Free The Wonder Worker by Susan Howatch Page B

conventions of middle-class politeness obviously never entered her head. Instead she exclaimed with pleasure: “Ah, so you know Nick!” and for the first time I heard the genuine warmth in her voice.
    Briskly she said: “Very well, this is the situation: I have a house in Eaton Terrace—the Eaton Square end—and there’s a tiny flat in the basement for a live-in employee, just a bedroom, sitting-room, bathroom and kitchen. I have the most wonderful cleaner, a treasure who comes in almost every day, so apart from the cooking you wouldn’t have to do anything except clean up after yourself in the kitchen—oh, and keep the basement flat spick-and-span, of course. I like to entertaina lot but otherwise there’s only me to cater for—I’m a widow and my children are grown up. I go away now and then, and while I’m away I’d expect you to act as a caretaker—which is why I advertised in Nick’s magazine; I’ve got to get the sort of person who’s absolutely honest, even when she’s unsupervised, and I decided my best course was to trawl a Christian community and ask the priest’s opinion of whoever turned up in the net … Nick didn’t mention you, by the way, when I placed the advertisement last week.”
    “I’ve only just met him.”
    “Never mind, he’ll have summed you up accurately, he’s psychic. Where was I? Oh yes, the caretaking. There’s a burglar alarm—and I’ve also got a dog, but Mortimer goes everywhere with me so he won’t be around to guard you while you’re on your own. Are you likely to panic if you’re alone in the house at night?”
    “Not in the least.”
    “Good. Now, I’ll pay the going rate and give the usual amount of holiday, but we can talk about that later if I decide you’re suitable. When can you come to see me?”
    “Well—”
    “Shall we say noon tomorrow? I have a committee meeting in the morning, but I’ll be home by eleven-thirty.”
    “Noon—yes—thank you—”
    She gave me the number of the house. “Bring your references,” she added, “and your Cordon Bleu certificate. I always believe in checking details—you mustn’t think I intend to rely
entirely
on Nick’s psychic powers. Now, is that all quite clear?”
    “Yes, thank you, Mrs.—” I paused, waiting for the final piece of information.
    “Lady Cynthia Aysgarth,” came the crisp reply. “That’s A-Y-S-G-A-R-T-H , like the place in Yorkshire. Thank you, Miss Fletcher.” And she hung up, leaving me still scribbling that unfamiliar northern name.
    XIII
    I sat
on the sofa, my brain automatically printing out the class-system data which had been accumulating there ever since the day over thirty-two years ago when I had drawn my first breath of English air. Lady Cynthia Aysgarth wouldn’t have mentioned her Christianname in those particular circumstances unless it formed part of her title. She hadn’t declared herself to be merely “Lady Aysgarth,” so that meant she wasn’t a life peeress or the wife of a baron, baronet or knight. “Lady Cynthia Aysgarth,” requiring to be addressed as “Lady Cynthia,” would be the daughter of an earl or a marquess—or possibly even the daughter of a duke. I had never met such a creature before in my life, but now was hardly the time to feel squeamish about the upper classes.
    The following morning I reviewed my references. The personnel officer at my last permanent job testified generously to my competence as a cook, the temporary agency which had given me work vouched for my reliability as an employee, and Aunt’s elderly solicitor proclaimed that as a human being I was sober, clean, courteous and with no criminal record. So far so good. But the main problem still had to be tackled: my appearance.
    At six o’clock that morning I had washed my hair and trimmed all the split ends. I now spent half an hour applying make-up before wedging myself into my best outfit: the navy jacket and skirt with the navy-and-white polka-dot blouse, the navy