Sam stood her ground, eyes glittering with unshed tears. “Well you got what you wanted, Mr. Porter,” she spat out. “And everything else, was that just part of keeping your expert on hand? I can’t believe how stupid I’ve been. I actually thought there was a real friendship growing between us, a real…” her voice suddenly gave out.
She turned, brushed past Chas and strode out of the room, back straight, tears held back. Until she reached her room. Then, despite her best resolve, she got into bed, and using the pillows to muffle her sobs, wept until there wasn’t a tear left in her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The sound of a car engine roused Sam from yet another restless dream. A quick check of the time told her it was two-fifteen. Concerned, she slipped out of bed and ran across to the window seat just in time to see a pair of headlights clip the corner of the coach house and disappear from view.
It had to be Chas. On his way back to London, choosing to drive through the night rather than face her in the morning. It was her own fault, she thought. They were supposed to be friends, but she had flung accusations and locked herself in her room, not giving him even a moment to explain. But was there really an explanation, beyond the obvious?
Her heart sank.
She was alone in the house, the granddaughter of a housemaid and a groom sleeping in a bedroom not unlike one her Gran might have cleaned. Crawling back into bed, Sam drew the covers over her head, but that didn’t stop her mind whirling through the possibilities that had plagued her since she had opened the cabinet to see Chas’ silver collection. She’d known since she was a little girl not to pester her grandparents about the candlestick and how they’d come to own it. But if they had been in service, how could they have afforded such an expensive piece? As honest as the day was long, Sam knew they would never have stolen it no matter how badly they might have been treated by their former employers.
And, knowing the risks she had taken to obtain its match, why hadn’t Chas told her he already had ten identical candlesticks? What was the secret behind these pieces of silver? Sam felt like she was blundering about in a darkened room, playing blind man’s bluff with Chas.
He’d betrayed her trust, she decided. Just as she had his. Funny thing, betrayal. It came in all shapes and sizes and just when you forgot it existed, it threw you a curve ball. Which landed in the pit of your stomach. And had you revisiting every moment, every kiss, and every endearment looking for hidden meanings. Would they have been better off if they’d been open with each other from the beginning?
She didn’t know.
And now she was worried sick about Chas making his way down to London, likely without sleep and with unresolved issues between them. Odd that they were so alike. Advance, retreat, reveal, hide. He was probably as angry with himself as he was with her.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
Tugging the duvet over her shoulder as she rolled, Sam burrowed beneath the covers and curled into a ball. Mercifully, her fatigue won over and she fell into a fitful sleep. When she raised her head from the pillow a few hours later, the sky had changed from pitch black to a predawn grey, way too early for a city girl like her. Lying on her back, she stared at the ceiling feeling sorry for herself. A luxury she could not afford. She needed to get up and get started. She would catalogue the silver, every single piece of it. Maybe when she’d finished she would be able to make sense of Chas’ behaviour the night before.
By early afternoon, Sam was back in the library scanning her notes and merging them with the files already on the computer. The sterling silver flatware tallied with her master list as did the plethora of serving dishes, the three Georgian tea services, six massive candelabras and a hideous epergne, all of which were stored in the butler’s pantry. She’d already logged most of the other silver about the Hall, the snuffboxes in the drawing room, and the coasters in the reception rooms and inkwells in Chas’ study. Obviously the Burton-Porters had been avid collectors, yet the original inventory, she noted, did not list the candlesticks; surely if they’d been family pieces, they would have been included with Randolph Porter’s other assets.
Frowning, Sam leaned back in her chair. The candlesticks were made about the same time Porter Hall was built in the mid-18th century which meant, conceivably, they could have been original to the house. But that didn’t fit with what Chas had told her. Why did it matter so much? Why did she want so badly to be able to completely trust him, no matter what the lists and ledgers showed? So leave it alone, she scolded herself. Hadn’t he given her the benefit of the doubt when she’d been less than honest with him? That brought the memory of the first time she had stumbled and leaned on that broad chest of his. All that strength had seared through her skin into her being.
