whole life ahead of her. And what a life! As mother of the only heir to Haute House she would hold the reins of the estate until the young man’s coming of age. The late Mrs. Haute had left everything to her only grandson, to be inherited once the boy became a man, at eighteen. She would have preferred twenty one, but her lawyer had persuaded her to move with the times. In the meantime, the economic affairs would be run by a group of advisors named specifically for the task by Alice Haute just before her death. Andrea was to receive a generous annual income and use of both Haute House and the villa at Kenton Beach for the rest of her days. So without having to worry her pretty little head about a thing, she was to lead a life of luxury and leisure for which she had been perfectly prepared.
The problem was she was now all alone. True, she had her son, a carbon copy of the father he had never seen, but the boy was still in nappies and more of a burden than company. Andrea was not a natural mother, did not possess a very strong maternal instinct, and expected her child to be brought up with the help of others, saving for herself the beautiful moments of giggles and cuddles, whilst delegating the more tedious tasks to the staff, which basically meant Pet. So she had too much time to ponder on her bad luck, on her loss, on her unsought though fabulous inheritance. What she needed, her friends and relatives all agreed, was an adventure. And by all accounts that moment had arrived in the form of Harvey Paulson.
But who was this Harvey? Could he hope to match Sydney’s magnificent memory? Would Sydney Jr. take to him? Was it wise to invite him here, to the House, so soon? The staff felt protective towards Andrea, wanted to save her from any kind of deception, to keep her safe from fortune hunters and unscrupulous Casanovas. Not so much for her; she was a relative newcomer to the place, and although was well liked, she had not been in their lives long enough to be loved. She was to be pitied though, for she had suffered so much. Their real concern was for Sydney Jr., the fatherless, fair-headed toddler who ran riot throughout the mansion totally oblivious to the blows and machinations of his inherited world. Would this Harvey Paulson treat him well, be a good father to the boy? They were about to find out.
Ambrose would be present on Harvey’s arrival too, but he would have to leave the appraisals to his sister; he was useless at that kind of thing. It was a knack he had never learnt, and he was not even truly convinced of the science behind it all. It seemed to him that mistakes had been made on more than one occasion. Hadn’t they found the Wiggins to be charming? Hadn’t Pet even said that she found Mr. Golden Nugget Cummings to be a perfect gentleman? And he remembered that you should never judge a book by its cover. His parents had told him that. And his teachers. In fact just about everybody knew that, even if they chose to ignore it. But she assured him that she knew better, so he supposed she probably did, she usually did. He half wondered for a moment about why people would talk about judging covers and so on, but never pay the slightest bit of attention to it. Maybe there was something he was missing. He let it drop. The best thing to do was to start with a friendly greeting, and then wait for a report later on in the day when his sister had decided that she’d seen enough to reach a reasonable conclusion.
‘He’ll be here for lunch. I’ve put your clean clothes on your bed, so when you’ve finished with the bins, have a quick shower and get dressed, alright? Be ready by twelve at the latest. Alright? Twelve o’clock. At the latest. They’re on your bed. Ah, and change your boots, too, don’t forget, ok?’
Pet invariably spoke to Ambrose as if she were his mother, it was something she had always done, an attitude she had subconsciously taken towards him even long before their mother had died. Ambrose didn’t mind; he was used to it. Anyway, she was his big sister and she knew best.
She hadn’t mentioned anything to him, but Ambrose could see that Pet was not entirely convinced about the lunchtime visit. She was not her usual chirpy self, was a bit serious, and frowned as she turned away. More than once she studied the sky, watching the passing clouds closely and shaking her head. Signs, he supposed, signs only Pet could interpret. Was there anything in it? Was it like crossing your fingers, and black cats and the like? Or could his sister judge the world by its cover? Either way he trusted her, knew he could always rely on her better judgement. Hadn’t she been the one who had got them the jobs in the first place?
