Australia: In Bed with Her Groom

Ashley’s mind boggled again. The wayward thought came to her that it would have put Gordon Payne’s nose further out of joint at seeing a Rolls Royce outshining his Daimler. Not to mention a chauffeur!

Fortunately William didn’t require a reply. Cliffton arrived on the scene bearing the silver tray and tea service that Roger’s mother had given to them as a wedding gift.

‘What are you doing with that?’ William asked bluntly, as astonished as Ashley was. Cliffton must have dug it out of the bottom of the dresser where it had resided untouched, apart from cleaning, for many years.

‘Your mother is feeling poorly. I am serving her tea,’ Cliffton replied with unruffled decorum.

William looked wide-eyed at Ashley. ‘Are you sick?’

Her cheeks blossomed with hot colour. ‘I’m recovering fast,’ she answered.

‘You don’t need me then?’ William asked.

‘No. I’ll be fine in a minute.’

‘Right!’ William looked relieved and turned quickly to the butler. ‘You’ll be staying for a bit, Mr. Cliffton?’

‘Yes. I’ll be staying as long as—’

‘Great!’ William cut him off and offered his most appealing face. ‘Would you mind if my friends had a turn at sitting in your car? They wouldn’t hurt anything. The chauffeur could let them in and out. I promise they’ll be good.’

Cliffton set the tray down on the occasional table and eyed William consideringly. ‘How much do you intend to charge?’

William grinned at the quick understanding. ‘Only ten cents each. Ten dollars with a photo. Can I borrow your Polaroid camera, Mum?’

‘Ten dollars!’ Ashley gasped in shock.

‘Think, Mum,’ her son advocated earnestly. ‘This will be a once-in-a-lifetime photograph, a memory they’ll be able to pull out of a photo album in years to come to show they really did drive a Rolls Royce. A photo of that value can’t go cheaply.’

William always seemed to have a line of inarguable logic for what he wanted to do. ‘You said sit in it!’ Ashley sharply reminded him.

‘If they sit behind the driving wheel it’ll look as though they’re driving it. I won’t actually let them,’ he assured Cliffton.

‘I am very impressed with the sales pitch,’ Cliffton said admiringly.

‘So you see, Mum?’ William pressed. ‘I have to have the camera.’

‘William, you haven’t received permission about the car, and I don’t think…’

‘Permission granted,’ Cliffton chimed in, his blue eyes twinkling approval.

‘The camera, Mum?’

Two against one defeated her. ‘Yes.’ She sighed, her need to settle various matters with Cliffton more urgent and important than arguing with William over his schemes for augmenting his pocket money.

‘Thanks, Mum. Thanks a lot, Mr. Cliffton. I think I’m going to like you.’

He was off like a flash to fleece his friends’ pockets.

‘Weak or strong, madam?’

Cliffton had the silver teapot poised, ready to pour.

‘However it comes,’ Ashley answered distractedly. ‘You came here in a chauffeured Rolls Royce?’

‘It is the customary mode of transport at Springfield Manor, madam. The master wants you to know you’ll be given every comfort. Milk, madam?’

‘Yes. But surely you didn’t bring a Rolls Royce with you from England. Did you?’ she added, struck with the feeling that anything was possible with this man.

‘I acquired it when I arrived in Sydney, madam. Sugar?’

‘No, thank you. I don’t think…’ Ashley floundered, appalled at the cost of a mission that would certainly—well, almost certainly—be futile. ‘You really shouldn’t be spending so much on a campaign that might come to nothing,’ she burst out. ‘A Rolls Royce, for heaven’s sake! This seems to be getting quite out of hand.’

‘How else can you be shown what to expect, madam?’ Cliffton enquired reasonably. ‘You haven’t tried it yet,’ he pointed out. ‘I think you’ll get to like it. It’s quite pleasant and tends to get addictive.’

She was not going to be seduced by a Rolls Royce into becoming a dependant at Springfield Manor. ‘I do not need a Rolls Royce,’ she stated emphatically. ‘And what’s more, Cliffton, this smacks of trying to buy my acquiescence to what you want.’

‘It is always interesting to test resistance to its limits, madam,’ he said with an air of taking up an irresistible challenge.

‘Why on earth should you do such a thing?’ she demanded. Surely he was taking this mission too far.