Just when her memories were getting a bit too heated for comfort, Sam sensed she was no longer alone. Evelyn Weekes hovered in the open doorway, holding up a portable phone. “You have a call from London,” she announced stepping into the room.
“Really?” Sam lurched from her chair, her hand already reaching to snatch the phone from the older woman’s hand.
As soon as she had it, Sam said her thanks. And with heart thumping, raised the handset to her ear. “Hello?” she said. .
“Sam!” A familiar voice screeched down the line. “Is that really you?”
Definitely not Chas.
“Mia,” said Sam, trying to hide her disappointment as the housekeeper discreetly closed the library door behind her, “how are you?”
“Other than worrying about you, I’m fine. Are you in a dead zone, or what?”
Sam blinked. Being at Porter Hall was like being in never-never land. When she couldn’t find a signal the first night, she’d convinced herself there was no service. She didn’t need to answer her phone or check her messages. Partly, she had to acknowledge, because she was ashamed and embarrassed by her own actions. After rescheduling her flight to New York, not telling anybody about her change in plans, and then ending up at Porter Hall to help the head of the company do a private inventory of his estate, tongues would be wagging and questions would be asked. Thank goodness they didn’t know she’d used her expense money to cover her purchase at the auction hall. And, they never would. Even though she had acted unethically, Sam knew Chas would never mention it to anyone else.
“The reception here is hit-and-miss,” she said finally. She squeezed her eyes shut and waited for Mia to tell her what had happened at Burton-Porter & Sons in her absence. If Mia felt free to call Porter Hall, that meant Chas was safe and sound and in London.
“I think you were too distracted to check,” drawled Mia.
That was an understatement, thought Sam. In five short days, her heart had been through the wringer and back again. But what to say? I think I’m in love with the boss? Or, how about I’m pathetically grateful not to be in jail for fraud? There was nothing really she could say without further jeopardizing her reputation or her relationship with Chas. “Cataloguing an estate takes time.”
“Is that what you call it?” said Mia.
“Not funny. How did you get this number?” demanded Sam. Company policy guaranteed privacy both for their clients and their staff. No one gave out that information without first clearing it with those involved.
“I was roller-blading through the back hallway this morning as per usual, and there he was…just coming out of the staff room with a cup of coffee like a normal guy... I damn near ran him down and all he did was smile at me and say ‘Hello, Mia’. Sam…what have you done to the man? He’s being weirdly…nice.”
Probably relief that he’d left his most troublesome employee behind, thought Sam sourly.
“I asked him how you were,” Mia’s voice bubbled over with excitement, “and he gave me the number. Just like that. I could hardly believe it.” They nattered for a few minutes about this-and-that; all the while Sam’s mind was racing.
“Did he say anything else?”
“Well, he
did ask me if I’d solved the glitch in our accounting system…”
“You know damn well what I mean, Mia.”
“Fine. He wanted me to let you know that he was in the office and that if you needed anything, anything at all…’you were to call him personally’.”
As Mia paused hopefully, relief flooded Sam’s body. Chas was okay, at the very least they were still colleagues, and for once, her friend wasn’t ragging her. Which could only mean one thing. Sam’s eyes narrowed. Mia knew something was up between them. Sam had been with Chas for the better part of the week. The estate they were cataloguing was indeed Porter Hall and now the man more commonly known as Chas “bloody” Porter had revealed himself to be a nice guy.
The Burton-Porter grapevine must be buzzing with speculation!
Sam sat down with a thump. “Mia…” she quizzed, “what’s everyone been saying?”
“Ahh, now that’s the interesting part. The guys down at the warehouse are running a pool. It’s currently four to one that the next family portrait will have green eyes. I can spot you five pounds if you wanna place a bet?”
“Mia!” she croaked into the phone. At which point, Mia burst into a chorus of “New York, New York,” before laughing uproariously and hanging up.
