by Celia Scott
Seeds of April
By
Celia Scott
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
SEEDS OF APRIL
Getting married to Damon Everett, albeit only as a business arrangement, wasn't so bad, was it? After all, in return Philippa was getting a rich and attractive 'husband', a wardrobe full of glamorous new clothes, and a luxury visit to Crete. There had to be a catch somewhere, though…
First published 1983
Australian copyright 1983
Philippine copyright 1983
This edition 1983
© Celia Scott 1983
ISBN 0 263 74300 4
You'll love me yet!—and I can tarry
Your love's protracted growing;
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry,
From seeds of April's sowing.
Robert Browning, Pippa Passes
CHAPTER ONE
With infinite care Philippa Kenmore filled the fragile interior of the gateau Saint-Honore with rich cream. Laying the empty pastry-bag aside, she absently tucked a wandering strand of honey-beige hair behind her ear and gave a sigh of satisfaction. Without a doubt this gateau was the best she'd ever baked. She consulted her loose-leaf business diary to check the rest of the menu Damon Everett had ordered for this evening's dinner party.
'Caviare'—that was easy, he always had jars and jars of it in his fridge, and he'd phoned earlier to tell her he had bought porterhouse steaks. All she had to do was pick up some fresh vegetables on her way to Wimbledon, and leave herself enough time to prepare a soup, in case his guest didn't like caviare. The next notation read—'Salad'—a simple one, with a tang of lemon. 'Rich dessert'—well, the Saint-Honore was rich all right. If he doesn't like it, Philippa thought, there's no pleasing the man. Not that Damon Everett found fault with her catering, it seemed. He had been hiring her to cook for him regularly for two months now. And apart from the fact that he didn't seem to like her any more than she did him, he never voiced any complaints. Indeed, he often paid her compliments about her culinary skills. But his compliments were delivered with a hint of mockery that made her wary of him.
She checked the time and realised she was running later than she thought. Dashing into the bedroom of the ground floor flat she shared with her young sister Martha, she hastily changed out of blue jeans and pulled on one of her 'working uniforms', a plain brown skirt and cream blouse with a tan belt buckled around her slim waist.
She tugged her glossy hair back and fastened it with an elastic band, peering into the mirror that hung above an old desk Martha used as a dressing table. She had to stoop to do this, because she was a very tall girl. Philippa stood five foot ten inches in her stockinged feet, and being slender as a reed she appeared taller. All her life she had towered over her peers, including her diminutive sister. Very subtly Martha had managed to instil into her older sister the notion that Philippa was a freak, clumsy, oversized, and graceless. And over the years Philippa had started to believe this propaganda. She felt like Gulliver among the Lilliputians. When she looked in the mirror she saw her reflection with Martha's eyes. She didn't see a good-looking young woman of twenty-seven with glorious ash-blonde hair that fell in waves below her shoulders. She didn't see the extraordinary hazel eyes, fringed with thick lashes that were naturally dark, and didn't need the liberal coats of mascara that Martha had to apply—eyes that seemed amber in some lights, golden in others. The fact that her skin was flawless, her figure slender, and her legs long and shapely, seemed to escape her scrutiny. And she seemed to do her level best to spoil the beauty nature had given her. She wore nothing but 'sensible' skirts and blouses, always chose the flattest shoes she could find, and scraped her shining mane back into a punishing elastic-banded pony tail.
She left the glamour to Martha, since she was always far too busy with her catering business, and far too tired, to have time for herself. It had been that way from some years now. The girls' father had been killed in a car crash when they were small. Mrs Kenmore was a tiny, helpless scrap of a woman who had been protected all her life. In her widowhood she turned to her capable eldest daughter for help, and spoiled her baby, Martha, rotten. After school Philippa organised the household, cooked, and did any odd jobs going. And she did it cheerfully, since her nature, like her father's had been, was practical and good-natured.
