Charade In Winter

‘Please,’ he said, without mockery, gesturing with his free hand, ‘do go on. I’m sorry if I embarrassed you, but it’s quite refreshing to discover that there are women who enjoy their food. My own experience has been limited to the other kind.’

Alix looked down at her plate. ‘But you’re not eating,’ she exclaimed, looking up again.

He shrugged. ‘My appetite is not what it was, Mrs Thornton. But please don’t let my inadequacy prevent you from enjoying your meal. Mrs Brandon is an excellent cook.’

Unwillingly, Alix picked up her spoon again and continued with the soup. But it was so delicious that after a while she forgot that his eyes might be upon her, and finished every drop.

‘Some more?’ he suggested, when she looked up, but she shook her head, and was glad when Myra arrived to remove their plates.

The main course was chicken, sliced and cooked in a sauce made with white wine, and served with vegetables on a bed of flaky rice. Alix noticed that although her host helped himself to a little of this, he spent the time it took her to eat her helping pushing his around his plate, and drinking several glasses of a dry white wine he had opened after finishing the red wine practically singlehanded.

When Alix refused a second helping of the delectable raspberry gateau which completed the meal and coffee had been served, Oliver Morgan produced a thick cigar and after gaining her assurance that she had no objections to his lighting it, said: ‘Now, Mrs Thornton, I suggest we get the preliminaries over with, and then we can perhaps get down to business.’

‘The preliminaries?’ Alix frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but—what do you mean?’

He rose from his seat to light his cigar, and then regarded her dourly. ‘Come, Mrs Thornton, don’t be coy. I was hoping to delay your introduction to my daughter until the morning, but I ought to have realised that curiosity would get the better of discretion.’

Alix looked up at him. ‘I did not go in search of your daughter, Mr Morgan.’

‘I know that,’ he retorted shortly, ‘but you’ve seen her now, and I can’t believe you haven’t noticed that she’s partly Japanese.’

‘She’s a beautiful child,’ said Alix honestly.

He frowned. ‘How much do you know of my family, Mrs Thornton?’

Alix was taken aback. ‘I—I—’

‘Oh, come on!’ He was impatient. ‘You surely must have heard of us before you came here.’

‘I know you’re a sculptor, Mr Morgan.’ Alix tried to limit her thoughts to what any average housewife might know. ‘I saw your last exhibition. I thought your interpretation of the Seven Sinners was marv—’

‘I’m not looking for compliments, Mrs Thornton, I’m merely trying to ascertain your reactions to my daughter. You’re not deterred?’

‘Deterred?’ Alix was confused now. ‘I don’t understand.’

His sigh was the only sign of his irritation. ‘Mrs Thornton, it is not conceit when I tell you that anything and everything I do is closely monitored by the press. I accept that. You cannot expect to seek the public eye without its being turned upon you—for good or ill. But I regret to say that my own dealings with the press have not been without incident.’ He paused, and she made a pretence of examining the coffee in her cup to avoid his eyes. ‘In consequence, I am loath to subject the child upstairs to that kind of atmosphere without first preparing the way. You realise now why I couldn’t advertise for a governess. My wife and I had no children, as you’re probably aware, and Melissa’s upbringing has been sheltered until now.’

Alix wondered how he would feel when he learned he had confided these thoughts to a professional journalist, and inwardly shivered. This job was not turning out at all as she had imagined, and she wondered whether she would have been as keen to come here had she known a child was involved. And yet, looking at the situation from Joanne Morgan’s point of view, Melissa was merely a further endorsement of the unsavoury character of the man, and if she was to be hurt in all this she had only her father to blame.

Forcing herself to speak objectively, Alix asked: ‘Where has Melissa been living?’ and witnessed his automatic gesture of withdrawal.

‘I could say that need not concern you, Mrs Thornton,’ he remarked dryly, ‘but knowing Melissa as I do, if I don’t tell you, she undoubtedly will. She was born in Tokyo, but she has lived all her life in Hokkaido, the northernmost island of the group.’ He studied the glowing tip of his cigar for a moment, and then went on: ‘Until quite recently, she was being looked after by an elderly English lady who had made her home in Japan, and that is why Melissa speaks our language so well. But unfortunately, Miss Stanwick died before I could bring them both back to England, and consequently other arrangements had to be made.’

