by Anne Mather
‘‘Course he does.’ Mrs Harris stood back from the table, and nodded her greying head. ‘Sort of shepherd and general handyman he is, when he’s sober.’
‘Isn’t it a little early in the evening for anyone to be—intoxicated?’ Joanna asked doubtfully, but Mrs Harris only laughed, a rather unpleasant gurgling cackle, that split her thin lips and displayed a dearth of teeth in her lower jaw.
‘When Matt goes on one of his binges, time doesn’t have anything to do with it,’ she declared with a sniff. ‘He’ll have been drinking since early this morning, and by now he’ll be roaring drunk. There’s only Mr Sheldon can handle him at times like that, but he’ll get him back to his cottage and lock him in until he sobers up.’
‘I see.’ Joanna took her first mouthful of the soup and managed to hide her distaste as its powdery consistency clung to the roof of her mouth. ‘Well—thank you, Mrs Harris. I—er—I’ll have to eat alone.’
For an awful moment after she’d uttered those words, Joanna wondered if the housekeeper would imagine they were some kind of an invitation, but apparently Mrs Harris had other things on her mind.
‘You’re staying, then?’ she probed, lingering by the door. ‘Or is he just putting you up for the night, until you can get a train back to London?’
Joanna was tempted to say it was none of her business, but that would have been unreasonable. After all, Mrs Harris had to cater for the household, though judging by the state of the place her ministrations were by no means satisfactory.
‘I’m staying,’ she replied now, taking another mouthful of soup after surreptitiously stirring it with her spoon. ‘At least for the present. I hope I may have more success than those ladies had.’
‘Some hopes,’ muttered Mrs Harris dourly, and Joanna looked up.
‘You sound pessimistic, Mrs Harris. Anyone would think you didn’t want me to succeed.’
‘Oh, no. No,’ the housekeeper denied this hastily. ‘O’ course, I hope you’re successful. It’s just that—well, Anya’s not like an ordinary child, if you know what I mean. Been too much with adults, she has——’
‘I think you should leave me to learn about—Anya—for myself,’ replied Joanna firmly, cutting her off. ‘This soup is very nice. What are you going to offer me as an entrée, I wonder?’
Mrs Harris frowned, screwing up her mouth. ‘I don’t know what you mean by no on-tree,’ she declared, sniffing again. ‘But there’s lamb chops to follow, and a piece of my custard.’
Joanna endeavoured to appear enthusiastic, and to her relief Mrs Harris took her dismissal. But as the meal progressed, she began to understand why Jake Sheldon had suggested that Mrs Harris’s meals were best taken hot. Lamb was a greasy dish at any time, and in Mrs Harris’s unskilled hands it had been allowed to swim in its own fat. Left to go cold, it would be revolting, and she wondered whether her employer would be expected to eat it later. The vegetables, boiled carrots and potatoes, had fared a little better, but the gravy, like the soup earlier, was inclined to be floury. The custard tart to finish was not set properly, and as she sat over a cup of instant coffee, which anyone could make, Joanna wondered if the housekeeper would object to being given a few tips. Cooking was one of Joanna’s few accomplishments, and although in the past it had been confined to preparing sauces and desserts for far more elaborate meals, she didn’t think she could do much worse than the unfortunate Mrs Harris.
With supper over, she wandered aimlessly into the sitting room, switching on the standard lamp by the window, and drawing the heavy repp curtains. She discovered a rack of paperback books in an alcove, and a pile of outdated science magazines, and the furnishings were completed by a pair of buttoned horsehair sofas, that gave as liberally as a saddle when one sat upon them, and a black and white television set. Two corner cupboards faced the wide fireplace, but their contents of chipped and dusty porcelain inspired only a fleeting interest. There were no dolls in evidence, no toys at all that she could see, except a couple of jigsaw puzzles, stuffed into the bottom of the bookcase. None of the items present in the room seemed to reflect Jake Sheldon’s personality, and Joanna wondered whether he had bought—or leased?—the property already furnished. That would account for its deplorable lack of taste, she thought, although why she should imagine Jake Sheldon might have any taste was not a proposition she cared to explore.
