Dark Victory

‘I’m surprised he’s willing to be in a television commercial,’ Cheska remarked, and threw Lawson an oblique look. ‘Of any kind.’

‘A commercial?’ Miriam burst into trilling peals of laughter. Oh, dear, Francesca, what on earth gave you such a bizarre idea? It’s not a commercial which is being made at Hatchford Manor, its a film for television. An adaptation of one of the classics, a period costume drama.’

Cheska whirled round to Lawson. Here was yet another surprise, though on this occasion she had been tricked, she thought fiercely.

‘You direct costume dramas now?’ she demanded.

‘Among other things—which means you won’t see anything shimmying through the herb garden next week,’ he said, and placed a fist to his brow. Oh, cruel fate.’

Her grey eyes blazed. From them meeting, Lawson Giordano had been having fun at her expense.

‘You are a—’ Cheska began evilly, then halted,

aware of Miriam listening and realising that there were more urgent issues than badmouthing him. ‘How long is this film going to take?’ she enquired.

‘It’s scheduled for six weeks,’ Lawson said. ‘Of course, these things can overrun, though not usually when I’m in charge.’

Cheska’s thoughts flew every which way. She had imagined she would be working for him for a mere week, which had been acceptable—just—but instead she was expected to be his assistant for approaching two months! Her stomach cramped. She rebelled against such a timescale—and yet, and yet…Three hundred pounds a week was a goodly sum and, when multiplied by six, a most useful sum. It would mean that, at the end of filming, she would have enough money to update her wardrobe and pay for her keep for another three, perhaps four months, which would enable her to take her time and be selective about her next job, her next employer. And, after what had happened abroad, her next employer would be required to meet certain stringent criteria.

‘You don’t mind too much about moving out of your room, do you?’ Miriam enquired. ‘I appreciate that it’s—’

‘My room?’ Cheska said distractedly. She had a lot to think about and the woman was talking double Dutch.

‘Didn’t Rupert tell you how the whole of the manor has been requisitioned by the film company?’

Cheska’s mind ran amok. She had objected to feeling hounded out, but now it seemed that she was actually, physically being hounded out! And by whom? Lawson Giordano.

She swung to him. “The whole of the manor?’ she protested, her tone a mix of horror, hostility and dismay.

He nodded. ‘As well as using various of the downstairs rooms for filming, it’s been arranged that the first floor will accommodate make-up, wardrobe, dressing-rooms and such.’

‘So Rupert is coming to stay with me,’ Miriam informed her.

Cheska struggled to take everything in. ‘But’

‘He’ll have his own room,’ the older woman went on hastily, as though she had been about to make prurient enquiries into their sleeping arrangements and issue a strict moral lecture, ‘and you’re going into the other oast-house, next door to Mr Giordano.’

She felt numb. Rupert had not told her anything about this last night. Not a hint. She might have talked at length, but he could have interrupted, Cheska thought rebelliously, then sighed. He would have kept quiet on purpose, in the hope that his garrulous ladyfriend would reveal all. And why? Because he would have known that when she had realised she was to be turfed out of her room, out of the house, she would argue; and the mildmannered bachelor disliked arguments.

‘We never expected you to ring out of the blue and announce that you were returning,’ Miriam carried on, ‘so we had no idea you’d be around. However, the oast-house is most tasteful. I dealt with the decoration and furnishing, and I know Mr Giordano considers I did a good job. Isn’t that right, Lawson?’

‘You did an excellent job,’ he assured her, with a smile and a courteous bow of his head. ‘I reckon you should set up in business as an interior decorator.’

Cheska winced. How smarmy could you get? And as for Miriam having taste—chances were it would be diametrically opposed to hers.

‘When am I expected to uproot myself and transfer my belongings? she enquired.

‘Rupert’s coming over to my house on Sunday afternoon, so I’d suggest some time before then,’ Miriam said, and shone a hopeful smile. ‘All right?’

Cheska replied with a brusque bob of her head.

