Roberta Leigh - It All Depends on Love

by Roberta Leigh

  'Isn't it casual at the Hall?' she asked airily.

  'There's a difference between casual and scruffy. And you're definitely scruffy.' Drawing a wallet from his pocket, he extracted two ten-pound notes. 'Here. This should do it.'

  'Twenty pounds?' She giggled girlishly. 'That won't buy Henry a doggy coat!'

  Irritably he peeled off another thirty.

  'Generous, aren't you?' she sniffed.

  'It's for working clothes, not dining with the Queen!'

  She pocketed the money. 'I think I'll manage to find a few things in Iverton.'

  'There are only two buses a day,' he warned.

  'I'll drive.'

  Sapphire eyes narrowed. 'You have a car?'

  Tessa was ready for this one. 'Mr Anderson gave me permission to use his."

  The eyes remained narrowed, indicating incredulity.

  'I'm not a liar, Mr Harper. If you don't believe me, I'll thank you to go.'

  'I do believe you,' he said hastily. 'I was surprised, that's all.'

  'So when do you want me to start?'

  'Monday, at nine.'

  'OK.' She didn't dare think of Mrs Benson's reaction, nor Uncle Martin's, when he heard. Much as he enjoyed a practical joke, he was likely to consider that this one was going too far. 'Let's drink to it,' she went on, padding barefoot to the cabinet and taking out a bottle of her godfather's brandy. 'How about this?'

  Patrick Harper's silence spoke volumes, and the reason hit her like a thunderbolt. A house-sitter wasn't supposed to help herself to the owner's drink—and Napoleon brandy, at that!

  'If you're worried about what Mr Anderson will say,' she gave him her sweetest smile, 'he told me to make myself at home.'

  'There's a difference between making yourself at home and taking liberties.'

  'You think that's what I'm doing?'

  'Yes.' He crossed to the french windows. 'And I won't have a drink, thanks.'

  'Are you teetotal?' she asked, waving the bottle at him.

  'Let's say I prefer not to make myself at home,' he said over his shoulder.

  'I promise you Mr Anderson won't be angry.'

  ‘I’ll wait until I've met him.'

  'Suit yourself,' she shrugged, putting back the bottle and holding firmly on to Henry's collar till Patrick Harper closed the door behind him.

  Only when he was out of sight did she do a little jig. He was utterly taken in by her! Apart from one or two slips, she hadn't done badly, though once she started seeing him on a daily basis it wasn't going to be so easy.

  Mrs Benson was horrified when she heard Tessa's plan at breakfast the next morning. 'You're behaving like a child, Tessa. I'm surprised at you.'

  'It's only a bit of fun,'

  'What if you're found out?'

  'Not a chance.'

  'I can't imagine what Mr Anderson will say.'

  'He'll laugh.'

  'I doubt it. And what about the rest you're supposed to be having?'

  'I'm feeling heaps better, and starting to be bored doing nothing. If Mr Harper hadn't played into my hands like this I'd probably have returned to work."

  'Don't be silly,' Mrs Benson said. 'You're far from well.'

  Tessa flashed her most winning smile. 'Then humour me by keeping my identity secret.'

  'From everyone?'

  'Absolutely.'

  'I still don't Tike what you're doing,' Mrs Benson sighed. 'When do you start?'

  'Monday.'

  Tor how long?'

  'He said two months.'

  'Two months?' Mrs Benson was horrified. 'You can't keep up the joke that long.'

  'I don't intend to. Only until he makes a few more asinine remarks to me. Then I'll confess and watch him squirm with embarrassment.'

  'Be careful you aren't the one doing the squirming. Jokes can backfire, young lady.'

  "This one won't.' Tessa glanced at her watch. 'I'm going into Iverton to buy a few clothes.'

  'You'll do better in London.'

  'I want teenage gear, not high fashion.'

  'Don't you dare buy any punk outfits!'

  'What a great idea!'

  'Tessa Redfern, if you——-'

  'Only a joke, Mrs B.,' Tessa cut in from the door. 'I aim to be young but respectable!'

  Half an hour later found her strolling along the high street of Iverton, the nearby market town. In the past she had actually tried the teenage departments of stores, but, though the sizing was right, the styles and colours were wrong for a serious-minded surgeon.

