Emma Richmond - The Boss's Bride

‘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 The puce of last evening had been replaced by yellow.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 to laugh outright at the feudality of it all, Claris bit her lip. ‘My family home is in Leicester. And if you’re about to ask me what my father did, or if my parents were married, please don’t,’ she added pleasantly. ‘Don’t let your tea get cold.’

‘No.’ Raising her cup, Mrs Staple Smythe slowly sipped—and tried again. ‘We were all so excited when we heard Mr Turmaine was coming to take up residence amongst us. Such a shame to leave a beautiful old house like this in the hands of caretakers. Mr Turmaine was born here, I believe?’

‘Yes,’ Claris agreed, and knew very well that Mrs Staple Smythe had probably researched the whole family back to William the Conqueror. ‘Did you know his father?’

‘No,’ she denied with obvious regret. ‘And although you obviously think my concerns about who lives in the village very silly, if we don’t find out what people do, what sort of background they have, there is a very real danger that the community will degenerate.’

‘I understand perfectly, and I promise that I will try not to be the cause of any—degeneration. And now, I’m afraid, I really am very busy.’ Standing, she waited for Mrs Staple Smythe to do the same. ‘I’ll make sure Mr Turmaine gets the schedule, but I’m afraid I can’t promise that he will do anything about it. As I said earlier, his free time is rather limited. I’ll see you out, shall I?’

With quite obvious reluctance, she followed Claris into the hall. ‘It’s a beautiful house,’ she commented stiffly.

‘Yes.’

‘Very old, of course.’

‘Yes. Thank you for calling, and for inviting us to meet everyone. Goodbye.’

With nowhere left to go but out, Mrs Staple Smythe rather ungraciously retreated. Claris thankfully closed the door on her.

‘Very masterful,’ Adam complimented from the top of the stairs.

Looking up, she gave him an unsmiling glance. ‘I’ve been taking leaves out of your book. She brought your schedule.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your schedule.’ Opening the piece of paper she still held in her hand, she quickly glanced at it and then handed it across as he slowly descended the stairs. ‘Dates of the committee meetings I imagine you are expected to attend.’

He crumpled it.

‘I also imagine that Mrs Staple Smythe and her cronies will make life very difficult for you if you don’t—comply.’