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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,’ said Florina breathlessly, ‘that’s me. I’m the cook. Miss Frobisher engaged me, but only if you approve.’ She added to make it quite clear, ‘I’m on a month’s trial.’

      ‘You don’t look much like a cook.’ He stared rather hard at the ginger plait hanging over one shoulder. ‘But the proof of the pudding…as they say.’

      He turned round as Miss Frobisher bustled in. ‘Nanny, how nice to see you. I’m here a day too soon, aren’t I? I’ve left Pauline with her aunt, but I’ll drive back tomorrow and fetch her after lunch. I had a consultation in Salisbury and it seemed a good idea to come on here instead of driving back to town. Is everything just as it should be?’

      ‘Aye, Sir William, it is. You’ll be tired, no doubt. Cook will get you a light meal…’

      ‘No need. I’ll go to the Trout and Feathers. And I can’t call you “cook”, not with that pigtail. What is your name?’

      ‘Florina Payne.’ She caught Mrs Frobisher’s stern eye, and added, ‘Sir William.’

      ‘Not an English name, but a pretty one.’

      ‘My mother was Dutch, sir.’

      ‘Indeed! I go to Holland from time to time.’ He added kindly, ‘Well, Florina, we’ll see you in the morning—or do you live in?’

      ‘In the village.’

      ‘I’ll need to leave early,’ he observed, and strolled away towards the drawing-room.

      Mrs Frobisher said, in a warning voice, ‘So you had best be here at half-past seven, Florina, for he will want his breakfast at eight o’clock. You can have your own breakfast with me after he has gone.’

      Florina glanced at the broad back disappearing through the open door of the drawing-room. She found the idea of cooking his breakfast positively exciting; an idea, she told herself sternly, which was both pointless and silly.

      All the same, the thought of it sustained her through her father’s diatribe when she got back home.

      She made tea before she left in the morning, and took a cup up to her father, bade him a cheerful good morning, reminded him that everything was ready for his breakfast, just as usual, and walked quickly through the still quiet village. Wheel House was quiet, too. She went in through the kitchen door, using the key Mrs Frobisher had given her, and set to work. The kettle was boiling and the teapot warming when Sir William wandered in, wrapped in a rather splendid dressing-gown. She turned from cutting bread for toast and wished him a polite good morning. ‘Where would you like your tea, sir?’ she asked him. ‘Breakfast will be in half an hour, sooner, if you wish.’

      ‘Half an hour is fine. And I’ll have my tea here.’ He fetched a mug from the dresser, poured his tea and went to stand in the open doorway. ‘What’s for breakfast?’

      ‘Bacon and eggs, with mushrooms, fried bread and tomato. Then, toast and marmalade, tea or coffee, sir.’

      ‘Where did you learn to cook?’ he asked idly.

      ‘My mother taught me and I took a cookery course in Salisbury. I worked at the hotel in Wilton for several years.’

      He nodded. ‘I shall have guests sometimes. You could cope with that?’

      She said seriously, ‘Oh, yes.’ She put a frying pan on the Aga. ‘Would you like more tea, sir?’

      He shook his head. ‘Why not have

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