Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise

by Rachel Lindsay

  'What do you want?' he demanded. He saw the tray on the desk before she could answer, and gave a grunt. 'I didn't ask for sandwiches.'

  'It's your own home-cured ham, sir. You're hardly ever here to taste it.'

  'Stop mothering me, Miss Wilmot.'

  She flushed at the sarcasm, embarrassed because she knew she had deserved it. 'I'm sorry, sir.'

  'For God's sake stop sirring me all the time!'

  'Yes, Mr. Allen.'

  'And don't Mr. Allen me either!'

  She hid a smile. He was as irritable as small boys often were when awoken from sleep.

  'What's the joke?' he asked.

  Knowing he would not appreciate it, she shook her head and went to pour him his tea.

  'Leave it,' he ordered. 'I'm not helpless.' He sighed. 'Oh, very well, you might as well pour since you're standing there.' She did so and set it before him, together with the sandwiches which he began to eat abstractedly.

  'Will that be all?' she asked.

  'Yes, thank you.'

  Anthea hesitated, undecided whether to tell him about the new uniforms she had bought for the maids. To do so might bring forth another burst of temper about being bothered with unimportant details, but not to do so could equally annoy him, especially if he was presented with the bill at a time when he was irritable.

  'Well, Miss Wilmot, what mischief have you been up to this time?'

  Annoyed at the implication that she had been doing something wrong, her eyes sparkled angrily. 'My behaviour here has always been exemplary. I was merely wondering whether or not to bother you with the trivialities of the household.'

  'The fact that you're worried whether you should do so or not leads me to believe you don't consider it such a triviality.'

  'I bought new uniforms for the maids,' she blurted out. 'I was going to check with you first, but it didn't seem worthwhile. They were only a few pounds each.'

  'Then what's the problem?'

  'I ordered two dresses for each maid and the bill came to more than I realised.'

  'I fail to see why,' he said blandly. 'To arrive at the sum total only means simple multiplication.'

  'I didn't do the multiplication until I had to pay. That's when I realised it was a larger sum than I'd thought.'

  'How much?'

  'Forty pounds.'

  'That's rather a lot for you to spend without authority. Of course,' he added, 'I can always deduct it from your salary.'

  Her head lifted sharply, but just in time she saw the glint in his eyes and knew he was deliberately trying to provoke her.

  'As your housekeeper, I'm supposed to have carte blanche in the running of your home.'

  'Carte blanche within reason.'

  'Forty pounds is not unreasonable for a man in your position.'

  'Don't use my position as an excuse for extravagance. Either the amount is reasonable or it isn't.'

  'One can't ignore your position. What's reasonable for you is not reasonable for a farmhand.'

  His sigh was mildly exasperated but gave indication that his tiredness was still with him.

  'Drink your tea and have a rest,' Anthea said before she could stop herself. 'I'll come in and wake you up at six.'

  'If I decide to have a rest, Miss Wilmot, I can also arrange to have myself woken up without enlisting your aid.'

  'Yes, Mr. Allen. I'll remember not to offer my services in future—sir!' she added, and closed the door quickly behind her before he could reply.

  Irrationally hurt by his sharp response to her solicitude over his tiredness, she tried to adopt her normal policy of pushing him out of her mind. But she was not successful and he remained disturbingly vivid.

  By seven that evening all the guests had arrived, and at eight-thirty dinner was served in the main dining-room. Supervising the final laying of the table and setting out the place cards to follow the list sent to her by Mark Allen's secretary, Anthea noted with something akin to irritation that Claudine Goderick was placed on his right—as she was for every meal. Was this because he was in the middle of business negotiations with the woman's husband or because he genuinely liked her and wished to have her beside him?

  From Claudine's general air as she had wandered around Bartham Manor with Jackson Pollard earlier in the week, Anthea was convinced it was the latter reason; was convinced too that Claudine returned the interest. Not because she needed Mark Allen among her possessions—with a husband like Jasper Goderick she already had all the possessions an acquisitive woman could require—but because Mark Allen appealed to her as a man. It was amazing that he had managed to escape the snare of matrimony for so long, and she wondered if it was because he was too involved with work to fall in love or because the woman he loved was not available.

