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‘Then how about I buy you coffee and cake instead?’
No reason to refuse him coming helpfully to mind, Marianne nodded uncomfortably. ‘Okay. Now, I really have to get back to this.’
‘Then I will say goodbye, Marianne.’ He briefly inclined his head, his expression inscrutable. ‘Until next time.’
‘Next time’ turned out to be two days later. Having endured an icy shower of rain and sleet combined for the previous hour, huddled beneath an inadequate umbrella instead of playing her guitar, Marianne had seriously thought about packing up and calling it a day. But then the sun came out, the freezing cold shower subsided, and as if by magic Eduardo De Souza appeared. He was dressed in his stylish cashmere coat, with a matching scarf draped casually round his neck, and his attire seemed much more suitable for the premiere of a theatre production rather than a casual visit to town.
‘Hello.’ He smiled, his rich voice sounding a little huskier than she remembered. Realising that for the past two days she had subconsciously been looking out for him, her heart thudding with what felt ridiculously like excited anticipation whenever his image crossed her mind, Marianne struggled to make her response sound natural.
‘Hi…’ she mumbled, standing back to shake the drops from her umbrella, fold it, then lean it against the wall. ‘Not exactly the best day for coming into town,’ she quipped.
‘Fortunately I missed the downpour. I have spent the past hour under cover at the exhibition.’
‘The same exhibition you visited before?’
‘Yes.’
‘It must be quite compelling to make you want to visit it again. What’s it about?’
‘It’s a collection by a French photographer I particularly admire…a retrospective of his life in Paris just after the war, when the city was being rebuilt. He died recently, and I saw an article in the local newspaper advertising the exhibition.’
‘Oh.’ Collecting her guitar from its case, Marianne gave her visitor an awkward smile. ‘I should probably go and take a look at it myself before it ends. It sounds fascinating.’
‘You are interested in the subject?’
‘I’m always interested in creativity and art—whatever its form. It intrigues me to learn how other artists see the world…how they interpret what they see. Just goes to show we all see things so differently…not in the same way at all.’
For a moment the man in front of her fell silent, as though he were seriously considering the opinion Marianne had just expressed, and with no small amount of surprise either.
Then he glanced down at his watch—expensive-looking, but definitely not ostentatious. ‘How about going for that coffee now?’
Again finding no immediate reason to decline, and feeling chilled to the bone after that hour of relentless sleet and rain, Marianne found herself agreeing. ‘Okay. Now’s as good a time as any, I suppose.’
In the familiar café, with its cheerful red and white checked curtains and matching tablecloths, the aromatic smell of brewing coffee mingling with the steam arising from the damp coats of customers gratefully seeking warmth, shelter and sustenance after their tussle with the elements, Marianne was mildly surprised to find it as busy as it was. Luckily she found a small table close to the woodstove, and the waitress appeared almost straight away to take their order. She didn’t doubt it was because Eduardo did not look like your average everyday customer—his almost regal bearing and sheer physicality alone commanded instant attention.
Goodness knew what the poor girl made of Marianne as his companion! As it was, she saw her look slightly askance at her guitar in its battered case, as if it was something almost distasteful. Eduardo gave her their order, and Marianne suddenly found herself alone with him. Resting his hands atop the checked tablecloth, he studied her without speaking. What was he thinking? Marianne wondered nervously. She cleared her throat and forced a shaky smile, feeling ill at ease and somehow graceless in her jumble of ill-fitting clothing beneath his intense examination.
‘This is a nice place. It makes a change from the local coffee chain I usually use. The coffee’s very good, and the pastries aren’t bad either.’
‘I am glad you chose a table near the fire…you look half frozen!’
‘I’m not any more. I’m quite warm, actually.’ Undoing several buttons on her coat, Marianne flashed him a smile, genuinely touched by the concern in his voice.
‘I have to ask you—’ the disturbing glance seemed to intensify ‘—are your parents happy about you singing at the side of the road?’ he questioned, frowning.
She could tell by his tone that he disapproved.
‘They’re not around any more to have an opinion,’ she answered instantly, without thinking, and then a splinter of indignant anger pierced her that he should disapprove of people he didn’t even know. ‘Anyway…I don’t mean to be rude…it’s really none of your business.’
‘How old are you? Seventeen…eighteen?’
