Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise

by Rachel Lindsay

  'A living-in job?' her stepmother exclaimed. 'Who is it for?'

  'Mr. Mark Allen.'

  'The financier? My dear girl, what an excellent opportunity for you! You're certain to meet a lot of interesting people while you're working for him.'

  'She meets interesting people here too,' Professor Wilmot said mildly. 'Why does Mr. Allen want to employ a history student?'

  It was a question Anthea had foolishly not considered. 'It's more of a—secretarial job than a research one.'

  'But you can't type or do shorthand.'

  'He doesn't dictate fast and—and there'll be some research,' she said hastily. 'It's a book about—about City financiers from the time of Disraeli onwards.'

  'I wouldn't have thought Mr. Allen had either the time or the inclination to write a book.'

  'He's the sort of man who will make time for anything— providing he wants to do it.'

  'Indeed?' said the Professor. 'Tell me more about him.'

  Anthea was flummoxed. To admit she had never met her employer would lead to explanations she was unwilling to give, and she racked her brains to try and remember what she knew of the man. Nothing came to mind and she plunged into conjecture.

  i

  'He's middle-aged and fussy. Everything has to be just so and—and I think he can be quite tetchy if it isn't. He likes his comforts,' she said, thinking of his beautiful home, 'and he hates having his routine upset,' she added, thinking of the absurdly large staff—both at Bartham Manor and London—who were employed solely to cater to his comforts.

  'He doesn't sound particularly charming,' her father commented. 'Do you think you will enjoy working for him?'

  'I won't be seeing much of him,' Anthea answered truthfully. 'I mean once he's told me what to do, he'll leave me to get on with it.'

  'It all sounds splendid to me,' Maude Wilmot commented and, delighted at the prospect of having the house to herself at last, relaxed in a way she had never done before.

  It made Anthea more glad than ever that she was leaving. Her father and stepmother needed to be alone together without her own presence to cause friction.

  That night, as she sorted through her clothes and books, she was not unduly surprised when her father came in.

  'About this job with Mr. Allen,' he began purposefully, 'I hope you aren't taking it because of Maude? As I said before, this is your home and you are always to regard it as such.'

  Anthea jumped up from the floor where she was packing her clothes into a case, and hugged him. 'It's sweet of you to say so, Dad, but my staying here wouldn't work. When Maude and I aren't living together, we'll get on much better.'

  'I'm sorry you don't like her.'

  'I do like her,' Anthea said quickly. 'She's the right sort of wife for you, and that's more important than anything else.'

  'I suppose my friends regard her as an unexpected choice too,' Professor Wilmot sighed. 'But she is sensible and down to earth and she knows exactly how to take care of me.' He sighed. 'It wouldn't have been fair of me to have continued relying on you. And as long as I remained a widower you would have worried about me and not had a life of your own.’

  'You didn't have to marry for that.’

  'It seemed a sensible reason.' He smiled slightly, his thin face with its untidy grey locks, looking puckish. 'Maude is quite different from your mother, as I'm sure you are aware, and that's sensible too. It's never good to compare one person with another.'

  'I know you'll be happy,' Anthea said. 'And I'm doing the right thing by going away. I won't be all that far, you know.'

  'That's true; and from October I'll be seeing you at your tutorials. Will your research for Mr. Allen be over by then?'

  'Definitely. So I hope you'll use your influence to get me decent rooms in college?'

  'What's a father for?' he chuckled, and went out looking more relieved than when he had come in.

  On Monday morning Anthea presented herself at Bartham Manor. She was suitably clothed for the part in a black wool dress two sizes too large, thick black stockings and flat-heeled lace-up shoes. Steel-rimmed glasses with plain lenses—which she had once worn in a school play—masked her large grey-green eyes, and unflattering beige powder veiled her creamy skin. Lipstick in an unbecoming shade of purple hid the lovely curves of her mouth and her glossy chestnut hair was pulled away from her face and plaited round her head. The style added several years to her appearance and as she followed the butler down the servants' corridor to Mrs. Goodbody's room, she was reminded of Jane Eyre and hoped there would be no Mr. Rochester in her own life.

