The Legend

by Patricia Robins

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Jennifer Ames was not beautiful but she had a certain something that kept Peter Barrington in willing thraldom for ten years. One day they hoped to marry, and to speed the happy day, Jenny takes a job as governess to Lord Barclay's twin children, Michael and Marie. When Jenny arrives at the Worcestershire manor house, she find herself engulfed in mystery. Why does the tall, good-looking Derek both fascinate and frighten her? A compelling classic romance from the inimitable Patricia Robins, first published in 1951 and now available for the first time in eBook.

Release date: December 11, 2014

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 256

Sample

‘Peter darling, do try and understand. It’s only for a year and it would make so much difference to us. It must be worth it!’

The girl’s face was strained, frowning a little with the effort of persuasion. Even this way one could not look at her but think—How attractive she is! What character and strength she has!

Strictly speaking, she was not beautiful. In fact, Jenny Ames worried a good deal about her looks and considered herself rather ordinary. But she had just that something about her which perhaps can only be described as sex-appeal, although the word gives far too flighty an impression for Jenny’s quiet serene features, her deep, almost black-brown eyes and soft, wavy brown hair. Peter sometimes hummed under his breath, ‘Jenny with the light brown hair,’ but his Jenny was no sweet little mouse-like creature the song put to his mind. She was strong and vital and passionate and he was finding out now, to his own discomfiture, just how determined was her will.

His own lean, handsome face looked disconcerted and a little sulky as he turned his blue eyes from her and said:

‘Perhaps a year doesn’t seem long to you, Jenny. It seems a lifetime to me. Besides, it’s another year on top of ten. Ten,’ he repeated with emphasis. ‘Why, it’s just utterly ridiculous, Jenny. Anyone would think you were trying to put off our marriage indefinitely.’

A quick retort rose to Jenny’s lips, but she quelled it, knowing Peter’s accusation was the result of his hurt pride. He must know that for eight of those ten years he had demanded she do the waiting.

‘You’re only seventeen, Jenny,’ he had said. ‘And anyway, I don’t believe in war marriages. They aren’t fair on the girl—particularly when the man is a sailor and away for long years, maybe, at a time. No, darling, let’s wait.’ Those had been Peter’s own words. ‘The war won’t last long. It’ll give you time to grow up a little more and find out if you really do love me.’

And no argument she could put forward could change his mind. As the years went by, they discussed marriage again, several times, but always Peter, at the point of weakening, would end by saying: ‘The war can’t last much longer, Jenny. Then we can have all our dreams—a home, children, everything we want. Don’t let’s take second best now. I’ve only a week’s leave. It would mean a rushed wedding in a registry office, and you know you’ve always wanted to be married in white! Then a few days’ honeymoon and parting—perhaps for six months. Besides, darling, you know how I feel—in case anything happened to me, I mean.’

Yes, Jenny had known. Peter had always had a morbid idea that he would be killed in the war. He was afraid he might, if they were married, leave her with a child to support and no means except a pathetically small pension.

She had not wanted to wait then. As for everyone else, war had increased the tempo of her living and Jenny felt the urge to secure happiness while she could. At least a few weeks as Peter’s wife would be better than nothing.

But because he had felt so strongly about it, she hadn’t pressed her demands. She didn’t want to add to his worries and responsibilities. He was doing some very secret and dangerous work, and she knew that if he were married he would not feel free to take the same risks.

So she had waited until at last the war was over. But then things had become worse instead of better. Peter’s firm had taken him back—but only on the same pre-war salary which he had earned as the most junior member of a commercial art department. As a member of His Majesty’s Navy, they had told him quite firmly, he could not possibly have gained in experience—in fact, he may well have forgotten all he knew. They were sorry, etc, etc, but it was the old salary or nothing.

Clearly they could not buy a house, have children, furnish a house, or even rent a small flat on Peter’s minute salary. Jenny, who had had three years in the Wrens, had returned home and was doing a part-time job as a doctor’s receptionist. Her salary for that half day, five days a week, was larger than Peter’s full-time pay, Saturday mornings included. They might have managed to scrape enough together on their combined salaries to marry and start a home—provided they both continued working. But Jenny knew Peter well enough not to suggest it. Peter was of Scottish blood—even if he had lived all his life in England. He had been brought up to the old conventional standards—that a man should be able to support his wife—and that a woman’s place was in the home. Strictly speaking, Jenny approved his principles. She was not a career woman and her one idea of heaven was to settle down as a housewife and have a large family. But it did seem the most ghastly shame that after all those years of waiting they should still not be able to marry.

