A Nanny for Christmas

by Sara Craven

  The door opened and Lynn flew in to collect her coat.

  'Your escort awaits,' she announced. 'Nice to see you tarting yourself up for once,' she added approvingly, and fled.

  Tarting myself up? Phoebe thought in utter dismay. Oh, God. Not down that path again.

  She scooped her hair back, securing it firmly at the nape of her neck again, and scrubbed at her lips with a tissue. Then she put on her coat, picked up her bag and valked sedately out into the cafe.

  'Out for the evening, dear?' asked Mrs Preston, who'd arrived to cash up. 'Have a lovely time.'

  Phoebe returned her smile with a certain constraint. Dominic Ashton was waiting at the door, Tara bouncing beside him.

  She's too pleased to see me, Phoebe thought, aware that her own heart had lifted involuntarily in response to the little girl's beaming smile. These are deep waters I'm getting into.

  Tara tucked a hand into hers. 'We're having special shepherd's pie, and marmalade pudding,' she confided.

  Phoebe laughed. 'I can hardly wait.'

  'And I helped lay the table. We're having candles, just like Daddy.'

  'I've got a reservation at the Clair de Lune,' Dominic explained. 'Apparently it's hot on atmosphere. I'll reserve judgement about the food.'

  'It has a good reputation,' Phoebe returned stiltedly. She didn't particularly want to hear, she discovered, what arrangements he'd made for a romantic dinner a deux.

  But he's divorced, she thought with a mental shrug. He's entitled. I could probably be heading for a candlelit dinner myself, if I didn't freeze off every man who comes near me.

  She gave him a swift sideways glance as they went out to the Range Rover. He was wearing tailored charcoal trousers with a matching roll-neck sweater topped by an elegant cashmere jacket. There was no denying his unstudied attraction, she realised with a sudden pang. And swiftly turned her undivided attention to his daughter—where it should have been in the first place, she reminded herself tersely.

  Tara chatted happily about school—how many sums she'd got right, the page she'd reached in her reading book—but it was all about lessons, Phoebe noted rather soberly. She didn't mention other children at all.

  She was concentrating so hard on what Tara was saying about the hamster who lived in her classroom that she missed the lurch of apprehension in the pit of her stomach as they turned in at the gate.

  'Oh,' said Tara in surprise, peering at the car parked outside the house. 'We've got a visitor.'

  Carrie opened the door for them, looking rather po- faced. 'Miss Sinclair is here, sir. She's waiting in the drawing room.'

  Hazel Sinclair was standing by the fire, one slim foot on the brass fender, gazing pensively into the flames. She wore a pleated skirt in ice-blue georgette with a matching tunic top, and her blonde hair was wound into a smooth coil on top of her head.

  Nicely posed, thought Phoebe, and chided herself for being bitchy.

  Hazel turned smilingly at their entry. 'Dominic, darling. Yes, I know you were supposed to be picking me up at my house, but I got your message that you might be slightly delayed, and Mummy wanted me to do an errand for her in the village—some crisis over the parish magazine—so here I am instead.' Her blue gaze travelled past him and sharpened slightly. 'Good evening, Tara. Good evening, Miss er...?'

  'Grant,' said Phoebe.

  'Of course.' She gave a little trill of laughter. 'Are we eating here, then?'

  'No.' Dominic's brows lifted. 'I've booked a table at the Clair de Lune. Why do you ask?'

  She shrugged elegantly. 'I thought perhaps Miss Grant was here to help Carrie wait at table.'

  'Unfortunately not,' Phoebe said affably, thinking of the pleasure of tipping hot soup into that pastel georgette lap.

  'Phoebe's having supper with me,' Tara put in unsmilingly.

  'Oh, dear.' That laugh again set Phoebe's teeth on edge. 'Have I committed a faux pas? Actually, it was Carrie I was thinking of. She seemed to be limping when I arrived, and I was concerned about her arthritis.'

  'Carrie claims she's as fit as a flea,' Dominic said rather shortly. 'And she doesn't take kindly to alternative suggestions.'

  Hazel dropped a mock curtsy. 'Then my lips are sealed.'

  Oh, that they were, thought Phoebe. Preferably with superglue.

  Aloud, she said to Tara, 'Come on, chicken, let's go and find our supper, shall we?'

