Roberta Leigh - It All Depends on Love

by Roberta Leigh

  Indignantly she stared after him. What a let-down!

  Mr and Mrs Withers' appreciation of her changed appearance, and Emmy's and Eva's 'ooh's and 'aah's, did much to re-establish her self-esteem, though it wasn't until she was setting out the morning coffee in the sitting-room, and Mike gave a wolf-whistle and asked if she had won the Irish Sweepstake, that Tessa suddenly wondered if Patrick would think her new appearance and wardrobe came from her ill-gotten gains in selling the silver bowl.

  If only she'd thought of that before! But it was too late to revert to her old image, and if he did eventually notice it and pass a sarcastic comment she hoped she'd find the right response.

  'I've nothing else to spend my wages on,' she answered Mike.

  'I'm in the same boat. Living here is lousy for my social life, but great for my bank balance. Fancy helping me decrease it by having dinner with me tonight?'

  'I'm not sure Mr Harper would approve,' she hedged.

  'I'm not inviting Patrick—only you!'

  'Not inviting me where?' The man himself materialised directly beside them.

  'I'm trying to persuade Tessa to have dinner with me,' Mike answered. 'Doesn't she look great?'

  Patrick studied her as if she were a butterfly impaled by a pin. But his expression was unreadable as he turned to the younger man.

  'If you can spare a moment, we should discuss that new program you're doing.'

  The two of them drifted away, and Tessa continued pouring the coffee, then waited quietly in the corner until the cups were returned to the trolley and she was free to wheel it out.

  She was on the threshold when Patrick strode after her.

  'Any more coffee left?'

  Luckily there was, and she poured him a cup.

  'It's cold.' Irritated, he plonked it back on the trolley. 'Why isn't the coffee served from an electric percolator?'

  'Ask Ingrid,' Tessa said sweetly. 'She gives the orders.'

  'Surely not for such a simple thing?'

  'She issues orders for everything.'

  Patrick peered at the plate of biscuits. 'Not very exciting,’ he observed. 'All the cream cakes gone, I suppose?'

  'Chance would be a fine thing.'

  'I beg your pardon?'

  "There weren't any to begin with. We're only allowed to serve plain biscuits.'

  'You're joking!'

  'Ingrid wasn't. It was her order. She says cream cakes require forks and napkins and would take longer to eat.'

  Patrick said nothing, and Tessa was sorry she couldn't think of any other carping comments io make about the Swedish girl.

  'You could do worse than date Mike,' Patrick said unexpectedly. 'He's the right age for you.'

  'You think so?' she seethed.

  'Definitely. He fancied you the minute you came to work here, and he's a steady chap.'

  'You mean he doesn't have a roving eye like you?'

  'I'm not interested in marriage,' Patrick said loftily, 'so I'm entitled to rove.'

  'Thanks for your advice regarding Mike,' she managed to say through clenched teeth. 'I may accept it.'

  So much for her new image! Why bother when it attracted the wrong man? Patrick hadn't even noticed it, let alone commented on it. As far as he was concerned, she was the same girl he had first met examining the hole in the wall!

  Tessa was fuming as she helped with lunch. As soon as it was over, she'd dash home and change back to her 'sloppy Joe' image.

  But Mrs Withers put paid to this by asking Tessa to sort through the attics. 'I took a peep at them over the weekend, and from the mess they're in they haven't been cleaned or sorted out for years.'

  Tessa glanced ruefully at her pristine dress, and Mrs Withers winked and handed her a voluminous apron.

  'Start on the biggest one first,' she ordered, 'and take plenty of dusters and a torch.'

  'Don't tell me there's no electricity there!'

  'There is,' Mrs Withers beamed, 'but the smallest attic is more than twenty feet square, and they're only lit by central bulbs.'

  Donning the overall, and collecting a mound of dusters, Tessa mounted the stairs. It was the first time she was able to roam the house freely, and she found it larger than she remembered and in surprisingly good order.

