The Cinderella Factor

by Sophie Weston

  For some reason it hurt. She felt almost as if she had let him down. But what choice did she have?

  Run, said her inner voice.

  She hated it. She was not afraid of him.

  But she was afraid of his questions. And these days it was not just her safety that depended on her. She needed to make sure the Greys could not track down Mark through her. She could not afford to answer him.

  She gritted her teeth. And, before the man could move to prevent her, she turned and fled back down to the riverbank. She ran until she lost herself among the trees.

  And closed her ears to the voice calling her to come back. In case she did.

  CHAPTER THREE

  PATRICK shouted but the girl did not stop. He took a hasty step forward—and his damned leg nearly gave out. He stopped dead, leaning against the parapet swearing.

  She swarmed up the bank as if the devil were after her. And there was not one single thing he could do to stop her! He pounded his fist against the traitor leg. But the thing was shaking. Of course, he had been standing on it too long. Just as he had been told not to.

  Meanwhile, the girl slid back over the retaining wall like a contortionist. Futilely, he raised an arm. But she had her back to him and did not see it. Almost certainly she would not have responded, even if she had seen, he thought, berating himself as an idiot. She had made no bones about it, after all.

  Then she was pelting away, out of his life.

  He heard her footsteps die away. His hand fell. Six months ago he would have followed her. Caught her, too. Today there was no point in even trying. By the time he got up the bank she would be out of sight.

  ‘Damn!’

  He limped painfully over the bridge. The tall, coltish figure was flying down the back drive towards the copse.

  If only he could have caught her, thought Patrick grimly. He could have told her she was trespassing. And then he could have made her tell him her name. He was astonished at the fury of regret that he had not managed to get a name out of her.

  ‘Must be losing my touch,’ he told himself, trying for irony. ‘Better go back to journalist school.’

  He watched the rapidly diminishing figure. She must have scratched herself quite badly on those overhanging branches. But she did not let it slow her down. She did not look back, either, though he called out in the voice that had cut through gunfire and collapsing buildings.

  Flying away from him down the deserted drive, she looked like a wild thing. Her disreputable old shirt flapped like the wings of a heron about to take off, oddly at one with the sun-drenched hillside.

  He thought of the way she had played in the water, like a young otter. And how shocked she had been when she’d remembered she was naked. His mouth lifted at the memory.

  You couldn’t expect to tame a creature like that. No wonder she had fled. And just as well, he told himself firmly. She was a complication that he did not need, with her big hazel eyes and her shattering honesty.

  But he still wished his leg worked well enough to catch her. Or that she had trusted him enough to give him a name.

  And he wished—crazily, in the circumstances—that she had looked back. Just once. Just so that he knew he had not imagined that tingle of electricity in the air between them. Just so he knew she’d felt it, too.

  Jo plunged off the back drive as soon as she could and ran into the copse. She crashed through the undergrowth. Her breath came in great gasps that sounded like sobs. The long sleeves of her lumberjack shirt saved her arms from the worst scratches, but flailing twigs caught her painfully across the face and neck. Her heart pounded under her ribs until she thought it would leap out of her body.

  At last she could run no more. She stopped. There was no sound of pursuit. The man had obviously not taken off after her.

  For some reason, that surprised her. She could not quite believe it. He had not seemed like a man who would let himself be bested once he decided he wanted something.

  And he had wanted her. She was sure of it. Maybe only for a moment, but she knew in her bones, in her blood, that it had been there. Only perhaps he had not wanted her enough.

  She looked back warily, as if she were afraid that he would leap out from behind a willow. But she was alone with the bird-song and the still afternoon shadows. She was relieved, she told herself. Of course she was. Anything else would have been too complicated.

  She dropped forward in an attitude of exhaustion, one arm against the trunk of a beech tree, her forehead propped against her closed fist.

  This was crazy, she told herself. Running away like that was stupid. She had probably convinced him that she was a vagrant, if not worse. It was not even as if he had threatened her.

  Jo caught herself, remembering the dazzling warmth of his hand. The warm, lifting chest, with its dusting of hair and overwhelming aura of power.

