'I can't love him,' she thought. 'It's impossible!' They were diametrically opposed in outlook. They had nothing in common. Yet even as she told herself this, she knew it was untrue. She and Mark had a great deal in common. She had spent enough time with him to admit this. Why hadn't she guessed that the pleasure she felt when he talked to her of the day's happenings had stemmed not only from gratification that he considered her intelligent enough to understand his problems, but also satisfaction that he wanted to share them with her? Yet his behaviour after her parents' visit had shown her how neurotically he feared being loved for his position rather than for himself, and she wondered if he had found pleasure in her company because he had believed her to be a middle-aged spinster who had wanted nothing from him, neither in the way of money or love.
'You're very quiet,' said Roger, coming to stand behind her. 'Forget what I said, Anthea. I was only teasing.'
'I've already forgotten it.'
She turned to look at him and, seeing his relief at her answer, wished with all her heart that what she had said was true. But it would take more than her desire to forget Mark Allen to really forget him. Even when she left here, it would be a long time before this house and its owner ceased to be important to her.
CHAPTER TEN
On Sunday the weather broke. Blue skies gave way to grey and a steady drizzle blanketed the countryside. Yet it remained extremely warm, and the dampness and humidity seemed to engender a general malaise in the house-party.
For most of the morning and part of the afternoon, Mark Allen was closeted in the library with Jasper Goderick and several of the men, while the women contented themselves by playing interminable games of Canasta. On or two ventured to the sauna and a couple played a lethargic game of table tennis in the games room which had been fitted out in one of the barns.
Only Claudine seemed unconcerned by everyone else's restlessness, and as Anthea went round the bedrooms to ensure that everything was in order after the maids had finished cleaning them, she found the French-Canadian wandering along the corridor, notebook in hand. Unwilling to be forced into conversation, she retreated into the nearest bedroom and found herself in Mark Allen's. Normally when she came in to inspect it she was not conscious of ü being different from any of the others, but today it took on a much greater significance. No longer was the bed an ordinary bed; but it was the one which felt the pressure of his body and the relaxation of his limbs. The dressing-table and wardrobe were not mere pieces of furniture to be examined for dust but housed his personal belongings: the silver-backed brush, the beautifully cut clothes.
Stifled by the pressure of her thoughts, she ran from the room as though bedevilled, and too late saw that Claudine was still in the corridor, scribbling in her book.
'Miss Wilmot?' the woman said in faint surprise.
'I've been inspecting the bedrooms,' Anthea said hurriedly.
'How seriously you take your duties!'
'You sound surprised.'
'I am. After all, you're not a genuine housekeeper and———-'
'I'm employed as one here, and I do the work to the best of my ability. Surely that makes it genuine?'
'You know what I mean.' Claudine gave a faint smile and ran her fingers through her dark hair. The curls were soft and springy, like those on the head of a child. It was an unusual hairstyle for a sophisticated woman, yet it went well with her small features and gave her the air of a sensual Peter Pan.
'Mr. Allen told me who you really are,' Claudine went on. 'I must say I think you're very self-sacrificing to take on a job like this.'
'What's wrong with a job like this?'
'My dear, if you enjoy keeping house…'
'Millions of women do.'
'Not intelligent ones.'
Anthea flushed. 'Not many people can afford to have staff these days.'
'I agree. But even so, it's possible to arrange your life without being concerned with domestic chores.'
Anthea forced herself to keep her temper, convinced she was being deliberately baited. 'Have you never kept house, Mrs. Goderick?'
'Not in the sense you mean. I didn't marry Jasper for that'
As she looked at the gold circlet around Claudine's milky white throat, the reasons why she had married him were obvious. They were the same reasons Mark Allen feared a woman might want to marry him. Momentarily Anthea wondered how she would feel about him if he were a university lecturer on a fixed income or ran a small business of his own. It was not easy to imagine a man of such i dynamism remaining small-time for long. No matter what he did he would rise to the top of his profession. Yet what if he had chosen one which was not lucrative? Would she still want to spend her life with him? She did not need to search for the answer. What he had to offer materially was unimportant; it was what he could offer of himself that mattered. It was incredible that he did not realise his own intrinsic worth. Surely he knew the magnetism he exuded? Was aware that it would bring him almost any woman he desired? She glanced at Claudine and knew instantly that despite Mark's personality and sexual attraction, without his wealth this girl would have no interest in him whatsoever. And there were many women like Claudine. Indeed it seemed that Mark Allen's world was full of them.
'You seem very pensive, Miss Wilmot,' Claudine commented. 'I hope our being here hasn't made too much work for you.'
'We have ample staff to cope with everything,' Anthea replied composedly. 'I get far more tired when I have nothing to do.'
'You are obviously one of the world's workers. Personally, I hope Mark doesn't do any more entertaining until the house has been redecorated. Actually he won't be able to after next month. Jackson Pollard will be bringing in a whole team of work-people.'
'For how long?'
'A couple of months. Everything will have to be stripped and repainted; some walls are going to be knocked down and a swimming pool put in front of the terrace.'
'It might have been cheaper for Mr. Allen to buy another house,' Anthea could not help saying.
