A Girl to Love
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors. Surely now her quiet life could continue? Sadie had always been happy and contented in her quiet, uneventful life in a small Dorset village, and only wished for life to continue that way. She couldn’t quite believe it would all vanish overnight, that she would have to part with her beloved home.At the eleventh hour, she was rescued when Mr Oliver Trentham bought her house and offered her a job as a housekeeper. But Sadie didn’t take into account that she might fall in love with Oliver…
“The children adore you, and you’ve discovered what fun they are and love them, too. I think that’s the most important thing you ever told me, Mr. Trentham,” Sadie said.
“I’m truly sorry about your wife. You’ve been lonely for years, haven’t you? I know you’ve had your work and you’re famous and I expect you have a lot of money, but none of these things are all that important, are they?” She stopped frowning.
“I know how I sound, but I don’t mean to. I think you must marry again.” It cost a lot to say that cheerfully. “The children were talking about the lady you took them to have tea with. They seemed to think you might…”
His laugh was genuinely amused. “Oh, my dear little Sadie, you mustn’t believe all you hear. Pamela is the last woman on earth I would marry. No, I have plans of my own.”
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of Betty Neels in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.
A Girl to Love
Betty Neels
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER ONE
THE COTTAGE STOOD sideways on to the lane, its wicket gate opening on to a narrow brick path between flower beds, the path ending at an old-fashioned door with a round brass knob and a great knocker. Its thatched roof above cob walls was much patched, although picturesque, and doubtless in the summer it presented a charming picture, but just now, on a dripping November afternoon, it looked forlorn, as forlorn as the girl opening the gate.
She was wrapped in a rather elderly raincoat with a scarf wound round her neck and a woolly cap pulled well down on to a pale face, quite unremarkable save for a pair of fine dark eyes, and despite the bulky coat, she was too thin. She closed the gate carefully, hurried up the path and let herself into the cottage, casting off her outdoor things in the hall and going straight into the sitting room.
It was a pleasant enough room with some nice pieces furnishing it and a scattering of shabby armchairs. The girl switched on the light, scooped up the sleek cat sitting in one of the chairs and with him on her lap, sat down. The room was untidy and across the hall the dining room table was still littered with cups and saucers and plates and the remains of cake and sandwiches consumed by friends who had attended the funeral and returned for tea afterwards. But that would have to wait. The girl had too much on her mind to bother about washing up for the moment; she’d had a shock and she needed to go over every word Mr Banks the solicitor had said to her before she could face up to it.
The funeral had been well attended. Granny had no family except herself left, but many friends, and they had all come; it had been a busy day, and it was only when the last of them had gone and only Mr Banks was left that she had felt a pang of loneliness. At his suggestion that they should sit and have a talk for a while she had felt better and she had sat down opposite him, not surprised when he had said kindly: ‘Sadie, there is the will…’
She had nodded, not over interested; she had lived with her grandmother since she was a very small girl and although there had never been much money she knew that the cottage would be hers. Her grandmother’s pension died with her, but there was always a living to be earned. She had wanted to get a job after she had left school, but her grandmother wouldn’t hear of it, so although at twenty-three she was a skilled housewife, a splendid cook and a clever needlewoman, she wasn’t trained for anything else, and she had never thought about it much, especially during the last two years when Granny had been so crippled with arthritis that she had been forced to give up active life and depend entirely on Sadie.
Mr Banks unfolded the will and cleared his throat. Mrs Gillard had left all that she possessed to her granddaughter. But there was more to it than that; he folded the will up tidily and blew his nose, reluctant to speak. When he did, Sadie didn’t believe him at first. The cottage was mortgaged up to the hilt—Granny had been living on the money for some years, for her pension hadn’t gone up as wages had, and what had been a respectable income thirty years ago had dwindled to a mockery of itself… ‘So I am very afraid,’ said Mr Banks apologetically, ‘that there is no money at all, Sadie, and the cottage will have to be sold in order to pay off the mortgage.’
She had looked at him in vague disbelief and he hastened to add: ‘Your grandmother had a few pounds in some shares. I’ll see that they are sold later, in the meantime I’ll advance you their value.’
She had thanked him politely. ‘I don’t think I could bear to leave here,’ she had told him, and then at his pitying look: ‘But of course I must, mustn’t I? I’ll get some sort of job.’
Mr Banks had looked uneasy. ‘Can you type? Do shorthand? I might know of someone…’
‘I can’t do anything like that. I can cook and sew and do the housework. I’ll find something.’ She had made a great effort and smiled at him. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Banks, I’ll get a job as a housekeeper or mother’s help, then I’ll have a home and a job.’ And before he could protest: ‘I’ll walk down to the village with you—you left the car at the Bull and Judge, didn’t you?’
So she had seen him safely away and now she was back in the cottage which was no longer her house. She had a little time, Mr Banks had assured her, she would be given a week or two to make her plans and move out before the mortgage was fore-closed; and Mr Banks had pointed out that there was the chance that a buyer might be found for the cottage and the mortgage paid off, leaving her a little money besides.
She sat stroking the cat, searching her mind for a likely buyer, but there was no one in the village who would want it; it was a fair-sized place as cottages went, with good-sized rooms, an old-fashioned but adequate kitchen, four bedrooms and an attic as well as a bathroom, as out of date as the kitchen but still functioning, and besides there were a number of pantries and cupboards and a fair-sized garden. But it needed a new thatch and new paint, and the wall-paper had been on the walls ever since she could remember.
She got up presently and started on the washing up and when that was done, tidied the rooms, raked out the fire and took herself off to bed, with Tom the cat for company. The cottage was dreadfully empty without Granny. She hadn’t got used to that yet, and her grief went deep, for she had loved the old lady dearly, but she had plenty of good sense; life had to go on and she must make the most of it. She closed her eyes on the thought, but not before a few tears had trickled from under their lids.
Nothing seemed so bad in the morning. It was a cold grey day, but once the fire was lighted and she had had her breakfast and fed Tom, she set about cleaning the cottage. She wasn’t sure, but presumably someone would come to look at it. Whoever held the mortgage would want to know its value and they would send someone from a house agents.
There was no telephone in the cottage, so she would have no warning. Charlie Beard the postman came soon after breakfast, propping his bike against the old may tree by the gate and accepting a cup of tea while she looked through the handful of letters he gave her. Her heart sank at the bills—electricity, the last load of coal, the rates… When Charlie had gone she went through all the drawers in the hope of finding some money Granny might have tucked away, and was rewarded by a few pounds in an envelope, and these, added to what she had in her purse, would just about pay for the coal. She wasn’t too worried about food; there were vegetables in the garden, potatoes stored in the shed at the end of the garden; eggs could be exchanged with cabbages any time with Mrs Coffin at the end of the lane…and Mr Banks had said that he would send her the money for the shares. It could be worse, she told herself bracingly. Of course, there were any number of vague thoughts at the back of her head. The furniture—would she have to sell it or would it be taken over with the cottage? And Tom? Tom would have to go with her wherever she went; he was too old to have another owner, although she couldn’t imagine him living in any other house but the cottage.
