Brazilian Boss, Virgin Housekeeper. Maggie Cox

After surveying the cloak of sparkling white that blanketed her garden as well as the street outside the next morning Marianne tidied the house, made herself a hot drink, then tinkered with an unfinished song she’d been composing on the piano. But her mood was not buoyant, and she struggled to stave off the sense of melancholy that kept threatening to overwhelm her. Finally, unable to bear the enforced isolation a moment longer, she donned a warm coat, boots and a hat over her jeans and sweater and went outside.

      The ice in the air snatched at her breath, making her eyes water, but her spirits lifted at just being out in the open again. She took herself off for a long, if laboured walk, due to the impediment of snow, into the park nearby. Just watching the children toboggan down the glistening frosted hillside and hurl snowballs at each other restored her sense of perspective and her good humour. And if any thoughts of the childhood she’d experienced, which had been bereft of similar happy times and feeling secure started to threaten, she firmly pushed them away, knowing it was pointless to contemplate such things when her cheerful mood could so easily regress to one of despair.

      By the time she returned home she’d made a vow to fight off any gloomy recollection that might seduce her into unwanted misery. She simply would not allow herself to go there. But by mid-afternoon, when early darkness had descended, impelling her to turn on all the lamps again and draw the curtains, Marianne was sitting in an armchair in front of the fireplace, watching the flames lick round the burning coals and crackling twigs, and considering the prospect of life on her own again for the foreseeable future. Donal would be so mad at her for sitting here feeling sorry for herself! That was for sure. And suddenly she was crying. An unstoppable flow of hurt and sadness long dammed up could no longer be contained—making her weep until she was utterly spent and could cry no more.

      Taking herself off to bed, she curled up in a foetal position, drawing the duvet right over her head, feeling numbed and empty. Just before she closed her eyes she swore to herself she would never indulge in such futile self-pity again. Tomorrow was a new day, and when the morning light came it would herald a new and more positive beginning. Marianne was adamant about that.

      However, on lifting a corner of the bedroom curtains the following morning and being confronted by an even thicker blanket of snow, with a fresh shimmering fall of delicate white descending before her very eyes, she had to draw on every ounce of resolve not to be downcast. During the night she had made her mind up about something, and today there was plenty to occupy her towards implementing that decision.

      Donal’s adult children—Michael and Victoria—had contested the will that he’d made, leaving his house and all his belongings to Marianne. For nearly eighteen months she’d endured formal, aloof and cruel letters from their solicitor, stating the reasons for their dispute and insinuating that both she and their father had not been of sound mind, and now she had had enough. They could have the house and everything in it. She would leave it to them without a backward glance or a single regret.

      She was certain Donal would forgive her. Everything he’d done for her in helping to restore her low self-esteem and encouraging her to believe in her talents and abilities she totally appreciated, but the truth was Marianne did not want to be beholden to anyone any more. Not even her deceased husband. She needed to be free again…free to live her life the way she chose—however that looked to anyone else. So, from the house she would take just her clothing, her guitar, and what little savings she had put by. Everything else—even the gifts Donal had bought her during their short-lived marriage—she would leave to his avaricious children.

      Galvanised into action, she spent the day cleaning the house, restoring stray books to shelves, packing up her things and moving furniture back to where it had been when she had first moved in with Donal. Her body throbbed with satisfying warmth from a job well done, and she was too physically tired to allow even one negative thought to invade her mind. And that night…that night she slept like a baby.

      But when she woke the next morning to find that the snow still hadn’t cleared, and with no prospect of getting into town to play her guitar and sing—knowing she would be mad even to try—Marianne impulsively found herself searching for the business card Eduardo de Souza had insisted she take. Lifting the telephone receiver in the hall, she dialled his home number with shaking fingers. Even as she dialled she called herself all kinds of fool for contemplating such a reckless path.

      But she could be snowbound for days, she thought, genuine dread invading her as she waited for someone to pick up at the other end. And now that she’d made the decision to leave and forge a new life, a new future, she was eager to put the past behind her and start again. Something had to be done to help improve her situation besides overcoming her fear of performing in public and accepting that she was now on her own again. Unlikely as it seemed, this might, just might, be it.

      ‘Hello?’ an accented male voice answered.

      ‘Is that Mr De Souza?’ Marianne ventured, her heart beating like a military tattoo.

      ‘No. May I ask who is calling?’

      It must be his valet, she realised, and taking a deep breath she said clearly, ‘Marianne Lockwood. Is he available to speak?’

      After a pause the man replied, ‘Wait a moment, please. I will see.’

      There were several times after the man went to locate his employer that Marianne almost put the phone down. What was she doing? she asked herself. She didn’t know the first thing about being a housekeeper, and neither did she know what kind of an employer Eduardo De Souza would turn out to be. No doubt he would be overly serious and exacting, finding constant fault should she fail to measure up, examining her with that intense stare of his and making her rue the day she’d made the impulsive decision to go and work for him.

       Yet beneath the cacophony of doubt and apprehension that raged inside her, a stronger more positive instinct was urging Marianne to go for it and give it a try.

      ‘Marianne?’

      Her prospective employer’s voice—impatient and a little out of breath, as if he’d been interrupted in the middle of something and resented it—sounded in her ear.

      ‘Hello, there. It’s Marianne—the busker from town,’ she explained, a light tremor in her voice. ‘I—I hope you don’t mind me ringing, but you said…’

      ‘What is it that you need?’

      Marianne glanced up to the heavens for courage. ‘A job…and a home,’ she replied, then made herself breathe deeply and mentally count to ten, so that she didn’t succumb to her fears and change her mind. ‘Are you still looking for a housekeeper?’

      Sweat broke out on Eduardo’s brow. The visiting physiotherapist might have been a torturer straight out of the Spanish Inquisition, he thought grimly as the man manipulated his scar-criss-crossed leg into yet another excruciatingly painful position to test its flexibility. He swore…loudly. The therapist looked startled and carefully moved his patient’s leg back down onto the treatment couch with a murmured apology. Staring up at the ornately plastered Victorian ceiling in the library as he lay there, Eduardo sensed his racing heart slowly return to a more normal rhythm.

      ‘Are we finished?’ he asked, gravel-voiced.

      The sandy-haired physio gave him a respectful and sympathetic smile. ‘I agree you’ve probably had enough for now, Mr De Souza. My advice is to take it easy for the rest of the day. Try and get some proper rest tonight, and don’t overdo things.’

      ‘Do they teach you at medical school to come out with these clichéd platitudes?’ Eduardo remarked irritably, swinging his legs over the side of the table and ignoring the other man’s immediate move to help him.

      Unoffended, the man smiled again. ‘Sometimes rest really is the best course of action when dealing with any kind of physical trauma,’ he explained. ‘The body needs to access its own powers of healing, and rest gives it the opportunity to do that. I realise it may have been a little uncomfortable for you today, but the fact is your leg is definitely