Picking up one of the paperback books, she attempted to glean some interest in the activities of a well-known private detective, but her ears were constantly alert for any sound of her employer’s return, and the events being described in the book seemed far less improbable than her own situation. She wondered if there was a phone so that she could ring her mother, but the idea of assuring her of her daughter’s well-being seemed totally ludicrous in the present circumstances, and she decided to wait and write when she felt less emotional than she did at present.
She guessed she must have fallen asleep on the sofa, despite its hardness, because when she next looked at the clock on the stone mantelpiece, it was after ten o’clock. She thought some sound must have wakened her, but she was still alone in the room, and inclined to be chilly because of the lowering of her body temperature during her nap.
She got stiffly off the couch and walked to the door into the hall, but there was no one about, and a frown furrowed her brow. She supposed she might as well go to bed as wait here indefinitely for her employer to appear, and with a feeling of flatness she went up the stairs to her room.
It was only as she opened the bedroom door that a sudden thought struck her. She had neither seen nor heard from Antonia all evening, and while her father had declared she was safely in bed, remembering the incident in the woods, Joanna couldn’t help but feel apprehensive. She had read books about naughty children who upset suitcases and squeezed out toothpaste and even put lizards in their governesses’ beds. While she had been lazily snoozing downstairs, Antonia—or Anya—could quite easily have wrought havoc up here.
She pushed open the door tentatively, half prepared to step back if some awful booby trap was waiting for her, but after groping for the switch and turning the light on, she found no apparent signs of mayhem. On the contrary, the room was exactly as she had left it, and she breathed a sigh of relief as she closed the door.
She undressed quickly, shivering as she put on the nightgown she had rummaged out of her case. The rest of her belongings could wait until the morning to be unpacked, she decided firmly, and after a speedy trip to the bathroom she climbed eagerly between the sheets.
The mattress was at least interior sprung, but the nap she had had downstairs had left her wide awake now that she wanted to fall asleep. She tossed and turned incessantly, wondering about Antonia, wondering whether she ought to have checked on the child to see if she was all right before going to bed, wondering whether Jake Sheldon would expect her to be waiting up for him whatever time he chose to come back. She finally fell into a fitful slumber that was rudely destroyed by someone drawing back the curtains and shaking her awake.
‘What is it? What time is it?’ she mumbled, not really conscious of her whereabouts as she struggled to push off the bony hand, and Mrs Harris’s face swam before her, maliciously amused in the bright sunlight streaming in through the windows.
‘It’s time you was up, Miss Seton,’ the housekeeper declared, setting down a cup of tea on the bedside table and folding her arms, a favourite position of hers. ‘After eight o’clock, it is, and Mr Sheldon said to tell you we don’t keep town hours here.’
‘After eight o’clock …’ Joanna elbowed herself up on to her pillows, aware that Mrs Harris was studying her with evident interest. It made her self-consciously aware of the brevity of her silk nightgown, and also reminded her that this was the first time the housekeeper had seen her hair loose. Long and honey-brown, streaked with gold in places, it swung soft and becomingly about her shoulders, framing the oval shape of her face and accentuating the creamy paleness of her skin.
‘Yes, nearly qu
arter past, it is, and if I was you I’d get myself downstairs.’
‘Eight o’clock’s not so late, is it?’ protested Joanna, draping the sheet protectively about her shoulders. Despite the brightness of the day outside it was still chilly, and she needed a few minutes to gather her confused senses.
‘Mr Sheldon had his breakfast at seven o’clock,’ retorted Mrs Harris with evident relish. ‘And I have other things to do than keep meals hanging about for hours.’ She moved towards the door. ‘It’ll be on the table in fifteen minutes. If you’re there, all well and good, if not——’
‘Wait!’ Joanna strove to get into a sitting position. ‘Mrs Harris, I don’t eat breakfast. At least, perhaps toast and coffee sometimes.’ The aroma of frying bacon was unmistakable as the housekeeper opened the door. ‘I’m afraid I can’t stomach fried food in the mornings.’
Mrs Harris pursed her lips. ‘You mean to say my fried eggs, sausages and bacon are going to be wasted?’