Sam set the phone down and covered her mouth with her hand. They were the hottest topic of office gossip. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Chas would be furious, but she was thrilled! At least, her girlie side was, thanks to the goddess of single women. But where did that leave Sam when they returned to London? Would her “friend” Chas who occupied more and more of her thoughts, turn back into her cold, distant boss? Or did the man she rode with, laughed with, and sparred with still exist in the city? If she was the subject of gossip and Chas had had enough, would a sophisticated, professional reason be found to dump her out of the office on her embarrassing keester?
Sam’s eyes widened. She’d been so involved with Chas, she’d totally forgotten about her Sotheby’s contact. They’d been scheduled to have lunch together when she was in New York and talk about a position opening up at one of the major houses that would be perfect for her. With a sense of panic she realized that if her relationship with Chas didn’t include either a professional or personal happily ever after, she would need that job.
Racing upstairs, Sam grabbed her purse and dug out her mobile. As soon as she turned on the power, scads of texts and emails began to download. Her inbox was jammed. Ignoring all the messages from Mia and co-workers, she opened an email from New York. “Sorry you couldn’t make the trip, but the offer still stands. Head of the silver department is yours for the taking.”
Stunned, Sam plonked herself down on the side of the bed.
She would have to decide by the end of the month. She sent a quick note of acknowledgement and then turned off her phone. Her head was aching. Random thoughts of the “what if” variety ricocheted like pinballs. If she jumped at the opportunity to return to New York and it didn’t work out, she would have closed the door on Burton-Porter forever. If she listened to her heart, she would never leave England…unless said heart was broken.
Sam gripped her phone in both hands and stared across the room at a particularly beautiful landscape. In despair she realized that Porter Hall was her perfect landscape – with the focal point her tall, handsome and attractively brooding boss.
“Samantha Redfern,” she told herself sternly, “you are an idiot who needs to stop daydreaming and start getting practical.” But when was love ever practical?
Mia had said Chas was like a bull in a china shop when he wasn’t grinning from ear-to-ear, as though he’d forgotten his London cloak of cool indifference. What that exactly meant, Sam had no idea. Maybe he was just happy to be back in the city. Maybe one of those perfect women who usually hung on his arm had already reminded him of the pleasures of the single, sophisticated state.
But that shouldn’t bother her, Sam told herself glumly. This is just a job and the boss was just amusing himself as bosses do. Never mind that Chas had a reputation for treating his employees with intense integrity. Maybe, Sam thought, when she’d used company funds to buy the candlestick she’d declared the integrity clause null and void between them.
This biting loneliness and the ridiculous way she missed Chas, she had brought onto herself. And if nothing else, she had better show that she could at least do a superb job at the task she had been hired for by Burton-Porter.
Scolding herself for mooning about when she could be working, Sam shoved her mobile back in her bag and tripped down the main staircase. In the library, she surveyed the neat stack of folders awaiting her and sighed. She had been working for more than six hours already, and she needed a better break than Mia’s phone call had provided. Collecting her coffee cup, Sam wandered past the smaller, family dining room where they ate on chilly days and headed down to the warmth of the big kitchen.
Evelyn Weekes was at the counter chopping carrots for a casserole. “Finished for the day?” she asked Sam.
“Just for the time being,” said Sam setting her mug on the counter. “I might get back to it later.” She sneezed. “Sorry. I guess the dust is getting to me.” Too late, she saw the housekeeper’s back stiffen and then relax when Sam said. “Old books are so dry they can crumble like fallen leaves if you’re not careful.”
The housekeeper chortled. “I knew you couldn’t be referring to my housecleaning.” She picked up the cutting board and slid the carrots into the pot with the edge of her knife. “Cup of tea?” she asked wiping her hands on a towel when she was finished.
“Only if you’ll join me,” said Sam.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
While the older woman set about making a pot of tea, Sam’s thoughts drifted. To the silver collection and what Chas wasn’t telling her, to the mystery behind the candlestick owned by her grandparents and now residing in her London flat, and to how much she missed being with Chas. There had to be some way to figure out what the connection was between the candlesticks. Somewhere there must be records she had not yet examined. She was itching to ask the housekeeper if she knew where the estate papers would be, but that would put the woman in an awkward position.
