‘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 and clear. Ashley was intensely relieved to hear it. Although it did sound as though he had once been very much in love. But that was years ago. And it did demonstrate he was capable of loving someone other than himself, which was all to the good.
‘This gives your birthplace as Springfield Manor,’ she observed inquiringly.
‘As I explained, I hold a hereditary position. Generations of my family have been born at Springfield Manor.’
That wasn’t so good. It meant Cliffton had deep roots there. Maybe she shouldn’t start something that had little hope of a happy ending. However tempting it was to prolong an involvement with him, it wasn’t exactly honest to let him think she was prepared to fall in with the plans made for her and accompany him to Springfield Manor.
Her usual sense of integrity reared its head. She handed him his passport and mustered up the strength to meet his gaze with steady eyes. ‘You have rather sprung this on me, Cliffton. I’m sure you think that William and I will be better off living at Springfield Manor, but I’ve got to tell you that giving up a life of independence goes very much against my grain. It also goes against my grain that I’m being placed in a position of obligation without my consent. I don’t like being beholden to anyone for anything.’
To Ashley’s surprise, Cliffton looked pleased at this declaration. His eyes positively danced approval. ‘I quite understand, Mrs. Harcourt. There is nothing worse than a burden of obligation or the sense of not having a free choice. Believe me, it is the last thing I would put upon you. I merely offer. You decide what you want.’
Put like that, Ashley could find no objection to tasting the waters without committing herself to the whole deal.
‘As I see the situation,’ Cliffton went on persuasively, ‘everyone has personal needs. It is a matter of working out whether or not yours can be accommodated to your satisfaction. I appreciate that this will take time.’
‘Yes,’ she quickly agreed. ‘It will take time. It could be years.’
‘As long as it takes,’ he reasserted with bland unconcern.
‘It may never be worked out to my satisfaction,’ she warned.
‘One can but give it fair trial.’
‘As long as that’s understood.’
‘Absolutely.’
Integrity satisfied, Ashley decided she had to tackle the accommodation question. ‘This isn’t a big house, Cliffton.’
‘It appears to be very cosy and comfortable and practical. You have every reason to be proud of it.’
‘Thank you. I wasn’t apologising for its lack of grandeur,’ she said dryly. ‘I was about to point out we don’t have a lot of room. Are you prepared to live with less than you’re obviously accustomed to?’
‘I was a boy scout. A tent in the backyard
