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CHAPTER THREE
ASHLEY’S GAZE WAS instantly drawn to the office door, which had been thrust open. Gordon Payne turned to look, too, the hand holding the Lladro clown lowering instinctively with the sudden appearance of a witness. They both stared in stunned silence at the totally unexpected vision of the man in the doorway.
He was not your ordinary, everyday person.
Ashley had never applied the word elegant to a man before, yet it leapt straight into her mind. Elegant, smashingly handsome and subtly dangerous.
He was tall and lean, beautifully dressed in a three-piece suit that had obviously been tailored for him, the smooth sheen of the blue-grey fabric shouting no expense spared. His white silk shirt had a buttoned down collar, and he wore a gorgeous tie in brilliant shades of blue.
His face was no less impressive, a squarish jawline, high cheekbones, straight nose, a perfectly moulded mouth, rakishly arched black eyebrows over the most dynamic blue eyes Ashley had ever seen. His black hair was thick and mostly straight. It was parted on the left side and swept across his high, wide forehead in a dipping wave.
In his right hand he carried a silver-knobbed black walking stick that tapered to a silver tip. He was not using it for support. He held it well below the knob, and his fingers had the long, agile look that suggested he could twiddle the cane much as Fred Astaire had in dancing routines. Or wield it very quickly as a lethal weapon.
He looked to be in his early thirties, but there was a world of knowledge in the eyes that scanned the scene he had thrust himself into with such timely éclat. He gave Ashley a quirky little smile, as though personally inviting her to relax and enjoy the moment. It was oddly intimate, forging an instant connection between them that embraced both understanding and acceptance that he was here for her.
It dazed Ashley. She had never experienced such a mental touch before. Not from a man. He didn’t even know her. They had never met before. She was absolutely certain of that. Yet there was this strange feeling of recognition that he had always been meant to enter her life and play some vital part in it.
‘Would you like me to see the gentleman out, madam?’ he prompted with all the aplomb of a traditional British butler.
Ashley found her voice. ‘Please,’ she said gratefully, not caring from whence he had come, deeply relieved that he was offering to rid her of the menacing presence of an enemy she had recklessly made in unbridled and incautious anger.
‘Who the devil are you?’ Gordon Payne challenged sharply as her rescuer stepped into the room to carry out her request.
‘Cliffton, sir,’ came the lilting, blithe reply. He actually did twiddle the walking cane. In the flash of an eye it was suddenly resting in both his hands. ‘The fortunes of the Harcourt family have been linked to the fortunes of my family for centuries.’
Centuries! Ashley’s mind boggled at the claim. Apart from which, she wasn’t a Harcourt. She had only married one, and not one that was a high recommendation of the name, either. Nevertheless, she was not about to spoil her white knight’s pitch.
‘It is both an honour and a pleasure to be of service once again,’ he continued, smiling affably at Gordon Payne, who seemed mesmerised by Cliffton’s approach. The way he was weaving the cane through his fingers with the dexterity of a magician was definitely having a hypnotic effect.
‘May I, sir?’ The cane was whipped under one arm like a shillelagh and both hands were out to relieve Gordon Payne of the Lladro clown. ‘This piece is more for viewing than touching,’ he advised with the air of an art connoisseur. ‘If I put it back on its stand, I’m sure you’ll appreciate its fine craftmanship better. There’s a line and proportion to these things…there! You see?’
Somehow he’d deftly removed the figurine from Gordon Payne’s grasp and set it on the desk, positioning it perfectly on its rectangular block and giving the clown’s hat an affectionate pat as though it was an old friend.
‘Now, sir, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.’ The cane was flicked into use again, pointing to the door. ‘It is time to take your leave of Mrs. Harcourt. I’ll see you on your way, sir.’
Ashley could almost feel Gordon Payne bristle as he recollected himself. Cliffton had snatched control from him, and he didn’t like it. Not one bit. Yet some animal instinct must have warned him to avoid a trial of strength with the English stranger. He shot a last venomous glare at Ashley.
‘You haven’t heard the last of this.’
Then he swung on his heel and marched out, not waiting to be ushered or escorted to the front door of the house. Cliffton, however, dogged his steps, ensuring that he left without playing any malicious havoc with her possessions on his way. Ashley trailed after both of them, drawn to watch the end of a scene she now deeply regretted.