She finished tidying the house and went into the garden. There were potatoes to bring in and sprouts to pick as well as the apples stored in the outhouse. Because it was drizzling still she put on the old mac which had hung behind the kitchen door for she didn’t know how long, and pulled on her wellies, and while she was out there, since she was wet anyway, she stayed for a while tidying the flower beds in the front garden. There was nothing much in them now, a few chrysanthemums, very bedraggled, and the rose bushes, bare now of all but a handful of soggy leaves. Sadie pottered about until dinner time and after her meal, knowing that it would have to be done sooner or later, started to sort out her grandmother’s clothes and small possessions. It was dark by the time she had finished, packing everything away tidily in an old trunk she had dragged down the narrow little stairs which led to the attic at the top of the house. And after tea, for something to do, she went from room to room to room, inspecting each of the four bedrooms carefully to make sure that they were as attractive as possible, and then downstairs to do the same in the dining room and sitting room, and lastly the kitchen, for surely she would hear something tomorrow, either from Mr Banks or from the house agents.
There was a letter from Mr Banks in the morning, but beyond the modest sum, the proceeds from the shares, which was enclosed, he had nothing to say—indeed, day followed day and nothing happened. Sadie went down to the village on the third morning to cash the money order and buy groceries and submit to the kindly questions of Mrs Beamish, the post-mistress, and several other ladies in the shop. She didn’t mind the questions, she had known them all her life; they weren’t being curious, only sympathetic and kind, pressing her to go to tea, offering her a lift in the car next time its owner was going to Bridport, asking if she could do with half a dozen eggs. It was nice to know she had so many friends. She went back to the cottage feeling quite cheerful and after her dinner sat down and composed a letter to Mr Banks, asking him if there was any news about the cottage being sold; she was aware that selling a house took time, but almost a week had gone by and surely he would have something to tell her by now. She finished her letter and was addressing the envelope when she heard the creak of the gate and looked out to see Mr Banks coming up the path.
Mr Banks, a rather dour-looking man although kindly, greeted her so cheerfully that she immediately asked: ‘Oh, have you heard something?’ and then seeing that he wasn’t going to answer for the moment, added quickly: ‘Let me have your coat, Mr Banks—how nice to see you, only it’s a wretched day for you to be out. Come and sit by the fire and I’ll make tea.’
‘A most miserable day, Sadie,’ he agreed, ‘and a cup of tea will be most welcome.’
She went into the kitchen and made the tea in a fever of impatience, then made small talk while they drank it, answering his questions politely while she longed for him to get to the point. Yes, Mr Frobisher the vicar had been to see her, and yes, she had answered almost all the letters she had received when her grandmother had died, and yes, she still had some of the money which he had sent her for the shares. ‘But I paid all the bills,’ she pointed out, ‘so at least I don’t owe anything, Mr Banks.’
‘Splendid, splendid. And now I have good news for you. Through a colleague of mine I have been in touch with someone who is looking most anxiously for just such a place as this—a playwright, and I believe something to do with television. He is a widower with two children who have a governess and he lives in Highgate Village, but he is seeking somewhere very quiet where he can work uninterrupted. He will not necessarily live here, but wishes to stay from time to time for considerable periods. He wishes to inspect it tomorrow afternoon, and asks particularly that the place should be empty; that is to say, he will naturally bring the agent with him, but if you could arrange to leave the key…? About two o’clock if that’s convenient. If he likes it he will purchase it at once, which means that the mortgage can be paid off immediately and since the price seems agreeable to him, there should be two or three hundred pounds for you, once everything outstanding is dealt with.’
‘How nice,’ said Sadie, and tried her best to sound delighted. Now that the crunch had come she was appalled at the idea of leaving not only the cottage but the village. She had lived there for twenty of her twenty-three years, and Chelcombe was her home. To earn her living she would have to go to a town, even a city, and she was going to hate it. Besides, there was Tom. She said forlornly: ‘I must start looking for a job.’
Mr Banks eyed her thoughtfully. ‘It might be a good idea if you put up in the village for a little while. You could go to Bridport on the bus—it goes twice a week, doesn’t it? There is bound to be an employment agency there, it would be more satisfactory if you could obtain employment before you leave here.’
‘I’ll do that, Mr Banks. You’ve been awfully kind. I’m very grateful. I suppose—I suppose you don’t know about the furniture?’
‘No, and that at this stage can only be conjecture. If they wish to take over the house as it stands, then of course the buyer will pay for the contents, otherwise you will have to sell it, unless you can find unfurnished rooms. But if you intend going into domestic service then you could be expected to live at your place of work.’ He frowned a little. ‘Are you sure that there’s nothing else that you can do?’
Sadie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not, but there must be plenty of housekeeping jobs, or mother’s helps or something similar. In the country if I can, and with Tom, of course.’
Mr Banks heaved himself out of his chair. ‘Well, my dear, I’m sure you will find just the work you are looking for. In the meanwhile, don’t worry, things could have been much worse.’
With which doubtful comfort he went away.
The cottage already shone with polish and there wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen. All the same, Sadie went all over it once more, making sure that it looked welcoming and cosy, and in the morning, she picked some of the chrysanthemums and eked them out with a great deal of evergreen from the hedge, and arranged a bowl here and a bowl there. She ate a hasty lunch then, made up the fire, put a guard before it, begged Tom to be a good quiet cat and not stir from his seat in the largest of the armchairs, put on her coat and headscarf, and let herself out into the bleak afternoon. She turned away from the village, for she had no wish to see whoever was coming, and walked briskly up the lane, winding its muddy way up to the crest of the hill. There was a magnificent view from the top in clear weather, but today the sad November afternoon was closing in already; in another hour it would be getting dark and even colder. She hoped that they would be gone by then; she would give them until four o’clock and then go back; if there were no lights on she would know that they had gone.
At the top of the hill she paused for breath, for it was a steep climb and difficult going along the uneven lane, and then went on again, climbing over a stile and crossing a field to a five-barred gate with a cart track beyond it. The track was worse than the lane, but she splashed along in the muddy ruts, hardly noticing, her thoughts busy with her future. Presently she turned down a bridle path and followed it for a mile or more round the hill to come out at the top of the lane once more. By now it was almost dark; she could see the village lights twinkling below her and ten minutes downhill would bring her to the cottage. There was no light showing as she reached it. She went up the garden path quietly and tried the door. It was locked and she stooped to take the key from under the mat, where she had arranged for it to be left, and went inside.
