Whisper Of Darkness Page 6

  Joanna flushed. ‘I didn’t expect you had, Mr Sheldon.’

  ‘Good. So we understand one another.’

  ‘Do we?’

  He expelled his breath wearily. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? I’m sorry, I’m out of touch with these double-edged conversations.’

  Joanna hesitated. ‘Are you dismissing me, Mr Sheldon?’

  ‘Am I dismissing you?’ He stared at her blankly. ‘Forgive me, but I understood it was your intention to leave!’

  Joanna held up her head. ‘It was you who said this wasn’t a Dickensian establishment! It was you who suggested I should pack my bags!’

  He propped one elbow on the desk and rested his head on his hand. ‘Let’s get this straight, shall we? You were arguing with Anya, like a pair of cats in a bam. What the hell was I supposed to say?’

  Joanna blinked. ‘But what about Mrs Harris? What I said about her? I mean, you’ve fired her, but … well …’

  He lifted his head, and let his arm fall indifferently on to the desk. ‘Do I take it she was being presumptuous? That you actually want to stay?’

  Joanna hunched her shoulders, moving her head a trifle bewilderedly, aware that her hair had come loose from its knot in places, and was falling about her ears in silken disorder. But she had other things to worry about at the moment, not least her own confusion at this unexpected reprieve.

  ‘I thought you wanted me to leave,’ she said at last, unwilling to commit herself, and he thrust back his chair and got to his feet.

  ‘Look, Miss Seton,’ he said heavily, ‘I employed you to teach Anya, and for no other reason. But I also accept that since you came here the situation has been anything but stable. Consequently I’m prepared to overlook any outburst which may or may not have been precipitated by tension. However, I should point out that as I now no longer have a housekeeper, it may not be in your best interests to remain. I shall certainly endeavour to find a replacement, but I have to tell you that the women in the village have already refused to work here.’

  Joanna looked up at him. ‘Why?’

  His expression hardened, the ridges of scar tissue standing out clearly against his dark skin. ‘Can’t you guess?’ he demanded harshly, long fingers probing the roughened flesh. ‘Who would want to face this across the breakfast table every morning, unless you had no alternative?’

  Joanna stood up. ‘That’s nonsense,’ she declared fiercely. ‘You’ve lived with it for too long, Mr Sheldon. Believe me, it’s not half as bad as you imagine it to be. In fact——’

  ‘Spare me the platitudes, Miss Seton. I’ve heard them all before.’

  ‘But——’

  ‘And besides, there are other reasons why the villagers wouldn’t want to work at Ravengarth. It’s generally believed in the village that I’m a little—eccentric, to say the least, and Anya’s behaviour doesn’t help. They know I couldn’t cope with my work after the accident, and they assume that means—slightly retarded, not quite compos mentis.’

  ‘But that’s ludicrous!’ exclaimed Joanna incredulously, and he moved his shoulders in a dismissing gesture.

  ‘How do you know? How can you be so sure? Perhaps they’re right. Perhaps I am a little—insane. God knows, I have reason to be, after living this kind of existence for the past two years.’

  Joanna bent her head. ‘Do you want me to stay?’ she asked quietly. ‘Aren’t you afraid I might—disrupt your tranquillity?’

  ‘Tranquillity?’ He made a disbelieving sound. ‘What tranquillity? I don’t know what tranquillity is, Miss Seton.’ He paused. ‘But in answer to your question—yes, I want you to stay. Your—unusual approach may be exactly what’s needed to get through to Anya. Either way, it can be no harm for her to be given a taste of her own medicine for a change, providing you understand you are answerable to me in the final analysis.’

  Joanna lifted her head. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Good.’

  The tawny eyes held hers for a long moment, but although she was disturbed by that probing gaze, she could tell from his expression that his mind was already moving ahead to other things. Yet, for all that, when he looked away she felt a sense almost of fatigue, and she followed him out of the room with the uneasy suspicion that she might live to regret ever coming here.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  JAKE left soon after eleven, with a sober-faced Mrs Harris beside him in the Range Rover. It had to be a sad day for the woman, thought Joanna, guiltily aware of her own part in her dismissal, but as she surveyed the empty hall, she had to concede that the decision had been long overdue. Maybe when Mrs Fawcett had been alive, she had worked satisfactorily under her supervision, but since that lady’s death it seemed Mrs Harris had made little effort in any direction.

