Chapter Twelve
As soon as they saw me, they moved apart and smiled at me.
"Are we done for the day?" Mr Rochester asked, ruffling Adele's hair.
She nodded and announced that she was hungry, which launched Mrs F into a frenzy of activity, after she apologetically admitted that she hadn't yet got the little girl's tea ready and would see to it immediately. Adele usually ate around four, then had a light supper at six thirty, before bed around seven thirty. Her routine was pretty strict, according to Mrs F, because when she’d been in London, it had tended to be more chaotic, which she felt was bad for a child, so she'd long ago decided that, whenever Adele was in Yorkshire, she would give her the routine that was lacking at home, since Mrs Rochester senior was a bit hit-and-miss when it came to parenting.
I couldn’t help wondering who actually had legal parental responsibility for Adele. After all, it was her brother who'd taken charge of employing me, and it was he who seemed to spend more time with her. What was keeping Jennifer Rochester in London? Though, of course, she was going to have an operation. Maybe her health was bad.
"I wondered, Miss Truelove, if you'd like to join me for dinner this evening?" Mr Rochester enquired abruptly.
I blushed. No doubt about it. I could feel my face burning. "That's very kind of you, Mr Rochester."
Mrs F tutted. "All this Miss Truelove and Mr Rochester business—very formal, isn't it?"
"It's what Mr Rochester requires," I said, thinking I totally agreed with her, but who was I to voice an opinion?
He winced, looking faintly embarrassed. "Perhaps … I just think it's best that we set boundaries, that's all."
"Don't worry," I said. "It's fine by me."
"Cara knows her place," Mrs F told him. "Not like some."
She patted him on the shoulder, and he gave her a rueful smile. The deep bond between them was tangible. Maybe Mrs F was right, and Mr Rochester really did see her as family.
"So, you'll join me?" He raised an eyebrow, and when I nodded, he seemed pleased at my acceptance. "I'll get back to the office. I'll see you around seven thirty, Miss Truelove."
"You will," I confirmed. As soon as he'd left the kitchen, I turned to Mrs F. "Why has he invited me to dinner? It doesn't seem right, somehow."
"He probably just fancies some company," she said evasively. "Must be a bit boring for him, eating alone every night."
"Then, why hasn't he asked you?" I demanded, as she stir-fried chicken and vegetables on the hob.
"Because I'm going out tonight." She tutted at my shocked expression. "Believe it, or not, young lady, I do have a life outside this house. I'm off to Newarth to see my sister. We're going to have a girls' night in, with plenty of wine and a couple of decent films, so if I were you, I'd stop questioning everything and just enjoy the fact that you'll be eating in the dining room tonight, and not here at the kitchen table. It will make a nice change for you."
"But it's a bit ... awkward."
"Why on earth will it be awkward?" She tossed some noodles into the stir-fry and glanced over at Adele. "Sit yourself down, love. Did you wash her hands?" she asked, turning back to me.
"Of course. It will be awkward because he's my boss. And it's weird, having dinner with the boss. What do I talk about?"
She gave me a strange look. "Goodness, talk about whatever you want to talk about. You talk to me when we're having dinner together. There's no difference."
I begged to differ; there was a great deal of difference. Mrs F didn't make my heart go thump, for a start, and she didn't make me almost forget my resolve to stay well away from men. I had to be careful. I didn't want my stupid emotions to run away with me again, did I? The only good thing about falling for a wealthy, married man would be that nothing ever could, or would, happen between us, even if I'd been silly and weak enough to want it to. As far as he was concerned, I was the nanny of his sister/daughter, and a member of staff. Way beneath him. And I was very relieved about that. Of course I was.
#
The dining room at Moreland Hall wasn't as intimidating as I'd feared. It was a big room, with a long table in the centre, red-painted walls, and a wooden floor, but there were lovely paintings of the Yorkshire Moors hung from the walls, making it seem much more informal, and some family photos on the sideboard that were of interest. They were mostly of Adele, but there were one or two of my employer with—I presumed—his parents, and one of his mother on her own. She was a bubbly-looking blonde, with a wide smile and her son's dark eyes. In spite of myself, I quite liked the look of her.
