by Penny Jordan
She did so unwillingly, wondering what on earth it was he wanted to discuss with her. By rights she ought to be out looking for another job. Only this morning she had happened to see her landlord, who had reminded her that the next quarter’s rent was due.
With accommodation in London being so hard to come by, he was able to charge more or less what he wanted for her appalling room, and she knew that if she didn’t produce the money within a very short space of time he would have no compunction at all in evicting her. She had the money but, once it was gone, what would happen to her then? She could manage this quarter, possibly the next quarter’s rent, but after that…
Her solicitor was clearing his throat nervously and playing with the papers stacked untidily all over his desk. A cloud of dust rose from some of them, and Lark grimaced faintly. The office looked as though it could do with a good clean; there was grime on the windows and a film of dust on top of the filing cabinet.
‘Er…I asked you to come in this morning, because I’ve been…er…approached by…’ He stopped talking and fiddled again with the papers, ducking his head as though he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say.
‘Yes?’ Lark prompted him.
‘Yes…an old client of mine, a widow whose husband has left her very, very comfortably circumstanced… She…um…she’s the chairwoman of a small private charity, and she’s looking for a young woman to help her with her paperwork. She wants somebody who would be prepared to live in. She’s based in London, but spends some time in Boston. She is herself actually an American who was married to an Englishman.’
Lark frowned, not quite sure what the point of his long, rambling statement was, until he looked at her and said rather nervously, ‘It occurred to me that such a position might suit you, Miss Cummings. I know you…er…had to leave your previous post.’
Lark stared at him, unable to believe her ears. Here she was worrying about how on earth she was ever going to find another job, and right out of the blue she was being offered one which, by the sound of it, also included accommodation. Or perhaps she had misunderstood him. She looked at him and said firmly, ‘Are you sure about this? Would she want me under the circumstances, or doesn’t she know?’
‘Oh, yes, yes, she knows all about you,’ he hastened to reassure her. ‘Yes, she seemed most keen to interview you. She said you sounded just exactly what she had been looking for.’
It sounded too good to be true. Lark didn’t move in the sort of circles where elderly ladies still employed live-in companions, but she was widely read and knew all about the pitfalls of such employment. Perhaps she would be expected to work twenty-four hours a day for nothing more than a pittance and her food. Before she could actually voice these fears, her solicitor went on hurriedly, ‘The salary is excellent—really, very generous, and of course there will be no living expenses. All those will be included. Mrs Mayers always travels first class, and she assured me that when she travels you will travel with her.’
Lark raised her eyebrows and asked enquiringly, ‘And does the charity pay for all this first-class travel?’
Her solicitor looked shocked. ‘Oh, no, no, certainly not! As I’ve already told you, Mrs Mayers is independently wealthy. She’s charming, quite charming, and you really are a very fortunate young woman in being offered such a post.’
Lark frowned, a little puzzled by his attitude. Initially she had gained the impression that he had been the one to recommend her for the job, and yet now it sounded as though he had doubts about her suitability. She was just about to question him further when his telephone rang. He picked it up, covered the mouthpiece and pushed a piece of paper over to her.
‘That’s the address,’ he told her. ‘I’ve arranged an interview for you for two-thirty this afternoon, although I don’t think you’ll have any problems. Mrs Mayers is quite convinced that you’ll suit her.’
He turned away from her when he spoke into the telephone, making it plain that he expected her to leave. Feeling rather bemused, Lark did so. When she had come to see him this morning, the very last thing she had expected was the offer of a job—especially not one that sounded almost too like a fairy-tale, and too good to be true.
It probably was too good to be true, she admitted as she walked down three flights of stairs and out into the cool air. Although officially it was spring, it was still almost cold enough to be winter, the trees barely in bud. She shivered beneath the cold wind, wishing she could afford to go and sit somewhere warm and order herself a decent meal.
No cooking was allowed in the bedsits, but in reality all the tenants had their own small gas or electric rings. Hers was tiny and only really fit for heating up a can of soup or the odd tin of beans, neither of which was particularly tempting at the moment.
