My True Companion

  My True Companion

  Copyright © Sally Quilford 2010

  Originally published by My Weekly Pocket Novels and Linford Romance Library

  Cover Image Vanessa Van Rensburg | Dreamstime.com

  My True Companion

  Chapter One

  England 1921

  “Didn’t I tell you it was spectacular, Millicent?” said Mrs Oakengate, as she navigated the green Bullnose Morris Oxford up the driveway of Fazeby Hall. “The Fazebys have owned this manor house for five hundred years. They’re very old money … not titled but one can’t have everything … and very dear friends of mine.”

  High above them, a flag bearing the Fazeby family coat of arms flew from one of the corner towers of the solid Tudor manor house. Spreading out behind, and on either side was a vast estate. “Sadly they lost many of their servants in the war, so Cynthia has warned us we may have to dress ourselves this weekend. It is impossible to get good servants nowadays. Even those who survived look down their noses when offered honest work as a footman. In my day people accepted their lot. The rich man in his castle, the poor man at his gate. Tell a man he’s a hero and suddenly he forgets his station in life.”

  Millie Woodbridge, who was used to dressing herself, said, “You were right, Fazeby Hall is magnificent, Mrs Oakengate.” Aged twenty-four, and dressed in a demure grey pinafore over a white blouse, she had a fresh, pale face and a glossy chestnut bob covered with a plain cloche hat.

  Mrs Oakengate’s hat, over an Eton crop, sported a flamboyant bow, which more than once had threatened to cover the lady’s eyes as she drove. “Ah,” she said, being helped out of the car by a footman, “here’s Cynthia Fazeby.”

  A slender, woman, aged about forty, with an ageless beauty and natural style stood on the steps of Fazeby Hall. She wore the latest fashion with the air of a woman who did not really care what she wore, and yet somehow managed to look stunning. She walked down to them and held out her hand. “Victoria, darling, how wonderful to see you. And this must be your new companion.”

  “Yes, this is Millicent Woodbridge,” said Mrs Oakengate. Cynthia held out her hand to Millie. “Her father was the spy, Richard Woodbridge. They hanged him a few months ago, if you remember.”

  Millie caught her breath. She had not expected her father’s alleged crime to be spoken of so openly, and was not prepared for how to deal with it. “Millie’s mother, Amelia was my friend, in my early days as an actress.” Mrs Oakengate carried in regardless. “Poor Millie here doesn’t have her mother’s beauty, but she’s a sweet enough child.”

  Cynthia squeezed Millie’s hand and said gently, “I am very sorry for your loss, child. I knew your mother and father many years ago, before my marriage. I continue to believe your father was a good man.”

  “Thank you,” said Millie, deeply moved. “That’s very kind of you. I believe he was a good man too.”

  “Sadly the jury didn’t think so, dear,” said Mrs Oakengate. “Now, Millicent, would you stay here and make sure the servants get the suitcases to the correct rooms?” She spoke as two elderly servants appeared.

  It was not in Millie’s job description to deal with the luggage, but she agreed guessing that Mrs Oakengate and Cynthia Fazeby wished to speak in private.

  “So,” said Mrs Oakengate, putting her arm through Cynthia’s, “who is coming this weekend? A lot of very interesting people, I hope.” They walked up the steps to the front door, leaving Millie alone, but Cynthia looked back and gave her a regretful but encouraging smile.

  “Would you believe James Haxby?” she said to Mrs Oakengate. “We fully expect him to come crashing through the window.”

  “How exciting! I hear he’s very handsome. And that name. Haxby. They say it’s to do with Vikings. And by all accounts he is a bit of a Viking.”

  “I don’t think he has to ravage and pillage, dear. Women are apparently queuing up to offer him favours and he’s rich enough not to need to steal from others.”

  “Maybe I’ll offer him my favours,” said Mrs Oakengate, as she disappeared inside.