  This brought her back to Claudine, and she watched the woman during Friday evening and Saturday, aware of how firmly she attached herself to her host, regardless of her husband watching her possessively, bitterly and yet at the same time triumphantly—as if he knew that, come what may, she belonged only to him; a property he had bought and had no intention of relinquishing.

  Leggat too noticed Claudine Goderick's possessive attitude towards his employer and, unexpectedly for him, for lie was the soul of discretion, commented on it as he and his wife joined Anthea and Monsieur Marcel for a late supper.

  'She even keeps a notebook by the side of her plate,' he commented. 'And I've noticed her jotting things down in it. You'd think she was the mistress here already.'

  'She may well be Mr. Allen's mistress,' Monsieur Marcel smiled.

  'That wasn't what I meant,' the butler said hastily.

  'I know what you meant, my good friend,' the chef chuckled. 'But when a woman like Mrs. Goderick knows she is desired by a man, she immediately tries to make herself indispensable to him—in every way.'

  'You're right there,' Leggat replied, and looked at Anthea. 'Mark my words, she'll be calling you in to see her before she leaves and giving you her opinion about the weekend. She isn't making those notes for her own amusement.'

  'She'd better not make any criticisms direct to me,' Anthea said firmly. 'I work for Mr. Allen; no one else.' The three people in the room looked at each other and Anthea said defiantly: 'I mean it. I won't be ordered around by Claudine Goderick.'

  'If she calls you,' Monsieur Marcel murmured, 'I would like very much to be a fly on the wall!'

  Anthea smiled and helped herself to some more of the chef's delicious pate. But not even the excellent food nor the wine which Mark Allen had thoughtfully arranged for them to have could still the red-hot anger that the butler's words had aroused. What sort of man was Mark Allen to allow a stranger to criticise the running of his home? If he wished to accept Claudine's advice, so be it; but he should at least have the intelligence to know his staff would object to being criticised by anyone other than the person who employed them. Or wouldn't the staff mind? Leggat in fact had sounded faintly amused by Claudine's behaviour and Monsieur Marcel seemed unperturbed by the thought of anyone finding something to criticise in his superbly produced meals.

  Then why should she herself be so angry? The answer was obvious. Though she was here as a housekeeper, she knew it was a temporary position, and regarded herself as Mark Allen's equal and possibly Claudine Goderick's superior ! But criticism, either from an equal or a superior, had never fussed her before, and she could not understand why she should feel such a strong sense of injustice even before the woman had made any criticism. Like all the questions that had been bedevilling her in the past few weeks, this one also produced an answer she did not want to bring to the surface of her mind, and she forced herself to join in the conversation around her, hoping that if she concentrated on other people, she would stop thinking about herself and her own problems. Yet why should there be any problem in temporarily working for a financial wizard? Drat the man: he was back in her thoughts again. Because he paid her salary each month there was no reason for her to think about him incessantly.

&n
bsp; With another effort she brought her attention back to Monsieur Marcel who was regaling them with an amusing If acidulated account of his two years' service with a Hollywood film star. He was in the middle of a particularly juicy episode when the bell from the drawing-room summoned Leggat away, and he returned after a moment to tell Anthea she was required to go inside.

  'Nothing wrong, I hope?' she asked anxiously.

  'No, miss. But I believe a friend of yours has called to see you.'

  'Here?' She was startled.

  'Yes, miss. Mr. Allen and some of the guests were strolling along the drive when he drove up. A gentleman in a red sports car.'

  'Roger!' Anthea exclaimed. 'Oh no!' What on earth had prompted him to call on her without any warning and at this time of the night? Still, ten o'clock was not considered late among her friends, though her employer might well consider otherwise where his staff were concerned.

  'Did you say my visitor was in the drawing-room?' she asked and, at Leggat's nod, hurried out.

  At least Roger would not receive the same shock at her appearance as her parents had done. She grinned at the memory and glanced down at her eau de nil silk dress. Though she had not anticipated seeing anyone other than the staff this evening, the knowledge that a few yards away from her was a group of elegant women had spurred her into making an effort with her own appearance, almost as if she were cocking a snook at Claudine Goderick. Turning the gilded handle, she entered the drawing-room.

