by Penny Jordan
She shivered a little, cross with herself for allowing him to creep into her thoughts. She could still feel the imprint of his mouth on her own, still see his lazy amusement at her shock. What had been his purpose in coming to see her? One thing she was sure of, she wasn’t going to wait around for him to appear a second time so that she could ask him.
For all she knew, he could be like the newspaper men she had met, making a habit of taking his victims to bed. Well, in her case he was going to be disappointed.
She tried to imagine him making the virulent comments she had been subjected to by the reporters, but somehow couldn’t quite do so. He was too controlled, too much in charge of his emotions to do that.
She tried to visualise him losing his temper and was dismayed with herself for doing so.
Morning brought her no closer to a solution to her dilemma, until her landlord arrived and announced that he was intending to put up her rent. Lark hated the way his eyes roved unceasingly over her body while he talked to her. She had never liked him, right from the start, and last night’s episode with James Wolfe had left her feeling acutely vulnerable.
Her flat was nowhere near as safe as she would have liked. The rent the landlord mentioned was exorbitantly out of line with the accommodation. She told him as much, and flinched as he sneered, ‘A woman like you—you’ll soon find the money from somewhere or someone.’
Dear God, was this what she was going to have to put up with until the world forgot about who she was and what had happened? It wasn’t until she heard herself telling the landlord exactly what he could do with his rent increase and his accommodation that she realised that she had committed herself to Mrs Mayers’ job.
Shaking with reaction, as soon as the landlord had gone she pulled on her coat and hurried out into the street to the nearest telephone box.
Mrs Mayers answered the telephone herself. Shakily, Lark told her her decision, unable to keep the hint of apology from her voice as she did so. She only hoped that the older woman would not live to regret her generosity. She would have felt better if she had actually met Mrs Mayers’ son before accepting the job, but he was a very busy man, Mrs Mayers had informed her, and a touch of defiance in her voice as she said the words had made Lark condemn him as both overbearing and selfish.
No sooner had Lark told Mrs Mayers that she was accepting the job than the latter was asking if she could start work almost straight away.
‘I’ve been trying to organise a charity “do” to make money for more research,’ she told Lark apologetically. ‘I’ve thought of farming everything out to one of those agencies who specialise in organising such events, but it’s going to cost too much money, and so I need your help desperately, Lark, to get everything sorted out. J—my son inherited a beautiful house near Oxford from his uncle. It’s far too big really for a bachelor, but it has the most marvellous grounds and ballroom, and he’s very kindly agreed that we can make use of both.’
The tone went, and Lark had to put more money into the telephone. Hurriedly Mrs Mayers said, ‘Look, it’s silly of me trying to tell you all this over the telephone. How quickly could you move in here, Lark?’
How quickly? Right away, if the truth were known.
Before she could say a word, Mrs Mayers continued, ‘I know it’s pushing you dreadfully, but how about tomorrow morning? I could send Harold round with the car to help you transport all your things, if that’s any help.’
Lark tried to demur, to insist that she would manage somehow, but Mrs Mayers overruled her.
‘Good heavens, child, it’s no trouble, no trouble at all. Harold complains that he hardly ever gets to drive me anywhere as it is. He will be grateful to you for giving him the opportunity to give the car an airing.’
Lark didn’t argue. She wondered if there was something wrong with her that she should so easily allow herself to be wrapped in the cotton-wool caring of Mrs Mayers’ kindness. Perhaps it was because she had lost her own parents so young, or perhaps she was just a weak-kneed idiot who hadn’t the guts to stand on her own two feet, she challenged herself, as she agreed to Mrs Mayers’ suggestion and replaced the receiver.
In the past she had not been called upon to question her strength of character or potential lack of it. These past few months had taught her things about herself she might otherwise never have known, had freed her from the obligation that had been hers from early childhood to love the aunt and uncle who stood in the place of her own parents. Mingled with the guilt and unhappiness she had experienced on learning that they had never really liked her, never really wanted to give her a home but considered it to be their duty, had been relief in the knowledge that now at last she was free to be her own person.
What did she really want from life? That was easily answered. Security. The kind of emotional security she had lost with her parents. A relationship with someone who loved and trusted her, and who did not require her to act a part that was foreign to her nature. In fact, she derided herself, she wanted what almost every other young woman of her age wanted.
As she walked up the stairs to get to her bedsit, the landlord was on his way down. She had to practically squeeze against the wall to avoid coming into physical contact with him. There was a smirk on his face that made her feel almost afraid. Thank God she was leaving in the morning!
She had never really liked the man, but it was only recently that she had become aware of the way he had watched her and been frightened by it. No doubt James Wolfe would be amused by it.
James Wolfe—there he was again—walking into her mind as though he had every right to be there, dominating her thought processes with the same subtle skill with which he had dominated her physically last night.
Knowing that Mrs Mayers’ chauffeur was due to arrive at eleven in the morning, and determined not to trespass on her generosity more than was absolutely necessary, Lark decided to save him the journey by arranging for a cab. She spent the rest of the evening sorting through her belongings. There weren’t very many. The precious photograph albums that dated back to her parents’ engagement and marriage, and then followed the early years of their marriage: featuring places and people whom in the main she did not know, but whose faces were precious to her because they had shared her parents’ lives, if only briefly.
