At Your Service, page 1
At Your Service
At Your Service
Copyright ©2018 Sandra Antonelli
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
At Your Service
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Dedication
For Elle Gardner who understands what it means to Bond
For Megan Whalen Turner who read and liked this book, and knows its seeds were planted many years ago.
Chapter 1
The text message Major Kitt sent the previous evening had been brief: Home. Breakfast at 7. Please.
Fresh food and other supplies in tow, Mae arrived at the rear entrance of her employer’s Maresfield Gardens flat at 5:30 and let herself inside. She found his luggage beside the front door, which meant he’d only be home a short time and was likely to depart for another destination quite soon. Or he’d been preoccupied by something soft and perfumed. She tended to the things that indicated the latter, hanging up a woman’s satin trench coat left on the floor, tossing out a moist copy of The Times that had been used as an umbrella, returning throw pillows to the window seat in the sitting room.
In the butler’s pantry adjoining the kitchen, she slipped off a messenger bag holding a thin laptop, an envelope of bank documents, and an iPad. She stored the items in the small cupboard that housed cleaning supplies, aprons, and two extra sets of work clothes. After tying on a fresh apron, she organised the groceries and mixed sweet dough, which she put aside to rise. At the breakfast table near the big bay window in the sitting room, she arranged his vintage gilt-edged blue and white Minton china beside Jersey butter, little crystal pots of strawberry jam, Corsican honey, and her homemade orange and ginger marmalade.
By 6:50 the coffee was ready and the Béarnaise was done. By 6:55 Mae began to scramble his eggs and her employer ambled into the kitchen wearing a dressing gown, in need of feeding, a purplish welt below his damp hairline.
“Good morning, Mae,” he said, gravelly voiced.
Mae didn’t ask about the livid bump on his head or the red, raw scratches on his neck. A retired army officer, at present the Major was a Risk Assessment Specialist for Regent’s Park Consortium, a company dealing in precious metals, chemicals, and fuels. The job sometimes sent him to dangerous parts of the world, places where people tried to kill each other for land, valuable commodities, or different religious beliefs. He met with of all sorts of hospitality in his travels. At times, the hospitality turned hostile, resulted in his harm, and he returned home with a split lip, black eye, and once, a detached retina. There was also the fact the man had two vices: the drink and women.
Rather than misunderstandings with antagonistic tribal landowners, hillbilly moonshiners, or religious zealots hell-bent on world domination, Mae suspected that the majority of his injuries were sustained by overindulgence in spirits and a penchant for married or attached women, which resulted in misunderstandings, brawling—and an occasional unhappy boyfriend or husband with murder on his mind.
“Good morning, sir,” she said. “Nice to have you home again.”
“Did you miss me, Mae? You must’ve. You’re making scrambled eggs with Béarnaise.” He poked a finger into the Béarnaise to have a taste, sucked the sauce from his fingertip, and a low, appreciative sound vibrated in his throat.
“Eggs for two then?”
“For one. Miss Samarakkody’s taxi is waiting. She had a coat?”
Mae set the bowl of eggs aside. She wiped her hands on her apron as she went to the foyer to meet the waiting beauty, who was finger-combing lustrous dark hair.
Striking, the young woman was tall, had brown skin and blue eyes. She looked Mae up and down, taking in her preferred uniform, the supportive Doc Marten Mary Janes, unassuming dark blue shirt-dress, apron, reading glasses on chain, the French plait that kept the hair from her face—and dismissed her as any competition or threat. Miss Samarakkody’s perfect brows arched expectantly.
Mae retrieved the satin coat, helped the woman into it, and received a slapping faceful of gleaming umber hair as Miss Samarakkody turned about and stretched out her arms to the man she’d spent the night enjoying.
“Naan poga véndum, anpe,” Miss Samarakkody said, embracing him. “Ellām naṉṟi.”
He kissed her cheek.
