She watched the pretty fields roll past. Farms and cottages dotted the scenery; little stone bridges arched over streams that sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. The wheels of the carriage crunched on the clay and gravel lane; the horse snorted, and a dog barked in the distance, then was silent. How surreal. Had she fallen into a Charlotte Brontë novel?
“Be a lot busier in the summer when the tourists come.” Evans said, as if to dispel the magic. He pulled the reins. “Dee-aah! Easy, boy!” The horse cart slowed and turned a sharp left under a tall stone archway.
She lost her breath for an instant. The cart turned off the lane into a private drive. A wooden bridge over a long, wide ditch. A moat? She wanted to laugh.Are we going toa castle?
But when they emerged from the small wood which screened them, there was no castle. Instead, there were emerald-green lawns, ornamental gardens, a lily pond and finally a modern mansion.
If one could call eighteenth centurymodern. She took in the grey stone walls, three stories high, the bay windows and stone balustrades covered in climbing ivy.
They should have a fleet of limousines and Rolls-Royces, surely! Instead there was a bicycle rack with a dozen bikes parked into it.
Evans took them round the side to the kitchen entrance, where a woman waited for them, looking anxious.
“Evans, what took you so long? The master has beenwaiting.”
Without pause, she turned to Millie. “You must be Emeline Wainwright. You’d better leave the luggage and come inside before the master gives himself an aneurysm—we were expecting you after lunch.” She took Millie’s hand and led her inside.
“I didn’t know you expected me early.” Millie stopped to straighten her clothes and hair, which the wet sea air on the ferry had mussed. “I had to change ferries in Guernsey, and there was quite a wait. The agency never mentioned a specific time.”
The woman leading Millie stopped. “You mean you were coming from themainland?”
“Actually, from London.”
“All that way? Oh, my dear, I had no idea. I thought for sure you’d have spent the night in Guernsey. You must have had a terrible journey, poor you. Please excuse me. I forget myself when the master is anxious. I’m Mrs Baxter by the way, housekeeper, but everyone calls me Mrs B.” The woman spoke without pause while she bustled around. She opened the door into a warm country kitchen with flagstone flooring, curved bay windows, and close to fifty copper pots hanging from hooks on the walls around an enormous AGA cooker. Mrs B pulled a rocking chair closer to a massive kitchen table. “Come, let’s give you a minute to catch your breath—Joanie, get Mrs Wainwright a cup of tea and somebiscuits.”
Joanie was a tall, slender woman with North African good looks and an apron over her jeans. She got busy with kettle and teapot while Mrs B pulled Millie by the hand towards the rocking chair. “Here, sit by the AGA—Joanie, will you tell Nurse Ann and see if the new physio is here still.”
Millie would have loved a few minutes in the warm kitchen. “But didn’t you say Mr Du Montfort was anxious and waiting for me?”
Mrs B stopped her dashing around for a minute. “Oh, he’s been anxious all day. Another five minutes won’t make a blind bit of difference. Sit yourself down.”
“Let’s go and meet him,” Millie said. “I can have tea after.”
“Oh, bless you. What a sweet girl. Well, if you’re sure. Come, then.” Mrs B led Millie into the main hall, and Millie nearly gasped at the size of the elegant entrance hall, but there was no time to stop and look. Mrs B took her up to the first floor. “Don’t call him ‘my lord’ or ‘sir’ or anything like that. He prefers to go by plainmister.”
Good! The house alone had taken her breath away—and, if she was honest, also climbing the stairs at Mrs B’s urgent speed; she didn’t think she could manage anything surreal like addressing a lord.
The upstairs gallery led to a set of ornate double doors, slightly ajar. Her footsteps were barely audible on the thick rug, but someone must have had good hearing because as soon as she and Mrs B approached the doors, a voice from inside the room startled her.
“At long, bloody, last!” The tone might have been peevish, but the voice was strong and commanding.
Millie had time to notice patterned royal-blue curtains, a coffered wood ceiling and a wall covered in leather-bound books before her attention was pulled to a wheelchair by the window.
They’d told her at the agency that she’d be working for a sick old man. Du Montfort didn’t look like any sick old manshe’dever seen.
He’d clearly been tall and handsome in his youth. Even sitting in his wheelchair, he was imposing. He held his head high and shoulders straight. One hand was stuffed in a pocket, but the other gripped the arm of his chair like it was a sword he was about to wield in some heroic battle. His piercing blue eyes passed over her for an instant, then movedto Mrs B.
“Here is Mrs Emeline Wainwright.” Mrs B hurried over with Millie just behind. “She’s not late—she’s travelled all the way from London today.”
ThisEmelinebusiness really had to stop; as forWainwright—
She cleared her throat and smiled. “Hello. Please call me MillieSummers.”
“How long does the 24th Seigneur of La Canette have to wait for his own housekeeper to fetch him his evening newspapers and a gin and tonic?” Du Montfort demanded of Mrs B. “Have you had the liftrepaired?”
“The engineer has been called—”
“Perhaps you want me to wheel myself down the stairs and breakmy neck?”
