by Anne Mather
Alix’s face burned. ‘How—how dare you suggest—’
He shrugged. ‘I apologise,’ he said flatly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. And now as you seem determined to impugn my best motives, I suggest you run along and have your breakfast like the immaculate young woman you are!’
Contrarily, she felt let down when he turned away, his lean, hawklike features already registering other emotions than the momentary interest he had shown in her. But what did she expect, after all? she asked herself impatiently, as she walked into the dining room. A man of Oliver Morgan’s age and experience did not play around with immature young women like herself, and she had momentarily amused him, nothing more.
But as she sipped her orange juice, Alix couldn’t help wondering what he must have been like when he was younger, perhaps even twenty years younger. If he was attractive now, what must he have been like then? But the answer, extraordinary though it might be, was simply that then he had been a boy. Now he was a man…
CHAPTER FIVE
MELISSA appeared for lessons soon after nine. She was alone, which was unusual, and when she came into the library where Alix was waiting for her, her eyes looked puffed and swollen, as if she had been weeping. But her hair was stiffly braided, and her skirt and sweater were neatly pressed, and she slid into her seat beside Alix without a word.
Alix glanced at the child uncertainly, and noting the tightly clenched lips, decided not to make any personal comment. Instead she produced an exercise book, and passing it across to Melissa, said: ‘We’ll start with some spellings. Just easy words at first, until we see how clever you really are.’
Melissa took the book and pencil, and opened it obediently. Alix got to her feet, and moved across the room. ‘Ready?’ she asked, and when the child nodded, she began.
Ten minutes later Melissa handed her book over for marking. It was a mess of smudges and crossings out, but more importantly, not one of the simple words Alix had given her was spelt correctly. Alix’s lips tightened when she realised that some words which had originally been set out correctly had been altered with wrong letters, so that it was obvious that Melissa knew exactly what she was doing.
Realising that psychology was needed here, Alix laid the exercise book down on the table. ‘Yes,’ she said, nodding, ‘very good.’ She paused, allowing her words to sink in. ‘Now we’ll go on to arithmetic, shall we?’
Melissa looked as though she was going to protest, but then she shrugged her slim shoulders and accepted a second exercise book. Alix opened the textbook and indicated the first simple test. ‘I’ll give you ten minutes for those,’ she said, and without much confidence moved away.
Melissa laid down her pencil at the end of five minutes, and Alix came back to the table. The ten questions had been answered, but as before, with the wrong figure.
Alix studied the book silently for a few minutes, feeling a rising sense of irritation. After all, she had not wanted to teach the child; that had not been her condition of employment. Indeed, she wondered again whether anyone faced with a similar situation might not have backed out at the last moment. Librarians were not teachers; they had had no experience in dealing with children, problem or otherwise, and she wasn’t even a librarian!
But when she looked up into Melissa’s grave little face, another idea struck her. Of course, why hadn’t she thought of it before? If the child knew how to answer her questions wrongly, it followed that she must know the right answers, too.
She frowned. But how far could anyone go on that premise? When would she know whether Melissa knew the right answers or not? She tapped a nail against her teeth. When she started getting them right, she supposed. In any case, with luck it might not get that far. Surely there would come a time when Melissa would want to show what she could do!
Now, as before, she nodded and complimented the little girl on the speed with which she had accomplished the test. She deliberately kept her tone light, and ignored the way Melissa’s mouth drooped when it became apparent that Alix was not going to get angry with her. It was as if she wanted to be scolded: but why? So that she could go rushing to her father with stories of Alix’s cruelty? Obviously he had spoken to his daughter as he said he would, but what had he said to make her behave in this way? She was a different child from the smiling little girl Alix had encountered on her first evening at the Hall, and she didn’t understand why.
The rest of the morning Alix spent in sketching a map of England and showing Melissa exactly where they were on it. She hoped she might gain the child’s interest, that she might begin to make progress, but Melissa viewed all her efforts with the same indifference. Only when she read to her did the little girl’s eyes light up, and she listened eagerly to the first of Roald Dahl’s stories about Charlie Bucket, and almost looked disappointed when Mrs Brandon came to tell them that lunch was ready.
