Love in Disguise Part 4

'Of course. But your habits-the way you like things done-made me think you were old-I mean elderly.' She saw his mouth tighten and said quickly: 'I know very little about people in the City. I don't make a habit of reading the financial news.'

'I'm glad to hear it,' he said crisply. 'Stick to housekeeping, Miss Wilmot. It suits women better.'

Her cheeks flamed and she bit back a sharp retort. 'Did you wish to talk to me about anything in particular, sir?'

'No. When we met this afternoon you told me as much as I needed to know.'

'Then may I go?'

'By all means.'

Her hand was on the door when he called her back. 'If I find you unsatisfactory, Miss Wilmot, I won't keep you; good deed or no good deed for Miss Evans.'

'I don't expect you to be charitable, sir, merely fair.'

'I always try to be fair.' He bent to the fire again, and knowing herself dismissed, she went out.

In the hall she paused; her pulse was racing as if she had run up a flight of stairs and the bodice of her dress was sticking to her skin. What bad luck that she had met Mr. Allen this afternoon! It had put her on the defensive and from now on she would have to be doubly careful not to arouse his ire. It would be a pity if-after having gone to all the trouble of getting this job-she wouldn't be able to keep it for Betsy. The thought was sobering and remained with her for the rest of the evening, helping to lessen the antagonism she felt towards the man who sat alone in his library absorbed in a world of music.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Mrs. Goodbody departed for Canada the following Friday and at last Anthea felt she was going to be put to the test.

Even without the presence of its owner, Bartham Manor was an onerous responsibility, for it was a veritable treasure house of antique furniture and paintings, and as such, was a burglar's paradise. Luckily there was an elaborate alarm system linked to the local police station, as well as three Alsatians who roamed the grounds and were cared for by one of the gardeners. But she made it her business to acquaint herself with the dogs, one of whom attached itself to her side whenever she went for a walk.

Having made her employer's acquaintance-she could not in all honesty put it higher than that-she found herself seeing the house more as a home and less as a setting for an unknown tycoon. But she still could not place him in his background and wondered how he had acquired all the objets d'art he owned. Had he handed someone a blank cheque and given them orders to buy the best, or had he himself gone the rounds of the sales rooms and elegant antique shops?

She half hoped he would not come down to the country the first weekend she was on her own, but he arrived very late on Friday evening, his secretary having called to tell her he would not be requiring dinner. Nervously Anthea went through the main rooms to make sure there were fresh flowers everywhere and left a thermos of coffee and some sandwiches in his bedroom in case he fancied a snack.

It was not until Saturday morning-when she was coming out of the drawing-room carrying some old magazines-that she finally saw him. He was as casually dressed as he had been the first time they had met, and wore slacks and sweater almost the same cinnamon shade as her own hair. It made him look less sombre, though he was unsmiling as their eyes met. It was difficult to see their colour behind his dark-rimmed glasses and she would have liked to have seen him without them.

'Well,' he said crisply. 'Nervous of being left in sole charge?'

'Not at all, sir.' She pulled down the cuffs of her dress and stood primly before him, waiting for him to speak. But he did not do so and with a slight inclination of his head he walked past her.

They did not meet again for the rest of the day, though she was aware of him about the house. He ate lunch in solitary state in the huge dining-room and afterwards went for a long walk in the grounds, returning shortly before dinner which he took on a tray in the library. She was not sure if he watched television, worked or listened to music, but when she went out for a breath of fresh air before going to bed she glimpsed a chink of light through his curtained windows and was curious to know why he chose to spend his time alone; a man in his position must surely have a host of friends.

On Sunday the same pattern was repeated, and Anthea was surprised he was not bored by it. For her own part, she had plenty of time on her hands too. The servants had been in their jobs so long that they knew exactly what to do, and apart from a brief chat with them each morning, she kept her supervision minimal. Her daily inspection of the house did not take more than half an hour and so far she had not found anything to complain of. If she did, she hoped she would have the courage to verbalise it.