‘I’ll soon get a rise, darling,’ he had comforted her. ‘Just you wait and see. Confound the beastly editor. One of these days I’ll show him!’

Now at last, that day had come. Peter had done some brilliant work both in the office and at week-ends and evenings for other publishers. That he was being grossly underpaid was quite clear to everyone. He earned more in his spare time as a free-lance than he earned full time, in spite of a small rise that the firm had stintingly allowed him. So he had decided to become a full-time free-lance, and he had, this very day, given notice at the office, and having received a tremendous amount of satisfaction from the surprised, anxious look on his ex-boss’s face, he had left the office for good and all, collected enough free-lance work to keep him busy for quite six months, and called round at Jenny’s home to tell her that at last their moment had come.

Jenny could well see how bitterly her own words had upset and disappointed him. But she was convinced it was for the best. Apart from the fact that if Peter was going to make his way as a free-lance, he ought to be quite unencumbered and free from any worry or added responsibility that might upset his work, there was the question of the house.

An ex-navy friend of Peter had offered them first refusal of a little Tudor thatched cottage about thirty miles from town, at a more than reasonable price. She and Peter had been down two week-ends ago to spend the Saturday and Sunday with Peter’s friend and look over the place. They had instantly fallen in love with it and each had confided in the other afterwards that it was their ideal house they had always dreamed about.

‘It has so much character and charm!’ Jenny enthused. ‘And, Peter, that barn which has been converted into a studio—it might have been made for you. Oh, darling, do you think we could ever manage to buy it?’

That had brought them both down to earth. Jenny had a small gratuity from her service in the Wrens—Peter had a slightly larger one, but apart from that and a few hundred pounds they had managed to save towards a house, the total figure did not come within four hundred pounds of what they required.

‘We’ll raise a mortgage, Jenny,’ Peter had said, wildly. ‘We can’t let it slip out of our hands now.’

But mortgages, it appeared, were not easily raised on cottages with thatched roofs. It would mean borrowing the money at some extortionate rate of interest—or else asking Peter’s friend to accept terms of deferred payment and then hope to earn sufficient to pay off the remainder within a year.

‘God alone knows how we’d do it,’ Peter said doubtfully. ‘I start free-lancing next week and even if things go well I’ve a hundred and one necessities I must get—materials, easels and so on.’

‘We need four hundred pounds, don’t we, Peter?’ Jenny had said. Peter nodded and replied gloomily:

‘I’m afraid we’ll just have to try and forget about it, dearest.’

But Jenny couldn’t and wouldn’t forget. She had perused the ‘Situations Vacant’ column of the Daily Telegraph every day and then, just as she was giving up hope, the very thing turned up that was so perfect in every way, she could hardly believe it was true.

‘Young ex-Service girl with initiative and ability to take responsibility, wanted for one year as governess-companion to five-year-old twins. Exceptional salary to right applicant.’

And there had been an address and a Mayfair telephone number in London.

Impulsively, Jenny had telephoned and an appointment had been made.

Without telling Peter, Jenny had kept this appointment. A little nervous but determined to get the job, she had found her way to an expensive block of flats. A French maid had shown her into the apartment, and while she sat waiting she surveyed the room to which she had come, trying to form a picture in her mind as to the woman who would be interviewing her. It was beautifully furnished, and it did not need even Jenny’s artistic mind to appreciate the quality and value of the various ornaments that were tastefully placed around the spotless room. Personally, she did not herself care for such ultra-modern ideas. The glass table by the window had interior lighting—the rich red and white striped curtains were of sheerest silk taffeta and this brilliant contrast was carried out by matching cushions—a white and red piped settee in which she sat and a pure white carpet that must be worth hundreds of pounds on which she had gingerly placed her neatly clad brown brogue shoes.

Jenny began to wonder whether she had done wrong in dressing down for this interview. She had purposefully avoided wearing her rather exotic ‘New Look’ light wool frock and the beautiful soft leather brown platform-soled shoes Peter had brought her back from abroad one leave. Instead, she had worn a simple but neat brown coat and skirt, no hat (since the only ones she possessed were rather silly dressy hats Peter liked her in), and the brogue walking shoes. Governesses, she imagined, weren’t supposed to look chic.

Her reverie was suddenly interrupted by a clear, rather high-pitched voice saying:

‘You must be Jennifer Ames. Funny, but you’re not a bit as I imagined you. I suppose I expected someone like my last horror—Miss Simkins—she was just like her name.’

The woman suddenly realized that Jenny, who had risen to her feet politely, was still standing.

‘Sit down,’ she said in her cool, authoritative tone. ‘You look very young. How old are you?’

