Whisper Of Darkness. Anne Mather
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sorry.’ Joanna almost choked on the apology. What a boor of a man he was! There ought not to be a shred of hesitation in her rejection of his offer, and yet for some reason she was loath to give him that satisfaction. He thought she was frivolous, useless; an ornament, finding the utilitarian world a cold and barren place. She would like the chance to prove to him that this was not so, that she could play just as useful a role in society as anyone else. And to have that chance, she had to ignore all the rudeness and insults he put in her way, and demonstrate her ability to succeed in spite of him.
However, he seemed to have taken her apology as a clear rejection of the position he was offering her. Without another word he had crossed the thinly carpeted floor towards the door, and only her instinctive: ‘Mr Sheldon!’ caused him to pause and look at her.
‘Yes?’
Joanna’s tongue circled her lips once more. ‘I—I’ll stay,’ she said impulsively, and immediately wished that she had not.
‘You will?’ There was a glimmer of relief in the narrowed eyes, but that was all. No great enthusiasm, no words of encouragement or gratitude. Just ‘You will?’ followed by a perfunctory: ‘I’ll get Mrs Harris to show you your room.’
‘No!’ Joanna took an involuntary step forward, and then felt herself colouring, something she had not done in ages. ‘I—that is, couldn’t you just tell me where I’m to sleep? I’m sure I could find my own way. Without—without troubling Mrs Harris.’
‘As you wish.’ He seemed to be mentally washing his hands of the whole affair. It’s the third door on the right at the top of the stairs. If you’ll leave your suitcase, I’ll carry it up later.’
‘I can manage,’ mumbled Joanna unwillingly, biting her tongue against the remark that if she could carry it fully a mile from the bus stop, she could certainly carry it up a few stairs, and he made a dismissive gesture.
‘Very well. But I suggest you leave your unpacking until after supper. Mrs Harris’s meals are best taken hot, and you’ll have plenty of time later to get accustomed to your surroundings.’
Joanna inclined her head. Evidently one did not change for dinner at Ravengarth. She wondered if Jake Sheldon intended to come to the table in the same disreputable gear he was wearing at the moment. It seemed highly likely, and a small voice inside her evinced mild hysteria at her decision to stay. She must be mad, she thought, after Jake Sheldon had left her and she was climbing the stairs. No one should have to pay so heavily just to prove one’s point.
IT was a curious evening, a slightly unreal evening, and lying in bed later that night, Joanna reviewed its events with a certain amount of incredulity. It had definitely not resembled any first evening she might have anticipated, and the feeling of anticlimax she had experienced had not yet dissipated.
Her bedroom, which she had found no difficulty in locating, was quite a spacious apartment, but its appearance matched the rest of the house. Either Jake Sheldon had no money to spend on refurbishment, or he simply didn’t care about his surroundings. The wallpaper was old, and peeling in places where the furniture had been pushed against the walls, the floor’s only covering was linoleum, which would be icy cold to the feet on winter mornings, and the furniture itself would not have disgraced a junkyard. Joanna had been at first appalled, and then amazed, and finally reluctantly amused to find herself in such a situation.
The view from her windows made up in some part for the rest. Although it was getting dark, it was still possible to glimpse the tumbling beauty of the stream, and beyond, the glimmer of a larger expanse of water. In the distance the shadowy fells brooded, dark and mysterious, casting a sheltering arm around the stillness of the valley.
Taking Jake Sheldon’s advice, Joanna had paused only long enough to wash her face at the handbasin she found in her room and apply some fresh make-up before going downstairs. Her hair, despite her ordeal, was still secure in its knot, and the jersey dress was not unwelcome now as the evening grew cooler. There was an ancient radiator in her room, she noticed, but it was stone cold at present, and she wondered if such an antiquated plumbing system was still operational. If not, it was going to be very cold on winter mornings, with only open fires to provide any heat. However, she refused to consider something so nebulous as the future. Right now, she had the present to live with, and despite her determination it was a daunting task she had set herself.
Downstairs again, she found the dining room by means of trial and error. There was no one about, and she glimpsed a sitting room and a cloakroom before finding a room with a table laid for one. This in itself was puzzling enough, but Mrs Harris, who appeared a few moments later, explained in her usual garrulous way that Mr Sheldon would not be taking supper after all.
‘He’s had to go down to the village after Matt Coulston,’ she confided, setting a plate of thick soup in front of Joanna. ‘Been drinking since opening time, he has, and George Page at the Fox and Hounds can’t handle him.’
Joanna picked up her spoon. She was reluctant to ask questions of the housekeeper, but if she was going to live here she would have to know who everyone was, and with a reluctant sigh she ventured: ‘Mr Coulston works for Mr Sheldon?’
‘‘Course he does.’ Mrs Harris stood back from the table, and nodded her greying head. ‘Sort of shepherd and general handyman he is, when he’s sober.’
‘Isn’t it a little early in the evening for anyone to be—intoxicated?’ Joanna asked doubtfully, but Mrs Harris only laughed, a rather unpleasant gurgling cackle, that split her thin lips and displayed a dearth of teeth in her lower jaw.
‘When Matt goes on one of his binges, time doesn’t have anything to do with it,’ she declared with a sniff. ‘He’ll have been drinking since early this morning, and by now he’ll be roaring drunk. There’s only Mr Sheldon can handle him at times like that, but he’ll get him back to his cottage and lock him in until he sobers up.’
‘I see.’ Joanna took her first mouthful of the soup and managed to hide her distaste as its powdery consistency clung to the roof of her mouth. ‘Well—thank you, Mrs Harris. I—er—I’ll have to eat alone.’
For an awful moment after she’d uttered those words, Joanna wondered if the housekeeper would imagine they were some kind of an invitation, but apparently Mrs Harris had other things on her mind.
‘You’re staying, then?’ she probed, lingering by the door. ‘Or is he just putting you up for the night, until you can get a train back to London?’
Joanna was tempted to say it was none of her business, but that would have been unreasonable. After all, Mrs Harris had to cater for the household, though judging by the state of the place her ministrations were by no means satisfactory.
‘I’m staying,’ she replied now, taking another mouthful of soup after surreptitiously stirring it with her spoon. ‘At least for the present. I hope I may have more success than those ladies had.’
‘Some hopes,’ muttered Mrs Harris dourly, and Joanna looked up.
‘You sound pessimistic, Mrs Harris. Anyone would think you didn’t want me to succeed.’
‘Oh, no. No,’ the housekeeper denied this hastily. ‘O’ course, I hope you’re successful. It’s just that—well, Anya’s not like an ordinary child, if you know what I mean. Been too much with adults, she has——’
‘I think you should leave me to learn about—Anya—for myself,’ replied Joanna firmly, cutting her off. ‘This soup is very nice. What are you going to offer me as an entrée, I wonder?’
Mrs Harris frowned, screwing up her mouth. ‘I don’t know what you mean by no on-tree,’ she declared, sniffing again. ‘But there’s lamb chops to follow, and a piece of my custard.’
Joanna endeavoured to appear enthusiastic, and to her relief