  Realising that someone would have to take temporary charge of the household, Joanna walked down the passage in search of the kitchen. She found the stone-flagged room at the back of the house, overlooking a vegetable garden, just as Mrs Harris had left it, with the remains of the morning’s breakfast still clinging to the plates in the sink. It was a daunting sight, particularly to someone with Joanna’s limited knowledge of domestic affairs, but in spite of the morning’s upheavals she found she was hungry, and somehow she would have to produce a meal that she and Anya could share.

  She knew Jake had spoken to his daughter before he left, but she didn’t know what he had told her. He merely advised Joanna that Anya was drying her hair, and that she would come downstairs when she was finished.

  The kitchen itself was no miracle of modem technology. There was a white sink and a wooden draining board, an electric cooker that had probably been there since Mrs Fawcett’s time, and a twin-tub electric washing machine, presently overflowing with dirty linen. There was an ancient refrigerator, whose freezing compartment was not even enclosed, and several fitted cupboards to line the walls. Meals were apparently taken on the wooden table that occupied the middle of the floor, and the room was heated by a blackened Aga boiler that probably heated the water and those elderly radiators upstairs. Luckily the boiler was going; Mrs Harris obviously liked her comforts, thought Joanna ruefully, remembering the chilly atmosphere of the rest of the house, but at least it meant that there was plenty of hot water, and she soon had the sink full of soapy suds.

  With the dishes done, she turned attention to more immediate matters, like what food there was in the house, and where it was kept. She discovered a cool larder that opened off the kitchen, whose stone shelves would probably keep butter and milk as fresh as in the fridge, but at present there were only tinned foods stacked in rows, and half a loaf of stale bread lying on a wooden board.

  There were plenty of eggs, she saw, probably gathered from the hens she had seen in the yard, but from the window the vegetable garden looked bare of any produce, and she guessed that what had been grown had been used.

  She was studying the label on the back of a can of mixed vegetables when there was a tapping at the back door. Immediately, her thoughts sprang to the awareness that she was alone in the house, apart from the child, and she peered anxiously through the window, trying to see who it was before she actually opened the door.

  ‘Lily? Are you there, Lily?’

  Joanna was still struggling to discover who it was, when the door opened behind her, and she swung round in alarm as a man came into the kitchen. His sharp eyes soon found her shrinking against the draining board, and while he exhibited almost as much surprise at finding her there, Joanna was able to identify him. He was the old man who had been leaning on the wall that morning, watching her and Jake depart in search of Anya. Matt Coulston; or at least that was her assumption, and obviously he didn’t know yet that Mrs Harris had gone.

  Recovering herself quickly, Joanna moved away from the sink. ‘You’re Mr Coulston, aren’t you?’ she asked, trying to keep her tone light and friendly. ‘I’m afraid if you’re looking for Mrs Harris, she’s not here.’

  ‘Not here?’ he echoed, his greying brows beetling above
a hooked nose. ‘What do you mean, she’s not here? Where is she? Where’s she gone?’

  ‘She’s left,’ said Joanna firmly, waiting slightly apprehensively for his reaction. ‘Mr—er—Mr Sheldon fired her. They left about half an hour ago.’

  ‘Well, I’m damned!’ The old man slapped his thigh with unexpected enthusiasm. ‘Jake’s done it at last! He’s got rid of the old besom. I didn’t think he had it in him.’ Joanna didn’t know how to answer this, so instead she said: ‘Is there something I can do for you, Mr Coulston? Until Mr Sheldon gets back, I’m looking after the place.’

  ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ This seemed to amuse him. ‘Then you’ll be wanting this, won’t you? Seeing as how you’re looking after things!’ and he swung the hand that had been hanging by his side as he spoke, and deposited a dead chicken on the kitchen table. Joanna had never seen anything so repulsive before. The chickens she had cooked had all been plucked and ready for the table, whereas this creature was barely cold, and still covered in its feathery coat.

  ‘Did—did Mrs Harris ask for this, Mr Coulston?’ she got out eventually, and he nodded.