Making an enemy of Gordon Payne could rebound very badly on her. He had far more weapons than she did. It was self-defeating to start a fight she couldn’t win. Hadn’t Roger taught her that, over and over again? If the elegant Englishman had not arrived…Who was he, really? What was he? And why was he here?
She paused in the hallway just outside the office, noticing that he favoured his right leg, a slight limp, reason for the walking stick, yet he executed a smart, skipping sidestep that would have graced any dance floor, beating Gordon Payne to the front door with a deft panache that allowed him to open the door with a flourish.
‘Good afternoon, sir,’ he said with a respectful nod.
Gordon Payne stopped, stiffened and stared at him, flummoxed at being comprehensively outmanoeuvred. All he could manage was a crude snort in reply. Then he shook his shoulders as though dislodging a monkey on his back, propelled his feet forward again and made his exit from Ashley’s house.
Harold Alistair Cliffton closed the door after him on a glorious high of triumphant satisfaction. He had out-butlered George, rescued the fair maiden and polished off the dragon. Maybe he had just found his true vocation in life. being of service.
On the other hand, Harry suspected his exhilaration had much to do with being of service to Ashley Harcourt. He turned to face her again, aware that she had followed to watch the curtain line of his masterly performance.
The photographs had not done her justice. They hadn’t captured the essence of Ashley Harcourt at all. Harry couldn’t quite put words to that essence, but it was something that sparked an instant response in him, an excitement, a sense of meeting someone special.
The moment their eyes had met…zing! Like an electric charge. He had felt truly alive again. Grey eyes, completely unlike Pen’s soft brown, yet there was something in them that called to him, just as Pen’s had. Perhaps a sureness of who and what she was, a belief in herself.
He wanted to know more about her. He wanted to know everything about her. The idea came to him in an inspired flash. Why not keep on playing the butler? It wasn’t at all difficult. In fact, he was enjoying the role immensely. It also had a great many advantages.
A butler was in the happy position of always being on hand. Installed under the same roof as Ashley Harcourt, he could get to know her very well, indeed. Harry rather relished the idea of putting Ashley to bed at night and waking her up in the morning with steaming hot…coffee. Like George, he’d be Father Confessor, confidant, adviser, helpmate, on the spot to test the waters for other possible attachments.
It allowed him to thoroughly investigate the situation for getting George an heir for Springfield Manor. This could become an extraordinary exploit that would add to the legends already surrounding his illustrious family—how Harry brought the Black Sheep strain back into the fold!
Alternatively, it might eventuate that young William need not fill the position of heir at all. His mother was beginning to inspire a lively set of other possibilities. He wondered how long her silky blonde hair was when unpinned and flowing free. On a pillow.
Ashley remained rooted near the door into the office, studying the extraordinary man who had erupted into her life with sensational effect. Not only with Gordon Payne. She was acutely conscious of a sense of tingly anticipation, as though she knew intuitively that his startling actions were only the forerunner of more startling actions.
He aimed another quirky smile at her, his bright blue eyes twinkling with unholy mischief. He gestured to the door and commented, ‘I thought him a mite touchy.’
Ashley couldn’t help being amused. To describe Gordon Payne as touchy seemed a masterful understatement. ‘I shouldn’t have lost my temper,’ she said with a rueful grimace.
Cliffton looked sympathetic. ‘Touchy people are often aggressive and unpredictable.’
‘It was stupid of me.’
One eyebrow lifted in considering assessment. ‘Perhaps a tad impetuous, madam. Still, there is an arguable case for throwing caution to the winds and letting fly. Gets a load off the chest, so to speak.’
Ashley could barely stop her mouth from twitching. He was so attractive, so…debonair. Another word she had never applied to a man! Not in real life. Her mind drifted to the Scarlet Pimpernel and she hastily pulled it back to a somewhat frayed level of common sense. Don’t forget dangerous, she cautioned herself.
‘What would you have done if he hadn’t let you take the Lladro clown?’ she asked.
‘Broken his wrist most likely,’ came the imperturbable reply. ‘Brings to mind the incident with Good Queen Bess,’ he mused. ‘My ancestor, Hugo, broke the wrist of the Spanish ambassador who presented a gift to the queen, then tried to take it back when she dismissed his king’s request.’
Ashley’s mind slipped again. Spanning centuries seemed quite normal with Cliffton. ‘If you’d done that,’ she said, trying to latch onto something practical, ‘the figurine would have fallen and broken.’
