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 produces 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…”