Quietly, Mae left the lovers to their farewell and returned to the kitchen to continue cooking. He would not be long. He was never long with goodbyes.
Abhorring tea, the Major made espresso when he was alone, but when she cooked for him Mae made the dark roast brewed coffee that she preferred to drink. She filled her cup and took an empty one out for him. Then she placed a pan on the gas cooktop, spooned in a knob of butter and whisked the eggs, pouring them into the pan once the butter had melted.
The chair at the small table in front of the bay window squeaked softly as he sat. She served him wholewheat toast, the scrambled eggs topped with Béarnaise, and set his coffee beside his blue plate. He smelled clean, of orange, bergamot, and a whisper of spicy nutmeg that blended with the aroma of coffee. The scent suited him.
“Will you join me for a cup?” he asked.
“Yes, of course.” Mae pulled out the chair opposite his, sat with him, and sipped her mug of black Sumatran-Latin American blend, while he ate his breakfast with gusto.
“Why are you so good to me, Mae?” he said, savouring the simple plate of food as if he’d never eaten anything more heavenly.
“Because you pay me.”
“I pay, you care, just like a patient who visits a psychologist.”
“Yes. Except you don’t tell me any dark secrets about yourself.”
“No, you figure those out all on your own.”
“Miss Samarakkody,” she said. “Indian, or perhaps Sri Lankan?”
“Sri Lankan.”
“Single?”
“Would you approve if she was single?”
“It’s not my place to approve, sir. You pay me, remember? I care for your clothing, scrub your toilet, and cook your breakfast.”
“Would you approve if I paid you more?”
“Are you offering me a pay rise?”
He chuckled and found untold delight in another mouthful of scrambled egg. “How long have you been with me now, Mae?”
“It’s been three years since your previous man left your employ and retired, so three years as your butler, sir.”
“It seems much longer.”
“Like eternity in hell.”
The Major laughed again. “I’ll be home in Hades for the next six weeks. It’ll be a month and a half of compiling reports for head office, paperwork, and such other hellishly mind-numbing bits of boring, so I’ll be needing you here to keep me fortified.”
“I’ll make certain you’re appropriately well-fed to deal with the dullness, sir.”
“See that you do.” He gulped a mouthful of coffee then returned the cup to the table and lifted his fork. “What did you get up to while I was away this time?”
“I finally finished painting the downstairs flat, and discovered Caspar left an indecently large sum of money in a trust.”
“Define indecently large.”
Mae told him the figure.
A forkful of egg paused at his lips, his brow quirked and he gave a little nod. “I’d say that’s decidedly indecent.”
“I ought to get the financial documents and show you. It’s taken some time to absorb the size of the sum. I’ve a mind to give the money away.”
“I had no idea being a Master Gardener could be so lucrative. Clearly, I’ve chosen the wrong career. Well, with that amount you’re set for life.”
“I’d be set for life if Caspar were still with me—and if property maintenance on old buildings didn’t involve plumbing. Two weeks ago, there was a leak in your bathroom that warranted repair. I had to replace your toilet and retile the floor around it. It was better that you weren’t here. Quite messy. Would you have any idea how the toilet cracked, sir?”
Neatly, with a cloth napkin, he blotted Béarnaise from his lips. “You are rather deadly with a toilet brush, perhaps you scrubbed it too hard.”
“I hadn’t thought of that, sir.”
He sighed, and returned his napkin to his lap, a shrewd little smile on his lips. She knew it amused him that she was both his butler and landlady who lived in the converted period house next door. “Mrs Valentine,” he said, “will you be increasing my rent to cover the cost incurred in this minor renovation to the lavatory?”
It amused her that he addressed her formally when their roles shifted from employer and employee to lodger and property-owner. “I hadn’t considered that either, sir.”
He spread her homemade marmalade on his toast. “Sir,” he sniffed. “My previous man scorned the idea of calling me sir, and yet you call me nothing else, despite our arrangement.”