He grinned. ‘Never missed a catch at first slip. I used to play in the first eleven cricket team at school.’
Ashley had no trouble imagining Cliffton being first at a lot of things. But he didn’t seem conceited about it. Nor did he emit an air of superiority. Not like Roger. Whatever his abilities, he simply accepted them as completely natural.
Which brought her back to the questions that needed answering. She couldn’t let this discussion run on as though they were old and intimate friends. Common sense insisted she had to establish who this man was and what he was doing here.
‘I could be a mite touchy, too,’ she warned. ‘About having a stranger invade my home and eavesdrop on a private conversation.’
‘No, no, madam. I would not be so ill-mannered as to enter anyone’s home uninvited. Master William let me in.’
‘Master William?’ She wondered how her nine-year-old son had reacted to being addressed in such a fashion!
‘He was playing cricket next door. Has the makings of a fine batsman,’ Cliffton remarked admiringly. ‘He played a superb hook shot, which I happened to catch before it hit the windscreen of the Daimler that was parked at the kerb outside your house.’
‘Oh, Lord!’ Ashley breathed, relieved that Gordon Payne didn’t have damage to his car to add to his list of grudges against her.
‘I explained to Master William that I was on a mission from England and needed to call on you. He told me to wait in the lounge until you were ready to receive me. I was about to enter that room, as instructed by Master William, when a highly unpleasant voice penetrated to the hallway, listing a most unseemly set of threats.’
He put on a mournful face. ‘I do apologise for eavesdropping, madam. Most reprehensible of me. It reminded me of a situation that confronted my ancestor, Stafford, with the sheriff of Nottingham over a man called Hood. But right won out in the end, madam. We Clifftons have a way of making things turn out right in the end.’
Ashley was still trying to swallow that story as he went on.
‘I must also confess to falling into a trance of admiration at the spirited way you took the gentleman to task. Not a nice gentleman at all, I must say. Then when you cried out…’ He shrugged appealingly. ‘I thought I could be of service to you.’
‘Yes. You were. Thank you.’ His voice was wonderfully musical, quite enthralling to listen to. ‘What mission?’ Ashley asked belatedly. ‘Who are you?’
‘Butler to the English branch of the Harcourt family.’
He really was a butler!
‘A hereditary position, madam. I come as an emissary from the last of your Harcourt relatives in Britain.’
Ashley stiffened, snapping herself out of her bemused daze. Roger’s mother must have been telling the truth about being connected to a line of landed gentry in England. Although that still did not give her the right to have adopted the attitude of being better than anyone else.
It was an attitude that won no sympathy whatsoever from Ashley. She herself might bear the Harcourt name, keeping it because it was her son’s birthright, but it held no sway with her. The reverse, in fact.
‘In the current circumstances, your son, William, is the master of Springfield Manor’s only heir, madam, and he would like you both to take up residence at the manor, his country home. I am assigned to help you settle your affairs and expedite your journey to England.’
Typically high-handed, Ashley thought, her backbone getting stiffer by the second. No Harcourt was going to tell her what to do with her life. She had had her fill of that, thank you very much.
Cliffton gave her a smile of such charm the stiffening almost came undone. ‘For however long it takes to accomplish that, madam, I am to stay here as your butler,’ he declared winningly, ‘to serve you and Master William as you will.’
CHAPTER FOUR
FOR AS LONG as it takes…
What monstrous arrogance!
Ashley saw red for several seconds before the brilliant blue eyes of the butler drove the red away. Not Cliffton’s arrogance, of course. He was merely carrying out his master’s instructions. Although why a man like Cliffton could be content to serve a Harcourt…Imbued with the English class system and centuries of tradition, she supposed, excusing him on the grounds of having been brainwashed from birth.
One thing was certain. She was not going to be carted off to England and suffer the condescension of the gentry installed in Springfield Manor. If William was an heir, he could wait until his inheritance was free and clear of every other Harcourt before considering what it involved and what was best done about it.
In the meantime, Ashley had to decide what to do about Cliffton. Outright rejection of his mission probably meant he would have to return to England to report failure, and she wouldn’t see him again unless she followed. That scenario had no appeal whatsoever.
Ashley had never felt so drawn to know more about a person. Cliffton was, without a doubt, the most fascinating man she had ever met, and she didn’t want him to drop out of her life before she had the chance to…well, explore possibilities.