  With surprising ease Anthea settled into her new position. All the staff had been at the Manor for many years and needed no supervision to ensure they did their work.

  She was at a loss to understand why Mr. Allen needed to employ a housekeeper here, for Mrs. Leggat, the cook, could quite easily have done what was required.

  It was only as the days passed and she learned more about her duties that she realised she had misjudged the position. Her employer, it seemed, did not so much require a housekeeper as a stand-in-wife. Whenever he was in residence it was her duty to see that there were fresh flowers in his bedroom and library each day; that the humidors were filled with cigars—which she had to finger-test for freshness—and that a stack of new magazines and daily papers were always kept in the drawing-room where the pillows were never to be allowed to stand stiffly against the backs of the settees, but had to be carefully disarrayed to give the room a lived-in appearance.

  'Mr. Allen can't abide the place looking as though the decorators have just stepped out,' Mrs. Goodbody explained. 'I've known him come in and sit in every chair just to squash the cushions!'

  Anthea's image of the financier began to be somewhat distorted. 'But you say he likes things to be tidy?'

  'Tidy but homely.'

  'He sounds an awful fusspot,' Anthea muttered, and immediately regretted the comment as she saw Mrs. Good- body frown. 'I'm just worried in case I do anything to upset him,' she added hastily.

  'He'll let you know if you do! He can be sharp when he sees fit. But he's always fair.'

  'Is he a widower?'

  Mrs. Goodbody pursed her lips and considered the question. Then deciding it was a justified one, she answered it.

  'He was engaged years ago, but it was broken off. Ever since then he's felt that women are more interested in his money than in him.'

  Anthea sniffed irritably. 'Why do rich men always think they're being married for their money?'

  'Perhaps because they usually are!'

  'Then they've only themselves to blame. Most of them have nothing else to offer a woman except a bank account.'

  'Mr. Allen has a great deal to offer besides money. He's a most cultured and intelligent gentleman.'

  Privately Anthea did not agree. Apart from the antique furniture and English landscape paintings on the walls— which all looked as if they had been bought with the house—there was no sign of Mr. Allen's culture or intelligence. She had not even seen a book except for the library, where yards of leather-bound volumes in pristine condition lined the walls.

  However, later that week when she was shown into his bedroom for the first time, she was obliged to revise her opinion. Here she found shelves crammed with well- thumbed books on travel, history and philosophy. There were no novels and, surprisingly, nothing on finance. But perhaps Mr. Allen felt he already knew everything about that subject!

  It was strange to learn about a man via his possessions, and each one added another piece to the jigsaw of his personality. But there were still many gaps missing. From the expensive stereo equipment—both in the library and bedroom—she knew he was fond of music, but his taste here was as austere as she had expected, with a disproportionate amount of Bach and Purcell, the latter being one of her pet aversions. Clothes—which would have given away much more of his personality—were kept in locked wall cupboards, and opened only by Mr. Allen or his valet.

  'We only take c
are of the clothes if Mr. Allen is away for a long time,' the housekeeper explained. 'And then it's just a matter of airing them. Otherwise it's more than my life is worth to touch anything, He can't abide a cufflink out of place.'

  'I bet he's never lost one!

  'Indeed no.' The woman looked shocked at the thought. 'But when he's down here by himself he mostly wears woollies.'

  Anthea at once pictured him in faded cashmere with a scarf around his neck. More and more he was beginning to take on the image of Scrooge. His attitude to money was different, of course, but he certainly possessed the same irascible temperament.

  'He sounds so difficult that I'm surprised you've stayed with him,' she commented one evening towards the end of the week as she enjoyed a cup of tea with the housekeeper.

  'You'll never find a nicer man to work for,' came the instant reply. 'I wouldn't be leaving now if it weren't for my daughter begging me to go and live with her. Providing you follow the rules he lays down and don't bother him with a lot of gossiping nonsense about the servants, he'll leave you completely alone.'