  Havana smoke mingled with the scent of flowers and the subtle perfume of the women, whose bright dresses made splashes of colour on the maroon damask settees and armchairs and sent her thoughts winging to a production she had once seen of Private Lives. There was the same brittle quality in the air; the same aura of pretence and posture.

  Only Roger seemed totally at ease, casual in slacks and sweater, a drink in his hand as he leaned against the wall and talked to Mark Allen and another, older man. With an assurance she did not feel she walked over to them.

  'Hello there,' Roger greeted her. 'Surprised to see me?'

  'Naturally. You should have warned me you were coming.'

  'I didn't know it myself. I had dinner with Professor Connors, but his good lady pushed us all out at nine-thirty. You know how she fusses about the old man since his heart attack. It was too early to go to bed, so I decided to go for a spin in the car and ended up here.'

  'You've a little further to go yet,' she smiled. 'Another fifty yards to my sitting-room.'

  'Why the rush?' Mark Allen asked pleasantly. 'Mr. Pemberton was in the middle of telling me how he deals with student strikes.'

  'He never has any,' Anthea said promptly. 'And if he did, he'd be out in front waving the flag with them!'

  The man beside Mark Allen laughed. 'I've just heard you are a student too, Miss Wilmot. I must say it's very enterprising of you to take a job like this.'

  'Miss Wilmot is a do-gooder,' her employer intervened. 'She's standing in for one of her friends.'

  Aware of lenses glinting in her direction, and aware that Roger did not know she was acting as housekeeper and not as research assistant, Anthea put her hand on his arm. But once again she was barred from moving.

  'At least have another drink before you go,' Mark Allen said to Roger.

  'No more, thanks,' he replied. 'Anthea's right. I had no business barging in like this. I intended presenting myself at the tradesmen's door except that I wasn't quite sure where it was.'

  'At the back of the house,' Anthea said promptly.

  'Don't be annoyed with your friend.' There was no doubting the irony in Mark Allen's voice. 'He drove up as e were taking a stroll outside and we insisted he come in here for a drink. You mustn't set up old-fashioned social barriers.'

  �'Not social barriers, sir,' she said politely. 'The natural barrier of age.'

  'Wow!' Roger grinned at his host. 'When Anthea's in one of her argumentative moods, it's best to go along with her.' He set down his empty glass on a nearby table. 'Thanks for the champagne, Mr. Allen. I hope you'll let me return the hospitality whenever you're in Reading.'

  'I'd be delighted.' Mark Allen was all smiles and charm. 'The student body is one I'm not acquainted with.'

  'It would be great if you would let me arrange for you to give a lecture. There's a shortage of interesting speakers.'

  'I don't think anything I can say would be of interest to your students.'

  'On the contrary. You're a financial whizz-kid and they'd be agog to hear you!'

  'And heckle me too, no doubt,' Mark Allen smiled. 'I'm not sure I fancy qualifying for the name of Daniel!'

  'I've a feeling you could take care of hecklers,' Roger replied.

  'Come on, Roger,' Anthea intervened, anxious to terminate this conversation. Her tone and the insistent pressure of her hand on his arm drew him to the door, but only when they were alone in her sitting-room did she explode with anger.

  'You had no right to come here without telephoning me first! And don't give me all that chat about just going for an aimless drive. You had every intention of coming here.'

  'Is that a crime? I mean you only work here. You aren't a slave. Why can't I come and see you if I want?'

  'No reason at all,' she retorted. 'But you should at least make sure I want you to come.'

  He looked so discomfited that her anger abated. After all, he had not committed a crime, and she certainly wouldn't have been so angry had he come if she were on her own. It was only because Mark Allen was here that she was disturbed. Yet he had not seemed annoyed by it; more amused than anything. She glanced at Roger, suddenly finding him young by comparison. Yet why should she compare her friends with the man for whom she was working?

  'Do you fancy something to eat?' she asked.

  'Pickings from the tables of the rich?' Roger grinned.

  'There's a little caviar,' she grinned back. 'I can give you a couple of teaspoons of that, without it being missed.'

  'What largesse!' Happily he followed her into the kitchen, empty now, for Monsieur Marcel and Leggat had retired for the night, and Anthea busied herself making coffee and setting out a plate of left-over canapés which Roger began to demolish as quickly as she set them down.