It was warm indoors and she shed her coat and scarf and went into the sitting room to find the fire still burning nicely, and Tom still asleep. She went from room to room and found nothing had been disturbed, indeed she wondered if the man had come after all, and there was no way of finding out until the morning. She made tea and then got her supper; there was no point in planning her future until she knew what was to happen.
She knew that two days later when Charlie came whistling up the path to hand her a letter from Mr Banks. Mr Oliver Trentham wished to buy the cottage immediately. He waived a surveyor’s report, raised no objection to the price and would take possession in the shortest possible time. Mr Banks added the information that after the mortgage had been paid and various fees, there would be just over three hundred pounds for her.
Sadie read it through twice and put it back in its envelope. So that was that, she wasn’t sure how soon the shortest possible time would be, but she had better start packing up her own things. Mr Banks hadn’t mentioned the furniture, which was annoying; she would have to write and find out and in the meantime go down to the village and see if Mrs Samways, who did bed and breakfast in the summer for those rare tourists who found their way to Chelcombe, would let her have a room until she had found herself a job. Tomorrow she would take the local bus into Bridport and see about a job.
She wrote her letter, posted it, answered Mrs Beamish’s questions discreetly, and went along to see Mrs Samways. Yes, of course she could have a room and welcome, and Tom too, as long as she would be gone by Christmas. ‘I’ve my brother Jim and his family coming over for two weeks,’ she explained in her soft Dorset voice, ‘and dear knows where I’m going to put ’em all.’
‘Oh, I’ll be gone by then,’ Sadie assured her. ‘Perhaps I won’t want a room at all; I’m going to Bridport tomorrow morning to see about a job. There’s bound to be something.’
There wasn’t. True, there were two housekeeper’s jobs going, in large country houses, and not too far away, but they stipulated women over fifty and the agency lady, looking at Sadie’s small thin person, and her gentle mouth, added her forceful opinion that she simply wouldn’t do.
There was a job for a lady gardener too, but there again, observed the lady with scorn, she was hardly suited, and she tut-tutted when Sadie confessed that she couldn’t type or do shorthand, and hadn’t got a Cordon Bleu certificate. ‘What can you do?’ she asked impatiently.
‘Housework, and ironing and mending and just ordinary cooking—all the things a housewife does, I suppose. And I like children.’
‘Well, there’s nothing, dear. Come back next week and try again.’ She added as Sadie stood up: ‘You can always sign on, you know.’
Sadie thanked her. She would have to be desperate to do that. Granny had belonged to a generation that hadn’t signed on, and she had drummed it into Sadie from an early age that it was something one didn’t do unless one was on one’s beam ends, and she wasn’t that, not yet. She went back home and after her tea, composed an advertisement to put into the weekly local paper.
As it happened there was no need to send it. The next morning Charlie came plodding through the never-ending rain with another letter from Mr Banks. Sadie sat him down at the kitchen table and gave him a cup of tea while the letter burned a hole in her pocket.
‘Bad luck about you having to leave,’ observed Charlie. ‘We’m all that put out. Pity it do be the wrong time of year for work, like.’
Sadie poured herself another cup and sat down opposite him. ‘I hate to go, Charlie, I’m just hoping I’ll find something to do not too far away.’
‘Happen it’s good news in your letter?’
‘Well, no, Charlie, I don’t think so. The cottage is sold—he’d have known that, of course—I expect it’s something to do with that.’
He got up and opened the door on to the wind and the rain. ‘Well, I’ll be off. Be seeing you.’
She closed the door once he’d reached the gate and got on his bike to go back to the village, then she whipped the letter out and tore it open. It was brief and businesslike, but then Mr Banks was always that. The new owner of the cottage had enquired as to the possibility of finding a housekeeper for the cottage and he, Mr Banks, had lost no time in putting her name forward. She would live in and receive a salary to be agreed upon at a later date. He strongly advised her to accept the post, and would she let him know as soon as possible if she wished to take the job?
Sadie read the letter through several times, picked up the placid Tom and danced round the kitchen until she was out of breath. ‘We’re saved!’ she told him. ‘We’re going to stay here, Tom…’ She paused so suddenly that Tom let out a protesting mew. ‘But only if we can both stay—I must be certain of that.’ She put him down again, bundled into her mac and wellies and hurried down to the village.
Mrs Beamish wished her a good morning and in the same breath: ‘Charlie popped his head in,’ she observed, ‘said you’d a letter from London again.’ She eyed Sadie’s face with interested curiosity. ‘Good news, is it, love?’
It was nice to have someone to tell. Sadie poured the whole lot out and to the accompaniment of, ‘He be a good man, surely,’ and ‘Well I never did, Miss Sadie, love,’ she asked if she might use the telephone. The village had a phone box, erected by some unimaginative person a good half a mile from the village itself and for that reason seldom used.
Mrs Beamish not only lent the phone, she stayed close by so that she didn’t miss a word of what was said, nodding her head at Sadie’s ‘Yes, Mr Banks, no, Mr Banks,’ and then, ‘but Bob the thatcher won’t work in this weather: he’ll have to wait until the spring.’ She looked anxiously at Mrs Beamish, who nodded her head vigorously. ‘No, it doesn’t leak,’ said Sadie, ‘it looks as though it might, but I promise you it doesn’t. And what about the furniture?’
She stood listening so intently that Mrs Beamish got a little impatient and coughed, then looked put out when Sadie said finally, ‘All right, Mr Banks, and thank you very much.’
There were two more customers in the shop now, both listening hard. ‘What about the furniture, Sadie?’ one of them asked.
‘Well, he wants it, most of it, that is, but he’s bringing rugs and things like that—they’re to be delivered some time during next week. Mr Banks says I’ll have to be at home to put things straight and get in groceries and so on.’
‘So he’ll be here well before Christmas?’ asked Mrs Beamish, her eyes sliding over her shelves of tins and packets. He might be a good customer.
‘Yes, I expect so, but I don’t know if he’ll be here for Christmas. I suppose it’s according to whether he has to work.’
‘Well, love, we’re that pleased—it’ll bring a bit of life to the village, having a real writer here. I suppose he’ll have a car, but where is he going to put it?’
‘There’s room for a garage if he opens the hedge a bit further up the lane, and he can park on that bit of rough grass just opposite the gate,’ said Sadie.
Everyone nodded and Mrs Beamish said: ‘You just go into the sitting room, love, while I serve Mrs Cowley and Mrs Hedger, then we’ll have a nice cup of tea together—we could make out a list of groceries you might want at the same time.’
And for the next few days Sadie had no time to brood. She missed Granny more than she could say, but life had to go on and as far as she could see it was going to go on very much as before. She had run the cottage and looked after her grandmother for two or three years: instead of an old lady there would be a middle-aged man. She had a vivid picture of him in her head—rather like Mr Banks only much more smartly dressed because presumably playwrights moved in the best circles. He wouldn’t want to know about the running of the cottage, only expect his meals on time and well cooked, his shirts expertly ironed, the house cleaned and the bath water hot. Well, she could do all that, and she would be doing it in her own home too.
