The Cinderella Factor. Sophie Weston
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illegal,’ said Jo, affronted.
Crispin shrugged. ‘Patrick’s house. Patrick’s law.’
Jo bristled. ‘Nobody is above the law.’
Crispin gave a crack of laughter. ‘You should meet my brother Patrick.’
‘He sounds extremely arrogant,’ she said crushingly.
‘Yup. Arrogant, bullying, absolutely no feeling for a young man in his prime, and a hotshot wizard at just about everything.’
‘Revolting,’ she said, from the heart.
‘Yes, but he’s a good guy really,’ said Crispin, changing tack with surprising suddenness. ‘He likes his own way, but he’s not mean with it. Last year he was up for some big award—the Ajax Prize, or something—and when he got it my ma wanted him to go off with a load of big cheeses to celebrate. But he said he didn’t get to the States often and he wanted to spend time with his brother. So he came out clubbing with me and the boys instead.’ He smiled reminiscently. Then his face darkened. ‘Pulled all the talent in sight, too. Me and the boys didn’t stand a chance.’
Jo sniffed. Patrick Taylor-Harrod could be a love god in person. She would still detest him. His stupid prejudice stood between her and the job of a lifetime.
‘But it’s so unfair. I could do this job.’
‘Well, nobody argues with Patrick,’ said Crispin fatalistically. ‘Nanny Morrison would have you out in minutes. She reports to Patrick about everything.’
‘Ah. I wondered how she’d got you to revise,’ said Jo unwarily.
He chuckled, unoffended. ‘Oh, well. It was a nice idea while it lasted. Drive me to the garage? Then you can meet her. She’ll probably ask you up for tea and a swim. Grab it. Her teas are worth it.’
Jo laughed and went with him. But there was a little sting in the invitation as well. Crispin had made it plain that he was desperate for a girl to flirt with—and Jo didn’t even figure on his radar. He liked her. He was grateful to her. He was happy to throw one of Nanny’s teas in her direction, with the careless hospitality of the inherited rich. But she was not flirt-worthy.
Oh, well, it only confirmed what she already knew, she told herself.
And worse was to come. Or better, depending on which way you looked at it.
Mrs Morrison, who looked more like a jobbing gardener than a nanny, wore substantial cotton shorts and a shirt, and, more importantly, huge bottle-bottom glasses. As Crispin had predicted, she took one look at his companion and said, ‘Would you like to bring your friend back to the house for lunch, Crispin?’ And then, not at all as he had predicted, and stunning Crispin and Jo alike, ‘He would be very welcome.’
Crispin barely faltered. ‘That would be great, Nanny. He’s at a loose end right now,’ he said smoothly.
Jo was not as quick as he was. Her mouth opened and shut. No sound came out.
He?
He?
‘Work with me here,’ breathed Crispin.
‘But—’
‘I’ll show you the cars,’ he said loudly. ‘You’re going to love them.’ Then he was shoving her into the back of an old truck. ‘Don’t argue. This could be just what we need.’
‘But—’
He thrust an industrial-sized bag of flour at her. ‘Shut up.’ He raised his voice. ‘Ready when you are, Nanny.’
The truck rattled off at speed. They lurched and clung to the sides.
‘Hell’s teeth, she shouldn’t be driving this thing,’ said Crispin, momentarily side-tracked. ‘If she thinks you’re a boy she must be as blind as a bat.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jo hollowly.
‘But, as she does, she’s not going to be bleating to Patrick about you.’
‘But other people will know I’m a girl.’
‘The only other person around is old George, her husband. He’s in a wheelchair. You can keep out of his way easily enough.’
‘What if your brother comes back, though?’
That gave Crispin pause, but only for a moment. ‘He’s off war-reporting at the moment. Won’t be home any time soon. And when he does get leave he goes to London or Washington or Paris. Definitely one for metropolitan amusements, my brother Patrick. Not a run-down château in rural France. It is so very rural. Besides, even the wine isn’t up to his standard here. Not a premier cru in sight.’
‘Then why on earth did he buy it?’ said Jo, unreasonably annoyed with the unknown Patrick all over again.
‘Didn’t. Also inherited,’ said Crispin absently. ‘Look, the way I see it, you just fill in here for me for a month. I’ll pay you cash. So your name never gets into the books. No one will ever know.’
‘A month?’
He grinned. ‘I’ll be all partied out by then. If Patrick does visit it will be at the end of the vacation to check that I’ve followed orders. I’ll be back from my babe and beach fest by then. You can slip off. He need not know you even existed.’
‘It sounds wonderful,’ said Jo, with longing.
A month would give her time to look round for a proper job, not just waiting tables or scrubbing floors. A month in this heavenly place, where poppies bobbed in the hedgerow and the long evening shadows were warm and smelled of herbs!
‘Done,’ said Crispin.
But she still held out. It seemed nasty, lying to Mrs Morrison because the poor woman couldn’t see properly. But, then again, Mrs Morrison wasn’t the one who had set up this stupid interdiction on female workers. Patrick Taylor-Harrod positively deserved to be lied to.
And then she saw the Bugatti. She was old and dusty, and her front number plate hung off at a crazy angle. She was beautiful. It was love at first sight.
She could just about resist the scented nights and poetic turrets, thought Jo wryly. The unloved car was irresistible.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Let’s just hope arrogant Patrick stays where he is, that’s all.’
‘No worries,’ said Crispin blithely. ‘He won’t be back home until the war is over. Once Patrick is onto a hot story, he never gives up.’
Jo banished her misgivings and tried a joke. ‘I’ll just have to make sure he never sees me as a hot story, then.’
Crispin went on laughing at that for a long time.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS a heavenly day and a heavenly place. Jo stopped in the middle of the little eighteenth-century bridge and looked around. She sighed with pleasure.
The willows almost met over the stream below. Bees murmured in the wild roses that clustered at the end of the decorative stone bridge and tumbled down the slope of the bank. The warm scented air was still. Only the occasional plop of some insect hitting the water disturbed the perfect silence. She was quite alone.
Jo shut her eyes, hardly daring to believe it was real. Less than a month ago she had been trawling for extra work among Manchester’s cleaning agencies and late-night pizza bars, always worried about Mark. And now Mark was safe and she was in France.
France!
A France, what was more, that was straight out of the fairytales. A France where there were fields of lavender and hillsides of sunflowers, their big faces following the sun as it crossed the sky; fortified medieval towns on the hilltops, like something out of a Book of Hours; little fast silvery rivers that fed the great golden