Recovering from the faint surprise that had overtaken her when this incredibly beautiful and smart woman had drifted into the room, Jenny said quickly:

‘I’m twenty-eight. I look a good deal younger than I am.’

The woman shot her a swift glance and then turned towards the glass table, opened an enormous plastic cigarette-box and drew out a Turkish cigarette, which she lit. Then, on second thoughts, she turned to offer the box to Jenny.

‘Thank you, I don’t,’ Jennifer said quietly.

‘On principle?’ this very abrupt prospective employer asked her.

‘No, I enjoy smoking,’ Jenny said truthfully. ‘Just now I can’t afford it. So I find it easier to give it up altogether.’

The beautiful face (that Jenny could only think of as a mask, so perfectly was she made up, so faultless her coiffure) showed a faint gleam of interest.

‘You’re honest, anyway. Old Simkins would never have admitted she couldn’t afford anything. Used to make out she was heiress to a fortune—one of these days. Tell me more about yourself. Are you married? Why do you want the job? Are you good with children? I shall expect you to take complete charge. I’m not very often down in the country and when I am I want the children out of the way. I believe children should be kept in the nursery until they are of a reasonable adult frame of mind. Well?’ she asked suddenly and impatiently, as if her own quick questioning had not made it impossible for Jenny to speak up earlier.

As she gave a brief summary of her Service career and a few details about Peter and herself, Jenny tried to sort out conflicting emotions. There was something so unreal about this woman that she found it hard—in fact, impossible—to sum her up. That she was very rich indeed was clearly evident—by the room if not by the clothes she wore and the jewellery. But she was not nouveau-riche. There was breeding and good taste and that aristocratic, authoritative tone … She was beautiful—very much so for a woman of thirty—forty? Jenny found it impossible to judge her age. But what was underneath that mask? She was hard—the way she had spoken of her children proved so. What was her husband like? Did she love him? It seemed utterly impossible that she could ever feel about her husband the way she, Jenny, felt about Peter. She was too controlled—too cool. …

‘And so you see,’ she said, ‘I want a job that only lasts a year because my fiancé and I intend to get married next autumn whatever snags are still in the way. I want the job because we need the money to buy a house. It’s no good my pretending it is because I adore children. I do like them, as it happens, but I think it’s best to be honest.’

‘And you have had no experience of children?’ the cool voice asked her.

‘Very little,’ Jenny admitted. ‘But I’ve studied child psychology, and I passed my school certificate with exceptional marks. I could give elementary lessons without difficulty. Apart from that, I’m used to disciplining others. As I told you, I was an officer in the Wrens for two years. It also happens I can sew very well should you need anything for the children.’

‘Well, there may be some mending, but I think there’s a woman in the village who copes with that. The children are dressed by Daniel Neals, so you won’t have to “run up anything.”’

Was the voice faintly sarcastic, or only amused? Jenny wondered.

The woman stood up and walked slowly with her long, graceful strides to the window and stood staring out at the view across London’s rooftops. For a while there was no sound except her deep inhaling. Then she said without looking at Jenny:

‘Are you a nervous person?’

‘Nervous?’ Jenny asked. ‘I don’t quite understand.’

‘Easily frightened?’ the voice said. There was no mistaking the impatience this time.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ Jenny said. ‘I’m rather too practical to be frightened very easily.’

There was a question in her last remark and she was glad when it was answered.

‘The simple-minded locals seem to think Marleigh Manor is haunted. So do all my servants, for that matter. That’s why that silly Simkins woman left. You might as well know because I don’t want all the trouble of engaging you to have you run back to London on the next train.’

‘If I accept the job—and that of course depends on whether you engage me, as you say,’ Jenny replied coolly, ‘then I certainly shouldn’t quit for any ghost or spook or whatever it is that haunts the place. You must forgive me if I am harping too much on the subject, but so far you haven’t mentioned a salary. Whether I take the job will depend on that for the reasons I told you earlier.’

The woman turned then and there was a faint disconcerting smile on her face.

‘How much do you want?’ she asked bluntly.

For a moment, Jenny’s composure left her. Then she remembered Peter and the darling little cottage and courage returned.

‘I should want eight pounds a week—and my keep!’ she said, and held her breath.

Of course, she didn’t expect to get it. It was utterly absurd to suppose she would. But somehow she felt that with this woman she was expected to drive a hard bargain. It was as if her own value depended upon the value she gave herself.