On Sunday evening she got down to her own private studies. Her year's absence from university had left her rusty regarding the two previous years' work she had done, and she had set herself the task of re-reading a great many of her books. It was harder than she had expected to re- immerse herself in her curriculum, and not for the first time she doubted her wisdom in having chosen to read history. Naturally it had pleased her father, but she was not sure if it still pleased her. But it was too late to change her course now, besides being a waste of all the work she had done to date. She would wait until she obtained her degree and then see if she still felt disinclined to teach or to do research.

Making a face at the heavy tome in front of her on the table, she pulled it forward, and was soon absorbed in Europe in the sixteenth century, so intrigued by the fight for power between the various cardinals of Spain and France that she did not realise she was being watched until the scraping of a chair made her look up.

Mr. Allen had come into her sitting-room and was leaning against the side of a winged chair. In a deep blue velvet smoking jacket, and with his tanned skin and black hair, he looked like a figure in an Ingres portrait. Again she felt curious about his background and wondered if he was as aristocratic as he appeared. Hastily she went to stand, but he waved her to remain where she was.

'Don't disturb yourself, Miss Wilmot. I merely came in because I'll be leaving early in the morning and I wanted to let you know I'm having a house-party next weekend. Two couples, possibly three.'

'Very good, sir. I'll see everything is made ready.'

'One of the couples will be Jasper Goderick and his wife. Please see that Mr. Goderick has the South Suite and his wife the one next to- it. And ring my secretary on Tuesday to check if any of the guests have any special preferences as to food.'

'I'll check in my own book first,' Anthea replied. 'If your guests have been here before, Mrs. Goodbody will have made a note of their likes and dislikes.'

'Ah yes, I hadn't thought of that. Good.'

His eyes lowered to the table and the pile of books on it. He did not pick any of them up, but she saw him stare at a couple of the titles before he crossed to the door and went out.

With a snap Anthea closed the book she had been reading. She would not be able to concentrate on it any more tonight; her employer's entry had destroyed her peace of mind.

Pushing back her chair, she went over and unlocked the bureau that stood in stolid mahogany splendour next to the window. Inside she found the book she wanted; leather-bound with thick pages faintly ruled in blue, and half of them already filled with the names and dates of the house- parties given at Bartham Manor. An index in the front alphabetically listed the names of all the guests, and the Godericks, she saw, were among the most frequent visitors.

Mr. Goderick had an aversion to cooked cheese and was not partial to fish. He smoked heavily and Mrs. Goodbody had made a note that the ashtrays in his room had to be doubled. His wife on the other hand was a non-smoker; she liked her bed-linen changed every day and one of the housemaids was always assigned to her during her stay to lake care of her clothes which, again according to the book, required a great deal of skilled attention.

Anthea wished she had had the sense to go through this book with Mrs. Goodbody herself, but it was too late now. She could only pray that the information in it was up to date and correct. It would be embarrassing-to say the least-if anything went wrong with the first house-party over which she would be in charge.

Replacing the book in the bureau, she went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of chocolate. One of the maids had suggested bringing it to her each night, but she had refused, preferring to potter alone in the beautifully equipped kitchen, with the opportunity to look at the well-stocked larders and the two huge deep-freeze cabinets purring in the corner.

She was in the act of filling her cup when Mr. Herbert came in: the real chauffeur, as she now thought of him. Small and neat, his face was as shining as the polished buttons on his grey uniform jacket. It was unusual to see him in the kitchen, for he normally remained in his quarters above the garage.

'Is anything wrong, Mr. Herbert?'

'I need a clock, Miss Wilmot. My alarm has broken.'

'Won't the operator give you an alarm call?'

'My phone is only connected to the house, not the exchange.'

'Of course,' she apologised. 'If you let me know what time you want to be woken up, I'll have someone call you in the morning.'

'We'll be up and away long before any of you are stirring ! Mr. Allen has an early meeting in the city so we'll be leaving here by six-thirty.'

'In that case you'd better take the kitchen clock.' Anthea handed it to him. 'Don't forget to give it back to me in the morning. I'll be seeing you before you leave,' she added as he was about to interrupt. 'I'll make Mr Allen's breakfast myself. Cook and her husband are staying in the village tonight. It was her sister's twentieth wedding anniversary and they went off this afternoon.'

'You should have told Mr. Allen. I'm sure he wouldn't want you to disturb yourself.'

'Why not? It's my job.'