  ‘Wanted it for supper this evening,’ he declared, pushing the limp body across to her. ‘That’s Gloria, that is. One of my best layers, in her time. Getting lazy, she was. Must be getting old, Miss … er … Anyway, she’s done for now. Comes to all of us eventually, doesn’t it?’

  Joanna licked her dry lips. ‘I’ve never plucked a chicken before,’ she murmured, half to herself. Then: ‘Well—thank you, Mr Coulston. I—er—I’ll do what I can.’

  His dark eyes narrowed as he looked at her, and then, almost inconsequently, he said: ‘I thought you came here to governess that young rip Anya. I didn’t know you was a housekeeper.’

  ‘I’m not.’ Joanna sighed, realising he probably deserved an explanation. ‘I am here to teach Anya. But until Mr Sheldon gets someone else …’

  ‘I see,’ the old man nodded. ‘And what’s a young lassie like you doing in a place like this? From London, ain’t you? Don’t the young fellers down there have any eyes?’

  Joanna smiled at that. ‘That’s a nice compliment, Mr Coulston, but I’m not that keen to get married. Besides, no one asked me.’

  ‘No?’ He looked sceptical, and she gave a soft laugh.

  ‘Well, no one I wanted to accept,’ she conceded, and he chuckled in response.

  ‘So you’re going to try and teach some manners to young Anya?’

  ‘That is my intention.’

  He grimaced. ‘Well, the best of luck! She’s not going to be an easy target. Run wild for too long, she has, with only a couple of helpless old biddies to chase after her.’

  Joanna laughed again—she couldn’t help it. It didn’t seem to matter that he was saying virtually the same thing as Mrs Harris had told her. It was the way he said them that mattered, and she sensed that unlike the housekeeper, he had some affection for the girl.

  ‘And your name’s Miss—what?’ he asked gruffly. ‘Can’t go on saying you-know-who all the time, can I?’

  ‘It’s Seton, actually,’ replied Joanna easily. ‘Joanna Seton. How do you do, Mr Coulston?’

  ‘The name’s Matt,’ he told her, moving towards the door again. ‘No need for all that formal stuff.’ He looked down at the chicken and then after a moment picked it up again. ‘And I’ll pluck old Gloria for you, and clean her out. Seeing as how you got shot of old Mother Harris.’

  ‘But I didn’t,’ protested Joanna, and found she was speaking to a closed door.

  She had decided she would have to walk to the village that afternoon for some bread and flour, and was busily whipping up some eggs for lunch, when Anya came into the room. It was the first time Joanna had seen her with her face clean, and the transformation was quite amazing. With her hair decently cut, and wearing something other than those disreputable jeans, she would look quite attractive, Joanna reflected thoughtfully; the contrast of blue eyes—her mother’s?—and dark hair—her father’s—could be quite a combination.

  Nevertheless, the improvement in her appearance did not make Joanna less wary of her. On the contrary, she was actively prepared for a resumption of hostilities, and Anya’s first words did nothing to allay her suspicions.

  ‘Where’s Mrs Harris?’ she asked, standing just inside the door from the hall. ‘This is Mrs Harris’s kitchen, not yours. You shouldn’t be in here.’

  Joanna sighed, and put down the bowl of eggs she had been beating. ‘I’m sure your father told you, Mrs Harris has left,’ she said carefully. ‘Now, do you want an omelette for your lunch, or will you get what you want yourself?’

  ‘So long as you’re making them, I’ll have an omelette,’ the girl declared insolently, moving further into the room and straddling a chair at the table. ‘Daddy didn’t tell me you were going to be the new housekeeper. Why do we have to have you? I want Mrs Harris.’

  Joanna steeled herself not to respond as Anya wanted her to do. She would enjoy telling her father how Miss Seton had abused her while he was away, and while Joanna felt reasonably sure that he was not duped by his daughter’s behaviour, nevertheless she knew he would not approve of her resorting to a child’s methods of retaliation a second time.

  Instead she smiled sweetly and said: ‘You really are the most obnoxious child, Antonia. And I like you no more than you like me. But we’re going to get along together, one way or the other, and you might as well get used to the fact.’

