The Hostage Heart

by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

  “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” She paused just one beat and then nodded towards the house. “Your façade. Tudor, isn’t it? Very handsome.”

  She could see he didn’t know what to make of her. Tall, handsome, athletic and wealthy, he had probably spent his whole life receiving homage from other people, and being fawned over by young women; the idea that someone could be making fun of him, Emma thought, would throw him.

  He seemed to take refuge in icy politeness. “You’re Miss Ruskin, I suppose? Have you just arrived?”

  “How clever of you to guess.” Emma could not help herself, though she knew it was unwise to bait him further. She added hastily, “Atkins just this minute dropped me off. He’s taken the car round the back.”

  “Then perhaps it would be a good idea for you to go inside,” he said. “Allow me—” And he strode up the steps and held the front door open for her commandingly. She went meekly up and walked past him into the large, dark panelled hall; and saw, to her relief, that Mrs Henderson was coming down the main staircase towards her.

  “Ah, Mrs Henderson, this young lady has just arrived,” Gavin greeted her, with a hint of disapproval in his voice.

  “I thought I heard the car,” said Mrs Henderson with a welcoming smile to Emma. “Did you have a good journey?”

  “Yes, thank you,” Emma said.

  Gavin cut across this impatiently. “Have Atkins put my car away, will you please,” he said to Mrs Henderson. “I shan’t want it again today.”

  “Certainly,” Mrs Henderson said, and added quickly as he was about to turn away, “Have you been properly introduced, Miss Ruskin? This is Mr Gavin Akroyd. Gavin, Emma Ruskin, who we hope will be Poppy’s governess.”

  Gavin inclined his body a fraction from the vertical in Emma’s direction, but without meeting her eyes, and then took himself off without another word.

  Mrs Henderson didn’t seem at all put out by his coolness, and said to Emma, “Now Miss Ruskin, let me show you your room.” She led the way up the stairs, chatting as she went about the train journey and the weather and so on. On the first floor she opened a door and said, “We’ve put you in here for this weekend, but of course if you do come here permanently other arrangements will be made. This is a guest room, you understand.”

  It was a charming room, beamed and low-ceilinged but quite large, with three leaded windows that looked out over the front of the house. The oak floorboards were wide and darkly-polished, the walls were painted pale primrose, which contrasted pleasantly with the dark wood, and the curtains and bedspread were a darker yellow, which made it all look very springlike.

  “What a lovely room,” Emma said with sincere pleasure.

  “Yes, it is nice, isn’t it? You have a fine view, too,” Mrs Henderson said, walking over to the windows and pushing one open. It stuck a little, and she laughed. “You’ll find out as you learn your way around that everything in the house is slightly skew-wiff – walls, floors and everything. It’s impossible to hang a picture straight. But I always think it’s part of the charm of an old house like this. And through here,” she added, opening a door on the other side of the room, “is your bathroom – something the Tudors didn’t have, and which I think is part of the charm of a modern house, don’t you?”

  Emma agreed. A bathroom to herself – what luxury!

  “And now, my dear,” said Mrs Henderson, “I expect you’d like to settle in and unpack and so on. Dinner will be at seven-thirty – you’ll hear the gong at a quarter past. We’ll gather in the drawing-room then for sherry – that’s the first door on the right as you reach the bottom of the stairs. Now, is there anything you want before I leave you?”

  There were a lot of things Emma wanted to know, but she didn’t know how to ask them. It all sounded a little rich for her system – sherry, drawing-room, gong and all. Would it always be like this, or was this a special ceremony for her initiation? She couldn’t think of a polite way to put that question, so she asked instead something more urgent.

  “Should I change?”

  Mrs Henderson eyed her skirt and blouse with understanding. “We don’t dress,” she said, “but perhaps you’d feel more comfortable in a frock.”

  Delicately put, Emma thought, and said, “Thanks,” with a grateful smile, and Mrs Henderson left her.

  At first she amused herself with examining her room. They seemed to have thought of everything for her comfort: a water carafe and glass, a box of tissues on the bedside table, magazines on a table by the window (Country Life and The Lady) – even a basket of cotton-wool balls on the dressing table. There were even plenty of hangers in the wardrobe; and an en-suite bathroom – just like a luxury hotel! She looked out of each window in turn and admired the view. Then she decided to have a bath, to use up the time until dinner.

