A Nanny for Christmas

by Sara Craven

  'No,' he said. 'You were entitled to my protection, and my respect, and I let you down on both counts.'

  'Well, we agree on something,' she said tightly. 'May I go now?'

  'Just give me another minute.' His voice was low— urgent. 'I can't alter what's happened, or wipe it out. But if you leave like this you don't just punish me, you hurt Tara. And she doesn't deserve it. Why should she suffer for my—lack of control?'

  'I can't stay here after this.' Her voice sounded hoarse. 'You know I can't.'

  'Because you don't trust me to keep my hands off you?' he asked grimly. 'Tonight I lost my head for a while. I've admitted it, and I won't make that mistake again. I can't afford to.'

  His mouth tightened. 'I have very different plans for my life. From now on you're my daughter's nanny, and nothing more. And in that role you'll be completely safe here; I swear it.'

  Safe from you, perhaps, Phoebe thought bleakly. But what about myself? What about my feelings?

  He took a step nearer. 'Phoebe—you came here forTara. If we put tonight behind us, couldn't you stay on— for her sake? Just for Tara?'

  There was a silence. The pain inside her was subsiding to a dull, hopeless ache. She supposed, in time, she would learn to live with it. That by the time her services were no longer required she might even be inured to this emptiness—this sense of total, bitter loss.

  She said hoarsely, 'Very well, then. Just for Tara.'

  'Thank you,' he said quietly. 'I promise you won't regret it—not this time.' He paused. 'I'll take Tara to school in the morning and give you a chance to catch up on the sleep you've missed. As long as you collect her in the afternoon.'

  She nodded, and turned towards the stairs. Situation normal, and strictly business, she thought. That was how he wanted it. That was how it would be. Just for Tara.

  And she knew that while she might fool him she could never deceive herself.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ROUTINE, thought Phoebe. That's the panacea I need. Establish a pattern to my days, and stick to it.

  She'd made a good start. She'd stayed in her room until she heard the Range Rover depart, and then she'd transferred her things up to the nursery suite and installed herself in the room Cindy had used.

  And I'll let Carrie know that from now on I'll be taking all my meals with Tara, she told herself resolutely.

  Her own sanctuary ready, she started on the nursery itself, tidying Tara's toys into neat rows and sorting out the games and books, stacking them on the shelves provided. In a large wall cupboard she discovered some books with a rather older appeal, many of them with Dominic's name inside, and a pile of jigsaw puzzles. Maybe Tara could tackle one of the simpler ones, with her help.

  'My word, you have been busy.' Carrie appeared with an armful of clean linen. 'But I don't approve of you going without breakfast,' she added sternly. 'Even if you did go to bed with a headache last night.' She peered at Phoebe. 'You still look a bit pale.'

  'I'm fine,' Phoebe assured her. 'I'll have some toast when I come down for coffee.'

  'Everything's ready for you, but you'll have to see to it yourself,' Carrie told her. 'I'm off to Midburton. The Town Stores has just had all its Christmas dried fruit delivered, and I'm planning on making the cake and puddings this weekend.'

  'Can I help?'

  'You can have a stir—and a wish,' Carrie told her comfortably, and bustled off.

  A wish, thought Phoebe as she made Tara's bed. Now that could be dangerous.

  Before going on her way downstairs, she stripped off the bed she'd been using and carried the sheets to the laundry room.

  Back in the kitchen, she decided against making toast, opting instead for some of Carrie's home-made oatmeal biscuits.

  She was sitting at the table, sipping her coffee and glancing at the daily paper, when the door opened and Hazel Sinclair came in, her arms full of bronze chrysanthemums.

  She stopped dead when she saw Phoebe.

  'You.'

  It was difficult to discern whether the word held more shock than annoyance, but on balance, Phoebe thought, annoyance won.

  She said politely, 'Good morning, Miss Sinclair. May I offer you some coffee?'

  'No, you mayn't. What are you doing here, may I ask?'

  'I suppose,' Phoebe returned composedly, 'that I could ask you the same.'

  'I should have thought it was perfectly obvious. It occurred to me the other night how bare the place looks. Carrie's housekeeping verges on the basic. It lacks those—gracious touches.'

  'It'd be provided by those chrysanthemums, I suppose?'