As on the previous day, there were only the two of them at the table. Myra served them, but she only spoke to Melissa, and so it was left to Alix to introduce topics of conversation.
‘Have you seen your father this morning, Melissa?’ she asked, offering her the plate of chicken broth which she had just served from the tureen.
‘I don’t want any soup, thank you,’ asserted Melissa, folding her hands in her lap, and Alix bit her tongue as she lowered the soup dish in front of herself.
While she drank the soup, Alix was conscious of Melissa’s eyes upon her, but she refused to let a child see that she had the power to disturb her, and she deliberately took a second helping to show her that she was not hurting anyone but herself by her awkwardness.
There was fish to follow, and Alix had to admit it looked delicious surrounded by curls of creamed potato, covered by a savoury sauce flavoured with parsley. She offered the dish to Melissa first, deciding to let her help herself this time, but again the little girl refused to take any food and Alix began to feel tension causing a tender ache in the region of her temples.
Trying not to get upset, she helped herself from the silver dish, but her taste for the food was waning as her headache increased. After all, she thought resentfully, she was not used to this kind of blackmail—or any kind of blackmail, for that matter. Melissa was just seeing how far she could go, and if she showed that the child was getting through to her, she might as well give up here and now. She had to remember that Melissa was her father’s child, even though dumb insolence had never been his trademark.
Alix refused dessert, and was not entirely surprised when Melissa decided to have some of the lemon meringue pie Myra set on the table. In fact she had three helpings, but when Mrs Brandon brought in the coffee she slipped lightly off her chair.
Immediately Alix was on her feet, uncaring that the housekeeper was watching them. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’
Melissa’s lips pursed for a moment, and then she said steadily: ‘I want to use the lavatory.’
Alix’s fingers tightened on the back of her chair. ‘Oh! Well, couldn’t you at least say “Excuse me”, Melissa?’
‘All right.’ The child shrugged. ‘Excuse me.’
Alix had to let her go. Short of accompanying her to the bathroom, there was nothing else she could do, and she subsided into her seat again, not unaware of Mrs Brandon’s malicious satisfaction at her defeat.
She had drunk three cups of coffee before she realised that it was over half an hour since Melissa had disappeared. Pushing back her chair, she left the table and walked into the library. She had not really expected to find the child there, and she was not disappointed. But the fact remained that Melissa had to be somewhere.
The obvious places to look, of course, were her rooms in the east wing, and Alix ran quickly up the stairs, not halting until she came to the door at the end of the corridor. Makoto answered her knock, as she had expected she would, but when she asked for Melissa the Japanese woman shook her head.
‘Missy taking lessons all afternoon,’ she told Alix, with a stiff bow. ‘Morgan san say Missy does not n
eed to rest every day.’
Alix took a deep breath. ‘I know that, but she’s disappeared.’ She sighed. ‘She left me to go to the bathroom.’
Makoto shook her head, her hands folded into the sleeves of the inevitable kimono. There was that inscrutable eastern look about her which hitherto Alix had never actually believed in, but Makoto was a fine example of implacability.
‘So she’s not here?’ she persisted, and Makoto shook her head. ‘Do you know where she is?’
Again the tiny Japanese woman shook her head, and Alix turned resignedly away. She couldn’t altogether be sure that Melissa wasn’t hiding in her rooms somewhere, that she might not have put Makoto up to lying to her. But would the old servant disobey Morgan san’s instructions? With a sigh she conceded that she had no real way of knowing.
There were dozens of rooms where Melissa could be hiding, of course, but Alix had no intention of spending the whole afternoon searching for her. If Melissa wanted to play games, she could play them alone. She was going back to the library, and if the child wasn’t there, she would find something to read, and relax.
