‘I am very impressed with the sales pitch,’ Cliffton said admiringly.
‘So you see, Mum?’ William pressed. ‘I have to have the camera.’
‘William, you haven’t received permission about the car, and I don’t think…’
‘Permission granted,’ Cliffton chimed in, his blue eyes twinkling approval.
‘The camera, Mum?’
Two against one defeated her. ‘Yes.’ She sighed, her need to settle various matters with Cliffton more urgent and important than arguing with William over his schemes for augmenting his pocket money.
‘Thanks, Mum. Thanks a lot, Mr. Cliffton. I think I’m going to like you.’
He was off like a flash to fleece his friends’ pockets.
‘Weak or strong, madam?’
Cliffton had the silver teapot poised, ready to pour.
‘However it comes,’ Ashley answered distractedly. ‘You came here in a chauffeured Rolls Royce?’
‘It is the customary mode of transport at Springfield Manor, madam. The master wants you to know you’ll be given every comfort. Milk, madam?’
‘Yes. But surely you didn’t bring a Rolls Royce with you from England. Did you?’ she added, struck with the feeling that anything was possible with this man.
‘I acquired it when I arrived in Sydney, madam. Sugar?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t think…’ Ashley floundered, appalled at the cost of a mission that would certainly—well, almost certainly—be futile. ‘You really shouldn’t be spending so much on a campaign that might come to nothing,’ she burst out. ‘A Rolls Royce, for heaven’s sake! This seems to be getting quite out of hand.’
‘How else can you be shown what to expect, madam?’ Cliffton enquired reasonably. ‘You haven’t tried it yet,’ he pointed out. ‘I think you’ll get to like it. It’s quite pleasant and tends to get addictive.’
She was not going to be seduced by a Rolls Royce into becoming a dependant at Springfield Manor. ‘I do not need a Rolls Royce,’ she stated emphatically. ‘And what’s more, Cliffton, this smacks of trying to buy my acquiescence to what you want.’
‘It is always interesting to test resistance to its limits, madam,’ he said with an air of taking up an irresistible challenge.
‘Why on earth should you do such a thing?’ she demanded. Surely he was taking this mission too far.
‘It’s in the spirit of my more adventurous forebears who would never take no for an answer.’
Irrepressible, Ashley thought, beginning to appreciate Gordon Payne’s perspicacity in retreating from Cliffton rather than taking him on. What could one do in the face of such an unsquashable spirit? And really, did she want to say no to Cliffton? It was only the ultimate no to the Harcourt family that she would have to impress upon him.
‘Well, I won’t be held responsible for what you spend,’ Ashley stated unequivocally.
‘The responsibility is entirely mine,’ Cliffton agreed. ‘Your tea, madam.’
‘Oh! Thank you.’ In a Royal Crown Derby fine bone china teacup, no less, inherited from her mother-in-law. How much fossicking had Cliffton done in her kitchen? Ashley’s whirling mind spun to other concerns, like the possible undermining of her authority with William. ‘I don’t think you should have let William use the car as a…as a—’
‘Money-making venture?’ Cliffton supplied.
‘Yes.’
‘If I may say so, madam, one should never stifle enterprise. In my youth I used to organise frog races. With his entrepreneurial talents, Master William will undoubtedly—’
‘Stop!’
‘I beg your pardon, madam?’
‘You can’t call him master. I won’t have it.’ The last thing she wanted was for William to start thinking he was of a superior breed to anyone else. ‘There are no masters in Australia. There are only people, Cliffton,’ she added earnestly. ‘You must understand that or you won’t do any good here.’
‘Thank you for your advice, madam,’ he said gravely. ‘Is there anything else I should know so as not to give offence?’
‘I’m not a madam. Madams are people who run brothels.’
‘Oh!’ The quirky little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Then that’s clearly inappropriate. I shall call you milady.’
‘I’m not your lady.’ Ashley managed not to say, ‘Yet.’
‘Mrs. Harcourt?’
She didn’t want to be reminded of her marriage to Roger, either, but perhaps it wasn’t appropriate to ask Cliffton to call her Ashley at this point. It could wait until she knew him better. She nodded her assent to the name and sipped her tea, trying desperately to collect her thoughts into a properly ordered pattern.
Events seemed to be tumbling over themselves, not giving her time to sort through what needed to be done. And it didn’t help to have Cliffton hovering over her enquiringly. Not only were the beautiful blue depths of his eyes enough for her wits to drown in, she seemed to be getting a fixation on the tantalising little tilts and curves of his mouth. She hadn’t thought about being kissed by a man for quite a while. The provocative question arose… . Did butlers help put their mistresses to bed?
Ashley was shocked at herself, but a perverse little voice whispered that it had been over six years and she was as normal as the next woman in wanting an exciting relationship with a man, so it was perfectly all right to fantasise what it might be like. Especially with a man of Cliffton’s unusual and extraordinary qualities. In fact, she wouldn’t be normal if she didn’t.
It took an enormous effort of will to drag her mind back to practical matters. ‘I think you should show me some credentials, Cliffton,’ she said soberly. ‘After all, it’s asking a lot for me to accept what you’re saying off the cuff, so to speak.’
‘Quite right! I have the investigative report tracing the family line to young William in my luggage. I shall ask the chauffeur to fetch it in as soon as the photograph session is over. In the meantime, will my passport suffice as a means of identification?’
He removed it from an inner pocket in his suit coat and offered it to her. Ashley put down her teacup, intent on examining whatever solid information she could get about him. It was certainly a British passport, and the photograph unmistakably identified him as Harold Alistair Cliffton. A very English name, Ashley thought.
‘Harold,’ she mused out loud, thinking it didn’t really fit him.
‘Nobody ever calls me by that name, Mrs. Harcourt,’ came the decisive correction. ‘Harold is merely a remnant from the Battle of Hastings.’
Yes, it did belong in the realms of history, Ashley privately agreed. She supposed using the surname Cliffton was traditional for a butler, and she shouldn’t mess with that formality. Not yet, anyway. However, her curiosity was piqued.
‘What about when you were a boy?’ she probed.
‘I was always Harry.’
Harry. That was better. More lively. She could imagine a Harry organising frog races. A Harry could definitely be as debonair as Fred Astaire.
His date of birth gave her his age. Thirty-three. She suddenly had an awful thought. ‘Are you married, Cliffton?’
‘No. Unhappily, the woman to whom I was deeply attached died some years ago,’ he said sadly. ‘As I have no current ties, it was no hardship for me to come away on this mission.’
Free