'I wish he would—I know a fabulous one that's just come on the market. But unfortunately he's attached to this one.
He likes the village, you know, and he buys any house that comes on the market in order to stop property developers from coming in and taking over.'
'What a wonderful thing to do,' Anthea said warmly.
‘I should have known you'd think like that!' Claudine Goderick did not attempt to hide her amusement. 'You're not only one of the world's workers, Miss Wilmot, you're S also an idealist. Do you really think a few philanthropic gestures can stop progress?'
'Property developers aren't usually interested in progress. They're interested in lining their pockets.' Anthea stopped, unsure of the ramifications of Jasper Goderick's business, and not wishing to make any comment that could be construed as a criticism of her employer's guests.
'You're reading history at university, aren't you?' Claudine enquired. 'You talk like a woolly-minded left-wing I economist!'
'Do you know much about economics?' Anthea asked gently.
There was a delicate, tinkling laugh. 'After being married to Jasper for so long, I think I could teach it!' The I limpid eyes had a gleam in them. 'You must be anxious to [ resume your own studies?'
'I am.'
'Are you a member of your university's drama society too?'
It took a moment for Anthea to realise the implication behind the question, and when she did, she gave Claudine full marks for subtlety.
'Mark thought it very enterprising of you,' the woman continued, 'the way you got the job here. You did it for a friend, I believe?'
'A woman I wanted to help,' Anthea explained.
'To begin with, Mark thought you did it as an excuse to get to know him. You'd be surprised at the ploys some girls have used to bring themselves to his notice.'
'I wouldn't have thought he was difficult to meet.'
'It's easy to meet him. But getting to know him is a different story.' The gleam was noticeabl
e in the hard eyes. 'You must admit you put yourself in an excellent position to further your acquaintance. It was a pity your subterfuge was found out. Until it was, I know he thought most highly of you. He said you were the most capable housekeeper he'd ever had.'
Anthea forced herself to look amused. 'That still applies.'
'Oh, sure, but knowing your whole manner was an act has made him suspicious of you. It's a pity really; he's already so suspicious of women.'
'When I see the ones he knows,' Anthea said, 'I'm not surprised.'
Pink tinged Claudine's cheekbones. 'You're very frank, Miss Wilmot.'
'You're very obvious, Mrs. Goderick. But I assure you that you have nothing to fear from me.'
'You don't need to tell me that!'
'Then why are you warning me off?'
'Did I say frank?' Claudine asked softly. 'Honey, you astonish me with your candour. Still, if it's candour you want—— ' The dark head tilted. 'Don't think that because you work for Mark you'll be able to infiltrate into his life. You're young and pretty, but no prettier than hundreds of other girls.'
'Then you have nothing to worry about, have you?'
'I'm worrying for you, Miss Wilmot. I don't like to see anyone needlessly hurt—and your feelings have been obvious for weeks.'
'That's not true!' Anthea retorted. 'I didn't know myself until——— ' Too late she realised she had risen to Claudine's bait, for the woman's eyes blazed with malice.
'So you do love him! I guessed it even before you did. It was in your eyes—the way you looked at him.'
'It's a look you should recognise, Mrs. Goderick. I've seen it in your eyes too!'
'But my look is returned. That makes all the difference! Don't try to compete with me, Miss Wilmot. You're way out of your league!'
'Please,' Anthea said shakily. 'There's no point in our talking about it.' She ran a hand across a forehead that was unexpectedly damp. Why were she and Claudine talking in this preposterously intimate manner? Admitting truths that neither of them wanted to be known? Was it caused by the weather, by this deep oppressive humidity—or was it a more primitive urge—the eternal battle of woman against woman for the possession of an arrogant, uncaring male?
The sound of footsteps made them both turn, and Anthea trembled as she saw her employer coming towards them. He wore shorts and a white sweat shirt and his hair, wet with perspiration, gleamed black as a raven's wing and showed a surprising and endearing tendency to curl.
'I thought you were playing cards with the other women?' Ignoring Anthea, he spoke to Claudine.
'I've been checking through the notes I've made to give to Jackson Pollard,' Claudine linked her arm with his and pulled a face. 'Darling, you're wet as a fish.'
'So would you be after an hour of squash.'
'Did you win?'
'Of course. I never play if I think I can be beaten.'
'That doesn't only apply to squash.'
Claudine spoke softly, yet not so softly that Anthea did not hear. Feeling in the way, she moved past them, dismally aware that neither of them were conscious of her going. As far as they were concerned she did not exist.
Unable to face anyone, she went to her bedroom.
Opening the window, she leaned out. The distant river was hidden by mist, but there was the damp smell of earth in the air and of new leaves unfolding, the way her own life was unfolding. Strange that she should have fallen in love with someone as different from her expectations as Mark Allen. Contented with her life with her father, and looking only to the attainment of her degree, she had given little thought to love and marriage. When she had, she had considered that the man would be someone of her own age or just a few years older; and certainly an academic. Never in her wildest dreams had she envisaged falling for a dynamic go-getter whose calm manner was only a surface covering for a deep, overriding ambition. She wondered what had fostered such an urge to succeed, and was filled with curiosity to know everything about him.
