Chapter Five
!
Tamsin really did have a difficult life, I thought. How on earth did she cope with such anxieties?
Sitting on a bench, just off Main Street, duffle coat fastened up to the neck, I tapped my gloved fingers on my phone screen with a decided lack of accuracy. I'd just been to the cash machine to draw out another twenty pounds from my wages, and it occurred to me that, really, I had to stop living for the moment and start being the old, responsible Cara again. It had been lovely to escape, and I'd certainly needed the break to clarify things in my mind, and make absolutely sure that I'd done the right thing. Realising I was sure, though, I had to think of the future. It was all very well running away from home, but what next?
I didn't think Little Poppets Playschool was an option. Jilly would have had to find a replacement for me, and even if she managed to squeeze me in somehow, I wouldn't want to go back there. I was finally where I belonged—in Yorkshire—and I didn't want to go up to Oddborough ever again.
So, what to do?
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I decided to visit the café and have my usual tea and toasted teacake. The lady who worked behind the counter was getting used to me, it seemed, and she always had a cheery smile when I walked in. I sometimes saw a query in her eyes when she took my order, and I imagined she was curious to know who I was, and what I was doing, wandering around the village dressed like a fat Paddington Bear, my already rounded figure plumped up to even vaster proportions, thanks to the three jumpers I always wore under my coat.
Sure enough, the lady beamed at me when I pushed through the door, and said, "Tea and teacake, love?"
I nodded, and she turned away to start my order. I looked at the stack of newspapers on the table at the front, and decided to read the local one. There might be a job section in it. As dismal as the thought of returning to employment was, I knew I had to do something fast. It was either that, or throw myself on the mercy of Mum and Dad, and as much as I loved them, I felt too old to be living with my parents. Besides, I didn't want to leave the moors. I knew there wasn't much hope of finding a job in Newarth itself, but maybe there would be something in one of the other villages or towns? Even if it was just temporary.
I perused the situations vacant column with growing dismay. There were a couple of cleaning jobs, and a waitressing job that I could possibly apply for. There was also a bar job in a pub in Farthingdale. When the kindly café lady brought my order, I said, "You haven't got a pen and paper, have you?"
She rummaged in her apron pocket, tore off a piece of paper from a tiny jotter, and handed it to me, along with small plastic biro. Peering down at the opened newspaper, she said, "Job hunting?"
"Afraid so," I said, scribbling down the contact details for the Farthingdale job, then scanning the column for the other possibilities I'd found.
"Bar staff? Wouldn't have you down for a barmaid," she said, looking at my strange attire and probably thinking I was as far removed from a vivacious, sexy barmaid as you could get.
"I've never done it before," I admitted. "Worth a try, though?"
She hesitated, as if wondering if it was any of her business. "You're not from ‘round here, are you?"
"I was born here," I said. "And I lived here until I was seven. My great grandma lived here, until she died a few weeks ago."
"A few weeks ago? Do you mean Mrs Reed? Hutson Road?"
I nodded. "That's right. Did you know her?"
"Everyone knows everyone around here," she said, plonking herself down on the opposite chair. "Couldn't make the funeral service, but I was at the vigil the day before. Lots of the villagers went. I met your mum and dad, then. Didn't see you there, I don't think?"
"I couldn't get here before the funeral," I said, feeling regretful. The vigil had been the time when family and friends had gathered to pay respects to Granny Reed at the funeral parlour. Mum said it was an important part of the proceedings, and that a lot of Granny's neighbours had turned up, and they'd all gone for a drink and a chat afterwards. Granny had, apparently, been well thought of in Newarth.
"Drink your tea before it gets cold," the woman instructed. "Are you holidaying here, or have you moved back? I'm Rhoda, by the way."
"Cara," I said. "And I'm staying in a caravan a couple of miles away, on Southwick's Farm."
"That thing? In this weather?" She shivered. "Rather you than me."
"No, well, it was cheap and available, and I was in dire straits." I said. She raised an eyebrow, and I shook my head. "Long story. The plain fact is, I'd rather be in a caravan on the moors than in my old flat, and my old job, with—never mind."
