Читать книгу In Need Of A Wife - Emma Darcy, Emma Darcy - Страница 6

SASHA was desperate. It was impossible to stay on with her parents. Their small two-bedroom apartment was uncomfortably overcrowded since she had been forced to retrieve all her possessions before Tyler threw them out. On top of that, a nine-month-old baby did not understand or make allowance for the daily rituals of a retired couple. The unavoidable disruption to the household routine was giving rise to tensions that made life difficult for everyone.

She and Bonnie had to get out.

Day after day Sasha searched for a suitable place but what was affordable was unthinkable: dingy basement bedsits, neighbourhoods where no young child would be safe, dank, sunless rooms that had an unhealthy smell about them. She would have coped if she had only had herself to consider. It was Bonnie’s welfare that concerned her. Once again Sasha opened her handbag and took out the piece of paper Nathan Parnell had given her. She hadn’t wanted to put herself in a position where she was beholden to him for anything. She had told herself it was better for her if she avoided any possible connection to him. But was it better for Bonnie?

Sasha glanced at her watch. It was almost three o’clock. This time last week she was sitting beside a sandpit in a park, discussing marriage with Nathan Parnell. His image came vividly to mind.

So what if she did run into him again? He hadn’t harassed her. He had respected her wishes. And Sasha had promised her mother she would find accommodation as soon as possible. This piece of paper was a chance to nothing. When needs must, she thought grimly.

Sasha picked up the telephone and dialled the pencilled numbers with both apprehension and determination, then stared at the woman’s name on the notepaper as she waited for the call to be answered.

Five minutes later she had an address in Mosman and an invitation from Marion Bennet to ‘come right on over’. However, when Sasha arrived at the recommended ‘friendly accommodation’, she was thrown into uncertainty about her course of action.

She stared at the magnificent two-storeyed home, unable to believe she had written down the right address. This place had to be worth a fortune, set as it was on harbour frontage and in grounds that had to encompass a couple of acres. Sweeping lawns and long-established gardens gave it an awesome look of prime real estate.

It probably cost a fortune to maintain, as well, Sasha reasoned. Perhaps having tenants helped the owner keep it. In any event, if she had somehow misheard the house number in the street, the best thing to do was find out and ring Marion Bennet again.

With a steadily purposeful step, Sasha made her approach by way of the long gravel driveway. It swept around in a semicircle so visitors could be driven right to the portico that framed the entrance to the house. Sasha couldn’t help feeling like an intruder as she walked up and pressed the doorbell.

To her startled surprise, she heard it play a few bars of ‘Jingle Bells’. It reminded her that it was the last week in November and all the shops were full of Christmas cheer. She hoped she could make Bonnie’s first Christmas a happy one.

One of the double doors opened. Sasha was faced with a woman of similar age to her mother, grey hair neatly groomed, her rather buxom figure comfortably dressed in a loose-fitting top and casual cotton trousers. Her hazel eyes were bright with interest as they swept over Sasha in quick appraisal.

Sasha had dressed professionally in a navy skirt and white blouse, stockings, low-heeled court shoes. Her long hair was wound into a smooth top-knot and she had applied a light make-up to give her face some colour. She hoped she looked like a sensible, responsible and trustworthy person.

‘Mrs Bennet?’ she asked on a slightly anxious note.

The woman gave her a friendly smile. ‘That’s me. And you must be Miss Redford.’

‘Yes.’ Sasha smiled in relief. She had the right address after all.

But it still didn’t look right when Mrs Bennet stood back and waved her forward. The foyer extended in a wonderful pattern of mosaic tiles to a magnificent polished cedar staircase that curved up to the top floor.

‘We could go up that way, but there’s another staircase by the kitchen that you’ll find handier,’ Mrs Bennet explained, leading Sasha into a side passage. ‘I’m afraid there’s no private entrance to the nursery and nanny’s quarters.’

Apparently that was the accommodation for rent. Feeling somewhat intimidated by her surroundings, Sasha simply nodded.

‘I’ll give you your bearings as we go,’ Mrs Bennet continued. ‘The formal rooms are on our right, the TV- and breakfast-rooms on our left.’

She opened doors as they passed them, giving Sasha a glimpse of luxurious living on a scale she had never met before. The ceilings had to be at least fourteen feet high, and the furniture was out of this world.

Between the breakfast-room and the kitchen was a lobby that served the second staircase. This was much less grand than the first, the treads not so wide, and there were three landings as it angled around the wall to the upper floor.

As she followed Mrs Bennet’s steady climb, Sasha had the sinking feeling that, however negotiable the rent was, this setting virtually precluded its being within her means. She should bring the matter up now to save wasting her own and Mrs Bennet’s time, but the temptation to see what was being offered was irresistable.

‘This is the nursery.’