“I know nothing of your previous man’s ed
ucation. However, I trained in buttling and house management. Any other form of address would be inappropriate, sir, unless you would prefer I always call you Major.”
“Only if you salute,” he said with a grimace, and then his mouth was full of toast and the grimace had turned to a grin.
“You look tired, sir. Perhaps you might be ready for a holiday.”
“You’re so eager to be rid of me already you suggest a holiday. Is that your way of sugar-coating that I’m beginning to look old?”
“If that were the case I would have said you look distinguished.”
“Where would you send me on a holiday, a spa, or a detox health spa such as Champneys at Tring or Henlow?”
“As if I would ever deny you a Kentucky Straight Bourbon. No, no. I’d send you to Castello di San Marco in Sicily, near the Ionian Sea, or Ojo Caliente in the high desert of New Mexico, where distinguished gentlemen go to be pampered.”
“Is that where you would go?” he said as he watched her sip her coffee.
“I’m not a distinguished gentleman.”
He chuckled and the timer she’d set in the kitchen peeped.
“Have to knead the Chelsea buns, sir,” she said as she rose, mug in hand.
“Chelsea buns? Oh, you do spoil me so, Mae. You are an Irish pot of gold. Is there more coffee, Mrs Pot O’Gold?”
“I’ll brew more. It will be ready before you finish that cup.” She turned towards the kitchen, smoothing her apron over her hips.
“Mae?”
“Sir?” She faced him.
“What do you think of me?”
“What do I think of you?” Mae felt her brow arch.
“Yes. And be honest. Don’t tell me that I don’t pay you to give me your opinion.”
Mae considered his request for a moment. He was attractive—in an ugly-handsome sort of way. His body was well toned, with defined muscle and a rather remarkable arse, but his face...his face was somewhat cruel with blue-grey eyes that were stony, and a mouth that was perpetually stern until he smiled, which wasn’t often. Somewhere between ginger and dark blond, depending on the amount of time he spent in the sun, his short hair emphasised his pitiless features. As for his disposition, he was immensely trustworthy, possessed a cracking sense of humour, but... She tipped her head. “You’re very like Mr Rochester, sir.”
“Mr Rochester?”
“From Jane Eyre.”
His head tilted, mirroring hers. “You consider me moody and brooding?”
“At times.”
“That’s a fair observation, although I can assure you I don’t keep a madwoman hidden away in the attic.”
“It’s been a while since I’ve been up to the attic, but we all have secrets, sir.”
“Ah, back to secrets again. I suppose you keep secrets too, Mae?”
“All women do.”
He nodded, his hard mouth suddenly pursing. “Are you in love with me, Mae?”
That was not a question she’d expected, but she kept a straight face. “No, sir.”
He pretended to look wounded. “Not even a little?”
“Not even a smidgen.”
His expression turned quizzical. “But if I’m Rochester, wouldn’t that make you Jane Eyre?”
“No, sir. It makes me Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper.” She turned again toward the kitchen, but paused, looking over her shoulder. “Although, if truth be told, I am rather fond of you, sir.”
The coffee cup at his lips did little to hide his little smirk. “Thank you. Your fondness has restored my crushed ego.”
ETIQUETTE DEEMED TWENTY minutes to accommodate a person’s late arrival, but to hell with protocol. She’d been more than polite. After waiting three-quarters of an hour with no call or message, Mae signalled the waiter and ordered a salad of arugula with pear, walnuts, and Parmesan. She expected better service in an upmarket South Kensington establishment, expected the staff would have received proper training, yet the waiter left the place setting across from her—even after she told him she would be dining alone. The presence of the extra stemware and bread plate irritated her far more than the absence of Daniel Pierce.
