by Anne Mather
‘What do you want to know about London?’ she yielded with wry humour, and Melissa clasped her hands.
‘Everything,’ she said dramatically. ‘I want to go there soon, but Daddy says I have to go to school first. He used to live there, you know. He had a house, too, but I believe he liked living in London best. He’s a sculptor, you know. He’s very clever!’
‘I know.’ Alix’s tone was dry, but Melissa didn’t notice it.
‘He can draw too,’ the child went on. ‘He’s drawn me—lots of times. And he says he’s going to make a—a—well, he’s going to do my head. Just for himself.’
Alix bit her lip. ‘You’re a lucky girl,’ she commented, and Melissa nodded, leaving the chair to cover the width of the room with her half-skipping step.
‘I know,’ she said, halting before the fireplace, then she sighed. ‘What a pity Miss Stanwick had to die. She wanted to come back to England so badly.’
Alix stacked the textbooks together. ‘You cared for Miss Stanwick, didn’t you?’ she observed quietly.
‘Oh, yes,’ Melissa nodded. ‘She was very kind. She used to talk to me for hours and hours.’
Alix’s tongue dampened her upper lip. ‘Did—did Miss Stanwick know your mother, Melissa?’ she asked, but the child wasn’t listening to her.
‘She used to tell me what England was like when she was a little girl,’ she went on solemnly. ‘She was very old.’
‘Did she live in London too?’ Alix queried, deciding there was no point in trying to rush things. Confidence had to be given, not asked for.
‘I think so,’ answered Melissa, frowning, ‘some of the time anyway. Her daddy was a parson. They used to live in a big old house, not at all like this one. She said it was always cold, and she and her sisters used to snuggle together in bed to keep warm.’ She paused. ‘She had seven brothers and sisters! I wish I did.’
Alix had no answer to that, but fortunately Melissa didn’t appear to expect one. ‘Miss Stanwick said that when they used to go shopping, they had to go in a horse and cart. There were no motor cars in those days, you know, and all the ladies wore long dresses.’ She hesitated a moment before adding: ‘Do you wish you wore long dresses, Mrs Thornton?’
‘I do sometimes,’ answered Alix easily. ‘Nowadays, girls often wear long dresses.’
‘In the evenings?’
‘And during the day as well,’ Alix insisted, guessing where this conversation was leading. ‘Anything is acceptable these days.’
‘In London?’
‘Everywhere.’
Melissa looked doubtful. ‘I’d like to wear long dresses all the time,’ she said, ‘then people wouldn’t be able to see my legs.’
Alix got to her feet. ‘What’s wrong with your legs? They look very pretty legs to me.’
Melissa wrinkled her nose. ‘Oh—you know! One of them is shorter than the other.’
Alix shook her head. ‘That’s not such an insurmountable problem. Particularly not these days.’
‘What do you mean?’ Melissa’s brow was furrowed.
‘Well, take a look at my shoes,’ said Alix, lifting her trouser leg to display the wedged sole. ‘I’m sure you could get some shoes that wouldn’t look so different from these. Then you’d be fashionable, as well.’
Melissa’s eyes widened. ‘Daddy said that, but I thought he was just teasing.’
‘Oh, no,’ Alix shook her head, ‘I’m sure he meant it. Perhaps when you go to London…’
‘Mmm.’ Melissa nodded eagerly, her eyes brightening again.
Alix straightened her trousers, and asked casually: ‘Is this your first visit to England, Melissa?’ and the little girl nodded once more.
‘Yes. I—I couldn’t come before.’
‘Why not?’
The question was out before Alix could prevent it, but the answer was lost when Mrs Brandon came into the library, carrying a tray containing a jug of milk and biscuits, and two glasses. She looked taken aback to find Alix with the child, and looked round questioningly for Oliver Morgan.
‘Mr Morgan had some work to do, Mrs Brandon.’ Alix had to say something. ‘Melissa and I will share the milk, thank you.’
Mrs Brandon set the tray down on the table with obvious ill-grace. ‘Mr Morgan asked for that specially, he did,’ she said accusingly, almost as if Alix had denied him of it. ‘What’s he doing about lunch?’
