Charade In Winter

‘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.

Quickly tiring of the books, Melissa had more important things on her mind: ‘We’ve been riding,’ she told Alix eagerly. ‘Can you ride, Mrs Thornton?’

Alix hesitated. ‘Well, I used to ride years ago,’ she conceded at last, and immediately Melissa looked up at her father and said:

‘Perhaps Mrs Thornton could take me riding when you’re working.’

‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ protested Alix doubtfully, aware of Oliver’s eyes on her again. ‘I mean—it’s years since I was on a horse.’