She’d met Daniel at the bank. He’d assisted her with the trust fund Caspar had set up sometime before his death. She had had no clue such a trust had existed until she’d received a letter from Zurich-based Suisse Global Bank. At first, she thought it was a hoax, one of those Nigerian Prince scams that tried to bamboozle money from gullible widows. Then another letter arrived—a registered letter—from Suisse Global Asset Manager Mr Pierce, who directed her to his office at the local Suisse Global branch on Cabot Square. Mr Pierce had been patient, attentive, and flirty. By the end of their meeting Mr Pierce had become Daniel, and Daniel had asked her out. Deceived by his charm, well-cut suit, and pretty brown eyes, she’d accepted.
It turned out the money had been real and the date had been a hoax. She’d rung Daniel, left a message on his voicemail, sent him a text as well, but both had been ignored. He had seemed so eager to get to know her, genuinely interested, but she now believed that Daniel was married, or engaged, or had a girlfriend. Or he’d simply changed his mind about being interested. Whatever the case, Monday’s afternoon meeting to finish the last details for the transfer of the trust’s funds would be... succinct.
Instead of dwelling on the fact Daniel was an ill-mannered, insincere prat, she took a book from her handbag and cracked open the worn spine of a Charlotte Brontë classic. She ate and read. When the waiter came to clear away her dishes she ordered dessert and black coffee, and asked that he bring them at the same time. As he hurried off, leaving the soiled dinner plates on the table, she caught a glimpse of a familiar figure walking to the bar across the room.
If ever a man suited a dinner jacket it was her employer, and he looked decidedly more handsome than ugly-handsome at the moment. His companion, a redhead, wore a low-cut, open-back gown that matched the shade of her hair. While the restaurant was posh, it wasn’t dinner suit posh and, for a moment, Mae wondered where they’d come from or where they would be going so formally dressed.
Although she looked after his household accounts, she did not keep her employer’s social schedule, as others in service often did. She saw him in formal attire now and again, but it was a rare occasion to catch a glimpse of his evening companion fully dressed the night before. Mornings after, with the woman sans make-up, clothes rumpled, hair tousled were more typical.
She watched them have a seat and then resumed reading until the waiter returned with her dessert, but no coffee. Politely, she pointed out his mistake. With a huff, he flounced off like a drama queen, leaving the dirtied dishes behind once again. Mae found her place on the page and continued to read until a shadow appeared at the table’s edge. She glanced up, expecting the waiter with a cheese platter and martini she hadn’t ordered.
“Good evening, Mae.”
“Good evening, sir.”
The Major’s eyes moved from the untouched place setting, the balsamic-stained plate to her left, and the dark, sweet-filled dessert glass to her right. “You’ve been stood up,” he said.
“Yes. I suppose he changed his mind and decided I was too old, too short, too blonde, too smart or something, but if you think I’m going to sit here and cry into my chocolate mousse over bad manners and being stood up, then you know nothing about women and chocolate, sir.”
“I know a little about women and chocolate, and that dark Belgian mousse looks as decadent as you in that little black dress.”
She held his very direct gaze. “Thank you, sir. Would you like a taste?”
His mouth twitched. Once. “I’m afraid that might spoil my dessert, Mae.”
“Good evening, sir.”
“Good evening,” he said, half turning. “And the man’s a fool. You look lovely, Mae.”
Mae would have watched him cross the dining room to his date, because he moved so well, with such confidence, but the waiter arrived with a café latte.
She sent it back immediately.
Three chapters and two proper black coffees later, she asked for the bill. “It’s been taken care of,” the waiter scowled, “and the gentleman did not leave a gratuity.”
“That is a shame,” she said.
Outraged, the waiter scuttled off, muttering something about stupid cows under his breath. Mae set down her book and looked to the bar on the other side of the room. She scanned the crowd for her employer, to thank him for his thoughtful gesture, but did not see him or the flame-haired beauty. Resigned, she collected her wrap and handbag and exited the restaurant into the reception hall of the Baldessare Hotel. She was in the foyer when she remembered the much-prized Brontë. She turned back to retrieve it, although the change in direction hadn’t been necessary.
