Dark inheritance

As companion to the elderly mis
tress of Crag's Height, a remote house in the Welsh mountains,
Barbara Mansfield soon forgot her
London past-especially in the
presence of Dominic, her employ
er's nephew.

h
Whatever the reason for Dominic's
mysterious aloofness, Barbara
knew the barriers between them
would have to be broken down.

CHAPTER ONE

"AND I'm afraid that's all I can say," the specialist concluded.

"Isn't there any alternative?" the girl said earnestly.

"You can, of course, get another opinion."

"Oh, I shan't bother to do that." Then naively:
"Anyway, what would be the use? You're the foremost
throat specialist in the country, and if you say I can' sing any more "

"I didn't say you couldn't sing
any more."

"I know, but a year's such a long time—I might as well give it up altogether."

Sir Edward smiled. "My dear young lady, a year isn't a lifetime, and when it's over your voice will be
as good as ever—perhaps better. My advice is to forget
all about singing for the time being, relax as much as
possible, do nothing strenuous, and you'll be all right
again."

The wide hazel eyes crinkled into a smile. "Relax and
do nothing strenuous! I doubt if I can afford it. No, I may as well forget it completely."

"Don't take it so hard," the man said kindly. "I
realize that to anyone as young as you a year seems
interminable, but believe me, my dear, it'll soon pass and you'll look back on all this as a bad dream."

"I wonder. Anyway, thank you for your advice." She stood up and extended her hand.

The specialist shook it firmly. "I'm only sorry my verdict couldn't have been more comforting. He moved across to the door and held it open for her.
"Don't hesitate to call on me if you want to know any
thing more. I'll always be pleased to help if I can."

'Thank you," she smiled. "You're very kind. Good
bye."

"And that," thought Barbara Mansfield as the door
closed behind her, "is that." Crossing the road, she
made her way along the wide pavement past the tall,
elegant houses each bearing discreet gilt plaques, until she reached the Marylebone Road, and boarding a bus,
stared unseeingly through the window, preoccupied with
the interview which had just taken place.

A year might not seem long to someone like Sir Edward Lawton, but to a singer just starling on the road to success it was a lifetime. Public memory was short, and an agent's memory even shorter, and after
a yearns silence she would have to start the fight for
recognition all over again.

She shuddered at the thought of having to confront the two elderly cousins who had brought her up after her parents' death, and wondered if she had been a fool not to 'have taken their advice to put the legacy her
godmother had left her in the bank instead of using it to have her voice trained. But the fifteen hundred pounds
coming when it did had seemed the answer to her
prayers and she had been heedless of their well-meaning
but unimaginative counsel.

Barbara had only to close her eyes to see their cheer
less sitting-room in the drab Midlands town, and the shallow, lined faces of the two spinster sisters as they had sat in a phalanx of disapproval on the hard, shiny sofa.

"After all," she had argued, "it isn't as though I'm going to fritter the money away on a holiday or some other extravagance. I may not have much left after I've finished my training, but at least I shall have a voice to earn me a living."

"Well, as you seem so set on throwing your only security away, there's nothing more to be said." Her cousins had exchanged a meaning glance, raised their eyes piously to Heaven and washed their hands of her.

Although there was no real affection between Barbara
and her cousins they were her only relations and she had disliked having to part from them in such an atmosphere of hostility. Her only consolation was the belief that if her godmother and parents had known
the use to which she was putting the money they would
have supported her, and it spurred her towards making a clean break and moving to London to try to find the best teacher she could.

.

For the next three years she scrimped and saved, eking out her money by part-time secretarial work. But luck had been with her, for as soon as her teacher felt she was ready to start singing in public he had sent her to an agent who took an immediate liking to the determined young girl and found a small part for her in a light opera which, in turn, led to a better part in another production.

Just as she was beginning to feel that her feet were
on the first rung of the ladder to success, the blow had
fallen. Coming home late one night from the theatre
she caught a chill which developed into a serious throat
infection, and although it seemed to clear up after a few weeks it left her a legacy of weakness and depres
sion. She tried not to let her increasing tiredness affect her singing and had managed to carry on to the end of the run, but on the last night her voice bad broken on a top note and she had been scarcely able to finish her song.

The gnawing fear that it might occur again took her
to Sir Edward Lawton, for she was sure her voice pro
duction was not at fault and felt there must be a physical cause for her vocal collapse. Sir Edward had made a long and careful examination of her throat, but far from reassuring her that it was merely general
debility, had been forced to give the uncompromising
verdict she had just heard.

She was jerked out of her thoughts by the bus
reaching her stop and got off and walked up the narrow
road to her Bayswater boarding house.

In the raw bleakness of a November day her bed-sitting-room seemed emptier and lonelier than usual, and quickly she put a light to the small gas-fire before taking off her coat and putting it away in the meagre wardrobe. Bending forward, she studied her face in the peeling mirror, the wide-apart hazel eyes looking back at her frankly as she pushed the thick mane of curly brown hair away from her broad forehead. Pursing her full, rather wide mouth, she scrutinized herself critically, wondering whether her attractions would stand her in good stead for the new life that would have to be hers if she followed the specialist's advice. She moved over to the fireplace and sat down to hold her
hands to the warmth of the fire, gaining a little comfort
from the cheerful hissing of the gas as she thought about
her future. Should she give up singing altogether and return to live with her cousins in the Midlands, or should she try and get a job which would enable her to lead the kind of life Sir Edward had suggested? Perhaps it would be better not to have any talent at all than to suffer the gnawing ache of an unsatisfied ambition. Then the fighter in her came to the fore and there and then she made up her mind not to give in without a struggle.

