Alison Fraser - Tainted Love

Their engagement had been announced in The Times , on September the fourteenth. Clare remembered precisely, because a good part of her had died that day. Their picture had been in the tabloids, too. The Earl of Abbotsford’s son, John, was marrying the daughter of a duke, Lady Elizabeth Beaumaris.

Clare had refused to believe it at first. It was she who should have been standing at his side, a smiling, radiant bride-to-be. Not some stuffed dummy of a deb.

Johnny had agreed, even as he’d told her that he had to marry the duke’s daughter. Love was one thing, money another, and the Holsteads’ declining fortunes required him to take a rich wife. It had always been that way among the upper classes. It didn’t have to affect their relationship, he’d explained, seriously expecting Clare to accept the role of mistress.

He’d had no idea how he’d destroyed her life and she hadn’t stuck around long enough to tell him. She’d abandoned school and home, and fled to Brighton where she’d found work in a hotel. She’d lost that job five months later and been forced to seek refuge in a women’s hostel. She’d kept in touch with her mother but had been unable to return home.

Her eighteenth birthday had come and gone without celebration, unlike Johnny’s wedding which had been splashed all over the newspapers. It had finally killed off her dreams. Till then she’d hoped Johnny might break his engagement and come looking for her, his true love. But that only happened in books. In real life, he married the heiress and lived richly ever after.

She’d been twenty-two before she’d returned to Abbotsford Hall. Her mother had fallen ill, the first stage of the cancer that would kill her, and she’d come back to look after her. She’d had no other choice but it had proved a mistake. Having got over Johnny, she’d believed that he too would be happy to ignore her return. Instead it had led to a chain of events that had ended in tragedy for the Holstead family and prison for her.

Now she was starting again, and this time it was going to be different. She neither needed nor desired personal attachments. Prison had equipped her for surviving without such luxuries and she preferred it that way. She’d never love again, or have a child, or tear herself inside out—not for any man.

Nothing was worth that much pain.

‘OH...GOOD morning,’ Fen Marchand greeted her in surprise as they met on the gallery landing, she fully dressed, he in a towelling robe and little else besides.

‘Good morning.’ Clare looked through him, unembarrassed.

‘I’ve just woken Miles,’ he relayed. ‘We’ll be down at eight o’clock.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Clare took it as an order. ‘Do you prefer a cooked or continental breakfast?’

He frowned slightly before saying, ‘Cooked, but nothing too heavy. Scrambled eggs will do, plus coffee and toast.’

‘Very well, sir,’ Clare responded, again with leaden politeness, and left him staring after her as she descended the staircase.

Obviously he hadn’t expected her to know how to act the part of formal housekeeper, but she had a fair idea. She should do. She’d watched her mother present an inscrutable face to the Holsteads and their frequent rudeness. Now, in a similar position, she saw why. If she wanted to keep this job, being unobtrusive was probably as important as being efficient.

With her mind on being the latter, she searched for the kitchen. It was at the back of the house, a beautiful, fully modernised kitchen with built-in cupboards, cooker and every labour-saving gadget imaginable. Having not seen it on her first visit, Clare had feared a quaint, farmhouse sort, with impossible-to-keep-clean nooks and crannies and an impossible-to-cook-on range.

Her only problem was trying to fit into the overall she found hanging behind the larder door. Made of white cotton, it really did threaten to go round her twice. She had to dispense with the buttons and simply wrap herself in it and tie the belt very tightly. She ended up looking slightly ridiculous but that didn’t bother her.

Breakfast was simple to prepare and was almost ready when the Marchands, father and son, trooped into the kitchen.

Clare, however, wasn’t expecting them to sit down. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve set the table in the dining-room.’

It was Miles who awarded her a critical look, before announcing, ‘We never have breakfast there .’

‘I’m sorry,’ Clare repeated. ‘If you give me a minute or two, I’ll move everything back.’

‘I should have told you,’ Fen Marchand said, rising from the table. ‘We’ll move. Come on, Miles.’

The boy took his time in obeying and, before leaving the kitchen, he glanced smugly at her. Having fallen out of favour, Clare’s mistakes were going to be tallied.

Not having time to worry about it, she concentrated on finishing the scrambled eggs and tipping them into a salver to keep warm. She’d already taken through two jugs of fruit juice and a first batch of tea and toast, and the Marchands were busy eating when she appeared. She served up the eggs, the man taking a fair portion, but leaving the same amount for the boy.

That didn’t stop Miles from complaining, ‘Is that all there is? I’m hungry.’

‘I’ll make more,’ Clare said, resigned to the boy’s rudeness.

But his father cut in, ‘No, you won’t. Miles, apologise!’

‘What for?’ the boy immediately protested.

‘You know,’ his father retorted. ‘Either apologise or go to your room.’

The man clearly meant it. The boy’s mouth went into a resentful line while his eyes flashed angrily in Clare’s direction.

‘ Apologise !’ his father insisted, a definite warning ring in his voice.

‘Look, it doesn’t matter.’ Clare didn’t want any pitch battles fought on her behalf, and, before Fen Marchand could make a bigger issue of it, she escaped to the kitchen.

She was preparing another batch of toast when Miles sidled into the room some five minutes later. He didn’t speak but hung about at the door, his face a picture of sullenness.

He was a handsome boy, with the same blond hair and well-cut features as his father. He also had the Marchand eyes, a clear, penetrating blue that seemed so honest in Louise’s case, and so chilling in the man’s. On Miles, the eyes were windows of a troubled soul, following her as she moved about the kitchen.

‘Can I get you something, Miles?’ she eventually asked.

It gave him an opening and he blurted out, ‘He says I have to apologise.’

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