"Ah." She patted my arm. "I get you. Well, I could ask around, if you like. See if there's anything going. Might be some jobs coming up in a few weeks, as the weather warms up and the tourists start arriving. I only know of one job going, at the moment, but I'm afraid they're insisting on qualifications."
"That pretty much rules me out," I said gloomily. "Unless they're happy with four average GCSEs and a diploma in childcare."
She stared at me as if I'd just said something amazing. "Childcare? You have a diploma in childcare?"
Well, I admit I hardly looked like Mary Poppins, but she didn't have to look quite so disbelieving. "Yes, I have. And I have experience working in a very popular nursery school, for your information." I didn't think it worth mentioning that it was only popular because it was free to anyone on benefits, and just about every resident of the local estate qualified, and couldn't wait to palm their toddlers off on professionals so they could get on with their dubious activities in peace.
"Sorry. I wasn't questioning you. Just that, well, the job I was talking about—they're looking for a nanny."
"A nanny? Are you serious?" I glanced down at the newspaper. "It's not advertised in here. Are you sure? Is it ‘round here? I don't want to move too far away."
"It's not been advertised at all, yet," she told me. "Although, when it does get advertised, it'll probably be in a national magazine, so if I were you, I'd apply pretty sharpish. It's live-in, too. Just the thing you need. I only know because Laura Fairweather comes in here sometimes—her sister lives two doors up, above the fish shop—and she mentioned it. Well, the kiddie's just arrived, and Laura isn't up to it, and she told him straight that she wasn't having it, so he told her to find someone and make sure they were qualified to do it, so there you go."
I really did try to keep up with that conversation but, to be honest, it was pretty difficult. "So, this Laura Fairweather has just had a baby, and she doesn't want to look after it?"
Rhoda laughed. "Laura Fairweather? She must be sixty, if she's a day. I'd be calling the tabloids if she'd just had a bairn. No, it's her employer. She's housekeeper at Moreland Hall, a couple of miles north of Hasedale, and she's been landed with the little girl. She's only four, so you can imagine, Laura can't keep up with her. She's desperate for someone, and she's not looking forward to interviewing, and all that palaver, so you could be in there, if you hurry up. He's left it all to her. Your teacake's looking a bit sorry for itself. Do you want a fresh one toasting?"
"What? Oh, no thanks. I think I ought to get myself to Moreland Hall and apply before she places that advertisement." Too right. If it went in a national magazine, I'd have no chance. No way could I compete with other nannies and nursery nurses, who'd probably worked in posh establishments that would put the Little Poppets Playschool to shame.
"No worries there, love. I'll give Laura a call and arrange an interview, right after I make you a fresh teacake. Reckon another cup of tea's in order, too, don't you?"
"Thanks ever so much," I said, feeling a bit dazed. Things were moving very fast. Surely, it was too good to be true?
Ten minutes later, I was eating a piping hot toasted teacake and listening in awe as Rhoda arranged my future over the phone with the mysterious Mrs Fairweather.
"All sorted," she announced, handing me a mug of steaming fresh tea. "She's that relieved. I told her you were a decent sort, and she's not to know that I've only known you five minutes, is she? Soon as I mentioned Mrs Reed, I heard her relax. Pillar of the community, Mrs Reed was. Well, until she lost her marbles, but fair's fair—she was as old as Methuselah by that time. I take it you can get references? I mean, you seem honest enough to me, but she'll want proof that you're actually qualified."
"I've got my diploma in the caravan," I said, "and I can get a reference." Jilly would give me a good reference, I had no doubt.
"Job's a good 'un," she said, folding her arms in satisfaction. "So, you've to go over there at three o'clock."
I gulped down my tea. "Three o'clock? You mean today?"
"Of course I mean today." She glanced at the clock on the wall. "You've got just over two hours. Have you got a car?"
"No, I haven't," I said, panicking slightly. "And I'm hardly dressed for a job interview, am I? How far away is this house?"