Discovering we’d be sitting together, rather than at either end of the table, unnerved me. I'd hoped for a large distance between us, but we may as well have been sitting at the kitchen table, for how close we were. Those same nerves led to me drinking far more wine than I was used to. My face felt quite hot, and I knew I'd be flushed. I knew I'd have to concentrate hard and take my lead from him. I didn't want to use the wrong knife and fork, after all, or make some other dreadful faux pas and show myself up.
I needn't have worried, though. It was a very informal meal, if uncomfortable. He barely spoke to me as we ate, and I wondered why he'd bothered to invite me, if he had no intention of making any attempt at conversation.
Sneaking the occasional glance at him as he ate, I was relieved to see that he didn't shovel his food down like Seth, and—bonus—he actually swallowed each mouthful before putting more in. Seth always ate as if he was terrified I was about to snatch his plate away at any moment. In contrast, Mr Rochester seemed deep in thought about something, so much so, I suspected food to be the last thing on his mind.
As I chewed some roast potato, I wondered what he was thinking about. I noticed he needed a shave. A fine layer of stubble graced his chin, and as I traced its outline up towards his ears, wondering idly what it felt like, I had a moment's urge to reach out and touch it. From the corner of my eye, I watched him cut into a slice of roast beef. No wedding ring on his finger, I realised. Nice hands, though. Strong, capable hands with clean fingernails.
Feeling even hotter, I swallowed my potato without meaning to and ended up coughing.
Mr Rochester raised an eyebrow. "Are you all right?"
I nodded and coughed again. He handed me a glass of water, and I took a gulp, swallowing down the last of the stubborn potato and assuring him I was fine. That would teach me to daydream about what Mr Rochester's hands were capable of.
After dinner, I expected to be dismissed, but instead he opened another bottle of wine and seemed in no hurry to move. We discussed the Yorkshire Moors and the local attractions we'd visited, and he told me a bit about London when I confessed I'd never visited—something he found extraordinary. From his descriptions, I changed my mind about the place, and decided I'd love to visit one day, after all.
"It has a beauty of its own," he assured me. "It's not as bleak as you imagine. There are some beautiful old buildings, and so much history. Where I live, it's almost like a village. You'd be surprised."
"But it's not Yorkshire, is it?" I teased. "I mean, look at those paintings." I waved my hand at the pictures on the walls either side of us. "The artist has really captured the spirit of the moors. You can't deny that London can't compete with those views, not to mention the history. Look at that painting there! Whitby Abbey. More history than you can shake a stick at. And Rievaulx Abbey! Stunning. What about Helmston Castle and Scarborough Castle? Look at that beautiful painting of Farthingdale Moor!" I shook my head. "I don't see that London has anything to tempt me away from here."
"History? Oh, you should see the Tower of London! It's quite amazing," he said with sudden eagerness. He'd obviously quite forgotten he was on a mission to be aloof. "Then there's Hampton Court and Buckingham Palace, Westminster Abbey and St Paul's Cathedral. Not to mention all the various old pubs and streets that are off the tourists' maps." He smiled at me, which completely transformed his face. "If you love history, you'd love London. You should go. Perhaps one day, I'll take you."
Something in his tone made me quiver, and I stared down at my plate so he wouldn't see my scarlet face.
"I mean, Adele will need a nanny when she goes home for visits," he said abruptly, glaring at me as if I'd dared to assume anything else. "So—the paintings. You like them?"
Quick change of subject. Thankful, I looked up at them and nodded enthusiastically. "Absolutely. The artist seems to really understand the place, don't you think? Must be a local artist, surely?"
"Must be," he agreed.
"Don't you know?" I asked, surprised.
"I got them locally. I don't go into too much detail." He shrugged. "It was my mother who wanted me to put them in here. She shares your opinion of them."
"She has good taste."
He looked a bit doubtful about that. "Sometimes," he conceded.
I glanced over at the photographs. "I assume that's her?" I said. "She has your eyes. Or, more accurately, you have hers."
"You think?" He followed my gaze. "I suppose so."
"Adele doesn't," I said carefully. "She has blue eyes." I looked pointedly at the photo of his father, who had eyes almost as dark as his wife and son.
