by Penny Jordan
It was, Lark acknowledged, and the menu only increased her appetite.
‘The meals on this flight are normally excellent,’ Mrs Mayers promised, ‘although James complains they aren’t substantial enough. I’m afraid he’s a true Englishman where his food is concerned. He adores roast beef and stodgy puddings.’
Visualising James’s lean, athletic body, Lark found this difficult to believe. Seeing her expression, Mrs Mayers chuckled.
‘He enjoys them, but he doesn’t live on them.’
After lunch they watched a film. Half-way through it Lark fell asleep, and the next thing she knew, Mrs Mayers was shaking her gently to warn her that they would soon be landing.
Lark felt guilty. She should have been the one taking care of her employer, not the other way around.
They were practically the first people off the plane and, because neither of them had any luggage to collect, they were soon through to Immigration, where they had to separate since Mrs Mayers had retained her American nationality.
Lark tensed a little under the careful scrutiny of the Customs official, but within a very short space of time she was free to join Mrs Mayers on the other side of the barrier.
‘Larry should be waiting for us outside with the car,’ Mrs Mayers told her. ‘You’ll soon discover that here in America, everyone uses Christian names.’
Although Mrs Mayers had warned her that it would be warmer in Boston, Lark wasn’t prepared for the wall of heat that hit her as they walked out of the air-conditioned coolness of the airport building. It was like being wrapped in a hot, wet blanket, and she almost staggered under the force of it.
Mrs Mayers laughed, but not unkindly. ‘It does come as rather a shock, doesn’t it? But don’t worry, you’ll soon get acclimatised. We have full air-conditioning at the Marble Head house. Ah, good, there’s Larry now. Come along, this way.’
Mutely Lark followed her to the large, black limousine with its darkened windows, her eyes widening a little in amazement as she studied it.
‘Hideous, isn’t it?’ Mrs Mayers exclaimed, wrinkling her nose. ‘James normally absolutely refuses to ride in it. He says it makes him feel like somebody in the Mafia.’
Lark could see his point, and it was an impression that was reinforced by the uniformed chauffeur who got out of the driver’s side of the car. He was tall and swarthily complexioned, with dark hair, but when he smiled the menacing impression of his features was banished. He greeted Mrs Mayers so warmly that Lark chided herself for her over-active imagination.
‘Drive through Boston, will you, Larry?’ Mrs Mayers instructed him as he closed the car doors beside him. ‘This is Lark’s first visit, and I’d like her to see something of the city.’ She’d already introduced them, and now Lark saw the chauffeur smiling warmly at her in the driver’s mirror as he obeyed Mrs Mayers’ instruction.
‘Luckily we’re too early for the rush-hour traffic. It gets pretty hectic around here, I’m afraid. Boston has boomed in recent years, especially as a new financial centre. You’ll find new skyscraper blocks going up all over the city. I’ve heard that some of the developers are even trying to tear down blocks in the old Back Bay area. Not a very popular move with the more conservative members of Boston society. Most of their families owned properties there at one time or another,’ Mrs Mayers informed Lark. ‘Back Bay was the area to live in the city at one time, but now most people prefer to live out in the suburbs.’
As they drove through the city, the chauffeur pointed out several buildings to her, but Lark, muggy from the heat and jet-lagged, could hardly take in what she was being told, and only had a fleeting impression of a busy but not overcrowded city where the cars seemed huge in comparison to their British counterparts and the people in the streets were dressed in lightweight summer clothing that made her feel acutely conscious of the heaviness of her own suit.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll be able to take more in next time,’ Mrs Mayers told her.
They were travelling north along the coast, and every now and again Lark glimpsed signposts with familiar names: Manchester, Gloucester—familiar and yet unfamiliar. And if she felt alien, how must those first lonely settlers have felt? No wonder they had given their new land names from their old homes.
‘We’re in commuter country now,’ Mrs Mayers informed her, ‘and these houses are typical of New England.’