She took the bus to Bridport and bought herself two severe nylon overalls and a pair of serviceable felt slippers so that she wouldn’t disturb him round the house and experimented with her hair—something severe, she decided, so that she would look mature and sensible, but her fine mouse coloured hair refused to do as she wished; the bun she screwed it into fell apart within an hour, and she was forced to tie it back with a ribbon as she always had done.
After a week, things began to arrive from a succession of vans making their way through the mud of the lane to the gate. Rugs, silky and fine and sombre-coloured, a large desk, a magnificent armchair, a crate of pictures, fishing rods and golf clubs. Sadie unpacked everything but the pictures and stowed them away. The dining room, which she and Granny had almost never used, would be his study, she imagined. She moved out the table and chairs and the old carpet, and laid one of the splendid ones which she had unwrapped with something like awe, and when Charlie came with the letters, she got him to help her move the desk into the centre of the room. She added a straightbacked armchair from the sitting room, a small sofa table from Granny’s bedroom and the bedside lamp from her own room. It wasn’t quite suitable, for it had a shade painted with pink roses, but it would be better than the old-fashioned overhead light in the centre of the room. It looked nice when she had finished, and she laid a fire ready in the small grate; there was nothing like a fire to give a welcome.
She rearranged the biggest bedroom too, laying another of the rugs and moving in a more comfortable chair. The rest of the furniture was old-fashioned but pleasant enough, although the wall-paper was old-fashioned and faded here and there. The sitting room she left more or less as it was, shabby but comfortable; she had put the dining room table at one end of it and put the new armchair close to the fireplace and moved out a smaller table and another chair and put them in her own room. By and large she was well satisfied with her efforts.
She had had one brief letter from Mr Banks, assuring her that all was going well; he would let her know the date of Mr Trentham’s arrival as soon as possible. By then she had cleaned and polished, tidied the shed, chopped firewood and pored over the only cookery book in the house. It was to be hoped that Mr Trentham wasn’t a man to hanker after mousseline of salmon or tournedos saut; Sadie comforted herself with the thought that if he was past his first youth, he would settle for simple fare. She made an excellent steak and kidney pudding and her pastry was feather-light.
It was two days later that she had another letter from Mr Banks, telling her that Mr Trentham proposed to take up residence in three days time. A cheque was enclosed—housekeeping money paid in advance so that she could stock up the larder; her salary and the remainder of the household expenses would be paid to her at a later date. He regretted that he was unable to say at what time of day Mr Trentham would arrive, but she should be prepared to serve a meal within a reasonable time of his arrival at the cottage. He added a warning that her employer was deeply involved in a television script and required the utmost quiet, qualifying this rather daunting statement with the hope that Sadie’s troubles were now over and that she would make the most of her good fortune.
He didn’t need to warn her about being quiet, thought Sadie rather crossly. There was no TV in the cottage simply because Granny had never been able to afford one; there was a radio, but she would keep that in her own room and she wasn’t a noisy girl around the house. There was, in fact, nothing to be noisy with. Mr Trentham could write in the dining room with the door shut firmly upon him and not be disturbed by a sound.
That afternoon she went down to Mrs Beamish’s shop with a list of groceries and spent a delightful half hour stocking up necessities to the satisfaction of herself and still more of Mrs Beamish. And the next morning she went into Bridport and cashed her cheque before purchasing several items Mrs Beamish didn’t have, as well as visiting the butcher’s and arranging for him to call twice a week. He delivered to Mrs Frobisher and the Manor House anyway, and she assured him that it would be worth his while. It was sitting in the bus on the way home that she began to wonder about Christmas. It seemed unlikely that Mr Trentham would want to stay at the cottage, especially as he had children, in which case she and Tom would spend it together, but Christmas was still five weeks away and it was pointless to worry about it.
She spent the evening storing away her purchases and the next morning went to pay Mrs Beamish’s bill, ask William the milkman to let her have more milk, and then tramped through the village to Mrs Pike’s Farm to order logs. Together with almost everyone else in the village, she was in the habit of wooding in the autumn and she had collected a useful pile of branches and sawn them ready for burning, but with two, perhaps three fires going, there wouldn’t be enough. And that done, she went home and had her tea and then sat by the fire with Tom on her lap, deciding what she would cook for Mr Trentham’s first meal.
She made a steak and kidney pudding after breakfast the next morning because that couldn’t spoil if he arrived late in the day, and then peeled potatoes and cleaned sprouts to go with it. For afters she decided on Queen of Puddings, and since she had time to spare she made a batch of scones and fruit cake. With everything safely in the oven she made a hasty meal of bread and cheese and coffee and flew up to her room to tidy herself. It was barely two o’clock, but he could arrive at any moment. She donned one of the new overalls, a shapeless garment which did nothing for her pretty figure, brushed her hair and tied it back, dabbed powder on her nose and put on lipstick sparingly; if she used too much she wouldn’t look like a housekeeper.
The afternoon wore on into the early dark of a winter’s evening. She made tea and ate a scone and had just tidied away her cup and saucer when she heard a car coming up the lane. She glanced at the clock—half past five; tea at once and supper about eight o’clock, perhaps a bit earlier, as he was probably cold and tired. She gave the fire in the sitting room a quick nervous poke and went to open the door.
Mr Trentham stepped inside and shut the door behind him. In silence he stood, staring down at her, a long lean man with thick dark hair, grey eyes and a face which any girl might dream about. He wasn’t middle-aged or short, or stout; anyone less like Mr Banks Sadie had yet to meet. She stared back at him, conscious of a peculiar feeling creeping over her. She shook it off quickly and held out a hand. ‘Good evening, Mr Trentham,’ she said politely, ‘I hope you had a good drive down. I’m Sadie Gillard, the housekeeper.’
He was smiling at her with lazy good humour, and she smiled back, relieved that he was so friendly, not at all what she had expected. Indeed, already the future was tinted with a faint rose colour. Thoughts went scudding through her head: she should have made a chocolate cake as well as the usual fruit one and got in beer. Mr Darling at the Bull and Judge would have known what to sell her…thank heaven she had made that steak and kidney pudding… She was brought down to earth by his voice, slow and deep, faintly amused.
‘There seems to have been some mistake—I understood that there was to be a sensible countrywoman.’ His smile widened. ‘I’m afraid you won’t do at all.’
CHAPTER TWO
SHE FOUGHT DOWN instant panic. ‘I am a sensible countrywoman,’ she told him in a calm little voice, ‘your housekeeper, and I can’t think why I won’t do, especially as you haven’t eaten a meal here or slept in a bed or had your washing and ironing done yet.’