  In the bathroom she propped up her wristwatch where she could see it so that she shouldn’t be late, and then relaxed in the hot water. There seemed to be no shortage of that, thank heaven! She had been afraid that staying in the country might be a bit short on comfort, but the plumbing all seemed to be up to scratch, which was a great relief.

  Anyway, here she was, and in a short time she was to meet the rest of the family: her (possible) future charge – and why Poppy, by the way? – and her (possible) future employers. And Gavin. Hmmm. At any rate, it would be nice to have something around that was good to look at, though she hoped he would thaw out a bit, and not keep on frosting her. She liked to be on friendly terms with everyone – but perhaps she shouldn’t have begun by teasing him. It probably wasn’t what he was used to, and especially not from someone he’d only just met. She reminded herself to be on her best behaviour at dinner – talking of which, it was time she got out of this lovely bath.

  Drying herself, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, and made a face. “And now,” she said aloud, “for the fray!”

  Chapter Four

  Emma walked across the hall and with a very slight hesitation entered the drawing room. She got the immediate impression of a large number of eyes turning on her; there seemed to have been no conversation going on, and she wondered for a hot and embarrassed moment if she were late and they had all been waiting for her.

  But Mrs Henderson came immediately towards her with her hand outstretched, as if anxious to leave her no time to feel out of place. “Ah, Miss Ruskin! Do let me introduce you to everyone. Lady Susan Akroyd, Mr Akroyd, Mr Gavin Akroyd you’ve already met of course, and this is Arabella. And Miss Akroyd isn’t down yet, I’m afraid.”

  “She’s late,” Mr Akroyd growled, and then approached Emma with his hand out. “How d’e do, Miss Ruskin. Can I interest you in a drink?” He took her hand in a hard grip and pumped it economically once up and once down, as if that was all he allowed. He was a short, stout man with the red face of a person who does himself well, but his expensive suiting and hair-dressing rendered the shortness and stoutness acceptable. There was perhaps a trace of Gavin’s good looks in there somewhere, but they were spoiled by lines of bad temper or discontent. He was smiling at the moment, but it seemed a perfunctory smile, and his voice was harsh. He had a marked Lancashire accent which she somehow hadn’t expected.

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” Emma began, but without waiting for anything further Mr Akroyd turned away saying, “Sherry?” as he poured it out from a decanter on a small table. He put the glass into her hand with an air of having done all that was necessary, and retired to the other side of the room with his own glass, which was a heavy, short tumbler which obviously contained a large and undiluted whisky.

  Emma wondered whether she ought to shake hands with Lady Susan, but being at a distance from that lady she needed some encouragement to cross what looked like a hundred yards of thick, soft carpeting. Encouragement was not forthcoming. Lady Susan, splendidly attired in a dress of blue silk and three rows of pearls, had not glanced at her. She was looking at her husband now with an expression of lofty tedium. Her style of clothes, hair and mak
e-up made her look of an age with her husband, but stealing a sidelong look at her face, Emma thought she was probably quite a bit younger. Under the makeup she had classical features, but there was no animation in her face to make them beautiful.

  Gavin was standing by the fireplace with a sherry glass in his hand, and his expression was only a little less unwelcoming than his step-mother’s, though he had looked in her direction and bowed his head slightly when Mrs Henderson had performed the introductions. Now he stood broodingly, looking into the middle distance as if posing for a sculptor.

  But there was someone else in the room who interested Emma more at the moment. The little girl had her eyes fixed on Emma’s face with an expression of intensity, and so it was to her she went, holding out her hand and saying “How do you do,” aiming for a manner that was friendly without being patronising.

  The child took her hand after a moment’s hesitation, seeming pleased with the grown-up attention. She was very small and thin for her age, and would have been pretty if it were not for the drawn look about her face, as if she had been ill for a long time. Her skin was transparently fair, which showed up the dark shadows under her eyes; her hair was almost white-blonde, thin and fine and straight, and flat to her head. The hand Emma took in hers was damp, and the nails were bitten to the quick, but there was a little dab of pale pink nail-varnish on what bit of the nails remained.