The chauffeur smiled briefly, thanked her again for the alarm clock, and departed.

Afraid of oversleeping, Anthea only dozed fitfully, and was awake and dressed long before her own alarm rang out. It was still dark so early in the morning, and the stars had not yet faded in the sky, though the birds were beginning to stir as she sped down the servants' stairs to the kitchen.

The house was as warm as it always was. The thermostatic heating kept it at an even temperature and there was no shivering discomfort to overcome as she squeezed fresh oranges for juice and laid the silver tray with Mr. Allen's breakfast china, embroidered napkin and ivory-handled knives and spoons. The marmalade was in a silver container and the eggcups were silver too.

She glanced at her watch. Six o'clock. Speeding down the servants' corridor, she opened the door to the main hall. The house was silent, but even as she listened she heard a light tread on the carpet stair. Hurrying back to the kitchen, she set the eggs to boil, and four minutes later carried the heavy silver tray into the breakfast-room.

Her employer was standing by the window looking out at the slowly lightening garden, the green grass still dipped with dew.

'Good morning, Miss Wilmot.' There was barely perceptible surprise in his voice. 'Where is Leggat?'

'He and his wife stayed in the village last night. They had a family party.'

'You made my breakfast?'

'Yes, sir,' she said without expression, and set the tray on the table. 'I didn't know if you wished to have something more substantial so early in the morning.'

'Eggs will be fine, thank you. But if you'd told me about the Leggats last night I would have told you not to bother with my breakfast. When I leave so early I usually just have coffee.'

'I would still have had to make it, sir, and once I'm up there's no reason why you can't have a proper breakfast.'

Unexpectedly he chuckled. 'I love the phrase "proper breakfast". It makes you sound like my old nanny.'

'I feel it,' she said without thinking.

'Indeed?'

Though the word itself was a question, his tone implied disinterest, which was just as well since she would have been hard put to explain why she felt like his nanny. Flinging a look of dislike at her black-covered arms, she vowed that the minute his car disappeared down the drive she would put on something less conducive to depression.

'Will that be all, sir?' she asked primly.

He nodded and she went out, careful to close the door quietly behind her. His first weekend had come to an end. Thank goodness nothing had gone wrong. She only hoped she would be able to say the same when next Monday dawned.

She was eating her own egg when she heard the car revving up in the garage. Within a few moments all was quiet and she went back into the breakfast-room. There was no need for her to have come in here again-she would leave the tray for the maid to clear-but curiosity had made her do so and she looked at the napkin folded on the table, the knife set on the plate and the silver lid replaced on the marmalade jar. Mr. Allen did not only require tidiness in others, he was equally tidy himself. 'A paragon of virtue,' she muttered, and walked out.

On Tuesday morning she checked with his secretary to confirm the names of the weekend guests. As well as the Godericks, there were a Mr. and Mrs. Frankenheim from Texas and a Lady Wittle who would be acting as hostess.

Anthea was startled by the curiosity this raised in her, and a quick glance through the guest book showed that Lady Wittle was an even more frequent visitor here than the Godericks. Again she was annoyed for not having spoken to Mrs. Goodbody about this guest book. Still, having assumed Mr. Allen to be a crotchety old man, it would not have entered her mind to find out whether he had any romantic interest in his life, nor to care even if he had. Not that she was interested now, she told herself. Her curiosity only stemmed from curiosity. The thought made her grin.

'You're a nosey parker, Anthea my girl,' she said aloud, and deliberately put all thoughts of her employer and his friends out of her mind.

On Thursday Monsieur Marcel, the French chef, arrived from London. He was a nattily dressed little man and drove a Renault shooting brake from which he unloaded basket after basket of provisions.

Within an hour he had taken control of the kitchen and Anthea, apprehensive as to how Mrs. Leggat would react, heaved a sigh of relief when the woman discarded her apron and retired to spend the weekend at her sister's cottage, leaving her husband-who was the butler-to perform his usual duties.

Surprisingly, Monsieur Marcel was not a temperamental chef-apart from the idiosyncrasy of bringing with him all his own knives-but glimpsing him at work as he cut and chopped and peeled, Anthea appreciated why he did so.

