‘I’m all right,’ she choked as Donald went to hit her again, sitting on the arm of her chair to do so. She blinked back the tears and swallowed hard. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled.
Lady Spencer nodded regally. ‘Donald, don’t sit on the arm of the chair like that,’ she said waspishly.
He at once moved back to his own armchair. Just like an obedient child, Callie thought with a shake of her head. Donald must be about thirty, his late twenties at least, and yet he still seemed to live here with his parents, something she found unbelievable for a man. Perhaps he had a home of his own in London, was only here for the weekend as she was, although she doubted it. Donald had the look of a devoted son, too much so in her opinion.
It had been the mention of Jeff’s accident that had sparked off her choking and coughing fit. Why did this woman persist in talking about it? Jeff was dead, no amount of talking could bring him back, as could no amount of crying, although when she was alone she couldn’t seem to stop the latter.
Her head went back, her chin held at a proud angle. ‘We weren’t talking about the accident, Lady Spencer,’ she said distantly, ‘you were. I really have nothing to say about it. Jeff is dead, that’s all there is to say.’
‘Jeff is Jeffrey,’ Sir Charles told his family dryly.
Callie’s eyes flashed. ‘I never knew him as anything other than Jeff.’
‘Of course you didn’t, my dear,’ he soothed. ‘Perhaps you would like to go to your room and rest, you look a little pale.’
‘The mourning colour always does that to blondes, darling,’ his wife told him in a bored voice.
Callie flushed. ‘I didn’t wear this suit because I’m in mourning.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ Lady Spencer said tartly. ‘We would hardly expect you to mourn for Jeffrey. He’s left you a very rich young woman, why should you mourn him?’
‘Susan—–’
‘Perhaps I should go to my room.’ Callie stood up jerkily. ‘If you’ll excuse me …’
‘Donald, take Miss Day up to her room,’ Lady Spencer commanded irrritably.
‘Of course.’ He stood obediently to his feet, moving to open the door for her.
Callie walked out without saying another word. She had expected opposition, even resentment from this family, but she hadn’t expected open dislike. But why hadn’t she? She was an intruder, a usurper. James Seymour had explained that the other sixty-two and a half per cent of Spencer Plastics was owned by the family—and Lady Spencer had already told her that she certainly wasn’t that!
‘Mother doesn’t always mean things the way they sound,’ Donald spoke suddenly at her side, more relaxed now that he was away from his parents’ domination.
Callie looked at him with new eyes, seeing the rather pleasant features, the friendly blue eyes. And away from his parents he didn’t seem weak at all, his lighter personality was no longer overshadowed by them.
But he didn’t know his mother very well if he really didn’t think she had meant that remark about Jeff leaving her a rich young woman. She was under no such illusions about Lady Spencer, she had meant every word exactly as it had been said—bitchily!
But the truth couldn’t be denied, Jeff had left her very rich—if she dared to accept what James Seymour had told her about Jeff’s will. Up until today she really hadn’t thought it could be true, was sure they would find it was all a mistake, and yet now she had to believe it, the Spencers’ resentment had made it so. She needed time alone to adjust to this new sensation, to accept that she really was as rich as James Seymour had said she was.
‘I’m sure she doesn’t,’ she answered Donald blandly. ‘My coming here has been—a surprise to you all.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed truthfully. ‘It never occurred to us that Uncle Jeffrey would—Oh well, it’s done now.’
‘Yes,’ she answered huskily. ‘Yes, it’s done now.’
‘Oh, I didn’t mean—–’ His cheeks flooded with colour, made to look even worse on his normally pale cheeks.
‘I’m sure you didn’t,’ she squeezed his arm in sympathy. ‘Thank you for showing me to my room.’
He smiled. ‘My pleasure,’ he pushed the bedroom door open before turning to her. ‘You really aren’t what we were expecting, you know.’
Callie quirked an eyebrow, her curiosity aroused. ‘And just what were you expecting?’
‘Oh, someone older, more—more—–’
‘Sophisticated and money-grasping?’ she finished softly, walking into the bedroom and throwing her clutch-bag down on the bed, not even sparing a glance for the beautifully furnished room she was to sleep in tonight.
‘No—–’
She gave a tight smile. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t fall into the right category, Donald. Maybe I could work at it?’
‘No, please—–’
‘I’m sorry,’ she sat down heavily on the bed. ‘This meeting has been as trying for me as it has for you.’ She put a hand up to her aching temple. ‘Now I really would like to rest.’
He took her hint to leave. ‘Dinner is at eight o’clock. Shall I call for you?’
It would mean she didn’t have to walk into the midst of the lions’ den on her own. ‘I’d like that,’ she accepted gratefully.
‘Good,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’ll see you later, then.’
Callie lay back on the bed once she was alone, staring up at the ornate ceiling. With Jeff at her side she might have got through this, alone she had no defences. But if Jeff had been alive she would never have come here, would never have been allowed through the doors! Oh, Jeff, what have you done to me? she groaned, turning her face into the pillow and crying for her loss.
She must have actually fallen asleep, for the sun was just going down when she at last opened her eyes. She sat up groggily, pushing her hair from her eyes and looking around her dazedly. The curtains were still drawn back, the last of evening’s light fading. Jeff had always liked sunrise and sunset, they were his favourite times of day, and the two of them had often shared those times together.
She hadn’t slept well since Jeff had died, had missed his presence in the flat, finding herself surrounded by the memories there. Maybe she should move, try to forget, and yet she had been loath to do that, to leave the memories behind. Maybe one day, when she was ready to let the memories go. But not yet, not yet …
Her suit was badly creased after she had slept in it, and she hung it up in the wardrobe, seeing that the dress and trousers she had brought with her were already in there, her shoes laid out neatly on the floor, the empty suitcase beside them. A search of the dressing-table drawers found her clean underwear, silky pantyhose, pink lacy panties and matching bra, and she didn’t like the idea of some unknown person sorting through her more intimate clothing, it was like an invasion of her privacy. She had packed and unpacked her own clothing since she had been on a school trip when she was ten years old, and she didn’t like the fact that someone else had done it for her now. She had always been an independent, self-reliant person, and she doubted she would ever want that to change. Even if she was supposedly rich now! She wasn’t going to let any of this change her life, and she certainly didn’t intend to give up her private life to an army of servants.
Her dress was a deep, rich brown velvet, making her eyes appear the same way, giving her skin a honey-tone, the halter-neckline showing a large expanse of her flesh, the straight style of the skirt showing her slender curves to advantage.
When Donald knocked on the door for her she looked