Charade In Winter. Anne Mather

      Alix looked down at her plate. ‘But you’re not eating,’ she exclaimed, looking up again.

      He shrugged. ‘My appetite is not what it was, Mrs Thornton. But please don’t let my inadequacy prevent you from enjoying your meal. Mrs Brandon is an excellent cook.’

      Unwillingly, Alix picked up her spoon again and continued with the soup. But it was so delicious that after a while she forgot that his eyes might be upon her, and finished every drop.

      ‘Some more?’ he suggested, when she looked up, but she shook her head, and was glad when Myra arrived to remove their plates.

      The main course was chicken, sliced and cooked in a sauce made with white wine, and served with vegetables on a bed of flaky rice. Alix noticed that although her host helped himself to a little of this, he spent the time it took her to eat her helping pushing his around his plate, and drinking several glasses of a dry white wine he had opened after finishing the red wine practically singlehanded.

      When Alix refused a second helping of the delectable raspberry gateau which completed the meal and coffee had been served, Oliver Morgan produced a thick cigar and after gaining her assurance that she had no objections to his lighting it, said: ‘Now, Mrs Thornton, I suggest we get the preliminaries over with, and then we can perhaps get down to business.’

      ‘The preliminaries?’ Alix frowned. ‘I’m sorry, but—what do you mean?’

      He rose from his seat to light his cigar, and then regarded her dourly. ‘Come, Mrs Thornton, don’t be coy. I was hoping to delay your introduction to my daughter until the morning, but I ought to have realised that curiosity would get the better of discretion.’

      Alix looked up at him. ‘I did not go in search of your daughter, Mr Morgan.’

      ‘I know that,’ he retorted shortly, ‘but you’ve seen her now, and I can’t believe you haven’t noticed that she’s partly Japanese.’

      ‘She’s a beautiful child,’ said Alix honestly.

      He frowned. ‘How much do you know of my family, Mrs Thornton?’

      Alix was taken aback. ‘I—I—’

      ‘Oh, come on!’ He was impatient. ‘You surely must have heard of us before you came here.’

      ‘I know you’re a sculptor, Mr Morgan.’ Alix tried to limit her thoughts to what any average housewife might know. ‘I saw your last exhibition. I thought your interpretation of the Seven Sinners was marv—’

      ‘I’m not looking for compliments, Mrs Thornton, I’m merely trying to ascertain your reactions to my daughter. You’re not deterred?’

      ‘Deterred?’ Alix was confused now. ‘I don’t understand.’

      His sigh was the only sign of his irritation. ‘Mrs Thornton, it is not conceit when I tell you that anything and everything I do is closely monitored by the press. I accept that. You cannot expect to seek the public eye without its being turned upon you—for good or ill. But I regret to say that my own dealings with the press have not been without incident.’ He paused, and she made a pretence of examining the coffee in her cup to avoid his eyes. ‘In consequence, I am loath to subject the child upstairs to that kind of atmosphere without first preparing the way. You realise now why I couldn’t advertise for a governess. My wife and I had no children, as you’re probably aware, and Melissa’s upbringing has been sheltered until now.’

      Alix wondered how he would feel when he learned he had confided these thoughts to a professional journalist, and inwardly shivered. This job was not turning out at all as she had imagined, and she wondered whether she would have been as keen to come here had she known a child was involved. And yet, looking at the situation from Joanne Morgan’s point of view, Melissa was merely a further endorsement of the unsavoury character of the man, and if she was to be hurt in all this she had only her father to blame.

      Forcing herself to speak objectively, Alix asked: ‘Where has Melissa been living?’ and witnessed his automatic gesture of withdrawal.

      ‘I could say that need not concern you, Mrs Thornton,’ he remarked dryly, ‘but knowing Melissa as I do, if I don’t tell you, she undoubtedly will. She was born in Tokyo, but she has lived all her life in Hokkaido, the northernmost island of the group.’ He studied the glowing tip of his cigar for a moment, and then went on: ‘Until quite recently, she was being looked after by an elderly English lady who had made her home in Japan, and that is why Melissa speaks our language so well. But unfortunately, Miss Stanwick died before I could bring them both back to England, and consequently other arrangements had to be made.’

      ‘I understand.’

      ‘I doubt you do, Mrs Thornton,’ he contradicted her, ‘but perhaps we’ll come to understand each other.’

      Alix hoped not. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ she said non-committally, and then got to her feet. ‘If—if that’s all, Mr Morgan, it’s been a long day, and I am rather tired—’

      His scowl silenced her. ‘I’m afraid that’s not all, Mrs Thornton. If you’ve finished your coffee, I suggest we adjourn to the library so that Mrs Brandon can get the table cleared.’

      He moved lithely towards the door, and she had perforce to follow him, very conscious of the controlled muscular strength of his body. What chance would she have against that whipcord hardness of flesh and sinew, she asked herself, if ever that explosive temper of his was turned in her direction? There was not an ounce of surplus flesh on him, and whatever kind of life he had been leading, it had not softened him. Willie’s description of the man as a temperamental bastard, full of his own importance, was no comfort in this situation.

      She refused the liqueur he offered her in the library, and perched on the edge of the chair she had occupied earlier, waiting for him to speak. Eventually he came and took the chair opposite, at the other side of the hearth, sitting with his legs apart, his hands cradling a brandy glass suspended between them.

      ‘I want to explain what I expect of you, Mrs Thornton,’ he said at last, and she tried to meet his eyes without flinching. ‘You noticed that Melissa is lame, I know that, but she’s not stupid. She can read—not well, I admit, but she is literate. However, that is not enough. I want her to read fluently. I want her to understand simple mathematics, and if there’s time, perhaps a little general knowledge could be included.’ Alix nodded, and he went on: ‘Your application also implied that you could speak both French and German. While I appreciate that you’re not a teacher, Mrs Thornton, and all this will be new to you, it may be possible to instruct Melissa in a language as well.’

      Alix cleared her throat. Her mother, certainly, was fluent in several European languages, but her own abilities were less impressive. ‘I—French is my best subject,’ she managed, and he seemed to accept that.

      ‘There is the final matter of Makoto,’ he added. ‘She has cared for the child since she was born, and you may find her presence irritating at times.’ He paused. ‘She must be made to understand that while Melissa is working, she does not get in the way.’

      ‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ said Alix quickly, and he inclined his head.

      ‘So.’ He lay back in his chair, stretching his long legs lazily, and raising the brandy glass to his lips. ‘I suggest you use this room for the lessons. I’ve taken the liberty of obtaining some textbooks, which you might study tomorrow, and the following day perhaps you could begin.’ He grimaced into his glass as if it no longer appealed to him, and then sat upright again. ‘I’m sorry if you feel I’m behaving like a slavedriver, but I have work to do as well, and I want to get these arrangements done with.’

      ‘That’s all right.’ Alix moved her shoulders deprecatingly. ‘So—so long as you don’t expect too much…’

      ‘I always expect too much, Mrs Thornton,’ he replied with irony. ‘That’s why my life has been one long disappointment to me.’

      Alix