"About twenty to thirty minutes if you go by car," she said. "Tell you what, you get yourself to the caravan and get changed, and I'll send a taxi to pick you up at half two. I'll book it now for you."
As she headed back to the counter, my phone beeped. I glanced down and pulled a face as I saw Seth's name on the screen. Things were going so well, and I didn't want him to ruin it all. I shook my head as I read his text.
O! My love how can you treat me so?
I sit alone, sorrow etched on broken face,
The light has gone from this wretched place,
My heart is heavy, my spirit low.
Come home, sweet love, as soon you can.
Come home and save this lonely man.
Did you cancel my subscription to Quill Magazine? The latest issue hasn't arrived.
Honestly! I put my phone back in my pocket and finished my tea. I wasn't going to give Heathcliff a second thought.
Hearing Rhoda on the phone, I listened in, feeling a flutter of nerves at her words.
"Moreland Hall, and don't be late, 'cause she's got a job interview. That's right, Ned. Moreland Hall. You know, Mr Rochester's place."
My heart seemed to fly up into my mouth, and I gaped at her in horror. She put the phone down and turned to me, her smile dying as she looked at my stricken face. "What is it, love?"
"Who did you say the house belonged to?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you? That's who you'll be working for. Mr Rochester."
#
Half my clothes didn't fit me. Comfort eating, combined with lack of exercise for the last fortnight, had ensured that I'd packed more weight on. My size fourteen jeans were uncomfortably tight, and I could only hope that my one decent black skirt would still do up.
I frantically unrolled the only pair of tights in my suitcase and pulled them on, groaning as my nail caught and ripped a hole in them. Great, so I’d be turning up for the interview in laddered tights. I hunted around in my makeup bag and found an old bottle of nail varnish, which I dabbed hopefully on the edge of the hole, praying it would stop it from running any farther. My skirt took some squeezing into and did me no favours whatsoever. I decided against wearing my white shirt, which I'd planned to tuck into my skirt, and instead found a reasonably smart grey jumper, which was long enough to cover the waistband and my rounded stomach.
I decided, there and then, to cut out the Carroll's Caramel Choc Bloc.
As the taxi pulled up at the gate to the field, and the driver beeped his horn, I hastily zipped up my boots, threw on my duffle coat, wishing I'd thought to bring my only decent jacket with me instead, and rushed out of the caravan. I was halfway across the field when I remembered the diploma, and had to wade back through the mud to get it, and by the time I finally got to the taxi, the soles of my boots were caked in thick mud, and I could only hope the driver didn't notice and refuse to take me.
Luckily, he didn't.
"So," he said, quite cheerfully, as we headed down the farm track, "we're off to Mr Rochester's place, eh?"
Even the sound of it was quite daunting. "Er, yes. Moreland Hall, isn't it?"
He shrugged. "Probably. It's always been called Rochester's place ‘round here. Business, or pleasure?"
Bit cheeky, asking, in my opinion. "Definitely business," I said. And no pleasure, whatsoever. I was done with pleasure. Well, that kind of pleasure, at least. "I've got a job interview."
"Oh, right. What sort of job?"
Were all taxi drivers ‘round there so nosy? Back in Oddborough, you’d be lucky to get a grunt from most of them. I supposed I just wasn't used to it, and he was being friendly, after all. Well, we were in Yorkshire. "Nanny," I said, not wanting to go into details. I didn't have any details to go into, to be honest.
"Ah, I see. Laura mentioned the bairn was staying there. Quite rare to have one of the family at home, these days. They tend to stay in London, as you can imagine."
Could I? I made a sort of mumbling noise, since I didn't know what to say, and he frowned at me through the rear-view mirror.
"You do know who they are, right? I mean, you do realise he's the Mr Rochester?"
He was? I seriously doubted that. "Is he?" I said politely, thinking he couldn't possibly be. Mr Rochester was fictional, wasn't he? Unless he was based on someone Charlotte Brontë had actually met? But even so...
