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Uncle Hugh might have
    the money. We must ask him to help us.'
    'Darling, you can't,' Alison said firmly. 'Uncle Hugh has
    responsibilities of his own, and I shouldn't think he could lay his
    hands on even half the amount Nicholas Bristow would want. Even if
    he'd sell—which I doubt.'
    'I thought perhaps that was why he'd come here. To offer to sell the
    place back to us.' The look of hope in her mother's eyes was almost
    more than Alison could bear.
    'No,' she said with a sigh, 'It—it wasn't that. He came to offer us—a
    share in it, I suppose. On certain- conditions.'
    'A share?' A share in Ladymead?' Mrs Mortimer drew a long
    quivering breath. 'In our own home?'
    Alison sighed silently. 'But it isn't ours any longer,,' she said
    patiently. 'You have to come to terms with the fact that it belongs to
    Nick Bristow now, lock, stock and barrel. That's why it would be so
    much better to get away from here and start again.'

    'How can you say that?' Her mother's tone was harsh with reproach.
    'This is the house where you were born. Oh, you're so hard, Alison. I
    sometimes wonder how you came to be any child of mine.'
    As you've often told me,' Alison said wryly. She got up. 'Get some
    more rest now, Mother. We'll talk again tomorrow.'
    'No, now.' Mrs Mortimer's fingers fastened like manacles round
    Alison's wrist. 'Tell me about this offer of the Bristow man's. Does it
    really mean we can stay here? What conditions?'
    'He wants me to—work for him in a certain capacity.' Alison chose
    her words carefully.
    'Work?' her mother echoed. 'But a man like that would already have
    all the staff he needs, surely. He could pick and choose, and you aren't
    even trained for anything.'
    'I don't think there's much formal training for the kind of job he's
    offering,' Alison returned drily. 'And it's staff for Ladymead that he's
    looking for.'
    'But Alec Liddell assured me that Cook—Mrs Horner—everyone
    would be kept on. Are you telling me they're going to be turned out
    too?'
    'On the contrary, he's anxious for the status quo to be preserved when
    he takes over. I imagine he would find any form of domestic
    inconvenience profoundly irritating.'
    'Then what's the problem?'
    Alison shrugged, striving for lightness. 'The problem is he's
    discovered from Alec that I've been—running things for you since I
    left school, and he wants me to go on doing so.'

    Mrs Mortimer levered herself up against her pillows, her attention
    sharply fixed on her daughter's face. 'He wants you to keep house for
    him—and we can live here while you do?'
    'Yes.' Alison looked down at the carpet. 'Ridiculous, isn't it?'
    'Ridiculous? It could be the answer to our prayers!' There was excited
    colour in Mrs Mortimer's face, and she looked more animated than
    she'd done for weeks, Alison realised with a pang. 'What did you tell
    him? Did you agree?'
    Alison shook her head. 'Not yet. You see— there's more.' She
    hesitated, then said baldly, 'He wants to marry me.'
    'Marry you?' Mrs Mortimer slumped back in genuine if unflattering
    astonishment. 'Nicholas Bristow wants to marry you?' She shook her
    head. 'Darling, it must have been some strange kind of joke. He can't
    have been serious!'
    'That's what I thought,' Alison agreed, refusing to allow herself to be
    wounded by her mother's immediate assumption that she could have
    no charms for a man like Nick Bristow. After all, it was no more than
    the truth, and she knew it, and to allow even one pang of hurt was
    merely being stupid. 'But I have until the end of the week to give him
    my answer, so that seems to indicate he means business.'
    'Good God,' Mrs Mortimer said faintly. There was silence, then she
    said, 'What are you going to say?'
    Alison's brows lifted. 'No, of course. You couldn't expect me to agree
    to such an outrageous proposal. He—he doesn't care for me. I think I
    could do better for myself than be married as a convenience.'
    'Do better than Nicholas Bristow? Are you quite mad?' Mrs