Free Betrayal at Blackcrest by Jennifer Wilde

instructions to search for the missing kitten. As he left the room, Morris glanced at the old woman and shook his head. Andrea Hawke drew herself up regally, tossing the skirt of the coat as though it were a part of the coronation robes.
    â€œMorris is getting a bit uppity,” she remarked casually. “Don’t you feel, Derek? I may be forgetful at times, but I don’t intend to tolerate insolence from anyone. Now, that’s done. Morris will find the kitten. He may as well earn his wages some way—and Neil can see about the heating. He’s so clever with things like that. Speak to him, Derek. I want the heat turned on down there immediately.”
    â€œI won’t have that boy inside the house,” Derek Hawke replied.
    â€œNonsense. He’s a perfect dear—so attractive, though he could use a haircut. You must get over this class thing, dear. Just because he’s the gardener’s son doesn’t mean he can’t fix our heating. One can’t draw so fine a line with servants nowadays, though of course there was a day when I wouldn’t have dreamed of asking outside help to come inside. One must change with the changing times, and I certainly won’t have you messing around with the heating unit. All that gas, and your cigars—I can visualize the horror. Tell Neil to attend to it at once, dear. Now, I will take the young lady and show her her room. Selfish of you not to have told me she’d arrived. I’ve been waiting for three days—”
    â€œAndy, this isn’t—”
    â€œWhat’s your name, dear?” Andrea Hawke asked, ignoring her nephew.
    â€œDeborah Lane.”
    â€œLane? A lovely name. I knew some Lanes once. Such a dear family they were. The father died of calcium deposits—have you ever heard of such a thing? Do you type?”
    â€œType?”
    â€œI suppose you modern girls prefer those electrical machines, don’t you? Well, I don’t have one. They terrify me. You won’t need to know shorthand, of course, but I do hope you can read my handwriting. Honora says it looks like someone’s dipped a chicken’s foot in ink and turned it loose on paper. Cruel thing for a child to say, but I’m afraid there is a bit of truth in it. I do hope you’ll work out. At least you don’t have bumps. The employment agency sent me a girl a few years ago who had the most ghastly bumps. She picked them at her desk. Of course, I had to let her go. Most unsanitary for the kittens.”
    â€œAndy,” Derek Hawke said firmly, “Miss Lane is not from the employment agency. You seem to be confused—”
    â€œDon’t be absurd, Derek. You’re the one who’s confusing things with all this talk about calcium deposits.”
    â€œMiss Lane is not from the employment agency,” he repeated.
    â€œI distinctly told you a week ago I needed a girl to help me type up the completed chapters of my memoirs. The publishers simply refuse to look at anything not typed. I know I told you to contact the employment people because I jotted it down on my pad right under the message about beets. ‘Tell Jessie no beets on menu,’ ‘no’ underlined. ‘Tell Derek to send for temp sec.’ I can see it now. I must have told you, because she’s here, isn’t she?”
    â€œNot for that purpose,” he said, his voice determined.
    â€œShe’s just told us she’s a marvelous typist, dear. If it’s a question of salary, I won’t split hairs. After all, it is my money, even if you do yell every time I send a donation to H.F.U.M.”
    â€œH.F.U.M.?” I said, unable to restrain myself.
    â€œHome for unwed mothers. It’s a class thing, again, but one must do something to help. Now, Miss Lane, what did you have in mind for wages? I’ll be reasonable about it, of course, but I don’t intend to be robbed. Shall we