‘It’s in the spirit of my more adventurous forebears who would never take no for an answer.’

Irrepressible, Ashley thought, beginning to appreciate Gordon Payne’s perspicacity in retreating from Cliffton rather than taking him on. What could one do in the face of such an unsquashable spirit? And really, did she want to say no to Cliffton? It was only the ultimate no to the Harcourt family that she would have to impress upon him.

‘Well, I won’t be held responsible for what you spend,’ Ashley stated unequivocally.

‘The responsibility is entirely mine,’ Cliffton agreed. ‘Your tea, madam.’

‘Oh! Thank you.’ In a Royal Crown Derby fine bone china teacup, no less, inherited from her mother-in-law. How much fossicking had Cliffton done in her kitchen? Ashley’s whirling mind spun to other concerns, like the possible undermining of her authority with William. ‘I don’t think you should have let William use the car as a…as a—’

‘Money-making venture?’ Cliffton supplied.

‘Yes.’

‘If I may say so, madam, one should never stifle enterprise. In my youth I used to organise frog races. With his entrepreneurial talents, Master William will undoubtedly—’

‘Stop!’

‘I beg your pardon, madam?’

‘You can’t call him master. I won’t have it.’ The last thing she wanted was for William to start thinking he was of a superior breed to anyone else. ‘There are no masters in Australia. There are only people, Cliffton,’ she added earnestly. ‘You must understand that or you won’t do any good here.’

‘Thank you for your advice, madam,’ he said gravely. ‘Is there anything else I should know so as not to give offence?’

‘I’m not a madam. Madams are people who run brothels.’

‘Oh!’ The quirky little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Then that’s clearly inappropriate. I shall call you milady.’

‘I’m not your lady.’ Ashley managed not to say, ‘Yet.’

‘Mrs. Harcourt?’

She didn’t want to be reminded of her marriage to Roger, either, but perhaps it wasn’t appropriate to ask Cliffton to call her Ashley at this point. It could wait until she knew him better. She nodded her assent to the name and sipped her tea, trying desperately to collect her thoughts into a properly ordered pattern.

Events seemed to be tumbling over themselves, not giving her time to sort through what needed to be done. And it didn’t help to have Cliffton hovering over her enquiringly. Not only were the beautiful blue depths of his eyes enough for her wits to drown in, she seemed to be getting a fixation on the tantalising little tilts and curves of his mouth. She hadn’t thought about being kissed by a man for quite a while. The provocative question arose… . Did butlers help put their mistresses to bed?

Ashley was shocked at herself, but a perverse little voice whispered that it had been over six years and she was as normal as the next woman in wanting an exciting relationship with a man, so it was perfectly all right to fantasise what it might be like. Especially with a man of Cliffton’s unusual and extraordinary qualities. In fact, she wouldn’t be normal if she didn’t.

It took an enormous effort of will to drag her mind back to practical matters. ‘I think you should show me some credentials, Cliffton,’ she said soberly. ‘After all, it’s asking a lot for me to accept what you’re saying off the cuff, so to speak.’

‘Quite right! I have the investigative report tracing the family line to young William in my luggage. I shall ask the chauffeur to fetch it in as soon as the photograph session is over. In the meantime, will my passport suffice as a means of identification?’

He removed it from an inner pocket in his suit coat and offered it to her. Ashley put down her teacup, intent on examining whatever solid information she could get about him. It was certainly a British passport, and the photograph unmistakably identified him as Harold Alistair Cliffton. A very English name, Ashley thought.

‘Harold,’ she mused out loud, thinking it didn’t really fit him.

‘Nobody ever calls me by that name, Mrs. Harcourt,’ came the decisive correction. ‘Harold is merely a remnant from the Battle of Hastings.’

Yes, it did belong in the realms of history, Ashley privately agreed. She supposed using the surname Cliffton was traditional for a butler, and she shouldn’t mess with that formality. Not yet, anyway. However, her curiosity was piqued.

‘What about when you were a boy?’ she probed.

‘I was always Harry.’

Harry. That was better. More lively. She could imagine a Harry organising frog races. A Harry could definitely be as debonair as Fred Astaire.

His date of birth gave her his age. Thirty-three. She suddenly had an awful thought. ‘Are you married, Cliffton?’