‘I understand.’

‘I doubt you do, Mrs Thornton,’ he contradicted her, ‘but perhaps we’ll come to understand each other.’

Alix hoped not. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said non-committally, and then got to her feet. ‘If—if that’s all, Mr Morgan, it’s been a long day, and I am rather tired—’

His scowl silenced her. ‘I’m afraid that’s not all, Mrs Thornton. If you’ve finished your coffee, I suggest we adjourn to the library so that Mrs Brandon can get the table cleared.’

He moved lithely towards the door, and she had perforce to follow him, very conscious of the controlled muscular strength of his body. What chance would she have against that whipcord hardness of flesh and sinew, she asked herself, if ever that explosive temper of his was turned in her direction? There was not an ounce of surplus flesh on him, and whatever kind of life he had been leading, it had not softened him. Willie’s description of the man as a temperamental bastard, full of his own importance, was no comfort in this situation.

She refused the liqueur he offered her in the library, and perched on the edge of the chair she had occupied earlier, waiting for him to speak. Eventually he came and took the chair opposite, at the other side of the hearth, sitting with his legs apart, his hands cradling a brandy glass suspended between them.

‘I want to explain what I expect of you, Mrs Thornton,’ he said at last, and she tried to meet his eyes without flinching. ‘You noticed that Melissa is lame, I know that, but she’s not stupid. She can read—not well, I admit, but she is literate. However, that is not enough. I want her to read fluently. I want her to understand simple mathematics, and if there’s time, perhaps a little general knowledge could be included.’ Alix nodded, and he went on: ‘Your application also implied that you could speak both French and German. While I appreciate that you’re not a teacher, Mrs Thornton, and all this will be new to you, it may be possible to instruct Melissa in a language as well.’

Alix cleared her throat. Her mother, certainly, was fluent in several European languages, but her own abilities were less impressive. ‘I—French is my best subject,’ she managed, and he seemed to accept that.

‘There is the final matter of Makoto,’ he added. ‘She has cared for the child since she was born, and you may find her presence irritating at times.’ He paused. ‘She must be made to understand that while Melissa is working, she does not get in the way.’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ said Alix quickly, and he inclined his head.

‘So.’ He lay back in his chair, stretching his long legs lazily, and raising the brandy glass to his lips. ‘I suggest you use this room for the lessons. I’ve taken the liberty of obtaining some textbooks, which you might study tomorrow, and the following day perhaps you could begin.’ He grimaced into his glass as if it no longer appealed to him, and then sat upright again. ‘I’m sorry if you feel I’m behaving like a slavedriver, but I have work to do as well, and I want to get these arrangements done with.’

‘That’s all right.’ Alix moved her shoulders deprecatingly. ‘So—so long as you don’t expect too much…’

‘I always expect too much, Mrs Thornton,’ he replied with irony. ‘That’s why my life has been one long disappointment to me.’

Alix got to her feet. ‘I—I’ll say goodnight, then,’ she asserted, not quite knowing how to answer him, and his lips twisted.

‘You’re not concerned that your reputation might suffer when it’s ultimately revealed that you’ve been living here with me?’ he inquired, looking tauntingly up at her, and she realised the amount of alcohol he had consumed throughout the evening was responsible for the slight glazing of his eyes.

‘I—no.’ She stilled the involuntary movement of her hand towards her throat again. And when he persisted on looking at her, she added: ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Your husband isn’t likely to come lusting for my blood?’

‘Of course not.’ She silently damned the revealing colour that entered her cheeks.

‘Good.’ With an economy of movement, he was on his feet and facing her, only a stride away. ‘I should hate to have to contend with the kind of publicity that would generate.’

‘You won’t,’ she assured him tautly, wishing she was not so conscious of his nearness.

‘You must have married out of the schoolroom,’ he observed insistently, and she saw his eyes move to the quickening rise and fall of her breasts.

‘Not—not quite,’ she stammered, feeling exposed, and with an indifferent shrug he moved away from her, leaving her weak and shaken by emotion.

‘Goodnight then, Mrs Thornton.’ He was opening the door for her, and she passed him with a mumbled salutation, crossing the hall to the stairs on legs which had never felt so uncertain.