  Since this was exactly what Anthea wanted, she made a. vow to follow his rules come what may.

  'Where is Mr. Allen now?' she asked.

  'In Hong Kong. But he should be back any day. His secretary always telephones to let us know when he's due. He spends most weekends down here when he's in England, and in the summer he'll come once or twice during the week too. It depends how busy he is.'

  'Does he do much entertaining?'

  'More in London than he does here. But if he gives a house-party he always brings Monsieur Marcel, the chef. You must watch out for him,' Mrs. Goodbody sniffed. 'He's French.'

  Anthea was not sure what this was meant to imply, but considered it would be wiser to wait and see. Looking at her reflection in the mirror in her room later that night, she concluded that she would not need to fear any man— French or otherwise.

  She had become so accustomed to seeing herself swathed from head to mid-calf in black that it was a pleasure to undress and see her creamy arms and legs. It was a good thing she was not going to be here in the summer, for nothing would have induced her to go around looking like a mourner at a wake when the sun was shining. How typical of Mr. Allen to insist on his housekeeper wearing such a miserable uniform! He seemed a typical old bachelor. It was a pity he hadn't married. A wife might have made him less of a curmudgeon. She tried to envisage the sort of woman who might have married him, but she could only conjure up a picture of Maude. Hastily she put the thought aside, for Maude was her reason for being here.

  Yet in an odd sort of way Anthea was enjoying her charade and daily drew more proficient at playing it. Only at night, alone in her room, did she relax from her role and settle in bed with one or other of the books she had borrowed from Mr. Allen's room. They all bore his name on the fly-leaf; a firm signature with a curving "A" and well looped "Ps" unlike the narrow, rigid man she considered him to be.

  On Saturday she went home for the day. Mrs. Goodbody was flying to Canada the following weekend and she suggested Anthea might like to have a complete break before commencing her duties.

  'It's pointless for us both to be here twiddling our thumbs, and I'm sure you'd like to go and see Miss Evans as well as your parents.'

  'I certainly would,' Anthea said warmly, and was so delighted at the prospect of a weekend away, with the chance of putting on her own clothes, that she almost hugged the plump little woman.

  Her week's absence from home had further increased her stepmother's friendliness and she greeted Anthea like a long- lost daughter, bombarding her with questions about her work and her employer.

  Unwilling to fabricate any more lies about him or the research work she was supposed to be doing, Anthea said he had gone abroad and that she had spent the week procuring the reference books he had asked her to get for him.

  'If he's still away next weekend, you must come over again,' Maude said.

  'I don't see what his being away has to do with it,' Professor- Wilmot intervened, glancing at his daughter. 'You don't work a seven-day week, do you?'

  'Of course not,' Anthea said hastily. 'But Mr. Allen likes to work whenever the mood takes him. And weekends are his best times.'

  To forestall further questioning she complimented her stepmother on the lunch: a delicious home-made pate followed by a creamy chicken and mushroom pie and crisply cooked vegetables.

  'Maude is an excellent cook,' her father beamed. 'I told you she was.'

  'I'd substitute the word fabulous,' Anthea enthused.

  'I enjoy cooking,' Maude confessed, 'especially cakes and pastries. If you give me warning next time you're coming home, I'll make you a gateau St. Honore. It's a speciality of mine.'

  Deciding that in every person there was a talent waiting to bloom, Anthea went to see Betsy Evans in hospital.

  She was making good progress and was delighted to know her job was safe for her. 'At least there's no chance of you wanting to make it a permanent takeover,' she twinkled.

  'No indeed,' Anthea grinned. 'But it's come at just the right time for me.'

  ‘Every cloud has a silver lining.'

  'I'm sure your cloud has gone for good,' Anthea gave the bony shoulder a gentle squeeze. 'You're looking heaps better after your rest.'

  'I think my last job was a bit strenuous,' Betsy admitted.

  'You'll find your new one a piece of cake. Honestly, it's money for jam! The house practically runs itself.'