He was special. Far too special to be a butler. Maybe a short sojourn in Australia might show him other ways of life that could be far more rewarding than being a butler, yet she could probably only keep him with her if she appeared to be considering the proposition, perhaps needing some persuasion from him to make up her mind.
For as long as it takes…
That suddenly became a highly seductive little phrase.
Taking her years with Roger and his mother into account, Ashley had no problem in reasoning that the Harcourt family did owe her some recompense, and Cliffton clearly didn’t mind being her butler for a while. He would be very handy to have around if Gordon Payne decided to carry through on his threats. That could be classed as helping to settle her affairs.
In fact, she could find lots of business that would need settling before she could even consider uprooting their lives and going to England with William. What about William’s schooling and leaving all his friends behind? There were many difficulties and obstacles to overcome, and in all good faith, serious matters that would prove quite impossible to resolve in the end. Cliffton would eventually come to see that, and no blame would attach to him for failing to accomplish what was expected of him.
It was only fair to give his mission a chance at succeeding.
Even if it was mission impossible.
Ashley had to smother a huge upsurge of elation at this highly satisfactory conclusion. She lifted a hand to her temple, rubbing at it in a distracted fashion, covering any telltale expression in her eyes as she said somewhat faintly, ‘This is all a bit of a shock.’
‘Forgive me, madam.’ Cliffton was at her side in a flash, gently steering her into the lounge. ‘Thoughtless of me to regale you with all this when you’ve had no time to recover from that nasty encounter. Such incidents do sap one’s energy.’
There was absolutely nothing wrong with Ashley’s energy. Cliffton’s light grasp on her elbow gave it a remarkable boost. She caught a whiff of some tantalising aftershave lotion and wished she was wearing perfume and a more alluring outfit than a business suit. One of the wonderful chiffon gowns that Ginger Rogers used to wear floated into her mind.
At Cliffton’s direction she sank into an armchair. He whizzed a footstool under her feet, plumped up a cushion and slid it behind her back for extra comfort, pulled out one of her set of three occasional tables and placed it within easy hand’s reach, then straightened up and smiled benevolently at her.
‘A cup of tea is always soothing, madam. Or perhaps, since it’s after five o’clock, a glass of sherry? Sherry is more fortifying. On the other hand, a gin and tonic can have an elevating effect. I am at your service, madam. If you’ll tell me what you’d like…’
Ashley had a mad urge to ask for slippers and a pipe! She sternly reminded herself this was not a game to Cliffton. He was doing what he was trained to do, and her best course, at the moment, was to accept his offer graciously. ‘A cup of tea would be lovely. Thank you,’ she said with a grateful smile.
He left her before Ashley thought to give directions to the kitchen and where to find everything. Further consideration assured her that Cliffton would have no difficulty finding his way around. This was hardly a butler-size house. The kitchen was at the end of the hallway and was of a fairly standard design. Making a cup of tea did not present a problem.
Finding living quarters for Cliffton did.
Although there were three bedrooms, the third was used for storing William’s sporting equipment and housing whatever hobbies had captured his interest. Model aeroplanes and ships took up most of the shelf space, and a work table was currently covered in miniature soldiers, which he was painting in preparation for a replay of the Napoleonic Wars.
A divan bed, shoved against one of the walls, and no cupboard space at all, did not constitute a suitable room for a guest who would be staying longer than overnight. The spare twin bed in William’s room didn’t present attractive accommodation, either. Which left her room, and it was utterly ridiculous for her to move out and offer the master bedroom to the butler.
It suddenly struck her that she should have asked Cliffton for some credentials instead of accepting his story at face value. The man was a stranger, for heaven’s sake! His sheer panache had bamboozled her into being totally unbusinesslike. She had better correct that as soon as he reappeared. Or maybe she should be checking on him right now instead of letting him have the run of the house. What if…
The front door banged open and William came pelting inside, pulling himself to a halt as he caught sight of Ashley through the doorway into the lounge. He looked flushed and excited.
‘Hey, Mum! Where’s…’ He stopped as he took in the cushion at her back and her feet on the footstool. ‘Have you twisted your ankle or something?’
‘I’m just relaxing,’ she said, feeling a flush sweeping up her neck as though she’d been caught in a compromising position.
‘Oh! Okay!’ William dismissed the incomprehensible in favour of imparting the exciting news that had brought him in. ‘You should see the great car Mr. Cliffton came in. It’s a smashing Rolls Royce. The chauffeur said it’s a 1987 Silver Spirit. How about that?’