  Okay, threatened her peace of mind maybe, she allowed with a wry grin. Her breathing calmed, returned to normal. She straightened.

  All right. So the man had disturbed her. From what she had seen in his face, she had disturbed him too. So? It had happened. She wasn’t going to see him again.

  No big deal, Jo told herself fiercely. No big deal at all.

  The man would get in his car and go on to Toulouse, or to Paris, or wherever it was he was bound when chance had brought him off the highway and into her life. There was no point in worrying about it. And she had avoided telling him who she was or where she was living. So there was no danger that he would reveal her deception to the Morrisons and thence to tyrannical Patrick Taylor-Harrod, wherever he was.

  That was all that mattered. She held onto that piece of common sense for all she was worth. Her job and her room above the garage were safe. This unexpected flicker of regret was a small price to pay for it.

  Jo lifted her head and looked about her. She had come away from the river. She was not certain where she was. She would have to go back to the bridge to get her bearings.

  She looked down at her scratched hands. They were trembling slightly. It surprised her. She did not tremble easily. They were also empty.

  ‘Eggs!’ exclaimed Jo in horror, all thoughts of the dark man expelled. ‘Mrs Morrison’s shopping. Butter! Oh, my Lord!’

  She made her way back almost as fast as she had come. When she got within sight of the river she slowed down and began to move cautiously. But there was no sign of the man, or the car he had talked about. This time when she told herself it was a relief, she had the grace to admit she was lying.

  She was disappointed as hell.

  Jo smiled wryly. She should be relieved. She would be this evening, when she had got her head back together again, she told herself. She was always good at putting her head back together after a crisis.

  Putting the man out of her mind, she looked about for the small bag of shopping she had brought from the farm.

  When she located it, it felt suspiciously squashy. The butter had taken on the shape of the tree roots which had been cradling it. Inside its greaseproof paper wrapping it had taken on the texture of warm toffee.

  Great! Mrs Morrison would be justifiably annoyed. Equally annoyed with herself, Jo made for the château at a quick trot.

  The back drive was a rather grand name for the stony path that wound round the edge of the wood, through the paddock behind her barn, to the side door of the château. But there was a moment, just when you came out of the trees, when you looked across the fields and saw the château like a turreted palace out of a story book.

  Jo never stopped marvelling at it. It was set on a promontory, almost an island, that jutted out into the river. It was a square building in parchment-coloured stone, simple except for its exuberance of conical roofs which crowned the turrets at each corner. She always thought that there ought to be knights on horseback, with their pennants flying, galloping up to the main entrance.

  But today, as always, there was no one there. Just the simple building, drowsing in the afternoon sun, the gravel raked a
nd unblemished in front of the fortress walls. No knights and ladies. No flags. The medieval romantic who had built it was long gone.

  Jo laughed at her own imaginings and walked on again, swinging the maltreated shopping.

  But when she got to the servants’ door which she always used there was a visitor, after all.

  She made a face. Visitors did not usually find their way round to the kitchen gardens and the courtyard across from her barn. Although they did come winding down the front drive from time to time, not realising that it was a private house. Usually they were hung about with cameras and guidebooks and wanted to be shown round. If they were well dressed enough and polite Mrs Morrison sometimes gave them a drink, even let them picnic in the grounds if they were tired.

  Jo looked at the powerful black sports car with its top down and its cream leather seats baking in the sun. Definitely a candidate for a glass of wine under the trees, she thought, grinning. She slipped into the cool marble-floored corridor that led to the kitchen and began untying the string round the parcel.

  She patted the butter back into something resembling a brick shape and put it in the fridge. She was just turning to the eggs when Mrs Morrison came in. She blinked her cloudy eyes at Jo and smiled. She was rather red in the face, but she looked pleased.

  ‘Oh, such a to-do,’ she said.

  Jo often wondered how Mrs Morrison recognised that she knew someone. It must be the way they stood or moved, she thought. Even squinting hard, it was perfectly plain that she could not make out Jo’s features. But she still knew who was standing in the kitchen when she came in.