Mrs Kenmore had died when Philippa was eighteen, and the loss of her doting mother caused Martha to suffer a breakdown. Philippa had somehow managed to cope with her own grief, her distraught sister, and work towards her diploma at the Cordon Bleu Cookery School she attended. By the time Martha recovered she was totally dependent on her elder sister, and Philippa found it difficult to teach her to be less demanding. The damage Mrs Kenmore had started with her indulgence was completed by Martha's illness, and Philippa was trapped. She thought of moving away to live on her own, but knowing what a scene Martha would create, she had put it off.
There were other disadvantages to living with Martha. Since she was wickedly extravagant by nature, her share of the rent often went on clothes she 'simply couldn't resist', and Philippa had to wait months before being paid back. When she reminded her sister that she needed the cash she was sharply told—'Don't be a money-grubber, Tusker, it's boring!' The nickname 'Tusker' had been coined many years ago by their mother because she had considered her eldest daughter to be the 'elephant of the family', Philippa had protested, but her wishes had been ignored, and she'd learnt to live with it.
Pulling on her penny loafers, she heard the front door slam, and suddenly Martha burst into the bedroom. Flinging her coat on to the bed and kicking her shoes to opposite sides of the room, she said:
'You still here, Tusker? Don't you have to work tonight?' She started to undress, which in Martha's case meant pulling off her clothes and letting them fall to the floor.
Philippa checked her watch. 'It's only three-thirty, Martha,' she said. 'What are you doing home at this hour?'
'They let me come home because I told them I wasn't feeling well,' her sister replied, grabbing her hairbrush and attacking her short curly hair vigorously. Her hair was darker blonde than Philippa's and lacked the luminous beige quality of her sister's.
'What's wrong, honey?' Philippa asked, concerned.
'Nothing. I told them I didn't feel well because this divine man's picking me up at five and…'
'Man? What man?'
'This dreamy man I met at work today. Don't just stand there, Tusker!' Martha snapped. 'I've only got an hour and a half and I must have a bath. Iron my pink silk dress, will you? The new one.'
'Now just hold it a moment, Martha!' Philippa cut in. 'Do you mean to tell me you pretended to be ill just to go on a date with a man you've only just met?'
Exasperated, Martha flung down her brush and headed for the bathroom, followed by Philippa. Irritably she turned on the tap and started to fill the ancient tub. Her childish face was petulant.
'Don't nag, Tusker,' she said crossly, 'you're such a bore when you nag.'
'I don't mean to nag you Martha, but I'm worried you'll lose this job too. You're always pretending to be ill. Remember, you waited a long time for this job.'
Indeed, Martha had been fired from her previous job for absenteeism, and had spent several months, not searching for work particularly hard, taking an extended holiday. She had never offered to pay Philippa back rent for these months, and flew into a fury whenever the subject was broached.
'Oh, don't fuss, for God's sake!
' she said venomously. 'You're like an old woman sometimes—fuss, fuss, fuss!' With an ugly pout she threw a handful of bathsalts into the steaming water, and the sweet odour of violets filled the small bathroom. Philippa decided to try another tack.
'Who is this man you're going out with?'
'His name's Eric. He came into the travel agency today. He's dreamy!'
'So you mentioned. What about Ray?' Ray was Martha's current boy-friend.
'That creep!' Martha's lip curled with disgust.
'That's not what you said about him last week. You said he was the greatest.'
'I hadn't met Eric then.'
'I see. And what has this Eric got that Ray hasn't?'
'A car, for one thing,' her sister answered blithely, 'and he's much better looking.'
'What about Ray? Does he know he's been replaced in your affections?'
'Not yet. I told him I wasn't feeling well enough to go out tonight. I'll tell him to get lost tomorrow,' she added with a giggle.
'Do you mean to say you had a date with Ray tonight and you ditched him for a stranger! Honestly, Martha! That's an unforgivable way to behave!'
'Now, Tusker, don't scold, there's a dear,' said Martha, turning on the charm. 'Ray was becoming a dreadful nuisance—begging me to go away with him for weekends. A real pain!' Frankly Philippa didn't think that would bother Martha in the slightest, but she held her peace.