He picked up a bottle of wine. "Another glass?"
Better not, I thought. I was already teetering on the edge of sobriety, and I didn't want to lose all my inhibitions. Bad enough I'd dropped a massive hint that I didn't believe Adele was his sister, so I didn't want to go too far. "Go on, then," I heard myself saying, despite all my mental protests, and he poured more liquid into my glass. "Were your parents together a long time?" I asked. Although I already knew the answer to that, I didn't want him to know my brother had already researched them, did I?
"Yes, they were." He went quiet for a moment, taking a sip of wine while seemingly deep in thought. "It was a shock to us all when my father died. It was quite sudden. He seemed to be in good health—then again, he worked too damn hard. We were always telling him. He lived for his work, and I think it killed him in the end. My mother's certain of it. She always warned him it would."
"It's hard living with a workaholic," I said, thinking of Brad and Tamsin. "She must have got quite lonely."
"I expect she did. They weren't very much alike." He leaned back in his chair and stared into his wine glass. "She was very sociable. Loved to party. Loved to spend money, too. Whereas he …" He shook his head. "He was the opposite. He couldn't be bothered with entertaining. He had few friends. He didn't really trust many people. He knew, you see, that most of them only stayed around him because of his wealth. They all wanted something from him. All of them. Even my mother."
"Oh." I didn't really know what to say to that.
"Don't misunderstand me," he said quickly. "She loved him, in her own way. However, I can't say for sure she would have married him, if he'd not been so rich. I know he doubted it, too. But they were happy enough. He let her spend his money and flit here, there and everywhere, and she made a home for him and gave him the child he needed, and somewhere relaxing to come home to when he finished working every day."
I thought about his words, as he took another sip of wine. "You said needed."
"I'm sorry?"
"You said, she gave him the child he needed. Not wanted. Is that how it felt?"
Why had I asked that? It was a bit personal, after all. Yet, there was something about the way he'd said it that made me think it wasn't just a throwaway remark, and I couldn't help wanting to understand.
He seemed to hesitate a moment, then said, "It was important that he have an heir to take over the business. Sounds a bit mediaeval, doesn't it? But when you've got an empire like Rochester's Department Stores to handle, you have to make sure it's going to be taken care of after you've gone. It's our duty, apparently."
"Bit of a burden for you," I said. "What if you hadn't wanted to be a businessman? What if you'd wanted to do something completely different?"
He shrugged. "Who says I didn't?"
I gaped at him, unable to think of a reply. It hadn't occurred to me, actually. I just assumed that he loved the cut and thrust of corporate life. What else had he wanted to do?
He shook his head. "Sorry. Getting a bit deep here. Whatever I wanted to do, let's just say, I knew my duty, and leave it at that. I don't know. Maybe, deep down, I kind of envy my mother. She always did exactly what she wanted to do, and somehow, she managed to twist him round her little finger, so he allowed it."
"She sounds like quite a woman."
"She is." He smiled. "I love her to bits, whatever I say about her. She's one of a kind."
"I expect," I said slowly, "that you and your own wife will be thinking about children one day. After all, you'll need an heir, too. The Rochester empire must continue."
His face darkened, and I wished I'd kept my mouth shut. I'd clearly crossed a line. He reached over and poured another glass of wine, took a large gulp, and slammed the glass down.
"Sorry," I said. "None of my business."
"I can see you're curious," he said. "About Antonia, I mean. She has her own life, and she spends most of her time abroad."
"Is she abroad now?"
"Who knows?" he said. "She's an extraordinary woman. A real adventurer. Another one who knows her own mind and won't toe the line. At least, most of the time. Sadly, there's always a price to pay."
He sounded quite wistful, and I thought whatever their relationship was, complicated didn't seem to even begin to describe it. His eyes met mine, as he carefully said, "We married young. Very young. We were friends first and foremost. She's one of my favourite people in the world."
"That's nice." My hands trembled as I gripped my own glass, and I tried to push the jealousy aside.
"And bloody inconvenient." He said it so softly that I wasn't sure I'd heard him right. He swirled the remainder of the wine in his glass, then seemed to make an effort to lighten the mood. "So, tell me, Miss Truelove, have you ever been married?"