‘I’m not worth four hundred a year!’ she thought. ‘I’m not worth half that. But she might offer me, say, five or six pounds a week. She’s too rich to notice that. …’

‘I see you’re a very determined person, Miss Ames. However, I have nothing a against that. You want four hundred pounds to help this future husband of yours buy the cottage with the roses round the door, and you intend to get it. I can understand that. Once I make up my mind to have something, have it I will. I think you and I will understand each other very well—that is when we see each other at all, which won’t be often. You’re a refreshing change from that Simkins woman. I’m sure the children will appreciate it. Perhaps it will knock some sense into them. I shall expect you to start next week. And by the way, there will be occasions when you will be expected to dine with us. I entertain occasionally, and you can be of some help. But you’ll have to get yourself some smart clothes. I can’t stand dowdy people around me. I’ll write you a cheque now and you can fit yourself out before you go down to the country. Buy at least three evening dresses and one smart cocktail outfit. I’ll make the cheque out for sixty pounds. No doubt you’ll manage on that.’

This time Jenny’s control really was shaken. She could find no words at all. Four hundred pounds—eight pounds a week! It was ludicrous—fantastic. This woman must be mad! Why, she hadn’t even had a governess’s training. And now a cheque for sixty pounds to buy some clothes. …

‘I presume you will want to see this fiancé of yours from time to time. You can have every alternate week-end off provided Mrs Minnow, my housekeeper, is available to look after the children. I shall expect you to forgo such occasions as Christmas and Easter. You can take two weeks’ holiday in the year some other time when it suits you. Is there anything else you’d like to ask before you go?’

Jenny realized this was her dismissal and stood up.

‘I still don’t know the address,’ she said, feeling that this was without doubt the most important of the many questions that were seething in her mind.

‘Get it from my maid,’ the woman said carelessly. ‘Good-bye, Miss Ames. I hope you’ll settle down and that we shall suit each other. Mrs Minnow will tell you the routine for the children.’

Jenny had left the flat in a whirl and returned home to try and gather her emotions into some kind of order. Before Peter arrived, she had one thing quite clear in her mind. She had been engaged for the job and, year or no year, she intended to go through with it. Neither ghosts, nor her imperious, rich, frightening employer, nor Peter’s pleadings were going to alter it. She was quite certain in her mind that this was the solution to all their problems. Peter’s friend had said he would accept a year’s deferment of pay. That meant Peter would have twelve months to get on his feet—twelve months free of financial worry. And at the end of it …

She went across the room and sat down beside Peter, turning his head slowly towards her and keeping her cool hands cupped round his head.

‘Oh, darling, darling!’ she whispered. ‘Don’t you see the waiting will be just as hard for me—just as hard. And a year won’t seem so terribly long to you. Wait and see. You’ll be so busy the months will just fly by. And Peter, no matter what happens—even if I’m sacked and we lose the cottage and you don’t have a penny to your name, we’ll be married this time next year. I promise.’

His arms went round her then, and his mouth came down on hers in a strong, passionate, demanding kiss.

‘Oh, Jenny!’ he whispered, his voice husky with feeling. ‘I love you so much. I can’t think when I hold you like this in my arms. I expect you’re right. I don’t care. I only know I love you, I love you.’

And so the matter was settled, except for a teasing remark made by Peter, much later.

‘Suppose you meet some other fellow down there in that haunted manor,’ he said. ‘Suppose he entices you away from me with his enormous wealth and aristocratic family tree?’

‘The only person I’m liable to be enticed away by is a ghost!’ laughed Jenny. ‘A dashing cavalier without a head.’

‘It’s far more likely to be a wailing nun!’ said Peter. ‘I wonder if our cottage is haunted.’

‘Only by terribly happy people,’ Jenny replied, her eyes meeting Peter’s in a long look. ‘Oh, darling, to think that we can talk about it now as ours—our own. It’ll be worth it, won’t it, darling?’

‘Anything is worth anything for you,’ was Peter’s somewhat enigmatic reply.

But Jenny knew what he meant.

Jennifer hardly noticed the length of the three-hour journey to Marleigh Manor, so deep was she in a variety of thoughts. First there had been Peter and their parting at the station to think about. For several days previously she had been pent-up with a peculiar excitement and the week between her interview with Lady Barclay and today had seemed to drag on leaden feet.

Peter had been a little resentful of her excitement but he understood. It was her first real job and in a way it was an event. It meant a year away from home in new surroundings and that tantalizing challenge which appealed to her adventurous spirit of whether or not she would succeed at her post as governess-companion. After all, her experience of five-year-old children was very limited. She had only her common sense to rely on. But she would manage somehow. As to the ghosts … well, that was just amusing, and it would be fun to write and tell Peter if there really were a ‘wa. . .