But it was not all right. Any of it. The manor having been commandeered, her being virtually frogmarched into the oast-house, but, most of all, Lawson Giordano being in situ. By quitting her job she might have escaped from one farrago, but she had flown straight back into another!

‘That’ll be Rupert,’ Miriam chirruped, as a door closed somewhere upstairs. ‘I must brew his Earl Grey.’

‘After you’ve had your breakfast, we’ll make a start,’ Lawson said, when the stand-in housekeeper had disappeared back to the kitchen.

Cheska blinked. ‘Start this morning?’

‘There are a couple of items which need to be dealt with, so I’ll see you in the library at ten.’

‘Ten o’clock?’ she echoed.

The affinity-sharing Janet might have intended to join her boss today—and no doubt they would have gone on to share a weekend of high passion— but she had not imagined being roped in for duty quite so soon. Grief, it was less than twelve hours since her plane had touched down and she had still to unpack! Cheska frowned. Should she say she needed time to sort herself out, both physically and mentally? But if she showed any reluctance her new employer might respond by telling her to forget about working for him; and she needed the money.

‘Ten a.m. in the library. You want it in skywriting?’ Lawson demanded, when she continued to gaze at him.

Cheska straightened. ‘No, thanks.’

He walked to the heavy oak front door which stood open. ‘In that case, difficult as it is to tear myself away, arrivederci,’ he said, and strode out across the porch, down the steps and disappeared.

Cheska took a bite of wheatmeal toast. ‘Why did you let Miriam talk you into lending out the manor?’ she enquired.

It was three-quarters of an hour later and she was at the table in the high-ceilinged dining-room with Rupert. After compiling an extensive shopping list—Miriam had insisted on buying provisions for her to use in the oast house, too—the do-gooder had driven off into Tunbridge Wells, and they were finally alone.

‘She didn’t talk me into it,’ Rupert demurred. ‘I happen to think it’s an excellent idea.’

Cheska hissed out an impatient breath. ‘Come on, Rupert, you know you don’t enjoy having lots of people around. You know how you hate any upheaval, any disruption.’

‘To watch how a film is made will be mindbroadening,’ he declared, his narrow face taking on an uncharacteristic stubbornness. ‘And the manor isn’t being lent out—not for free. The production company are paying a most generous rent. One which, because they’re using the premises in total, amounts to several thousands of pounds.’

‘Presumably their monopolising the place was Miriam’s idea?’ she asked.

As he poured himself a second cup of tea, her stepbrother frowned. ‘ Well…yes.’

Had Miriam made the suggestion with the aim of getting Rupert into her home and more firmly into her clutches? Cheska wondered, as she ate her toast. After two years of friendship, did she hope that six weeks together, when she could pamper to his every need and make herself even more indispensable, might push him into a proposal? Tall and slim, with the air of a public school housemaster, the middle-aged bachelor was an attractive man. Over the years, various females had fluttered their eyelashes in his direction, and yet, although he might have had the occasional liaison, he had never taken much real notice. But the references in his letters had made it plain that he was noticing the widowed Mrs Shepherd. Cheska sighed. After devoting so many years to looking after her, Rupert deserved to have someone look after him, and she had hoped he might meet someone and fall in love. But why, if he was falling in love, did it have to be with Miriam?

‘You’re in urgent need of those thousands of pounds?’ Cheska enquired.

‘Not at all,’ Rupert said hastily, ‘but—’ he

stroked a hand over his thinning blond-grey hair ‘—a little extra is never to be sneezed at.’

‘Where are the snuff bottles?’ she asked.

Whether it was an association of ideas—sneeze/ snuff—she did not know, but Cheska had abruptly realised that the shelves in one of the mahogany cabinets which flanked the fireplace were bare. For as long as she could remember, there had been twenty or so antique bottles on display. Made of coloured glass, some of them were Chinese and extremely rare. They had been collected by Rupert’s mother, Beatrice Finch, a pompous woman, who had apparently amassed them to impress visitors rather than for their beauty.

Rupert hesitated, making her wonder if he could not remember—which would be typical. Unless it concerned butterflies, he could be amazingly vague.