Alix looked at Melissa, but the little girl merely shrugged, and it was left to her to disclaim all knowledge of Mr Morgan’s plans.
‘I expect he’s gone and shut himself away in that hut again,’ muttered the housekeeper irritably, ‘not eating for days on end. It isn’t good for him.’
‘A hut!’ Alix was bewildered now. ‘I don’t think—’
‘Mrs Brandon means the north tower,’ interposed Melissa suddenly. ‘That’s where Daddy works. He likes to be alone.’
‘The north tower?’ Alix shook her head. ‘You mean the lodge?’
‘No!’ Mrs Brandon was scornful. ‘That’s Giles’s cottage, that is. She means the old peel tower. It hasn’t been used for years, leastways, not until Mr Morgan started using it. Falling to bits about his ears, it is.’
‘Daddy likes it,’ asserted Melissa, but her voice lacked conviction, and its tremor made Alix impatient with Mrs Brandon’s lack of tact.
‘I’m sure he does, Melissa,’ she reassured her, and then looked again at the housekeeper. ‘Does Mr Morgan usually return for lunch?’
‘Sometimes—sometimes not.’
‘Then I suggest you prepare something just in case,’ said Alix firmly, and knew she had offended the woman again when she left the room without another word.
Melissa helped herself to a biscuit from the tray, but she still looked anxious. ‘Old buildings can be dangerous, can’t they?’ she murmured doubtfully.
‘Yes.’ Alix saw no point in lying to her. ‘But you don’t imagine your father would take the trouble to bring you to England and then risk killing himself, do you?’
Melissa wanted to believe her. ‘Don’t you think so?’
‘Well! Does it make sense to you?’ demanded Alix, unwilling to admit the thought that not everything Oliver Morgan did was sensible. But at least, judging from his daughter’s expression, her optimism had been justified.
‘No,’ Melissa agreed, biting into her biscuit. ‘No, you’re right, Mrs Thornton. Daddy wouldn’t do anything so silly.’ And then, more reflectively: ‘Why doesn’t Mrs Brandon like you?’
Alix poured the milk from the jug into the two glasses. ‘She doesn’t know me,’ she countered evasively. ‘Now drink this. Then you can tell me what Miss Stanwick used to teach you.’
Makoto appeared soon after twelve, to take Melissa to wash her hands before lunch. The little girl went with her with evident relief, and Alix knew that the concentration of the last hour had been a not altogether enjoyable experience for her. She was inclined to be lazy, and although she could read the exercises Alix set out for her, she preferred to doodle on a piece of paper with a pencil, or gaze dreamily out of the window. When she was forced to take an interest in what Alix was saying, she assumed a sulky expression, and it had taken all Alix’s patience not to get annoyed with her. It was obvious that the elderly Miss Stanwick had preferred to take the easy way out with her, and Alix was amazed that she could read at all. But Melissa was an intelligent child, and no doubt that was how she could spell out words after the minimum amount of tuition.
They had the lunch table to themselves, as Alix and Oliver Morgan had had the evening before. Alix had expected Makoto to join them for the meal, but when she mentioned this to Melissa, she looked surprised.
‘Oh, no,’ she exclaimed, with unconscious hauteur. ‘Makoto is only a servant.’
‘I suppose you could say the same of me,’ remarked Alix dryly, not particularly caring for the distinction, and Melissa had the grace to look shamefaced.
‘Makoto wouldn’t want to eat at the table,’ she protested, waving her knife i
n the air to impress the point. ‘In Japan you sit on the floor, on cushions, and Makoto would feel out of place at a table like this.’
‘But you don’t,’ remarked Alix, forking smoked salmon into her mouth, and Melissa shook her head.
‘Miss Stanwick—’
‘I know,’ Alix interrupted her. ‘Miss Stanwick insisted on sitting at an ordinary table.’
Melissa’s eyes danced. ‘Yes. How did you know?’
Alix shook her head, her lips curving wryly. ‘I really have no idea,’ she answered teasingly, and Melissa giggled.
It was a pleasant meal, although Alix was conscious that her employer could appear at any time. However, he did not return, but when the meal was over she was surprised when Makoto arrived and shepherded Melissa out of the room. Leaving her coffee, Alix went after them to ask what was going on.