Sasha was ushered into a bright, airy room, predominantly lemon and white, and containing every possible facility a mother and baby might need: storage cupboards, shelves, a changing table, a cot, a comfortable rocking-chair.

The nanny’s quarters were equally spacious and complete. The bed-sitting-room had all the facilities and comforts provided in a top motel: a double bed, writing desk, small lounge suite, table and chairs, television, telephone.

Sasha couldn’t even dream that the asking rent for this marvellous place would be in her capacity to pay. She tried to find some fault so she could retreat from the situation without loss of dignity. It was difficult to find a fault, but she came up with one.

‘I need a private telephone line,’ she said.

Mrs Bennet nodded a ready acceptance. ‘I’m sure that can be arranged.’

‘I need it for my business,’ Sasha said defensively.

‘Do you sell things from home?’ Mrs Bennet enquired.

‘No. I find things.’

She saw the incomprehension in the older woman’s eyes and explained further.

‘I find whatever people want found. It started with research for family trees, finding long-lost relatives, beneficiaries for wills. But it branched into tracking down family heirlooms and other things. The provenance of paintings or other works of art. Finding the owner of some rarity that someone wants to buy. Mostly people don’t know where to start or where to go for the information they want.’

‘What an interesting occupation! Do you get many people wanting your services?’

‘Not too many lately. But I do use the phone a lot when I’m working.’

‘It must save you considerable legwork,’ Mrs Bennet said appreciatively, then dismissed the issue, leading Sasha through another doorway. ‘I’m afraid the kitchenette is more or less limited to serving a baby’s needs than cooking meals, but of course you’ll have free use of the kitchen downstairs.’

It looked more than fine to Sasha. It was sheer luxury after what she had seen this week. It provided a small refrigerator, kitchen sink, a microwave oven, ample storage cupboards, and a benchtop with several power points.

Then there was the en-suite bathroom. It contained a bath for the baby as well as a separate shower stall if she preferred that herself.

Satisfied that Sasha had seen all there was to see, Mrs Bennet led her back into the nursery and pointed out one of the windows. ‘The swimming-pool is fenced for safety. You’re welcome to use it as you please. And the grounds. As I said, you don’t have a private entrance but we tend to live as a family here. No one will mind your coming or going through the house, front or back entrance.’

It was time to bite the bullet on the question of rent. The case was hopeless but Sasha had to know. ‘Mrs Bennet, you’ve been wonderfully kind showing me around, and I’d love to live here, but I don’t know if I can afford it. If you’d give me some idea...’

The older woman smiled. ‘Well, that’s up to you, my dear. These rooms are simply being wasted with no one in them. What would you like to pay?’

It put Sasha on the spot. She wished a definite figure had been stated. Much easier to say no than to have to reveal the truth of her situation. Her mind went through a feverish calculation, stretching her means to the uppermost limit of what she might be able to reasonably pay each week without running into trouble.

‘I don’t have much work at the present moment, but I do have a bit of money put aside,’ she explained. ‘I can afford...’ It was so inadequate, it would barely cover the cost of a bedsitter in the poorest part of Sydney.

‘Go on,’ said Mrs Bennet helpfully, her eyes soft with sympathy.

It seemed insulting to offer so little. In a voice she hardly recognised as her own, Sasha spoke the fateful words. ‘A hundred dollars a week.’ She could feel the blood burning through her cheeks. She turned aside, not wanting to face the reply, feeling humiliated and defeated.

‘I’m afraid that won’t do, my dear. I’m afraid that won’t do at all.’

Mrs Bennet had seemed such a nice person, but making her propose a figure that exposed how destitute she was...it was belittling and demeaning. ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time,’ Sasha said tonelessly, and headed for the door.

‘What you are offering is far, far, far too much.’

It made Sasha pause. Was she hallucinating? Was her hearing defective today? She could not conceal the surprise she felt, nor did she attempt to hide it or disguise it as she swung around in disbelief. ‘I must have misheard. I thought you said I offered too much money.’

Mrs Bennet looked puzzled. ‘Didn’t Mr Parnell tell you?’

Completely confused about what was going on, Sasha repeated what she had been told. ‘He said the rent was negotiable.’

‘So it is, my dear, but under the terms of the will of the late Seagrave Dunworthy there is a caveat on the property that prevents any room, or any number of rooms, from being let or rented beyond a certain price. The rental that may be charged up to that maximum figure is negotiable, but if the owner were to accept any figure above that price, then the owner would be liable to litigation which could effectively cause a disinheritance and loss of ownership.’

Sasha’s professional curiosity was piqued. In the course of her work she had read a lot of strange and eccentric wills, but none like this. ‘Are you sure of your facts? I’ve never heard of such a thing.’