Joanna tried to hide her grimace. ‘I’m sorry.’ She was tempted to add, give them to the dogs, but she was glad she decided against it when Mrs Harris continued:
‘I’ll have to tell Mr Sheldon about this,’ she declared, with the inevitable sniff. ‘He can’t afford for good food to go to waste. Like as not, he’ll suggest that I warm it up for your lunch, so don’t imagine you can pick and choose here like you used to in London.’
The door closed behind her, and Joanna’s shoulders sagged. She wondered whether Mrs Harris would believe her if she told her that at home finances had been so tight that the idea of having bacon, eggs and sausages for breakfast would have been an unthinkable extravagance. It was true, she had never eaten a big breakfast, but that was mostly because at boarding school the food had been so appalling, and in Switzerland she had grown accustomed to the continental style of eating.
Still, there was no time now to sit and reflect on the past. Evidently she was expected to start work at nine o’clock, and it would probably take her half the time she had to pull herself together.
The cup of tea helped, despite the fact that it was thick and black, and far too sweet for her taste. But at least it was restoring, and she got out of bed afterwards with a little more enthusiasm.
The lino was icy to her toes, which certainly quickened her actions. Slipping her feet into slippers, she padded over to the washbasin, and after sluicing her face in lukewarm water and cleaning her teeth, she hastily put on the first things that came to hand. The purple corded jeans were blessedly warm, and she found a matching polo-necked sweater that dispelled the gooseflesh from her arms.
Her hair presented more of a problem, but she managed to coil it into a loose-fitting knot, although she was aware that the tendrils which persisted in falling about her ears gave it a far too casual appearance. Nevertheless, it would have to do until later, she decided, after an anxious examination of her watch, and after applying a shiny lipstick she hurriedly descended the stairs.
Once again she had the dining room to herself, the early sun highlighting the dents and stains that marked the heavy sideboard, and reflecting off windows grimy with the dust of months. However Mrs Harris filled her time, it was not in housework, thought Joanna grimly, realising that her mother would have dismissed the woman the minute she saw this place.
A congealing mess of bacon, sausages and broken eggs was set for Joanna’s inspection, and she heaved a sigh of impatience. She had explained she didn’t want the fried food, but the housekeeper had ignored her instructions. There was also toast—cold, she discovered, and tea instead of coffee.
It was too much. With a feeling of intense frustration, Joanna marched to the door, then stepped back in confusion as she almost collided with her employer. This morning he had not shaved as yet, and the shadow of his beard darkened his already swarthy skin. His black hair, and it was black, she saw, although streaked with grey in places, was rumpled, as if he had been threading his fingers through it, and he seemed to be wearing the same clothes as he had worn the night before. His scarred appearance seemed more obvious this morning, accentuated as it was by gauntness and exhaustion and a certain red-rimmed weariness about his eyes. She wondered for an awful moment whether he had joined the notorious Matt Coulston in his drinking bout, but there was no slurring of Jake Sheldon’s speech when he said harshly: ‘So you’ve decided to get up at last, Miss Seton. When you’ve had your breakfast, perhaps you and I could have a few words.’
Joanna glanced back at the table, and then took a deep breath. ‘As a matter of fact, I wanted to have a few words with you, Mr Sheldon,’ she stated, refusing to be intimidated by his grim countenance. ‘I’m afraid I don’t eat a cooked breakfast. I never have, and what’s more, I prefer coffee in the mornings, not tea.’
‘Oh, you do, do you?’ His expression had not changed, though she perceived a faint hardening of the curiously cat-like eyes. ‘Well, perhaps you ought to take that up with Mrs Harris. She’s the housekeeper around here, not me.’
‘Is she?’ mumbled Joanna, under her breath, but he had heard her, and the dark brows descended.
‘What is that supposed to mean?’
Joanna sighed. The last thing she wanted this early in their association was an argument about his housekeeping arrangements, and bending her head, she moved her shoulders in an offhand gesture.
‘Nothing,’ she said at last. ‘I—er—I’ll speak to Mrs Harris, as you say.’
He seemed loath to leave it, though without her contribution he had no choice, but as he turned away she ventured: ‘When will—er—Antonia be ready to start her lessons, Mr Sheldon? And where would you like me to conduct them?’
His frown was penetrating. A narrow concentration that made her wish she had waited for him to broach the subject. ‘You don’t know?’ he demanded. ‘Mrs Harris didn’t tell you?’