  But for the next few weeks teenage styles were exactly what she wanted, and she boldly approached a corner shop with music blaring through its front door and its window filled with the latest jeans, leather gear and miniskirts.

  To her amusement, the assistant gave her a friendly wave, and Tessa responded accordingly, trying not to wince at the hideous racket assaulting her ears as she bought figure-fitting jeans, a pair of loose cotton trousers, several tank-tops, a miniskirt and other items.

  Only as she was driving past the Hall on her way home did she have a momentary qualm. But she instantly dismissed it. Patrick Harper had encouraged her into this charade by his rudeness and high-handedness. Besides, there was no real harm in her joke. It was simply a bit of light-hearted fun to lessen the tedium of her enforced vacation.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  On monday morning Tessa dressed in her new baggy cotton trousers and loose fitting T-shirt—ideal, the shop assistant had told her, for a warm summer's day.

  But, viewing her image in the antique cheval-mirror, she had serious doubts. Regardless of how young she looked, she felt twenty-seven, and distinctly uncomfortable in this Charlie Chaplin outfit. Doffing it, she changed into a denim miniskirt and white cotton sweater. True, the skirt showed a lot of shapely leg, but at least she didn't feel freakish.

  'Bit short, that skirt, don't you think?' Mrs Benson remarked as Tessa came into the kitchen for breakfast. 'For Miss Redfern, surgeon,' Tessa grinned, 'but not for Mr Harper's Jill-of-all-trades.'

  'I wish you'd drop the whole idea. There's no telling where it will end.'

  'With a laugh all round. Stop worrying, Mrs B. If the joke starts going sour, I'll end it.'

  Only as she walked up the drive to the Hall did the enormity of what she was doing hit her. Thinking of the fun it might be was one thing, but acting it out was another. Still, she wasn't a Redfern for nothing, and the worst that could happen was Patrick Harper quickly seeing through her game and sending her packing.

  There were half a dozen cars parked outside the main entrance, and, skirting them, she went up the stone steps to the massive oak front door. The cars signified the Hall was occupied, and she was pleased, for there was nothing worse than a fine old mansion falling into disuse.

  As she went to tug the handle of the old-fashioned bell, she noticed the door ajar, and stepped inside. She had only been here once, many years ago, and remembered it as being large and gloomy. But now the gloom was a thing of the past. The oak panelling had been sanded and lightened, revealing the beauty of the wood, while the dark, tapestried chairs—given new life by expert cleaning—glowed like green, gold and red jewels in the light pouring in through the immense window halfway up the sweeping staircase. There were additions too: a magnificent glass chandelier hung from the vaulted ceiling, sparkling as it caught the sunlight coming through the open double doors that gave access to a large, rectangular drawing-room. Here, too, changes were much in evidence.

  Tessa recalled the room as being dark and dreary, but today it might have come from House and Garden. Rag-rolled walls in delicate Wedgwood green sported excellent turn-of-the-century paintings, their predominant colours echoed in the check silk fabric covering the half dozen sofas and numerous armchairs dotted around the fully carpeted floor. It was the carpet she liked least. Thick, and soft apple-green, it reminded her of a plush medical waiting-room. None the less, she appreciated its practicality, for this part of the house must for the most part be used b
y the 'think-tank', whose voices and treads would have resounded alarmingly on uncarpeted floors.

  She longed to explore further, but now wasn't the time, and she remained where she was, waiting for someone to appear.

  'Miss Redfern?'

  She swung round to the cool, faintly accented voice, and saw a statuesque blonde with a voluptuous figure appraising her from icy blue eyes.

  'Yes, I'm Miss Redfern,' Tessa said, dropping her outstretched hand. 'And you are… ?'

  'Ingrid Mortensen, Mr Harper's assistant. Will you come to my office, please?'

  Snooty bitch! Tessa thought, following her into a room that, for all its warm, wood antiques and thick-piled carpeting, was as cold and unwelcoming as its occupant. Even the one and only indoor plant was rigid and disciplined. Yes, 'disciplined' was an apt description of Ingrid Mortensen, Tessa concluded, noting the controlled features and silver-blonde hair impeccably coiled on the long white neck. With precise movements Ingrid went unhurriedly to her desk, adjusting the pleats of her cream linen skirt before sitting.

