Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise

by Rachel Lindsay

  'You came here because you wanted to inveigle yourself into my life. It was a clever scheme, Miss Wilmot, I grant you that, but unfortunately it hasn't worked.'

  Once again she was speechless; then the full flood of her fury washed away the last vestige of reserve. 'If you think I came here because I wanted to get to know you, you must be out of your mind! I'd never heard of you until Betsy mentioned your name. To me, you're no more real than the gnomes of Switzerland and just about as important in my life! You may be considered a catch by the world's socialites, but as far as I'm concerned, Mr. Allen, you're a dreary man who wastes his life making money! If you think I'd go to the bother of wearing these stupid clothes and making myself miserable every time I look in the mirror, just to get to know you…

  Words failed her and she turned round and marched to the door. But the thought of Betsy made her stop and turn again.

  'I think it would be monstrously unfair of you not to keep the job open for Miss Evans. Your home has been perfectly run while I've been here, and your staff have had no complaints to make about me. If you insist on my leaving tonight, at least have the decency to—to—————— ' She swallowed hard and began again. 'Betsy will be well enough to come here in a month. I'm sure Mr. and Mrs. Leggat can manage everything here until then.'

  'Your concern for your friend does you credit,' he; said sarcastically, 'but I'd appreciate it if you would allow me to run my home the way I see fit.'

  'But Mrs. Leggat can———- '

  'Only cope if I don't do any entertaining. She has no sense of detail. Had it not been for that, I would never have tried to find a replacement for Mrs. Goodbody. But the moment there's a change in routine, Mrs. Leggat gets flustered. I'll be giving several weekend parties this coming month and she'll never be able to manage.'

  With a sigh Anthea went towards the door. Pleading was a waste of time; she might as well accept the inevitable and leave. What a beast the man was! Tears welled into her eyes and she blinked them away, so intent on getting out before he could see how upset she was that she did not hear him call her until he repeated her name loudly.

  'What do you want?' she whispered, keeping her face averted.

  'I said that as you seem so concerned for Miss Evans, I have decided to let you stay. Not because I condone your behaviour but because I appreciate why you did it.'

  She turned to him at once, her eyes alight with pleasure. 'I'm so glad, Mr. Allen. And believe me, I didn't come here because I wanted to meet you.'

  'You've made that quite clear. I hadn't realised you regarded my work with such disfavour.'

  She flushed. 'I shouldn't have spoken to you like that. I'm sorry.'

  His laugh was sharp and brief. 'Don't apologise for honesty. It's a rare quality and I appreciate it.'

  'I really did think you were old,' she said impulsively. 'When Mrs. Goodbody spoke about you, she gave the impression that you were—————- '

  'You needn't bother with any more explanations,' he said coldly, and fingered some papers on his desk. 'But for the rest of your time here, it will irritate me far less if you revert to your normal mode of dress and behaviour.'

  'Behaviour?' She was puzzled. 'I can dress normally, of course, but I could never act normally with you.'

  'Why not?'

  'I might be too frank.'

  His lower lip jutted forward, and above the heavy rims of his spectacles his eyebrows met in a frown. 'I would prefer your frankness to a continuance of your charade.'

  'Very well, Mr. Allen. I'll do as you say.'

  This time he did not call her back, and she went out of the library and up to her room. Her pleasure in being able to look and dress normally was lessened by her fear of Mark

  Allen's reaction to it. Still, even if he did not like her looking young and presentable, he had agreed to let her remain until Betsy was able to take over, and he was not likely to go back on his word.

  To her disappointment she did not see him again that evening, for he had supper served on a tray in the library and left for London early the following morning.

  But the change in her appearance did not go unremarked by the rest of the staff, who treated her with greater friendliness though the same amount of respect. Mrs. Leggat became considerably more motherly, and the young maids—foreign girls anxious to earn money while they learned English—treated her as their confidante.