With a maturity she had not possessed as a child, she recognised how significant it was that none of those photographs featured her aunt and uncle, apart from the formally posed ‘group’ pictures of her parents’ wedding. The relationship between sister and brother had obviously not been a close one but, when her parents died, they had been her only family, and had been obliged to take her in out of duty.
She sighed faintly and put aside the albums, including the especially precious ones that followed her own birth. If she ever needed to be reassured that she had been loved, she only had to turn these pages, and see the radiant joy and pride in the faces of her young parents.
One small box contained all that was left of her childhood toys and books. She had been horrified on returning from university to discover that her aunt had burnt the rest, considering it ridiculous that a young adult woman should want to hang on to such rubbish.
Three dog-eared ‘Peter Rabbit’ books, a doll with one arm missing and a battered teddy bear, plus an assortment of dolls house furniture in various stages of dilapidation, were all that was left.
She touched them lovingly, her eyes misting. Would she ever again recapture the security and joy she had known as a child? Did any adult?
When she had children, she would do all that she could to give them that same love and security. Her own father had been a man out of his time, who had enjoyed playing with his small daughter, and who had not left her care completely in the hands of her mother.
With another sigh she put aside the box. Sitting here reminiscing was wasting precious time. She wanted to be up and ready to leave first thing in the morning. Her sturdy independence, which had suffered such stunning blows during the months lead
ing up to the trial, was once again beginning to surface. Mrs Mayers’ faith in her had restored something to her she thought she had lost for ever.
The rest of her packing took very little time. She had no furniture of her own; just her clothes, and the silver dressing-table set which had come down to her from her mother, who had in turn inherited it from her own grandmother.
It was delicate and Edwardian. It was also very valuable, and her aunt had been none too pleased to learn that Lark intended taking it with her when she left for university.
Following her realisation of exactly how her aunt felt about her, one or two niggling questions had raised themselves in Lark’s mind.
What had happened to the several valuable antique pieces of furniture she remembered her mother polishing so lovingly while she explained that they had come down to them from both her own and Lark’s father’s family? Lark’s aunt and uncle had always maintained that there had been barely enough money from the sale of the house to pay for Lark’s clothing over the years, never mind anything else, but her parents had owned a very pretty Chelsea home, and she remembered her mother as always being well dressed and her father driving a good car.
But what was the use of worrying about a problem she could never totally resolve? And, whatever small unkindnesses had been inflicted on her by her aunt and uncle, they could be nothing when compared to the anguish they must be suffering now, especially her aunt, who had doted on her only child.
It was just gone eleven when she went to bed; the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside her room made her tense nervously. They paused, and her mind flashed back to the previous evening when James Wolfe had visited her so unexpectedly.
But whoever had lingered outside her door moved on, and eventually she was able to sleep.
She had set her alarm for six; just in time to hear the sleepy dawn chorus of London’s starlings.
Everything was packed; her possessions looking very meagre indeed. All she had to do now was to shower and dress, then have her breakfast; by that time the mini cab she had ordered the previous evening should have arrived.
One thing she would definitely not miss about her accommodation was the grimy bathroom she shared with the other occupants of her floor. No matter how much money was expended on cleaning products, the bath remained a dirty, dingy grey; the walls were damp, and one of the other girls swore that if one walked into the room without switching on the light it was infested with cockroaches. Lark shuddered at the very thought as she showered quickly under the meagre water supply. She and the other girls had clubbed together to buy two large bolts for the bathroom door, but even so, Lark didn’t like lingering in the unappealing surroundings.
By half-past seven she was ready, the small fridge cleaned out and the room bare of all her possessions.
Just as she was beginning to get jittery and have second thoughts about the wisdom of what she was doing, the cab arrived.
One of the first things she must do, she reminded herself as she helped the driver load her boxes, was to get in touch with her solicitor and thank him for his good offices on her behalf. She could still hardly believe that he had been so thoughtful. It seemed oddly out of character with the rest of his behaviour. She must have misjudged him, she decided, sinking thankfully into the cab when the last of her things were loaded.
She had planned to arrive at Mrs Mayers’ at around eight o’clock, not too early to disrupt the household and yet in plenty of time to prevent the chauffeur from making a needless journey.
As it was, she was glad she had allowed herself some time in hand, because roadworks were causing traffic delays, and it was closer to eight-thirty than eight when the cab eventually set her down outside the house.
Front door or back? Lark mused as she asked the driver to wait. Her dilemma was solved when the gates and the front door opened simultaneously and Mrs Mayers’ housekeeper came out. Her eyebrows rose a little when she saw Lark, but when Lark explained that she had wanted to save the chauffeur an unnecessary journey, a look of approval softened the other woman’s features.
‘That was very thoughtful of you,’ she told Lark. ‘Not that he would have minded collecting you for one minute. I’ll give him a shout and he can give the cab driver a hand with your things.’