  'I understand Mr Harper's explained what your duties are?'

  'Sort of,' Tessa said, feeling suddenly ridiculous in her sweater and miniskirt beside this self-contained, exquisitely groomed young woman.

  'You don't sound very certain.'

  She's trying to intimidate me, Tessa thought, and set about acting her new role. 'He did tell me, but he was a bit vague. I suppose most boffins are when it comes to practical things,' she giggled.

  'Mr Harper is never vague.'

  'He was to me. Rattled on about my standing in for any staff who were off sick. But he didn't go into details.'

  Ingrid's well-shaped but thin mouth thinned even more, though it in no way detracted from her spectacular beauty. 'Then I'll have to go through everything with you. This house has to run like clockwork. We can't tolerate sloppiness.'

  Oh, can't we? Tessa thought stroppily, resolving that as soon as this interview was over she'd say, Thank you very much, but I've decided against working here, and walk out. This charade was meant to be fun, and if Ingrid Mortensen was going to be in charge of her it would be a disaster. Yet had she honestly expected a dynamic man to bother himself with domestic trivia? Patrick Harper might have bestirred himself to do the interviewing— perhaps he enjoyed putting his finger in everyone's personal pie—but, now that he had engaged her, it was logical to relegate her to his capable, cold assistant!

  ‘… see things run smoothly,' Ingrid was saying, 'and fill in where necessary with cooking, cleaning, and——'

  'A Jill-of-all-trades,' Tessa cut in brightly.

  'If you wish to put it that way, yes. You do understand all I've said?'

  'I'm not thick, you know—just young!' The pale, flawless skin tinged angry pink as Ingrid rose. ‘I’ll take you to meet the staff.'

  Silently Tessa followed her along a carpeted corridor to the large and old-fashioned kitchen. A well-scrubbed pine wood table ran down its centre, above which gleaming copper pots and pans hung from a wood beam. An enormous Aga cooker stood against one wall, with a modern electric one beside it, and a massive Welsh dresser filled with an assortment of blue and white china took up the other.

  'Mr and Mrs Withers,' Ingrid said coolly, 'this is Miss Redfern.'

  A pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman wiped her hands on her apron and came forward, followed by her equally pleasant-seeming husband. Tessa instantly liked them.

  'Glad to have you helping us,' Mrs Withers said.

  .Her husband nodded, and was about to speak when Ingrid cut across him.

  'I've told Miss Redfern what her duties are, so she can start right away.' Cold blue eyes examined Tessa from top to toe. 'If there's anything you need to know, please come to me. And remember this is an office as well as a home, and has to function efficiently.'

  'Yes, miss.' Tessa drew herself up to her full five feet one. 'I'm here to obey your orders.'

  Had she allowed a vestige of a smile to cross her face, Ingrid would have guessed she was being ribbed, but with an effort Tessa kept her features impassive, and after a moment's hesitation the girl walked out.

  Only then did Tessa turn to face the older couple, pretending not to notice the amused look that passed between them. But they said nothing and she applauded their discretion, at the same time making a mental note not to allow the Swedish icicle to annoy her into losing her temper.

  'What would you like me to do?' she asked Mrs Withers politely.

  'Make us all a cup of tea. The minute the kettle boils, Pedro and the girls come running, and you'll meet them.'

  The housekeeper was right, for no sooner had Tessa set out the cups, and the kettle started whistling, than two Filipino girls and a young Spanish boy hurried in.

  Giggling, the two girls introduced themselves as Emmy and Eva, and the boy as Pedro. He spoke excellent English, and informed her his ambition was to be a cook and take over from Mrs Withers when she retired, a statement that good lady appeared to have heard umpteen times, for she nodded good-naturedly, though her husband gave him a gentle cuff on the ear and said he had a lot to learn before he was good enough to satisfy Mr Harper.

  'Not that he cares what he eats when he's working on a new software idea,' Mr Withers informed Tessa. 'But when he's relaxed, he enjoys nothing better than a gourmet meal.'

  'Always has done,' Mrs Withers concurred. 'Even as a little boy he loved his tummy! From the time he was a lad he'd say to me, "When I grow up and have my own house, you're going to be my very own cookie"!'