'Mr. Allen has given me a list of the wines he wants,' the Frenchman said, handing her a typewritten sheet of paper. 'But he's leaving the choice of soft drinks to you.'

'I'll pick vintage orange 1960!' she grinned, and handed the list to Leggat. 'Shall we go to the wine cellar now?'

The butler nodded, and feeling like a true chatelaine, Anthea went down to the basement-as clean here as the rest of the house-and unlocked a heavy oak door. Here were row after row of wines; all in racks, all stored at the correct temperature: not too warm to spoil the white and not too cold to spoil die reds.

Gently she and Leggat carried the necessary bottles up to the butler's pantry, where they would be decanted in good time and poured into beautiful crystal glass decanters.

'What about the soft drinks?' she enquired.

The butler smiled. 'That was Mr. Allen's little joke. Probably his way of telling you not to worry about anything.'

Doubtful that this was the reason-she saw her employer's remark more as sarcasm than reassurance-Anthea diplomatically held her tongue. It would not do to disclose her feelings about Mr. Allen to anyone else, particularly members of the staff.

On Friday afternoon she arranged all the flowers. It was luxurious to be able to go to the huge greenhouses and choose from a magnificent assortment of blooms, and she spent a long time there before coming away with several laden baskets. Mr. Allen preferred plants to cut flowers in the hall and library-again she gave thanks to the notes she had made during her first week here with Mrs. Good- body-and she ordered the gardener to bring in pots of hydrangeas, bright green bamboo and darker leaved palms.

At five-thirty she had arranged both flowers and plants to her satisfaction, and went to her room to change into her party black. It was still two sizes too large and had a bunchy skirt and white collar and cuffs. Sturdy black shoes and thick stockings successfully spoiled her long and lovely legs, and beige powder and mauve lipstick immediately aged her ten years, making her look so plain that she burst out laughing.

She was hovering in the hall when the first guests arrived. They were Mr. and Mrs. Frankenheim, she with silver blue hair and silver mink coat, he wreathed in cigar smoke and aggressively new tweeds.

Hardly had she shown them to their room when Lady Wittle arrived, driving herself in a small and ancient car. She was not a day younger than seventy, and like Anthea made no concession to fashion, though her suit and brogues were obviously part of her character and not a disguise. She was tall and thin, with a strong face and a full lower lip similar to Mark Allen's, who Anthea learned with swiftly concealed astonishment was Lady Wittie's nephew.

'Either that young man gets married soon and has' a wife to act as his hostess, or he'll have to find someone in place of me,' she said cheerfully as she gave Anthea a hearty handshake and stomped up the stairs to the room she knew was always hers. 'Who's here this weekend?'

Anthea told her and Lady Wittle grunted. 'Do the Frankenheims look as if they play bridge?'

'I can't tell,' Anthea replied, 'but Mr. and Mrs. Goderick do.'

'Claudine never plays cards when she's here. She's always too busy with my nephew. Is there anyone else coming?' 'Those are the only guests.'

'Well, I've brought a good book with me, so I can always read.'

'I'm sure you'll find Mrs. Frankenheim amusing and friendly.'

'How old is she?'

'About sixty.'

'That should put Claudine in a good mood. She can be a real bitch if she thinks she has any competition!'

Anthea moved to the door and Lady Wittle chuckled. 'I see you don't like gossiping, Miss Wilmot. You don't only look the perfect housekeeper, you act it!'

Anthea flushed and turned to regard the older woman, surprising a look of amusement on the lined face.

'How do you like working here?' Lady Wittle continued.

'I'm only here until Miss Evans is well enough to take up the position.'

'So my nephew told me.'

Anthea was surprised that Mr. Allen had bothered to talk to his aunt about his housekeeper, though the surprise was less pleasurable as the woman continued.

'He is rather doubtful about your being able to manage. Acts younger than the experience she says she has but looks older than her years, was the way he put it!'

Anthea fled before Lady Wittle came out with any more indiscretions, though the chuckle as she closed the door told her that the woman had enjoyed teasing her. If Lady Wittle behaved this way to everyone, the weekend might be more interesting than she had expected. Yet somehow she could not believe Mark Allen would have an indiscreet woman to act as his hostess, and a little later, as she saw her deep in conversation with the American couple, she knew she was right.