  Unregretfully Anthea bundled up her two black dresses and the hideous flowered one and marched with them to the village, where she deposited them with the vicar's wife who was collecting old clothes for the Church bazaar.

  'My dear child,' that good lady said when Anthea introduced herself as Mark Allen's housekeeper, 'what an unusual occupation for someone of your age 1'

  'It's ideal,' Anthea smiled. 'How else could I get to live in such a beautiful house?'

  'How else indeed.' The grey eyes were slightly sharp as they rested on Anthea's rounded limbs and short cotton dress.

  The lengthening of sunlight had given her a delicate tan, while the tranquil hours and early nights gave a noticeable bloom to her appearance. Eventually she knew she would become bored by this placid existence, but for the moment she was enjoying it and, with her books to study, she did not find the evenings lonely. But seeing the vicar's wife eyeing her, she could appreciate why her employer preferred to have an elderly housekeeper.

  'I'm only standing in for my friend, Miss Evans,' she explained, thinking it best to set the record straight, and knowing that by doing it this way she could be sure of everyone in the village hearing about it. 'I'm going back to university in October.'

  Mention of a university had the expected effect, and despising herself for it, though none the less considering it necessary, Anthea also casually referred to her father. There was nothing like throwing in a professor for good measure.

  'My dear,' the vicar's wife exclaimed, 'you must come to tea and meet my husband. He's devoted to history and spends all his time searching out the history of the parishioners here. Such fascinating lives some of them had, and much more imaginative and busy when they were forced to make the village the centre of their world. Now that London is so easy to get to on the motorway, it's becoming like a suburb here.'

  Confident of having restored her own good name, as well as maintaining that of Mark Allen's, Anthea returned to Bartham Manor. Jackson Pollard's car was parked in the drive and she went into the main hall in search of him.

  He was in the dining-room measuring the table, and he glanced at her briefly and then continued with his perusal.

  'I didn't know you were coming down today, Mr. Pollard,' she said. 'I would appreciate it if you would telephone me next time and let me know.'

  'Telephone you?' His quizzical look suddenly disappeared. 'Good gracious! If it hadn't been for your voice, I would never have recognized you. What have you done to yourself?'

  'Summer clothes,' she said briefly.

  'A great improvement on your winter ones.' His blond eyebrows rose and lowered. 'I came down to check on some more measurements and because Mrs. Goderick wanted to see some of the materials in situ. Colours have a habit of looking different when in different environments. It's a question of light and space, I suppose.'

  'I'm sure Miss Wilmot doesn't want to be bothered with the secrets of your profession, Jackson,' came a lilting voice with a faint French-Canadian accent.

  Anthea turned as Claudine Goderick came in. She braced herself for the woman's surprise, but was unprepared for her anger which, though quickly masked, was too unmistakable to be misinterpreted. But Claudine made no comment on Anthea's change of dress and make-up, and immediately began to talk to the interior decorator about the refurnishing of the hall.

  'The panelling must be stripped,' she ordered, 'and the original colouring of the woodwork restored. Then a dark red stair carpet and Persian runners on the floor.'

  'Excellent,' the man said. 'What do you feel about the drawing-room?'

  'Let's take t
he swatches of material you've suggested and hold them up against the settees.'

  Ignoring Anthea, Claudine went into the drawing-room. Her high heels clattered on the parquet floor and she moved with sinuous grace. Even without her husband's doting glance and Mark Allen's admiring one, she still exuded the air of a self-satisfied cat.

  Although there was no reason for Anthea to remain with the visitors, something impelled her to do so, and she went with them from room to room, listening as decisions were made regarding furniture and curtains, carpets and wallpaper. The various samples of fabrics were held up for Claudine Goderick's inspection, and Anthea saw that the woman's taste veered towards the exotic rather than the rustic, which she personally felt would have been more suitable to a country mansion. Bartham Manor was not a home which called for chintz and pewter, but neither was it right for satin and velvet. She was disappointed that Mark Allen was satisfied to leave all the decisions to

  Claudine. Surely he could have found a few hours to spare to give some thought to all the changes being planned. After all, it was his home and he lived here; not a hotel.