  Emma smiled down at her with a sudden piercing sympathy. “I’m very glad to meet you,” she said, and meant it.

  The little girl said abruptly, “I don’t usually stay down for dinner. It’s only because of you coming.”

  “Oh, well, then, I’m honoured,” Emma said.

  Unsmilingly, Arabella went on, “Zara said she didn’t see why she had to eat now just because you were coming. That’s why she’s late. She wanted to have her dinner in her room and watch television.”

  Gavin said sharply, “Don’t tell tales, Poppy.”

  Mr Akroyd coughed. “You’ll find our Poppy a bit outspoken,” he said, but it was not in apology. He looked at Emma defiantly to see what she’d say.

  “Truthfulness is a good quality,” Emma said, diplomatically.

  “Hmm,” he said, still staring at her. “Well, there’s truth in what Poppy says. We don’t often eat together when it’s just family, but Mrs H thought it’d be the best way for us all to have a look at you.”

  “That wasn’t quite how I put it,” Mrs Henderson protested laughingly.

  “Aye, well, that’s what it came down to,” Mr Akroyd said indifferently. “So if we’re going to do it, let’s get it over with. Gavin, ring the bell and let’s go in.”

  “Surely we are to wait for Zara?” Lady Susan said. It was the first time she had spoken, and her voice was light and faint, but the disapproval was quite clear in it.

  “Zara can damn well be on time, or go without,” Mr Akroyd said. “I’m not waiting my grub for her.” And he strode across the room and flung open the doors to the dining-room. Emma thought she saw where Gavin got his assumption of superiority from. Mr Akroyd disappeared into the dining-room, but no one else had moved, and Emma felt very awkward, and didn’t know if she was supposed to do anything or not. Mrs Henderson stepped in, smoothing things over, which Emma was beginning to gather was her main role in the household.

  “Yes, well, it is half past, so I think we should go in, don’t you? Gavin, won’t you escort Miss Ruskin? Lady Susan, shall we go in? Come along, Poppy.”

  They passed through into the dining-room, which was dominated by a long mahogany table which would have seated twenty without a squash. It was laid now for seven, which meant that once seated they were so well spaced out that conversation was almost ruled out. Mr Akroyd was already seated at one end, and as Emma came in with Gavin walking stiffly at her side he called out, “Come on then, Miss – er – Whatsname, come and sit down here. Poppy, you plonk yourself down there opposite, then you can size each other up.”

  Gavin pulled out the indicated chair for her and Emma sat. She was on Mr Akroyd’s left; the little girl took the chair opposite, on his right. Gavin then went to pull out the chair at the other end of the table for Lady Susan; Mrs Henderson sat on her left, and Gavin then took the chair next to Emma. Two maids came in to serve the soup, and the first deadly silence fell.

  Even before everyone was served, Mr Akroyd had taken the first mouthful of soup. Then he paused with his spoon half way to the bowl and looked round the table; and, as if deciding that something was required of him, he said to Emma, “Well then, Miss – er – I suppose you want to tell us all about yourself. That’s what all this fedaddle is about.” Emma hardly knew how to reply, but he didn’t wait for an answer. Instead he caught at the maid’s arm as she passed him on her way out and said explosively, “Where is that girl? Julie, go up to Miss Zara’s room and tell her to come down right this minute, d’you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the maid said, and left the room hurriedly.

  “Now then, where was I? Oh yes, tell us about yourself, Miss – er,” Mr Akroyd went on, filling his mouth again.

  “Herbert, must we talk business over dinner?” Lady Susan said severely from the other end of the table.

  “Well, I don’t know when else you think I’ll get to see the girl,” Mr Akroyd said, and put down his spoon with a gesture of exasperation. “In any case, I don’t see why we have to have this fuss and nonsense. If Jean says she’s all right, that’s good enough for me.”

  “I’m glad to know you have such faith in my judgement,” Mrs Henderson said, “but—”

  “Right, then,” Mr Akroyd interrupted. “Just ask this Miss Whatsname if she wants the job and be done with it.”

