Charade In Winter. Anne Mather

about him sent shivers of anticipation along her spine, and she speedily decided she was mistaking attraction for fear. After all, she had reason to fear him. Nothing could alter that.

      With an angry shake of her head, she thrust these disquieting thoughts aside, and marched to the door of the bathroom. She had not met the child yet, but once he had exploded his bombshell, Oliver Morgan had rung for Seth to show her to her room, and suggested she might like to freshen herself before dinner. Perhaps he preferred to give her time to adjust to her new situation before confronting her with her charge. Certainly the turn of events demanded adjustment, even for her, and she understood now why the qualifications had been so unusual. And yet it was not an unimaginative idea. Someone of her mother’s abilities would be quite capable of instructing a child to preparatory level, and Alix only hoped she was equally able.

      The bathroom was as large as the other apartments, with an enormous sunken bath made of veined green marble. The mixer and taps were shaped in bronze, like a lion’s head; the taps the claws, the mixer the beast’s yawning jaws. Long mirrors lined the walls above the bath, and panelled the inner side of the heavy door. As Alix shed her clothes, she saw her reflection thrown back at her from a dozen different aspects, and a faint flush of colour stained her cheeks. She had never contemplated her nakedness in such detail, and she was glad when the bath was full of heated soapy water, and the mirrors filmed with steam.

      Nevertheless later, as she towelled herself dry with an enormous fluffy green bathsheet, she found herself wondering what kind of woman would appeal to a man like Oliver Morgan. Not someone like herself, she decided. No doubt he preferred smaller women, some dark delicate creature, with consumptive pallor and blue eyes, similar to the pictures she had seen of his wife. Certainly not a tall, bosomy blonde, who looked well able to take care of herself.

      Wrapping herself in a towelling bathrobe she had found behind the door, she went back into her bedroom and seated herself before the dressing table mirror. Her hair was shoulder-length and uncompromisingly straight, and she brushed it vigorously, finding a certain amount of release in the effort it required. Then she applied a mascara brush to her lashes, darkening the gold-flecked tips and outlining the wide spacing of eyes that were an unusual shade of green. Her eyes were her best feature, she had decided long ago, ignoring the generously warm fullness of her mouth.

      She wasn’t sure whether or not she was expected to dress for dinner, or indeed where she would take her meals. Her knowledge of governesses didn’t encompass their eating habits, and the thought of sharing Oliver Morgan’s table every evening was a daunting one. During the day, she would no doubt be expected to supervise his daughter’s meals, but after she had gone to bed—what then? Other thoughts occurred to her. Were governesses expected to see their charges into bed? Who attended to the child’s physical needs, mended her clothes, combed her hair? Alix shook her head. It was as well Oliver Morgan had employed her as a librarian. At least he would not expect her to be au fait with the duties of a governess.

      She eventually decided to wear a dress of dark green silk jersey, its midi-length skirt swinging about her hips, the deep vee of the bodice exposing the swell of her full breasts. It was not perhaps the most suitable attire for a governess, but after all, that was not her designation, assumed or otherwise, and she saw no reason to dress down to her position. Besides, the child was probably used to seeing much more extravagantly dressed women, and Alix wondered briefly where she had been brought up, and by whom.

      She was giving her hair a final flick with the comb when someone knocked at the door of her sitting room. She glanced at her watch and saw with surprise it was already after seven. Guessing Seth had come to tell her that dinner was ready, she swung open the door, and stared aghast at the tiny figure outside.

      Could this be Oliver Morgan’s daughter? she wondered fleetingly, and then speedily dismissed the idea. The creature before her, dressed in a lavishly-embroidered kimono, was female certainly, and scarcely above a child’s stature, but an infant she was not. The painted face staring up at her was lined and old, the lacquered hair obviously tinted, and slanting almond eyes had receded far into her head. Alix guessed she was Japanese, and wondered in amazement what she was doing in Oliver Morgan’s house.

      ‘Mrs Thornton?’

      The woman was speaking in a shrill lisping tone, and Alix nodded her head quickly. ‘Yes, I’m—Mrs Thornton. I—can I help you?’

      Thin lips curved in the semblance of a smile. ‘You have come to take care of my missy?’

      Alix’s eyes widened. ‘Missy? That would be—Miss Morgan?’ She moved her head in a confused gesture. ‘I believe so. Who are you?’

      ‘My name is Makoto.’ The small figure performed an obeisance that came somewhere between a bow and a curtsy. ‘Most happy to make your acquaintance, Thornton san.’

      Alix put out a deprecating hand. ‘Oh, please—that is—did you want to see me, Makoto?’

      ‘Missy wishes to meet new governess, Thornton san. You will come with me?’

      Alix glanced round at the room behind her. Confusion was giving way to curiosity, but she had no idea whether Oliver Morgan would approve of her meeting his daughter without his knowledge.

      ‘You will come, please?’

      The old woman was speaking again, and Alix turned back to her ruefully. Obviously Makoto considered her mistress’s commands should be obeyed, and if she was anything like her father, then perhaps that wasn’t so difficult to understand. All the same, Alix wasn’t happy about the situation.

      ‘Er—Mr Morgan is expecting me to join him for dinner—’ she began awkwardly, and then gave an exasperated exclamation when Makoto performed another of her low bows and began to walk away. The last thing she wanted right now was hostility between herself and Morgan’s daughter, particularly when the situation was turning out to be such an intriguing one. A remote house, a child that no one knew existed—and now a Japanese servant! ‘Hey!’ she called, impulsively going into the passage and closing her bedroom door. ‘Hey, wait! I’ll come.’

      Makoto’s paper-white face expressed her satisfaction. She waited for Alix to catch up with her, and then adjusted her small, half-running steps to Alix’s larger strides. If anything had been needed to convince Alix of the disadvantages of her size, walking beside the tiny Japanese woman would have done it, although judging from the admiring glances Makoto kept directing towards her, in her case the opposite could apply.

      They crossed the gallery at the head of the stairs, and continued on into the east wing. Alix couldn’t resist glancing down into the hall below, half afraid that Oliver Morgan might be standing there watching them, but there was no one about, and she breathed a little more easily.

      Makoto halted at the door at the end of the corridor, and turning the handle indicated that Alix should precede her into her room. Alix did so, not without some misgivings, and then came to an abrupt halt at the foot of an enormous tester bed. A child, perhaps eight years old, was sitting up in the bed, almost lost among so many pillows, her dark hair hanging in one thick braid over her shoulder. She was wearing a white nightgown which accentuated the paleness of her skin, for although her features were European, her eyes had a definitely oriental slant. But she was beautiful, even Alix saw that in those first astounded moments, and when she smiled her small teeth were as perfectly formed as the rest of her. Delicately small hands plucked impatiently at the bedcovers, and her whole demeanour was one of suppressed excitement.

      So this was Oliver Morgan’s secret, thought Alix, feeling curiously shaken by the revelation. This was why the child had been kept out of the public eye, and why he had chosen to bring her back to a house as remote from London as he could find. The child’s mother had probably been as Japanese as old Makoto who stood so proudly beside her, her gnarled hands folded into the wide sleeves of her kimono, while his wife had been as European as he was.

      ‘Hello. I’m Melissa.’ The child’s voice surprisingly bore no Eastern intonation, but was as English as Alix’s own. ‘Are you Miss Thornton?’

      Alex collected herself with difficulty. ‘I—I’m Mrs