That in itself was not an unusual sight. Since Cicely had had to dispense with the services of most of the Haringay servants because of her straitened means, Gibson had had to take on many of the chores that should, by rights, have been taken on by under-servants. But it was not this that worried Cicely particularly. It was the way Gibson put down the bucket after a few paces and rubbed his back, before picking it up and carrying on again.
Gibson never stopped and rubbed his back in her presence, but once or twice of late she had suspected he had back trouble. He often moved stiffly, and was noticeably slower than he had been a year or two before. It was not right that a man of his advanced years should be carrying heavy loads and Cicely thought, not for the first time, that she must employ a boy to help him.
The only problem with that idea was that Cicely could not afford to employ a boy.
She gave a sigh. She could not for the moment see a solution. But as she turned in at the Lodge gates she knew that she must find one. And find one soon, if she was to spare Gibson any more suffering.
Chapter Four
The following morning Cicely gave her full attention to the matter of hiring a boy. It was, unfortunately, not an easy matter to resolve. She had enough money to live on, but she had nothing to spare, and she found her thoughts wandering to Lord Chuffington’s proposal.
If she accepted him, she would be well provided for, and Gibson would be able to retire with the benefit of an annuity to look after him in his old age. But although marrying Lord Chuffington would solve her financial difficulties, and thereby solve the problem of Gibson as well, Cicely could never seriously consider such a thing. Lord Chuffington was a dear, but she did not love him. And love, for Cicely, was the only reason for marriage.
There remained only one alternative. She would have to seek some form of part-time employment. After much thought, she decided she would seek a job as a secretary. She was bright and well organised, and she felt she ought to be able to give satisfaction in that capacity.
Having made her decision she set out on her bicycle for the neighbouring town, in order to see if there were any suitable positions being advertised: Mr Peterson’s office, she knew, dealt with such things. She did not need to earn a huge amount; just enough to be able to hire someone to help Gibson, and perhaps to provide the loyal butler with an annuity when he retired.
On reaching the town of Oakleigh she made directly for Mr Peterson’s office and, propping her bicycle up against the wall, went in.
The office was situated up a flight of stairs, above a baker’s shop. The stairs were narrow and steep. At the top they gave onto a bare waiting room, with six hard chairs pushed up against one wall. A low table with an aspidistra on it was set in front of them. On the walls were posters of young men and women busily at work, all smiling cheerily as they went about their tasks.
At the far side of the room was a desk, and behind it sat a brisk young woman who asked Cicely her business. Fortunately Cicely was not well known in the town, and the woman did not recognize her. On Cicely’s explaining that she was looking for a position the brisk young woman asked her to take a chair before disappearing into the office and, after waiting for what seemed like an interminable time, Cicely was shown in to see Mr Peterson.
‘And what can we do for you?’ asked Mr Peterson, looking at her over the top of his spectacles. He was a dry little man, and was seated behind a large desk that seemed too big for him.
‘I am looking for work as a secretary,’ said Cicely. She perched on the edge of the hard chair he had indicated when she had entered the room.
‘A secretary?’ He looked at her again over the top of his spectacles, as if assessing her suitability for such a position and finding her wanting. ‘Do you have any experience?’ He asked the question perfunctorily, and his expression was not encouraging.
‘Not exactly,’ she admitted. ‘But I helped my father -’
‘I’m afraid our clients want more solid experience than that,’ he said, steepling his fingers and leaning back in his chair.
Cicely felt her backbone stiffen at the patronising note in his voice. He had obviously decided he could dismiss her with a few ungracious words, but he was about to find out that she would not be dismissed so easily.
‘You are in the habit of arranging such matters?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.
‘I am,’ he admitted, his eyes becoming harder.
‘And you have secretarial positions on your books?’ she enquired politely.
He made her wait, before saying grudgingly, ‘I do.’
‘Then if it is not too much trouble I would like to know what they are.’
He gave a sigh and rang a bell on his desk.
‘Miss Dennis, what secretarial positions do we have on our books?’ he asked as the brisk young woman walked into the office.
‘I’ll get the file, Mr Peterson.’
She returned with it a few minutes later and Mr Peterson opened the file on the desk in front of him. ‘Thank you, Miss Dennis, that will be all.’
Miss Dennis left the room.
Mr Peterson turned over several sheets of paper, shaking his head, then glancing up at Cicely and giving the occasional tut. But then he stopped, a single sheet of paper in his hand. He looked up at Cicely and down at the paper, then said slowly, ‘There is something here that might suit you, Miss . . . ?’