‘No. Unhappily, the woman to whom I was deeply attached died some years ago,’ he said sadly. ‘As I have no current ties, it was no hardship for me to come away on this mission.’

Free and clear. Ashley was intensely relieved to hear it. Although it did sound as though he had once been very much in love. But that was years ago. And it did demonstrate he was capable of loving someone other than himself, which was all to the good.

‘This gives your birthplace as Springfield Manor,’ she observed inquiringly.

‘As I explained, I hold a hereditary position. Generations of my family have been born at Springfield Manor.’

That wasn’t so good. It meant Cliffton had deep roots there. Maybe she shouldn’t start something that had little hope of a happy ending. However tempting it was to prolong an involvement with him, it wasn’t exactly honest to let him think she was prepared to fall in with the plans made for her and accompany him to Springfield Manor.

Her usual sense of integrity reared its head. She handed him his passport and mustered up the strength to meet his gaze with steady eyes. ‘You have rather sprung this on me, Cliffton. I’m sure you think that William and I will be better off living at Springfield Manor, but I’ve got to tell you that giving up a life of independence goes very much against my grain. It also goes against my grain that I’m being placed in a position of obligation without my consent. I don’t like being beholden to anyone for anything.’

To Ashley’s surprise, Cliffton looked pleased at this declaration. His eyes positively danced approval. ‘I quite understand, Mrs. Harcourt. There is nothing worse than a burden of obligation or the sense of not having a free choice. Believe me, it is the last thing I would put upon you. I merely offer. You decide what you want.’

Put like that, Ashley could find no objection to tasting the waters without committing herself to the whole deal.

‘As I see the situation,’ Cliffton went on persuasively, ‘everyone has personal needs. It is a matter of working out whether or not yours can be accommodated to your satisfaction. I appreciate that this will take time.’

‘Yes,’ she quickly agreed. ‘It will take time. It could be years.’

‘As long as it takes,’ he reasserted with bland unconcern.

‘It may never be worked out to my satisfaction,’ she warned.

‘One can but give it fair trial.’

‘As long as that’s understood.’

‘Absolutely.’

Integrity satisfied, Ashley decided she had to tackle the accommodation question. ‘This isn’t a big house, Cliffton.’

‘It appears to be very cosy and comfortable and practical. You have every reason to be proud of it.’

‘Thank you. I wasn’t apologising for its lack of grandeur,’ she said dryly. ‘I was about to point out we don’t have a lot of room. Are you prepared to live with less than you’re obviously accustomed to?’

‘I was a boy scout. A tent in the backyard will suffice,’ came the blithe reply.

‘No, no, we don’t have to go that far.’ He was clearly bent on staying with her, no matter what, and Ashley found herself feeling highly gratified by the fact. ‘There is a spare bedroom but it is small and rather cluttered. I think you’ll have to negotiate with William over what stays and what goes to make room for your things. It’s rather complicated with a miniature army of soldiers that are in the process of being painted.’

He grinned. ‘I can see your William is a lad after my own heart, Mrs. Harcourt. Perhaps I can help him set up a battlefield. I once did a papier-mâché model for the Battle of Waterloo. One of my ancestors was a key figure in the defence of Hougoumont against the French.’

Cliffton could become the father figure William had been missing all these years, Ashley thought hopefully.

Or was he a soul mate?

Despite Cliffton’s mastery of decorum, there was definitely a glint of mischief in his eyes that suggested something wild and wicked lived behind the pose of proper propriety. He was obviously in tune with William’s entrepreneurial skills. A hereditary butler was probably in the perfect position to be an opportunist with both his master and his master’s guests. Ashley suspected that Cliffton did very well for himself.

Look at his clothes. And the Rolls Royce. Maybe an egalitarian society wouldn’t suit him nearly so well. On the other hand, if he was prepared to camp in a tent in the backyard, he was nothing if not flexible.

Since there seemed to be no wrong in accepting him into the house as her butler, at least on a temporary basis, Ashley made her decision with a clear conscience and an exciting sense of adventure. Having a butler would undoubtedly be an interesting and novel experience. When the butler was Cliffton, well, who knew what might happen?

She smiled. ‘Is there anything you wish to settle with me before bringing in your luggage?’

He smiled back. ‘I believe we’ve covered everything of present importance, Mrs. Harcourt.’

