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"My name is Trevor Mainstream Majors," he said in his brisk British style. "I was born in Liverpool fifty- nine years ago. I was married in London when I was twenty-six, and my wife passed away three years ago, and my two sons live in North Carolina . . . so I am here hoping I can work in Virginia and visit my sons on my days off."

"Where did you work after you left the Johnstons?" asked Chris, looking down at the man's resume. "You seem to have excellent references until one year ago."

By this time Chris had invited the Englishman to seat himself. Trevor Majors shifted his long legs and adjusted his tie before he replied politely, "I worked for the Millersons, who moved away from the Hill about six months ago."

Silence. I'd heard my mother mention the Millersons many times. My heart began to beat more rapidly. "How long did you work for the Millersons?" asked Chris in a friendly way, as if he had no fears, even after having caught my look of anxiety.

"Not long, sir. They had five of their own children there, and nephews and nieces were always showing up, plus friends who stayed over for visits. I was their only servant. I did the cooking, the housework, the laundry, the chauffeuring, and it's an Englishman's pride and joy to do the gardening. What with chauffeuring the five children back and forth to school, dancing classes, sporting events, flicks and such, I spent so much time on the road I seldom had the chance to prepare a decent meal. One day Mister Millerson complained I'd failed to mow the lawn and hadn't weeded the garden, and he hadn't eaten a good meal at home in two weeks. He snapped at me harshly because his dinner was late. Sir, that was rather much, when his wife had ordered me out on the road, kept me waiting while she shopped, sent me to pick up the children from the movies . . . and then I was supposed to have dinner on time. I told Mr. Millerson I wasn't a robot able to do everything, and all at once--and I quit. He was so angry he threatened he'd never give me a good reference. But if you wait a few days, he may cool down enough to realize I did the best I could under difficult circumstances."

I sighed, looked at Chris and made a furtive signal. This man was perfect. Chris didn't even look my way. "I think you will work out fine, Mister Majors. We'll hire you for a trial period of one month, and if at that time we find you unsatisfactory, we will terminate our employment agreement."

Chris looked at me. "That is, if my wife agrees . . ."

Silently I stood and nodded. We did need servants. I didn't intend

to spend my vacation dusting and cleaning a huge house.

"Sir, my lady, if you will, just call me Trevor. It will be my honor and pleasure to serve in this grand house. " He'd jumped to his feet the moment I stood, and then, as Chris rose, he and Chris shook hands. "My pleasure indeed," he said as he smiled at us both approvingly.

In three days we hired three servants. It was easy enough when Bart was highly overpaying them.

The evening of our fifth full day here, I stood beside Chris on the balcony, staring at the mountains all around us, gazing up at that same old moon that used to look down on us as we lay on the roof of the old Foxworth Hall. That single great eye of God I'd believed when I was fifteen. Other places had given me romantic moons, beautiful moonlight to take away my fears and guilts. Here I felt the moon was a harsh investigator, ready to condemn us again, and then again and again.

"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" asked Chris with his arm about my waist. "I like this balcony that Bart added to our suite of rooms. It doesn't distract from the outside appearance since it's on the side, and just look at the view it gives us of the mountains."

The blue-misted mountains had always represented to me a jagged fence to keep us forever trapped as prisoners of hope. Even now I saw their soft rounded tops as a barrier between me and freedom. God, if you're up there, help me through the next few weeks.

Near noon the next day, Chris and I, with Joel, stood on the front portico, watching the low-slung red Jaguar speeding up the steeply spiraling road that led to Foxworth Hall.

Bart drove with reckless, daredevil speed, as if challenging death to take him. I grew weak just watching the way he whipped around the dangerous curves.

"God knows he should have better sense," Chris grumbled. "He's always been accident prone--and look at the way he drives, as if he's got a hold on immortality."

"There are some who do," said Joel

enigmatically.

I threw him a wondering glance, then looked again at that small red car that had cost a small fortune. Every year Bart bought a new car, never any color but red; he'd tried all the luxury cars to find which he liked best. This one was his favorite so far, he'd informed us in a brief letter.

Squealing to a stop, he burned rubber and spoiled the perfection of the curving drive with long black streaks. Waving first, Bart threw off his sunglasses, shook his head to bring his dark tumbled locks back into order, ignored the door and jumped from his convertible, pulling off driving gloves and tossing them carelessly onto the seat. Racing up the steps, he seized me up in his strong arms and planted several kisses on my cheeks. I was stunned with the warmth of his greeting. Eagerly I responded. The moment my lips touched his cheek he put me down and shoved me away as if he tired of me very rapidly.

He stood in full sunlight, six feet three, brilliant intelligence and strength in his dark brown eyes, his shoulders broad, his well-muscled body tapering down to slim hips and long legs. He was so handsome in his casual white sports outfit. "You're looking great, Mother, just great. His dark eyes swept over me from heels to hair. "Thanks for wearing that red dress . . . it's my favorite color."

I reached for Chris's hand. "Thank you, Bart, I wore this dress just for you." Now he could say something nice to Chris, I hoped. I waited for that. Instead, Bart ignored Chris and turned to Joel.

"Hi, Uncle Joel. Isn't my mother just as beautiful as I said?"

Chris's hand clenched mine so hard it hurt. Always Bart found a way to insult the only father he could remember.

"Yes, Bart, your mother is very beautiful," said Joel in that whispery, raspy voice. "In fact, she's exactly the way I would imagine my sister Corrine looked at her age."

"Bart, say hello to your--" and here I faltered. I wanted to say Father but I knew Bart would deny that rudely. So I said Chris. Turning his dark and sometimes savage eyes briefly to stare at Chris, Bart bit out a harsh hello. "You don't ever age either, do you?" he said in an accusatory tone.

"I'm sorry about that, Bart," answered Chris evenly. "But time will do its job eventually."

"Let's hope so."

I could have slapped Bart.