‘Missy must rest, Thornton san,’ the tiny Japanese woman explained politely. ‘Tea is served at four o’clock.’
‘Four o’clock!’ Alix was exasperated. She looked at Melissa. ‘You don’t mean to tell me you rest until four o’clock!’
‘It’s only two hours, Mrs Thornton,’ the little girl answered in surprise. ‘I always rest in the afternoons.’
‘In Japan perhaps,’ protested Alix impatiently, ‘but not here, in England! You’re not an invalid, Melissa. You don’t need that much rest!’
Makoto began to urge the child upstairs, and short of dragging her back again there was nothing Alix could do. Melissa cast a half-apologetic look over her shoulder, but she obviously wasn’t opposed to her normal practice, and Alix guessed that the prospect of more lessons would not be a persuasion.
The two small figures disappeared along the corridor leading to the east wing, and Alix pushed her hands into the waistline pockets of her pants. What now? The whole afternoon stretched ahead of her. One thing was certain—she was not going to be overworked here.
She wandered into the library again, but she had examined all the textbooks, and she had a fair idea of the kind of approach she would have to make to gain Melissa’s interest. A pale sun filtered its rays across the russet-coloured carpet, and on impulse she turned out of the room again and ran upstairs to collect her coat. No one had said she should not explore, and the idea of getting out into the fresh air was appealing.
Seth appeared as she was opening the heavy front door, and he hurried to help her with it. She hadn’t seen him since the previous evening, and she decided that none of the staff at Darkwater Hall could complain of arduous working conditions.
‘Are you going out, Mrs Thornton?’ he asked, rather unnecessarily, she felt, and when she explained that she was going for a walk, he said: ‘I’ll telephone Giles and let him know you’re in the grounds.’
Alix was standing at the top of the steps, putting up the collar of her sheepskin coat against an unexpected chill in the air, and she turned to look at him disbelievingly: ‘You’ll what?’
‘The dogs, Mrs Thornton,’ explained the old man patiently. ‘You’d not want to be meeting them on your walk, now would you?’
Alix licked her lips. ‘They’re not dangerous. Giles said…’
‘They’re watchdogs, Mrs Thornton.’
‘But Mr Morgan—’
‘—knows them, Mrs Thornton. Have a pleasant walk.’
The door was closed behind her and Alix went half reluctantly down the steps. It was disconcerting to realise that there was no way she could leave Darkwater Hall without alerting someone to her intentions. As if the length of the drive wasn’t deterrent enough!
Shrugging these thoughts aside, she pushed her hands into the pockets of her coat and began to walk across the gravelled forecourt. Now that she could see the whole of the Hall, it was possible to distinguish between the central portion and the two wings, which had probably been added some years after the main building had been erected. The stark grey walls had been overlaid with creeper, its rusty autumn colouring giving warmth to the stone, and in spite of its size it had lost much of that brooding air of mystery it had possessed in the fog. It was simply a rather charming country house, with all the grace of line and structure of a bygone age.
A path between dripping rhododendron bushes, brought her round to the back of the house. She could see the tall windows of the library, and the terrace she had glimpsed from them earlier. As she progressed along the path beside the rose garden she began to realise that beyond the narrow barrier of trees there were more buildings and outhouses, and she guessed that this was where the horses were stabled. She was tempted to go and introduce herself to whoever cared for the horses, but she wasn’t dressed for riding, and besides, Oliver Morgan might not like her intruding without invitation.
Skirting the stables, she emerged from the trees upon rolling parkland, deserted save for a few sheep cropping the stubby turf. Here and there, wooded copses broke up the open landscape, but Alix’s chief impression was one of splendid isolation.
Some yards further on tyre tracks scarred the sweep of green, muddy trenches worn deep into the earth. They seemed to come from the direction of the stables, and continued on down a slope and up the other side, disappearing into another small wood. On impulse Alix decided to follow them, but she was breathless by the time she had climbed the knoll, which was steeper than she had thought. She leant against the bole of a tree to recover, and started violently when something leapt away from her and went bounding into the shadows. The realisation that it had been a wild deer brought a warm feeling of incredulity, and she straightened to stare regretfully after the timid creature.