Ashley could feel his satisfaction and was highly conscious of her own. A two-way street, she thought with growing pleasure.

‘Then welcome to our home, Cliffton.’

‘Thank you, Mrs. Harcourt.’

How that name grated on Ashley’s ears!

‘Please be assured I will serve you as best I can until everything is resolved,’ he continued.

Happily, she hoped.

‘In the meantime, I shall go and survey the sleeping quarters and come to an accommodation with William.’

Ashley came to another decision. ‘There is one other thing. In Australia it’s quite customary for both employer and employee to call each other by their first names. I’m not even your employer. And since we’ll be living in constant proximity, I think it would be more appropriate if I call you Harry and you call me Ashley. It won’t, uh, interfere with your duties, and I’ll feel more comfortable with it. If you don’t mind.’

‘Your comfort is my duty,’ he replied, giving her a dazzling smile. ‘Ashley it is.’

‘Thank you, Harry.’

‘My pleasure.’

He left her to savour her pleasure, and it was very warm, warmer than anything Ashley had felt for a long, long time.

CHAPTER FIVE

NO SOONER HAD William’s friends scattered home for their evening meal than Ashley was faced with some of the wider consequences of accepting Harry into her household.

The telephone rang.

Ashley was slow in answering the call. Harry had insisted on preparing dinner, and William, most uncharacteristically, was helping him. She had slipped upstairs to change out of her business suit and freshen up generally for the evening ahead. By the time she emerged from the bathroom and picked up the receiver in her bedroom, Harry was already on the kitchen extension.

‘The Harcourt residence. May I enquire who’s calling, please?’

Ashley held her tongue, curious to know how Harry would deal with the caller.

‘It’s Olivia Stanton. Dylan’s mother.’

Ashley grimaced. Olivia was the president of the Parents’ and Citizens’ Association at William’s school, and she had a habit of minding everybody else’s business. Her snippy tone indicated a complaint was about to be voiced.

‘How do you do, Mrs. Stanton?’ Harry’s English accent suddenly developed a very plummy tone. ‘How may I help you?’

A slight pause. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

‘My name is Cliffton. I am Mrs. Harcourt’s butler.’

‘Butler!’

Her astonishment was unmistakable. A butler was a most uncommon personage in Australia, let alone in the Central Coast area of Wamberal. Probably the prime minister or the governor-general had one for official receptions, but Ashley couldn’t even vouch for that.

‘Did you say butler?’

Olivia Stanton was clearly rocked off her set course.

‘I did, Mrs. Stanton.’

‘What is Ashley Harcourt doing with a butler? I didn’t know she could afford one.’

The rhetorical question, followed by the comment on her financial position, made Ashley realise that Harry’s arrival in her life would give rise to enormous speculation and gossip in the neighbourhood. It was a measure of her enthralment with Harry that Ashley found she wasn’t overly troubled by this prospect. Let them say what they liked. And they’d certainly do that when they saw him! Her course was set. She was going to keep the butler, no matter what!

‘I believe my services are of value, Mrs. Stanton,’ Harry answered silkily.

‘Well, it is unusual.’ Olivia justified her rudeness.

‘Perhaps it will start a fashion, Mrs. Stanton. Mrs. Harcourt does run an employment agency.’

Ashley grinned. That was a clever stroke.

‘Are you connected to the Rolls Royce that’s involved in these outrageous photographs?’

Ashley rolled her eyes, knowing full well that another of William’s schemes was coming home to roost.

‘It comes with me, Mrs. Stanton,’ Harry answered smoothly.

He had solved the problem of accommodating the chauffeur and getting the car off the street by sending them both to a local motel. He dismissed the cost as though it was nothing, assuring Ashley once again that she would not be held financially liable for what he did in pursuit of a successful outcome to his mission.

And the mission had been verified. Harry had shown her the branch of Roger’s family tree that had originated from England. It was amazing that so many people had died off, leaving only William as the last of this specific blood line.

‘Do you know what use William made of your car this afternoon?’ Olivia demanded testily.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘Are you aware that he is charging ten dollars for the photographs he took?’

‘As I understand it, there is no obligation to buy, Mrs. Stanton. If you can’t afford the price—’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘The boys were very happy about the chance of being photographed at the wheel of a Rolls Royce, but if you want Dylan to be unhappy—’

‘I didn’t say that, either.’