Though it had to be admitted that the Haute House that Harvey was about to discover bore little resemblance now to the family home that had taken them on so many years back. Those were the days when Sydney was in his prime and Mrs. Alice Haute ruled the roost with cool glamour, with studied charm, so very old fashioned despite her modern ways. If poor, dead Sydney had judged books by their covers he certainly hadn’t shown it. From the very first day he had been both polite and amiable, showing a genuine interest without the vaguest trace of mockery. He had called Petunia Pet, and Ambrose Bro, because he realised that they would appreciate it, would understand that he was being affectionate, not rude. When Mr. Stein bawled at Ambrose, he would wink conspiratorially and say things like ‘don’t be too hard on him, Mr. Stein!’ (Mr. Stein would not expect to be called ‘Joe’ whilst in his official role). One day he helped Pet clear away the breakfast things, chatting about this and that and laughing at her cheeky comments. Never once did he mention her weight, or her smoking habit, or her dental hygiene. And there was the time he took off his jacket and pushed the old Volkswagen right up the drive and round the back to the garages. He didn’t even call for Ambrose to give him a hand, just did it all on his own, one hand on the wheel, the other pushing hard, his feet digging into the gravel, until he had it where he wanted it. When Mr. Stein had complained and tried to blame Ambrose for being lazy and inconsiderate, Sydney had just laughed and patted Ambrose on the back. ‘Exercise is good for you’ he had said, and thrown a smile at both of them.
Then Andrea had come along, and had been accepted immediately by both family and staff. If Sydney was the perfect, well-educated son, then Andrea would be his perfect match. She too was well-educated and polite, was comfortable with wealth and its exigencies, knew how to behave and belong. The presence of cooks and cleaners did not disturb her in any way; she had been groomed for a life of leisure and knew her part. So she was approachable though respected, which was the ideal balance that Alice Haute had been looking for in a daughter-in-law. She also had a pleasant, unruffled character which made cohabitation a remarkably non-traumatic affair.
Then life had turned capricious. Sydney, the envy of the county, was hurled into a tree at speed and killed instantly. Mrs. Alice Haute died as a result of that accident, too. And Andrea was left to fend for herself and her new born son surrounded by the belongings and memories of the dead.
Andrea had not wanted a reception party. She imagined the servants, the staff, lined up on the steps of the entrance waiting for the carriage to arrive, butlers and maids all dressed in full uniform, humble and grateful, as in days of yore or in historical films. No, she was a woman of her times, modern and relaxed, so there would be no standing on ceremony. She would simply turn up at an unspecified time and have a light lunch in her rooms with her new acquaintance. She had no intention of introducing Harvey to them as if he were an official suitor; it was her business, not theirs. So the staff decided to work out their own choreography; all of them would appear naturally whilst carrying out their daily tasks, and by pure chance manage to be in the right place at the right time. Nobody wanted to miss the opportunity to get a good long look at this Harvey Paulson who seemed to be making such an impression on Andrea. Because it had escaped no-one’s attention that just recently Andrea had become, if not happier, then at least less depressed. She smiled more often, played more with Sydney Jr. and took more care of her hair and clothes. For those reasons alone Harvey was to be received without animosity; they would give him a fair chance to prove his worth. Not that they would ever have a say in the matter or be consulted in any way. They were paid to supply service, not to act as a kind of proxy family. But maybe if Andrea noticed th
eir enthusiasm, or caution, or aversion, she would think twice before taking any decision she may later regret. They all liked to think they had some kind of influence over what took place at Haute House, though since Sydney’s and his mother’s deaths their powers of persuasion had dwindled. Andrea was now in charge, a relative newcomer, and for the past two years she had lived in virtual reclusion, occupying only half a wing of the ground floor, as if the rest of the house belonged to those who cleaned and maintained it. The real decisions were made off premises by the advisors appointed in their day by Alice Haute. Nonetheless they saw it as their duty; Harvey would be assessed, and the results would be written all over their faces.
‘It was at 12.09 on Thursday the seventeenth of March. I’ll never forget.’
Pet had a prodigious memory. She could tell you exactly when Sydney had died, when Mrs. Haute had passed away. She knew the wedding dates and birthdays and even the saint’s days of almost everyone she had ever met. So there was no doubt about it – Harvey had arrived that day at