Lark looked at the pretty buildings, their exteriors clad in what looked like white wooden panelling. She noticed the area gradually becoming more hilly. Marble Head was right on the coast, and it had got its name from the fact that British sailors, seeing sun strike on the cliff face, thought that it was made of marble. Although most of the small villages along the coast were inhabited by Bostonians, many of them still retained their original pioneer flavour, and in some the houses had been passed down from generation to generation.
They were travelling along a more minor road now, green lawns stretching away to either side of them, framing impressive mansions. Lark didn’t need to be told that this was a very upmarket and expensive area. The houses grew more and more impressive, until at last they could no longer be seen from the road, shielded from the eyes of curious passers-by by hedges and, in some cases, high walls.
They were still climbing, and to her right Lark caught the occasional glimpse of the ocean. When looking at it, she suffered her first surge of homesickness. What time was it in England? What was James doing now?
She caught herself half-way through the treacherous thought.
‘Are you all right? Don’t worry. We’ll soon be there,’ Mrs Mayers assured her kindly, mistaking the reason for her small, indrawn breath. ‘It’s only another mile or so.’
It was, but what she had neglected to tell Lark was that almost all of that mile or so of road ran adjacent to the boundary of her own property; a fact which Lark wasn’t to discover for several days. As it was, she was marvelling the immaculate state of the almost-English hedge to her right, when suddenly the car came to a halt outside a pair of very impressive wrought-iron gates.
They opened as though by magic, and they drove in between them, down a long, gravelled drive towards a house of weathered, dark grey stone. ‘This house was built by one of my first husband’s ancestors early in the 1800s, some say with the fortunes he had made in dealing in arms during the Revolution.’ She broke off and turned to the chauffeur. ‘Thank you, Larry; neither of us has any luggage to speak of, but perhaps you’d go and tell Mary that we’ve arrived, as I’m sure Lark would like something to eat and drink. I’m afraid then I’ll have to ask you to take me back to Boston almost immediately, but I want to check with the hospital first. Oh, and perhaps you’d ask Mary to show Lark her room. I’ll go straight to mine and freshen up a little.’
Larry waited until both of them were out of the car before disappearing in the direction of the back of the house.
The front of the house faced towards the road, the back towards the sea, but Lark’s view of the Atlantic was shrouded by the mass of shrubbery that separated the front of the house from the back. The exterior design of the house resembled a mini-fortress, a resemblance which was intensified by the huge oak door.
‘I suspect my husband’s ancestor entertained fantasies of baronial splendour,’ Mrs Mayers told Lark with a chuckle, as she pushed the door open. ‘The original plans actually contain a provision for a moat. Luckily, this promontory here is solid rock, and so he was forced to abandon that idea. Come on inside.’
The hall was oval, its walls painted Wedgwood blue, the mouldings picked out in soft off-white. The floor was tiled in marble, a staircase curling up one side towards the upper storey, and as she looked up, Lark could see the domed ceiling right above them, and realised that the light pouring into the hallway came from the stained-glass windows.
‘An improvement added by a Victorian ancestor,’ Mrs Mayers told her, following her glance. ‘I’ve instructed Mary to prepare you a bedroom overlooking the ocean. I thought you’d like that,
but if you’d prefer to change…’
Lark shook her head. ‘No, that sounds absolutely lovely.’ She was conscious of feeling grubby and rather tired, and also of the fact that Mrs Mayers must be anxious to go to see her friend. ‘I’ll go and unpack,’ she told her. ‘You’ll want to make an early start in the morning, I expect. If you could tell me where the study is, I could perhaps go in there and check through the files while you’re out.’
Mrs Mayers smiled affectionately at her. ‘Lark, you’re a glutton for punishment! I’m not going to tell you where the study is because I don’t want you to work this afternoon. This is your first experience of a long transatlantic flight. If you’ll take my advice, you’ll simply familiarise yourself with the house and garden this afternoon, and then have an early night. If you like, I could get Mary to give you a mild sleeping tablet. I find that the best way to avoid jet-lag is to immediately adapt to the hours of the country I’m in, but that isn’t always as easy as it sounds.’
‘No, I think I’ll be all right,’ Lark told her, shaking her head, not liking the thought of taking any drug unnecessarily.