‘A once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, Mrs. Stanton, is not something to be belittled. You are, of course, entitled to disagree. I believe William can bear the cost of Dylan being left out of the photo-graphs—’

‘I don’t want him left out,’ Olivia cried, drowning in the string of logic that had flowed from Harry’s silver tongue.

‘Of course not, Mrs. Stanton. No mother would want her son left out of something so special. Shall I tell William to put Dylan’s photograph in the sold pile?’

A died-in-the-wool accomplice, Ashley thought, bemused and amused by his dexterity in handling the most difficult people.

‘Yes,’ Olivia surrendered weakly.

‘Thank you, Mrs. Stanton. Is there anything else? A message for Mrs. Harcourt?’

‘No.’

‘Then thank you for calling, Mrs. Stanton.’

Killed off with politeness, Ashley thought, as she heard the line disconnect. On the other hand, Olivia was probably dying to get a free line so she could spread the news of Ashley’s acquisition of a butler who came with a chauffeured Rolls Royce. It would certainly add a bit of spice to her reputation as a businesswoman.

Fortunately it was no longer a scandalous matter for a man and woman to be living under the same roof together without benefit of marriage. Ashley had no doubt that most of her friends and acquaintances would take the attitude, ‘Good luck to you!’ while they tried to stifle their envy.

However, she did need to warn Harry not to say anything about their connection to Springfield Manor. That was their private business. Apart from which, it would spoil everything. She didn’t want to think about it herself. She simply wanted to enjoy having Harry fix things for her as he’d been doing so beautifully ever since he had arrived.

As on most January days, the heat of summer lingered long into the evening. Ashley zipped herself into her favourite sundress. It was casual enough not to look too dressed up. The polished cotton was cool and the pretty pink and green floral print suited her colouring. The bodice was fitted, with shoestring straps over her shoulders. The full circular skirt always made her feel feminine.

Normally, she would unpin her hair at this time, brush it out and clip it into a high ponytail to keep it off her neck. Practical it might be, but it didn’t look elegant. She effected a more sophisticated casual look by winding it into a loose knot on top of her head. Several strands artfully escaped.

She dabbed on some Beautiful perfume, applied a silvery pink lipstick, slid her feet into strappy white sandals and hoped that Harry would find her more than passably attractive.

The staircase led down to the family room, which was separated from the kitchen by a wide working counter that also served as a breakfast bar. She heard William peppering Harry with questions as she started down. Something about ghosts. William was fascinated with the supernatural.

Harry, however, lost the thread of their conversation as Ashley came into full view on the staircase. His hands stopped tossing the salad he had mixed in a bowl. He watched her descend as though transfixed by her grace and beauty. At least, Ashley hoped that was what was captivating him, and he wasn’t simply surprised by the change in her appearance. It was much more heart-lifting to fantasise that he was seeing a woman who attracted and intrigued him.

She was conscious of the full skirt swishing around her bare legs as she descended step by step, conscious of silky strands of hair brushing against the smooth golden tan of her bare shoulders, more intensely conscious of her sexuality than she had been in so many years she had forgotten how powerful the feeling could be. She had given up believing she would meet a man who would trigger such a response in her.

She could feel her whole body glowing under the interest in Harry’s eyes, an interest that clearly sizzled with sensual signals as it enveloped all of her, from the loosely draped topknot of her hair to the swell of her full breasts encased in the tightly fitting bodice to the emphasised curve of waist and hips to the dainty slimness of her ankles. All her instincts picked up the knowledge that he found her desirable, and she revelled in the certainty that the strong attraction she felt was not one-sided.

‘Oh, hi, Mum! You’ve interrupted a great story!’ William informed her, seeing no reason for the halt in his entertainment.

‘Your mother has first claim on my attention, William,’ Harry said, quietly but firmly putting her son in his place, his gaze not even slightly wavering from her. His eyes seemed to bathe her with warm pleasure as he added, ‘Good evening, Ashley.’

The formal greeting didn’t feel like a formality at all. It felt like a promise of wonderful things to come. The gateway to possibilities was open. ‘Good evening, Harry,’ she returned, giving him a smile that welcomed him to her world.