‘Were you?’ Harriet’s lips tightened once more, as they had done outside, but she made no comment about her chauffeur. Only he wasn’t her chauffeur, Sara reminded herself tensely, realising she had still not discovered his real designation.
A tap at the door heralded the arrival of the maid with the tea. An elderly woman, with dour Scots features, wheeled a laden trolley across the patterned carpet, and set it firmly in front of her mistress.
‘This is Janet,’ Harriet announced, smiling up at the woman disarmingly. ‘Janet, this is my niece, Sara Shelley. Isn’t she lovely?’
If Sara was embarrassed by her method of introduction, Janet seemed unaware of it. ‘Pleased to meet you, miss,’ she declared, her tone belying the greeting, and in an accent unimpaired by however long she had lived in England. Then, without waiting for any response, she marched out of the room again, leaving Sara with the distinct impression that she did not approve.
‘Don’t mind Janet,’ Harriet said quickly, drawing the trolley towards her and taking charge of the teapot. ‘She’s been with me too long, I’m afraid, and familiarity breeds contempt, don’t they say?’ She smiled, and resumed setting out the teacups. ‘Now, what will you have? Cream and sugar? Or are you like me, and prefer your tea with lemon?’
‘Just cream, please.’ Sara had never acquired a taste for English tea served with lemon. No matter what the country of its origin, it did not taste like the tea she and her father used to enjoy in Nagpur, or perhaps it was the surroundings that made that drink so distinctive.
The trolley also had plates of small sandwiches, scones and a rich madeira cake, and a variety of biscuits. Sara reflected, as she munched a smoked salmon sandwich, that anyone with a weight problem would have to be careful here, and although she had never been troubled that way, she had never treated food as a ritual before. Except when Aunt Harriet had taken her out to tea, she amended, brushing a crumb from her lips, as visions of thick clotted cream and Cornish strawberry jam floated before her eyes.
As she took another sandwich she wondered apprehensively if the man Jude would join them for tea. His attitude had been quite familiar, but there were only two cups, and as the minutes stretched Sara started to relax.
‘You were in India when it happened, weren’t you?’ Harriet said, after pouring herself a second cup of tea. She looked at Sara sympathetically. ‘You don’t mind me asking, do you, dear? Only I think it’s best if we get it out of the way first, don’t you?’
‘Right.’ Sara nodded. ‘Yes. We were in Calcutta, actually.’ Her throat tightened. ‘He was covering the elections.’
‘So I heard.’ Harriet’s tongue appeared, to moisten her upper lip. ‘It must have been terrible for you—not knowing anyone, not knowing the language …’
‘Oh, I knew people.’ Sara steeled herself to talk of it. ‘We had a number of friends there. And I knew a little of the language. We’d been there before, you see.’
‘Yes, but—–’ Harriet sought for words, ‘it’s not like your own country, is it? Not like England.’
‘As a matter of fact, I was glad,’ Sara confessed huskily. ‘The formalities were over so much sooner there. They have to be. The climate, you know—–’
‘Of course.’
‘As soon as the cause of death had been disclosed—they conducted a post-mortem, you see—the—the body—had to be disposed of. I chose cremation. It was what he would have wanted.’
‘My child, how awful for you! Having a funeral without any mourners!’
Sara shook her head. ‘There were mourners. The—the officials who—who knew him, and other press men—–’
‘All the same—–’ Harriet sighed. ‘There was no question of bringing his body back to England, I suppose?’
Sara pressed her lips together for a moment. ‘I don’t think he would have wanted that. He—he never regarded England as his home, not really. He was a nomad.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think he probably subscribed to the theory that his life was like the arc of an arrow. He wanted to remain where it rested.’
Harriet nodded. ‘What can I say? You knew him so much better than anyone else. It had to be your decision.’
‘Yes.’
Sara sighed, and with a characteristic lift of her slim shoulders, Harriet shrugged the unpleasant topic aside. ‘Enough of that,’ she declared, and Sara was relieved she had not had to explain the circumstances of Charles Shelley’s death. For the present at least her aunt was prepared to let sleeping dogs lie, and Sara knew a sense of gratitude for her tact and understanding. Remembering what Jude had said about Aunt Harriet, she also felt a kindling of resentment. For whatever purpose, he had tried to influence her against her aunt, and she despised his reasons for doing so. He had almost succeeded in convincing her that her own opinion of Miss Ferrars was faulty, and that the only reason Harriet had for bringing her here was to satisfy some motive of her own.
‘So tell me,’ her aunt was continuing, ‘what have you been doing with yourself since you got back to England? You wrote that you’d been living with a friend. Did you find a job?’
‘I’m afraid not,’ Sara grimaced, glad to be back on firm ground again. ‘Jobs aren’t that easy to come by, especially for someone like me, with practically no qualifications.’
‘No, you’re right.’ Harriet lifted her cup and saucer and leaned back comfortably in her chair, folding her legs in such a way that the side vents in her skirt exposed a considerable length of thigh. ‘So you were quite relieved to get my invitation? I haven’t dragged you away from any exciting career in London?’
‘Heavens, no!’ Sara’s mouth curved upward. ‘And I was pleased when you wrote to me. Although whether I’ll be suitable for the position you mentioned is something we’ll both have to find out.’
‘Oh, you’ll be suitable, won’t she, Harriet?’
The hateful taunting voice of the man who had driven her from the station suspended their conversation, and glancing round Sara saw him, propped idolently against the frame of the door. He, too, had discarded his leather jerkin to reveal a close-fitting navy silk shirt, and as she watched he straightened away from the door and sauntered confidently into the room.
‘Really, Jude, I wish you’d knock!’ exclaimed Harriet tersely, casting a half apologetic smile in Sara’s direction. ‘If you want some tea, you’ll have to get a cup. Janet didn’t expect us to be interrupted.’
‘No, ma’am. I see, ma’am. Sorry, to be sure, ma’am. But I’ve taken the miss’s cases to her room, and I wondered if there’d be anything else, ma’am!’
‘Really, Jude, you’re not very funny!’ Harriet’s expression mirrored her exasperation, but instead of ordering him out of the room as Sara had expected, she expelled her breath shortly, and resumed drinking her tea.
Jude stood between the chairs, his hands pushed carelessly into the low belt of his jeans. He exuded an air of raw masculinity in that essentially feminine room, and Sara, much as she would like to, could not quite forget it.
She cast a hasty glance up at him, only to find he was looking at Aunt Harriet, and Sara’s cheeks suddenly burned at the insolent manner of that appraisal. He was looking at her as if—as if—Sara’s mind could go no further. But she wished with all her might that Aunt Harriet would pull her skirt back over her knees.
‘Where were we?’
Harriet’s encouraging words brought Sara up with a start, and she clattered her cup noisily as she set it down on the trolley. ‘You—er—you were about to tell me what my duties will be,’ she prompted, trying to ignore their unwelcome visitor, and then looked up with irritation when he smothered a stifled laugh.
‘Jude,