But Melissa was there, sitting curled up on the couch, reading the book Alix had been reading to her earlier. Alix could feel her nails digging into her palms, but Melissa’s disappointment when she appeared made up a little for her wasted efforts. Obviously the child had expected her to look everywhere for her before coming back to the library, and she scrambled to her feet sulkily, limping to her chair at the table.
Alix forced a smile, realising that she had won this particular skirmish, and then, glancing towards the brisk autumn day outside, she said: ‘We’re going for a nature ramble this afternoon. Go and get your coat while I speak to Seth.’
For once Melissa looked taken aback. ‘Do you mean—we’re going for a walk?’ she asked in astonishment.
‘That’s right.’
‘But I don’t—that is—’ Melissa looked down at her lame leg. ‘I mean—I never walk anywhere.’
‘Then perhaps it’s time you did,’ asserted Alix cheerfully, her tension rapidly dispersing. ‘Go along, get your coat. I’ll meet you in the hall in five minutes.’
Melissa went, surprisingly enough, and she was waiting in the hall, small and attractive in a fur-lined red cape, when Alix came down the stairs buttoning her sheepskin jacket. ‘Red Riding Hood,’ she commented, and Melissa looked pleased.
Outside, the air was crisp with just a trace of frost, and Seth, who had agreed to warn Giles of their outing, expressed the view that they would have snow before too long.
‘Snow!’ exclaimed Alix in amazement. ‘In November?’
‘We’ve had it in October before now,’ the old man assured her severely. ‘You’re not in the south of England now, you know. This is border country.’
‘I know.’ She was able to smile without effort.
Adjusting her pace to Melissa’s, Alix directed their steps in the opposite direction from that which she had taken the day before. The idea of a country walk had been an inspiration, and judging from the little girl’s expression, she had almost forgotten her earlier obstructiveness. They crossed a field, and a small wood, and when they found a rabbit hole, Melissa insisted she had seen a tawny shadow slipping away into the undergrowth. Whether or not it had been a fox was debatable, but Alix was only too willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. They found dozens of horse-chestnuts among the leaves underfoot, and Alix suggested that they collect some and she would show Melissa a game when they got back to the Hall. But at the mention of going back Melissa lost interest in the idea, and the chestnuts were abandoned for another day.
Tea was served in the library, as it had been the day before. Mrs Brandon wheeled in a trolley containing scones and cakes and wafer-thin sandwiches, and Alix poured tea for herself and Melissa. But in spite of their uneasy armistice during the outing there was hostility in the air again, and Alix wished she knew of some way to disperse it.
Feeling obliged to say something, she asked: ‘Did you never go for walks with Miss Stanwick, Melissa?’
The little girl shook her head. ‘No.’
Alix sighed and tried again: ‘But you go riding with your father, don’t you?’
‘Sometimes.’ Melissa shrugged and took another sandwich, obviously unable to withstand the food as she had at lunchtime after all that fresh air.
Alix felt like giving up. Yesterday’s dissatisfactions seemed nothing compared to today’s defeats, and she could understand why teachers sometimes lost heart. But then, she reproved herself, perhaps she was exaggerating the problem. What was one day, after all? Maybe tomorrow would be altogether different.
Makoto came to collect her charge at five o’clock, and despite Melissa’s antagonism, with their departure Alix was made fully aware of her own uneasy captivity. With darkness and the drawing of curtains, the pattern of her days outlined by Oliver Morgan that morning assumed a frightening unreality. She had never dreamed that he might propose to isolate her from outside influences; but then she had seen nothing particularly confidential about cataloguing a library. She had guessed he would have some reason for shutting himself away in the wilds of Northumbria, but her brief had been to find out what it was, not to become, unwillingly, a part of it. What would Willie think if he didn’t hear from her soon? What would her family think? But then her mother thought she was taking up some post in Scotland on a temporary basis, and she had stressed the fact that she might not have time to contact her immediately.