  With a start she realised Claudine Goderick was speaking to her, her voice irritable as she repeated her question.

  'I asked you what you thought of the colour schemes I've chosen for the Manor.'

  'They seem fine,' Anthea lied. 'Though I didn't pay all that much attendon to them. Decorating a house is like preparing a dinner party. Too many cooks spoil the broth!'

  'How tactful you are!' Jackson Pollard chuckled.

  'Tact is a quality Mr. Allen looks for in all his employees,' Claudine said, and gave Anthea a cold glance. 'I'll no doubt be seeing you at the weekend. My husband and I are coming down.'

  'I hope the good weather holds,' Anthea replied pleasantly.

  'The company interests me more than the weather,' Claudine smiled, and went down the steps to Jackson Pollard's car.

  As soon as it had disappeared down the drive, Anthea closed and locked the front door. It was silly to let Claudine irritate her. In a few weeks her stint as a housekeeper would be over and she would never see the woman again. Nor Mark Allen either. Somehow she knew it was not going to be easy to forget either the house or its owner, for in their own way they had each made an indelible impression on her; the house for its beautiful setting and elegantly proportioned rooms; the owner for his quick mind and unpredictable moods.

  Quickly she walked across the hall to the servants' quarters and closed the communicating door, as if in so doing she could shut out the thoughts that were disturbing her.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As she had anticipated, Anthea received a call from Mark Allen's secretary telling her he would be having a weekend house-party and requesting her to prepare all the guest rooms. This meant that at least twelve people would be coming, and she was not surprised when Monsieur Marcel arrived on Thursday evening instead of Friday and immediately set to work in the kitchen.

  Happily he treated Mrs. Leggat as his equal, accepting her offer to prepare some of the dishes and discussing with her the menus he planned to serve for the three days.

  The house-party was to begin with dinner on Friday and would continue until Sunday evening, most of the guests departing before supper, and the rest immediately afterwards. Armed with a list of names, Anthea consulted the guest book and noted the idiosyncrasies of all those she could find listed there; then she allocated them to their rooms, remembering to give the Godericks the suite they always occupied.

  For the whole of Friday morning she was busy filling the house with flowers; not the potted plants her employer liked, but large, casual bouquets of country flowers which were her own particular favourites. It was amazing what a transformation these made to the overpowering furnishings, and she could not stifle a pang of regret that she would not be able to see the house when it had been redecorated. Even if she did not agree with all that was going to be done, it would be a great improvement on the present.

  Early in the afternoon she went into town to collect the new uniforms for the maids. She had ordered them on her own initiative, finding that the black dresses and white aprons which the girls wore in the evening were too reminiscent of waitresses. Instead she had chosen dark blue nylon overalls for them to wear during the day and coffee-brown dresses for them to change into from lunchtime onwards. It was a colour that would suit most types of skin, and the simple style of plain bodice and gently eased skirt was one which Anthea would have been happy to wear herself. Only when she paid the bill—which seemed inordinately large— did she have a qualm of fear at not having agreed the expenditure with her employer first. But taken singly the dresses were inexpensive: it was only in total that the amount seemed so large. But it was too late to do anything about it except pay, and armed with the dress boxes she returned to the Manor.

  The grey Rolls was already in the drive, and seeing it she quickly cut off across the lawn and headed for the side entrance. Her heart raced and she experienced an odd sense of excitement which not even logic could dispel. If she had used her sense she would have foreseen that with such a large house-party, Mark Allen was bound to come home earlier than usual to check for himself that everything was in order. Particularly since he now knew her real age and had made no secret of the fact that he considered her too young for her job. Hard on this recollection came the reminder that today he would be seeing her without her disguise. Her heart raced faster still, and her mouth was so dry that when she gave the dress boxes to Elsie—with instructions for the maids to change at once—she had to moisten her lips before she could speak.