She hadn’t expected to feel relieved to reach the isolation of her room, but she did. She closed her sitting room door and leaned back against it wearily, aware of feeling more exhausted than circumstances warranted. Then she expelled her breath on a sigh and straightening, walked through the lamplit apartment to her bedroom.

Someone had turned down her bed in her absence, and her nightgown had been draped carefully across the sheet. She wondered whether Myra had done it, and thinking of the other girl reminded her of the way she had looked at Oliver Morgan. However retarded her mental condition, physically she was a woman, and it was as a woman she had looked at her master. But how did he see her? She was not an unattractive girl, and he was a man with the same needs as any other man. And yet he had told Alix that he preferred to pay for his pleasures. Did he pay Myra?

She shuddered at the inclination of her thoughts, and tightening her lips, began to undress. But before she put on her nightgown, she ran her hands down over her breasts, her palms covering the hardening nipples. She felt strangely disturbed by the knowledge that a man like Oliver Morgan could arouse her in this way, and she stared at her reflection with unconcealed dislike. She had never felt this sense of discovery about herself before, and it was galling to find it coming between her and her work.

With a grimace of annoyance she reached for her nightgown, and allowed its filmy folds to fall about her ankles. Then she went into the bathroom to wash and clean her teeth, determinedly putting all thoughts of Oliver Morgan out of her mind. She was tired. Things would look different in the morning.

But once she was in bed, between sheets which she discovered were made of silk, it was not so easy to get to sleep. She had peeped through her curtains before getting into bed, and the mist outside seemed to be pressing against the window panes, imprisoning her in this isolated oasis of civilisation. Last night, sleeping in her own bed in her flat in London, she had had no notion of the complications she would find at Darkwater Hall, and there was something rather frightening in the remoteness of that thought…

CHAPTER THREE

THE next morning Alix slept late, which wasn’t surprising after she had lain awake for several hours listening to the creaking of the old house as it settled down for the night. Her flat in London overlooked a busy thoroughfare, and the unaccustomed silence here, broken only by contracting boards and soughing trees, was all strange to her. But eventually she had slept, and she awakened feeling refreshed and relaxed.

But the relaxation didn’t last long. One look at her watch, which she had left on the table beside the bed, and she was thrusting back the bedclothes, crossing the carpet eagerly to draw back the curtains.

It was after ten o’clock, and a rosy haze was gradually dispersing the shreds of mist that lingered among the sheltering belt of trees. Now that it was light, she could see that her room was at the front of the house, and beyond the sweep of courtyard acres of rolling parkland stretched away in all directions. The grass still shimmered with the heavy dew left by the mist, and there was a clean, drenched freshness about everything that made even the bare branches of the trees project a tracery of beauty. Some of the trees still clung to their leaves, and colours of yellow, bronze and amber mingled with the heavy greens of pine and spruce. It was a world away from the urban surroundings she was used to, and Alix wondered at her own capacity to adapt to it without constraint.

But enchanting though the prospect from her window was, cold reality began to intrude. This was her first day at Darkwater Hall, and she had overslept. Hardly the way to begin, she thought ruefully, going into the bathroom, and turning on the shower. No matter how intriguing her surroundings might be, she was here to do a job, and not just the task Oliver Morgan had set her. Melissa’s presence could well turn out to be the key to the whole mystery surrounding Joanne Morgan’s death. What if Mrs Morgan had been kept in ignorance of the child’s existence, and had suddenly found out? What if she had threatened to expose him? He was a man of uncertain temper, everyone knew that. To what lengths might he have been prepared to go to stop her?

Alix shook her head impatiently, stepping out from under the invigorating spray and towelling herself dry. This was all pure speculation! Joanne Morgan had died as the result of a car crash. It had been an accident. The coroner had recorded a verdict of accidental death. Just because her husband had inherited a vast amount of money from her estate it did not mean he had had a hand in loosening the brakes or the steering wheel, or had crippled the car in some other way so that she wrapped it round a tree only half a mile from their house in Sussex.

Nevertheless, people were talking, and if it was ever revealed that he had had a Japanese mistress tucked away somewhere… Alix brought herself up short. What did she mean—if? Of course it would be revealed. This was her story, the one which would make her famous. She must not let sentimentality for the child undermine her determination. She would stay here just as long as it took to get to know Oliver Morgan, to find out what made him tick, and if possible to hear his version of his wife’s accident. Melissa’s mother was another story, and some other sensation-minded reporter could dig up those sordid details.

