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‘You don’t want me teaching him safe-cracking,’ Clare cut in abruptly. ‘Yes, I know. I heard.’
His lips thinned even more. ‘Actually, I was about to comment on your age. My sister led me to believe that you were in your late twenties.’
‘I’m twenty-six,’ Clare declared.
He was clearly surprised. ‘You don’t look it.’
‘I can prove it.’
‘I wasn’t saying you were lying...’ he sighed at her surliness ‘...merely that you seem much younger... Look, why don’t we go inside and discuss the matter over tea?’
Clare shrugged once more. ‘Is there any point, Mr Marchand? You’ve made your opinions clear enough. You won’t employ an ex-con and who’s to blame you? If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t employ me either,’ she admitted with dark humour.
Surprisingly it drew a smile from the man. ‘You’re honest, at any rate.’
‘That’s not what the judge thought,’ Clare said in the same flippant vein, showing the hardness that had got her through three years in prison.
‘Yes, well,’ Marchand continued, ‘my sister tells me you’re innocent... Are you?’
His directness was disconcerting but oddly it made Clare like him better. Not enough, however, to volunteer her life story.
‘Possibly,’ she replied on a cryptic note.
‘And possibly not?’ He lifted an enquiring brow, but she just stared back at him without expression. ‘You don’t give away much, Miss...what is your name?’
‘Anderson.’
‘Miss Anderson.’ He inclined his head as if they were just meeting, then, curling his fingers round her elbow, began steering her back towards the house.
A swift dig in the ribs might have secured her release but Clare had no taste for scenes. She’d already had more than enough drama for one day.
Louise Carlton was waiting for them at the front door. ‘I’m terribly sorry, dear.’ The older woman smiled in apology. ‘I’m not sure how much you heard, but you mustn’t take it to heart. It’s just Fen’s way. He doesn’t mean half of it. Do you?’ she appealed to her brother.
He contradicted her utterly. ‘I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t meant it, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. Miss Anderson isn’t a fool... Are you?’ he directed at Clare.
‘I try not to be,’ she answered drily, and it drew the merest flicker of a smile from him.
‘So, Lou,’ he continued to his sister, ‘if you could possibly have tea brought into the study, I’ll talk to Miss Anderson there.’
‘I...yes, fine.’ Louise’s eyes questionned Clare as to what was happening. Clare spread her hands in a gesture that said she didn’t know, before following him to the far end of the hall.
His study was a very masculine room, decorated in sombre dark colours and dominated by a large leather-bound desk covered in papers. He sat down behind it and waved Clare into the chair opposite. She sat reluctantly.
He slipped on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. They still failed to make him professorial. He had the looks of an actor, a hybrid of Robert Redford and Charles Dance. Clare thought it just as well he had neither man’s charm.
Pen in hand, he asked her point-blank, ‘Now, what experience have you of running a house?’
‘Not much,’ she admitted, then, before he could go on, said, ‘Look, I realise you’re giving me this interview because you promised Mrs Carlton, but I’d prefer not to bother. You don’t wish to hire someone with a prison record. I accept that. I’ll be able to catch an earlier train back to London.’
‘You’re very blunt, aren’t you?’ He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her, before asking, ‘Where do you live in London?’
Clare didn’t see the relevance of the question, but answered it all the same. ‘Kennington.’
‘In a flat?’
‘No, in a hostel...for ex-offenders.’
‘What’s it like?’ he enquired with passing curiosity.
‘A palace,’ she replied sardonically, resenting his interest.
He pulled a face. ‘Is there nowhere else you can go? Friends? Relatives?’
Clare shook her head.
‘How long have you lived there?’ he pursued.
‘Since I was released,’ she told him, ‘a week ago.’
‘And presumably you can stay there till you’ve arranged alternative accommodation,’ he concluded, wrongly.
Clare shook her head again. ‘There’s a three-month limit.’
‘So what happens if you haven’t found anywhere else?’ He frowned.
She shrugged. She hadn’t let herself think that far. ‘I’ll manage,’ she said on a defensive note.
But he wouldn’t let it go. ‘You won’t if you end up on the streets,’ he stated grimly. ‘No job, no home. It’s a vicious circle.’
Clare’s eyes narrowed at this little lecture. What did he know about it? ‘I’ll survive,’ she claimed with the hard confidence of someone who’d already been there.
‘I suppose you will,’ he said, giving her another measuring look that wasn’t entirely pleasant. ‘A good-looking woman never needs to starve.’
Arguably it was a compliment, but not the way he said it. Mr Fen Marchand clearly didn’t have a very high opinion of women.
Clare didn’t care enough to argue the point and remained silent. Let someone else deal with his hang-ups.
‘You certainly don’t seem too anxious to get this job, Miss Anderson.’ He switched back to his normal pomposity. ‘So far, you’ve said little to impress... You have no experience of running a house, and I don’t suppose you have any experience of handling wilful eleven-year-olds?’
Clare shook her head, then, recalling what Louise had told her, enquired, ‘Did your last housekeeper?’
‘As a matter of fact, she did,’ he announced crisply, ‘being a widowed lady with three grown-up sons.’
‘And how long was she with you?’ Clare already knew the answer.
‘I...well...I don’t think that’s relevant.’ He evaded the admission that the last incumbent had lasted a fortnight. ‘It seemed she had a weak heart and found the housework more of a strain than she’d anticipated.’
I bet, Clare muttered to herself, thinking of two reasons alone that might have hastened the woman’s departure: Marchand senior and his abrasive manner, and Marchand junior and his taste for pranks.
‘Anyway, Mrs Brown isn’t the issue,’ he said dismissively and rose from behind his desk.