He had his head a little on one side, watching her, no longer smiling. ‘You don’t understand,’ he told her quite gently. ‘I’m looking for a quiet, experienced woman to run this cottage with perfection and no unnecessary noise. I write for a living and I have to have peace.’
‘I’m as experienced as anyone will ever be. I’ve lived here in this cottage for twenty years, I know every creaking board and squeaking door and how to avoid them…’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Of course, stupid of me—you’re Mrs Gillard’s granddaughter. To turn you out of your home would be decidedly unkind.’ His faint smile came again. ‘At least tonight. We’ll discuss it in the morning.’ He turned to the door again and opened it on to the chilly evening. ‘I’ll get my bags.’
When he came back with the first of them Sadie asked: ‘Would you like tea, sir?’
‘Yes, I would, and for God’s sake don’t call me sir!’ He disappeared into the blackness again and she went to put the kettle on and butter the scones. She had laid a tray with Granny’s best china and one of her old-fashioned traycloths and she carried it into the sitting room and put it on a small table by the fire. By the time he had brought in a considerable amount of luggage and taken off his sheepskin jacket, she had made the tea and carried it in.
‘What about you?’ he asked as he sat down, ‘or have you already had yours?’
‘Yes, thank you, I have. If you want more of anything will you call? I shall be in the kitchen.’ At the door she paused. ‘Would you like your supper at any particular time, Mr Trentham?’
He spread her home-made jam on a scone and took a bite. ‘Did you make these?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Wild strawberry jam,’ he observed to no one in particular, ‘I haven’t tasted it since I was a boy. You made it?’
‘Yes.’ She tried again. ‘Your supper, Mr Trentham?’
‘Oh, any time,’ he told her carelessly. ‘I’ll unpack a few things and get my books put away. Where have you put my desk?’
‘In the other room. If you wouldn’t mind having your meals in here, you could use the dining room to work in.’
He nodded. ‘That sounds all right. Whose cat is that, staring at me from under the table?’
‘Oh, that’s Tom—he’s mine. I did ask about him, and you said you wouldn’t mind…’
‘So I did.’ He buttered another scone. ‘Don’t let me keep you from whatever you’re doing.’
She went out closing the door soundlessly. The kitchen was warm and smelt deliciously of food. She put the custardy part of the Queen of Puddings into the oven and began to whip the egg whites. Her future was tumbling about her ears, but that was no reason to present him with a badly cooked meal. When she heard him go into the hall she opened the kitchen door to tell him: ‘Your bedroom is the one on the right at the top of the stairs. Would you like any more tea, Mr Trentham?’
He paused, his arms full of books. ‘No, thanks. It was the best tea I’ve had in years. In fact I don’t normally have tea, I can see that I shall have to get into the habit again. Did you make that cake too?’
‘Yes.’ She went past him up the stairs and switched on the light in the bedroom and pulled the curtains. It looked very pleasant in a shabby kind of way but a bit chilly, she was glad she’d put hot water bottles in the bed.
‘You can come in here and help,’ he called as she went downstairs, and she spent the next half hour handing him books from the two big cases he had brought with him, while he arranged them on the bookshelves she had luckily cleared. He had a powerful desk lamp too and a typewriter, and a mass of papers and folders which he told her quite sharply to leave alone. Finally he said: ‘That’s enough for this evening.’ He gave her his lazy smile again. ‘Thanks for helping.’
He went outside again presently to the car parked in the lane and came back with a case of bottles which he arranged on the floor in a corner of the sitting room, an arrangement which Sadie didn’t care for at all. There was a small table in one of the empty bedrooms; she would bring it down in the morning and put the bottles on it. She collected the tea tray and started to lay supper at one end of the table, and he asked for a glass.
Granny’s corner cupboard was one of the nicest pieces of furniture in the cottage. Sadie opened its door now and invited him to take what he wanted. He chose a heavy crystal tumbler and held it up to the light.
‘Very nice too—old—Waterford, I believe.’
‘Yes, everything there is mostly Waterford, but there are one or two glasses made by Caspar Wistar. My grandmother had them from her grandmother. I’m not sure how they came into the family.’
‘They’re rare and valuable.’
She closed the cupboard door carefully. ‘I don’t know if you bought them with the cottage. Mr Banks is going to send me a list…’
He had picked up a bottle of whisky and was pouring it. ‘No, I haven’t bought them, and if you think of selling them I should get a very reliable firm to value them first.’
‘Sell them?’ She looked at him quite blankly. ‘But I couldn’t do that!’
He shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘No, probably you couldn’t,’ he agreed goodnaturedly. ‘Something smells good,’ he added.
‘It will be ready in ten minutes,’ she told him, and went back to the kitchen.
Washing up in the old-fashioned scullery later, Sadie wondered what her chances of staying were. Undoubtedly, when they had met, Mr Trentham had made up his mind instantly that she wouldn’t do, but now, since making inroads into the splendid supper she had put before him, she had seen his eyes, thoughtful and a little doubtful, resting upon her as she had cleared the table. She hadn’t said a word, just taken in the coffee and put it silently on the table by the fire, then taken herself off to the kitchen, where she and Tom demolished the rest of the steak and kidney pudding and the afters before setting the kitchen to rights again. It was bedtime before she had finished. She refilled the hot water bottle, switched on the bedside light and went downstairs again to tap on the sitting room door and go in.
‘There’s plenty of hot water if you would like a bath,’ she told him, ‘and it will be warm enough by eight o’clock in the morning if you’d prefer one then.’
He looked up from the book he was reading. ‘Oh, the morning, I think.’
‘If you’d put the guard in front of the fire?’ she suggested. ‘I hope you’ll sleep well, Mr Trentham.’
He smiled at her. ‘No doubt of that,’ he assured her. ‘I’ve been sitting here listening for the proverbial pin to drop. I’d forgotten just how quiet it can be in the country.’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Goodnight, Mr Trentham.’
‘Goodnight, Sadie.’
She went up the narrow stairs, Tom plodding behind her to climb on to her bed and make himself comfortable while she had a bath and got ready for the night. She was almost asleep when she heard Mr Trentham come upstairs. He came with careful stealth, trying to be quiet, but he was a big man and probably not used to considering others all that much. He was nice, though, she thought sleepily, used to doing as he pleased, no doubt, but then according to Charlie, who read the TV Times and watched the box whenever he had a moment to spare, he was an important man in his own particular field. She heard his door on the other side of the landing close quietly and then silence, broken by a subdued bellow of laughter.
She was too tired to wonder about that.
She was up before seven o’clock, creeping downstairs to clear out the ashes and light the fires in both rooms as well as the boiler and then to get dressed before going down to the kitchen to cook the breakfast—porridge and eggs and bacon and toast. By the time Mr Trentham got down the table was laid and the fire was burning brightly. She wished him a sedate good morning and added: ‘Tea or coffee?’
