A Woman Of Passion. Anne Mather
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she was alone now had been numbing. Even at the funeral she’d half expected James Gregory to come striding into the chapel. It was strange how that had sustained her through all the interminable expressions of grief.
Afterwards, however, while the guests were making a rather unsympathetic attack on the splendid buffet the housekeeper had provided, Max Thomas, her father’s solicitor, had drawn her aside. And in a few short words he had swept the ground from under her feet. Her father, it appeared, had been destitute. For years he’d been Iiving on borrowed time, and now that time had run out.
Incredibly, considering the affluent lifestyle they had enjoyed, James Gregory had been in serious financial difficulties. The estate he’d inherited from his father—and which had supported successive generations of Gregorys—was bankrupt. In spite of the pleas of his tenants for an injection of capital, no help had been offered. And, although a couple of years ago he had had the idea of opening the house and grounds to the public, that too had proved unsuccessful without the proper investment.
Remembering all those holidays in the Caribbean, the winters spent in Gstaad, the summers in the South of France, Helen had had no doubt as to how her father had spent his money. And he’d never betrayed his anxieties to her. She’d always had everything she’d ever wanted.
Maybe if her mother had still been around things would have been different. There was no doubt that Fleur Gregory’s departure, when Helen had been barely four years old, had had a salutary effect on her father. Until then he’d seemed quite content to live in the country. But her mother had found country life boring, and she’d eventually run off with a wealthy polo-player from Florida she’d met at a party in town.
That was when James Gregory had bought the London apartment, but, from Helen’s point of view, living in London had seemed rather boring at first. She had missed her friends, and she had missed the horses, and although they continued to spend holidays at Conyers it had never been quite the same.
Of course as she’d got older and started school her attitudes had changed. Her friends had been in London then. They had been young people from a similar background. And the boyfriends she’d eventually collected had all been as fun-loving as her father.
But her father had only been what she had made him, she reflected sadly, remembering how devastated she’d been to learn that her father had been borrowing money on the strength of securities he no longer owned. The estate had not one, but three mortgages hanging over it, and with the interest that was owing and death duties, there’d been precious little left.
The following months had been harrowing. Coming to terms with her father’s death would have been bad enough; coming to terms with the fact of his probable suicide had been infinitely worse.
Everything had had to be sold, even her car and the little jewellery she’d owned, and because her father’s only living relative was an elderly aunt, who’d disowned him long ago, Helen had had to deal with all the awful details herself. Max Thomas had helped, but even he had had no idea how distressing it had been. People who had once professed themselves her father’s friends had cut her dead in the street. Young men who’d phoned her constantly had suddenly been out of reach.
Not that Helen had particularly cared about her sudden loss of status. The hardest thing to bear was the absence of the one person she had really loved. She didn’t blame her father for what he’d done, but she did miss him. And she wished he had confided in her before taking that final step.
She could have contacted her mother’s sister, she supposed. Aunt Iris must have read about what had happened in the newspapers, but she hadn’t been in touch. Besides, Helen had shied away from the idea of asking for charity from the Warners. She and her father had had nothing to do with them in recent years, and it would have been hypocritical to ask for help now.
Nevertheless, things had been fairly desperate when she’d run into Tricia Sheridan in Marks & Spencer’s. In the four months since her father died she hadn’t been able to find a job, and although she had only been living in a bed-sitter, the rent had still to be paid. Office managers, store managers—all wanted more than the paltry qualifications she had to offer. The only position that had been open to her was a forecourt attendant at a petrol station, and she had been seriously thinking of taking it when Tricia came along.
Tricia, whose husband worked for the Foreign Office, had been living in Singapore for the past two years. She was older than Helen; she had been a prefect when Helen was still in middle school, but because of her prowess at sports all the younger girls had admired her.
She had singled Helen out for attention because Helen’s father had presented the school with a new gymnasium. A gymnasium he couldn’t afford, Helen reflected sadly now. But at the time she’d been so proud of his generosity.
Tricia had quickly discerned Helen’s situation. And had been quick to offer assistance. Why didn’t Helen come to work for her? she’d suggested. She needed a nanny, and she was sure Helen could cope.
It had all happened so quickly that Helen hadn’t really stopped to ask herself why—if five-year-old Henry and four-year-old Sophie were such poppets—Tricia didn’t have a nanny already. The other woman’s explanation that as they had been out of the country for some time they were out of touch with current agencies, hadn’t really held water, when she’d had time to think about it. She’d simply been so relieved to be offered a job that she’d agreed to her terms without question.
She supposed she’d had some naive idea that there were still people in the world who did do things out of the kindness of their hearts. Even after all the awful experiences she’d had, she’d actually been prepared to take Tricia’s offer at face value. She needed a job; Tricia was offering one. And the salary was considerably larger than any she’d been offered thus far.
In addition to which she would not have to pay the rent on the bed-sitter. Naturally, Tricia had declared, she must live in. Nannies always lived in, she’d said. It was one of the advantages of the job.
Helen wondered now whether she would have stuck it as long as she had if she had not given up her bedsit. In a short time she’d discovered that, far from being out of touch with the agencies, Tricia had, in fact, tried several before offering the post to her. Unfortunately, her requirements did not jell with most modern-day nannies. They were either too old, or too flighty, or they couldn’t follow orders, she’d declared, when Helen had mentioned her findings. But Helen had a theory that they simply refused to be treated as servants.
In any event, beggars couldn’t be choosers, and in the three months since she’d been working for the Sheridans, Helen had discovered it wasn’t all bad. Tricia was selfish and demanding, and she did expect the younger woman to turn her hand to anything if required. But, when their mother wasn’t around to encourage them, Henry and Sophie were fun to be with, and Andrew Sheridan was really rather nice.
Not that he was around much, Helen conceded, cupping her chin on her hand and watching the man who had started her introspection disappear into the belt of palms that fringed the far end of the beach. His work took him away a lot, which might have some bearing on Tricia’s uncertain temper. That, and the fact that he never seemed to take her seriously. As easy-going as he was, Helen could quite see how frustrating it must be to try and sustain his attention.
For herself, she imagined a lot of people would consider her position a sinecure. After all, she had her own room, she was fed and watered regularly, and the salary she was earning meant she could put a considerable amount each month into her savings account. If her hours were long, and a little erratic, she had nothing else to do. And at least Tricia didn’t feel sorry for her, even if she could be a little patronising at times.
Still, she wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for Tricia, she reminded herself firmly, lifting her face to the first silvery rays of sunlight that swept along the shoreline. The fine sand, which until then had had an opalescent sheen, now warmed to palest amber, and the ocean’s depths glinted with a fragile turquoise light. Colours that had been muted lightened, and a breeze brushed her calves beneath her muslin hem.
It was all incredibly beautiful, and the temptation