  Her plump shoulders heaved with laughter, as did those of her husband, and Tessa decided there must be something innately decent about a man who inspired such devotion in this sweet couple.

  'It may take you a day or two to settle in,' Mrs Withers went on, 'but once you do, you'll find the work easy.'

  'What do I do with myself when there's no one to stand in for?'

  'Help anyone who needs an extra pair of hands.'

  'Like me,' said Emmy, jumping to her feet. 'It's time to serve the coffee.' She darted across to where the percolator was bubbling.

  Shortly afterwards, Tessa helped her wheel the trolley into a light, airy room adjoining a much larger one filled with high-tech desks, chairs and the latest Harper computers.

  'Food and drink aren't allowed in the computer-room,' Emmy informed her, 'and we never take the trolley in there. If a crumb gets on to a keyboard it can cause a breakdown.'

  As Tessa went to reply, the members of the think-tank were upon them. She had assumed they were likely to be young, but had not anticipated their looking like first-year college students. And these were the experts devising programs that sold for hundreds—often thousands—of pounds apiece!

  'I'm Billy,' a fresh-faced, tubby young man with glasses introduced himself as he took his coffee from her. 'You new around here?'

  'Yes. I help out where I'm needed—except in there, of course,' she grinned, bobbing her head towards the room behind him.

  'Pity,' a gangling man put in. 'I've a headache coming on and fancy a swim!'

  'You'd have a bigger headache if you let me in front of your computer!'

  He laughed, as did an earnest young woman with a ponytail. 'I'm Liz Cummings,' she grinned, reaching for a biscuit. 'And the would-be swimmer is my fiance, Terry.'

  In quick succession the others introduced themselves: Mike, a blond young giant, Johnny and James, thin-faced and serious-looking brothers, and a freckled-faced, sandy-haired couple who were newlyweds Tom and Jenna Donaldson.

  They were a friendly, amusing bunch, and Tessa longed to learn exactly what work they did. But dutifully she asked no questions, and stood by, silent and polite, until the break was over and she and Emmy wheeled away the trolley.

  She was put out to see no sign of Patrick Harper, but felt it would be too inquisitive—at this stage of her employ—to ask where he was. However, when the whole day passed without his putting in an appearance, or mention being made of him, she casually
questioned Pedro, busy making pastry for an apple pie.

  'He's in the States,' came the answer. 'He goes there so often we call it commuting!'

  Tessa was irritated by the disappointment she felt at not seeing him. Heavens, what was special about Patrick Harper? As if she didn't know!

  'Will he be away long?'

  'Hard to say. Perhaps a few days, often a few weeks.'

  This gave Tessa food for thought, and she debated whether to pack in the whole thing. Yet she knew she wouldn't and that it had nothing to do with boredom, more a desire to know her neighbour better. Very much better.

  At dinner, she regaled Mrs Benson with the domestic details of the Hall, and though she made that good lady laugh with her impersonation of snooty Ingrid it was clear the housekeeper was still perturbed.

  'I wish I weren't going on holiday tomorrow,' she grumbled. 'I don't like this silly game you're playing on innocent folk. At least if I'm here I can keep an eye on you.'

  'I won't do anything to embarrass Uncle Martin,' Tessa reassured her. 'Anyway, if you don't take your holiday he'll think I'm really ill and will rush home.'

  Appreciating the truth of this, Mrs Benson sighed. 'One important thing I did today,' she confided, 'was find the perfect place to keep Henry safely locked up.'

  'Seems a shame to do that in such lovely weather,' Tessa said.

  'He won't be shut inside. I was thinking of that fenced-off piece of grass next to the kitchen garden, where we kept him until your uncle trained him not to eat the plants. I put him in there this afternoon, and once he saw his old kennel he settled down like a lamb.'

  Tessa was relieved that Henry could no longer make a nuisance of himself at the Hall, and as soon as Mrs Benson departed for the station the next morning she caught him by the collar and marched him to the enclosure.

  He bounded so happily into the fenced-off area that her qualms at leaving him all day vanished. She'd pop back frequently to see him, and was delighted he didn't object to his new quarters.

  For the next few days Tessa learned all about the running of the Hall, and soon appreciated why Patrick Harper elected to use it as his home and personal office.