  Millie strained to hear what was said, but they’d already gone out of earshot. Everyone knew the famous adventurer James Haxby. Millie’s father had often followed his exploits in the papers, reading out the particularly exciting parts to her over the breakfast table. Haxby had walked the Amazon basin, taken food with African tribes, and more than once had become involved in some local trouble that he’d helped solve with his charm and intelligence. She doubted he would notice her presence, but it was exciting to know that she would be meeting him. She only wished her father could meet him.

  With that melancholy thought, she supervised the carrying of the luggage upstairs, feeling embarrassed to be telling the servants their business. It wasn’t the done thing to get in their way, especially when they were well able to do the job without her help. They seemed to sense her discomfort, treating her with the same kindness that their mistress had shown.

  She had been given the room next to Mrs Oakengate. It was small, but very pretty, the wallpaper decorated with forget-me-nots. The centre was dominated by a big comfortable bed. She sat on it for a moment, wishing that she had a little more time to herself. She was used to being alone, and liked it, but since taking up the post of paid companion to Mrs Oakengate, time alone was a precious commodity.

  Not that Millie only wanted to sit still and think. It was just that she felt there must be something more interesting to do in life than go for dress fittings, dining out and calling upon friends, all of whom only ever talked about the same things.

  She missed her father dreadfully. She had helped him with his experiments into new types of flying machine, which were faster and safer. Experiments that the British government believed he had shared with the enemy. The evidence, the prosecutor said, was overwhelming. Pictures had been taken of Richard Woodbridge, at a grouse shoot, meeting with a known agent of the enemy. The same agent had been found dead, clutching a blueprint, which had been signed by Millie’s father. The fact that her father denied all knowledge of the man, and had only met him socially at an event attended by several dozen other people, including several members of parliament, was not believed.

  Sighing, Millie tried and failed to push all thoughts of the past aside. Before his death, she promised him that she would survive to see his name cleared. How she could do that, she did not know. She had written letters to the Home Secretary, but she knew that was not enough. Somewhere there would be proof that he had not betrayed his country. If only she knew where to look for that proof. Unfortunately for Millie, her father’s pension from the Civil Service had been stopped as soon as they found him guilty. She had no income of her own. She lived off their savings whilst he was in prison, and then had to give up their rented house after his execution because she could no longer afford to live there. A kindly neighbour had let her board with them taking far less than they could have got by advertising the room. She had applied for secretarial posts with other inventors, but her name was blackened because of her father. No one would take her on. She was left with no choice but to accept Mrs Oakengate’s offer.

  She silently chastised herself for being so ungrateful. If not for Mrs Oakengate, she would have nowhere to live.

  Realising she had to go back downstairs and face everyone, she took a deep breath and went out onto the landing. A few doors down, she could hear voices coming from one of the bedrooms. One of them was Cynthia Fazeby’s. The other was a man, whom Millie took to be Cynthia’s husband, Henry Fazeby.

  “She should never have brought that girl to Fazeby Hall,” Cynthia Fazeby was saying.

  “That’s the trouble with Victoria,” said Henry, “she never does think how awkward it is for others when she produce
s pieces from her collection. Remember the daughter of the acid bath murderer who was her secretary for a while?”

  “Yes,” said Cynthia. “Mores the pity.”

  Millie hated to be thought of as an unwelcome visitor. She crept down the stairs, hoping her presence on the landing had not been noticed. She wished she could run out of the front door and never come back.

  Millie felt no animosity towards the Fazebys. She sympathised with their discomfort. That would not make the weekend any easier for her. She vowed to make herself as invisible as possible.

  Chapter Two

  The butler showed Millie to the drawing room, where she was relieved to see a familiar face.

  “Uncle Alex,” she said, as her godfather stepped forward to greet her. Alexander Markham had been her father’s closest friend. Aged sixty, he was still very handsome, and drew admiring glances from Mrs Oakengate, who sat draped across the window seat. The rest of the room was furnished in a regency style, with plush sofas and comfortable chairs.

  “Millie, my dear girl,” Alex said, kissing her cheek. “I had no idea you were going to be here.”

  “I’m here with Mrs Oakengate,” said Millie, gesturing towards her employer.

  “So she’s been telling me,” said Alex Markham, with an amused twinkle in his eyes. “I’m sorry I haven’t seen you for a while. I’ve been in Argentina, you know, working for the government.”