Ashley’s mind boggled again. The wayward thought came to her that it would have put Gordon Payne’s nose further out of joint at seeing a Rolls Royce outshining his Daimler. Not to mention a chauffeur!
Fortunately William didn’t require a reply. Cliffton arrived on the scene bearing the silver tray and tea service that Roger’s mother had given to them as a wedding gift.
‘What are you doing with that?’ William asked bluntly, as astonished as Ashley was. Cliffton must have dug it out of the bottom of the dresser where it had resided untouched, apart from cleaning, for many years.
‘Your mother is feeling poorly. I am serving her tea,’ Cliffton replied with unruffled decorum.
William looked wide-eyed at Ashley. ‘Are you sick?’
Her cheeks blossomed with hot colour. ‘I’m recovering fast,’ she answered.
‘You don’t need me then?’ William asked.
‘No. I’ll be fine in a minute.’
‘Right!’ William looked relieved and turned quickly to the butler. ‘You’ll be staying for a bit, Mr. Cliffton?’
‘Yes. I’ll be staying as long as—’
‘Great!’ William cut him off and offered his most appealing face. ‘Would you mind if my friends had a turn at sitting in your car? They wouldn’t hurt anything. The chauffeur could let them in and out. I promise they’ll be good.’
Cliffton set the tray down on the occasional table and eyed William consideringly. ‘How much do you intend to charge?’
William grinned at the quick understanding. ‘Only ten cents each. Ten dollars with a photo. Can I borrow your Polaroid camera, Mum?’
‘Ten dollars!’ Ashley gasped in shock.
‘Think, Mum,’ her son advocated earnestly. ‘This will be a once-in-a-lifetime photograph, a memory they’ll be able to pull out of a photo album in years to come to show they really did drive a Rolls Royce. A photo of that value can’t go cheaply.’
William always seemed to have a line of inarguable logic for what he wanted to do. ‘You said sit in it!’ Ashley sharply reminded him.
‘If they sit behind the driving wheel it’ll look as though they’re driving it. I won’t actually let them,’ he assured Cliffton.
‘I am very impressed with the sales pitch,’ Cliffton said admiringly.
‘So you see, Mum?’ William pressed. ‘I have to have the camera.’
‘William, you haven’t received permission about the car, and I don’t think…’
‘Permission granted,’ Cliffton chimed in, his blue eyes twinkling approval.
‘The camera, Mum?’
Two against one defeated her. ‘Yes.’ She sighed, her need to settle various matters with Cliffton more urgent and important than arguing with William over his schemes for augmenting his pocket money.
‘Thanks, Mum. Thanks a lot, Mr. Cliffton. I think I’m going to like you.’
He was off like a flash to fleece his friends’ pockets.
‘Weak or strong, madam?’
Cliffton had the silver teapot poised, ready to pour.
‘However it comes,’ Ashley answered distractedly. ‘You came here in a chauffeured Rolls Royce?’
‘It is the customary mode of transport at Springfield Manor, madam. The master wants you to know you’ll be given every comfort. Milk, madam?’
‘Yes. But surely you didn’t bring a Rolls Royce with you from England. Did you?’ she added, struck with the feeling that anything was possible with this man.
‘I acquired it when I arrived in Sydney, madam. Sugar?’
‘No, thank you. I don’t think…’ Ashley floundered, appalled at the cost of a mission that would certainly—well, almost certainly—be futile. ‘You really shouldn’t be spending so much on a campaign that might come to nothing,’ she burst out. ‘A Rolls Royce, for heaven’s sake! This seems to be getting quite out of hand.’
‘How else can you be shown what to expect, madam?’ Cliffton enquired reasonably. ‘You haven’t tried it yet,’ he pointed out. ‘I think you’ll get to like it. It’s quite pleasant and tends to get addictive.’
She was not going to be seduced by a Rolls Royce into becoming a dependant at Springfield Manor. ‘I do not need a Rolls Royce,’ she stated emphatically. ‘And what’s more, Cliffton, this smacks of trying to buy my acquiescence to what you want.’
‘It is always interesting to test resistance to its limits, madam,’ he said with an air of taking up an irresistible challenge.
‘Why on earth should you do such a thing?’ she demanded. Surely he was taking this mission too far.
‘It’s in the spirit of my more adventurous forebears who would never take no for an answer.’