Marianne stopped fiddling with the sugar bowl on the table and stared at him with the hardest gaze she could muster. ‘For your information, I’m twenty-four—and quite capable of looking after myself and making my own decisions without the interference or permission of anyone else, including parents if they were around!’
‘It is just that you appear much younger…’ Eduardo murmured, his returning gaze completely unapologetic.
‘It’s hardly my fault if genetics or fate has made me look younger than I am!’
‘I am not criticising the way you look, Marianne.’ His voice softened, and so did his gaze. ‘I am just concerned that you would choose to put yourself in what could potentially be a very vulnerable position. Can you not find somewhere else…somewhere safer where you might perform your songs?’
‘There’s a folk club I sing at sometimes…but it’s only open once every fortnight. I’d get very rusty if that was my only outlet. Besides…’ Fearing his judgement and disapproval, Marianne slotted her defences firmly into place. ‘The vendors that work in the market look out for me. Someone immediately comes over if it looks like anyone is bothering me.’
Eduardo sighed. ‘That at least makes me feel a little easier about the situation.’
‘Well, please don’t give it another thought. I’ve been singing outside for over a year now, and nothing dire has happened to me yet!’
The waitress brought their coffee, along with two generous slices of the fruitcake Eduardo had ordered for them. Marianne added sugar to her drink and stirred it.
His expression at her words revealed more alarm than reassurance, and her companion reached into his inside coat pocket for his wallet, extracted something, and held it out to her. Initially thinking he was going to offer her money, Marianne was about to give him short shrift when she thankfully saw that he was actually offering her a small business card.
‘What’s this for?’
‘If you ever need anything…’
‘What could I possibly need from a complete stranger?’ For some inexplicable reason she found herself precariously close to tears. Some renegade emotion had crept up on her undetected, until it was almost too late to rein it in again. It had been happening a lot lately.
The Brazilian firmed his mouth. ‘A job, for one thing…And, seeing as we are sitting here together having coffee, I hope I am no longer a stranger. If this weather gets much colder—and the forecast is not good for the rest of January—you might appreciate an alternative way to earn some money. A job that would also provide a roof over your head and good, nourishing food to eat.’
‘What kind of job?’ Intrigued now, despite herself, Marianne glanced out of the window at the steel-grey sky and the threat of even more sleet and snow. An involuntary tremor went through her.
‘I need a housekeeper.’ The broad shoulders beneath the fawn-coloured cashmere lifted, then fell again.
‘A housekeeper?’
‘I already have a valet to do the personal things I need help with…but, having resided here for almost a year now, I find it has become increasingly clear that some extra help in the house would be most welcome. At present I hire contract cleaners, and Ricardo—my valet—does the cooking. But if you can cook too that would alleviate him of that particular task and no doubt be most welcome. Give it some thought and ring me if you would like to give it a try. The house is a little remote, but if you do not mind that and enjoy beautiful countryside views then I do not think you will be disappointed.’
‘And you would give me this job without even knowing if I could do it?’ Marianne’s hazel eyes were sceptical.
‘You seem a very independent sort of person to me…the type who would learn quickly, get on with things and not make a fuss. I am sure you would work out just fine.’
‘Are you normally so trusting of people you don’t even know? I could be anyone! What if I pinched the silver, or some priceless family heirloom whilst under your roof?’
Astonishingly, both corners of Eduardo’s severe mouth lifted at the same time. For a moment Marianne’s breath caught at the flash of humour that transformed his compelling pale blue eyes.
‘Would a girl who sings in the street for pennies and hands me back a fifty-pound note, telling me to give it to the homeless, be likely to steal even a crust of bread from her employer?’ He shook his head, his expression reverting to seriousness again. ‘I do not think so.’
‘Well, I thank you for your concern, as well as the offer of a job, but I’m not ready for a change just yet. As long as there’s not a full-blown blizzard then I’ll continue to sing outside for the foreseeable future.’
‘Very well…That is your decision, of course. Why don’t you try your fruitcake? It looks very good.’
‘Thank you. I will.’
The rest of their conversation was politely superficial and companionable—as though they had silently recognised the potential danger in discussing anything more personal and mutually agreed to avoid it.
