by Sharon Booth
In the corner of what appeared to be a sitting room, a little girl was curled up on a teenager's lap, seemingly absorbed in the story that was being narrated to her—in a rather bored tone, it had to be said. As she registered our arrival, Adele scrambled from the chair and ran over to us, her blue eyes wide with curiosity and a big smile on her face.
"Adele, sweetheart, this is Cara. Cara, this is Adele."
My heart just swelled as I took in the cute little tot, with her tousled brown hair and enquiring expression. She wore a red and black Minnie Mouse dress, with black and white stripy tights, and had a big floppy bow in her hair. Despite the horrendously garish outfit, she looked adorable, and she didn't greet me by kicking me in the shins or sticking her tongue out at me, which was definitely a bonus.
Instead, she held out her hand and quite solemnly said, "Hello, Cara."
Astonished, I carefully shook it and smiled down at her. "Hello, Adele. I'm very pleased to meet you."
The teenager, who I presumed was Susie, yawned and stretched. "Can I go now, Mrs Fairweather? I'm supposed to be meeting my mates in half an hour."
Mrs Fairweather nodded. "I suppose so. Thanks, Susie. I'll get your wages, if you'll come to the kitchen with me." She turned to me. "Will you be okay with her for five minutes?"
"Of course," I said. "Would you like me to finish reading you that story, Adele?"
Adele nodded, and Mrs Fairweather smiled. "There's a good girl. I'll be back in a jiffy."
She led Susie out of the room, and I settled myself in the comfortable armchair and lifted Adele onto my knee, then I picked up the book and continued the story of The Gruffalo, doing all the voices and making quite a decent job of it, if I did say so myself. Well, Adele seemed pretty impressed, anyway. She stared up at me, eyes wide, at first, then giggled in all the right places, and when I'd finished, she gave me a round of applause, so I must have done okay.
"Well, you're very good at that, I will say," Mrs Fairweather said from the doorway. I hadn’t even noticed her return. "Come along, Adele. I need to get your tea ready." She held out her hand for the little girl. "Now, then, Cara," she said, as we headed back into the hallway towards the front door, "Do you think you could cope with the isolation of this house? You wouldn't crave the bright lights of the city?"
I pulled a face. "Hardly. This is the most perfect location. I'm definitely not a city girl."
"Thought as much. I've seen enough to be satisfied. What about you? Are you interested in the job?"
Was I! I could hardly wipe the smile from my face. "Absolutely," I said, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice. "But what about Mr Rochester? Doesn't he have the final say?"
"He'll check out your reference and the authenticity of the diploma, of course, but other than that, he'll leave it to me. He trusts my judgement, as well he should, after all these years. I know what it is he's looking for. He was rather, er, specific about certain matters, and I believe I'm a good judge of character. So, do you think you'd be able to start on Monday?"
"I think that would be fine," I said, thinking I must have died and gone to heaven. "What time do you want me?"
"Get here for around nine," she said, after considering for a moment. "You can take the morning to unpack and settle in. Then you can take over the childcare after lunch, if that's all right with you."
I nodded. "Absolutely fine."
"Goodness, we haven't even discussed your wages," she said, as she opened the front door.
I hadn't even thought about the money. Living at Moreland Hall would be payment enough, as far as I was concerned.
Mrs Fairweather sounded almost apologetic as she told me what the hourly rate would be. "I know it doesn't sound much," she said, scooping Adele into her arms, "but it's more than the minimum wage, after all, and you'll have free board and lodgings."
"It sounds very fair to me," I said, fighting the urge to do a happy dance down the hall. "Honestly, I'm quite satisfied with it. I can't wait to start work."
She opened the door. "Nine o'clock on Monday, then," she said. "I'll look forward to seeing you. Say bye-bye to Cara, Adele."
Adele waved. "Bye-bye, Cara."
"Bye, Adele. See you soon. Goodbye, Mrs Fairweather, and thank you."
She tutted. "It's me who should be thanking you. My knees aren't up to this malarkey, my love. See you on Monday!"