"'Course, it was his great-great-grandfather who started it, back in the nineteenth century," the driver added, clearly enjoying showing off his knowledge. "But this one's certainly done his fair share."
"Oh, good," I said, wondering what, exactly, he’d done his fair share of. Attempted bigamy? Locking up mad women? It wasn't reassuring, either way.
"Laura will see you right," he said. "Don't you go worrying." Clearly, he thought my reluctance to chat was down to nerves.
He was right, in a way, but I had more to think about than just a job interview. I wasn't entirely sure what I heading into, and I was beginning to think maybe I'd be better off if I didn't get the job.
We drove steadily on for nearly half an hour, the road cutting a swathe through the moors, which, at that time of year, looked bleak and desolate. Wondering how remote the house was, I was just about to ask, when the car pulled up outside a pair of wrought iron gates and the driver turned to me, smiling
"Far as I go," he said.
I stared at him. "As far as you go? What do you mean?"
He rolled his eyes. "The gates are shut, see? They always are. And it's a lot of palaver trying to get in touch with the main house to open them."
"Then, how—?" I stared doubtfully at the wall, which was about nine feet high and backed by a whole forest of trees, by the look of it.
"There's a small gate in the wall for pedestrians, over there, look. Just press the buzzer, and someone will answer you eventually, but it's not worth me hanging around, is it? It's only a short walk up the drive."
"Oh, right," I said, unfastening my seat belt. "Well, if you're sure."
I paid him his fare and climbed out of the car, walking uncertainly to the side gate in the wall. I pressed the buzzer on the stone pillar and waited. The taxi driver beeped his horn and drove off, leaving me standing all alone in that strange place, miles from Newarth. It suddenly occurred to me that I should have asked him to wait, or at least booked him for the return journey. Typical of me not to think ahead.
"Hello?"
I jumped upon hearing the voice crackling through the speaker. "Crikey, you scared me to death! I mean, er, hello."
"Can I help?"
"Yes, I have an interview at three o'clock with a Mrs Fairweather. I'm Cara Truelove. I believe she—"
The speaker crackled and the gate clicked. Tentatively, I pushed it open and followed a narrow path through the trees, hearing the gate click again behind me.
The path led me to a driveway, and I walked nervously towards the house, which lay at the end of the tree-lined drive. Whoever lived there, they certainly loved woodland, I thought. As I got nearer to the house, though, the trees gave way to a beautiful lawn, and I stared in awe at the imposing stone property set out before me. It was huge, with what seemed like dozens of casement windows, and a slate roof and lots of chimneys. Straight ahead was a massive oak door, and steps leading up to it. Mr Rochester certainly liked to make an impression.
The door opened, and a woman stepped outside and stood on the top step. I'd half been expecting her to be wearing a Victorian dress and apron, with her hair in a bun, but the woman was wearing trousers and a bright red jumper, and had her steel-grey hair cropped short, in a rather Judi Dench fashion. To my relief, she beamed at me and waved as I approached. "Hello! You found us all right, then. I'm Laura Fairweather. Pleased to meet you, Cara."
Relaxing, I took the hand she offered with some relief. "Hello. Pleased to meet you, too."
"Come into the kitchen, you must be freezing. The fire's going, and it's lovely and warm in there. Would you like a hot drink? Tea? Coffee?"
"A cup of tea would be lovely," I said gratefully. I'd half expected to be asked to enter via the back door, so it was a pleasant surprise to find myself standing in a huge, double-height hallway. It was even more surprising to see how modern and bright it looked. The walls had been painted white, and there was a warm, wooden floor beneath a cheerful stripy runner, and some rather cosy antique pine furniture. A grand staircase stood straight in front of me, with two flights branching off from the landing, one leading left, and one right.
Mrs Fairweather smiled at me. "Not what you were expecting?"
I shook my head. "Not really."
"I know. People always think it's going to be dark and gloomy in here, but the present Mr Rochester has done an awful lot of work to it. He hated coming here when he was young. It was practically gothic when I first started here, and he couldn't abide it. He's completely renovated the whole place. It's so luxurious now, I feel very lucky to live here."