‘Coffee, please. God, I haven’t had a night like that in years!’
There seemed no answer to that. Sadie retired to the kitchen, made the coffee and took it in with a bowl of porridge.
‘I never eat the stuff,’ declared Mr Trentham, and then at the sight of her downcast face: ‘Oh, all right, I’ll try it.’
She had the satisfaction of seeing a bowl scraped clean when she took in the eggs and bacon. He demolished those too before polishing off the toast and marmalade.
‘It goes without saying that you made the marmalade as well,’ he observed as she cleared the table.
‘Well, yes, of course. Everyone does.’ She gave him a brief smile and went back to the kitchen, where she ate her breakfast with Tom for company until Charlie interrupted her with a pile of letters.
‘Brought a bit o’ custom to the village,’ he volunteered cheerfully. ‘That’s a posh car outside, all right.’
Sadie gobbled up the last of her bacon, offered a mug of tea and took the letters. Mr Trentham wasn’t in the sitting room and she could hear the typewriter going without pause. She didn’t fancy disturbing him, not after all his remarks about peace and quiet, but she saw no way out of it. She tapped on the door and getting no answer, went in, laid the post down on the edge of the desk and went out again. She rather doubted if he had seen her.
She whisked round the cottage, not finding much to do, for everything had been so scrubbed and polished it had had no time to get even a thin film of dust. And then, since the typewriter was still being pounded without pause, she went silently in with coffee. Without looking up, Mr Trentham said: ‘Open the post for me, Sadie, will you? Do it here.’
She thought of her own coffee cooling in the kitchen and picked up a paper knife on the desk. There were nine letters. Three of them were in handwriting and began Dear Oliver, and she laid them on top of the others—bills and what appeared to be business letters. Having done so she made silently for the door, to be stopped by Mr Trentham’s voice.
‘Where’s your coffee?’
‘In the kitchen.’ She put a hand on the door knob.
‘Fetch it and come back here, I want to have a talk with you.’ He sounded so noncommittal that she guessed that he was going to tell her that she must go. And where to? she asked herself, rejoining him, her tranquil face showing nothing of the panic she was in.
‘Mr Banks was quite right,’ he began. ‘He described you as a sensible countrywoman, and it seems to me you are. What my mother would have called an old head on young shoulders…I think we may suit each other very well, Sadie, but several adjustments must be made. We’ll take our meals together—it’s ridiculous that you should eat in the kitchen of your own home. You will share the sitting room as you wish, all I ask is that I should be left to myself in this room. You will refrain from lugging logs and coals into the house, I’ll do that each morning or if you prefer, each night. And you’re not to wear that depressing overall. We’ll go to Bridport and purchase something more in keeping with your age. What is your age, by the way?’
‘I’m twenty-three.’
He nodded. ‘There are things to be done to the cottage. It needs a new thatch, I need a garage; a shower room would be useful. I’ve already arranged for a telephone to be installed, and someone should be here later today to install television.’ He searched in his pockets and pulled out a cheque book. ‘Here’s housekeeping money until the end of the month, after that you’ll be paid it on the first of each month.’ He started on another cheque. ‘And here’s a week’s salary in advance. You’ll get a month’s money at the same time as the housekeeping.’
He pushed the cheques towards her and she picked them up in a daze.
‘All that, just for housekeeping?’ she wanted to know.
‘I like good food—good plain food, well cooked. I abhor things in tins and packets and frozen peas.’
‘Well, there isn’t a freezer,’ she explained, ‘and I hardly ever buy things in tins because they’re too expensive.’
He smiled at her and her heart lurched. ‘Splendid!’ He gave her an encouraging nod and thought how beautiful her eyes were in her plain little face. There was nothing about her to distract him from his work. ‘The tradespeople call?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yes, and Mrs Beamish has almost all the groceries we need. I get eggs from someone in the village and I’ve ordered some more logs from a farm near by—they’ve cut down some trees and we can buy the awkward logs that won’t sell easily.’
‘Yes.’ He sounded a little impatient and she got up, put the coffee cups on the tray.
‘I’ll be in the garden if you want me for anything, Mr Trentham. What would you like for lunch?’
He had picked up a sheaf of papers and was frowning over them. ‘Oh, anything—we’ll eat this evening.’
There was plenty of soup left over from the previous day and a mackerel pâté she had made; toast wouldn’t take an instant and she could make a Welsh rarebit in no time at all. She got into her wellies and the old mac and went into the garden to cut a cabbage.
At one o’clock precisely she put her head round the door to say that lunch was about to be put on the table, and found him sitting back with a drink in his hand. He got up and followed her into the kitchen and watched while she ladled the soup and then carried the tray for her.
Beyond stating that he seldom stopped for a meal when he was working, he had nothing to say, but Sadie noticed that every drop of soup was eaten and when she replaced that with Welsh rarebit, he ate that too—moreover, the pâté followed it. It was obvious to her that he hadn’t been eating properly. Well, the housekeeping money he had given her was more than enough to buy the best of everything.
She put his coffee on the table by the fire and went away to wash up. He had insisted that she should take her meals with him, but that didn’t mean that she was to bear him company at any other time. She tidied the kitchen, told him that she would be going out for an hour and would be back in good time to get his tea, and wrapped up in her old coat, walked down to the village. Mr Trentham wanted papers to be delivered each morning and they needed to be ordered. She paused outside the gate to look at the car: an Aston Martin Volante. It looked a nice car, she considered, and beautifully upholstered inside, and she remembered vaguely that it was expensive. It was a shame to keep it out in the cold and damp of November, the sooner Mr Trentham had a garage built the better.
The newspapers were ordered from Mrs Beamish and that entailed a brief gossip about the cottage’s owner. Everyone in the village seemed to have seen him driving through and there was a good deal of speculation about him. Sadie was forced to admit that she knew next to nothing about him and wasn’t likely to.
When she got back there was a van parked behind the car and a man on the roof fixing an aerial and another man inside installing the TV. Sadie went into the kitchen where Tom was drowsing by the stove, laid a tray for tea and made two mugs and carried them out to the men. Judging by the impatient voice coming from the dining room, Mr Trentham was being disturbed in his work and wasn’t best pleased. She smoothed them down, poured them second mugs and gave them a pound from the housekeeping. When they had gone Mr Trentham summoned her into the dining room, where he was sitting at his desk; there were screwed-up balls of paper all over the floor and he looked in a bad temper. ‘How can I work with all that noise?’ he demanded of her.
‘You arranged for the television to be brought,’ she reminded him mildly. ‘They’ve finished and gone, and since you’re not working for the moment I’ll make the tea.’
The ill humour left his face and he smiled at her. ‘You’re not at all like a housekeeper—I have one at my Highgate home and she spends her days running away from me.’