The wood was thick with fallen leaves, and she realised it would be impossible to distinguish any more tyre tracks with the sun rapidly fading and darkness creeping inexorably nearer. Breathing an impatient sigh, she turned back, wishing it was spring, not autumn. But at least her afternoon had passed quite pleasantly, and this evening she would tackle Oliver Morgan about some changes in Melissa’s timetable now that she had a governess.
CHAPTER FOUR
BUT Alix’s plans of talking to Oliver Morgan were doomed to frustration. When she came down for dinner it was to find that the dining table was set for only one, and Mrs Brandon was quick to explain that Mr Morgan had returned earlier on in the afternoon, while Alix was out walking, and had informed her that he would not be in to dinner.
‘Took some food back with him, he did,’ she continued, supplying Alix with pâté to spread on wafer-thin slices of toast. ‘I think he’d expected to speak to you, but as you weren’t here…’
Alix pressed her lips tightly together. ‘Thank you, Mrs Brandon.’
The housekeeper looked maliciously amused. ‘Not much fun for you, is it?’ she jeered. ‘I bet this wasn’t what you expected when you offered to come up here.’
Alix put down her knife. She had had just about enough of Mrs Brandon’s insinuations. ‘I came here to do a job of work, Mrs Brandon,’ she stated coldly, controlling the almost irresistible urge to slap the older woman’s sneering face. ‘Mr Morgan’s activities do not interest me, except insofar as they affect my relationship with his daughter. I suggest you keep your unsubtle innuendoes for people like yourself who appreciate them!’
‘Now, you look here—’
‘No, you look here,’ Alix warmed to her task. ‘If as you say, my association with your employer does go beyond those bounds, what’s stopping me from going straight to him with your accusations? Surely he couldn’t approve of you baiting his girl-friends!’
Mrs Brandon’s mouth worked silently for a few moments. ‘Mr Morgan’s not been in the habit of bringing his girl-friends here!’ she muttered.
‘In the habit?’ Alix frowned. Then, realising she was not supposed to know anything of her employer’s history, she added: ‘I mean—does he spend a lot of time here?’
Mrs Brandon shrugged. ‘Three or four months every year,’ she conceded unthinkingly. And then with a return of hostility: ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Ali
x shook her head, realising that the purchase of Darkwater Hall had not been the recent innovation she had thought. ‘It—well, it just seems so far from London.’
‘That’s why he likes it,’ asserted the housekeeper. ‘Keeps them reporters at bay. Always poking around, they are, trying to dig up gossip about him. Fair makes you sick the way they hounded him after his wife’s death!’
Alix endeavoured to appear unmoved by what Mrs Brandon was saying. This was one source of information she had never expected to tap, and if the housekeeper so much as suspected that Alix was interested in what she was saying, she would never utter another word.
‘I—I suppose they have a job to do,’ she ventured at last, and Mrs Brandon gave an angry snort.
‘What kind of a job is that!’
Alix spread pâté with slightly unsteady fingers. ‘Don’t you approve of freedom of the press, Mrs Brandon?’
‘No, I don’t. Not when it means people can’t live their lives in peace and privacy.’
Alix chose her words carefully. ‘But surely you have to admit that some things deserve publicity. I mean—well, just think of all the corruption that’s been exposed—’
‘Who decides what’s corruption and what’s not?’ demanded the housekeeper, folding her arms. ‘It seems to me there’s something corrupt about them people who work for the newspapers, pushing their noses into other people’s affairs, making their lives a misery!’
Alix hesitated. ‘I suppose the answer to that is that if you have nothing to hide, you have nothing to fear,’ she said.
Mrs Brandon looked suspicious. ‘And you think Mr Morgan has something to hide, is that it?’
‘No!’ Alix was horrified. ‘I didn’t say that. We were talking in purely general terms.’
‘Huh!’ The housekeeper was still sceptical. ‘Well, don’t you go thinking you’ll be able to boast about living here when you get back to London. Mr Morgan won’t have that.’
Alix was tempted to ask how he could stop it, but that would have been foolish; so instead she concentrated on the painting over the sideboard, deciding that Mrs Brandon was not about to make any more revelations this evening.