‘Tell me? Tell me what?’
‘Anya ran away yesterday evening. I’ve been out all night looking for her.’
‘No!’ Joanna was horrified. That explained the haggard appearance, the growth of beard on the jawline. ‘And have you found her? Do you know where she is? You should have woken me, I could have helped you.’
‘Really?’ His tone was sardonic. ‘When you’re the reason she ran away?’
Joanna flushed. ‘Have you found her?’
He heaved a heavy sigh. ‘I have a good idea where she is.’
‘Where?’
He hesitated, as if reluctant to discuss it with her, and then he shrugged. ‘There’s a shepherd’s hut, up on the fell. I know she goes there sometimes. It’s about two miles from here, but until the mist lifts we haven’t a hope in hell of finding it.’
‘You knew that—last night?’
‘I guessed, after searching the woods around the house, and enquiring in the village.’
‘Then why didn’t you——’
‘—go searching the fell?’ He shook his head. ‘You don’t know this area very well, do you, Miss Seton? When the mist comes down, and at this time of the year it inevitably does, the fells are treacherous to an inexperienced climber like me. Even the rescue teams can’t turn out in weather like that. They have to wait till the mist clears, till they can see where they’re going.’
Joanna glanced towards the windows. ‘But it’s clear now.’
‘It’s clearing,’ he agreed heavily. ‘As soon as I’ve changed my clothes, I’m going out after her. I only hope to God she got there in time.’
Joanna made a helpless gesture. ‘But—staying out all night!’ She recalled the anxious moments she had had climbing the stairs the night before, the anticipation of childish pranks meant to deter her from staying. And all the while Antonia had not even been in the house. She felt hopelessly inadequate to combat such determination. ‘Wouldn’t she be afraid?’
‘Anya?’ There was pride as well as anxiety in his voice now. ‘She’s not afraid of the dark, if that’s what you mean. And Binzer’s with her, wherever she is. He won’t leave her.’
<
br /> ‘Binzer?’ Joanna paused. ‘That’s a dog?’
‘One of the sheepdogs you saw yesterday,’ Jake agreed, expelling his breath wearily. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me——’
‘May I come with you?’ Joanna’s cheeks burned briefly as she encountered his sardonic gaze. ‘I mean—to find Antonia, of course.’
‘Call her Anya. Everybody does,’ he remarked flatly. ‘It may help you to get through to her, although I doubt it somehow.’
‘And may I? Come with you?’
‘Do you have any strong walking shoes?’
Joanna glanced down at the plain vamps she had worn for comfort. Obviously they were not suitable. ‘I have some desert boots,’ she murmured doubtfully.
‘Desert boots?’ He shook his head. ‘What are they?’
‘They’re suede; ankle boots. They’re quite strong.’
He looked at her for a disturbing moment, making her overwhelmingly aware of his opinion of her. She could almost feel his contempt scraping over her skin, and she realised how similar their situations were. He didn’t really want a young female, with no formal qualifications, teaching his daughter. He would much have preferred one of the educated ladies Mrs Harris had spoken of, whose references were no doubt exemplary. And she had never expected to find herself in this position, being forced to care for a problem child, when what she had really hoped for was some pleasant sinecure with a wealthy family, where she could continue to live the kind of life to which until recently she had been accustomed.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, striding towards the stairs. ‘Be ready in ten minutes. And bring a warm coat.’
The ten minutes gave her little time to eat any breakfast, or to complain about the choice of beverage. Instead, she scraped butter and jam on a slice of toast and carried it up to her room, deciding that now was not the time to cross swords with Mrs Harris.
The unmade bed gave the room an unkempt appearance, and after lacing on her boots she quickly shook the pillows and pulled up the covers. She doubted Mrs Harris would consider bed-making part of her duties, and as she had a couple of minutes to spare she contemplated a hasty appraisal of Anya’s room. Maybe if she could see her belongings, the things she cared about, she would have some idea of how to approach her, and swallowing the last morsel of toast, she left her room. In the hall outside she slid her arms into the sheepskin jacket she was carrying, and made a swift inspection of the doors available to her. Apart from her door, and the door into the bathroom, there were four other doors, and her brow furrowed as she realised she had no way of knowing which was the child’s room.