Clare assumed the interview was at an end, but, when she made to stand, he waved her back in her seat. ‘I’m just going to see where Louise has got with the afternoon tea.’
Clare started to say, I think I should just go, but he’d left the room before she could get the words out. Rude man. She was left twiddling her thumbs and wondering if she shouldn’t give everybody a break and leave by the study’s French windows.
She was actually contemplating it when a figure blocked her escape route. He stood at the open window for a moment, staring at her, before deciding to enter.
‘Where’s my old man?’ he demanded in a manner so arrogant that his parentage couldn’t be doubted. The origin of his blond good looks was also fairly evident. The only difference between the two was one of accent—while Fen Marchand spoke with a perfect BBC accent, Miles had a slight American drawl.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Clare answered him offhandedly. She made no attempt to engage him in further conversation.
The young boy wasn’t discouraged. Instead he went round to sit behind his father’s desk. ‘Has he offered you the job yet?’
This time Clare didn’t answer, looking straight through him instead.
‘No? Well, I wouldn’t take it if he does,’ the boy advised. ‘The pay’s lousy, for a start, and my dad’s an even lousier boss. As for me, I can’t help it. I’m disturbed, personality-wise.’
‘You do surprise me,’ Clare said, irony in her tone.
It was lost on the boy. ‘I should have an analyst. All the kids in L.A. have an analyst, but my dad’s too mean to pay for one.’
‘Really?’ Clare sounded less than interested in this information. She didn’t have too much sympathy for poor little rich boys—not any more.
Miles Marchand frowned at her reaction. He was trying to shock, not bore his audience.
He tried again. ‘So, tell me, do you have the hots for him?’
‘What?’ Clare blinked at the leap in conversation.
‘My dad, do you have the hots for him?’ he repeated patiently. ‘That’s what they say in America. It means—’
‘I know what it means, and most certainly not!’ Clare denied, angered for the first time.
‘OK, OK. Keep your hair on.’ Miles Marchand shrugged off his suggestion. ‘I was only asking. Lots of women do. The last housekeeper but one was crazy about him.’
‘So, what did you do to her?’ Clare decided it was time to go on the offensive with this monster. ‘Frogs in the bed? Dead mice on the doorstep?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ he dismissed, ‘that’s kid’s stuff. I was much more subtle.’
‘Oh, yes?’ Clare lifted a sceptical brow. ‘Don’t tell me, you just concentrated on being as rude and obnoxious as possible, and that did the trick. Well, I wouldn’t bother wasting your talents on me, kiddo.’
‘Why not?’ he demanded.
‘Well, apart from the fact I’m tougher and meaner than you could ever hope to be,’ Clare claimed extravagantly, ‘it’s not likely your dad’s going to employ me.’
‘Why not?’ the boy repeated.
Clare was tempted to tell him. She was sure the boy would be thrilled to have a real live criminal in the house.
She eventually said, ‘I haven’t the right qualifications.’
‘Oh, that’s no problem,’ the boy replied airily. ‘He’s so desperate, he’ll take anyone.’
‘Thanks,’ muttered Clare and the boy grinned wickedly.
Marchand caught the grin as he returned to the study with a tray of tea things. ‘Miles, what are you doing in here?’ he asked rather sternly.
‘Nothing.’ The boy’s face changed to sullenness as he slipped from his father’s chair.
‘He hasn’t been rude to you, has he?’ Marchand directed at Clare.
Before she could answer, the boy put in, ‘I was just talking to her...wasn’t I?’
Clare nodded and volunteered, ‘About his life in America.’
The boy shot her a look, half-plea, half-threat, and a small smile played on her lips as she kept him on tenterhooks for a moment, before she gave a slight shake of her head.
The man’s eyes switched from one to the other, picking up messages but unable to interpret them.
‘Well, Miles, I haven’t finished interviewing Miss—er—yet,’ he finally said. ‘Your aunt has tea ready for you in the kitchen.’
‘OK.’ The boy shrugged, then said to Clare, ‘Catch you later, maybe,’ as he slouched from the room.
Clare wondered what he meant, what the grin on his face promised. Nothing good, she suspected.
Marchand looked bemused, saying with near wonder, ‘He seems to like you.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’ Clare suspected the boy liked noboby right at that moment—including himself. She didn’t know if he was disturbed, but he was certainly mixed-up and unhappy.
‘No, well...he can be a handful,’ Marchand admitted in something of an understatement, before he poured tea into two cups and left Clare to help herself to milk and sugar.
Clare did so as he went on, ‘You see, Miles has been through a difficult time. His mother...she and I parted seven years ago. Miles stayed with me for the first three years, then he went to live with her... She died in an accident six months ago.’
Marchand relayed this information reluctantly, and Clare realised there was a whole lot more he wasn’t saying. But she showed no curiosity and didn’t invite him to continue. The truth was she didn’t want to know about Miles Marchand’s problems. She had enough of her own.
‘He’s not the easiest of children in consequence,’ Marchand concluded, ‘and needs careful handling. However, I should be spending much of my time round the house until autumn term begins and I intend to organise activities for the boy. I would expect a housekeeper to supervise him occasionally, along with the normal household duties... So, any questions?’
‘No.’ Clare saw no point in asking questions. He wasn’t going to employ her. Why should he?
‘None?’ He frowned at her apparent uninterest, and, when she remained silent, added shortly, ‘In that case, if you leave your address, I’ll let you know, Miss...’
‘All right.’ She stood up, placed her half-finished tea on the tray, and surprised him by offering her hand to shake.
‘I’ll show you out,’ he said, when she started to turn and walk from the room.
‘That’s OK.’ Clare would happily have found her own way to the front door, but he followed behind her.
They’d reached the doorstep before he asked, ‘How did you get here? By car?’
