garden in October. Oh dear, she was getting cynical! But maybe that was the only way she was going to get through this weekend. Sir Charles was likely to eat her alive otherwise.
Her Escort looked slightly out of place next to the Jaguar, a Rolls-Royce parked next to it, a huge garage at the side of the house containing two more cars, although from this distance she couldn’t tell their make.
There was a man coming down the steps towards her as she got out of her car, a tall grey-haired man of perhaps fifty, fifty-five, still handsome despite his years, the superb cut of his cream trousers and Norfolk jacket pointing to him not being a servant. Could this possibly be Sir Charles himself?
Callie closed her eyes. Oh Jeff, Jeff—she was in the lions’ den now, and he had put her there.
She didn’t fit in with these people, should never have come here. Just the house was enough to frighten the life out of her! It was certainly nothing like the small flat Jeff had shared with her for the last four years.
The man she assumed to be Sir Charles Spencer looked no more welcoming than the house did, seeming slightly surprised by her. ‘Miss Day …?’ He looked at her with narrowed blue eyes.
She put her overnight case down on the gravel and slammed the boot shut, hoping it wouldn’t shoot up again as it often did. It didn’t and she gave a relieved smile as she straightened. ‘Yes, I’m Caroline Day,’ she confirmed breathlessly.
‘Charles Spencer.’ He thrust his hand out at her.
‘I’m pleased to—meet you,’ she faltered in her warm greeting as he barely touched her hand before releasing it again.
‘Come into the house.’ He didn’t return her polite greeting, but bent to pick up her small suitcase. Suddenly he frowned. ‘I had no idea you were so—–young,’ he said bluntly.
Callie held herself back from saying she hadn’t realised he was so old! ‘I’m twenty-two,’ she felt she almost had to defend herself.
‘My dear, in my book that is young.’
Maybe it was to a man of fifty, but plenty of her friends were already married with children of their own. ‘Jeff always said—–’
‘Jeff?’ Sir Charles pounced. ‘Do you mean my brother Jeffrey?’
‘Er—yes. He always said that you’re only as young, or old, as you feel.’
His mouth twisted contemptuously. ‘Looking at you, Jeffrey must have felt very young indeed,’ he drawled.
She didn’t like this man, not his manner towards her, or his derogatory way of talking about Jeff. No matter what their differences, and from Sir Charles’ manner there had to have been a lot, Jeff had never made a single criticism of his brother. Jeff had only ever talked of the good times, of the times when he, Charles, and Cicely were all children.
‘He was always lots of fun,’ she said stiffly, walking through the door the manservant held open for her.
‘Take this upstairs to Miss Day’s room,’ Sir Charles handed her case over as if it had stung him. ‘Come through to the drawing-room, Miss Day, and meet my wife and son.’ He strode forward, pushing open the double oak doors.
So the nephew was here after all. If he was as pompous as his father then this was going to be a really fun weekend!
A woman stood up as they entered the room, or rather, she flowed up, moving with a liquid grace that drew attention to the perfection of her tall figure. She was a beautiful woman, although obviously of middle age, her black hair perfectly coiffured, her beautiful face made up in dark and light shades that gave her an ageless appearance. The grey silk dress she wore looked as if it were real silk. Thank goodness, Callie thought, she had put on something smart herself!
‘My wife Susan,’ Sir Charles introduced needlessly. ‘Susan, this is Miss Day.’
Lady Spencer’s handshake was as fleeting as her husband’s had been, her slender fingers barely touching Callie’s. And had it been her imagination, or had Sir Charles emphasised the ‘this’ in the introduction, almost as if she weren’t what they had been expecting. Maybe they just weren’t used to the lower classes, they didn’t either of them look as if they got off their pedestal very often. No wonder you got away from this lot, Jeff, Callie thought ruefully. They would have suffocated him with their stuffy attitudes and falsely polite manners.
‘Please call me Callie,’ she invited, not one to stand on ceremony, even if they were. ‘Everyone does.’
‘Including—Jeff?’ Sir Charles drawled.
She flushed, although she had no idea why. ‘He never called me anything else.’
‘But your name is Caroline, isn’t it?’ Lady Spencer spoke for the first time, her accent so terribly-terribly English that Callie’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought anyone really spoke like that.
‘Yes, it’s Caroline. But—–’
‘Then that is what we will call you,’ Lady Spencer said dismissively.
Whether you like it or not, Callie thought resignedly. ‘As you wish,’ she shrugged.
‘Would you care for tea?’ the other woman asked languidly.
‘Oh—er—yes. Tea would be lovely.’
She occupied herself with looking around the room while Lady Spencer rang for the tea, guessing the paintings on the wall to be originals, the antique furniture and ornaments all genuine too. The room was exactly what television and films always portrayed for the English gentry, and to Callie it was all like being in some terrible play, with her as the main character, ignorant of the roles of her fellow-actors.
‘Donald is in the study taking a telephone call,’ Lady Susan said in answer to her husband’s question.
Sir Charles’ face darkened. ‘I’ll go and get him.’
Callie was curious about Donald Spencer, wondering what was so terrible about him that James Seymour disliked him. Maybe he grew his hair too long, that was sure to annoy the balding lawyer.
‘Jeffrey was alone in the car at the time of the accident, I believe,’ Lady Spencer interrupted her thoughts.
Pain flickered across her face before she could control it. ‘Yes, he was alone.’ Fun-loving Jeff, who was never alone, who hated to be alone, had been trapped in his car for over an hour before he died; the rescuers had been unable to get to him in time to save him, and his chest had been crushed so that he drowned in his own blood. Callie shuddered with the horror of it. The way Jeff had died often came back to haunt her in horrific nightmares. ‘All alone,’ she repeated harshly.
‘I—–’
The doors swung open and Sir Charles came in, a younger version of himself at his side. Callie looked at Donald Spencer with interest, seeing the youthful handsomeness that had once been Sir Charles’, the only difference being that Donald’s hair was as fair as her own, and there was perhaps a certain weakness about the chin that wasn’t present in the father.
But neither of these men bore any resemblance to Jeff,