She was hungry, but lunch was a luxury she could no longer really afford. Would this Mrs Mayers really want to employ her? The salary her solicitor had mentioned had indeed been generous, far more generous than the amount she had been receiving with the PR company.
She had tried to ask him what her duties would be, but he had been very vague on the subject, saying that Mrs Mayers would explain everything to her. She felt oddly reluctant to go for the interview, which was ridiculous under the circumstances. Had the ordeal of the last few months scarred her so much that she was actually afraid of meeting new people? Afraid of seeing in their eyes the dislike and contempt she had already seen in so many people’s eyes, including those of James Wolfe?
James Wolfe—there he was again, back in her thoughts. How on earth had he managed to get there, and how on earth was she going to get rid of him?
He had absolutely no right to keep on pushing his way into her life, into her mind, into her thoughts, she thought distractedly as she hurried down the street. It was barely twelve o’clock; two and a half hours before she needed to attend her appointment, but it was on the other side of London in St John’s Wood…
Lark stood outside a pretty little Victorian villa that some rich man had probably built for his mistress. There was a time when St John’s Wood had been notorious for such dwellings. Now, of course, it was eminently respectable and an area to which only the extremely wealthy could aspire.
Her particular destination was set behind a high wall. Lark tried the gates and then realised that they were locked. A discreet metal plaque set into one of the brick pillars startled her by bursting into speech.
‘Do come in, Miss Cummings. We’ve unlocked the gates for you now.’ The woman’s voice was late middle-aged rather than elderly, pleasant, with more than just a hint of warmth. Had she heard it in any other circumstances, Lark would have felt immediately drawn to its owner. As it was she felt too nervous, too on edge to do anything than give a startled glance at the gates and then try them again.
This time, of course, they opened. The front garden was large by London standards. Early shrubs were just beginning to burst into blossom against the walls, crocuses were dotted here and there on the smooth green lawn. Despite its very obvious elegance, the house had an almost comfortable air about it.
A dark blue Rolls-Royce was parked discreetly to one side of the front door. Was she supposed to go to the front door, or should she go round the back? Lark wondered bemusedly. It was the kind of house that made one start thinking about such things. Her dilemma was solved for her when the front door opened.
She walked into the parquet-floored hall, and was immediately struck by the pleasant scent of sandalwood which greeted her.
‘Ah, I’m glad you like it. Some people don’t. I can’t understand why, can you? It always makes me think of sailing ships and the China seas, possibly because originally sandalwood was from the Orient. Oh, dear me, please excuse my chatter, I’m always like this when I’m nervous, I’m afraid. Come on into the sitting-room.’
Was this her would-be employer? This small, pretty woman, with her pepper and salt curls and ingenuous smile? She barely reached her shoulder, Lark noticed as they both paused in the entrance to th
e sitting-room.
‘Oh, I forgot to take your coat. It’s so cold out, isn’t it? I’ve lived in this country for nearly forty years, and yet I still miss our New England springs.’
The American accent was barely discernible, and had a twang with which Lark wasn’t familiar.
‘I wanted to invite you to have lunch with me,’ Mrs Mayers was saying as she ushered her into a pretty sitting-room decorated in soft blues and yellows. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate, and Lark couldn’t resist a soft exclamation of pleasure as she looked around her.
‘I’m so glad you like it. My son doesn’t approve at all. He thinks it’s far too frivolous and feminine. Do come and sit down. I’ll get Cora to bring us some tea, or would you prefer coffee?’
Her hostess was charming but rather obviously slightly dizzy, and Lark couldn’t help wondering how on earth she had come to be the chairwoman of a charity committee. Surely such a role demanded great organisational skills?
It had been a long time since anyone had treated Lark with such warmth and friendliness, and she found herself responding to it like a thirsty plant soaking up rain. It was several minutes before she could interrupt her hostess for long enough to ask her exactly what the job would entail.