  As they left the room she heard Hazel say in a low voice, 'Dominic, I don't wish to interfere, but do you really think...?'

  Tara was scowling as they went upstairs. 'I don't like her. Bridget Thomson says her mummy says that she's going to be my new mummy, and I don't want her to be.'

  'On the other hand, you don't want your father to live on his own,' Phoebe suggested fairly.

  'He's not alone,' Tara said indignantly. 'He's got me.'

  'Yes, but you're usually in bed by seven-thirty, which means he has no one to talk to all evening.'

  'Bridget's mummy says they used to go out together a long time ago and she's hoping for better luck this time.'

  Bridget's mummy, thought Phoebe, should learn to mind her own business.

  v All the same, she found herself wondering if the rumour was true. Could he really be planning to marry that obnoxious woman?

  And if he is, she thought, startled, why on earth should if concern me?

  And to that question, disturbingly, she could find no satisfactory answer at all.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE shepherd's pie was succulent, with minced lamb and vegetables in a rich gravy, and the marmalade pudding with its vanilla sauce melted in the mouth. Phoebe's praise was warm when Carrie came to clear the table, and she saw the rather austere face soften.

  'Just nursery food, miss, but nice to have it appreciated. That Cindy never wanted anything but steak,' she added with a snort.

  'May I help carry things down to the kitchen?' Phoebe asked diplomatically.

  'Bless you, there's no need. There's a dumb waiter in the kitchenette, which saves all that toiling up and down with trays. Mr Dominic's mother had it put in.'

  'Oh.' Phoebe followed, and helped load the dirty crockery. 'Is she still alive?'

  'No, miss, nor his father either,' Carrie said regretfully. 'But his stepmother's still with us,' she added in a tone she tried too hard to keep neutral. 'At least, she's in Bermuda with her third husband. A gentleman given to sailing, I understand.'

  Phoebe's lip twitched. 'Then he's chosen the right place,' she said gravely.

  'And a fair distance away, too,' Carrie muttered. 'I just hope she stays there.'

  'Did—Mr Dominic get on with her?'

  'He did his best, for his father's sake. But she was a lady that was all for herself—and that pesky son of hers. For a couple of years, after his father died, Mr Dominic never came near this house. She liked to entertain a lot, did Mrs Ashton, and it didn't seem like his home ^ny more.

  'When he married, of course, I hoped he'd settle here. But Miss Vane preferred London, because of her work.' Carrie sighed faintly. 'It's a house that needs a family in it, and that's the truth.'

  'Well, now it has Tara,' Phoebe said gently.

  'Yes.' Carrie gave the nursery door a guarded look. 'But for how much longer? Miss Vane allowed Mr Dominic to have custody of the child because it suited her at the time, but he hasn't heard the last of her by a long chalk.' She shook her head. 'Oh, no. And that Cindy has caused him more problems.'

  'Is she out of hospital?'

  'Yes, and nicely set up in her boyfriend's flat,' Carrie said darkly. 'She needs her ears boxing, if you ask me. Mr Dominic's been ringing all the agencies trying to find another nanny, but they all say the same—there's no hope of finding anyone suitable until the New Year. And what's to happen in between?'

  Her lips thinned. 'Miss Sinclair, of course, wants him to place the child as a weekly boarder at that school she goes to.'

  'But she's far too young,' said Phoebe, appalled.

  Carrie wagge
d her head philosophically. 'Well, they seem to take them practically from the cradle—mostly for people who have to work abroad.'

  'But that isn't the case with Tara. Oh, you must be wrong.'

  'Well, it's bound to be a worry for him. His work takes him away sometimes, and I'm not as young as I used to be—though I'm not quite as past it as some would say,' she added grimly. 'And he has to make sure the little one's properly cared for otherwise his ex-wife might start proceedings to take her back.'

  'I'm sure things will work themselves out,' Phoebe said, with no real conviction that they would. Nor could she believe she was actually standing here discussing details of Dominic Ashton's private life, and future plans, with his housekeeper.

  I'm not interested, she argued with herself. And quite definitely not involved.

  She forced a smile. 'In the meantime, I'd better play Snakes and Ladders with Tara while I have the chance.'

  When Phoebe returned to the nursery, Tara said se-' verely, 'You've been a very long time. I'm going to have the red counter. You can be blue.'