  The first-floor bedrooms were occupied by members of the think-tank, and the floor above by the live-in staff, which still left many bedrooms empty. But perhaps Patrick intended to expand. From what she read in the City news, there was no limit to how big his company could grow, for his ideas were way ahead of his competitors'.

  But enough of Patrick! She had better things to think about! Reaching the third floor, she paused to catch her breath. The atmosphere here was different, clean and dry, but with an unlived-in air, as though no footsteps had walked the long, dim corridors for years.

  Quietly she opened a few doors. Antiquated bathrooms and more staff bedrooms stuffed with Victorian furniture that would fetch a good price at auction, she mused. Her interest quickening, she stepped forward to examine a heavily carved dressing-table, then abruptly drew back. There was a job to do first, and she dared not give in to her collector's curiosity until it was completed.

  The thought lent wings to her feet, and she almost ran up the last flight of stairs that brought her under the eaves. It was certainly dim here, and Tessa switched on the light and proceeded along a linoleum-covered passageway, with attics either side of her. There were six in all, and she peeped into each one. They were so chock-a-block with boxes and trunks, to say nothing of broken toys, umbrella stands and other junk, that she knew it would be impossible to get fid of the rubbish by herself. It required an army of cleaners and a removal van!

  Resolutely she entered the largest attic.

  Mrs Withers had said no one had entered it for years, but Tessa decided centuries was more like it! Excitement trembled inside her, born of a hunter's instinct that told her she was going to unearth something momentous.

  The last occasion she had felt this, she had discovered an eighteenth-century chamber-pot, a less-than romantic find which now housed an aspidistra on her kitchen window-ledge. But there were sure to be more inspiring finds here, and she turned on the light and slowly swivelled round.

  There were cobwebs everywhere, and with flailing arms she brushed them to the floor, almost tripping over a mound of old curtains in the process. Weavings and fabrics were her weakness, and she bent to examine them, disappointed to find they were moth-eaten and falling to pieces.

  Dust rose in a cloud around her, stinging her throat and her eyes, and she searched for a window. There was a narrow one at the far side, which meant climbing over numerous cartons to reach it, and she abandoned the idea in favour of examining the boxes nearest to her.

  Bending, she lifted a lid. Ugh! A dank smell of mould filled her nostrils, and, regretting her lack of rubber gloves, she gingerly prodded at various mildewed Victorian suits and dresses before hurriedly closing the lid. Box number one for the bonfire!

  An hour later, her eyelashes and bright hair covered with dust, there were four more boxes ready for disposal. That left an ancient tin trunk and three tea-chests to be examined, and she sat back on her heels for a breather.

  Who had been the last person to examine these rooms? Thinking of the case of musty, unworn baby clothes which now stood by the door, ready to go, it was painfully easy to visualise a young mother crying for the child who had never worn them. Had it been Lord Finworth's great-great-grandmother, or aunt five times removed? How wonderful to trace one's lineage back hundreds of years, to know that the blood flowing in your veins had flowed in the veins of an Elizabethan lady or a courtier to King Charles.

  Yet what difference did it make who your ancestors were? Bobby had no idea who his father was, yet he was bursting with talent, and that was what counted.

  Rising, she flicked on her torch and set to work again. The trunk was locked, and the tea-chests were too securely nailed for her to open, and she ran down to the kitchen in sear
ch of a hammer and screwdriver.

  Pedro, busy making tea, burst out laughing at the sight of her. 'Been taking a dust bath?'

  'Almost. Care to help me open a few tea-chests?'

  'I only drink coffee!'

  Pulling a face at him, she hurried away. Because she was concerned not to injure her hands, it took her a while to prise off the first lid, and as she lifted it a sigh of disappointment escaped her. More rotting fabric. One of the Finworth ancestors had obviously been a compulsive buyer of material!

  Resignedly, she drew out a rolled piece of brocade, holding it away from her in case it fell to pieces. But it was dry and firm to the touch, and heavy too, as if it was wrapped round something.

  Puzzled, she undid it and found herself holding a narrow roll of canvas. She carefully uncurled it and stared at a two-foot-square painting, afraid to believe what her senses were telling her.