For a moment or two Mrs Mayers looked rather vague.
‘Oh, yes, the job. Well, my dear, here’s Cora with the tea.’
Cora proved to be a late-middle-aged woman with dark hair and a round face in which brown eyes snapped energetically and curiously. Mrs Mayers introduced them, and Lark was very conscious of Cora’s scrutiny as she put down the tea tray.
‘Cora’s been with us for years,’ Mrs Mayers told her when the other woman had left. ‘I don’t know what on earth I would do without her.’
‘Mrs Mayers, the job…’ Lark prodded gently.
‘The job, oh, yes! Well, my dear, I can’t tell you exactly what your duties would be other than to say that you would be acting as my personal assistant.’ Suddenly she sounded brisker, less vague. ‘The charity’s only a small one. We have a branch here in London and another one in Boston, which is not, perhaps, as odd as it seems.’ A rather sad smile touched her face. ‘My first husband was, like myself, from Boston. Our families had known one another for years.’ She made a slight face. ‘That’s how it is in Boston. We’re a conservative lot, I’m afraid. I became involved with the charity after the deaths of my husband and son. Both of them died from an inherited genetic complaint. My husband knew nothing about it. There had been cousins, other members of the family who had died in their early thirties, but in those days…’ She shrugged, her eyes suddenly very sad. ‘When John, our son, was born, neither of us had any idea. He died when he was ten. In some cases the disease is more progressive then in others. My husband died twelve months later. He suffered such a lot, poor man, not just from the illness itself, but from his guilt over what had happened to John. He said before he died that, had he known, he would never have married me.’ She smiled again. ‘Perhaps it is selfish of me to be glad that he did not.’
She said it with such quiet sincerity that Lark felt a lump rise in her throat. This woman was the antithesis of everything she had expected before she came for the interview. She realised now that she had been guilty of judging her on surface evidence alone.
‘My husband was a wealthy man,’ Mrs Mayers continued quietly. ‘Very wealthy. I used some of the money he had left me to set up the charity. In those days my first thoughts were that perhaps somehow we might be able to find out what caused the hereditary defect which gave rise to his death and that of our child. Those early days were probably what saved my sanity, but that was a long time ago. Now it’s very different. These days we’re far better organised, and the money we’ve raised has helped with research into the causes and possible treatment for the deficiency. A lot of work has been done. We’ve now managed to isolate the genes that cause the problem, but there is still an awful lot more work to be done, which is where you and I come in, my dear,’ she added briskly.
‘My role of chairwoman involves me in having overall control of our fund-raising activities both here and in Boston. I think you already know that I spend part of the year over there working for the charity.’ When Lark nodded, she went on quietly, ‘I’m not a young woman any more, unfortunately. In fact, my son claims that I’m too old to be doing as much work as I do, but I’m loath to give it up, so he and I have compromised. He has made me promise to get myself an assistant, which is where you come in, my dear. I do hope you’re going to take the job,’ she added whimsically, ‘because if you don’t, I’m afraid my son is going to insist I give up a very important part of my life.’
Her son, she had said, which meant that she must have married a second time. Almost as though she had read Lark’s mind, Mrs Mayers continued, ‘I have been married twice. I was devastated when John died. He and our child were the most important things in my life. I thought I would never, ever recover from the blow of losing them, but then I met Charles.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘He was exactly as I’d always imagined an English gentleman to be. He was a surgeon, and I was introduced to him by a mutual friend in Boston.’
‘And you have just the one son?’ Lark prodded, conscious of an air of sadness settling on her companion’s face.
‘Yes, it is probably just as well. He is a typical Taurean, incredibly stubborn, but I shan’t bore you by being a doting mother and telling you how wonderful he is. Did your solicitor tell you that the job would involve living in?’ she asked anxiously. ‘I know that wouldn’t appeal to most young girls these days, but I’m afraid that it’s really a necessity. You see, sometimes, because of the very nature of the work I do, it means working odd hours. We hold a variety of charity events to raise funds, and I would want you to help me with all of those. Plus there’s a great deal of correspondence which always needs answering. Does the thought of living in deter you?’