  “I understand,” said Millie. In truth she’d been disappointed that Uncle Alex had been so far away. But he had written to give his condolences, which was more than any of her surviving relatives had done. “There was nothing much you could have done.”

  Alex squeezed her hand. “I miss him.”

  “So do I.” They were both silent for a few moments.

  “Now,” said Alex. “In the absence of our delightful hostess, let me introduce you to some of the other guests. This is Mr and Mrs Parker-Trent. Mr and Mrs Parker-Trent, allow me to introduce my god-daughter, Millicent Woodbridge.”

  A couple, who had been watching with obvious interest, stepped forward to greet Millie. Arthur Parker-Trent was a man in his fifties, balding and with bright red cheeks. Millie had heard of him as a well-known industrialist, who was at that time, taking on the unions. Mrs Parker-Trent could not have been more than Millie’s age, with dyed blonde hair and bright red lipstick. She had the look of someone who had worked in a dress shop, and spoke in an affected way.

  “How nice to meet you, Miss Woodbridge. Arthur and I were only just saying the other day what a terrible tragedy your father’s death was.”

  “You said that, I didn’t,” said Mr Parker Trent. “A man who betrays his country deserves to die.”

  “He didn’t,” said Millie, with quiet dignity.

  “I’m sure he didn’t,” said Mrs Parker Trent. “

  “Ignore my wife,” said Mr Parker-Trent. “She has a knack of saying just what people want her to say, which is how she fooled me into marrying her. Whereas I’m an honest man. You can’t put a price on honesty, I always say, hurt or offend.”

  “You are such a kidder,” said Mrs Parker-Trent, colouring up slightly. “Don’t listen to him, Miss Woodridge. He doesn’t mean half of what he says.”

  “I do, you don’t,” said Parker-Trent, darkly.

  Millie felt sorry for Mrs Parker-Trent. What her husband said may well be true, but Millie sensed that under all the make-up, Mrs Parker-Trent felt as unsure of herself as Millie did.

  “And,” said Alex. “We also have Mrs Barbara Conrad. She’s a novelist, Millie, so I’m sure you’ll have a lot to talk about.”

  Mrs Conrad lacked Mrs Parker-Trent’s glamour and Cynthia Fazeby’s beauty, reminding Millie of a hockey teacher from school, yet she had a kind, thoughtful face that Millie warmed to immediately. She seemed rather shy and awkward. “How do you do, Miss Woodbridge?”

  “How do you do?” said Millie, holding out her hand. “I’m afraid I haven’t yet read any of your books.”

  “You’re not alone in that,” said Mrs Conrad, smiling ruefully. “I am very sorry for your loss.” There was something in her eyes, despite her apparent shyness. A shrewdness that suggested a sharp and insightful mind.

  “Barbara was just telling us that her next book is due out soon,” said Victoria Oakengate from the window. “You must tell Millicent all about it, Barbara. She likes reading. Speaking for myself, I find it a bore. Real people are so much more interesting. Whilst I don’t wish to discourage you, my dear, I hardly think people will take to an Austrian detective.”

  “Argentinean,” said Mrs Conrad. She and Millie exchanged amused glances, which made them immediate friends.

  “I should like to read it,” said Millie, not just being polite. She adored murder mysteries, and had often read Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s novels to her father.

  “I have a few copies with me. Not that I’m in the habit of carrying them and forcing them on people.” Mrs Conrad laughed awkwardly. “My publisher insisted I sign some for posterity whilst I’m here. I’ll be happy to let you borrow one,” Mrs Conrad said.

  “That’s very kind, thank you.”

  “I believe we are just waiting for the arrival of Count Chlomsky and Mr Haxby to make our party complete,” said Alex.

  “Chlomsky … Chlomsky … where have I heard that name?” asked Mrs Oakengate.

  “Count Victor Chlomsky is an inventor of weapons,” said Alex Markham. “He’s a Prussian, but switched to our side during the Great War. Now he’s a citizen of one of those little European states that no one can pronounce.”