  'I can see the advantages of working here,' he mumbled, his mouth full. 'This is heaps better than college grub.'

  'For heaven's sake stop talking like an undergrad. You're too old for that.'

  'You're still an undergraduate. I just want you to remember it.'

  'Meaning?'

  'Meaning that our rich and fat friends in the other room are not.'

  'They are rich,' she said evenly, 'but they're not fat. And if you object to their money, don't come along and eat their food.'

  'I never thought I'd live to see you rooting for the bloated capitalists!'

  'Very funny.' She was heavily sarcastic.

  'It isn't hilarious,' he admitted, 'but it doesn't merit such anger.' He picked up an inch-long roll of smoked salmon and put it into his mouth. 'Haven't fallen for our whizz-kid, have you?'

  'Are you mad?'

  'I don't see why you say that. It's a logical assumption. He's a good-looking chap and endowed with all the assets— physical as well as financial. He's a bit too old for you, of course, but——— '

  'Thirty-four isn't old,' she retorted, and seeing the glint in his eyes, said hastily: 'You aren't as young as you like to pretend. Twenty-eight last birthday, if I remember.'

  'The girl remembers my age!' Roger smote his forehead. 'Perhaps she loves me after all.'

  'I love you enough to tell you not to be an idiot.' Anthea sat down at the table and poured two cups of coffee.

  'Am I being an idiot?' Roger asked unexpectedly. 'You've never been bothered by age or money differences before, yet you looked as if you wanted to murder me when you came into the drawing-room and saw me talking to ' your boss.'

  She sucked in her lower lip. Roger's comment was justified and she tried to think of a reason why it should be.


  'Perhaps it's because I'm only here on sufferance,' she murmured, and remembering he did not know why she had taken the job in the first place, er what she really did here—she was not sure if he had fully absorbed the sarcastic comments Mark Allen had made on the matter— she quickly told him the truth.

  Roger did not hide his astonishment. 'You mean you pretended to be old and ugly?'

  'Middle-aged and plain,' she corrected. 'And I would have got away with it, too, if it hadn't been for Maude.'

  'Ah yes, the wicked stepmother. It's because of her that you're really here, isn't it?'

  'No,' Anthea said quickly. 'I came because of Betsy Evans, though I wouldn't have stayed at home, of course.

  But Maude isn't wicked. She's just a bit overpowering and has the finesse of a steamroller.'

  Roger nodded and went on looking at her thoughtfully. 'What will you do when you leave here? October is still a long way off.'

  'I'll get another job. I definitely don't want to go back home.'

  'Can't whizz-kid find you something else to do? In an organisation like his, I'm sure he could manage it.'

  'I don't want to go on working for him. Once I leave here I never want to see him again.'

  'Why? He strikes me as a nice chap; intelligent too.'

  'He's overpowering and officious,' Anthea explained. 'And he's a fool when it comes to women.'

  Roger's raised brows told her she had said too much, and colour flooded her cheeks.

  'Of course I'm aware of him,' she said jerkily. 'You can't work for someone for months and not be aware.'

  'You have fallen for him,' Roger said disgustedly. 'I was right the first time.'

  Anthea set her cup carefully on its saucer. Her desire to scream that Roger was wrong was a silent sound of anguish; an anguish not caused by the preposterousness of the remark but by the fact that it was staggeringly, horrifyingly true.

  She was in love with Mark Allen.

  She jumped up and walked over to the gas stove, where she made a pretence of seeing that all the jets were off; doing anything that would keep her face away from Roger's prying eyes. It was incredible that she had needed his jesting taunt to make her realise something her intelligence should have told her weeks ago. From the first moment she had met Mark she had been inordinately aware of him, though she had foolishly assumed it to be fear that he would see through her disguise. Instead, it had been fear of his magnetic personality which she had instinctively felt as a threat to her peace of mind. Now this peace had gone for ever; lost with the tranquil days of her youth when love was something to dream about and hope for. Now the hope was realised and the dreams had become a reality, showing her that love was no soft sweet warmth but a burning, searing pain that tormented your days and racked your nights; that slopped you from being mistress of your body and master of your desires.