The wind, which had gusted gently about the house all day, was rising as Alix dressed for dinner, and she listened to its eerie howling with a sense of hysteria stirring her stomach. She was not prone to panic unnecessarily, but right now she was close to it. Perhaps Oliver Morgan was right. Perhaps she was missing the company of men—of anyone, for that matter. Anyone, that was, who neither baited her nor insulted her, nor went persistently out of their way to be obstructive with her.
She ate alone, and retired to her room straight after. At least the television was excessively normal, and her stretched nerves relaxed a little. But as she lay in bed later, she couldn’t help wishing that her employer was more accessible, and that he hadn’t made it so galling for her to seek his advice.
The following morning her fears of the night before seemed foolish. The sun was shining, glinting on the frosted blades of grass, silvering the network of spiders’ webs between, and daylight performed its own miracle of reassurance. Alix went down to breakfast determined not to let them defeat her, father or daughter, and not even Myra’s sullen expression could dampen her mood. She half wondered if Oliver would put in an appearance, but he didn’t, and she guessed that he had no intention of inviting anything that might interfere with his mood. It was a momentary setback, but she refused to let it daunt her. She would deal with Melissa in her own way, and hopefully the child would begin to show some interest in something.
The fire in the library was welcoming, and she warmed her fingers before going to the table and setting out the books ready for lessons. She had decided to try something new today. Instead of the spelling episode which had been so disastrous the day before, she would ask Melissa to compose a short story, using certain words, and that way she would also demonstrate her ability for creative writing. It might not work, of course; Melissa was nobody’s fool. But she was only eight, and Alix refused to give in to an underlying feeling of inadequacy. She had been so intent on choosing the words she would use for the exercise that she was unaware of the passing of time until a knocking at the door brought her head up sharply.
‘Come in, Melissa!’ she called, wondering why the child should choose to knock today when she hadn’t the day before, and then sighed in exasperation when the door remained firmly closed.
Guessing that this was some new ploy to annoy her, Alix got to her feet, crossed the room in a couple of strides, and wrenched open the door. She was in danger of breaking her own vow not to chastise the child, but she fell back a pace when
she found Makoto outside. At once her eyes went beyond the Japanese woman to the curve of the stairs, but there was no sign of Melissa. Only Mrs Brandon was in sight, dusting the banisters, her head twisted inquisitively in their direction.
Makoto spoke, and Alix’s attention was caught by what she was saying: ‘My Missy not well, Thornton san,’ she declared apologetically, shaking her head. ‘Makoto says stay in bed today.’
Only then did Alix’s eyes seek the face of her wrist-watch. It was almost half past nine, and she had been unaware of it. ‘What’s wrong with her, Makoto?’ she asked now, and she knew there was little sympathy in her voice.
‘Missy not well, Thornton san,’ repeated Makoto firmly.
‘So you say.’ Alix was too frustrated to be tactful. ‘Why isn’t she well? Has she got a cold? Is she sick?’
Makoto’s face seldom showed any emotion, and this was no exception. ‘There will be no lessons today, Thornton san,’ she insisted.
Alix’s sigh was an outward sign of the turmoil inside her. ‘Where is she?’ she demanded, but Makoto just gave her a small bow and walked away. She had delivered her message, and so far as she was concerned that was that. But it wasn’t.
Throwing her pen on to the table, Alix went after her, passing her easily and reaching Melissa’s door long before Makoto, confined as she was by the narrow skirt of her kimono. Without bothering to knock, she flung open the door and walked in, only a little less confidently when she saw the mound of Melissa’s form beneath the bedclothes. The realisation that she actually was in bed deterred her a little, but she had to go through with it now. She strode to the side of the bed and looked down suspiciously at the pale face on the pillows, but Melissa’s eyes were closed, and if she wasn’t asleep she was giving a good imitation of it.
Footsteps behind her heralded Makoto’s indignant arrival and she tugged at the sleeve of Alix’s shirt, pulling her away from the bed. With both forefingers raised she made a negative gesture with her hands, and Alix felt an impatience out of all proportion to the situation.
