by Alicia Scott
But after all these years of the emptiness, he found he didn’t know the words anymore. And so he watched her disappear into the long, dark hallway instead, listening to the echoing of her boots on the hardwood floor as she walked away.
He turned back to the computer screen. She was just the nanny, he reminded himself firmly. And he was a man who knew better.
* * *
Mrs. Pram led Liz through the dimly lit halls in silence. Every now and then, if Liz asked a direct question, she would receive a curt one- or two-word answer. In such a strained manner she managed to learn a little about the immense house where she would now live.
The main structure of the house had been built shortly after the Civil War, when the first Keaton made his fortune in steel factories. With all the additions made by future generations, the house now consisted of forty-five rooms, which divided into two wings to form a V-shaped structure. The west wing contained the rooms for the family, while the upper east wing had been designated for servants. The main structure of the house contained the formal rooms, including the entranceway, the kitchen and dining room, a study, two ballrooms and a grand library. Since the current Mr. Keaton wasn’t given to entertaining, most of the main structure was closed up. The right-hand tower was also closed, though Mr. Keaton used the left one for his work. From what she’d seen so far, most of the house hadn’t been redecorated since its inception.
Dark portrait oil paintings of kings and queens hung next to dim gas lamps in the hall. The doors all appeared to be made of thick, heavy wood, and the crimson Oriental runner down the center of the hall was becoming threadbare in the middle, its gold and black scrolls already faded from time and traffic.
All in all, it was a far cry from the cozy white ranch house where Liz and her brothers had grown up. But then, wasn’t that what she’d been looking for? a voice in the back of her mind whispered. She had wanted to get away....
“Your quarters,” Mrs. Pram was saying. The door was open, so Liz went ahead and walked in. It was a nice room, its new furniture and bright decor a startling contrast to the rest of the house. The hardwood floor was covered with a thick blue rug and the furniture was made of white-painted pine. A four-poster bed sat against the far wall with a blue and rose comforter, while a rose chaise rested not far from it. There was an armoire for her dresses, as well as a dresser against one wall and a chest of drawers at the end of the bed. It was a very nice room, looking as if it had come straight out of a magazine, she thought with surprise. And it was obvious that it had been redone very recently. Why? Surely no one had gone to all that trouble just for a nanny.
But she had no time to pursue the matter because to her right a door swung open abruptly and she found herself face-to-face with someone who could only be Andrew Philip Michael Keaton. He looked like an angel was her first thought. His hair glowed a flaxen blond under the lights and his skin maintained a pale translucence against the darkness of his navy blue suit. He must take after his mother, she thought, because except for his stiff bearing, he certainly didn’t look like Mr. Keaton.
“You are the new nanny,” the boy said, and even though it was impossible to clearly see his eyes behind his rather thick glasses, Liz could hear the accusation in his voice.
She took a deep breath and called all her training to mind. Everyone had always said she had a way with children. That was one of the reasons she’d decided to become a nanny when it had become clear to her she needed to get away if she ever wanted to get on with her life. Now, of course, was the moment of truth.
Kneeling so she would be on eye level with him, she extended an easy hand and a friendly smile. “Yes, I am,” she said slowly, her drawl evident. “I’m Elizabeth, but you can call me Liz. And you must be Andrew.”
“Andrew Philip Michael Keaton, the first,” the boy informed her haughtily. Then he threw in for good measure “You dress like a peasant.”
On that note, Mrs. Pram crossed to the armoire and opened it to reveal a row of neat gray suits.
“Miss Guiness has not had time to put on her uniform yet, Master Andrew,” the head housekeeper said primly. “You will have to excuse her.”
From across the room, Liz eyed the rows of starched pressed suits with dismay. She was supposed to keep up with a six-year-old boy wearing those? Then again, given his choice of attire...
Still, she just couldn’t picture herself in such constricting clothes. Surely the uniform didn’t matter that much. Maybe she could take up the matter a little later with Mr. Keaton. For now, she would just have to stall.
She tried to change the topic instead. “Why, thank you for showing me the uniforms,” she said brightly. “Now, then, I believe Andy and I would like to get better acquainted, wouldn’t we, Andy?”
“I most certainly would not.”
Liz managed to maintain her smile even then, though it was starting to strain the muscles around her mouth. Where was the insecure little boy just waiting to be loved? Not even Mary Poppins had had to put up with this. Well, all she could do was forge blindly ahead.
“Tough,” she informed him, trying valiantly to maintain her smile. “Mrs. Pram,” she said casually, “I think you may continue with your other duties now. I can take care of things here.”
“Mrs. Pram, I order you not to leave,” Andrew immediately countered with his clipped young voice. “Don’t leave me alone with her,” he ordered. “Forty-nine Americans are murdered a day, and many of those by people they know.”
Despite herself, Liz couldn’t quite keep the shock off her face. So he really was a walking stats book. And not very pleasant stats, at that. What was she supposed to do about this?
“Nonsense,” she told him firmly, adopting her mother’s best no-nonsense tone. “I’m here to take care of you, not harm you.” But he was still glaring at her with such a distrustful mean expression she couldn’t quite stop the next words from rushing out. “Besides,” she found herself saying, “I’ll only kill you if you drive me to it.”
“Did you hear that,” Andrew said immediately to Mrs. Pram, who was watching the interaction with avid interest. “She threatened me.” Then he abruptly whipped out a small spiral notebook from his inside breast pocket and promptly began scribbling something down.