  “Oh yes,” said Mrs Parker-Trent. “I read about him in the papers. He’s very brave. A true hero.”

  “Ironic, isn’t it?” said Mrs Conrad, in her quiet way, “that a spy who switches to our side is hailed a hero, whereas someone who is believed to have worked for the other side…”

  Mrs Parker-Trent looked at Mrs Conrad blankly, but Millie understood the inference and blessed Mrs Conrad for it.

  At that moment the doorbell rang, and a few minutes later, a grand looking man with a magnificent beard entered the room. He reminded Millie of King Edward, but with a foreign flare lacking in the old king.

  “Count Chlomsky, how good to see you again,” said Alex Markham, almost falling into the role of host. He introduced everyone else to the Count. Mrs Parker-Trent went so far as to give a little curtsey.

  The assembled guests made small talk, until their hosts arrived to take the role from Alex Markham.

  “I do apologise,” said Cynthia Fazeby. “We’ve been the most dreadful hosts. Henry had to take a telephone call from London, and the line was dreadful. It seems Mr Haxby won’t be arriving till much later. He insisted we all go into dinner without him.

  Dinner was a polite though rather strained affair. Millie had changed into the only evening dress she owned, a gown of fine grey muslin, which her father used to say made her look like a shadow. Her heavy fringe curved over her large grey eyes. She finished the look with grey satin slippers, hoping that she could indeed slip into the shadows.

  Mrs Oakengate and Mrs Parker-Trent dressed as though for dinner with the King. Mrs Oakengate wore deep red silk, and Mrs Parker-Trent competed in blue velvet. Mrs Conrad wore a simple blue gown, and Cynthia Fazeby wore a dress of antique lace, with tiny pearls around the neckline.

  Cynthia and Henry Fazeby were old hands at putting people at their ease, and the urbane Alex Markham was at home anywhere he went. Despite their efforts, there was an underlying tension that Millie could not put her finger on. Chlomsky in particular seemed to be under some stress, drinking rather heavily, and becoming redder in the face as the night wore on.

  She wondered if it were because of her presence, and as the dessert of lighter than air lemon sorbet was served, prayed for an excuse to escape.

  Mrs Conrad was watchful, taking an interest in everyone. She also made an effort to draw Millie into the conversation, though if Millie were honest, she would rather keep out of it
. She had spent very little time in the outside world over the previous couple of years and was not familiar with any of the people or politics the diners discussed. Her life, for two years, had revolved around her father’s trial. Everything else faded in significance. As such, she found herself very ignorant of current affairs.

  “Those damned socialists,” Arthur Parker-Trent was saying. “Encouraging workers to form unions. I won’t have it in my workplace, I tell you, despite the workers trying to force it on me. If we’re not careful we shall all be murdered in our beds and taken to the guillotine.”

  “The guillotine would be rather redundant if one had already been murdered,” said Henry Fazeby, to general laughter. “Still, your lovely wife would make a most charming Marie Antoinette.”

  “It is often said I look as though I have blue blood,” said Hortense. “And papa…”

  “Papa was a milkman,” said Arthur Parker-Trent.

  “He was an eccentric rich man,” Hortense said, her cheeks flaming. “We had our own dairy farm.”

  “Dash it all, Hortense, you come from a grimy little street in Derbyshire. Not far from here in fact.”

  “The Peak District is very beautiful,” said Millie, feeling sorry for the young woman.

  “Yes, it’s wonderful,” said Hortense, her voice losing its affected tone. “The Heights of Abraham has one of the best views in the country. Especially in autumn, when the leaves turn russet. I used to go there as a girl.” Her eyes took on a faraway look, making her face look genuinely pretty. “I’d climb Masson Hill in the evenings, just to watch the sunset.”

  “I should like to see it,” said Millie.

  “So would I now that you’ve described it so beautifully, Hortense,” said Mrs Conrad. Arthur Parker-Trent harrumphed into his glass of wine. “Perhaps we could travel there this weekend.”

  “I should hate it,” said Victoria Oakengate. “The countryside is a bore. Not in your lovely home, of course, Cynthia. But I despise trees.”