Tainted Love

‘Well, brother, dear,’ Louise spoke first, ‘are you just going to stare at the poor girl or are you going to welcome her to Woodside Hall?’

For a moment longer it seemed that Fen Marchand was going to do just that—stare at her—as he continued to stand there, motionless. Then he took his sister’s hint and, leaving the doorway, approached Clare.

Dark-suited the last time they’d met, today he was dressed in a polo shirt and casual trousers. Tall and muscular, he was built more like an athlete than a college professor, but his voice and manner were those of a dry-as-dust intellectual.

‘Miss Anderson,’ he addressed her formally, ‘I assume my sister has informed you about your terms and conditions, and so forth?’

‘Yes...thank you.’ Clare kept her tone equally neutral.

‘Very well,’ he continued, ‘you may start tomorrow...if that’s acceptable?’

‘Yes, fine,’ she nodded in response.

‘Good, then I’ll show you to your room. Have you brought any luggage?’ he asked abruptly.

Clare nodded again. ‘It’s in the boot.’

Louise, keeping her distance till then, appeared with the keys. ‘Here, Fen, you fetch Clare’s case while I show her the attic you’re exiling her to. Come on.’ She smiled invitingly at Clare and led the way inside.

Clare followed with some reluctance. Although Fen Marchand had been polite and correct to her, it was just a façde. She hadn’t forgotten their last encounter at the railway station, and neither had he.

She felt his eyes boring into her back as she walked through the front door and, despite the heat of the day, shivered in the marble-tiled hall, before following Louise up the wide staircase to the galleried landing of the first floor. They passed a series of rooms, turned a corner into another corridor and went to the door at the far end. It opened out into a much narrower staircase.

Clare began to have visions of dust and darkness, with a single bed for furniture and, perhaps, if she was lucky, a candle to read by. But it seemed she’d been reading too many novels in the prison library. She was quite taken aback when they arrived at their destination.

It wasn’t so much a room as an open-plan flat, with a living area at one end and a bedroom plus shower cubicle at the other. It was furnished in genuine antique pine, with a polished wooden floor, rug-scattered, and a large old-fashioned sofa upholstered in blue velvet. Light streamed in from a series of skylights and heat was provided by a fairly modern gas heater inset in the wall.

‘A bit of a climb, I’m afraid,’ Louise apologised as Clare looked round the room.

‘I didn’t expect...anything like this.’ Clare’s uncertainty hid her delight in the place. After prison and the hostel, it seemed unreal.

‘Yes, well, the only trouble is the lack of toilet,’ Louise said, still in an apologetic vein. ‘You’ll have to go downstairs for that. A dreadful inconvenience, I know, but at least you’ll have a bit of privacy up here.’

‘It’s absolutely wonderful,’ Clare assured the older woman, her smile showing she meant it. ‘I just didn’t expect anywhere so nice.’

Louise smiled in response. ‘Well, I’m glad you like it. It used to be the servants’ quarters in bygone times—a rather dingy, depressing place—but Fen had it refurbished for my son Gerry to board in while he was up at Oxford. I don’t think it has had any use since.’

Clare frowned, wondering if she’d understood correctly. ‘What about the other housekeepers? Didn’t they stay here?’

Louise looked embarrassed for a moment as she shook her head. ‘Well, no, most of them have lived out, or occupied a couple of adjoining rooms on the first floor...but Fen thought you might prefer up here.’ Louise’s hesitancy cast doubt over her brother’s motives.

Clare was quite sure Fen Marchand couldn’t care less about her preferences. It seemed much more likely that it was his own privacy he was protecting. Having opened his house to a convicted criminal, he’d decided to isolate her as far as possible from the rest of the household.

Well, Clare didn’t object. She’d clean his house and cook his meals as efficiently as she could, and, when not working, keep to her own company. She had no wish to become a so-called ‘part of the family’. Apart from her dislike of Marchand, she believed no housekeeper was ever really such.

Her thoughts went to her own mother. She’d worked for Lord Abbotsford for over fifteen years and her ladyship had often referred to her as ‘almost one of the family’. But, even as a child, Clare had known they were just words, empty words. It had simply been a way of claiming Mary Anderson’s loyalty. When her mother had become ill with stomach cancer, the Holsteads had been conspicuous by their absence.

Clare’s mouth twisted at the memory and it was a bitter expression Fenwick Marchand caught as he walked through the attic door. His eyes narrowed; he was clearly wondering what she was thinking, scheming...

Then Louise turned and spotted him, saying, ‘This was a good idea of yours, Fen. Clare loves it. Don’t you, Clare?’

‘Yes,’ Clare answered as promised, but her tone was leaden.

Not surprisingly, Fen Marchand looked sceptical. ‘I must say you contain your enthusiasm very well, Miss Anderson,’ he muttered in dry sarcasm.

It wasn’t lost on Clare but neither was his position as her boss; she managed to contain her temper.

It was Louise who said, ‘Don’t be such a sourpuss, Fen. You don’t want to scare off Clare before she’s even started, do you?’

From his deadpan gaze, Clare suspected that was exactly what Fen Marchand wanted. When their eyes met and locked, and she refused to look away, he said, ‘I don’t think Miss Anderson scares so easily.’

‘Possibly not—’ Louise totally missed the silent exchange of hostilities ‘—but you could still try to be a little pleasanter. Clare isn’t used to your sense of humour, and, if she were to take to her heels, then where would you be?’ she asked rhetorically.

Her brother answered her all the same, with a dry, ‘Housekeeperless, I presume.’

‘Precisely.’ Louise felt she’d just made her point. ‘And you know you can’t manage on your own, Fen, so try to be nice, hmm?’ she appealed.

If Fen Marchand’s less than nice expression was anything to go by, the appeal fell on deaf ears. But Louise seemed oblivious, taking his silence as assent.

‘Good, so that’s settled,’ she announced with totally unwarranted optimism. ‘Now I must dash. I have a charity do this evening and I simply can’t miss it... Clare, any problems, just give me a call,’ she invited kindly.

‘Thank you.’ Clare smiled, knowing already what her biggest problem would be.

He chimed in, ‘I don’t suppose this advice service extends to me?’

Louise gave a brief laugh. ‘My dear Fen, the last time you took my advice on anything you were five years old. I can’t believe you’ll start wanting it now.’

‘You never know.’ He actually smiled for a moment, but it was solely at his sister and didn’t reach the eyes flicking back from her to Clare.

Once more Clare returned his stare, her eyes telling him she understood. She was here only under sufferance and it was going to be no lifelong career.

‘Well, you know the number,’ Louise replied, and, with a last smile for both of them, stopped her brother from following her by adding, ‘No, it’s all right. I want a last word with Miles, then I’ll show myself out. You stay and tell Clare what her duties are.’

So saying, she went back down the steps, leaving Clare and Fen Marchand to trade hostile stares.

It was he who broke off first, walking past her to place her suitcase on the bed. ‘If you give me the address, I’ll send for the rest.’

‘The rest of what?’ Clare was slow on the uptake.

‘Your luggage,’ he said patiently.

She shook her head. ‘There’s no more. That’s it.’

His eyes widened in surprise. ‘You believe in travelling light. Or aren’t you planning to stay long?’

‘That’s up to you, Mr Marchand,’ she replied coolly. ‘I’ve brought all my possessions and given up my room at the hostel.’

‘In that case,’ he countered, ‘we’d better try and make this work. Firstly, we need some ground rules.’