  'Emergencies always come when you least expect them,' Betsy replied, and Anthea hid a smile at the gloomy tone.

  'Well, I'm helping you to cope with this particular emergency,' she said breezily, 'and once you're at Bartham Manor your worries will be over.'

  'I can't thank you for what you're doing for me.'

  'It's my pleasure. It's given me a place to stay until I can find a fiat.'

  This knowledge was with her when she returned to the Manor late on Sunday afternoon. The front of the house was already in shadow, but as she walked round the side to the servants' entrance—she had learned her lesson and never used the main door—she was unexpectedly warmed by the last rays of the sunset.

  She stopped and raised her head to the sky, experiencing a sudden rush of pleasure as she felt the warmth on her face. Though her skin was masked by beige powder it had a glow about it, and the man coming out of the large four-car garage paused to stare at her with a look of mingled surprise and pleasure. With her old-fashioned clothes and unstylish plait, she looked as if she had stepped out of an ancient woodcut.

  Hearing footsteps, Anthea turned and saw a tall, dark- haired man watching her. He wore black slacks and a sweater which in no way relieved his taciturn air. Heavy- rimmed glasses added a further look of severity to his appearance as well as masked his expression, though his thin mouth and clenched jaw was indicative of either tension or bad temper. But when he spoke his voice was mild, and she wondered if his air of strain was an integral part of his character.

  'Are you looking for someone?' he asked.

  'I'm on my way to the house. I work here.'

  Narrow dark brows rose. 'As what?'

  'The housekeeper. At least I will be once Mrs. Goodbody leaves.'

  'You!' This time his surprise was evident. 'Mrs. Good- body said she'd engaged a middle-aged woman. You can't be more than thirty-five.'

  She hid her delight that her disguise was so successful. 'I don't see that my age is any business of yours.'

  'Mrs. Goodbody must be mad!' He spoke as if he had not heard Anthea's comment. The mildness had gone from his voice and it was as astringent as antiseptic. 'What happened to the other person she engaged?'

  'Miss Evans was taken ill and I'm standing in for her. She should be well enough to start in three months.'

  'The whole thing's crazy!' He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the top of it.

  It made him look younger and she guessed him to be in his early thirties; the thirty-five he had assum
ed her to be. He stooped to pick up the wash leather he had dropped at his feet and continued to stare at her in an exasperated fashion.

  'Mrs. Goodbody had no business taking you. She should have engaged someone else.'

  'I don't see why. I'm perfectly capable of managing this house, and before I leave I'll show Miss Evans exactly what she has to do.' Annoyed that she was explaining herself, Anthea added: 'I still don't see that it's any business of yours.'

  'I like to know what's going on.'

  'How would you like it if I told you how to keep your cars clean?'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  'Well, you wouldn't, would you?' she persisted. 'So I suggest you look after your job and leave me to look after mine.'

  'I at least know how a car works,' he said sharply.

  'And I know how to manage a house!'

  'Where did you work before you came here?' he demanded.

  'I took care of my father.'

  His look of astonishment surprised her until she remembered she was supposed to be thirty-five, and she lowered her head to hide a smile. 'He liked to have me stay at home,' she murmured. 'He's very old-fashioned.' She felt his eyes on her ancient black dress and coat—a bargain she had picked up in a jumble sale yesterday afternoon— and again she bit back a smile. 'It was quite a large house, you see.'

  'Large enough to equip you with the knowledge of how to run this one?'

  'This place practically runs itself,' she said airily. 'After all, if a pack of servants can't manage to look after one old man, then———-'

  'He's not so old!' the chauffeur interrupted, and Anthea coloured. What was she thinking of to gossip to this man about their employer?

  'You talk as if you know him well,' he went on.

  'You know I don't,' she retorted. 'Though when you've done nothing for a fortnight except learn about one man's eccentricities, you feel as if you've known him for years!'

  'I don't consider him eccentric,' the chauffeur said.

  'Perhaps you've been with him too long to notice any more.'

  He pushed his lower lip forward. It was a full and sensual one. 'Why do you call him eccentric?'