he’ll pay, but you’d not have that bike ride every day. Why don’t you have a go?’
Florina cycled to work, thinking hard. By the time she got there she had made her mind up to apply for the job; it could do no harm and it seemed to her that it was a direct sign from heaven that she should look for other work… To strengthen this argument, it was her half-day; usually spent in cleaning the house.
She got home about two o’clock and, instead of getting into an apron and getting out the vacuum cleaner, she went to her room, put on a clean blouse, brushed her blue skirt, did her hair in a severe style which did nothing for her looks, and went downstairs.
‘Why are you going out?’ enquired her father suspiciously.
‘Don’t worry, Father, I’ll be back to get you your tea.’ She skipped through the door before he could answer.
It was barely five minutes’ walk to the Wheel House and Florina didn’t give herself time to get nervous. She thumped the knocker, firmly, and then took several deep breaths. She had read somewhere that deep breathing helped if one felt nervous.
The door was opened and there was a tall, bony woman with grey hair and faded blue eyes. She looked stern and rather unwelcoming, so that Florina was glad of the deep breaths.
‘Good afternoon. Mrs Datchett told me this morning that you were wanting a cook…’
‘Sir William is wanting a cook. I’m the housekeeper. Do come in.’
She was led into a small sitting-room in the kitchen wing. ‘Why do you want to come?’
‘I work at a hotel in Wilton—I’ve been there for several years. I cycle there and back each day. I’d like to work on my own.’ Florina added, anxiously, ‘I’m a good cook, I can get references.’
‘You live here?’
‘Yes, just this side of the bridge.’
‘You’d have to be here by eight o’clock each morning, make out the menus, keep the kitchen clean, cook lunch if Sir William is here, and dinner as well. You’d be free in the afternoons. You’d have help with the washing up and so on, but you might have to stay late some evenings. Do you want to live in?’
‘I live very close by and I have to look after my father…’
The housekeeper nodded. ‘Well, you’re not quite what I had in mind, but I dare say you’ll suit. You can come on a month’s trial. There’s Sir William at weekends, his daughter, Pauline, living here with me, and you must be prepared to cook for guests at the weekends. You do know that Sir William intends to marry?’
Florina shook her head. She hadn’t realised until that moment that Sir William loomed so large in her life. The idea of him marrying left her with a feeling of disquiet, but she had no time to wonder about it, for the housekeeper said, ‘Sir William will be moving in at the end of next week. Can you start then? A month’s trial and, mind, he expects the best.’
She had to give a week’s notice. She would go and see the hotel manager in the morning, for that would give him ten days in which to find someone to take her place.
‘You haven’t asked what your wages will be,’ said the housekeeper, and mentioned a sum which sent Florina’s ginger eyebrows up.
‘That’s a good deal more than I’m getting now,’ she pointed out.
‘Probably, but you’ll have to work for it.’
‘I’d like to work here,’ said Florina. She would see Sir William sometimes, even if he never spoke to her.
‘Very well, you’ll get a letter in a day or two. My name is Frobisher, Miss Martha Frobisher. If you have any problems you’ll bring them to me. Sir William is a busy man, he hasn’t the time to bother with household matters.’ She eyed Florina’s small, neat person. ‘What is your name?’
‘Payne—Florina Payne.’
They wished each other goodbye with guarded politeness.
Mr Payne, apprised of his daughter’s astonishing behaviour, called upon heaven to defend him from ungrateful daughters, painted a pathetic picture of his early death from neglect and starvation, since there would be no one to look after him. Finally he declared that he might as well be dead.
‘Nonsense, Father,’ said Florina kindly. ‘You know that’s not true. I’m likely to be at home more than I am now. You’ve had to boil your kettle for breakfast for years now, and I’ll leave your lunch ready just as usual…’
‘The housework—the whole place will go to rack and ruin.’
‘I shall be home each afternoon, I can do the chores then. Besides, the doctor said it would do you good to be more active now you’re better.’
‘I shall never be better…’
Florina said cheerfully, ‘I’ll make a cup of tea. You’ll feel better then.’
The manager was sorry that she wished to leave, but he understood that the chance of a job so close to her home wasn’t to be missed. He wrote out a splendid reference which she slid through the letterbox at Wheel House, together with her letter accepting the job. If she didn’t suit, of course, it would mean that she would be out of work at the end of a month; but she refused to entertain that idea, for she knew she was a good cook.
She went to the Wheel House the day before she was to start work, so that she might have a good look round her kitchen. It had everything, and the pantry and cupboards and fridge were bulging with food. She spent a satisfying afternoon arranging everything to her liking, and then went home to get her father’s tea, a meal she sat through while he grumbled and complained at her lack of filial devotion. It was a relief, once she had tidied their meal away, to walk back to Wheel House and put the finishing touches to the kitchen. Miss Frobisher was upstairs somewhere, and the old house was quiet but for the gentle sound of running water from the mill. She had left the kitchen door open so the setting sun poured in, lighting the whole place as she made the last of her preparations for the morning. Sir William and Pauline would be arriving after lunch; she would bake a cake and scones in the morning and prepare everything for dinner that evening. She would have all day, so she wouldn’t need to hurry.
She crossed to the door to close it and, with a final look round, went down the passage to the front hall. Sir William was standing there, his hands in his pockets, his head on one side, contemplating a large oil painting of a prissy-looking young lady in rose-coloured taffeta and ringlets, leaning over a gilded chair.
He glanced over his shoulder at her. ‘Hello. She doesn’t seem quite right there, does she? One of my more strait-laced forebears.’ He smiled. ‘I expect you’re here for some reason?’
At the sight of him, Florina was experiencing a variety of sensations: a sudden rush of delight, peevishness at the thought of her untidy appearance, a deep sadness that he hadn’t a clue as to who she was, which of course was ridiculous of her. And woven through this a variety of thoughts…suitable food which could be cooked quickly if he needed a meal.
He was watching her with faint amusement. ‘Have we met?’ He snapped a finger. ‘Of course! You were so good as to tell us where we might stay when we first came here.’
‘Yes,’
