suspicion.
'What have you been up to?'"James turned, lifting a cold, haughty eyebrow.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Hmm,' she said, getting up. 'You don't fool me.' But she didn't pursue the matter. 'Come on, we'll take coffee upstairs. Boys, homework. Emmy, have you learnt your spellings?'
Emmy nodded.
'Toby, make her spell all of them for you. After that, half an hour's television, then get washed and into bed. I'll check on you later.'
James followed her out of the room into the kitchen, where one of the women was already busy making coffee. She turned to smile at them.
'Hallo, enjoy your supper?' This time he recognised her white hair and bright blue eyes.
'Yes, thank you, Lavinia.'
Patience gave him a surprised look as she set about laying a tray with cups and saucers, spoons, a sugar bowl of brown sugar lumps and a small jug of cream, ending with a pot of coffee.
'I'll take that,' James politely said, picking it up.
'Thank you. It is pretty heavy.' Patience walked out of the kitchen and turned up the wide polished oak stairs and onto a landing from which several corridors branched off. Rows of doors, all closed, confronted him, and at the end of one corridor a narrow flight of stairs going up to another floor. How many rooms were there? he wondered. This rambling old house must be larger than it looked from the outside.
'How many guests do you have?'
'At the moment, four men and three women. If we had any more than that they would have to share a room, which I don't like—privacy is so important to people at any age, but especially someone who has no home of their own any more. They don't have much else. No family—or often any friends.'
James shivered, as if a ghost had walked over his grave. He knew what it was like to have nothing and no one. After his mother had gone he had felt abandoned, forsaken—lonely and cold in that luxurious, empty house, with his father never there, no brothers and sisters, no friends, only servants for company. It had been bad enough for a child, how did it feel when you were old? Did the irony ever occur to his mother? His father had always told him that whatever you did always came back on your own head—good or evil, you were always repaid in kind.
Patience was still talking, but she was watching him and he was beginning to be afraid that she could always read his thoughts, so he pushed away his own memories and concentrated on what she was saying.
'Our rooms are all furnished and they can't bring anything with them except a few little things—photographs, books, the odd ornament. Some of them have a radio or TV of their own, and I allow that so long as they keep the volume down and don't disturb anyone else. It makes them feel more at home to have some of their own stuff around them.'
James stood, holding the tray in front of him like a butler, staring down at her. 'What on earth makes you do it?' he broke out harshly. 'Why fill your home with strangers, do all this work...? Surely it would be much easier to sell this house and buy somewhere smaller and get a job. You wouldn't have to work so hard; you would have set hours and more fun.'
'This is the children's home; they don't want to live anywhere else. I promised them when our parents died that I would keep the house and we would all stay together—nothing would be different. I couldn't go out to work then because Emmy was too young, and running a guest-house seemed the perfect answer.'
He wished he hadn't shouted at her but it was too late to regret losing his temper—and why had he suddenly felt so angry that his head nearly blew off just because some total stranger was doing something he felt was crazy and inexplicable? Why should he care if she chose to work like a slave, taking care of all these people?
'What happened to your parents?' he muttered.
'They were killed in a car crash three years ago. A lorry driver had a heart attack at the wheel and smashed right into their car head-on. At least they didn't
'What have you been up to?'"James turned, lifting a cold, haughty eyebrow.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Hmm,' she said, getting up. 'You don't fool me.' But she didn't pursue the matter. 'Come on, we'll take coffee upstairs. Boys, homework. Emmy, have you learnt your spellings?'
Emmy nodded.
'Toby, make her spell all of them for you. After that, half an hour's television, then get washed and into bed. I'll check on you later.'
James followed her out of the room into the kitchen, where one of the women was already busy making coffee. She turned to smile at them.
'Hallo, enjoy your supper?' This time he recognised her white hair and bright blue eyes.
'Yes, thank you, Lavinia.'
Patience gave him a surprised look as she set about laying a tray with cups and saucers, spoons, a sugar bowl of brown sugar lumps and a small jug of cream, ending with a pot of coffee.
'I'll take that,' James politely said, picking it up.
'Thank you. It is pretty heavy.' Patience walked out of the kitchen and turned up the wide polished oak stairs and onto a landing from which several corridors branched off. Rows of doors, all closed, confronted him, and at the end of one corridor a narrow flight of stairs going up to another floor. How many rooms were there? he wondered. This rambling old house must be larger than it looked from the outside.
'How many guests do you have?'
'At the moment, four men and three women. If we had any more than that they would have to share a room, which I don't like—privacy is so important to people at any age, but especially someone who has no home of their own any more. They don't have much else. No family—or often any friends.'
James shivered, as if a ghost had walked over his grave. He knew what it was like to have nothing and no one. After his mother had gone he had felt abandoned, forsaken—lonely and cold in that luxurious, empty house, with his father never there, no brothers and sisters, no friends, only servants for company. It had been bad enough for a child, how did it feel when you were old? Did the irony ever occur to his mother? His father had always told him that whatever you did always came back on your own head—good or evil, you were always repaid in kind.
Patience was still talking, but she was watching him and he was beginning to be afraid that she could always read his thoughts, so he pushed away his own memories and concentrated on what she was saying.
'Our rooms are all furnished and they can't bring anything with them except a few little things—photographs, books, the odd ornament. Some of them have a radio or TV of their own, and I allow that so long as they keep the volume down and don't disturb anyone else. It makes them feel more at home to have some of their own stuff around them.'
James stood, holding the tray in front of him like a butler, staring down at her. 'What on earth makes you do it?' he broke out harshly. 'Why fill your home with strangers, do all this work...? Surely it would be much easier to sell this house and buy somewhere smaller and get a job. You wouldn't have to work so hard; you would have set hours and more fun.'
'This is the children's home; they don't want to live anywhere else. I promised them when our parents died that I would keep the house and we would all stay together—nothing would be different. I couldn't go out to work then because Emmy was too young, and running a guest-house seemed the perfect answer.'
He wished he hadn't shouted at her but it was too late to regret losing his temper—and why had he suddenly felt so angry that his head nearly blew off just because some total stranger was doing something he felt was crazy and inexplicable? Why should he care if she chose to work like a slave, taking care of all these people?
'What happened to your parents?' he muttered.
'They were killed in a car crash three years ago. A lorry driver had a heart attack at the wheel and smashed right into their car head-on. At least they didn't
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