  'Fine by me.' Phoebe sat down beside her at the big square table, and the game began.

  Like most young children, Tara was far keener to climb the ladders than she was to slide down the snakes, and there were a few jutting lips and sullen expressions before the game came to an end. On the other hand she was quick to spot a little judicious cheating on Phoebe's part to help her win, and told her to stop or it wouldn't be fair.

  When the game was over, Phoebe found a pack of cards, and they played a couple of uproarious games of Snap and a quieter hand of Beggar My Neighbour.

  After which, Carrie appeared in the doorway. 'Time for your bath, Tara.'

  The little girl pouted mutinously. 'No, I don't want a bath. I want another game.'

  'Well, you certainly won't have one if you're going to behave like that,' Phoebe said sternly. 'It's already well past your bedtime, and there's school tomorrow.'

  'I hate school. I want to stay up till Daddy comes.' Tara banged her hand on the table.

  'Temper,' said Carrie, shocked.

  Phoebe leaned forward. 'Listen, poppet. If Daddy finds you're not in bed when he comes back, he'll be angry with Carrie and with me. And he'll never let me come back to play games with you again.' My God, she thought. What am I saying? 'So you have to choose.'

  Tara gave her a long look. 'Will you come back and play tomorrow?'

  'I can't promise that. But it will be soon. Only you must have your bath now, and go to bed.'

  'When I'm in bed, will you read me a story?' Tara wheedled.

  'Just one,' Phoebe said severely.

  'The one about Winnie the Pooh and the Heffalump?' Tara asked hopefully. 'The book's on my special shelf.'

  Phoebe smiled at her. 'Mine, too.'

  In the end, seeing how stiffly Carrie bent to turn off the taps, she found herself joining in with Tara's bath- time too. It was a wet and messy affair, featuring a green-spotted rubber frog which leapt out of the water after being firmly held down, showering everyone within range.

  'And just who is supposed to be the grown-up out of the pair of you?' Carrie enquired with mock severity.

  Phoebe calmed proceedings down by showing Tara how to lather her hands and blow wobbly, multicoloured bubbles through her fingers.

  'That was the best bathtime ever,' Tara told her solemnly as Carrie enveloped her in a big towel. 'Cindy always used to say "Hurriupforcrysake".'

  'Well, I expect she had a lot of work to do after you were in bed,' Phoebe returned noncommittally. This nanny business, she thought uneasily, is a minefield.

  'One story,' she said, finding the place in the book. 'Then you must go to sleep.'

  Tara shook her head. 'I have to wait for Daddy to say good night to me.'

  Phoebe bit her lip. 'The thing is, chicken, Daddy's gone out for the evening, and may not be back until very late.'

  'Why?'

  'Because when you're having fun you don't always want to come home straight away. You know that.'

  'But Daddy knows I wait for him.'

  'Yes,' Phoebe agreed carefully, 'and that's marvellous for him. But he does have a life that isn't—just in this house with you.'

  'Doesn't he want me?' It was the most desolate question Phoebe had ever heard. She put a gentle arm round the little figure.

  'Of course he does.'

  'Mummy didn't want me,' Tara said woefully. 'Bridget's mummy said so.'

  Phoebe's hands fastened, in her imagination, round the throat of Bridget's mummy.

  'And I heard Cindy say,' went on the little voice, 'that Mummy had to choose between me and a man she was seeing, and she chose him.'

  Phoebe found herself at a loss for words. 'I'm sure it wasn't that simple,' she managed eventually.

  There was a silence. Then Tara added, 'What will happen if a lady that Daddy's seeing says he has to choose, and he picks her instead of me?'

  'That,' Phoebe said steadily, 'will not happen. Because your father's already made his choice, and nothing will change that.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Because he loves you, and he would never break his word to someone he loved.' Phoebe could hardly believe she'd just said that. That she was actually defending Dominic Ashton, the monster who'd ruined six years of- her life.

  She took a breath. 'You see, he decided, with your mother, that it would be better for you to stay here than go to Hollywood. And that's all there is to it.'

  'I'd have liked Hollywood,' Tara said indignantly. 'Mummy said I'd be called Tara Vane, and she'd get me a part in a film. And I could have my ears pierced,' she added with a sigh.

  In spite of her concern, Phoebe felt her lips twitch.