‘Well, if you have any difficulty at all in sleeping, don’t hesitate to give Mary a ring. Now, I’d better get up to my own room and make myself presentable,’ Mrs Mayers said briskly. ‘Ah, here’s Mary.’
She smiled as a pretty, brown-haired woman hurried into the hall. Mary was nothing like Mrs Mayers’ housekeeper in London. She was younger, for one thing, and despite her Boston accent Lark immediately recognised her Irish heritage. She had the true Celtic colouring, the pale skin and deep blue eyes surrounded by thick, smudgy lashes. Her face dimpled when she smiled, and she was prettily plump in a way that fine-boned women often could be, with delicate ankles and wrists.
‘Mary, would you take Lark up to her room?’ Mrs Mayers asked when she had introduced them. ‘She’s tired out, poor girl, although she will try to deny it and pretend she wants to start work.’
Mary clucked sympathetically. ‘That transatlantic flight’s a killer, isn’t it? We went to visit my family in Ireland last year, and it took me nearly a week to get back on my feet again. If you’ll come this way,’ she said to Lark. ‘You’re on the second floor.’
The second floor, Lark discovered, was not the top storey of the building, but what at home would have been described as the first floor. She realised that she was going to run into some confusion with the language, and hoped that everyone would be as patient and understanding as Mary was.
Her room, although very different from the one she occupied in the London house, was every bit as comfortable. The furniture was Victorian, its heaviness lightened by the pretty wallpaper and curtains. She was delighted to discover that it had a balcony, and that from her window she could see right over the garden to the cliff edge, and then across to the ocean itself.
‘We have private access to the beach, down those steps over there,’ Mary told her, nodding in the direction of the beginning of a pathway at the top of the cliff which Lark could only just see. ‘When you look out at that ocean, it’s hard to believe there’s anything out there but water, isn’t it?’ Mary commented.
‘England’s there,’ Lark said softly, looking out across the grey vastness of the Atlantic.
‘Homesick?’ Mary questioned her, not unkindly. ‘My grandmother came out from Ireland when she was seventeen. I remember her telling me how much she missed her home when she first came here, and how she would stand and look out across the ocean.’
‘But she settled here eventually?’ Lark asked.
Mary chuckled. ‘Oh, yes, indeed, once she had met my grandfather. Mrs Mayers said you didn’t bring much luggage, but if you’ve anything you want me to unpack…’
Lark shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Your bathroom’s through here,’ Mary told her, pushing open a door, ‘and Mrs Mayers’ bedroom and sitting-room is three doors down the corridor. If you like, I can bring you a tray of tea up here, or if you prefer, you can have it in the kitchen with me.’
Lark quickly opted for the latter. She didn’t really want to be on her own, and Mary seemed friendly. It made her realise how long it was since she had actually talked to a member of her own sex, apart from Mrs Mayers. At home she had been wary of conversation, dreading being questioned about the court case, but here she felt no such inhibitions. After all, it was scarcely likely that her notoriety would have crossed the Atlantic ahead of her!
She waited until she had seen Larry driving away with Mrs Mayers before going down to the kitchen. Thanks to Mary’s directions, she found it easily enough. It was a large, sunny room at the back of the house. She and Larry had their own accommodation, a complete flat above what had originally been the stable block, Mary told her as she made the tea.
‘It’s a bit big for us now that our kids are at school,’ she told Lark, explaining that their two sons were away at boarding-school. ‘It’s mostly private schools round here, and neither of them would have felt comfortable mixing with kids from such wealthy backgrounds, so we decided it was better to send them away.’
Lark sympathised with her, sensing that she missed her sons. They chatted for a while, mainly discussing Mrs Mayers’ involvement in her charity work, and then, when Lark started to yawn, Mary stood up and said firmly, ‘If I were you, I’d go to bed. You’ll feel the benefit of it in the morning.’