  “Ruskin!” said Gavin explosively, glaring at his father. “Her name is Miss Ruskin!”

  Emma glanced sideways and saw his nostrils flare and a spot of colour appear in his cheeks. He was not leaping to her defence, Emma decided: he was angry and embarrassed by his father’s rudeness.

  “Whatever her damned name is, it’s women’s business to vet her, not mine. You just get on with asking what you want to ask and leave me out of it.” And with that he attacked his soup again and had nothing more to say.

  Lady Susan was ignoring the whole thing: she might have been alone in the universe, let alone at the dinner table. Arabella was moving her spoon about aimlessly in her soup, looking down at her plate with an air of withdrawn misery. Gavin and Mrs Henderson met each other’s eyes across the table.

  “Miss Ruskin has been teaching in a state school,” Mrs Henderson said brightly and conversationally.

  Gavin caught the ball from her. “That must have been interesting,” he said, turning to Emma. “What age group did you teach?”

  “Middle school,” Emma answered. “Tens to fourteens.”

  “I should think that must be very hard work,” said Mrs Henderson.

  “It is,” Emma said.

  “And demanding,” Gavin added, looking at Mrs Henderson: your turn.

  “But interesting,” she said desperately. Lady Susan and Mr Akroyd continued to ignore everything.

  Emma was wondering, half appalled, half amused, how they had ever got together in the first place, they seemed so ill-suited. She thought it was time she made a contribution, and said to the little girl, “I understand you are always called Poppy – why is that?”

  She looked up briefly, and then down again. “Daddy called me it when I was little,” she said in a small, embarrassed voice. “I don’t like Arabella, so he said I didn’t have to be it.”

  “Where the devil is that girl?” Mr Akroyd said suddenly, finishing his soup and slamming the spoon down in the empty bowl. It was impossible to tell if he had been listening or not. “Jean, ring the bell, will you? If she thinks she can just—”

  At that moment the door opened and the missing member of the family walked in. She was slim and blonde, and would have been pretty except that her face was set in lines of sulky discontent. She had eviden
tly taken a great deal of care over her appearance, which surprised Emma a little, given what Arabella had said about her not wanting to come down at all. She was wearing a very smart black evening skirt and pink lurex top, and her make-up was extremely elaborate for a family dinner. Was it possible, Emma thought, that she was trying to impress her? But why should she care what a potential governess thought?

  “And where the hell have you been? You’re late!” Mr Akroyd bellowed.

  “I know,” she said pertly, giving a defiant stare to Gavin, who was looking at her. She flounced in, sliding her eyes sidelong at her mother, who paid her no attention.

  “Well, you’ll get no soup now,” Mr Akroyd said. “I’m not waiting for you.”

  “Good,” she said. “I hate soup.” And deliberately ignoring Emma, she walked round the table and sat down.

  “Zara, this is Miss Ruskin,” Mrs Henderson said, still trying to hold the evening together.

  “Yes, I know,” Zara said with elaborate indifference, shaking out her napkin. Emma, who had been prepared to say how do you do and be pleasant, subsided with amused despair. Was there no one with normal social manners in this household? Just then the maids returned to clear the soup plates and put on the second course, so there was an excuse for no one to speak for a while. Emma saw that Poppy had eaten nothing so far but a small piece of bread, and when she was served with a chicken breast in mushroom sauce she looked at it with something like despair. Had she been ill, Emma wondered? As soon as possible she must get Mrs Henderson alone and find out what was wrong with the child. But then she remembered she hadn’t got the job yet.

  With the chicken there were new potatoes, young carrots and asparagus: a simple, well-cooked meal. Emma was quite happy just to eat: she’d only had a sandwich for lunch and she was very hungry. Mrs Henderson seemed to have given up trying to make conversation for the moment, and Gavin was eating with savage concentration, his brows drawn down in a forbidding frown, while Zara was eating with elaborate unconcern. Emma looked at Poppy. She had made a pretence of cutting up her meat and was pushing it round the plate unhappily. She cut a small piece of potato and forked it to her lips, but then let it fall off back onto the plate. At that moment she caught Emma’s eyes on her; Emma smiled wryly – that’ll get you nowhere, you know – and the child suddenly blushed guiltily.