She dressed in slim-fitting orange pants and a shirt in an attractive shade of olive green. Make-up she limited to eye-liner and lipstick, and feeling the familiar pangs of hunger she hurriedly made her bed before making her way downstairs.

A grey-haired, middle-aged woman was working in the hall, polishing the carved chest Alix had admired the previous evening, and she looked up with evident curiosity when Alix came down the stairs.

‘Good morning,’ she replied in answer to Alix’s greeting. ‘Mrs Thornton, isn’t it?’

Alix’s thumb went self-consciously to the plain gold band she could feel on her third finger, but she nodded quickly. ‘That’s right. You must be Mrs Brandon. I’m sorry I’m so late, I overslept.’

The woman was taller than she had appeared from above, and they were almost on eye-level terms when Alix reached the hall. ‘Mr Morgan had breakfast a couple of hours ago,’ she added half-accusingly. ‘Will you be wanting a meal?’

Alix hesitated. But she couldn’t go all morning without food. ‘Perhaps some toast—and coffee?’ she ventured, and Mrs Brandon sniffed.

‘Very well, I’ll get it.’

‘Oh, please…’ Alix didn’t want to be a nuisance. ‘I can look after myself. If you’ll show me the way to the kitchen—’

Mrs Brandon shook her head, folding her arms across her flowered overall. ‘I said I’d get it, Mrs Thornton. The kitchen is no place for governesses!’

The way she said that word made Alix stare at her with troubled eyes. What was wrong with being a governess, for heaven’s sake? And in any case, surely Mrs Brandon must know she had been hired as a librarian.

The older woman gave her another contemptuous look, and then walked briskly across the hall to a door set beneath the curve of the staircase. Alix watched her go with misgivings, and then, shrugging her slim shoulders, she glanced round. She recognised the door to the library, with its distinctive leather soundproofing, and the door to the dining room stood wide, but there were several other doors and she decided to explore.

The first room she entered was a drawing room, high-ceilinged and magnificent, with a genuine Adam fireplace and an enormous grand piano. Long couches, upholstered in dusty pink velvet, were standing on a fine cream carpet, the pattern of which was obviously Chinese, and there were tall cabinets flanking the fireplace filled with a collection of ivory and jade.

Alix closed the door again rather reverently, and started guiltily when a hand tugged at her arm. It was Mrs Brandon’s daughter Myra, and she was pointing rather angrily towards the dining room.

‘You come,’ she insisted, half pulling the other girl across the hall, and Alix offered no resistance.

A place had been set for her at the table, and although she would have preferred a tray to take up to her sitting room, she had to admit that Mrs Brandon had gone to a great deal of trouble on her behalf. There was some freshly-squeezed orange juice, warm rolls as well as a rack of toast, a selection of conserves and marmalades on a silver dish, and a jug of steaming aromatic coffee all to herself. Myra saw her into her seat, and then stood looking at her rather unnervingly.

‘This is delightful, Myra.’ Alix endeavoured to show her appreciation. ‘I promise tomorrow morning I’ll be down as soon as Mr Morgan.’

The girl hunched her shoulders. ‘Morgan—he said you were tired.’

Alix smiled. ‘Well, he was right,’ she exclaimed, rolling her eyes expressively. ‘That was some journey yesterday.’

Myra looked no less hostile. ‘You sleep with Morgan?’ she demanded aggressively, and Alix dropped the knife she had been using to butter her toast.

‘No!’ she denied hotly, endeavouring to remember that Myra was not quite normal. ‘I mean—of course not.’

Myra frowned. ‘Morgan brought you here,’ she stated, as if that was enough.

Alix sighed. ‘To—to teach Melissa. His daughter!’

Myra was obviously trying to absorb this. ‘You’re a teacher?’ she asked suspiciously, and Alix sighed again. How did she answer that?

‘I—yes,’ she said at last. ‘Yes, I’m a teacher.’

‘I thought you was a librarian, Mrs Thornton.’

Unknown to Alix, Mrs Brandon had come through the door from the kitchen, and was standing regarding the two girls with her hands on her hips.

