Charade In Winter

‘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 (#ua6e882eb-fb10-58a3-af5b-b9530b269f0b)

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.’