  'As a matter of fact, yes,' Miss Sinclair snapped. 'Why are you here?'

  'I'm acting as Tara's nanny, until Dominic can find a replacement.'

  'A nanny? You?' The other woman's voice was derisive. 'That's the last thing I'd have imagined.'

  'Well, I didn't have you down as a flower arranger, so we can both be wrong,' Phoebe said, smiling sunnily.

  'Are you trying to be insolent?' There were bright spots of colour burning in Miss Sinclair's cheeks.

  I'd say I'd succeeded, thought Phoebe.

  Aloud, she said neutrally, 'I'm sorry you should think that,' and went back to her paper.

  'Well, don't just sit there,' Hazel Sinclair's voice hectored her. 'Find me some vases.'

  'I'd be happy to help,' Phoebe replied quietly. 'But I don't know where they are. I'm still not totally familiar with the house.'

  'I should think not.' Miss Sinclair snorted. 'Dominic must be out of his mind, taking in some complete stranger off the streets.'

  'No,' Phoebe said gently, her blood slowly coming to the boil, 'I was a waitress. At the Clover Tea Rooms, remember?'

  'Well, you're still totally unsuitable. I shall have a serious talk with Dominic this evening. That child needs a firm hand—proper discipline. Not some untrained nobody.'

  'I totally agree with you,' Phoebe said silkily. 'But Dominic, bless him, seems to think I'm perfect.' She drank the remains of her coffee and stood up. 'Now I'll leave you to your chrysanthemums. Such difficult flowers, I always think,' she added casually. 'But I'm sure you'll bring them to order.'

  And she walked out, leaving the other woman staring after her, open-mouthed.

  So Hazel Sinclair had the run of the house, she thought unhappily, her bravado deserting her as she went back upstairs. Well, Dominic had dropped a broad enough hint last night about his hopes for the future. And Miss Sinclair's confident behaviour provided total confirmation.

  She was shaken by the dislike she felt for the other woman. And it wasn't simply because Dominic had chosen her to share his life.

  She's an arrogant, uncaring bitch, Phoebe thought stormily, and I'd think so whatever circumstances we had met under. Love must really be blind if he can't see it—or if he thinks she'll make a good stepmother for Tara.

  She bit her lip. She could see immense problems already looming up on the horizon. But at least she wouldn't be here when they came crashing down.

  Although that wasn't the most comforting thought she'd ever had either, she decided morosely.

  She stayed upstairs, assuaging the violence of her feelings by scrubbing out the bathroom.

  And it was here that Carrie found her on her return.

  'My goodness.' She peered around over her glasses. 'You're not employed as a cleaner, you know. I told you that.'

  'I needed it.' Phoebe gave her a rueful grin. 'Very cathartic—scrubbing.'

  'Hmm.' Carrie pursed her lips and gave Phoebe a shrewd look. 'I saw we'd had a visitor. Never liked chrysanths, myself. Remind me of funerals.' She gave a small, fierce sigh. 'Anyway, lunch is ready. Bacon and egg pie and a winter salad. Come down when you're ready.'

  The rest of the day passed peacefully enough. Phoebe drove into Westcombe before picking Tara up from school, and bought herself a new radio to replace the one destroyed in the fire.

  She also called in at the tea rooms, to be pounced on by Lynn.

  'How's
the dishy boss?' She winked at Phoebe. 'He had Mrs P eating out of his hands yesterday. Paying you holiday money wasn't her idea. Mind you,' she added, out of the corner of her mouth, 'I think she'd pay double the amount to get you back. That Debbie's been up to all her old tricks already.'

  'Good to know nothing's changed,' Phoebe returned drily, aware of a slight give-away flush at the mention of Dominic.

  As she waited at the school gates she was aware of a few measuring glances from the BMW brigade, but a couple of the other nannies smiled and said, 'Hi.'

  And Tara, she noticed, frowning, still emerged on her own. But her rather solemn expression vanished when she saw Phoebe.

  She came scampering to the car. 'Are you better? Daddy said you had a headache this morning.'

  'Oh, that's all gone.' Smiling, Phoebe ruffled her hair.

  It's the heartache, she thought with a pang, that's the real trouble.

  The evening followed the routine of the previous one, except that Phoebe had supper with Tara, as planned.