‘That’s what I’ve been told, and I have no reason to disbelieve it,’ Mrs Bennet assured her.

Sasha hesitated fractionally, then plunged to the heart of the matter. ‘Then how much is the maximum figure that can be charged for a room or a set of rooms?’

‘Five guineas a week.’

Reading old documents had made Sasha familiar with this unit of currency. It predated the introduction of decimal currency in 1966, and its real vogue was in the nineteenth century, although it had still been used in auctioneering circles, and particularly the horse-racing industry, up to a couple of generations ago. She did the mental calculation of converting this old coinage into pounds and shillings, and then into dollars and cents.

‘That works out at ten dollars and fifty cents.’

‘That is correct.’ Without the slightest loss of aplomb, Mrs Bennet explained the position so that Sasha could appreciate it properly. ‘You can negotiate any figure you like for the rent, up to a maximum of ten dollars fifty.’

Sasha still couldn’t make herself believe it. ‘The will must be very old to have been written in such terms,’ she said, driven to question the validity of what she was being told.

‘I don’t have any information on that,’ Mrs Bennet replied, looking totally unconcerned by such a consideration.

‘Surely with the effect of inflation...’

‘I’ve been led to believe there is no mention of the effects of inflation in the will of the late and highly esteemed Seagrave Dunworthy.’

‘Oh!’

Sasha didn’t know where to go from there. Faced with the unbelievable that was apparently irrefutable, her mind went into numb stasis.

Mrs Bennet eventually jolted her out of it. ‘Really, my dear, you must make up your mind whether to take the rooms or not,’ she said in a kindly but matter-of-fact voice. ‘I do have other things to do.’

‘Yes. Well, of course I’ll take them. In the circumstances.’

However dubious the circumstances were, Sasha told herself she would be stupid to look a gift horse in the mouth. Particularly in her circumstances.

‘In that case, I must tell you now that the terms of the agreement are very specific,’ Mrs Bennet said with an air of serious warning. ‘Firstly, any benefactor of the revered Seagrave Dunworthy must speak of him in the most laudable terms. Otherwise they may lose the benefits conferred on them by the will.’

‘Oh, I’ll certainly do that,’ Sasha said with feeling. ‘He must have been a wonderful man.’

‘Highly esteemed,’ Mrs Bennet agreed. ‘And secondly, the rental conditions are very precise. The money must be paid each Friday morning, after nine o’clock, and before the grandfather clock in the entrance hall chimes the twelfth stroke of the twelfth hour at midday.’

The eccentricity of this instruction seemed to add a ring of substance to the rest of Seagrave Dunworthy’s will. ‘I can’t pay in advance?’ Sasha asked.

‘Definitely not.’

‘Ten dollars fifty,’ Sasha repeated in dazed bemusement.

‘For convenience, ten is better,’ Mrs Bennet advised. ‘Then we don’t have to worry about change.’

‘Ten,’ Sasha agreed, wondering if she had fallen through the looking glass like Alice. ‘I get all this for ten dollars.’

‘Well, if you’d like to negotiate...’

‘No, no. Ten dollars is fine. I’ll pay it first thing on Friday morning.’

‘After nine o’clock,’ Mrs Bennet reminded her. ‘Now let’s go downstairs and I’ll give you duplicate keys for the front and back doors. Then you can move in whenever you like.’

‘It will be tomorrow.’

‘That’s fine, dear.’

Sasha was in such a daze that it wasn’t until Mrs Bennet was escorting her to the front door that a niggle of curiosity slithered into her mind. ‘Does Mr Parnell know about the terms of Seagrave Dunworthy’s will?’

‘Oh, yes, dear. Mr Parnell is a lawyer. He explained all the terms of the will to me.’

A man of many parts, Sasha thought. Retired barrister, white knight, boy scout, the sexiest man she had ever met, and what else?

‘I don’t know what we would have done without Mr Parnell,’ Mrs Bennet continued. ‘We ran into terrible trouble. My husband was robbed of his business, although we couldn’t prove it in court. We lost everything: our livelihood, the roof over our heads, all the money we had saved. We had nowhere to turn until Mr Parnell suggested this place and got us settled here.’

‘He did that for you, too?’ Sasha mentally added Good Samaritan to the list.

‘Such a kind man.’ Mrs Bennet opened the front door and smiled at Sasha. It seemed to be a ‘welcome to the family’ kind of smile. ‘My husband will help you carry your belongings in tomorrow if you need a hand, dear. I’m sure you’ll be very happy here.’

‘Thank you.’

It seemed ungrateful to linger, taking up more of Mrs Bennet’s time, but the memory of all those grand rooms prompted one last question. ‘Does anyone else live here besides you and Mr Bennet?’

‘Why, of course, dear. I thought you knew. Mr Parnell lives here.’