‘Whatever for?’ asked Sadie matter-of-factly. ‘Would you like your tea on a tray here?’
‘No, I would not. I’ll have it with you.’
And later over his second cup of tea and third slice of cake, he observed: ‘I shall get fat.’
‘You can always go for a walk,’ she suggested diffidently. ‘The countryside is pretty and once you’re out you don’t notice the weather.’
‘I’ve too much work to do.’ He sounded impatient again, so she held her tongue and when he had finished, cleared away with no noise at all, and presently, in the kitchen peeling potatoes, she heard the typewriter once more.
The next morning he drove her into Bridport and much to her astonishment stalked into the biggest dress shop there and stood over her while she chose some overalls. Money, it seemed, was no object. The cheaper ones she picked out were cast aside and she was told with what she recognised as deceptive mildness to get something pretty. Taking care not to look at the price tickets, she chose three smocks in cheerful coloured linen and watched him pay for them without so much as a twitch of an eyebrow.
It was two days later when the washing machine arrived, and she had barely got over her delighted surprise at that when someone came to install the telephone with an extension in the dining room so that Mr Trentham could use it without having to move from his desk. It was becoming increasingly apparent to her that his work was very important to him; he made desultory conversation during their meals together and he regarded her with a kind of lazy good humour, but for the rest she was a cog in smooth-running machinery which engineered his comfort.
At the end of a week she knew nothing more about him and he in his turn evinced no interest whatever in herself. On Sunday she had been considerably surprised when he had accompanied her to church and after the service allowed her to introduce him to Mr Frobisher, who in turn introduced him to the Durrants from the Manor House. They bore him off for drinks, and Mrs Durrant bestowed a kindly nod upon Sadie as they went. She hadn’t meant to be patronising, Sadie told herself as she went back to the cottage. She got the lunch ready and sat down to wait. After an hour Mrs Durrant rang up to say that Mr Trentham was staying there for lunch, so Sadie drank her coffee and made a scrambled egg on toast for herself, fed Tom and got into her old coat, tied a scarf round her hair and went for a walk.
It had turned much colder and the rain had stopped at last. She crunched over the frosty ground, finding plenty to think about. She had been paid a month’s salary the evening before and she intended to spend most of it on clothes. She climbed the hill briskly, her head full of tweed coats, pleated skirts, slacks and woolly jumpers. She wouldn’t be able to get them all at once, of course, and after those would come shoes and undies and at least one pretty dress. She had no idea when she would wear it, but it would be nice to have it hanging in the wardrobe. Besides, there was Christmas. She hadn’t been able to accept any invitations for the last two Christmases because of Granny being an invalid, but perhaps this year she would be free for at least part of the holiday. She frowned as she thought that possibly Mr Trentham would go home to his other house for Christmas and New Year too; he’d want to be with his family and he must have loads of friends in London, in which case she would be on her own.
There was a biting wind blowing when she reached the top of the hill, and she turned and walked back again in the gathering dusk. There were no lights on, the cottage was in darkness; Mr Trentham would be staying at the Manor for tea. Sadie let herself in quietly, took off her coat and went into the kitchen to put on the kettle. Mr Trentham was asleep in the comfortable shabby old chair by the stove with Tom on his knee. He opened his eyes when she switched on the light and said at once: ‘Where have you been? I wanted to talk to you and you weren’t here.’
‘I go for a walk every afternoon,’ she reminded him. ‘I thought you might be staying at the Durrants’ for tea. It’s almost tea time, I’ll get it now if you would like me to.’
He nodded. ‘And can we have it here?’
She didn’t show her surprise. ‘Yes, of course.’ She put a cloth on the table and fetched the chocolate cake she had made the day before and began to cut bread and butter, a plateful thinly sliced and arranged neatly.
‘You’d better go into Bridport and buy yourself some clothes,’ said Mr Trentham suddenly. ‘Better still, I’ll drive you to a town where there are more shops. Let’s see—how about Bath?’
Sadie warmed the teapot. ‘That would be heavenly, but you don’t need to drive me there, Mr Trentham, I can get a bus to Taunton or Dorchester.’
‘I have a fancy to go to Bath, Sadie. When did you last buy clothes?’
She blushed. ‘Well, not for quite a long while, you see, Granny couldn’t go out, so there wasn’t any need…’
‘Nor any money,’ he finished blandly. ‘I must buy the girls Christmas presents and I shall need your advice.’
‘How old are they?’
‘Five and seven years old—Anna and Julie. They have a governess, Miss Murch. Could you cope with the three of them over Christmas?’
Sadie didn’t stop to think about it. ‘Yes, of course. Only you’ll need to buy another bed—would the little girls mind sleeping in the same room?’
‘I imagine not, they share a room at Highgate. What else shall we need?’
She poured the tea and offered him the plate of bread and butter. ‘That’s blackcurrant jam,’ she told him. ‘Well, a Christmas tree and fairy lights and decorations and paper chains.’ She was so absorbed that she didn’t see the amusement on his face. ‘A turkey and all the things that go with it—I’ll be making the puddings myself, and a cake, of course, and crackers and mince pies and sausage rolls…’ She glanced at him. ‘The children will expect all that.’
‘Will they? I was in America last Christmas; I believe Miss Murch took them to a hotel.’ He smiled a little and she saw the mockery there. ‘Don’t look so shocked, Sadie, I suspect that you’re a little out of date.’
She shook her head. ‘You can’t be out of date over Christmas. Even when there’s not much money it can still be magic…’
He passed her the cake and took a slice himself. ‘You’re so sure, aren’t you? Shall we give it a whirl, then? Buy what you want and leave the bills to me.’
‘Yes, Mr Trentham—only you are sure, aren’t you? The country is very quiet—I mean, in the town—London—there’s always so much to do, I imagine, and there’s nothing here. The Carol Service, and a party for the children and perhaps a few friends coming in.’
‘I’m quite sure, Sadie, and it will be something quite different for the children. Now when shall we go to Bath?’
‘Well, I’d like to get the washing done tomorrow…we could go on Tuesday. Do you want to buy the girls’ presents then?’
‘Certainly, though I have no idea what to get—I believe they have everything.’
She began to clear away the tea things. ‘Do they like dolls?’
‘Yes, I’m sure they do.’ He sounded impatient and when he got out of the chair she said quietly: ‘Supper will be about half past seven, Mr Trentham, if that suits you?’
He gave a grunting reply and a minute later she heard the typewriter. He was, she decided, a glutton for work.
It was cold and bright and frosty on Tuesday, and leaving Tom in charge curled up by the fire, they set out directly after breakfast. Sadie had on her best coat, bought several years earlier more with an eye to its warmth and durability than its fashion. She wore her hat too, a plain felt of the same mouse brown as the coat. Mr Trentham glanced at her and then away again quickly. The women he took out were smart, exquisitely turned out and very expensive. There was only one word for Sadie and that was dowdy. He felt suddenly very sorry for her, and then, taking another quick glance at her happy young face, realised that his pity was quite wasted.