  'Mr Dominic's dining with friends,' Carrie informed them both.

  And I don't have to guess which friends, Phoebe decided with an inward sight.

  Tonight there was hotpot with red cabbage, and apple crumble to follow.

  'I shall be seriously overweight if this goes on,' Phoebe said, only half joking.

  'You could do with more weight,' Carrie advised her crisply. 'Might get rid of that hunted look you've got.'

  Once Tara was asleep, Phoebe found herself at something of a loose end. Carrie was busy in the kitchen, weighing out the fruit for her Christmas baking and soaking it in alcohol, and she had made it clear she preferred to manage on her own.

  Phoebe wandered into the nursery, took down one of the more complicated jigsaws and emptied the pieces onto the big, battered table. She switched on her new radio, found a channel that was playing music—light and undemanding—and settled down to work.

  It was years since she'd done a jigsaw, and she'd forgotten how calming and absorbing they could be.

  She'd completed the frame, and done half the sky, when Dominic's voice said grimly behind her, 'So here you are.'

  'Well, yes.' She absorbed his frown as he walked round the table and stood opposite her. 'Is there a problem?'

  'Hazel tells me you were rude to her this morning.'

  'She, of course, was all sweetness and charm.' Phoebe carefully added a leafy twig to a tree.

  His mouth tightened. 'That is hardly the point. She was a guest in this house...'

  'And I'm the hired help,' Phoebe supplied as he hesitated. 'In future I'll tug my forelock.'

  'Oh, for God's sake,' he said impatiently. 'That's not what I meant at all.'

  'Then what do you mean?'

  He sighed irritably. 'That things are difficult enough, without you creating extra complications.'

  Phoebe bit her lip. 'I'm sorry if my misdeeds spoiled your evening.'

  'They didn't,' he said curtly.

  'But from now on I'll try to be civil.' She added levelly, 'I hope Miss Sinclair will do the same.'

  'I'll talk to her—see if I can ease the situation.' He paused. 'Why don't you come downstairs where it's comfortable?'

  'Because I'm fine where I am, thanks.' She placed another piece in her puzzle.

  'Phoebe.' There was an almost pleading note in his voice. 'I made a solemn promise. You don't have to build a blockade.'

  'This is my place,' she said. 'The place I'm making for myself while I'm here. My personal space.' She paused. 'And please start advertising for my replacement soon. I want to be gone by early January.'

  'Don't worry,' he tossed back at her. 'I'm in just as much of a hurry as you are.'

  Pressure from Hazel Sinclair, no doubt, she thought bitterly, wishing he would go and leave her to her thoughts, however unsatisfactory they might be.

  Instead, he picked up the lid of the puzzle box and examined it.

  'I remember this one. My godmother gave it to me as a birthday present.' He gave a reminiscent grin. 'I'd been to stay with her in the school holidays and broken a window. I think she wanted to wean me off football and on to some quieter pursuit.'

  'I didn't realise it was yours.' Phoebe bit her lip. 'I hope you don't mind—it was just there, in the cupboard.'

  'Of course not,' he said. 'But be warned.' He pointed to the sky and the feathery branches of the trees. 'The easy part is over. From now on it gets harder all the time.'

  Tell me about it, she thought as he left the room. She could hear him descending the stairs, and realised that she wanted very badly to cry.

  'Oh, to hell with it,' she said raggedly, and swept the uncompleted puzzle back into the box. 'Who needs any more complications?'

  * * *

  It was strange, she thought, how quickly everything seemed to fall into place. How life assumed a stable daily pattern, which was, at least, bearable.

  While Tara was at school she had a considerable amount of time to herself, and, with the luxury of a car, she set out to explore the district.

  The weather had turned cold and crisp, with sunshine most days, and she could smell woodsmoke in the air as she drove. The end of the year, she thought, and, for her, the finale of a whole phase of her life. And who knew what could be round the corner? She had to keep looking forward, because anything else was too painful.

  She saw very little of Dominic, and it was better that way. He left for his offices in Midburton first thing in the morning, and often returned only briefly in the evening to dine, and then go out again. Certainly he'd accepted her absence from his dinner table without comment. Perhaps he was even relieved that she'd taken the initiative.

