Without Trust. PENNY JORDAN
told her. ‘I’ve arranged an interview for you for two-thirty this afternoon, although I don’t think you’ll have any problems. Mrs Mayers is quite convinced that you’ll suit her.’
He turned away from her when he spoke into the telephone, making it plain that he expected her to leave. Feeling rather bemused, Lark did so. When she had come to see him this morning, the very last thing she had expected was the offer of a job—especially not one that sounded almost too like a fairy-tale, and too good to be true.
It probably was too good to be true, she admitted as she walked down three flights of stairs and out into the cool air. Although officially it was spring, it was still almost cold enough to be winter, the trees barely in bud. She shivered beneath the cold wind, wishing she could afford to go and sit somewhere warm and order herself a decent meal.
No cooking was allowed in the bedsits, but in reality all the tenants had their own small gas or electric rings. Hers was tiny and only really fit for heating up a can of soup or the odd tin of beans, neither of which was particularly tempting at the moment.
She was hungry, but lunch was a luxury she could no longer really afford. Would this Mrs Mayers really want to employ her? The salary her solicitor had mentioned had indeed been generous, far more generous than the amount she had been receiving with the PR company.
She had tried to ask him what her duties would be, but he had been very vague on the subject, saying that Mrs Mayers would explain everything to her. She felt oddly reluctant to go for the interview, which was ridiculous under the circumstances. Had the ordeal of the last few months scarred her so much that she was actually afraid of meeting new people? Afraid of seeing in their eyes the dislike and contempt she had already seen in so many people’s eyes, including those of James Wolfe?
James Wolfe—there he was again, back in her thoughts. How on earth had he managed to get there, and how on earth was she going to get rid of him?
He had absolutely no right to keep on pushing his way into her life, into her mind, into her thoughts, she thought distractedly as she hurried down the street. It was barely twelve o’clock; two and a half hours before she needed to attend her appointment, but it was on the other side of London in St John’s Wood …
Lark stood outside a pretty little Victorian villa that some rich man had probably built for his mistress. There was a time when St John’s Wood had been notorious for such dwellings. Now, of course, it was eminently respectable and an area to which only the extremely wealthy could aspire.
Her particular destination was set behind a high wall. Lark tried the gates and then realised that they were locked. A discreet metal plaque set into one of the brick pillars startled her by bursting into speech.
‘Do come in, Miss Cummings. We’ve unlocked the gates for you now.’ The woman’s voice was late middle-aged rather than elderly, pleasant, with more than just a hint of warmth. Had she heard it in any other circumstances, Lark would have felt immediately drawn to its owner. As it was she felt too nervous, too on edge to do anything than give a startled glance at the gates and then try them again.
This time, of course, they opened. The front garden was large by London standards. Early shrubs were just beginning to burst into blossom against the walls, crocuses were dotted here and there on the smooth green lawn. Despite its very obvious elegance, the house had an almost comfortable air about it.
A dark blue Rolls-Royce was parked discreetly to one side of the front door. Was she supposed to go to the front door, or should she go round the back? Lark wondered bemusedly. It was the kind of house that made one start thinking about such things. Her dilemma was solved for her when the front door opened.
She walked into the parquet-floored hall, and was immediately struck by the pleasant scent of sandalwood which greeted her.
‘Ah, I’m glad you like it. Some people don’t. I can’t understand why, can you? It always makes me think of sailing ships and the China seas, possibly because originally sandalwood was from the Orient. Oh, dear me, please excuse my chatter, I’m always like this when I’m nervous, I’m afraid. Come on into the sitting-room.’
Was this her would-be employer? This small, pretty woman, with her pepper and salt curls and ingenuous smile? She barely reached her shoulder, Lark noticed as they both paused in the entrance to the sitting-room.
‘Oh, I forgot to take your coat. It’s so cold out, isn’t it? I’ve lived in this country for nearly forty years, and yet I still miss our New England springs.’
The American accent was barely discernible, and had a twang with which Lark wasn’t familiar.
‘I wanted to invite you to have lunch with me,’ Mrs Mayers was saying as she ushered her into a pretty sitting-room decorated in soft blues and yellows. A fire burned cheerfully in the grate, and Lark couldn’t resist a soft exclamation of pleasure as she looked around her.
‘I’m so glad you like it. My son doesn’t approve at all. He thinks it’s far too frivolous and feminine. Do come and sit down. I’ll get Cora to bring us some tea, or would you prefer coffee?’
Her hostess was charming but rather obviously slightly dizzy, and Lark couldn’t help wondering how on earth she had come to be the chairwoman of a charity committee. Surely such a role demanded great organisational skills?
It had been a long time since anyone had treated Lark with such warmth and friendliness, and she found herself responding to it like a thirsty plant soaking up rain. It was several minutes before she could interrupt her hostess for long enough to ask her exactly what the job would entail.
For a moment or two Mrs Mayers looked rather vague.
‘Oh, yes, the job. Well, my dear, here’s Cora with the tea.’
Cora proved to be a late-middle-aged woman with dark hair and a round face in which brown eyes snapped energetically and curiously. Mrs Mayers introduced them, and Lark was very conscious of Cora’s scrutiny as she put down the tea tray.
‘Cora’s been with us for years,’ Mrs Mayers told her when the other woman had left. ‘I don’t know what on earth I would do without her.’
‘Mrs Mayers, the job …’ Lark prodded gently.
‘The job, oh, yes! Well, my dear, I can’t tell you exactly what your duties would be other than to say that you would be acting as my personal assistant.’ Suddenly she sounded brisker, less vague. ‘The charity’s only a small one. We have a branch here in London and another one in Boston, which is not, perhaps, as odd as it seems.’ A rather sad smile touched her face. ‘My first husband was, like myself, from Boston. Our families had known one another for years.’ She made a slight face. ‘That’s how it is in Boston. We’re a conservative lot, I’m afraid. I became involved with the charity after the deaths of my husband and son. Both of them died from an inherited genetic complaint. My husband knew nothing about it. There had been cousins, other members of the family who had died in their early thirties, but in those days …’ She shrugged, her eyes suddenly very sad. ‘When John, our son, was born, neither of us had any idea. He died when he was ten. In some cases the disease is more progressive then in others. My husband died twelve months later. He suffered such a lot, poor man, not just from the illness itself, but from his guilt over what had happened to John. He said before he died that, had he known, he would never have married me.’ She smiled again. ‘Perhaps it is selfish of me to be glad that he did not.’
She said it with such quiet sincerity that Lark felt a lump rise in her throat. This woman was the antithesis of everything she had expected before she came for the interview. She realised now that she had been guilty of judging her on surface evidence alone.
‘My husband was a wealthy man,’ Mrs Mayers continued quietly. ‘Very wealthy. I used some of the money he had left me to set up the charity. In those days my first thoughts were that perhaps somehow we might be able to find out what caused the hereditary defect which gave rise to his death and that of our child. Those early days were probably what saved my sanity, but that was a long time ago. Now it’s very different. These days we’re far better organised,