'I still don't think Ray's pestering gives you the right to skip work, Martha.'
'Oh, shut up, Tusker!' Martha's tone was vitriolic. 'Just because you're not attractive to men, there's no need to take it out on me!'
'That's a nasty thing to say!' retorted Philippa, defending herself from this attack.
'Nasty or not, it's true.' Martha turned off the bathwater. 'Let's face it, Phil, you're too tall, too old, and no fun. Men don't like women like you.'
Philippa felt the colour drain from her face. Her height was her Achilles heel. Martha knew that and used it ruthlessly. True, Philippa didn't have her younger sister's track record with boy-friends, but there had been men in her life, and if these relationships had not developed it had not been because of a lack in Philippa. She possessed a fastidiousness her sister did not share. And a blazing honesty, which sometimes intimidated her men friends.
She recovered herself. 'I'm afraid I can't continue this fascinating discussion about my sexual attractiveness right now, because I have to go to work.' She checked her watch again and gave a howl of panic. 'Lord, I'm late!' She headed for the kitchen, and the delicate task of fitting the gateau Saint-Honore into a cake-box. Martha's wail followed her.
'But, Tusker, my dress! It needs ironing!'
'You know where the iron is, Martha. See you later.' Philippa grabbed her raincoat and balancing the precious cake-box like a dozen loose eggs went to her old Mini that was parked outside.
After picking up the fresh vegetables she drove to Damon Everett's house. It was a fair distance from Hammersmith to Wimbledon, so she had time to think. Not that her thoughts were too pleasant. What to do about Martha? Ideally they should find separate flats, but that was easier said than done. After Martha's long stint of unemployment Philippa's savings were low, and the flats she could afford, within reasonable distance of her clients, were as rare as hen's teeth. A frown creased her smooth brow as she drove through the dappled spring sunshine on her way to work for Damon Everett.
She vividly remembered her meeting with him two months ago. She had been cooking for one of her regulars, a Mrs Cardew. 'Divinity Fudge on Chocolate Leaves' was the note against Mrs Cardew's name in Philippa's business diary. This way she kept a record of her clients' favourite dishes, and she tended to think of her regulars by their favourite foods rather than their names. So Mrs Cardew was 'Divinity' to her cook.
It had been a small party, just four people, she remembered. But one of the four was an arresting-looking man who dominated the room. He must have been close to six foot four, and was blessed with broad shoulders and a strong muscular frame, that tapered to lean hips and long legs. His face was dark-complexioned and austerely handsome, with stern lines running from his jutting nose to his particularly well denned mouth. His dark brown hair was cut fashionably trim. He was dressed meticulously, and carried himself with an air.
That particular night in Divinity's kitchen, when dinner was over, Philippa was scraping and stacking dishes (she always left the washing-up for the client to deal with) when suddenly Mrs Cardew came in accompanied by the enormous man Philippa had noticed in the dining room. He had loomed in the doorway, dwarfing his hostess.
'Damon, this is my treasure,' Divinity had twittered, 'Miss Kenmore, I'd like you to meet Mr Damon Everett… the Damon Everett. He thought your dinner an absolute dream, and I said he should tell you so himself.'
Philippa wasn't at all sure who the Damon Everett was, but it was apparent she was supposed to. The name was vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place it, and she felt annoyed with Mrs Cardew, who was more than a trifle silly, for introducing him that way. It fed the man's vanity, a trait she felt sure someone so unusual-looking possessed. His uncompromising steel-blue eyes regarded Philippa unwaveringly. She had resented this scrutiny, and had half turned away from him to continue her work.
'Congratulations on an excellent dinner, Miss Kenmore,' he said. His voice was very distinctive, deep and resonant.
'We aim to please.' She stacked the dishes with maximum clatter.