  ‘My name’s Anya,’ snapped the girl angrily, springing to her feet. ‘And I’ll never get along with you. The others were bad enough, but you’re worse. They never got Daddy to get rid of Mrs Harris, and they never made eyes at him every chance they got!’

  Joanna gasped—she couldn’t help it. The last thing she had done was make eyes at Jake Sheldon, and for a minute she felt so angry she could have slapped Anya’s face.

  It took all her self-control to pick up the bowl of eggs again and expunge her frustration on them as she answered: ‘I did not ask your father to dismiss Mrs Harris, and as for being interested in him, that’s ludicrous! I hardly know him, and besides, he’s not my type.’

  ‘Because of his face?’

  Anya’s question was unexpectedly anxious, and Joanna quickly shook her head. ‘Of course not. That has nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ Anya sounded disbelieving now. ‘He says no woman would want to look at a gargoyle every day of her life.’

  Joanna sighed, reluctantly stirred by the child’s involuntary confidence. ‘Your father is far too sensitive about his appearance,’ she said firmly. ‘You don’t mind looking at him, do you?’

  ‘Me?’ Anya sat down again almost unthinkingly. ‘Of course not! I love him. And I don’t care how he looks.’

  ‘There you are, then.’ Joanna lifted a heavy frying pan down from a shelf and put it on the top of the cooker. ‘When you love someone, you don’t judge them on appearance. You care for them for who they are, what they are, what they mean to you.’

  Anya was silent for a few minutes, and Joanna added fat to the pan with a feeling almost of disbelief. Who would have believed that only seconds ago she would have been saying such things to this little termagant, who even now was probably thinking of some new mischief to perform.

  The omelettes didn’t take long to cook, and she heated the tin of mixed vegetables at the same time. It wasn’t really a satisfying meal to give a hungry eleven-year-old, she thought ruefully, but until she could get to the shops and stock up on some essential foods, it would have to do.

  Anya tucked into her omelette with gusto, and remembering that she had had nothing since the night before, Joanna wasn’t altogether surprised. On impulse she opened a can of sliced peaches to give her for dessert, and watched the whole lot disappear while she enjoyed a decent cup of instant coffee.

  When the meal was over, Anya rose from the table at once, but Joanna was not about to let her get away like that. ‘You can help me with the dishes,’ she
said briskly, pushing back her chair. ‘And then you can show me the way to the village.’

  Anya’s protests at the former request were stifled by her curiosity at the latter. ‘Why do you want to know the way to the village?’ she exclaimed, looking suspicious. ‘You won’t be welcome there. Ravensmere people don’t like us. They think we’re—peculiar.’ A thought seemed to occur to her at this, and she hunched her shoulders in a menacing pose. ‘Perhaps we are.’

  ‘I expect even monsters have to eat sometimes,’ responded Joanna matter-of-factly, carrying their dirty dishes to the sink. ‘I want to do some shopping, that’s all. I doubt if anyone will refuse my money.’

  Anya frowned. ‘You can’t go shopping in Ravensmere—we never do. Daddy always takes Mrs Harris into Penrith, and she goes to the supermarket there.’

  ‘Well, for once it won’t matter,’ Joanna retorted blandly. ‘Hurry up, bring those plates here. I want to get down to the village and back again before your father gets home.’

  Anya looked as though she was going to argue and then thought better of it, shrugging her thin shoulders as she carried the crockery to the sink. If only she could get through to her, thought Joanna hopefully. How much simpler her task would be!

  Matt returned with the plucked chicken as she was putting the clean dishes away, and Joanna smiled at him gratefully as he put the bird on the table. ‘It really was kind of you,’ she murmured, wishing there was some way that she could repay him, but he only winked at her before turning his attention to the child.

  ‘And don’t you go giving Miss Seton a lot of bother, young ‘un,’ he declared, taking her pointed chin in his gnarled hand and tipping her face up to his. ‘About time someone took you in hand, it is, and I’m putting my money on Miss Seton to be the one to do it.’

  ‘Oh, are you?’

  Anya jerked her chin away, her mouth assuming a rebellious curve, and Joanna couldn’t help wishing he had not made such a statement. It was tantamount to provocation, and Anya was not likely to let it go unchallenged.