Chapter 1 #2
“Oh, yes,” she agreed quickly. She traded him her suitcase for the sign—which she murmured appreciatively over before rolling it up and stuffing it in the first garbage can she saw—and the flowers, which she didn’t bother to smell.
They were carnations, which made her sneeze.
She’d been actively avoiding dating Dory Mollineux and his carnations for almost a year.
She would be, she had to admit, damned if she was going to find herself saddled with him now that she was so close to freedom.
“We’ll take a taxi,” he announced. “We could have walked if you were a bit less fragile, but your parents made me promise not to let you overtax yourself.”
“My parents?” she echoed.
“The Cookes are wonderful people,” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard her. “I’m sure you’ll get along famously.”
Samantha managed to keep from gritting her teeth because she had a lifetime of practice.
She was not fragile; she was frustrated by her current life situation.
She was also hardly able to believe that she was listening to Dory talk about her employers.
The only way he would have known anything about them was if he had visited them to relate heaven only knew what sort of personal details about her.
She imagined he had a list and that her parents had been the authors of it.
The only thing she could hope for was that her brother had taken the trouble to tell the Cookes to reserve judgment until they met her.
They had been willing to hire her, so perhaps that told her everything she needed to know.
She let Dory carry on the conversation because it was easier that way. Besides, he was very fond of the sound of his own voice, and since he was an expert on every subject and not shy about discussing those subjects, there was much to be fond of.
It was unfortunate, actually. He was extremely handsome, in a Top-Sider, khaki-trousered, blond-highlighted-hair sort of way.
She was half surprised he didn’t wear a knitted V-neck vest and carry an old-fashioned cheerleader megaphone.
His undergrad degree was in international relations, he had a law degree from Georgetown, and never used either of them.
She wasn’t quite sure what he did except attend symposiums on various topics ranging from politics to musicology.
He was the youngest son of the dean of the college of humanities at the small, exclusive university where her parents both taught, which she supposed was enough for them.
She had managed to avoid him for most of her life because he’d been sent to boarding school at five and had, she was sure, never looked back. In that, she couldn’t blame his parents. If she’d been his mother, she would have packed his little suitcase for him herself.
She had wondered more than once over the past year if there was perhaps something wrong with her that she wasn’t left giddy by his interest. She was fairly sure that anyone else would have taken one look at Theodore Mollineux and immediately tripped daintily in front of him so he would have had to not only notice her but leap to rescue her from potential injuries.
He was rich, handsome, and heavily degreed.
Maybe if she’d been able to just convince him to keep his mouth shut so he didn’t speak and ruin the illusion, she might have been able to do something more with him than look around for the nearest exit.
How she was going to survive an entire summer with him in the same town, she couldn’t say.
She was obviously going to have to invent a few disguises in order to elude notice.
The taxi stopped sooner rather than later, which gave her hope for a Dory-free afternoon. She scooted out the door, reached in for her suitcase, then extricated her belongings before Dory had even stopped talking about whatever it was he’d been talking about.
“Thanks,” she said with her best smile. “Sure appreciate the rescue. I’m not sure how much we’ll get to see of each other . . . here . . .”
She stopped talking partly because he wasn’t listening to her and partly because he’d gotten out of the taxi himself.
“I’ll be fine from here,” she said. “I really appreciate the ride. I’ll treat you for scones with clotted cream the very first chance I have.”
“Sooner rather than later, because the old man hasn’t put my allowance in the bank yet,” Dory said. He looked at her with a frown. “Have any cash?”
And there in a nutshell was the reason she had only gone on one date with him. Never mind that her father had handed her a cool hundred on the way out the door to that movie. She was not interested in dating a guy who wasn’t prepared to at least fork out cab fare.
She knew she should have simply turned around and walked away, but something stopped her.
She wanted to say it was good breeding, but it was probably just her inability to stand up for herself.
She muttered uncomplimentary things about herself and Dory both under her breath, set her suitcase on the ground, then pulled her notebook out of her pocket.