  Then she raced up to her bedroom. The desire to put on something long and black was so strong that she was glad she had given her dresses to the vicar's wife; again she was disconcerted by her embarrassment, and refusing to clarify it, concentrated on making herself presentable. She put on a fresh linen dress whose creamy colour made her hair look tawny, and applied lipstick and mascara. They made her long ashes look theatrically false, but there was no time for her to wash it off. She'd just have to remember not to blink them at Mark Allen!

  Keeping her lids lowered, she hurried back to her sitting- room, entering it the same moment that the bell rang from the library. Chin up, Anthea went to answer it.

  Outside the library she stopped. Her hands were clammy, but she resisted the urge to wipe them on her dress and, giving a peremptory knock on the door, went in.

  Her employer was standing by the window with his back to the light, so she could not see his expression. But she knew he was watching her as she came to stand by his desk: a tall, slim girl with the lithe grace of youth and the confident ease of someone who knew they were good to look upon. She tilted her head and the thick brown hair rippled round her shoulders.

  'You wanted to see me, Mr. Allen?'

  'Only to talk about the arrangements for the weekend.' His voice was staccato, as if he were talking to a stranger.

  'I've prepared a fist of the bedrooms allocated to each guest.' She handed him a sheet of paper and he took it and dropped it on his desk without glancing at it.

  'I'm sure you've arranged everything perfectly, Miss Wilmot. Spare me further proof of your ability.'

  'You said you wish to discuss the arrangements, sir. I thought you would consider that to be one of them.'

  There was silence and Anthea waited for his wrath to explode. Instead he shrugged and sat down at his desk. She could see his face clearly now, and was surprised by his pallor, which gave his tan a yellowish tinge. There was unaccustomed stubble on his jawline, as though he had not shaved close enough that morning. Or perhaps his morning had begun earlier than usual: at some ungodly hour when he should—by rights—have still been sleeping.

  'You look tired,' she said impulsively.

  ‘I am. I've had an extremely busy week.'

  ‘I’ll bring you some tea.'

  'Don't bother.'

  'It's no bother, sir. Dinner isn't till eight-thirty, and that's a long time ahead.'r />
  His only answer was another shrug, and Anthea went to the kitchen and made some sandwiches and a pot of tea herself, telling Leggat—who was busy supervising the final polishing of the silver—that she would serve it too. Carrying the tray, together with some freshly cut sandwiches, she returned to the library.

  There was no answer to her knock and wondering if he had heard it, she went in. He was sitting at his desk and she had reached it before she realised he was asleep. Softly she set the tray down. She was reluctant to wake him, yet knew that if she did not do so the tea would grow cold. She leaned forward and then stopped. In repose he looked even more tired, though oddly he appeared younger. Perhaps it was because he was no longer controlling his expression. His mouth, normally firmly closed, had relaxed into unexpectedly soft lines, the top lip delicately curved, the lower one full and sensuous. His chin was no longer fierce either, and his cheeks—slack with sleep—seemed boyishly young, as did the two half circles of black lashes that edged the blue shadowed lids.

  Suddenly Anthea realised she was seeing him without his glasses. They lay on the blotter in front of him, as though they had been carelessly discarded. Idly she picked them up. How heavy they were! No wonder they left a mark across his nose. It was a nice nose now that she could see it properly: firm and straight with narrow flaring nostrils. She lifted up his glasses and stared through them. Everything was distorted; the objects around her blurred and diminished in size. She set the glasses down but remained looking at him, seeing a streak of grey in the jet black hair. It was silky hair and looked as it it would be soft to the touch. His eyelids fluttered and unexpectedly lifted and Anthea found herself staring directly into dark grey irises. She had never seen his eyes without their lenses and she was astonished by their vulnerability. They were the eyes of a child: large and myopic, shiny and clear. Then the lids came down swiftly and he reached out for his spectacles and put them firmly on his nose.