Twenty minutes later they parted—Marianne to return to her singing, and Eduardo to head wherever he was heading. She hadn’t asked him where. But as he moved away from her and continued on down the street her heart definitely raced a little as she watched him go. Remembering his surprising offer of a job, she wondered why she suddenly felt so bad for refusing his help. Was it because she thought she’d detected a hint of melancholy or sadness in that magnetising gaze as they’d sat talking? Was it anything to do with the reason he walked with a cane? A wave of sympathy tugged hard at her heartstrings.
‘Sing us a song, love!’ One of the cheerful vendors who sold fruit from a stall further down the street stopped in front of her, clapping his gloved hands together with an exaggerated shiver. ‘We need something to warm us up. It’s colder than bloody Siberia today, and there’s heavy snow forecast for tonight. Got any songs about spring?’
Shaken out of her reverie, Marianne grinned. ‘How about “By the Banks of the Sweet Primroses”?’
‘Lovely job!’ The vendor happily grinned back.
When the notion of trying to help the little roadside singer had come to him, it hadn’t even crossed Eduardo’s mind to offer her a job. So when the words had come out of his mouth he’d surprised even himself. Contract cleaners he could maintain an aloof distance from, and the familiar Ricardo whom he’d brought with him from Rio de Janeiro were one thing—but to invite a new young acquaintance to share his roof and become his housekeeper was quite another. Especially when he guarded his privacy more fiercely than Fort Knox was famed for guarding its gold bullion.
But it was perfectly true that he did need a housekeeper, and considering Marianne’s shivering form yesterday, watching her struggle to keep warm in the bleak winter weather, Eduardo had suddenly thought it was the ideal solution. But she had turned him down. It was true that he had not really believed that she would accept his offer, but still…it irked him more than a little that she had not. And it was a practical certainty that if he attempted to offer her money again, to help better her situation, she would likely throw it back in his face and instruct him in no uncertain terms to go to hell! She had a temper on her, that was for sure. And it had genuinely shocked him to learn that she was no teenager but twenty-four years old…a woman.
Recalling the flash of fire in her almond-shaped hazel eyes as she’d castigated him for being too intrusive, he felt his skin tighten hotly. Irritably ignoring the unsettling sensation, he strode into the ornate marble bathroom that led off his private suite of rooms and for several moments just stood in the centre of the floor, unsure why he had even gone in there. Restlessly he pushed his fingers through his hair and sighed. It was probably best he curb his philanthropic urges where that particular young woman was concerned and concentrate his efforts on repairing his damaged leg, doubling his belief that one day soon he would be able to walk as well as he had before the accident—confidently, and without even a trace of a limp.
After that…Eduardo moved across to the vanity unit, staring at his reflection in the large oval mirror there and grimacing at the deep shadows wrought beneath his eyes by agony of body and spirit and a severe lack of sleep. After that… Well, he would just have to take one day at a time, he told himself, hardly able to contemplate a future that wasn’t as bleak and pain-filled as the present. How could such a prospect be possible when the two lives most intimately intertwined with his had been ripped away? When every night he relived the terrible nightmare of the accident that had killed them—the accident that he had caused?
Chapter Three
THERE was indeed a heavy snowfall that night, as the fruit vendor had predicted. After surveying the cloak of sparkling white that blanketed her garden as well as the street outside the next morning Marianne tidied the house, made herself a hot drink, then tinkered with an unfinished song she’d been composing on the piano. But her mood was not buoyant, and she struggled to stave off the sense of melancholy that kept threatening to overwhelm her. Finally, unable to bear the enforced isolation a moment longer, she donned a warm coat, boots and a hat over her jeans and sweater and went outside.
The ice in the air snatched at her breath, making her eyes water, but her spirits lifted at just being out in the open again. She took herself off for a long, if laboured walk, due to the impediment of snow, into the park nearby. Just watching the children toboggan down the glistening frosted hillside and hurl snowballs at each other restored her sense of perspective and her good humour. And if any thoughts of the childhood she’d experienced, which had been bereft of similar happy times and feeling secure started to threaten, she firmly pushed them away, knowing it was pointless to contemplate such things when her cheerful mood could so easily regress to one of despair.
By the time she returned home she’d made a vow to fight off any gloomy recollection that might seduce her into unwanted misery. She simply would not allow herself to go there. But by mid-afternoon, when early darkness had descended, impelling her to turn on all the lamps again and draw the curtains, Marianne was sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace, watching the flames lick round the burning coals and crackling twigs, and considering the prospect of life on her own again for the foreseeable future. Donal would be so mad at her for sitting here feeling sorry for herself! That was for sure. And suddenly she was crying. An unstoppable flow of hurt and sadness long dammed up could no longer be contained—making her weep until she was utterly spent and could cry no more.
