Screaming Yellow. Rachel Green
“I’m so sorry.” She stood to one side to let them pass into the hall, decorated with paintings on either side of a paneled door. “I heard you knock but I was up to my elbows in entrails. I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
Jennifer smiled. “Long enough to feel the chill. It’s purgatory out there.”
“Jennifer!” Simon’s feigned outrage was sufficient admonishment.
“Good evening, Father, Miss Brande.” Mary trotted down the stairs with a smile almost wide enough to reach her eyes. “Amanda! Don’t just stand there! Take their coats.”
“Hello there.” Simon shrugged off his mac and handed it to the maid. He turned to Mary. “I hear you have some good news.”
“You’ve already heard!” She grinned even wider. “Isn’t it wonderful? I can hardly believe it myself.”
“I’m so pleased for you.” Jennifer kissed the blushing cheek and threw a glance at Simon from behind Mary’s back. “You must tell me all about it.”
“I admit I was surprised when Richard asked me.” She looked from Jennifer to Simon and back. “I didn’t think he had much interest in marriage, at least not with me. Since we’d known each other for so long I assumed he just thought of me as a sister or something.”
“He certainly seems to think more of you than a sister now.” Jennifer folded Mary’s hand into the crook of her arm and led her into the sitting room. “When’s the big day?” She left Simon in the hall, aware he’d take the opportunity to look at the Victorian paintings.
* * * *
“There you are, Father. I thought we’d lost you.” Robert Markhew appeared from the direction of the kitchen, wiping a spot of grease from his beard with a napkin. “I saw Mary talking to Jennifer and wondered where you’d gone.”
“I was just looking at this Pieta.” Simon indicated a large oil depicting Christ on the cross, a tearful Mary Magdalene washing his bloody feet with her tears. “Our Lady of Pity.”
“It’s been in the family for years.” Robert put an arm around Simon’s shoulders and guided him toward the sitting room. “I’ll leave it to you in my will, if you like.”
“Ah, I’m flattered but I couldn’t accept. Vows of poverty, remember?”
“I’ll leave it to the church, then. Pity for St. Pity’s.”
“Splendid. Thank you.” Simon twisted to look back at the painting. “It’ll hang in the Lady’s Chapel.”
“As you wish.” Robert sighed. “You’ve heard the news, I suppose? Richard’s engagement?”
“Indeed I have.” Simon smiled. “Congratulations are in order, I believe.”
“I expect so.” Robert nudged Simon’s arm. “Sly little bugger, eh? Still, it keeps everything in the family. Shall we go in? I believe dinner is ready.”
* * * *
Nicole knocked softly on the door to Peter’s cottage. As the gardener and handyman he had the place to himself, a cottage built originally as an adjunct to the main house for visitors to occupy. It served Peter very well, leaving him free to work at any hour without disturbing the rest of the occupants.
It served Nicole well, too. No noise carried from Peter’s cottage to the rest of the house, leaving them free to pursue a relationship outside that of Sir Robert and the rest of the family.
He knew about it, naturally. Little went on at The Larches without Robert knowing the details, but as long as their activities didn’t impinge on either their work or his demands he allowed their relationship to flourish.
After no reply to her knock, Nicole tried the handle. The cottage was empty, Peter’s coat missing from the hook on the back of the door. She kicked off her shoes and went into the bedroom, switching on the two wall lights to bathe the room in a soft glow.
She pulled off her dress and put some music on, selecting a book from the shelves to read. Peter wasn’t one for fiction, preferring instead to acquaint himself with the intricacies of whichever cars the house owned or the complexities of maintaining a large garden for year-round color and cut flowers. Between the manuals for the lawn mowers and the Jaguar, though, was a slim volume of poetry. She took it out and sat on the bed in the uniform stockings and underwear Robert Markhew dictated his female staff should wear and began to read.
Much of the book comprised haiku, each one a glimpse into the life of the writer. Nicole flicked back to the cover, where the author was listed as Paul Oldman. She flicked back to the page she’d just read:
secretary smile.
she takes down all he dictates–
silk stocking, torn.
Nicole frowned. It sounded like her. Could Peter have written this under a pseudonym?
She read through several more of the poems. Here was one about Robert, one about love, one about sex between two men…
The minutes ticked by into an hour. The CD she’d put on had begun to repeat the first song and she realized she hadn’t heard the other tracks. She’d read the entire volume by the time she heard the outer door open and Peter’s gruff baritone.
“Who’s here?” He came into the bedroom, his smile when he saw her creasing the corners of his eyes. “Did we have an arrangement tonight? I must have forgotten.”
Nicole held up the book of poetry and his face fell. “Did you write this?”
He nodded, crossing the gap between the door and the bed to sit next to her. He fumbled for her hand. “Don’t tell anyone. We’re not supposed to profit from our positions here.”
“That depends how good you are.” She reached back and unhooked her bra. “Let’s make haiku together.”
* * * *
The dinner was a quiet affair if you discounted Mary’s constant monologue about her engagement. Jennifer was sick of hearing about it even before the main course was served. There were only so many times one could feign interest.
“Have you met Amanda?” asked Robert, when the girl who’d opened the front door came in to take away the remains of the soup course. “She’s staying with us for a little while for some training.”
“Briefly, at the door.” Simon half stood and held out his hand. “How do you do? I’m Father Brande and this is my sister, Jennifer.”
Jennifer smiled, noticing the maid’s honey complexion. “Where are you from, Amanda? Spain?”
“No, ma’am. Basingstoke. My mother’s Spanish, though.” Amanda had a soft, lilting voice and was clearly nervous in front of guests. She gathered up the bowls with an efficiency any restaurateur would envy.
“How long have you had her?” Simon asked when Amanda left the room.
“What?” Robert seemed startled by the question. “Oh. A month or two. Not long. She’s quite good, isn’t she?”
“Quite.”
Jennifer raised her eyebrows but Simon seemed to be deliberately looking away. This at least was a piece of news and she wondered how to work Amanda into her web of Robert’s theoretical harem.
Simon busied himself with his napkin. “Is Susan all right? She was leaving just as we arrived.”
“Was she?” Robert looked around the table. “I hadn’t noticed she wasn’t here, to be frank. Her duties are fairly light with Richard away.”
“Talking of which, how did he propose?” Simon addressed the question to Mary, who was only too happy to discuss the unexpected web chat that initiated