of your life!’