Taking herself off to bed, she curled up in a foetal position, drawing the duvet right over her head, feeling numbed and empty. Just before she closed her eyes she swore to herself she would never indulge in such futile self-pity again. Tomorrow was a new day, and when the morning light came it would herald a new and more positive beginning. Marianne was adamant about that.
However, on lifting a corner of the bedroom curtains the following morning and being confronted by an even thicker blanket of snow, with a fresh shimmering fall of delicate white descending before her very eyes, she had to draw on every ounce of resolve not to be downcast. During the night she had made her mind up about something, and today there was plenty to occupy her towards implementing that decision.
Donal’s adult children—Michael and Victoria—had contested the will that he’d made, leaving his house and all his belongings to Marianne. For nearly eighteen months she’d endured formal, aloof and cruel letters from their solicitor, stating the reasons for their dispute and insinuating that both she and their father had not been of sound mind, and now she had had enough. They could have the house and everything in it. She would leave it to them without a backward glance or a single regret.
She was certain Donal would forgive her. Everything he’d done for her in helping to restore her low self-esteem and encouraging her to believe in her talents and abilities she totally appreciated, but the truth was Marianne did not want to be beholden to anyone any more. Not even her deceased husband. She needed to be free again…free to live her life the way she chose—however that looked to anyone else. So, from the house she would take just her clothing, her guitar, and what little savings she had put by. Everything else—even the gifts Donal had bought her during their short-lived marriage—she would leave to his avaricious children.
Galvanised into action, she spent the day cleaning the house, restoring stray books to shelves, packing up her things and moving furniture back to where it had been when she had first moved in with Donal. Her body throbbed with satisfying warmth from a job well done, and she was too physically tired to allow even one negative thought to invade her mind. And that night…that night she slept like a baby.
But when she woke the next morning to find that the snow still hadn’t cleared, and with no prospect of getting into town to play her guitar and sing—knowing she would be mad even to try—Marianne impulsively found herself searching for the business card Eduardo de Souza had insisted she take. Lifting the telephone receiver in the hall, she dialled his home number with shaking fingers. Even as she dialled she called herself all kinds of fool for contemplating such a reckless path.
But she could be snowbound for days, she thought, genuine dread invading her as she waited for someone to pick up at the other end. And now that she’d made the decision to leave and forge a new life, a new future, she was eager to put the past behind her and start again. Something had to be done to help improve her situation besides overcoming her fear of performing in public and accepting that she was now on her own again. Unlikely as it seemed, this might, just might, be it.
‘Hello?’ an accented male voice answered.
‘Is that Mr De Souza?’ Marianne ventured, her heart beating like a military tattoo.
‘No. May I ask who is calling?’
It must be his valet, she realised, and taking a deep breath she said clearly, ‘Marianne Lockwood. Is he available to speak?’
After a pause the man replied, ‘Wait a moment, please. I will see.’
There were several times after the man went to locate his employer that Marianne almost put the phone down. What was she doing? she asked herself. She didn’t know the first thing about being a housekeeper, and neither did she know what kind of an employer Eduardo De Souza would turn out to be. No doubt he would be overly serious and exacting, finding constant fault should she fail to measure up, examining her with that intense stare of his and making her rue the day she’d made the impulsive decision to go and work for him.
Yet beneath the cacophony of doubt and apprehension that raged inside her, a stronger more positive instinct was urging Marianne to go for it and give it a try.
‘Marianne?’
Her prospective employer’s voice—impatient and a little out of breath, as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of something and resented it—sounded in her ear.
‘Hello, there. It’s Marianne—the busker from town,’ she explained, a light tremor in her voice. ‘I—I hope you don’t mind me ringing, but you said…’
‘What is it that you need?’
Marianne glanced up to the heavens for courage. ‘A job…and a home,’ she replied, then made herself breathe deeply and mentally count to ten, so that she didn’t succumb to her fears and change her mind. ‘Are you still looking for a housekeeper?’