  'Well, I expect Daddy will let you too—in about ten years' time. Now, am I going to read you this story?'

  'Ooh, yes.' Tara wriggled down in the bed.

  Phoebe kept her voice deliberately low, and, gradually, the magic that a man had created for his own small son seventy years ago had its special effect. Before Pooh and Piglet had discovered the truth about Heffalumps, Tara's eyelids were drowsy. And as the story ended she was on the edge of sleep.

  As Phoebe gently shut the book a small hand reached out and took hers.

  'Don't go,' Tara murmured, and her eyes closed.

  This, Phoebe thought fiercely, staring into space, just isn't fair. I don't need it. Any of it.

  But she stayed where she was, all the same, watching the child's relaxed face and listening to her quiet breathing.

  From the corner of her eye, she was aware of the faintest of movements from the doorway. Without turning, she said softly, 'Carrie, have you come to take over?'

  'It's not Carrie.'

  Phoebe's heart thudded violently as she heard the amused note in the deep voice, and she twisted in her chair, her face a picture of disbelief.

  'You're back already? But you can't be.'

  'Then I'm a mirage,' he said equably, treading quietly across the carpet.

  Phoebe, against her will, saw the dark face soften into disarming tenderness as he bent to drop a kiss on Tara's tumbled curls. Another intimate insight she could have done without, she reflected bitterly.

  'I .think you can leave your post.' The smile was transferred to Phoebe. 'Carrie says you're wonderful with her, which is praise indeed.'

  'It's not difficult.' Phoebe preceded him to the door, crossly aware that her breathing was flurried. 'She's a very lovable child.'

  'In spite of her parents?' he added silkily. 'Wasn't that the inevitable rider?'

  Phoebe didn't look at him. 'That's really none of my business.'

  'Rubbish.' Dominic closed the night-nursery door with care. 'You obviously have very strong views. I can sense them seething behind that straight face of yours like a log-jam.'

  'Very well,' said Phoebe, nettled. 'I think Tara feels chronically insecure.'

  'Since Cindy went?'

  'Before Cindy ever came,' she said impatiently. '
Tara deserves better than a succession of professional staff who are just passing through, however qualified they may be. She needs a—a permanent influence in her life. Someone to give her emotional stability.' She paused, flicking a glance at his enigmatic face. 'You did ask,' she added defensively.

  'Yes, I did.' He paused. 'Actually, I agree with you, and I've made it my current priority.'

  Hazel Sinclair, I suppose, Phoebe thought, feeling oddly dejected. And how will Tara react to that?

  She said sedately, 'I—I hope you had a pleasant evening.'

  'You mentioned the restaurant's reputation,' he returned, his mouth twisting. 'It's been living on it for some time, at a guess. The pudding, at least, was edible, so we decided to quit while we were ahead and come back here for coffee.'

  'Oh,' she said, rather blankly. 'Then I'll get out of your way.'

  'No,' he said. 'You'll have coffee with us, then I'll run you home.'

  'But Miss Sinclair...'

  'Brought her own car, remember? Any more objections?'

  Plenty, she thought, in which I shall probably be joined by Miss Sinclair.

  Hazel's smile was glittering as they entered the drawing room. 'What amazing devotion to duty,' she drawled. 'I can see you're bent on becoming a family treasure.'

  'On the contrary,' Phoebe walked to one of the sofas which flanked the wide fireplace and sat down. 'In the New Year, I shall be looking for a job in my own profession.'

  'More waitressing?' Hazel's eyebrows rose.

  'No,' Phoebe said levelly. 'I'm sorry to shatter your illusions, but I'm a qualified librarian.'

  'Ah,' Dominic said quietly, as if some unspoken question of his own had been answered.

  'Then why on earth waste your time in some potty little cafe?' Hazel demanded.

  Dominic looked at Phoebe with an odd smile. 'Because she doesn't see it like that. She's with people she likes in pleasant surroundings—right, Miss Grant?'

  'Perfectly correct.' Phoebe was relieved to see Carrie coming in with the coffee-tray. It was disturbing to realise what close attention Dominic Ashton must have paid to their conversation the other night.

  But he was not to be allowed a similar opportunity this evening. As they drank their coffee Hazel switched the focus to herself and kept it there, switching from playful, almost girlish chatter to adroitly handled affectionate reminiscence and back again.