‘Buckworth,’ said Cicely.
She had decided that she would not give her real name. If word of what she was doing got back to any of her friends they would be horrified. Even worse, they would rally round and help her. But much as she loved them, in this matter Cicely did not want their help. For one thing she did not want them to know just how badly off her father’s death had left her, and for another, she felt it was her responsibility to provide for Gibson and no one else’s. That being the case, she wanted to do it herself.
‘Miss Buckworth.’ Mr Peterson accepted the name she gave him. ‘It is a part-time job, for three mornings a week -’
‘Good,’ said Cicely. ‘I am particularly interested in part time work.’ It would arouse less speculation about her whereabouts if she were only gone for a few hours each day, and with luck she would not be found out.
‘And enthusiasm is required more than experience.’
‘It sounds interesting,’ said Cicely. ‘Where is it?’
‘A little out of town, I’m afraid, but not too far away. It is at Oakleigh Manor.’
‘Oakleigh Manor?’ Cicely tried not to let her sinking sensation show in her voice. If there was one place she could not possibly work, it was Oakleigh Manor.
‘Yes.’ Mr Peterson looked up at her, then down at the paper again. ‘Working for a Mr Evington.’
Worse and worse, thought Cicely. Of all the bad luck, to find the only suitable job on Mr Peterson’s books was that of a secretary to Mr Evington . . . the one man in the whole of England she could not possibly work for!
‘In fact, if you can wait a few minutes,’ went on Mr Peterson, glancing at the clock, ‘you will be able to meet him.’
‘Meet him?’ gasped Cicely in sudden horror. Meet Mr Evington in Mr Peterson’s office, and have him discover she was looking for work? No! Not at any cost.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Peterson, fortunately not noticing the horror in her voice. ‘He is coming in at eleven o’clock to see if the post has been filled.’
‘Oh, no, that will never do,’ said Cicely, springing out of her chair. ‘I mean,’ she continued hastily as she saw Mr Peterson’s look of surprise, ‘I mean . . . ’ She cast around for a likely excuse, ‘I mean that unfortunately I cannot wait. I hadn’t realized how late it is. I’m afraid I have to —’
At that moment there was a knock at the door. Cicely started. But to her relief it was only Miss Dennis who entered the room.
The relief was short-lived, however, as Miss Dennis declared, ‘Mr Evington to see you, Mr Peterson.’
Cicely felt a hot blush spread over her face.
It was too awful! To be confronted by Mr Evington, here, of all places!
‘Ah! Good,’ said Mr Peterson, rising.
Cicely put her head down in the hope that he would not recognise her, and made to slip past Miss Dennis, murmuring that she had another appointment, but it was too late. She could not slip out of the door, because Alex Evington was walking in!
‘Mr Evington! What a pleasure to see you,’ beamed Mr Peterson, who was far more fond of employers than prospective employees.
‘I’m a little early,’ began Mr Evington, ‘but -’
‘And a good thing too,’ Mr Peterson interrupted him, wreathed in smiles. ‘There is a young woman here, looking for a job as a secretary. She is a little reluctant to take a job at the Manor, but I am sure you can persuade her it will be just the thing. Mr Evington, may I present Miss Buckworth?’
Cicely felt her cheeks flame. As if it wasn’t bad enough that Mr Evington should discover her seeking employment, he had to find her using an assumed name as well!
She tried to raise her eyes, telling herself not to be such a coward, but they remained firmly fixed on the floor.
‘Miss Buck-’ Mr Evington stopped mid-sentence, as he turned towards her and realized who she was. ‘-worth,’ he finished, in a completely different tone of voice.
‘Come, come, Miss Buckworth, no need to be shy. Mr Evington will not eat you, you know,’ said Mr Peterson jovially, completely misunderstanding the reason for Cicely’s blushes.
With a supreme effort Cicely raised her head.
‘I dare say Miss Buckworth feels the Manor will be isolated, being so far out in the country. As I believe I explained to you when you asked us to find you someone, Mr Evington, most young people prefer to be closer to town, where there is a bit more life. But I’m sure you will be able to convince her otherwise,’ declared Mr Peterson.
‘No, no, I do assure you, Mr Evington cannot,’ said Cicely, wishing the ground would open up and swallow her. Realising that it was unlikely to do anything so obliging, however, she made to hurry away.
Except Mr Evington was blocking the doorway.
Cicely swallowed, hoping fervently that he would move.
Mr Evington turned to Mr Peterson. ‘If we could have a moment alone,’ he said smoothly.