  Jo’s conscience stirred again. She quelled it. If it were not for her, the Morrisons would be alone here now Crispin had gone. The man from Rouen who was supposed to be restoring two of the cars had taken one look at the distance between the château and the nearest town and got right back onto his motorbike.

  So, she told herself, the Morrisons needed her. Not just to run errands to the farm, but to act as able-bodied backup. George Morrison was in a wheelchair and his wife could hardly see. Jo was necessary to them. But she still wished she could tell them she was a girl.

  To put it out of her mind, she asked quickly, ‘Visitors in need of the guided tour?’ although she was not really interested.

  Mrs Morrison, however, was. She looked pleased at having news to impart.

  ‘Oh, no, nothing like that. You’ll never believe it.’ She paused. Mrs Morrison liked her big effects.

  ‘What is it, then? Martians invaded?’ asked Jo, humouring her.

  ‘The master’s back.’

  ‘Back? Crispin?’

  She was incredulous. Once Crispin had got her to agree to his wild scheme, he installed her in the barn, gave her the keys and the record books and taken off the same night. By now, Jo would have put money on his being on a Spanish beach with his friends and an endless supply of sangria. She had the impression that nothing short of an earthquake would get him back. He had been quite frank about life at the château—from Crispin’s point of view, it was one step away from solitary confinement.

  ‘Oh, no, not Crispin.’ Mrs Morrison was just faintly scornful. ‘The master. Mr Burns.’

  ‘Who?’ Jo had never heard the name before.

  ‘Mr Burns.’ The pride of an old nanny took over. ‘My Patrick.’

  The bottom dropped out of Jo’s world. Arrogant Patrick! The elder brother who wouldn’t have a woman on his staff.

  She heard Crispin’s voice in her head: Patrick’s house. Patrick’s law.

  Her heart went into free fall and then landed with a sickening crunch at the bottom of a deep well. For the moment it was so dreadful she could not take it in.

  Patrick Burns. Did she know the name from somewhere? It danced around maddeningly, just out of reach. But she was certain that it was nothing to do with the château.

  She said, stupidly, ‘But I thought his name was Taylor-Harrod. Crispin said his name was Taylor-Harrod.’

  Mrs Morrison sniffed. ‘Madam married Mr Taylor-Harrod when Patrick was eight. And then Count Orsini after that. And then—’

  But Jo wasn’t listening. All she could think was, Why the hell hadn’t Crispin told her that he and his arrogant elder brother Patrick didn’t share a surname?

  And then reality began to set in.

  Patrick Burns was back. Patrick Burns, who didn’t want girls in the place and didn’t yet know he was employing one. Patrick Burns, who presumably would not take kindly to being deceived. Patrick Burns, who, when last heard of at least, had been in possession of perfect eyesight as well as a high-handed determination to go his own way regardless of law or fairness.

  Perhaps she could keep out of his way, thought Jo, feverishly calculating. Perhaps if she slouched around and only spoke in monosyllables he wouldn’t notice that she was a girl any more than Mr Morrison or the people in the market had noticed.

  She did not have much hope, but it was all she had to cling to. Perhaps he wouldn’t stay long enough to notice the deception. Perhaps she wouldn’t be found out.

  And with another part of her brain she was thinking, I needn’t have run away by the stream after all. I was going to be found out anyway. I could have told the dark man my name. I could have told him where to find me. I’ve spoilt it all for nothing.

  She said hoarsely, ‘What did he say when he found Crispin had gone?’

  ‘He was a little put out,’ admitted his fond nanny.

  Jo thought about what Crispin had said and deduced that it meant ructions.

  ‘He was really annoyed that the man from Rouen wasn’t here, I can tell you,’ Mrs Morrison went on, with relish. ‘But after I explained he said he was pleased Crispin had found you to replace him. He said maybe Crispin was showing some sense at last.’

  ‘Great,’ Jo said in a hollow voice.

  So, not only did he not expect a girl, he expected a fully paid-up professional motor restoration expert. Oh, boy, was this interview going to be fun!