A gust of wind blew the rain across her face, and shaking the droplets away from her lashes, she closed the window and stepped back inside the room. Two months of Jackson Pollard and his workmen! Still, Betsy Evans would be here by then and coping with the mess instead of herself. But the pleasure of the thought was marred by the anguish of knowing she would then have to leave here; would not see Mark again.
'I mustn't think of him as Mark,' she muttered. 'He's Mr. Allen. Mr. Allen.'
Sighing, she went down, where Monsieur Marcel was repacking all the utensils he brought with him each time he came.
'Don't you think it would be simpler to leave a complete set down here?' she suggested.
'I was going to do that, mademoiselle, then Mr. Allen told me not to bother.' The chef stopped sorting his knives and looked at her. 'A month ago he said he intended to spend more time here and asked me if I wanted the kitchen replanned. Then a week later, when I went to him with my ideas—poof—he had changed his mind! He is difficult to understand, that one. He begins to come here every night and then—zut— he only comes at weekends! I think peutetre he finds someone he likes in London.'
Or maybe there is someone he dislikes down here, Anthea thought miserably, and wondered if she was the reason why he no longer came down so frequently. The idea was depressing yet in an odd way uplifting, for she could not see why he should allow himself to be so disturbed by her behaviour if he merely regarded her as a stand-in housekeeper. Could he have grown to like her despite the fact that she had looked like a frump? More important still, could he have become fond of a girl whose very plainness presented no challenge to him, and whose acceptance of the role of housekeeper had shown a lack of greed which had commended itself to him? If the answers to all these questions were in the affirmative, then it gave her a logical reason for his extreme anger at discovering she was young and pretty and had known of his position and wealth when she had agreed to help Betsy. If only Maude and her father had not come visiting her that day! If her friendship with Mark could have progressed for several more weeks he might by then have grown to know her sufficiently well to believe in her integrity. If, if. What a waste of time it was to ponder on the might-have-beens. She was faced with the present and she could see no way of making him look at her kindly again.
'Mr. Allen wants to see you when the guests have gone,' Leggat said behind her. 'Some of them are leaving now.'
'I thought they were staying to supper?'
'This lot only like the country when the sun shines! Give 'em a bit of rain and they can't wait to get back to traffic and petrol fumes!'
'Neither can I,' said Monsieur Marcel. 'For me, London is the only place to live.' He folded his plump little hands together and pursed his mouth, looking so much like a well- known detective in fiction that Anthea fully expected him to come up with a solution to her own misery or, at the very least, to give her a clue that would enable her to understand Mark Allen's complex personality.
'That reminds me,' she said to the Frenchman. 'I have a cookery book for you—an old English one written in 1840.'
'That is rare, non?'
Anthea nodded, and explained her father had found it in a second-hand bookshop and had given it to her for her nineteenth birthday. 'I've only done a couple of recipes from it,' she confessed, 'but some of them sound very intriguing. I'm sure you'll be able to adapt a few of them.' She went to the sitting-room and came back with a slim leather-bound volume with yellowed parchment pages.
'It is most charmante of you to lend it to me,' he said. 'I will treasure it with my knives.'
Since Monsieur Marcel treasured his knives as though they were the Crown Jewels, Anthea appreciated the promise and told him so. She was still smiling at the memory of his delight when she remembered Mark Allen's order to go and see him, and as she went to the library her smile was replaced by apprehension. Had Claudine complained to him of her rudeness? To have done so would have meant explaining not only what she had said, but why, and somehow she could not see the Fren
ch-Canadian doing this. Briskly she knocked on the door and went in. She remained beside it, her figure—in a cream linen dress—outlined against the dark panelling, her slim legs bare.
'You wanted to see me, sir?'
'Yes. Come in and sit down.'
She moved to a chair as far away from him as possible. It was the first time she had been alone with him since knowing she loved him, and her heart pounded so loudly that it almost obliterated any other sound. I can't be in love with him, she thought desperately. I don't know him or understand him. It's physical attraction—sex—nothing more than that. She peered at him from beneath her lashes. He was standing by the desk, one thigh leaning on the edge. Casually dressed in black slacks and shirt, he none the less looked as tense as a tightly coiled spring. His fingers were drumming a soft yet unceasing tattoo on the leather-topped surface, and she had the inexplicable feeling that he was going to dismiss her. That was why he looked so ill at ease.
'Mrs. Roberts—the housekeeper who looks after my London home—has been rushed to hospital with a gallstone attack,' he said abruptly. 'They're operating on her in the morning. I had a phone call from my butler half an hour ago.'
Anthea looked sympathetic but remained silent, not sure what to say.
'It couldn't have come at a worse time,' he went on. 'I've arranged dinner parties for every night of the week.'
'Can't you take your guests to a hotel?'
'Of course I can 1 That's not the question. The important thing is that I don't want to take them out to dine.' His fingers drummed faster. 'I would like you to come to London with me and take over the house until Mrs. Roberts is back in harness.'
Rachel Lindsay - Love in Disguise Page 12