‘But of course,’ said Mr Peterson with an ingratiating smile.
A moment later he had left them, and Cicely was face to face with Alex Evington, and again in the most mortifying circumstances. She seemed to be cursed!
‘Mr Peterson is mistaken, I assure you,’ said Cicely, trying her best to hide her agitation. ‘I have no need to supplement my income and I am not in the least desirous of becoming a secretary.’
The words were clumsy and out of her mouth before she had given any thought to them, and she was convinced he could not fail to see through them. Indeed, he seemed to realize she was lying, because something in his face changed. His eyes, which had been astonished, now hardened . . . but when he spoke, Cicely was surprised to discover that he had misunderstood her words and her manner entirely.
‘You mean you have not the least desire of becoming my secretary,’ he said bitingly. There was an air of tension about him, and she was forcibly reminded of the fact that his background was very different to hers. If he had been a country gentleman he would not have made such a remark, nor would he have spoken so bitingly. But Alex Evington was completely different from the men she was used to. He was harder, more ruthless, and disinclined to sweep anything under the carpet. It made things far more difficult for her. And yet in a way she respected him for it.
‘That is not what I meant at all,’ she said, raising her head. Now that the encounter could not be avoided she knew she must rise to the challenge, and she prepared to defend herself against his mistaken beliefs. But it was not going to be easy.
‘Isn’t it?’ he demanded.
His eyes darkened with some barely-suppressed emotion which was clearly composed of anger, but there was something else there as well. Something it was much more difficult to read.
‘You are clearly bored with doing nothing all day long,’ he continued, ‘or else why would you visit such an office? And as you told Mr Peterson you wanted to find a position as a secretary - unless you are calling him a liar?’ he digressed, his voice hard.
‘Certainly not,’ she replied, her own anger beginning to rise.
‘Very well, then. As you told Mr Peterson you wanted to find a position as a secretary, I may safely assume that a position as a secretary is what you were looking for. But the second you were offered one at Oakleigh Manor you changed your mind. And as soon as I entered the room you decided you must leave.’
Cicely felt a feeling of frustration wash over her. He had got it all wrong. But how could she tell him so without confessing that she needed money? Which she had no intention of doing. Her pride simply would not let her.
‘ I know you don’t like me, Miss Haringay,’ he went on harshly, ‘but is it really necessary to make it so obvious every time we meet?’
By this time Cicely had recovered somewhat from her shock, and the injustice of this last remark stung her. ‘I hardly think you are in a position to lecture me on my behaviour,’ she returned. ‘Your own behaviour is hardly a model of decorum.’ Gaining confidence, she raised her chin and looked him in the eye. ‘You delight in laughing at me every time we meet, and when you are not laughing at me you are making it clear what you think of the landed classes. Can you really say you would have employed me, even if I had applied for the post?’
‘I — ‘ He broke off.
‘There. You see. You don’t like me any more than I like you,’ she retorted. ‘We can both of us congratulate ourselves on having had a lucky escape. And that being the case I will bid you good day.’
She turned towards the door, but he surprised her by saying, ‘Yes. I would.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ she asked, turning round.
‘You’re right.’ His mouth was grim. ‘I don’t like you any more than you like me. But I would still have offered you the post, because you are the one person in all the country who would be able to give me exactly what I need.’
‘Oh? And what is that?’ she demanded, wanting to maintain her anger, because anger made it easier for her to deal with him, but intrigued despite herself.
He ran his hand through his dark hair. ‘An intimate knowledge of the local people and the customs of the Manor. It isn’t only the Sunday school picnic.’ He shook his head, as though bewildered. ‘It’s everything else. The Manor seems to be the hub of the village and everyone seems to be looking to me as the owner to carry on all the traditions. But I have no idea what they are.
‘You, however, do know. I thought at first I could simply declare that the Manor was a private house and have done with it, but you’re right, I can’t. Not if I want to be accepted here. Which means I need someone to help me. And the only way of finding someone seemed to be to advertise. But the candidates I’ve seen so far know less about running a Manor than I do. Not the day to day running, of course, but making it work as a part of village life.’
Cicely wavered. The job he was outlining was tempting. Even so, working for Mr Evington . . . no, it did not bear thinking about. It was not just that she resented him for having bought the Manor, and it was not just the way he laughed at her almost every time they met. Nor was it the fact that she did not like city dwellers, who came into the country with their noise and their pollution and their flashy way of living, making themselves a nuisance to everybody else.
That Would Be a Fairy Tale Page 6
