Brenda Hammond - At Your Service, Jack

“Hang on a sec,” he heard her say. A pause. “Polly, do you realize it’s the middle of the night here?” Another pause, then, “Is Tabitha there?”

Jack pursed his lips, thinking. Well, of course she would know Tabitha, but he would have expected Elliott to call her Mrs. James. Now the question was, did Freddi Elliott by any unlucky chance happen to know his archrival Simon as well? His dastardly cousin was quite capable of planting a spy in the opposite camp. He’d had it in for Jack ever since his family’s first visit to England.

The memory of that stay, soon after his mother died, when he was ten and Louise was eight, rose up in Jack’s mind. That had been the start of the bad feeling and rivalry between the cousins. Simon, two years older than Jack and at the time a foot taller, had mocked him from the start.

“London,Ontario?” Simon grabbed hold of Jack’s arm and twisted it behind his back. “What kind of a stupid town is that?” he taunted. “Couldn’t they even think of an original name?” That was how it began. And then, Jack beat Simon at chess, a game Simon always won effortlessly. Subsequent visits only seemed to reinforce Simon’s jealousy. Every time Jack had a success, Simon had to go one better. When Jack made the hockey team, Simon got his rowing blue. When Jack completed his engineering degree in metallurgy, Simon went for an MBA.

The thing was, he didn’t want Simon horning in on his project. The new method of bonding metals held tremendous promise, but Uncle Avery had said it was outside of the scope of Quaxel Corporation and had advised Jack to set up a separate company.

And the thought that Uncle Avery was being fed reports on how Jack was shaping up made him furious. Lord, the demon stress was making him paranoid. He lay on his back and squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe he’d drift right back into the dream and take up where it had left off.

SUMMONED OUT OF SLEEP by the telephone, Freddi opened her eyes to complete darkness. Disoriented, she stretched out a hand for her bedside light. Instead of a silk-covered lampshade and alabaster base, she touched cool metal. The phone kept ringing.

She found the switch and snatched up the receiver.

“Hello, Freddi,” Polly’s bright tones rang in her ears. “How was the trip?”

“Mmmph.” Freddi dragged herself upright and looked at her watch. “Polly, do you realize it’s the middle of the night here?”

“Nah. I just got into the office. Must be at least ten-thirty.”

“Is Tabby there?”

“Yeah. Hang on, she wants a word too.”

“Tabby! He’s expecting me to bring him breakfast in bed.”

“So?”

How to explain without revealing the faux pas she’d already committed? “So, judging from—er—the sweatpants he was wearing last night I would say he’s probably—er—rather virile.”

“And?”

“What if I fumble when I put the tray down or something?”

“Just keep it professional and you’ll do fine.”

“Yeah, but I wish—”

On the other side of the drywall partition, Jack pricked up his ears. Nice to know she thought him virile…but he never discovered what she wished. Instead, her next question puzzled him.

“Any sign of that snake?”

A pause.

“Good. Remember, you promised not to tell him where I am. He’s not getting it through his head that we’re over. I don’t need him bothering me here, too.” Another pause. Freddi was relieved to hear Tabitha say, “No problem, Freddi.”

“Give me a call in a week if you need me to put in a progress report. Now, I’d better be getting up and dressed if I’m going to provide His Studliness with breakfast at seven.” After she put the phone down, she realized Tabitha never did say why she had called in the first place.

Jack leaned back against the mahogany headboard, folded his arms over his chest and gave a satisfied smirk. He wouldn’t allow his suspicions to spoil his anticipation. If Freddi was here to spy on him that would be short-lived. It had been a while since he’d looked forward to breakfast with such relish. Usually he didn’t bother with more than a cup of coffee. But today…today all he could think was, Roll on seven o’clock.

WIDE AWAKE, FREDDI sat on the edge of the bed. Five-forty. Time to start getting organized. First, she’d retrieve her luggage. Providing, of course, it wasn’t still circling around Toronto, sight-seeing from the back of the taxi.

Clad in her overcoat, she found the light switch at the top of the stairwell. Slowly she made her way down the spiraling steps to the ground floor, wondering what lay in store for her and where her bags were. In the gloom, her toe made sudden unexpected contact with her suitcase. She almost took a tumble, but saved herself by flopping over at the waist like a puppet. How very thoughtful of Jack to leave the three packages just past the foot of the stairs. Had he intended them to act as a booby trap?

She noticed her hat, picked it up and looked for a place to put it. Ah, the marble blind-eyed bust in the entrance hall would do. In fact, she rather liked the whimsical look she’d produced.

Grabbing the handle of her suitcase, she lifted it an inch off the floor. No way could she get this up to the room. She’d only managed with it this far thanks to all the kind taxi drivers. She’d really packed too much! Thinking creatively, she decided to unpack downstairs and carry her things up to her room.

Stealthily, she made several ascents and descents. At last she carried up a final armful and set about preparing her uniform. A crumpled effect would not do. With the help of the small traveling steamer she’d bought, she got rid of the creases.

Freshly showered and dressed, Freddi checked her appearance in front of the mirrored closet. If she was going to be a butler she might as well look right. And if this job could help her rebuild her life, it would make the hassle worthwhile. It was bad enough that Simon had totaled her car and been unfaithful to her. But the fact that he’d run up a debt on her Visa was the big problem. She needed to earn well to wipe the slate clean and start over.

Her black tie was not quite properly aligned with the collar of her white shirt, so she leaned in close to adjust it. She tugged the points of her gray weskit over the calf-length, pin-striped skirt, then did up the buttons of the black dinner jacket, making sure the stiff cuffs showed just the right amount of white below the sleeves. Black tights were pulled up well enough so that they didn’t wrinkle, and sensible, flat-heeled lace-up shoes shone with polish. Her hair was slicked down, close to her skull. She then confronted her image full on. She would do. It was a pity that she had no white rose to place in her buttonhole, but she would soon remedy that lack.

Downstairs, she explored the living spaces. The morning was still early, but light reflected off the snow, which meant that the house was not at all dark. In the fireplace, the ashes lay cold and gray. She looked in the direction of the black leather couch. If she ignored a certain late-night excursion, the last coherent memory she had from yesterday was of sitting there and falling asleep. On the coffee table, between the empty pizza box, a glass and a coffee mug, was a man’s wallet, presumably Mr. Carlisle’s. Hardly making a sound, she straightened the place up.

Into the not-too-small galley kitchen she stepped. Everything was state-of-the-art, sleek and modern. Freddi’s gaze swept appreciatively over smart wooden cupboards and shiny granite tops. Underneath was the antidrudgery angel’s gift to humankind, the dishwasher, and she put the soiled crockery and glassware inside. Against one wall stood the largest fridge she’d ever seen. Opposite waited an equally impressive stove that could have coped with the catering demands of a small restaurant. Mr. Carlisle must be totally into his cooking, probably a real foodie.