Deter her? If only Mrs Mayers knew! Lark thought wryly. She glanced round the sitting-room again, comparing its warmth and loveliness with the shabby bareness of her bedsit. What person in their right mind would prefer living in that to living in something like this—or rather, living alone, to living with someone like Mrs Mayers? Her stubborn Taurean son apparently did, because with the next breath she was explaining to Lark that there would only be the two of them in the house, plus Cora.
‘It’s very much an all-female household, I’m afraid. Do you have a…a boyfriend?’
She looked rather hesitant as she asked the question. Lark shook her head quickly.
‘Would you like to see your rooms?’
Rooms? Lark felt as though she had wandered into some sort of daydream.
‘Mrs Mayers,’ she said gently, ‘you do know who I am, don’t you? You do know about the court case?’ Suddenly she had had the uncomfortable suspicion that her solicitor had not been totally open and honest with this charming woman, and that she had absolutely no idea of Lark’s recent history.
To her surprise, Mrs Mayers said quickly, ‘Oh, yes, I know all about that. It must have been awful for you, my dear.’
‘They weren’t true—all those things they said,’ Lark told her desperately. ‘None of it was true. I’d absolutely no idea what Gary was doing.’ To her chagrin, tears suddenly filled her eyes. What on earth was happening to her—giving way like this?
‘My dear, you must try to put it all out of your mind. It’s over. It was a terrible thing to endure, I know.’
‘I could have gone to prison,’ Lark sobbed helplessly, suddenly overwhelmed by the terror of those dreadful months. ‘That’s what he wanted to happen to me. He wanted me to be sentenced to prison,’ she hiccuped between sobs.
‘He?’ Mrs Mayers questioned uncertainly, coming to sit beside her and putting a comforting arm round her shoulder.
‘The prosecuting counsel,’ Lark told her. ‘He believed that I was guilty. I know he did. I could see it in his eyes.’
She looked up at Mrs Mayers, and w
as astounded to see a rather odd expression in her eyes—an almost guilty expression, she realised.
‘No, no, I’m sure you’re wrong. Oh, dear, let me call Cora and she can make us a fresh cup of tea. You mustn’t get upset like this. You must put it all behind you and make a fresh start.’
But could she? Could she put it all behind her? Lark wondered miserably as she fished for a handkerchief and dried her face. What on earth had possessed her to break down like that, and in front of her prospective employer as well?
She refused the offer of a cup of tea and tried to restore what she could of her dignity.
‘You will take the job, won’t you?’ Mrs Mayers implored. ‘It would be such a relief to tell my son that I have found someone.’
She wanted to take it. The duties Mrs Mayers had outlined to her had seemed far more interesting than onerous, and yet she couldn’t help feeling that she was taking advantage of the older woman’s generosity. It was all very well for her to say that she knew all about the court case, but did she really realise the enormity of the crimes of which Lark had so nearly been convicted? And this son of hers, whom she seemed so in awe of, what would he feel about Lark working for his mother?
‘I don’t know. I think we should both think about it,’ she managed to say, guiltily aware of the disappointment in her prospective employer’s eyes.
‘Oh, dear, I’ve gone and done everything the wrong way, haven’t I? And I did so want you to take the job.’
‘I want to take it,’ Lark told her honestly. ‘But I’m not sure if it would be fair to you. Does your son…?’
‘The choice is mine,’ Mrs Mayers told her, surprisingly firmly. ‘And you are my choice, Lark.’
How reassuring those words sounded. How they warmed the coldness of her heart; a coldness which had grown steadily more intense over the months, starting with Gary’s accusations and then her aunt and uncle’s rejection of her.
What ought she to do? she wondered on her way back to her bedsit. She wanted desperately to take the job, but her conscience wouldn’t let her.
