Tainted Love

He looked sceptical, much in the same way his father did. ‘A proper horse, I mean. Not a pony or anything.’

‘A proper horse,’ she echoed, picturing the beautiful animals in the Earl’s stables. She’d mucked out, washed down and brushed up, for the privilege of exercising the less important racers.

‘I had a horse once,’ the boy announced. ‘A bay mare.’

‘What was her name?’ she asked.

‘Flash,’ he replied. ‘She was called that because she was fast. I mean really fast. Her sire was a Derby winner,’ he declared proudly.

It was Clare’s turn to look sceptical. The fact did not go unnoticed.

‘You don’t believe me, do you?’ he accused. ‘But it’s true. My grandfather bought her for me. Then she sold him.’

‘Your mother?’ Clare guessed.

He nodded. ‘After Grandpa died, she sold everything she could—houses, cars, paintings, the lot, so she could follow Ricky boy round the world.’

‘Ricky?’ Clare echoed automatically before she realised it might not be a good idea.

‘Her boyfriend Ricardo,’ he said disdainfully. ‘He was an Argentinian polo-player. When he lost a match, he used to beat his horses.’

‘Did he hurt you?’ she asked quietly.

He pulled a slight face, then shook his head. ‘He used to shout at me sometimes. I didn’t care. Mostly it was in Spanish and I only know a little... He shouldn’t have hit his horses, though.’

‘No.’ Clare agreed with this solemn judgement.

Then he added matter-of-factly, ‘Never mind. He’s dead now.’

‘What?’ Clare wondered if she’d heard properly.

‘He died in a car crash,’ Miles relayed, ‘with my mother.’

‘Oh,’ Clare murmured inadequately, then added a quietly sympathetic, ‘You must miss her.’

It drew a belligerent look and an immediate denial. ‘No, I don’t! Why should I? She didn’t care about me.’

Clare shook her head. ‘I’m sure she did, Miles. Sometimes grown-ups are too busy with their own lives, but that doesn’t mean—’

‘What do you know?’ Miles cut in abruptly and jumped to his feet. ‘You’re just a servant!’

It was intended as the ultimate insult but Clare didn’t take offence. She could tell from the colour suffusing his face that he regretted his words the moment they were out, but didn’t know how to take them back. Instead he turned and ran.

Clare heard him take the stairs two at a time, clattering noisily down the plain wooden treads, and sighed aloud. It hadn’t taken her long to upset Miles, and he had been the one to secure her the post. But did she want this job so badly that she was willing to let herself be ruled by the moods of an eleven-year-old boy?

The answer was no, but that wasn’t exactly the correct question. She might not want the job, but she needed it—at least until she found something else.

Perhaps she should put an advert in the paper:

Female ex-con, twenty-six, with drugs and theft convictions, no good with children, no good at being humble either. Anything considered. Apply Box...

Somehow she didn’t think she’d get much response, yet there seemed little point in lying about her past when it would inevitably be found out.

Plainly, this was her best chance. If the Marchands, senior and junior, would just let her get on with the cooking and cleaning, without expecting anything else from her, she could be reasonably content here. She’d work hard for them when on duty, and, when not, she’d escape to her attic sanctuary.

She looked round the room again with an appreciative eye. As bed-sits went, it was beautifully furnished, comfortable without being over-fussy, nothing too valuable to use, but nothing cheap and nasty either. Louise’s son had been lucky to have such a place to study in.

Clare stretched out on the bed and, as in prison, let her imagination wander to better things.

How different it would all be if she’d come to Oxford to study, not skivvy—to work for a degree that would be her passport to a new life. It wasn’t so fanciful. She’d been considered fairly bright at school. She’d gained eight O levels, and gone on to do A levels...only that same year Johnny Holstead had been sent down from university, and her studies had flown out the window, along with her common sense.

She couldn’t believe now that she’d been such a fool. To give up a future for a few meaningless words of love and a summer of stolen meetings. He’d never once taken her out, never shown her his world, yet she’d turned her own life upside-down for him, believing he meant his ‘forever’ promises.

Their engagement had been announced in The Times, on September the fourteenth. Clare remembered precisely, because a good part of her had died that day. Their picture had been in the tabloids, too. The Earl of Abbotsford’s son, John, was marrying the daughter of a duke, Lady Elizabeth Beaumaris.

Clare had refused to believe it at first. It was she who should have been standing at his side, a smiling, radiant bride-to-be. Not some stuffed dummy of a deb.

Johnny had agreed, even as he’d told her that he had to marry the duke’s daughter. Love was one thing, money another, and the Holsteads’ declining fortunes required him to take a rich wife. It had always been that way among the upper classes. It didn’t have to affect their relationship, he’d explained, seriously expecting Clare to accept the role of mistress.

He’d had no idea how he’d destroyed her life and she hadn’t stuck around long enough to tell him. She’d abandoned school and home, and fled to Brighton where she’d found work in a hotel. She’d lost that job five months later and been forced to seek refuge in a women’s hostel. She’d kept in touch with her mother but had been unable to return home.

Her eighteenth birthday had come and gone without celebration, unlike Johnny’s wedding which had been splashed all over the newspapers. It had finally killed off her dreams. Till then she’d hoped Johnny might break his engagement and come looking for her, his true love. But that only happened in books. In real life, he married the heiress and lived richly ever after.

She’d been twenty-two before she’d returned to Abbotsford Hall. Her mother had fallen ill, the first stage of the cancer that would kill her, and she’d come back to look after her. She’d had no other choice but it had proved a mistake. Having got over Johnny, she’d believed that he too would be happy to ignore her return. Instead it had led to a chain of events that had ended in tragedy for the Holstead family and prison for her.

Now she was starting again, and this time it was going to be different. She neither needed nor desired personal attachments. Prison had equipped her for surviving without such luxuries and she preferred it that way. She’d never love again, or have a child, or tear herself inside out—not for any man.

Nothing was worth that much pain.

CHAPTER THREE

‘OH...GOOD morning,’ Fen Marchand greeted her in surprise as they met on the gallery landing, she fully dressed, he in a towelling robe and little else besides.

‘Good morning.’ Clare looked through him, unembarrassed.

‘I’ve just woken Miles,’ he relayed. ‘We’ll be down at eight o’clock.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Clare took it as an order. ‘Do you prefer a cooked or continental breakfast?’

He frowned slightly before saying, ‘Cooked, but nothing too heavy. Scrambled eggs will do, plus coffee and toast.’

‘Very well, sir,’ Clare responded, again with leaden politeness, and left him staring after her as she descended the staircase.

Obviously he hadn’t expected her to know how to act the part of formal housekeeper, but she had a fair idea. She should do. She’d watched her mother present an inscrutable face to the Holsteads and their frequent rudeness. Now, in a similar position, she saw why. If she wanted to keep this job, being unobtrusive was probably as important as being efficient.

With her mind on being the latter, she searched for the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, a beautiful, fully modernised kitchen with built-in cupboards, cooker and every labour-saving gadget imaginable. Having not seen it on her first visit, Clare had feared a quaint, farmhouse sort, with impossible-to-keep-clean nooks and crannies and an impossible-to-cook-on range.

Her only problem was trying to fit into the overall she found hanging behind the larder door. Made of white cotton, it really did threaten to go round her twice. She had to dispense with the buttons and simply wrap herself in it and tie the belt very tightly. She ended up looking slightly ridiculous but that didn’t bother her.