  And certainly he and Hazel Sinclair seemed almost inseparable, although the other woman hadn't made any more lightning descents on the house when he'd been away.

  But she could bide her time, Phoebe acknowledged wretchedly. Before too long she'd be living there, mistress of all she surveyed. Free to make any changes she wished, too.

  Carrie was discreet, but Phoebe could tell she was worried about the future. And there was little doubt that Tara would be shuffled off to boarding school.

  Preparations for Christmas had moved into gear. Tara was diligently practising her rendition of 'Away in a Manger'. She'd added the words now, and the sound of her high, sweet little voice brought a lump to Phoebe's throat.

  The cake and puddings were finished, and stored away, and both Tara and Phoebe had stirred the mixtures and dutifully made their wishes.

  'I wished for Mummy to come for Christmas,' Tara confided solemnly. 'But I don't expect my wish will come true.'

  And nor, thought Phoebe, will mine.

  One afternoon, when Phoebe collected Tara from school, it was a tearstained, woebegone figure who climbed into the car.

  'Darling, what's the matter?' Phoebe asked in consternation.

  'Our class is doing a nativity play for the last day of term,' Tara sobbed. 'Mrs Franks chose people for all the parts this afternoon and I 'ditioned for the Virgin Mary. I had to sing "Away in a Manger", and Mrs Franks said I'd cheated because I knew it too well. So now I haven't got a part at all—and I'm the only one,' she added on a little wail.

  'Sit there,' Phoebe ordered grimly. 'I'm going to see about this.'

  Mrs Franks's smile was acid when she saw Phoebe. 'Can I help you with something?'

  'Yes,' Phoebe said steadily. 'I'd like to know why Tara Ashton, my charge, has been excluded from the class nativity play.'

  'It was a disciplinary measure,' Mrs Franks said coldly. 'The audition carol for the leading part had been deliberately kept secret to give every child an equal opportunity, and yet Tara managed a polished performance. It was clear to me that she'd found out somehow, and practised to give herself an unfair advantage. Now she has to learn that underhand methods will get her nowhere.'

  'Tara has learned "Away in a Manger",' Phoebe agreed, levelly. 'But at her piano lessons as a Christmas surprise for her father.
The fact it was an audition piece too is a complete coincidence.'

  'Well, I only have your word for that.' Mrs Franks pursed her lips. 'But it makes no difference. Tara has had an ego problem ever since she came to the school. We hear far too much about her mother's Hollywood career,' she added with distaste. 'Perhaps this will teach her not to put herself forward quite so much.'

  'And that,' Phoebe said shakily, 'is one of the cruellest and most heartless statements I've ever heard. Goodbye.'

  Not surprisingly, Tara didn't want to go to her music lesson that evening, but begged to go home.

  When Phoebe stopped off at Mrs Blake's house to explain, she found the other woman more than understanding.

  'Poor little soul,' she said indignantly. 'But I'm not surprised. I've never cared for that school.' She wrinkled her nose. 'It's very much geared to one social set, and they seem more interested in who does what at the Pony Club than academic achievement.' She hesitated. 'And Tara may have an extra black mark against her for being Serena Vane's daughter.'

  'You mean you think she does have an ego problem?' Phoebe asked, troubled.

  'No, on the contrary.' Celia Blake shook her head. 'But a few years ago Miss Vane used to throw some pretty wild parties when she was down here. Parties to which male guests did not bring their wives,' she added darkly. 'A lot of local husbands blotted their copybooks in a big way, and that hasn't been forgiven, or forgotten. I suspect Tara's problem may not be with her classmates but their mothers.'

  'Oh, how ridiculous,' Phoebe said indignantly. 'None of that can possibly be Tara's fault.'

  'No, but I suspect she's a victim of prejudice just the same.' Celia sighed. 'It's a pity Mr Ashton didn't opt for the village school at Fitton Magna. I go there to take singing, and though it's only small it has excellent standards, and a really happy atmosphere. And none of the social pressures of Westcombe Park,' she added drily.

  'I'll talk to him about it this evening,' Phoebe said with resolution.

  Back at the house, she handed Tara over to Carrie, who led her away, clucking, for a hot drink and biscuits. Then, drawing a deep breath, she went to find Dominic.