‘There’s no need for that,’ Lark told her firmly, softening her words with a warm smile. ‘I’m sure I can manage, if you could just point me in the right direction. Mrs Mayers did show me my room, but I’m afraid I can’t remember where it was.’
Again she was given an approving look. ‘Well, if you’re sure you can manage…’
‘There isn’t anything heavy, and the cab driver will give me a hand.’
She glanced through the front door at the immaculately polished parquet floor and the pastel stair carpet.
‘Is there another staircase? Some of the boxes are rather dusty.’
‘Yes, there is. If you like I’ll show you the rear entrance; your driver can get right up to the door there.’
It didn’t take long for Lark and her driver to unload her things. She tipped him generously, more generously than she could really afford, she admitted ruefully, remembering how little there was in her bank account.
Her room was lovely, large and square, on the corner of the building with one window over-looking the charming back garden, and the other the flagged parking area and garages to the side of the house.
In addition to the bed, dressing-table, and huge fitted wardrobes, there was also a pretty Victorian writing-desk with a matching chair, and a reproduction cupboard which she discovered contained a television and video.
There was an attractive round table, ornamented by a bowl of spring flowers, and at the bottom of the bed a two-seater settee so that the room served as a sitting-room as well as a bedroom.
Its décor and furnishings were all like something out of a glossy magazine: pretty, soft, country-house chintzes with expensive designer details such as toning linings and appliquéd cushions. This was not the kind of room normally made available to employees, surely? It was more like a luxurious guest-room.
A door off it had been left open to reveal her own private bathroom. Nothing like the bathroom at her bedsit. This one had pretty curtains to match those in her bedroom. Immaculately white sanitaryware, and fitments toning in with the bedroom’s colour scheme.
The same delicate peachy-pink pastel carpet that covered the floor in her bedroom flowed through into the bathroom. In the bedroom it had a bordered edge in dark blue to tone in with the fabric of the curtains and bedspread. The radiator was hidden behind a painted screen, and the window that overlooked the garden had a charming windowseat covered in the same material.
She heard a clock striking the hour and wondered what she should do. Go down and present herself to Mrs Mayers, or unpack and wait to be summoned?
She was just debating the matter when her bedroom door opened, and Cora came in with a tray of coffee and biscuits.
‘Mrs Mayers will be ready to show you the study in half an hour. I brought you this…’ She put down the tray.
‘You’re spoiling me,’ Lark told her. The coffee was obviously freshly brewed and smelled heavenly. ‘I’m afraid I’m a little out of my depth here,’ she admitted frankly. ‘In my previous job, I was working in an office, not a private house. Can you give me an idea of Mrs Mayers’ routine? Obviously I don’t want to intrude on her private time…’
‘She doesn’t have a routine as such. Works far too hard, she does…’ Cora scowled. ‘And I’m not the only person to think so. It’s high time she had someone reliable to help her. Not at all well she was last winter. She has a weak heart, but she won’t listen to sensible advice. I’ve told her, there’s no sense in killing herself. What good will that do anyone?’
Lark frowned. She hadn’t realised that Mrs Mayers suffered from ill health, and said as much to Cora.
‘No, you won’t do,’ the housekeeper told her. ‘She’s not the sort to make a fuss, isn�
�t Mrs Mayers. If you ask me, that’s why you’re here… To make sure she doesn’t try to do too much. That will be Mr…’
She broke off as they both heard the telephone ring, and the housekeeper excused herself, explaining that Mrs Mayers had her own private line, and that she was normally deputised to take all other incoming calls.
That would be one duty which would probably fall to her, Lark recognised as she finished her coffee and nibbled on one of the delicious homemade biscuits.
She had assumed that it had been Mrs Mayers’ idea to employ an assistant, but now it seemed as though it must have been her son’s. Was that likely to mean that he would be too relieved to hear that his mother had done as he wished to question her past too deeply, or would he be annoyed because his mother had made her final decision without first consulting him?
Either way, there was nothing to be gained from time-wasting speculation. It was almost half-past nine. Time she went downstairs to Mrs Mayers.
The study was unlike any of the other rooms in the house, being far more masculine. Bookshelves lined the walls; velvet curtains hung at the windows; the carpet was Persian and richly coloured, the desk enormous, giving off a scent of beeswax and expensive leather.
‘This used to be my son’s domain, but when he inherited from his uncle, he decided that he could work just as well from the country as from here,’ Mrs Mayers explained. ‘It was a difficult time for him. He was just beginning to become established in his career, and the obvious thing to have done would have been to sell or let the Oxfordshire house. I was pleased when he decided to live in it instead, although really it’s a family house, and far too large for a single man. Not that he’s likely to stay single for ever.’
There was a photograph in a silver frame on the desk: a man in his late fifties with an authoritative face, warmed by a slight smile. There was something almost elusively familiar about him, but Lark told herself she was being over-imaginative.
‘My second husband,’ Mrs Mayers told her quietly, picking up the frame. ‘He died five years ago in a motorway accident. So needless and wasteful.’