I practically floated down the drive on a cloud of happiness. I couldn't believe it. Finally, my life was turning around, and things were going well for me.
It just showed you, I thought, what could happen once you put passion away and started to be sensible and level-headed about things.
It was only when I reached the gate that I remembered I'd forgotten to order a taxi.
Chapter Six
Yoga time!
Of course it is, Tamsin, I thought, smiling to myself. It’d been a huge relief to discover that I had both a phone and internet signal at Moreland Hall. As I lay on the extraordinarily comfortable double bed, I gave a sigh of contentment, as I scrolled through my Facebook timeline, catching up with what had been going on with everyone.
It had been a brilliant day. Even the weather had warmed up over the weekend, and it felt as if, finally, spring had put in an appearance. I'd arrived at nine, and had been welcomed like an old friend. Mrs Fairweather had asked if I'd had breakfast, and when I admitted I hadn't, she insisted on making me a full English. I did protest, honestly. I thought, at that rate, I’d have to buy some new clothes in a bigger size, and a plate full of bacon and eggs wasn't going to help, but I didn't want to appear rude on my first day, did I? The plan was to just eat half of it, but it smelt so delicious and tasted so good. How was I supposed to resist? I'd have to eat less for lunch, I decided.
By the time I'd troughed the lot, my jeans were digging into my stomach with such ferocity, I thought I was going to burst. Longing to undo the button, I struggled to my feet. "Is it okay if I go upstairs and unpack, Mrs Fairweather?"
She looked surprised. "Already? Wouldn't you like a nice cup of tea first?"
"I'll have one later, if that's okay. I'd really like to get settled in." And get these flipping jeans off, so I can breathe again.
"Oh, well, just as you like. Do you remember the way, or would you like me to show you?"
"It's fine. I know my room's at the end of the landing," I said, lifting the suitcase. "Should I go up these stairs?" I asked, nodding towards the staircase in the corner of the kitchen.
She shook her head. "That would lead you to the east wing. No one's used those rooms for ages. The family uses the west wing. Your room's at the end of the landing, with Adele's next to it, then Mrs Rochester's room—his mother, I mean. Then there's two guest rooms, and, finally, Mr Rochester has a suite of rooms at the beginning of the landing, nearest to the stairs. It's quicker for you to use the main stairs and go left."
"Where's Adele?" I asked, as I stepped into the hall.
"Helping Mrs Jones vacuum the drawing room," she called. "She's got a toy vacuum cleaner, bless her. Keeps her occupied for a while. Now, remember, when you get to the top of the stairs, take the left-hand landing," she said.
I nodded, vaguely hoping Adele hadn't been given heaps of toys designed to train her only in housework, and hauled my suitcase up the stairs. Passing the identical closed doors of various rooms, I noticed one door was much narrower than the others, and with curiosity getting the better of me, I opened it cautiously, finding a flight of narrow winding steps behind it. The entrance to the attics, I supposed. Given the size of the house, I reckoned they must’ve been enormous. Oh, well, I thought, and grinned to myself. As long as Mr Rochester didn't keep his secret mad wife up there ...
Entering my own room, I placed my suitcase on the bed with a sigh of relief, then threw myself down beside it. Staring round at my gorgeous new bedroom, I could hardly wipe the smile from my face.
After unpacking—my paltry belongings looked completely lost in the large wardrobe and chest
of drawers—I changed into something a little more comfortable, then headed downstairs, where Mrs Fairweather told me to have a wander ‘round the house and get to know the place a little before lunch.
"Would it be all right for me to have a walk in the grounds?" I asked, thinking they'd looked so magnificent from the garden room, I couldn't wait to explore.
She looked at me like I was a bit crazy. "What are you asking for? If you want to, of course you can. Come and go as you please."
"Thank you so much," I said and grabbed my duffle coat from the utility room, which was reached by a door under the stairs. From there, I headed out of the house into the garden, taking deep lungfuls of fresh air and thinking I was the luckiest person alive.
