Anne Mather - Whisper Of Darkness

The child was something else. She found it incredible to believe that the uncouth demon of the copse was in reality an eleven-year-old girl ! What was her father thinking of, allowing her to run around in that state, and with a loaded shotgun in her hand? She could have killed herself. She could have killed Joanna! And after all, that was the greater of the two evils so far as Joanna was concerned.

The child’s cries had subsided to a muffled sobbing by the time they reached the gates of Ravengarth, but Joanna could not find it in her heart to feel sorry for her. She had to be crazy, brandishing a deadly weapon like that, and Joanna’s belief in her own capabilities suffered a distinct setback at the prospect of teaching such a child.

A pair of long-haired sheepdogs set up a noisy barking at their approach, bounding out to greet them with more excitement than aggression. They fawned around their master and his charge for a moment, and then came to inspect Joanna, apparently finding her equally acceptable. As watchdogs they were decidedly unprofessional, thought Joanna dryly, but as pets they were adorable.

The man let go of the child as they entered a gloomy entrance hall, unpleasantly scented with the smell of boiled cabbage, and administering a distinct slap to her small backside, bade her go and make herself respectable immediately. Then, as she scampered towards the stairs that curved round two walls of the hall, he turned sharply into a room on his left, asking Joanna to follow him.

Joanna did so, after setting down her suitcase with great relief. As she straightened, however, her eyes again encountered those of the child now leaning dangerously far over the banister rail, and the impudent contempt in that stare made her long to repeat the punishment her father had given, with interest. If she had to take this job, and in spite of her vain posturings she hadn’t much alternative, sooner or later Miss Sheldon would have to understand she was no longer dealing with some timid, self-effacing old lady.

The room into which her employer—she assumed he was her employer—led her was a library of sorts, although many of the shelves were empty of books, their places having been taken by folders of what appeared to be artwork. There were canvases everywhere, propped against the walls, and the bookcases, some even occupied the chairs where possible, and others were spread across the heavy mahogany desk that sat squarely beneath the long windows. The air was musky with the smell of oils, and faintly stale from the neglected shelves of books.

The man positioned himself beside the desk, deliberately, Joanna later decided. There was not much light from the overcast sky, but what there was fell fully on to his scarred and battered countenance, and she was left in no doubt that this was indeed Jake Sheldon.

‘Well?’ he said, as if challenging her with his appearance. ‘It’s not a pretty sight, is it? But then you knew that, didn’t you? Someone must have told you—have warned you.’

Joanna wondered if anyone had ever had a more peculiar introduction to a job. A child, who dressed and spoke and behaved like a boy—a particularly objectionable boy at that—and a man who had apparently been deprived of his manners in the same accident in which he had been deprived of his livelihood. They had said he was a brilliant mathematician, a skilled and accomplished engineer, a man with a computer for a brain. And what was he now? An indifferent farmer, a part-time painter, and the father of a child who was evidently free to do exactly as she liked.

And he was challenging her to dispute his appearance, to deny that it shocked her feminine sensitivities. His face was scarred, it was true, but it was by no means repugnant, and she wondered if he realised how time had mellowed old wounds and given his ravaged face a certain strength and character. Some women might even find his rugged features attractive, and Joanna realised that Aunt Lydia and her mother could have had no idea of how old he actually was. Aunt Lydia’s description had been vague at best, and because he had a nineteen-year-old son she had evidently assumed he was well into middle age. But Joanna, facing him in that revealing light, saw that he was probably on the right side of forty, and this was going to prove a most unsuitable arrangement if no other help was kept. If his expression had not been so grimly serious, she might have allowed a small smile to tilt the corners of her mouth, but the situation was still far too volatile to take such liberties.

‘Cat got your tongue?’ he enquired now, cynically, turning from the window to flick through the canvases on the desk, and she endeavoured to gather her thoughts.

‘My godmother told me you required someone to take care of your daughter,’ she ventured at last. ‘I assume that was your daughter who—greeted me on my arrival.’

His lower lip jutted as he surveyed her slightly dishevelled appearance. It was a full lower lip; it might even be called sensual. And Joanna was given the piercing appraisal of narrowed amber eyes.

‘I suppose I should apologise for Antonia, shouldn’t I?’ he remarked, as if considering the proposition, and the disarming amusement which had briefly dispelled her indignation vanished.

‘Perhaps she should apologise for herself?’ she retorted, controlling her resentment with difficulty. ‘And I would suggest she is forbidden to run wild with firearms in future.’

His shoulders stiffened. ‘Oh, you would, would you?’

‘Yes.’ Joanna drew herself up to her full height, but even then her five feet six inches fell far short of his superior measure. ‘I don’t think that’s an unreasonable request. She could have killed me in the woods. Obviously she doesn’t understand——’

‘She understands very well,’ he interrupted her harshly, the dark brows descending with ominous intent. ‘She’s known how to handle guns for the past two years—I taught her. You were in no danger.’ He paused, allowing his astonishing words to sink in. ‘You were, however, subjected to a certain amount of—intimidation.’

‘Intimidation! Is that what you call it?’ Joanna could feel the colour sweeping up her normally pale cheeks. ‘How was I to know who she was or what she was doing? She was filthy. She was wearing boy’s clothes. She could have been a thief—a poacher, disturbed at his work!’

‘I see you have a vivid imagination, Miss Seton. That’s—unfortunate. I would have preferred someone a little more—unimaginative.’

His hesitation before using that particular adjective was deliberate, Joanna felt, pinpointing as it did his evident opinion of her. She had never encountered such indifference from a man before, or experienced such a feeling of blind frustration. She didn’t know exactly what she had anticipated, but certainly nothing like this, and his defence of the child was in complete opposition to his expected reaction. She felt like flinging his job back in his face, and only the thought of her mother’s disappointment if she returned to London without giving it a chance kept her silent.

‘So,’ he said, indicating an upright chair opposite. ‘Won’t you sit down, and we can discuss the situation more—amicably. I understand from my sister that you haven’t had any actual experience of teaching a child before, and that you have in fact been finding it hard to gain employment.’ Joanna sat down on the chair he indicated with a bump. He was certainly frank, she thought indignantly, or perhaps insolent was a better description of his vaguely mocking turn of phrase. In the space of a few sentences he had dismissed her claims of being physically threatened, and reduced her qualifications to nil.

‘I never expected to have to get a job, Mr Sheldon,’ she declared now, holding up her head in icy disdain. ‘Until my father’s death——’