I wasn't surprised, particularly when she led me into her own domain, which was the most gorgeous kitchen I'd ever seen. Tamsin would have been green with envy. Again, the walls were white and the floors wooden. At one end of the huge room was a beautiful fitted kitchen, complete with butler sink and large green range cooker. In the centre, stood an island with a modern hob built into its black Corian worktop. The white units around the side of the kitchen had thick wooden worktops. At the other end of the room, a flight of stairs led up to the first floor, and a large table and chairs stood in front of an inglenook fireplace, so tall it almost reached the ceiling, and within there was a wood-burning stove, which glowed brightly and threw out a heck of a lot of heat.
I defrosted immediately, and asked Mrs Fairweather if she minded if I removed my coat.
"Bless you, love," she said, reaching out a hand to take it from me. "You'll melt into a puddle, if you don't." She nodded towards the table. "Take a seat," she said. "I'll make that tea."
There was no waiting around for a kettle to boil in that house. Boiling water came straight out of a tap. Mrs Fairweather handed me a mug, which was reassuringly plain, and settled herself down opposite me. "Right, then. Let's get this over and done with," she said. "I'm the housekeeper here at Moreland Hall. It's my job to ensure the smooth running of this place. I do the cooking," she added, "and this is my kitchen, whatever his lordship likes to think." She winked at me. "I also see to the household budget, and I take charge of the indoor staff." She chuckled. "That sounds a heck of a lot grander than it is. When I say indoor staff, there's me, Mrs Jones and Mrs Turner. They come here three times a week and help me keep the place clean. Outside, there's Ken. He's the gardener and handyman. That's it for permanent staff. But soon there'll be you. That's if you get the job, of course." She gave me an encouraging smile. "Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"
"What would you like to know?"
I thought I'd have to be a bit selective. I told her about the nursery, leaving out the bit about the parents who frequently ignored our opening times and dropped their kids off early because they had appointments at the methadone clinic.
"I have my diploma," I finished, reaching into my bag and drawing it out. Thank God I'd had the foresight to pack that.
She took it from me and read it, nodding approvingly. "Would you mind if I kept this for now? Just until Mr Rochester has seen it." she said.
I felt a flutter of nerves, but nodded. "Of course. As long as I get it back."
"Oh, you will, never fear. And you'll be able to provide a reference?"
"The owner of Little Poppets Playschool will send one to you. I'll give you her address."
She shook her head. "Email address would do. Mr Rochester likes to do things quickly, and he's a great one for technology. I'll ask her to email it to him, and I'll scan this diploma and email that to him, too."
I was quite impressed. "Is Mr Rochester not here?" I asked, scribbling down Jilly's email address on the piece of paper Mrs Fairweather pushed towards me.
She stood and walked across the room, from where she collected a brightly-coloured biscuit tin off the worktop. "He's in London. He rarely comes up to Yorkshire these days," she said, returning to her seat. "Have a biscuit?"
I thought about the straining zip on my skirt and shook my head. "Better not. But thank you. So, his daughter's here just with her mother?"
She stared at me blankly for a moment, as she crunched on a custard cream. "Oh, I see what you mean. No, no. Adele's not his daughter."
Adele! Was she having me on? Mr Rochester was caring for a child who wasn't his, and her name was Adele? Had I entered The Twilight Zone? I seemed destined to spend my life living inside Brontë novels.
"Don't tell me," I said. "Adele is the daughter of his French mistress. And I don't mean his teacher."
She looked baffled. Evidently, she wasn't much of a reader. "Adele is Mr Rochester's little sister," she said.
I hadn’t been expecting that. "How old is she again?" I said.
"Four."
"Oh. Sorry, just that, I thought Mr Rochester would be older."
She grinned at me. "Than four? He is. He's nearly thirty-six. It's okay, my dear, I do see what you mean. There's quite an age gap."
She wasn't kidding. I wondered who was fooling whom, but thought it best to keep my opinions to myself. "Oh, right. So, is Adele's mother here?"