It took me a while to cover the grounds. I wandered for quite some time in the woods, where the last of the snowdrops peeped between the trees, and daffodils danced in the spring breeze. To the rear of the house, I explored the kitchen garden, where herbs and vegetables grew in raised beds, or in the greenhouse, then followed a path around the lawn, where I came upon a small lake, edged with reeds and weeping willows.
Most interesting of all, though, was the secret garden. At least, I assumed it was a garden, although I didn't suppose it was really a secret. I was quite sure everyone in the house knew about it, but it felt sort of secret, because it was hidden away behind a wall.
The wall itself was half hidden behind bushes and creepers, but when I spotted it, I followed it until I reached an old wooden door set in the brickwork. Unfortunately for me, it was locked. I wanted to go inside that walled garden so much, but it was probably for the family's use only. Besides, I was being romantic again. It was probably nothing more than a glorified vegetable patch.
I took my time walking back to the house, unable to stop thinking about Seth. Was he managing all right? Had he sorted out some benefits for himself? Was he still in the flat, or had he moved in with Isolde and Naomi?
I might’ve no longer been in love with him, but that didn't mean I didn't care what happened to him. I wasn't completely unfeeling, as much as I tried to be. In fact, I felt rather ashamed that I hadn't spoken to him. I shouldn't have left like that. I should have sat down with him and explained how I felt, told him I was leaving.
But then, I reasoned, he would have talked you out of it. You know he would. He would have cried and told you how much he loved you, and even though you knew he didn't love you at all, just depended on you, you would have given in and stayed.
Yes, I realised, I had to go without telling him, for my own sake.
It's funny, really. No matter how much your head tries to tell you that you did the sensible thing, your heart always betrays you. It floods you with all those awful feelings that make you believe you're a bad person. As I headed back to the house, I knew it would take me a long time to forgive myself for what I'd done. I needed to start work, keep busy.
"You were gone ages," Mrs Fairweather said, when I returned to the house. "I was about to send out a search party." She smiled at me. "Did you enjoy yourself?"
"The grounds are amazing," I said. "I love it here."
She nodded approvingly. "And why wouldn't you? Now, let's think about lunch, and then I'll hand Adele over to your care."
Looking after Adele proved astonishingly easy. After coping with a class full of three and four-year-olds, most of whom thought Jilly and I were basically theirs to command, the polite and pleasant little girl was a joy to work with. In fact, it didn't feel like work, at all. Like I was being paid to read stories, play with toys, and entertain her. The main priority, it appeared, was keeping her occupied, so Mrs Fairweather could get on with her own work without interference. I couldn't help wondering why they hadn't just enrolled her at a local nursery school, but Mrs Fairweather told me, over tea—or dinner, as she called it—that Mr Rochester had his reasons, though it wasn't for her to say what they were.
"Of course," she'd added, "she'll be going to primary school before we know it, and then it will all change."
I'd had a sinking feeling at that, realising that the job wouldn't be forever, after all. Of course it wouldn't. When Adele started school, she'd have no need of a nanny.
That evening, with Adele tucked up in bed, and Mrs Fairweather in her own little sitting room, watching television, I headed up to my room and lay on the bed, While trying desperately not to worry about Seth, I decided it was time to relax, and tell Redmond and Tamsin of my good fortune. I hadn't mentioned it before, because I'd had a nagging fear that something would go wrong, and I'd have it all snatched from my grasp, but Mrs Fairweather had informed me casually that afternoon that my reference had reached Mr Rochester the day after my interview, and it was excellent, and he'd checked that my diploma was for a genuine, recognised qualification. Apparently, he’d been very impressed, so there seemed no danger of me being turfed out of Moreland Hall any time soon.
When I took out my mobile phone, I found there’d been another text from Seth.
Haunting laughter now surrounds me,
How cruel is another's joy.
No pleasure soothes this tortured boy.
Why can't you hear my desperate plea?
I need my love, my world, my life.
Return to me, my almost wife.
Don't you think this has gone far enough? I've had to sign on, for God's sake!
My sympathy drained away immediately. What a hardship for him, having to put his signature to a piece of paper once a week, or fortnight, or whatever it was. Terribly hard work.