They parked the car in the multi-storey car park and walked the short distance to the centre of the city, but before Sadie was allowed to look at shop windows they had coffee in an olde-worlde coffee shop near the Abbey, and only when they had done that did they start their shopping.
Sadie had supposed that he would arrange to meet her for lunch and go off on his own, but he showed no sign of doing this, instead he led the way towards Milsom Street shopping precinct where all the better shops were. ‘Blue or green,’ he told her, examining the models in the windows, ‘and don’t buy a hat, get a beret. How much money have you?’
She didn’t mind him being so dictatorial, it was like being taken out by an elder brother, she supposed. ‘Well, the salary you gave me, and I’ve some money in the bank…’
‘How much?’
‘Mr Banks isn’t quite sure, but at least two hundred pounds.’ She looked at him enquiringly. Not a muscle of his face moved, as he said gravely:
‘I should think you could safely spend half of that as well as your salary—you’ll only need a little money for odds and ends, won’t you?’
‘Well, I must get one or two Christmas presents.’
‘Probably the amount Mr Banks sends you will be more than he estimates.’
‘You think so? Then I’ll spend half of it.’ Then her face clouded. ‘Only I haven’t got it yet.’
‘I’ll let you have a hundred pounds and you can repay me when you get it.’
She hesitated. ‘You don’t mind?’
‘Not in the least. It would be highly inconvenient if I had to spend another day shopping.’ He added with the lazy good humour she was beginning to recognise: ‘So let’s enjoy ourselves today.’
It took her a little while to get started; she had never had so much money to spend before in her life and she was afraid to break into the wad of notes in her purse. They went from one shop to the next, and if Mr Trentham was bored he never said so. Sadie settled finally on a green tweed coat and a matching skirt with a beret to match it and, since they hadn’t cost a great deal, a sapphire blue wool dress, very simply cut. By then it was time for lunch. He took her to a restaurant called The Laden Table in George Street. It was fairly small but fashionable and Sadie wished with all her heart that she was wearing the new outfit, but she forgot that presently, made very much at her ease by Mr Trentham, who when he chose to exert himself could be an amusing companion. Besides, the food was delicious and the glass of sherry he offered her before they started their meal went to her head so that she forgot that she was by far the shabbiest woman in the room.
She spent the afternoon mostly by herself. Now that Mr Trentham had guided her away from the dreary colours which did nothing for her, he felt that he could safely leave her. ‘Get a pretty blouse or two,’ he suggested casually, ‘and a couple of sweaters—and no brown, mind. I’ll be at the coffee house at four o’clock, and mind you don’t keep me waiting.’
So she spent a long time in Marks and Spencer, and came out loaded, not only with the blouses and sweaters but with a pink quilted dressing gown and slippers and a pile of undies. There was precious little money left in her purse, but she didn’t care; she had all the things she had wanted most and she was content.
She got to the coffee house with a minute to spare and found him already there. She turned a radiant face to his and he took her parcels. ‘I’ve bought everything I ever wanted,’ she told him breathlessly, ‘well, almost everything. It’s been a lovely day.’
Over tea she asked him: ‘Did you get the presents for your little girls?’
He nodded. ‘I took your advice and got those workbaskets you liked. It seems a funny present for a little girl…’
‘No, it’s not; they like doing things, you know, and it isn’t like asking for a needle and cotton from a grown-up, everything in the basket’s theirs.’
‘I’ll take your word for it. If you’ve finished your tea we’d better go, Tom will be in despair.’
Sadie sat beside him in the car, enjoying the speed and his good driving. It was a cold dark evening now, but the car was warm and very comfortable, and since he didn’t want to talk, she thought about her new clothes and imagined herself wearing them. Mrs Durrant would no longer be able to look down her beaky nose at her on Sundays, and at Christmas she would wear the blue dress.
At the cottage, the car unloaded and the parcels on the kitchen table, Mr Trentham said briefly: ‘I’d like bacon and eggs for my supper,’ and stalked away to the dining room and presently she heard the clink of bottle and glass and sighed. He drank a little too much, she considered. To counteract the whisky, she would give him cocoa with his supper.
She fed Tom, made up the fire and went to take off her things. Unwrapping the parcels would have to come later; first Mr Trentham must have his eggs and bacon.
She set the table in the sitting room and called him when she had carried their meal in. He came at once and sat down without speaking. Only when he took a drink from his cup he put it down with a thump and a furious: ‘What the hell’s this I’m drinking?’
‘Cocoa,’ said Sadie mildly. Even in such a short time, she had got used to his sudden spurts of temper and took no notice of them.
Just for a moment she thought that he was going to fling it at her across the table. Instead he burst out laughing. ‘I haven’t had cocoa since I was a small boy.’ He stared at her for a long moment. ‘Now I’m a middle-aged man. How old do you think I am, Sadie?’
She was too honest to pretend that she hadn’t thought about it. ‘Well, it’s hard to say,’ she said carefully. ‘When you’re pleased about something you look about thirty-five.’
‘And when I’m not pleased?’
‘Oh, older, of course.’ She smiled at him. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I’m forty next birthday,’ he told her briefly. ‘Does that seem very old to you?’
She shook her head. ‘No, it’s not even middle-aged. Besides, you’ve got your little daughters to keep you young.’
‘So I have.’ He sounded bitter and she wondered why, suddenly curious to know more about him. It was strange, the two of them living in the same house and knowing nothing about each other. She reminded herself that she worked for him, her life was so utterly different from what she imagined his to be when he wasn’t living at the cottage. Presumably he would finish whatever he was working on that so engrossed him, and tire of the peace and quiet and go back to London.
He went back to the dining room when he’d finished his supper, calling a careless goodnight as he went, and presently Sadie went up to bed. She tried on all the new clothes before she turned out the light. They still looked marvellous, but for some reason the first excitement at wearing them had gone. There was, after all, no one to notice them, least of all Mr Trentham.
CHAPTER THREE
SADIE SAW very little of Mr Trentham for the next two or three days. He appeared for his meals and ate them with evident enjoyment, but for the greater part of the day he was shut in the dining room with his typewriter and when he did emerge it was to put on his sheepskin jacket and go for a walk. On the fourth morning, however, he drove off in his car, saying that he wouldn’t be in for lunch, but hoped to be back for tea. Which gave Sadie a chance to rush through the cottage, making as much noise as she liked, polishing furniture and hoovering floors and cleaning windows. It took her all the morning, and after a quick lunch she sat down to write a list of all the things she would need to buy for Christmas. Mr Trentham had said spare no expense, and although she very much doubted if he would keep his plan to spend Christmas at the cottage, she would have to make all the preparations just the same.
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