  In her head a mocking voice said, Spoilt, spoilt, spoilt. All for a lie you needn’t have told. She shivered. She had always known lies were bad luck.

  ‘And he wants to see you as soon as you come in.’

  ‘Great,’ she said again. And then, realising what the housekeeper had said, ‘Wants to see me?’

  Mrs Morrison looked surprised. ‘Of course. He went straight over to the garage as soon as I told him. He looked through the record books. He was very impressed,’ she added encouragingly. ‘He said you really seemed to have got a grip on it in the last week. Those were his very words.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Jo. She swallowed.

  ‘He’s in the study now. Go along to him.’

  Jo sought desperately for an excuse. She couldn’t find one.

  ‘I’m taking him in a brandy now,’ said Mrs Morrison, who wouldn’t have dreamed of letting the outdoor help touch her starched linen tray cloth. ‘You can come along and open the door for me, like a good boy.’

  There was no help for it. Jo shrugged. She had to face him sooner or later. She went.

  She slouched along in Mrs Morrison’s wake, trying to look like a gangly teenage boy. She opened the door for the housekeeper to pass through. Then, sticking her hands in her pockets and tucking her head against her chest, she followed.

  She thought Patrick Burns would be at the desk, like a Victorian tyrant. He wasn’t. He was standing at the tall window, looking out across the formal lawns in the direction of the river. He was very dark.

  He wasn’t dressed like a Victorian tyrant, either. Not even in a suit. Just dark trousers and a soft navy shirt. A crumpled navy shirt…

  Mrs Morrison set the tray down on an occasional table.

  A crumpled navy shirt. And she knew exactly how it had been crumpled.

  Jo froze. This couldn’t be happening.

  ‘This is Jo, Patrick,’ Mrs Morrison said to the tall back. ‘The lad Crispin brought in to look after the cars.’

  He turned. Jo
found that her heart had not even been in sight of the bottom of the well before. She stared at him in horror.

  His brandy-coloured eyes flared, then narrowed alarmingly. Jo thought she had never seen such a hard expression on anyone’s face in her life. She took an involuntary step back at the sheer fury of it.

  Then he said very softly, ‘Is this a joke?’

  It’s him, Jo thought. And mixed with the horror was a sort of grieving exultation.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Mrs Morrison said blankly.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he rapped out at Jo, ignoring the housekeeper. He seemed hardly aware that she had spoken.

  Jo’s mouth felt as if it were full of sand. She had no voice to answer him.

  Mrs Morrison began to look rather alarmed. ‘I told you. He’s the boy Crispin brought in. You said he’d done a good job with the cars,’ she reminded him, her voice jumping.

  Jo sympathised with the housekeeper’s alarm. Patrick Burns looked thunderous.

  His mouth twisted, curling up to one side in a devil’s sneer. He was bitterly, furiously angry. But he did not raise his voice.

  ‘So this is Crispin’s doing. I might have known it.’ Through the level tones Jo could hear anger licking up like flames catching hold.

  She winced.

  ‘He’s been really helpful with George,’ Mrs Morrison added, anxious. ‘And he hasn’t been a mite of trouble.’

  ‘Not to you, perhaps,’ said Patrick Burns with a flash of naked rage. His own reaction seemed to annoy him. He turned away abruptly and poured himself a brandy.

  ‘Not to anyone,’ the housekeeper said stoutly. ‘Runs my errands. Pushes George back uphill when the motor on that nasty chair of his gives out. Keeps himself to himself over in the barn.’

  Patrick raised his glass to his lips and looked at Jo over the rim. His mouth twisted.

  ‘Keeps himself to himself?’ he echoed. ‘And lives over the shop, I suppose? I see. Clever. Very clever.’

  Mrs Morrison was uneasy, and it showed. Jo felt indignant. It was hardly the housekeeper’s fault that Crispin had brought her here under false pretences. Especially as Jo suspected that a good half of Patrick Burns’s rage was because she had run away from him on the bridge. It was not fair to take his temper out on Mrs Morrison.