'I've given Mr Everett your phone number, Miss Kenmore,' Divinity gushed, 'he's so impressed with your cooking. He wants to hire you for a dinner party at his home. What do you think of that?' She twinkled roguishly at Philippa, who slapped another pan into the sink. 'Mr Everett's very fussy,' Divinity reproved. 'Well, he would be wouldn't he? Financing and running tiptop hotels all over the world.' She beamed at her guests, who looked rather discomfited.
Now the penny dropped! Philippa remembered reading an article about him. 'The resourceful Damon Everett, Hotel Empire-Builder,' had been the caption.
'I'm overcome,' she said, 'but I'm also overbooked.' She turned to face him, tilting her head, in spite of her five feet ten inches, to look him full in the eyes. 'Perhaps one of the employees at one of your tiptop hotels could cook for you.'
'I want you to cook for me,' he replied quietly. 'I'm planning a dinner party in ten days' time at my home in Wimbledon. For seven people. I don't want a complicated menu.'
Here was a man who was used to getting his own way. Philippa opened her mouth to protest this highhanded treatment, but he forestalled her by handing her his business card.
'Phone me with your decision. Goodnight, Miss Kenmore.' He held the door for Mrs Cardew, and they swept out.
And that had been that. She decided she disliked the overbearing Damon Everett, but contrary to what she had told him she was quite free the night he planned his party. And, since she needed the money, she phoned to accept the job. She reasoned that he was a good contact, and she mustn't let her personal dislike get in the way of business.
The dinner given at his luxurious Wimbledon house was a great success. Damon Everett was named 'Beef Wellington Rare' and referred to as 'Wellington' ever afterwards in the diary. Soon she was driving her Mini to cook in his huge modern kitchen about twice a week.
She turned into the gravelled drive and parked at the back of the house. Her little car looking quite shabby compared to the shining silver-grey Jaguar that stood in the garage. That meant he was already home. She wouldn't have to look for the key in its usual hiding place.
Balancing her precious cake, she went into the lofty kitchen. The house was an old one, sitting right on Wimbledon Common, so that it had an air of being a country home in spite of being in the heart of London. It had been restored without being spoilt. The kitchen had been completely done over, and Philippa considered it a dream, with its double refrigerator, and every appliance she could wish for. She was inspired to dazzling heights of culinary inventiveness, and black truffles
encased in fragile feather-light pastry, duck stuffed with pine nuts and brought to the table flambéed in brandy, and once a baked Alaska, her first and a triumph, made their way to the candlelit dining room. Tonight's dinner was going to be a snap compared to some of her previous ones.
She had just tied her apron and was scrubbing new potatoes—the size of her thumbnail—when Damon Everett came into the kitchen. He was still wearing a grey pin-stripe business suit and was carrying a large cardboard box, which clinked when he put it on the table. He nodded briefly and proceeded to unload the box, which turned out to contain bottles of champagne. His large, well shaped hands deftly lifted the green-black bottles and stood them gently on the long refectory table, then he put them in the fridge.
'There!' he said, smiling at Philippa. 'That should hold us for a bit.'
'Are you planning a party?' she asked, tipping the tiny potatoes into a pan and starting to clean asparagus for soup.
'No. But I like to have plenty of champagne on ice for emergencies.'
'Emergencies?' Startled, she turned and looked into his mocking blue eyes.
'Well—pleasant emergencies. Like someone getting married. And I like to drink it myself. Don't you?'
'I've only ever drunk it at weddings.'
'And did you enjoy it, Miss Kenmore?' He raised an eyebrow and looked down into her face, and she flushed, as she always did under that ironic gaze. Placing the delicate green asparagus into a tall pot, she answered him crisply.
'Yes, I enjoyed it. But I've never drunk it by the gallon? This sounded so rude that she turned bright red and stammered. 'W-what I mean is, I've never seen so much champagne at one time. Except at weddings, of course—!' she trailed off, feeling foolish.
'Would you like a glass? There is some chilled.'
'What? Now? She was taken aback.