Alix put down her knife again. ‘I am. But I was just trying to explain to your daughter—’

‘I heard what you was saying to Myra,’ retorted Mrs Brandon, repressively, ‘and she doesn’t have time to stand around gossiping to the likes of you.’ Before Alix could protest, she gestured to the girl to get about her business, and then disappeared herself back into the kitchen.

Alix retrieved her knife again, but her appetite had gone. Between them, Mrs Brandon and her daughter had succeeded in making her feel little better than a call-girl brought here in the guise of a librarian to keep their employer happy. She didn’t know which of them, Oliver Morgan or herself, it reflected least favourably upon, but she suspected they had no doubts on that score.

She poured a second cup of coffee and stared broodingly at a painting hanging above the sideboard opposite. It depicted a farming scene and could conceivably be a Constable, but it was not the sort of thing she particularly admired. Nevertheless its uncomplicated harmony was soothing, and by the time she had finished her coffee she had herself in control again.

There was still no one about when she emerged from the dining room, and she wondered where Oliver Morgan could be. Melissa, too, was conspicuous by her absence, for Alix had felt sure she would be eager to meet her new governess again.

She decided to go into the library as that was the place where Oliver Morgan expected her to work, and the cosy fire she found there lifted her spirits. The heavy maroon drapes had been drawn back from the windows to reveal that they overlooked the back of the house, where a stone terrace gave on to lawns and flower-beds, sadly lacking in colour at this time of the year. A few hardy roses still survived against the increasingly frosty air, but almost everything else had given up the struggle.

She turned back to the room and discovered that the textbooks Oliver had spoken of the night before had been laid out on the table awaiting her inspection, and she spent the next hour going through them. She was enjoying the delights of one of the story books Oliver Morgan had also provided when she heard voices outside, and curiosity made her get up and go to the windows again.

Oliver Morgan and his daughter were walking towards the house from the direction of the surrounding belt of trees, laughing and talking together with an easy camaraderie. They were both wearing chunky sweaters; and Melissa’s small legs were encased in well-fitting jodhpurs. Her father was not wearing riding breeches, but his tight-fitting pants were thrust into knee-length black boots, and moulded the bulging muscles of his powerful thighs.

Alix didn’t need to see the crop Melissa was carrying as she skipped lamely along beside her father to guess that they had been riding, and she wondered how many horses Oliver Morgan kept at the Hall. It was years since she had done any riding, but it was a tantalising prospect on a day that was doubtless as sharp and as clear as mountain air. Still, she thought half impatiently, she was not here to enjoy herself in any capacity, but she returned to the table with a certain amount of dissatisfaction.

She was still sitting there when the door swung open and her employer and his daughter entered the room. They brought with them the fresh tang of pine and larch, and even Melissa’s naturally pale features were flushed with healthy colour.

‘Good morning, Miss—I mean, Mrs Thornton,’ she exclaimed excitedly. ‘What are you doing?’

Oliver Morgan closed the door behind them. ‘I believe your governess is preparing tomorrow’s lessons, Melly,’ he told her lightly before Alix could reply, his size successfully reducing the generous proportions of the room. In the revealing light of day the grey streaks in his hair were more pronounced, but for all that he was still the most disturbing man Alix had ever encountered.

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been reading, Melissa,’ she said, deliberately addressing her remarks to the child. She lifted the book to show her. ‘Do you know it?’

Melissa came to the table and studied the coloured jacket. Then she shook her head. ‘No. The only books I’ve read are about Yoko.’

‘Yoko?’

Alix frowned, and Oliver came to the table, hitching himself on to one corner and saying in mock-reproof: ‘Yoko, the rabbit! Surely you’ve heard of him! He’s quite a famous fellow, isn’t he, Melly?’

Melissa giggled, and said: ‘Oh, Daddy!’ while Alix was amazed at his indulgence with the child. Whoever would have guessed that the unapproachable scourge of the Royal Academy could be so sensitive to a little girl’s fantasies? He had been smiling teasingly at the child, but suddenly he turned and found her eyes upon him, and for a devastating minute he held her gaze. She was sure he did it deliberately, and only a determination not to give in to whatever egotistical urge he had to humiliate her forced her not to look away. Nevertheless, when Melissa did inevitably distract his attention, Alix felt exhausted by the effort.