Irrepressible, Ashley thought, beginning to appreciate Gordon Payne’s perspicacity in retreating from Cliffton rather than taking him on. What could one do in the face of such an unsquashable spirit? And really, did she want to say no to Cliffton? It was only the ultimate no to the Harcourt family that she would have to impress upon him.
‘Well, I won’t be held responsible for what you spend,’ Ashley stated unequivocally.
‘The responsibility is entirely mine,’ Cliffton agreed. ‘Your tea, madam.’
‘Oh! Thank you.’ In a Royal Crown Derby fine bone china teacup, no less, inherited from her mother-in-law. How much fossicking had Cliffton done in her kitchen? Ashley’s whirling mind spun to other concerns, like the possible undermining of her authority with William. ‘I don’t think you should have let William use the car as a…as a—’
‘Money-making venture?’ Cliffton supplied.
‘Yes.’
‘If I may say so, madam, one should never stifle enterprise. In my youth I used to organise frog races. With his entrepreneurial talents, Master William will undoubtedly—’
‘Stop!’
‘I beg your pardon, madam?’
‘You can’t call him master. I won’t have it.’ The last thing she wanted was for William to start thinking he was of a superior breed to anyone else. ‘There are no masters in Australia. There are only people, Cliffton,’ she added earnestly. ‘You must understand that or you won’t do any good here.’
‘Thank you for your advice, madam,’ he said gravely. ‘Is there anything else I should know so as not to give offence?’
‘I’m not a madam. Madams are people who run brothels.’
‘Oh!’ The quirky little smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. ‘Then that’s clearly inappropriate. I shall call you milady.’
‘I’m not your lady.’ Ashley managed not to say, ‘Yet.’
‘Mrs. Harcourt?’
She didn’t want to be reminded of her marriage to Roger, either, but perhaps it wasn’t appropriate to ask Cliffton to call her Ashley at this point. It could wait until she knew him better. She nodded her assent to the name and sipped her tea, trying desperately to collect her thoughts into a properly ordered pattern.
Events seemed to be tumbling over themselves, not giving her time to sort through what needed to be done. And it didn’t help to have Cliffton hovering over her enquiringly. Not only were the beautiful blue depths of his eyes enough for her wits to drown in, she seemed to be getting a fixation on the tantalising little tilts and curves of his mouth. She hadn’t thought about being kissed by a man for quite a while. The provocative question arose… . Did butlers help put their mistresses to bed?
Ashley was shocked at herself, but a perverse little voice whispered that it had been over six years and she was as normal as the next woman in wanting an exciting relationship with a man, so it was perfectly all right to fantasise what it might be like. Especially with a man of Cliffton’s unusual and extraordinary qualities. In fact, she wouldn’t be normal if she didn’t.
It took an enormous effort of will to drag her mind back to practical matters. ‘I think you should show me some credentials, Cliffton,’ she said soberly. ‘After all, it’s asking a lot for me to accept what you’re saying off the cuff, so to speak.’
‘Quite right! I have the investigative report tracing the family line to young William in my luggage. I shall ask the chauffeur to fetch it in as soon as the photograph session is over. In the meantime, will my passport suffice as a means of identification?’
He removed it from an inner pocket in his suit coat and offered it to her. Ashley put down her teacup, intent on examining whatever solid information she could get about him. It was certainly a British passport, and the photograph unmistakably identified him as Harold Alistair Cliffton. A very English name, Ashley thought.
‘Harold,’ she mused out loud, thinking it didn’t really fit him.
‘Nobody ever calls me by that name, Mrs. Harcourt,’ came the decisive correction. ‘Harold is merely a remnant from the Battle of Hastings.’
Yes, it did belong in the realms of history, Ashley privately agreed. She supposed using the surname Cliffton was traditional for a butler, and she shouldn’t mess with that formality. Not yet, anyway. However, her curiosity was piqued.
‘What about when you were a boy?’ she probed.
‘I was always Harry.’
Harry. That was better. More lively. She could imagine a Harry organising frog races. A Harry could definitely be as debonair as Fred Astaire.
His date of birth gave her his age. Thirty-three. She suddenly had an awful thought. ‘Are you married, Cliffton?’
‘No. Unhappily, the woman to whom I was deeply attached died some years ago,’ he said sadly. ‘As I have no current ties, it was no hardship for me to come away on this mission.’
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