She looked disapproving. "No, she's staying in New York at the moment, visiting some friends. That's why he was a bit stuck, you see. Jodie—she was Adele's previous nanny—well, she had to leave suddenly, and there was no one to take care of Adele. I went down there for a while, but my place is here. Can't be doing with London. It was decided that Adele could spend the summer here, and it was thought that a local nanny would be preferable. Someone used to the city might not settle here, you see. Are you sure you wouldn't like a biscuit?"
I peered longingly into the tin. My hand hovered over a chocolate digestive, but as I reached forward, my waistband practically cut off my circulation until I was genuinely worried my button would pop and ping across the kitchen floor. Regretfully, I withdrew my hand. "No thanks."
She looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay. Well, would you like to have a look around the house and meet Adele?"
"I'd love to," I said, thinking it wasn't much of an interview. I wasn't going to point that out to her, though. Clearly, she was eager to hire someone, and I didn't want to do anything to make her think twice about choosing me. "I'll take off my boots," I added. "They're rather muddy, I'm afraid."
She seemed to approve of that, and gave me a smile that radiated as much warmth as the wood-burning stove.
The house was gorgeous. I mean, really, it was stunning. Clearly, no expense had been spared. Considering the taxi driver had said the Rochesters weren't often there, they'd gone to a lot of trouble to make it very luxurious, in a cosy and welcoming sort of way. Every room had a beauty and elegance of its own. I particularly loved the huge conservatory, or garden room, as Mrs Fairweather called it. It wasn't like the plastic monstrosity that Mum and Dad had stuck on the back of their house, but was a tasteful stone and glass extension, with views across the most beautiful gardens.
"There are twelve bedrooms," Mrs Fairweather explained, as we made our way to the first floor. "Six of them are en-suite. Then there are three separate bathrooms. You'll never be caught short in this house," she said, her eyes twinkling.
I really liked her, and I had everything crossed that she liked me enough to recommend me to her employer for the job. I couldn't believe there was a chance I might live somewhere like that, and be paid to do so. Was I dreaming?
"This would be your room," she told me, opening a door into a room that was as big as both my old bedroom and living room combined. A soft cream carpet squished beneath my feet, a huge bay window looked out over the lawn and to the moors beyond, a king-size bed with a crisp white duvet cover and purple throw sat proud against one wall, and thick purple check curtains hung at the windows. Best of all, through an open door to the left of me, I spotted something I never thought I'd ever have in a million years. An en-suite bathroom! I had to have this job.
"Do you think it will do?" she said. "I know it's right at the end of the corridor, but it's next to Adele's room, and I think Mr Rochester would prefer that you were close."
"It's perfect," I assured her, trying to sound calm, even though inside I was mentally hopping up and down in excitement. I would have to take a photo of the place and send it to Tamsin. She'd be so envious. I knew I shouldn't be so mean, but I'd never had anything to show off about before. The job, the house, they could be my breakthrough!
"Wonderful," she said. "Well, I suppose the only thing left to do now is introduce you to Adele."
I felt a shadow pass over me. What if Adele didn't like me? What if I didn't like Adele? I remembered some of the aggressive little toddlers I'd dealt with at nursery and took a deep breath. I was up to the task. Once we'd established boundaries, we could make it work, I was sure of it.
Adele was apparently being entertained by Mrs Turner's teenage daughter. "We've had to rely on her a lot these past few days," Mrs Fairweather confided, as we headed back downstairs. "Really, it's all been very trying, I must say. Anyway, luckily for me, Susie works evenings at The Crown, so she's been able to come in every afternoon and take Adele off my hands for a few hours. I'm far too old for all this," she added, pushing open a door and ushering me into another stunning space.
In the corner of what appeared to be a sitting room, a little girl was curled up on a teenager's lap, seemingly absorbed in the story that was being narrated to her—in a rather bored tone, it had to be said. As she registered our arrival, Adele scrambled from the chair and ran over to us, her blue eyes wide with curiosity and a big smile on her face.