But in the weeks that followed Barbara discovered
that finding a suitable job was anything but easy. Jobs there were in plenty, but not the kind she was seeking,
and Sir Edward's insistence on relaxation made her task even more difficult, for very few people were willing to employ someone who was able to do only light work.

Philosophically she felt that something was bound to
turn up soon, but as the days lengthened into weeks
and her savings began to dwindle she became more and
more disheartened and was forced to the conclusion
that unless she found something suitable within the next
fortnight she would have to go back to her cousins and
eat humble pie.

She made a last, determined effort, and searched the
advertisement columns of the daily papers in the hope
of seeing something suitable. But it was nearly a week
before she found an advertisement that gave her a glimmer of hope.

Young lady wanted as companion to elderly woman.
Friendly firmness and adaptability, no ties or near rela
tions. Apply Rockwood, Haymarket Hotel, between 6 and 7 p.m.

Barbara penciled a ring around it, and six o'clock
found her walking into the hotel and enquiring at the
reception desk for the Rockwood room number. A few
minutes later she was taken up to the fourth floor

a page-boy and found herself outside a door marked Twenty-three.

Drawing a deep breath, she knocked, and almost immediately a voice called to her to come in.

She opened the door and found herself in a large, dark room, the only form of illumination a cheerful
fire which nevertheless failed to dispel the gloom. Lying
on a couch within its flickering orbit was a fragile elderly woman with thin grey hair and faded features which had once been pretty.

"Come in, my dear, come in." The voice was light and eager, and Barbara moved towards her with a nervous smile.

"I saw your advertisement in the paper this morning,"
she began, "and was wondering whether the job was still open."

"I think it is," the woman replied vaguely. "At least, we've seen several young ladies, but we haven't engaged anyone definitely yet. Unless my"—she hesi
tated—"unless my nephew has, of course. But no, I
don't think we need worry about that. Come and warm
yourself, my dear. It must be bitterly cold outside. I
watch the people through the window, you know, and
everyone looks blue."

"It isn't a very nice day," Barbara agreed, taking off her gloves and holding her hands to the fire. "This is the sort of weather to stay at home."

"It certainly is. I can never understand why people go to Switzerland in the winter—all that horrid snow."

Barbara smiled. "But don't forget the sunshine. That makes all the difference."

"Yes, I suppose it does. I love the sun—I always have. In the winter I want to huddle up into a ball and hide, but as soon as the summer comes and the flowers start blooming I feel I'm coming alive again. Our house is so dark and cold that when I'm there I long to get away into the sunshine."

"If you don't decide on a companion soon you'll never get into the sunshine"

A deep voice cut through the room with the sharp
ness of a knife, and Barbara was so startled that she turned round with a gasp. In the comer, half hidden by shadows, sat a dark-haired man. He had obviously been there all the time, but the room was so ill-lit that
in the somber suit he was wearing she had not noticed
him.

Glancing back at the old woman, Barbara saw a quick spasm of fear pass across her face.

"Oh dear, I quite forgot he was there." The thin
hands fluttered. "It's my nephew, Miss
? I'm afraid I don't remember your name."

"You didn't
ask
the young woman her name, Aunt," the voice said.

The hands fluttered again. "Of course not—how foolish of me."

"Yes, wasn't it? Now perhaps you'll start your inter
view again, properly."

"It was my fault, Barbara broke in. "I should have given my name when I came in." She turned towards the man. "I must also apologize for not seeing you."

'That's quite all right." From the tone of voice Barbara got the impression that she had not been intended to see him until he wanted her to, and even now he remained a dim shape in the shadows.

"My name's Barbara Mansfield." She addressed the
woman. "I take it you're Mrs. Rockwood?"

"My aunt is not married," the man said curtly.

Barbara flushed. "Oh, then you must be Mr. Rock-
wood."

He inclined his head. "I have that dubious honour. Well, Aunt, are you going to continue the interview or not?"

Another spasm crossed the old woman's face. "If you
like, Dominic, but you know how much better you are at this sort of thing than I am."

"I thought it would be good for you to make an
effort. However, if you insist, perhaps Miss Mansfield
will be kind enough to give me her particulars."

Barbara bit her lip. What an insufferable bully he
was! Briefly she outlined the details she thought would
interest him, explaining that her state of health made it necessary to change her occupation.

"I hope you aren't an invalid too?" the voice enquired drily.

She was about to explain her reason when the tele
phone cut her short, and the man rose to answer h with a word of apology. "I'll take the call in the bed
room," he said, and disappeared through the door behind him.

Barbara turned back to the woman on the couch. "Perhaps we can continue the interview while your
nephew is out of the room?" she suggested with an
encouraging smile.

The old woman cast an uneasy glance at the door.
"Do you think we ought to? I mean, perhaps he might
prefer to finish it now he's begun. Dominic always arranges everything for me, you know."

"I don't see why he should mind," Barbara said
lightly. "After all, you'd be saving him something be
obviously finds a lot of trouble."