Sweat broke out on Eduardo’s brow. The visiting physiotherapist might have been a torturer straight out of the Spanish Inquisition, he thought grimly as the man manipulated his scar-criss-crossed leg into yet another excruciatingly painful position to test its flexibility. He swore…loudly. The therapist looked startled and carefully moved his patient’s leg back down onto the treatment couch with a murmured apology. Staring up at the ornately plastered Victorian ceiling in the library as he lay there, Eduardo sensed his racing heart slowly return to a more normal rhythm.
‘Are we finished?’ he asked, gravel-voiced.
The sandy-haired physio gave him a respectful and sympathetic smile. ‘I agree you’ve probably had enough for now, Mr De Souza. My advice is to take it easy for the rest of the day. Try and get some proper rest tonight, and don’t overdo things.’
‘Do they teach you at medical school to come out with these clichéd platitudes?’ Eduardo remarked irritably, swinging his legs over the side of the table and ignoring the other man’s immediate move to help him.
Unoffended, the man smiled again. ‘Sometimes rest really is the best course of action when dealing with any kind of physical trauma,’ he explained. ‘The body needs to access its own powers of healing, and rest gives it the opportunity to do that. I realise it may have been a little uncomfortable for you today, but the fact is your leg is definitely recovering from that last operation. Another month or two and you should notice a significant improvement when walking. I can practically guarantee it.’
‘Give me your hand,’ Eduardo muttered, and accepted help to stand—though it psychologically pained him to accept anyone’s help these days, when he had previously been so fit and able.
Hearing the heavy oak front door open downstairs, then shut again with a sonorous clunk, he remembered that he’d instructed Ricardo to take the four-by-four and go and collect Marianne. Ironic that he had been reflecting on his resistance to accepting help when he had just effectively hired a girl he had only recently met to come and live in his house and act as his housekeeper!
What had made her change her mind about accepting the post? he speculated. Perhaps it wasn’t so difficult to deduce. Common sense had simply prevailed, and the plummeting temperatures had forced her to make a more sensible decision about her living and working arrangements after all. At least now he would not have her wellbeing on his conscience, as he imagined her standing at the roadside singing and ending up in hospital with hypothermia!
‘Sounds like you’ve got company,’ the therapist said cheerfully. ‘Why don’t you let me tidy up here, then I’ll be on my way?’
‘Ricardo…Take Miss Lockwood’s coat and hang it up, if you would, and when you’re done perhaps she would like a mug of hot chocolate to warm her up? We will be in the sitting room.’
Watching Ricardo help their visitor out of her too-large tweed overcoat and then leave, Eduardo skimmed his gaze over the medley of colourful clothing the girl wore underneath, and the curtain of long rippling hair over which she’d jammed the quite outrageously bright cerise woollen hat. He frowned.
‘It might be a good idea to remove your hat too,’ he suggested, the urge to smile suddenly too overwhelming to resist.
‘Oh. I forgot.’ Grabbing it off her head, Marianne stuffed it into the large bag made up of multi-coloured velvet squares that she’d temporarily left on the smooth marble floor in front of her.
For a few moments static electricity turned her light brown hair into a wild and silken tangle, and Eduardo could not help but stare at the arresting picture she made. A cinematic image of Mary Poppins the quintessential eccentric and pretty English nanny appeared in his mind. She sang too, he remembered, this time without amusement. Being bereft of the child he might have had, he was in no need of a nanny but a housekeeper. Someone who might help make his day-to-day living in self-imposed exile a little more bearable and smooth-running.
‘Follow me,’ he instructed, moving down a corridor that led away from the generously proportioned hall, with its solid brass chandelier, and bypassing several closed doors before finally reaching one that was slightly ajar. Painfully and bitterly aware of his limp, he leaned a little too heavily on his walking cane and turned into the comfortably furnished sitting room. The only noise was the crackle and hiss of the blazing fire and the sedative ticking of the clock on the marble mantel. He stood aside to let Marianne precede him.
‘Oh, how beautiful!’
Her gaze was not on the room itself, he saw, but on the incredible view that the tall curved windows with their parted drapes displayed. Eduardo sensed an arrow of pride shoot through him as he stared through the unadorned glass at the silhouette of majestic firs against the navy blue skyline. Stars were dotted about like splashed pinpricks of luminous paint, and a dazzling crescent moon hung suspended as though it were a bright magical toy controlled by a master puppeteer. He heard her softly appreciative gasp of pleasure.
