The Boss's Bride. Emma Richmond
room, she changed out of her suit into a loose skirt and top, shoved her feet into flat, comfy sandals, clipped the alarm to her belt, and went down to the kitchen to beg a cup of coffee from Lydia.
The housekeeper wasn’t a great one for chatting, but then neither was Claris. Accepting her coffee with a smile, she walked back to the study. Adam still stood in the centre of the floor, wiping his hands, a look of distraction on his strong face. And the phone was ringing.
Picking up the receiver, she listened, nodded, then agreed quietly, ‘That will be fine.’ Replacing the phone, she scribbled a note in the diary and then glanced at her employer. He had moved to stare through the door into the side garden. ‘Mackenzie will come and see you about the land on Friday afternoon,’ she told him.
He gave an absent nod and began to walk out, no doubt to continue tinkering with his old car. The old car that was entered in the endurance rally to be held the following month. The rally he would now have to miss.
Seconds later he was back.
‘That woman’s out there,’ he informed her, almost accusingly.
Her lips twitched. ‘Which woman?’
‘Puce.’
‘Puce?’ she asked in bewilderment as he headed towards the hall, and then realised who he meant. ‘Oh.’
‘I’m going to have a shower.’
‘Adam,’ she warned.
Ignoring her, he continued out, and she heard his soft footsteps as he ascended the stairs.
Moments later Lydia appeared, to tell her that a Mrs Staple Smythe was here.
With yet another invitation? Claris wondered. Tempted to tell Lydia to get rid of her, she opened her mouth to do so, and then changed her mind. Perhaps she ought to see her, try and get things onto a warmer footing. Alienating neighbours was never a good plan. ‘Show her into the lounge, would you, Lydia?’ she asked resignedly.
‘Tea? Best china?’
‘I’m tempted to tell you to use chipped mugs, if we had any, which I don’t suppose we do…’
‘I’m sure I could manufacture some,’ Lydia proposed helpfully.
Laughing, Claris shook her head. ‘No, but use the smallest cups you can find. I feel I ought to see her, but I don’t want a prolonged visit.’ Upsetting Mrs Staple Smythe wouldn’t achieve anything, might even do untold harm, and this was why Adam paid her so well, after all: to deal with the minor, and sometimes major irritations in his life. Mrs Staple Smythe, she thought gloomily, was definitely one of the latter ones. But she had clout, Claris had discovered, and if Adam’s life was to run smoothly then the Mrs Staple Smythes of this world couldn’t be entirely ignored. Unfortunately.
Walking across the hall, she observed the other woman unseen for a moment. She looked as though she were mentally pricing every ornament and picture. The puce of last evening had been replaced by yellow. Pearl studs graced her ears, a pearl choker her neck. Rather overdressed for an afternoon visit.
Claris cleared her throat and walked into the room. ‘Mrs Staple Smythe,’ she greeted politely. ‘How nice of you to call. Won’t you sit down? The housekeeper will bring us some tea.’
‘Thank you.’
When she was seated, Claris took the chair opposite.
‘I thought I saw Mr Turmaine…?’ Allowing the question to hang in the air, Mrs Staple Smythe waited.
‘He’s unavailable, I’m afraid. What can I do for you?’
‘I don’t imagine you can do anything for me, Miss Newman,’ she said with a sweetness that grated. ‘It was merely a social call.’
‘I see.’ And reproof that they hadn’t sent a little note to thank her for her party? Deciding that offence was better than defence, Claris added, ‘I was just about to pen you a thank-you note. As you can no doubt imagine, having only just moved in, everything has been at sixes and sevens, but there’s really no excuse for my tardiness.’
‘ Your tardiness?’ asked Mrs Staple Smythe pointedly, and then gave a silly little laugh. ‘I get so confused with all these modern arrangements, people living together. “Partners” they call them now, don’t they?’
‘Do they?’ Claris asked unhelpfully.
Not one whit discomfited, and clearly determined to find out all she could, Mrs Staple Smythe continued, ‘Small towns are such a hotbed of gossip. You were seen arriving with the baby, and naturally everyone was—interested.’
‘Naturally,’ Claris agreed.
Glancing at the baby alarm still clipped to Claris’s belt, she asked. ‘He’s yours?’
‘His name’s Nathan,’ Claris answered naughtily, as though she’d misunderstood the question, ‘and here comes Lydia with our tea.’
Smiling at the housekeeper, who could make a clam appear voluble, Claris asked her to put the tray on the small table. Lydia nodded and retreated.
‘She isn’t local,’ Mrs Staple Smythe commented.
‘No. Do you take milk and sugar?’
‘Milk, no sugar. You come from London, do you?’
‘Yes. How long have you lived here?’
‘Oh, for ever,’ she laughed.
‘One of the leading lights?’ Claris asked pleasantly.
‘On the committee, of course. To deal with local matters. It is, of course, traditional for the owner of the Manor to show an interest in local affairs. Naturally, with Mr Turmaine living away, it would have been a little difficult for him to participate. But now that he’s back…’
He’d be expected to, what? Sit on committees? Oh, boy. Wondering how to delicately phrase a warning that Adam was unlikely to do any such thing, Claris slowly poured the tea and handed it over. ‘Does his aunt—participate?’
She looked astonished. ‘Of course not. She lives in Rye,’ she said, as though that adequately answered the question. Seeing Claris’s puzzlement, she elaborated shortly, ‘Wentsham is a separate entity. We have our own way of doing things. Only residents have any say in anything.’
And woe betide anyone who didn’t do as they were told?
‘I would really have preferred to explain all this to Mr Turmaine.’
‘He’s a very busy man,’ Claris managed diplomatically.
‘Perhaps if you could just tell him I’m here?’ she prompted.
‘It wouldn’t do any good, I’m afraid. He left strict instructions not to be disturbed.’
With a sigh that sounded both disbelieving and cross, Mrs Staple Smythe opened her bag, removed a folded piece of paper and handed it across. ‘Perhaps you would make sure he gets it. It’s our summer schedule.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Harriet wasn’t quite sure who you were,’ she continued busily. ‘What role you might play in her nephew’s life.’
‘Wasn’t she?’
Thwarted, Mrs Staple Smythe ground her teeth. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I’m not trying to be nosy…’
Yes, you are, Claris thought.
‘…but it’s a little difficult to know how to deal with you.’ She smiled, as if to take the sting out of her words. ‘You’re his social secretary, perhaps? Act as his hostess?’ The questions were asked with an air of disbelief, as though no one of Mrs Staple Smythe’s standing could possibly understand a man of Adam’s breeding associating with a—nobody. ‘I don’t believe I know of any Newmans. Your family home is where?’
Tempted