  Forcing down her rising tension, she scanned every inch of it, noting the masterly composition of the figures, the delicacy of the brush strokes, the serene style. She was no expert, but it was impossible to live with Uncle Martin and not imbibe a little of his knowledge, and she was almost certain she was holding a Titian! It was an incredible thought, and she drew a deep breath to steady herself. But her hands were trembling as she continued examining the rest of the contents.

  An hour later, the three tea-chests sorted through, fifteen paintings lay at her feet. None would fetch less than a hundred thousand pounds, and three—unless she was very much mistaken—were old masters: a Poussin, a Tintoretto, and a Raphael any museum would give ten years of its budget for!

  Her first instinct was to rush to Patrick—not that he deserved to be shown such a windfall after his horrid behaviour to her! Visualising his disbelief, his wonderment, she felt an urge to show off her discoveries in the most exciting manner possible, and decided to set them out in one of the unoccupied rooms on the floor below.

  Surreptitiously she carried the canvases into the largest bedroom and spread them on the floor in front of the four-poster bed. If such magnificence had been left in the tea-chests, heaven knew what treasure the trunk housed!

  Locking the bedroom and pocketing the key, she raced back to the attic. The lock on the trunk was large and rusty, but nothing was going to deter her, and a firm blow with the hammer soon rendered it useless. With a deep breath, she lifted the lid.

  What a disappointment! It was chock-a-block with musty family documents and household accounts. True, many dated back to the sixteenth century and were probably of great interest to archivists, but their financial value was minor compared with the paintings.

  Disappointed, she sat back on her heels. Her foot knocked against the torch and it slid along the floor. As she reached to retrieve it, her face was inches away from the right-hand wall, and she found herself staring at a two-foot-high door, skilfully papered over to match the rest of the peeling paper on the wall around it.

  There was no visible handle and, adrenalin flowing, she carefully pressed round the edges. She was on the verge of giving up when there was a faint click beneath her fingers, and the door creaked back to reveal an inner darkness.

  Corpses! she thought wildly. Skeletons and skulls. Reminding herself that she was a surgeon and used to bodies, she flicked on the torch. The beam shone on an eight-foot-square cavity no more than four feet high, in which stood an enormous wooden linen-chest. A bride's trousseau, or more fabric!

  Crawling in, she shone the torch on the floor to make sure there were no spiders, and sat down. She hadn't enjoyed herself so much in years. It was as if she were a child again, in a world of astonishing and untold wonders. But if she didn't hurry the spell would be broken by anxious grown-ups coming to see what she was doing!

  Lifting the lid, she saw yellowing paper parcels of various shapes and sizes. Weighing one in her hand, she tried to guess its contents. A gold or silver object? No, probably china from the weight of it.

  She was right too, for, peeling away the paper, she saw a little vase, no more than six inches high. Its colours were glowingly luminous, almost as though it was lit from within. But it was Tessa who was alight, for she was positive she was holding a priceless Ming.

  Reverently she placed it on the floor and gingerly unwrapped the rest of the contents. An hour later, two dozen little vases and three large bowls from the same period stood in front of her.

  If she found nothing else, these objects alone would give Patrick enough money to buy into Allinson Software, or to buy the company entirely!

  She must break the news to him at once. Bending double, she crawled out of the secret room, but as she straightened an ominous thought struck her.

  What if she were wrong, and the paintings and china were nothing other than brilliant copies? After all, who was crazy enough to leave such untold wealth mouldering in an attic for years? Lord Finworth had been noted for his eccentricity, but to have done this was plain dotty!

  But, dotty or not, the possibility existed that her discoveries weren't genuine. She frowned. The last thing she fancied was to make a fool of herself in Patrick's eyes. Far better to ascertain if her judgement was correct.

  And she knew exactly the man to tell her: Angus Boswell. A retired director of a prestigious auction house, he now ran a little antique shop in Iverton as a hobby, leaving it once a month to dine with Uncle Martin. Tessa had known him for years, and would take his word as to whether she had uncovered trash or treasure.