Wise advice, Lark reflected as she made her way to her bedroom. She wanted to explore her new surroundings, but she felt too exhausted to do so. She wondered ruefully what it was that Mrs Mayers possessed that enabled her to make the long journey back to the city, while she, who was so much younger, could do nothing but crawl into bed in a state of almost complete exhaustion.
She slept well and dreamlessly, and was woken by Mary at seven o’clock when she came in with a tray of tea.
When Lark protested that she was not here to be waited on, Mary shook her head. ‘There’s no problem. I’m always up early. I don’t normally take anything in to Mrs Mayers until half-past eight, and then she gets up shortly after nine.’
That gave her ample time to go downstairs and familiarise herself with the layout of the study, Lark reflected, drinking her tea.
The house was cooler than she was used to, but she had already ceased to notice the hum of the air-conditioning. Mary had told her how to find the study, and she made her way there as soon as she was dressed.
At ten o’clock, when Mrs Mayers joined her, she had already made a thorough investigation of the files, and had been relieved to discover that they were not in quite as bad a state as those in England.
‘Right, down to work,’ Mrs Mayers announced cheerfully. ‘I rang all the other committee members last night and we’re having a meeting in Boston at noon. I want you to come with me, Lark, so that I can introduce you to them, and then I’ll take you on a quick tour of the city. You may want to do some shopping,’ she added tactfully, eyeing the thin wool sweater and heavyweight skirt that Lark was wearing.
Lark flushed a little, not wanting to explain to her employer the paucity of her summer wardrobe and its unsuitability for her present duties.
‘Oh, and that reminds me,’ Mrs Mayers added, producing an envelope, ‘as we’re over here, I’ll pay your salary in American currency. I’ve drawn some money out of the bank, and here’s a small advance for you.’
From the thickness of the envelope, there was quite a considerable amount of money inside it. Lark took it reluctantly.
‘How was your friend?’ she enquired.
‘Much, much better than I had expected. Out of intensive care now, in fact, and demanding to be allowed to go home. Not that the hospital is going to let him, but it was good to hear him complaining, nevertheless.’
Lark envied Mrs Mayers her thin silk suit when they eventually set out for Boston a little later. She herself was still wearing her sweater and skirt and, despite the air-conditioned interior of the car, her sweater was beginning to stick clammily to her skin.
‘We are lunching with the other committee members at the Ritz Carlton, one of Boston’s most prestigious hotels,’ Mrs Mayers informed her. ‘It’s on Newbury Street,’ she added with a twinkle in her eye, ‘one of the best shopping areas in the city. If we have time, we’ll do a little window shopping after lunch.’
Lark quailed a little at the thought of lunching in one of Boston’s smartest hotels wearing her woolly sweater and skirt, but there was nothing she could do about it, and besides, she wasn’t there to socialise, she reminded herself. She was there to work.
This time, as they drove through Boston, she was able to take in more of her surroundings. The hotel was opposite the city’s main park. The concierge obviously recognised Mrs Mayers, and welcomed her in to the hotel. They were lunching in a private dining-room, Lark discovered.
The Ritz was patronised in the main by old Boston and visiting Europeans, Mrs Mayers told Lark as they went upstairs in the lift. That probably explained the faintly French Empire décor, Lark decided, responding with a smile to the liftman’s cheerful, ‘Have a nice day.’
They were the last to arrive, and the only women. Of the eight men who stood up as they entered the room, only one could have been described as young. He was tall, thin and almost gangly, with smooth, soft, brown hair and sunburnt skin. His smile was friendly, if a little diffident, Lark reflected as Mrs Mayers introduced her to him.
‘Lark, this is Hunter Cabot, one of the mainstays of our small organisation. I’m afraid he inherited us from his grandfather, who was one of our most generous supporters.’ She smiled warmly at Hunter before introducing Lark to the other members of the group.
They were all, in the main, businessmen who gave their time and expertise free of charge to the charity, and that in itself was an indication of Mrs Mayers’ persuasive powers, Lark suspected.
She was amused and a little envious to realise that all of them were a little in love with her employer, in the most gentlemanly way, of course. She enquired after their wives and families, chatting to them with a warmth and sincerity that Lark had recognised at their first meeting.