There was money there, of course, in almost precisely the right amount for the taxi. Her mother would have determined that ahead of time, of course. Samantha paid the cab driver, then started to put her notebook away. Dory stopped her with his hand on her arm.
“Got to get back to my flat, you know.”
She gritted her teeth because she knew she was going to hand him money in the end anyway so there was no point in not handing him money from the start.
She dug around in her bag for her secret stash of pound coins her brother had sent her inside a box full of ratty Victorian period costumes their mother wouldn’t have touched on pain of death, counted out what she’d handed over the first time, plus a little extra, then put it all into Dory’s hand without delay.
“So appreciate the escort,” she said waving vaguely in his direction, “but I’ve got to go. There’s no time like the present to make a good impression on the employers.”
“Already done that,” he said, taking her by the elbow and pulling her toward the door. “Introductions first, then we’ll go have lunch.”
Not if she could help it. She would bide her time, then make her escape, which would hopefully include being on opposite sides of a sturdy door from him.
She didn’t argue with Dory as he took her suitcase and gallantly led the way up the two steps to the stoop just outside a dark brown doorway that seemed to blend into the stone of the building it found itself in.
The door opened and a neat, elegant woman in her forties stood there.
Samantha was wearing her best work clothes, but she had to admit she had a ways to go if she were ever to stand next to that stylish woman and not feel a little frumpy.
Maybe she could spent a little of her carefully hoarded money on something not insisted on by her mother.
Nothing said serious scholar, apparently, like dark trousers, a polyester long-sleeved shirt, and sensible walking shoes.
Before Samantha got her mouth open to introduce herself, Dory was doing the honors for her.
“Lydia Cooke, this is Samantha Drummond. Samantha, allow me to present Mrs. Lydia Cooke. Her husband is off in Stratford, making certain their situation is what was promised.”
Could the taking of a rolling suitcase and using the heavy, wheeled part to knock a New England blue blood in the face be blamed on jet lag, or would she have to come up with a more drastic malady to excuse her bad behavior?
It was excruciating in the extreme to have to listen to Dory continue to tell her details about the Cookes that she was quite certain Mrs. Cooke would have preferred to reveal herself—quite possibly somewhere besides the sidewalk.
“You know, Mr. Mollineux, Miss Drummond looks suddenly quite tired,” Mrs. Cooke said, reaching for Samantha’s suitcase. “Perhaps she could use a bit of a lie-down, yes?”
“Well,” Dory began doubtfully.
Samantha found herself and her suitcase drawn inside the house and Dory forced to step back down onto the sidewalk by the apparently unintimidatable Lydia Cooke.
“It is a long journey from the States,” she said easily. “I think she would enjoy a lunch date much more tomorrow.” She looked over her shoulder. “Wouldn’t you, Samantha?”
Samantha wasn’t about to spurn the rescue. “Definitely.”
“And so it’s settled,” Mrs. Cooke said brightly.
“But I have an agenda already planned out,” Dory complained. “I don’t like to get off track.”
“Then perhaps today’s schedule could be set aside as a fallback plan should something else fall through in the future. Do you need to have a taxi called—no, there’s one right there waiting for you, Mr. Mollineux. à bient?t!”
And with that, she shut the door, paused, then turned and smiled.
“You didn’t mind that, did you?”
Samantha tried not to look as pathetically grateful as she felt. “Not a bit.”
“Well, some lads working to impress a girl tend to become a little trying,” Mrs. Cooke said. “I doubt I dampened his spirits for long. I’ll show you to your room, then you can either have that promised lie-down or a tour of the house.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Cooke.”
She laughed. “It’s Lydia, of course. There’s no call for formality. And I’ll call you Samantha, if you don’t mind. A lovely name. Very substantial and powerful.”
Samantha felt neither at the moment, but she wasn’t going to argue.
She picked up her suitcase and followed Lydia up two flights of stairs to a room that resembled every artist’s garret she had ever seen depicted in any romantic movie.
It wasn’t luxurious, but it was charming and comfortingly free of either her parents or any preppy interlopers.
“The bath is across the hall,” Lydia said. “Once you’ve freshened up, come downstairs and I’ll show you around.”