Susan Napier - Savage Courtship

‘I thought it time to get it out in the open—so that I might begin to feel less like an interloper here.’

‘Interloper?’ Vanessa’s impatience got the better of her. ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she told her employer. ‘The house belongs to you; you can’t be an interloper in your own home.’

A grim smile twitched his hard cheek. ‘Can’t you?’ His voice lifted from a barely audible irony to that familiar ironic crispness. ‘But then, this isn’t really my home, is it? If one counts a home as a family dwelling, or a residence one has a sentimental attachment to through regular use, I suppose you could call me effectively homeless. I don’t think I’ve spent more than a month at a time at the same address in the last five years.’

The faintly wistful self-derision in his words gave Vanessa a pang but she caught herself before she started feeling too sorry for him. The man was a millionaire for goodness’ sake; he had everything he could possibly want and he had the nerve to complain because his life wasn’t perfect! There were people in the world—in this country—who lived in cardboard cartons, or worse, and here he was complaining about having too many homes!

‘How absolutely frightful for you,’ she replied with a crispness that brought his head up with a jerk. ‘Jobless and homeless. No wonder you’re depressed. If I were you I’d be suicidal.’

‘If you were me you wouldn’t be having the problems I’m having,’ he said cryptically, after a tiny pause and an all-encompassing look that made her extremely nervous. ‘And I can’t envisage you ever taking the easy way out of your problems. You’re the type to go down with all guns blazing.’

‘I don’t approve of firearms,’ she said primly, disturbed by the accuracy of his reading of her character.

‘We have something in common, then...other than sharing possession of this house. That is what we do, isn’t it, legal ownership not withstanding? You’re the one who really makes a home of this house; you’re the one who brings it to daily life, who imprints it with personality...’

Vanessa was aghast at the thought that her possessiveness about the house might be the object of amused speculation to others. It was her secret, her little piece of foolish whimsy. Her eyes were stony as she denied her weakness. ‘I enjoy seeing the house restored to some of its former glory but I’m the caretaker, that’s all. I’m just carrying out your orders.’

‘Since I’m hardly ever here to issue them that statement is highly debatable.’

Her eagerness to preserve the state of armed neutrality between them that had made it so easy to treat him as a cypher instead of a human being made her quick to sense criticism.

‘If you’re not satisfied with my work—’

‘I never said that. On the contrary, I’m delighted with the high standards you’ve maintained in trying circumstances. The restorations are turning out even better than I envisaged. After you’ve finished your bed-making I’ll get you to give me a tour to show me the progress...’

Although bringing him up to date with the work carried out in his absence was a familiar duty that she usually tackled with quiet pride, the thought of spending more time alone in his company while her nerves were still in such a jittery state made Vanessa quail. Fortunately she had a ready excuse at hand.

‘I’ve arranged for some members of the historical society to visit this morning. You did say you didn’t mind them being shown around in return for access to their records about the house. Perhaps they could tag along?’

He looked unenthused at the prospect. ‘Is Miss Fisher one of them?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes,’ Vanessa said innocently. The elderly lady, an archetypal twittering spinster, had taken a shine to the elusive new owner of Whitefield and would make a thorough nuisance of herself if she knew he was back in residence.

‘In that case I think I might take the Duesenberg out for a couple of hours,’ he said hastily. ‘You can give me the tour after lunch. If that fits in with your plans, of course.’

‘Of course, sir,’ she murmured dutifully, heaving an inward sigh of relief as she retreated into the safety of her usual, self-effacing role.

‘And don’t tell her I’m here,’ he scowled.

‘Of course not, sir.’

‘The woman is a human limpet.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

He gave her bland expression a coruscating glare. ‘Are you mocking me, Flynn?’

‘No, sir,’ she lied smoothly.

‘Good. Because I can tolerate a lot of things from my employees—insubordination included, if they’re good at what they do—but I don’t like being laughed at.’

It was definitely an order.

‘Nobody does, sir,’ Vanessa murmured judiciously. She had noticed that about him—his lack of laughter—it was what contributed to her impression of him as having a somewhat colourless personality. Although he was good-humoured to a fault, he rarely showed any spontaneity. His smile was more of a cynical twist than an expression of warmth. Little seemed to take him by surprise.

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