"Adele, sweetheart, this is Cara. Cara, this is Adele."
My heart just swelled as I took in the cute little tot, with her tousled brown hair and enquiring expression. She wore a red and black Minnie Mouse dress, with black and white stripy tights, and had a big floppy bow in her hair. Despite the horrendously garish outfit, she looked adorable, and she didn't greet me by kicking me in the shins or sticking her tongue out at me, which was definitely a bonus.
Instead, she held out her hand and quite solemnly said, "Hello, Cara."
Astonished, I carefully shook it and smiled down at her. "Hello, Adele. I'm very pleased to meet you."
The teenager, who I presumed was Susie, yawned and stretched. "Can I go now, Mrs Fairweather? I'm supposed to be meeting my mates in half an hour."
Mrs Fairweather nodded. "I suppose so. Thanks, Susie. I'll get your wages, if you'll come to the kitchen with me." She turned to me. "Will you be okay with her for five minutes?"
"Of course," I said. "Would you like me to finish reading you that story, Adele?"
Adele nodded, and Mrs Fairweather smiled. "There's a good girl. I'll be back in a jiffy."
She led Susie out of the room, and I settled myself in the comfortable armchair and lifted Adele onto my knee, then I picked up the book and continued the story of The Gruffalo, doing all the voices and making quite a decent job of it, if I did say so myself. Well, Adele seemed pretty impressed, anyway. She stared up at me, eyes wide, at first, then giggled in all the right places, and when I'd finished, she gave me a round of applause, so I must have done okay.
"Well, you're very good at that, I will say," Mrs Fairweather said from the doorway. I hadn’t even noticed her return. "Come along, Adele. I need to get your tea ready." She held out her hand for the little girl. "Now, then, Cara," she said, as we headed back into the hallway towards the front door, "Do you think you could cope with the isolation of this house? You wouldn't crave the bright lights of the city?"
I pulled a face. "Hardly. This is the most perfect location. I'm definitely not a city girl."
"Thought as much. I've seen enough to be satisfied. What about you? Are you interested in the job?"
Was I! I could hardly wipe the smile from my face. "Absolutely," I said, trying to keep the eagerness from my voice. "But what about Mr Rochester? Doesn't he have the final say?"
"He'll check out your reference and the authenticity of the diploma, of course, but other than that, he'll leave it to me. He trusts my judgement, as well he should, after all these years. I know what it is he's looking for. He was rather, er, specific about certain matters, and I believe I'm a good judge of character. So, do you think you'd be able to start on Monday?"
"I think that would be fine," I said, thinking I must have died and gone to heaven. "What time do you want me?"
"Get here for around nine," she said, after considering for a moment. "You can take the morning to unpack and settle in. Then you can take over the childcare after lunch, if that's all right with you."
I nodded. "Absolutely fine."
"Goodness, we haven't even discussed your wages," she said, as she opened the front door.
I hadn't even thought about the money. Living at Moreland Hall would be payment enough, as far as I was concerned.
Mrs Fairweather sounded almost apologetic as she told me what the hourly rate would be. "I know it doesn't sound much," she said, scooping Adele into her arms, "but it's more than the minimum wage, after all, and you'll have free board and lodgings."
"It sounds very fair to me," I said, fighting the urge to do a happy dance down the hall. "Honestly, I'm quite satisfied with it. I can't wait to start work."
She opened the door. "Nine o'clock on Monday, then," she said. "I'll look forward to seeing you. Say bye-bye to Cara, Adele."
Adele waved. "Bye-bye, Cara."
"Bye, Adele. See you soon. Goodbye, Mrs Fairweather, and thank you."
She tutted. "It's me who should be thanking you. My knees aren't up to this malarkey, my love. See you on Monday!"
I practically floated down the drive on a cloud of happiness. I couldn't believe it. Finally, my life was turning around, and things were going well for me.
It just showed you, I thought, what could happen once you put passion away and started to be sensible and level-headed about things.
It was only when I reached the gate that I remembered I'd forgotten to order a taxi.