  If treasure, she would put everything in the bedroom and show it to Patrick in one fell swoop. Assuming it was possible to get him into the bedroom! Bearing in mind his present attitude towards her, it was the last place he'd elect to be with her.

  She was rewrapping the china when she heard footsteps. Heart racing, she crawled out of the secret room and closed the door. Don't let it be Patrick, she prayed. After her wonderful plan to surprise him, it would be a shame if it fell flat.

  But it was Mike's blond head that appeared through the gloom. 'Hi,' he greeted her. 'I heard you were here. Require help?'

  'Aren't you working?'

  'You're worse than Ingrid! I'm taking a break and visiting a beautiful lady in an attic.'

  'You make it sound very romantic,' Tessa said, regretting her comment as Mike moved closer.

  'I can put it into action,' he murmured.

  'No, thanks.'

  'Why not?' He drew her close and feathered little kisses from her forehead to her mouth.

  Tessa's instinctive reaction was to push him away, but she resisted it. Why not let him kiss her? He was an eligible man, and a nice one—the sort who wouldn't object to a wife with a career of her own. But, though his lips were soft and his kiss was expert, she felt nothing, and gently wriggled free of him.

  'I think I've rushed you,' he said.

  Forbearing to say he'd have no more success if he went as slowly as a tortoise, she made a play of closing the lid of the box nearest to her.

  'Sure I can't be of help?' he repeated.

  'No, thanks.'

  'You didn't object to my kissing you, did you?'

  'No.'

  'What if I did it again?'

  'No to that, too.'

  His reply was drowned by the sound of other footsteps, and he stepped back from Tessa as Patrick loomed in the doorway.

  'I hope I'm not disturbing you both?' he asked with heavy sarcasm.

  'Not in the least.' Mike was not to be fazed. 'I was just going.'

  He sauntered off, but Patrick remained where he was, his expression nasty. 'Hiding here to avoid work?'

  'Clever of you to guess!' she snapped.

  For the first time he noticed the dust and cobwebs covering her. 'Why are you nosing around here?'

  'Seeing if there's anything worth pinching!'

  He looked ready to explode, and she relented. 'Mrs Withers asked me to sort through this rubbish.'

  'Oh.' He simmered down, though was still scowling. 'There's certainly enough of it. I'll call in a ju
nk man to clear it out.'

  'Without looking at it? You may be throwing away something valuable.'

  'Not if the rest of the house is anything to go by. Apart from a few antique pieces, my great-uncle cherished the worst of Victoriana. Anyway, you've sorted through things long enough. It's gone five and you are to go home.'

  Realising she had to obey him, which meant tearing up four flights again when he was out of sight, she signalled him to lead the way, afraid that if she went first he'd notice the hidden door.

  'Dining with Mike tonight?" he enquired as they walked along the passage.

  'Trying to push me off on another man?'

  'You could do worse.'

  'Worse than you?'

  'Don't be rude. You'd better watch your tongue in your next job! Other employers won't be as easygoing with you as I am!'

  'They won't try to seduce me either!'

  He choked off a reply, then muttered, 'How often do I have to apologise? I've already said it won't happen again.'

  Tessa slowed her steps. 'Maybe I want it to.'

  He stopped completely. 'That's a very sudden change of heart.'

  'It's a woman's prerogative.'

  'But you're a teenager!'

  'You fancy me, though, don't you?'

  For answer, he scanned her from top to toe, and she was chagrined that he had chosen the least propitious moment to do so. Enveloped in Mrs Withers' voluminous apron, she resembled a parcel with legs, while her hair resembled a bird's nest!

  'I'm not at my best right now,' she mumbled.

  'You don't say?' His smile was mean. 'The dank smell you're emanating would be a great deterrent for any female who has to go out alone at night, and that apron of yours protects your virginity better than a chastity belt!'

  'How do you know I'm a virgin?' The question popped out of its own volition, and Tessa longed to kick herself. Especially when she couldn't interpret the strange expression that crossed Patrick's face.