A shaft of sunlight carved a path across the kitchen table. Maybe a dose of fresh air and sunshine was what she needed. “Evelyn,” said Sam. “May I ask you a question…about the rose garden?”
“Now that’s a sad story,” said the housekeeper. She untied her apron and hung it up on a peg by the back door. “Why don’t we take our tea outside?” she suggested. With Sam’s help they set the tray and carried it outside to the terrace, settling at one of the wrought iron tables that overlooked the gardens. “When I first came to the Hall,” the housekeeper continued over tea, “it was magnificent out here. I used to go along this terrace whenever I could just to smell the roses. Mrs. Porter, that would be Sylvia, Chas’ mother, oversaw the gardens. She wasn’t that interested in gardening, but she did like to entertain. Weekend parties and the like. And everything had to be perfect.” The housekeeper set her cup down. “It was Eugenie Porter, Chas’ grandmother, who designed the beds and raised roses. Visitors used to come just to tour the gardens and look at the roses. A few were quite rare – she collected them from old gardens as the cities sprawled out and ate them up. Not so much is left of the gardens now, but John cares for the roses for the old lady’s sake. And because I do love the scent.” She smiled.
“Could we take a turn about the gardens?” asked Sam, her own tea finished.
“You go ahead, dear. I’ll take in the tea tray.”
A few minutes later, the housekeeper was back with a basket over her arm. “Care to join me in a bit of weeding?” she asked Sam. She held up a pair of gloves and a trowel. “It helps out John and we can chat while we work.”
Sam joined in with enthusiasm. “This is a perfect way to end the afternoon.” They worked their way along the beds lining the flagstone terrace. When she
reached a mounded shrub, Sam paused to admire the greyish-green leaves and tight buds emerging from its thorny stems. All of a sudden, the hair at the nape of her neck began to prickle.
“This is a York and Lancaster damask, isn’t it?”
“Now how on earth would you know that?” asked Evelyn pausing in mid-snip to gape at Sam. “Very few gardeners take the time for the old roses like this one. And I didn’t take you for a muck-in-the-mud type.”
“My grandmother,” Sam stammered. As she leaned over to touch the rose’s soft leaves, the poignancy of the fragrance to come filled her eyes with tears. “On Sundays,” she paused to clear her throat, “we would take the streetcar to whichever rose garden was open to the public.” Memories of her grandmother walking up and down the gravel paths clouded her thoughts. “Gran would stop to name the variety of every rose we passed and tell me its history until I could recite it back to her. Including….this one.”
“This rose thrived. In Toronto?” The housekeeper frowned skeptically.
Sam laughed. “Don’t worry, they’re wrapped in burlap overcoats every winter.”
“And did she have her own garden, your grandmother?” Evelyn pulled up another dandelion from the soft earth and added it to their pile.
“Just a vegetable patch,” said Sam, resting on her knees, “with six hardy rose bushes, one at the end of each row so she could see them from the window. It was a little house,” she added, “cozy and full of love.”
“Just goes to show you,” said the housekeeper, back to snipping unwanted stems, “it’s about the people.” She sniffed. “If my years at the Hall have taught me anything, it’s love what makes a home, and there’s not been much of that here at Porter Hall since the old lady died.”
The two women worked in companionable silence, loosening the soil around the plants and tugging out the ubiquitous weeds, the garden’s earthy perfume tugging at Sam’s memory. Grace Quinn, always respectful of other people’s property, would never have picked a rose, but if a petal happened to drop, she would snap it up, name it, smell it and fold it into her handkerchief. When they got home, she would add it the others she collected. “Roses are like family,” she would say, “even dried, their scent lives on in your heart.” And Sam knew her grandmother was thinking of her own daughter, Sam’s mother, who had been at her side when she was a girl, learning the different names and collecting the petals just like Sam.
Outbid by the Boss Page 10