I could, at least, answer that honestly. "No, I haven't."
"And there's no one special in your life?"
I shook my head. "No one. I mean, obviously, I have family, and they mean the world to me, but I'm not in a relationship."
"Really? And do you have your sights set on someone?"
What sort of question was that? I frowned. "No. Why do you ask?"
He looked uncomfortable. "No reason. I suppose it's just that, most women I know seem obsessed with finding Mr Right."
"You hang out with the wrong women, then," I assured him. "Unless, of course, it's your irresistible charm unbalancing them."
Oh, heck, the wine had really gone to my head. Fancy saying that to him! As shock tugged at his face, I tried desperately to stifle a giggle.
"My irresistible charm?" He frowned. "You do remember that I'm a happily married man?"
"Crikey, don't worry. I was joking," I said. "You're really not my type."
"I'm very relieved to hear it," he said, rather huffily. "It would make our working relationship extremely awkward, if you got the wrong idea."
"No chance of that," I promised him. "I'm staying well away from men from now on."
"Good for you."
"Yep. Good for me," I said, and took another slug of wine, just as he raised his own glass to his lips and drank deeply.
"Why are you staying away from men?" he said. "You're still a young woman—too young to make that decision. You don't mean it, surely?"
"I certainly do," I said decisively. "And if you don't mind me saying so, that's incredibly sexist of you. Not every woman wants a man, you know. We can, believe it or not, make lives for ourselves without them. I'm happier alone. I don't intend to get involved with anyone, ever again."
"Ever again?" His eyes narrowed. "So, there was someone?"
"There was," I mumbled, suddenly less defiant, "but that's well and truly over."
"Your choice, or his?" I stared at him, and he clapped his hand against his forehead. "I'm sorry. It's none of my business."
"It was my choice," I said quietly. "Though, he made it very easy for me."
We sat there, looking at each other for a few moments, neither of us saying a word. My stomach fluttering like a butterfly that had been trapped in a jar.
"I didn't mean to offend you," he said quietly. "And I wasn't being sexist. It's not just women who want a home, a family, someone who's always going to be on your side, no matter what. Someone to talk to, laugh with, when the outside world gets a bit much."
"I suppose so," I murmured, thinking, was that what he wanted? If so, he didn't seem to be in luck. Antonia didn't strike me as the stay-at-home type. I couldn't see her being there to laugh and talk with him at the end of a weary day. I felt quite sad for him actually, so it was a bit of a shock when he unexpectedly leaned towards me, his expression serious.
"You are happy here, Miss Truelove? There's nothing troubling you?"
Me? I thought it was him who was troubled? I shook my head. "Nothing. I love working here, honestly."
His eyes bored into mine. "If you have any worries, any concerns at all, if you feel you need to confide in someone …" I held my breath, only to let it out again as he said, "Mrs Fairweather is an excellent listener. I can vouch for that."
He gave me a faint smile, and I smiled back, not sure what on earth he was getting at, and cursing myself for the feeling of disappointment that had swept over me. Not that I had anything to confide in him about, of course, but… maybe I could make something up? "Thank you,” I told him. “I'll bear that in mind."
Abruptly, he stood up. "I have a conference call first thing tomorrow morning. I need an early night, so I'd better head to my office now and finish up there. Will you be all right alone?"
"Of course." Why wouldn't I be?
He glanced at his watch. "Mrs Fairweather will be back soon. Perhaps you could spend the rest of the evening with her?"
"I'll go to my room," I told him. "I have a book I'm halfway through, anyway."
He frowned. "I don't really like to think of you alone."
"But I'm fine. I like being alone. Well, some of the time."
The conversation had taken a rather surreal turn, I thought. Must have been all the wine. I brushed aside his concerns and left him to his work.
Lying on the bed a short while later, I thought about our evening together and tried to decide if I'd dreamt half of it. I wasn't used to drinking, and I had drunk a lot, after all.
As I drifted off to sleep, I could’ve sworn I heard a scraping noise coming from above me, but then again, that was probably just the alcohol. Or perhaps I was dreaming.