steeled himself for the woman to storm out, but she stayed resolutely where she was, chewing her bottom lip nervously.
The awkward silence was broken by Reggie, bumbling in with a laden tea tray. He smiled proudly at Ross and deposited the tray heavily on the side table. Hot tea sloshed out of the teapot and bathed the haphazard cups in brown liquid. Undeterred, Reggie poured tea into one of them and thrust it, without a saucer, at Mrs Preston.
‘Here you are, mum, a nice cup of tea.’ A large, hot drip fell onto her skirts, and she shrieked in pain and immediately stood.
‘Oh! Let me help, mum!’ Reggie began to use the hem of his own shirt to mop up the mess, rubbing it ineffectually over the woman’s wet clothing, unaware that in doing so he was also—shockingly—rubbing her thighs.
To begin with she appeared mortified by this indiscretion, but then the most peculiar thing happened. Her features softened in sympathy and she allowed Reggie to try to help—even though he really wasn’t. It was only then that Ross witnessed the look of stark panic in the big oaf’s eyes—the look he had when he realised he had done something wrong but had no idea how to fix it.
‘It is perfectly all right now. I was merely a bit shocked.’ One of her hands came up and touched Reggie’s enormous shoulder gently. Then she squeezed it for good measure, in a comforting manner that belied her previous cold expression.
Like an obedient sheepdog, Reggie stepped back and stood awkwardly. Then once again the harsh woman surprised Ross.
‘I like one sugar in my tea.’ This was accompanied with a genuine and kind smile that instantly made poor Reggie feel better about being such a clumsy fool. As if in an afterthought she glanced back at Ross, and her features froze again.
‘Here we are, then,’ said Reggie, proffering the second cup of tea to Mrs Preston as if it were the Crown Jewels and she was the Queen.
Mrs Preston glanced at Reggie’s eager expression and her tense pout relaxed. Her lips curved in a lovely smile and she thanked him politely. ‘This looks perfect. You clearly have a talent for making tea exactly the way a person likes it.’
Reggie beamed with pride and gave an embarrassed little chuckle—already won over by this strange conundrum of a woman.
The fact that she had shown such kindness to the big oaf made Ross soften towards her immediately. She was not all bad if she could do that—most people wouldn’t. Reggie usually terrified them. Perhaps she was simply nervous. Or shy?
‘You have excellent references, Mrs Preston,’ he said eventually, while taking the cup that Reggie proffered. ‘Can you tell me what type of household you last worked in?’
Hannah tried to relax and formulate a sensible answer that sounded a tad more friendly. ‘Nair House was not a grand residence, Mr Jameson, but I oversaw a staff of ten,’ she lied.
It would not do to claim that she had vast experience of running a stately pile like Barchester Hall—such a falsity would be easily exposed—but she did want to give the impression that she was capable.
‘I oversaw everything from menu planning and budgeting to dealing with disputes amongst the servants.’
Hannah schooled her features into a neutral mask to cover her disgust at being with him. She had heard that Jameson was a shocking libertine, but she had not expected to be confronted with such overwhelming evidence of his debauchery straight away. The sight of the rumpled bedclothes and that overpainted woman wantonly sprawled across them, skirts raised suggestively to her knees, had been bad enough—but then her eyes had encountered their first sight of Ross Jameson, and that had been frankly outrageous.
He was a huge bear of a man—showing far more exposed skin than a gentleman would deem proper. Of course a gentleman would not have the body of a farm labourer either. Jameson was solid and muscled—a sure sign of his coarse upbringing. Men of class were more willowy and less...sturdy. He probably looked ridiculous stuffed into a tailored coat. She supposed that less discerning women would describe his rumpled black hair and twinkling green eyes as handsome, but he used those good looks to his advantage. He appeared to Hannah exactly what he was—a charming, dangerous and duplicitous rogue. She certainly would not trust him as far as she could throw him—which, she conceded, was not likely to be very far.
It was also obvious that his minion—Reggie?—was severely lacking in intelligence...although she supposed that he had not been employed for his ability to think strategically. He had a wide, square jaw and a nose that had been so badly broken he looked as if it had simply melted into his face. But she had already realised that behind that frightening façade he was a bit slow and was desperately seeking approval. Poor fellow. It was obvious he just needed looking after. However, she was certain his main duties were to protect his nefarious master and to threaten or maim anybody who did not fall into line. How the authorities allowed Jameson to live freely within society was indeed a mystery.
‘Would you tell me a little about your house?’ Hannah asked, aware that she had not made the best first impression and keen to make amends. Everything hinged upon her getting this job.
‘Barchester Hall is situated around twelve miles from London,’ he replied with a smile. ‘I am afraid that at the moment it is a bit of a wreck. Externally, the house is solid, and the grounds are lovely, but it has been shockingly mismanaged by the previous owner for many years and that shows.’
His glib condemnation of her brother and the home she loved so much rankled, but she managed to hide her anger. She could not properly gauge his expression through Aunt Beatrice’s reading glasses, and the thick lenses were beginning to give her an awful headache.
‘Obviously I need to make some urgent renovations. The whole interior needs remodelling, furniture and things will need to be bought to replace what is there currently, and I will need to recruit enough decent staff to run the place. Do you have experience of recruiting servants, Mrs Preston?’
Hannah nodded. This was one thing that she could talk about without lying. When she had lived at Barchester Hall they had had great difficulty retaining staff. This had been largely due to the fact that her brother had had a tendency not to pay their wages on time, if at all, and she’d constantly had to replace the never-ending line of servants who had refused to stay.
‘Yes, indeed. I have had to recruit many suitable servants and I am well aware of the sorts of things that entice the best servants to work at a house.’ Wages were their main priority. That she knew for a fact.
‘You look a little young to be a housekeeper.’
‘I am thirty-five, sir.’ Hannah smiled tightly and hoped that she looked drab enough to be that age. The brown day dress was the most awful thing she possessed, and the lace cap, which she had bought as an afterthought yesterday, covered her wheat-coloured curls. ‘I can assure you that I am eminently suitable for the position.’
‘Hmm...’ He had picked up one of her references and was reading it.
Hannah could feel her one chance slipping away. She opened her mouth to speak but Jameson spoke again before she could say anything.
‘I think that I have heard—and seen—everything I need to. Reggie is already smitten with you. That is good enough for me.’ He turned to Hannah with a friendly smile. ‘Congratulations, Mrs Preston—the position is yours. I will expect you at Barchester Hall next weekend. Please leave me the details of your lodgings so that I can send you the necessary formalities.’
He