That last line of the poem had annoyed me, too. My almost wife! Yes, and why was that? Because he'd refused to marry me, that was why. Marriage, he'd insisted, was a constraint, and he didn't even ask my opinion on the subject—although, to be fair, I'd no doubt have agreed to whatever he said, anyway. I was such a doormat in those early days. And, really, he'd done me a massive favour by not marrying me. No messy divorce for me to worry about. I was completely free.
Well, almost.
Feeling angry at myself for being so soft, I decided to text him back. It took me ages to determine exactly what to write, and I practically wrote an essay, at first, trying to explain myself to him. Then I thought, why bother? He wouldn't understand in a million years, and it would just lead to more questions, and a whole evening spent trying to make him accept things. Better to send just one short text, making it clear that I wasn't coming back.
In the end, I simply wrote a few brief sentences.
Seth, it's over. I'm sorry, but I've made a new life for myself now and I think you should do the same. I hope you have a good life. No hard feelings. Cara.
After reading Tamsin's yoga update on Facebook, I decided to message both my siblings and tell them of my good fortune. I was just about to do so when the phone pinged.
Seth!
And that's it, is it? No explanation? No apology? After all I've done for you! After all we've meant to each other! I don't understand this, Cara. You know we're meant to be together for all eternity, and you know I love you. Haven't I always told you, you're my world? I think this is just your hormones playing havoc with your common sense. I don't know. Maybe it's something to do with turning thirty. Hormones do strange things to women. Come home and we'll get you some help. There are medications you can take, you know. Isolde says there are patches which might be the answer. I'm willing to forgive and forget. Come home, my love. Your Heathcliff xx
I took a deep breath. My hormones! Typical! And trust Isolde to be feeding his stupid ideas. Bet she was praying I wouldn't come home, so she could have him all to herself. Well, she was welcome to him. I wasn't his love, and he wasn't my Heathcliff.
Even if he had been, I wouldn't have wanted him. Heathcliff was a psycho. I'd finally figured that much out, at least.
Wuthering Heights was a brilliant novel—a real masterpiece—but how I'd ever mistaken it for a love story was beyond me.
My fingers itched to send him a stinging reply, but I realised that would only b
e fanning the flames, so with enormous effort, I decided to ignore him. I'd said all I had to say.
Instead, I wrote a text, explaining about my new job and home, and sent it to Tamsin and Redmond.
Redmond replied within a few minutes.
Living in? With some strangers you know nothing about? How do you know this mansion house isn't owned by gangsters? Crime barons? You could be in real danger. You are so irresponsible, Cara. I do wish you'd talk things over with me before you do anything. Who is this man you're working for? Text me his name and I'll make enquiries. Redmond xx
Well, that hadn't helped my bad mood. Trust men to drain away every drop of joy from the day.
I was just wondering whether, or not, to answer when the phone rang. I almost dropped it in shock, then peered nervously at the screen. If it was Seth, there was no way I’d answer it, but luckily, it was Tamsin.
"Are you serious? You've got a job in a posh house? How posh? Who are you working for? How the hell did you manage that?"
"Take a deep breath," I said, "and I'll begin."
I told her everything, right from searching the newspaper column in The Singing Kettle Café, to Redmond's and Seth's texts.
"Bloody men," she said. "Always spoil everything. Who do they think they are, anyway? Everything revolves around them and their needs, and sod us."
I was astonished to hear her speaking like that. "Are you all right, Tamsin?" I said worriedly. "I mean, everything's okay?"
"Oh, bloody perfect. Same old, same old." She sounded very bitter. "Got to go out in ten minutes to pick Alice up from dance class, and Robyn's throwing a tantrum because she doesn't want to come with me, because she's watching Cinderella for the twentieth time this week, but I can't leave her here, because bloody Brad's at work, doing overtime. Again. And I've spent all day cleaning the house from top to bottom, then trawling ‘round the supermarket, doing a mammoth shop, because he's invited the boss and his wife ‘round to dinner, without even warning me, or asking me if it was okay, or anything. Frankly, I'm sick to death of it all. Think you had the right idea about buggering off."