This time she didn’t try reason. If this little interaction was anything to go by, the child clearly needed solid, consistent discipline. Or four older brothers who didn’t take any guff. Without asking, she simply swiped the notebook from his hands. Then, turning to Mrs. Pram, she said in her most practiced, authoritative voice, “Please excuse Andrew and me.” The woman still didn’t move, so Liz took a deep breath to say it one more time. But perhaps her determination showed now, for the older woman turned and without so much as a backward glance, marched out of the room.
That small victory achieved, Liz glanced down at the small notebook. “Infractions Committed by Nanny Number Four,” she read out loud. “I guess that must mean me.”
Andrew gave a small dignified little sniff before trying to grab the notebook back. Having grown up with lightning-quick Garret, however, she was quicker. “Infraction number one—threatened being of Andrew Philip Michael Keaton, the first, with death,” she read out loud. Looking up at the angry little boy, she said, “Well, Andy, that’s a very serious charge.”
Andrew nodded his head furiously, grabbing the notebook from her hands and scribbling yet another notation. “Infraction number two—refusal to call Andrew Philip Michael Keaton, the first, by proper name,” he stiffly read to her when he was done writing. “You may call me Master Andrew if you desire, but ‘Andy’ is out of the question.”
“I see. How about simply Andrew?”
“Master Andrew.”
“You may call me Liz,” she attempted cheerily.
“You’re a nanny, your title is irrelevant,” he informed her. “I can call you whatever I choose.”
She gave this last comment a little more thought. If the boy truly was insecure, he seemed determi
ned to hide it behind an armor of snobbery and disdain. While the Bradford Agency had gone into great depth about such things as proper nutrition, exercise and education for a healthy, happy charge, there were no clear guidelines as to dealing with a brat. You simply had to use your best judgment. From what she’d seen, she was convinced a little bit of small-town upbringing would do this child a world of good.
Her mind made up, she looked at him with warm, dark blue eyes.
“I’m going to call you Andy,” she informed him with a firm but easy smile. “Andrew is a name of respect, and if you want to have respect, you must show respect. When you can do that, then I will call you Andrew.”
He glared at her a minute, but she refused to back down. It was a small battle of wills, but she’d grown up surrounded by strong-willed people so she figured she ought to have the advantage. But just as she was beginning to congratulate herself on her handling of the situation, he once again began scribbling furiously in the notebook.
“Infraction number three,” he told her. “Refusal to wear proper attire.”
She could only agree with this one. She really didn’t want to wear those starched gray things, and after a moment’s consideration she decided it would be better if she didn’t. The agency had assigned her to the Keatons because traditional approaches weren’t working with the child, so it was felt that creative handling might do better. And that was exactly what she intended to do—which meant no uniforms. “I think these clothes will just have to do,” she told him, indicating what she was currently wearing.
This time instead of the usual glare, she received a slightly more puzzled look.
“You’re a nanny,” he told her again as if this ought to have some special meaning for her. “You have to wear a uniform.”
She shook her head. “As a nanny, I’m supposed to help you grow and learn. And I certainly can’t do that in a uniform. Besides, you definitely can’t ride a horse in suits like that, or play catch, or go to a park, or fly a kite, for that matter.”
His confusion cleared immediately.
“I don’t do any of those things,” he informed her promptly.
“You’re only six,” Liz reasoned with him. “You’re still allowed to try new things. I believe that option is open until you’re at least ten or so.”
He frowned. “You’re making fun of me,” he accused.
She tried to shake her head no, but it didn’t do any good.
“I don’t like you,” Andrew said, and his lower lip began to jut out suspiciously. It was the first sign of normality Liz had seen, though, and she was actually relieved by this newest display. However, she truly didn’t want to upset him, so she decided to change the topic once more.
“What do you like doing?” she asked as a means of declaring a truce.
“I read,” he told her. “I have been reading since I was three. My father taught himself how to read when he was two. How old were you?”
“Probably at least six or so,” Liz admitted, and was given a disdainful glance for her obvious inferiority. She chose to ignore it. “What kinds of things do you like to read, other than statistics on how many people are murdered a day, that is?”
“That is an important statistic,” Andrew informed her. “You have to be careful, you know. There are lots of bad things out there.” He seemed to eye her for a minute, then, with a speculative gleam in his eye, he dropped his bombshell. “My mother was murdered.”
In spite of herself, Liz could not quite keep the shock from her face. Mr. Keaton had said his wife was dead, an event that must have been traumatic enough for a young boy. But he’d never hinted at murder, and that seemed such a strong charge. Then again, she thought with a small internal grimace, after exactly one hour in this dark house, what did she know? She was definitely going to have to speak with Mr. Keaton in the morning. Now, why didn’t that settle her nerves at all?
Andrew was still looking at her, his bright blue eyes still speculative. Not knowing the truth, she decided the safest course was to change the topic yet again.
She stood, stretching out her cramped knees. “I’m hungry,” she declared. “It’s too late for dinner, so how about a late-night snack?”
“Dodd does not allow snacks.”
“Dodd?”
“The cook,” Andrew said impatiently, his voice clearly implying that he was speaking to an idiot.
“Well, I would like a snack, so we’ll just have to think of something,” Liz told him, and without a backward glance, she headed for the door.
“Snacks are bad for you,” Andrew said, but she noticed that he followed her.
She shrugged her shoulders. “Then we’ll just have to live dangerously.”
There was silence for a bit, only the sound of their shoes striking the wood floor as they journeyed down the long hallway.
“What are you going to eat?” Andrew asked after a while.
“Hmm. Preferably something with chocolate.”
“Two million, one hundred and sixty thousand Hershey’s Kisses are produced a day,” he volunteered.
“Really?” she asked, truly impressed this time. “Well then, we’ll just have to eat some of them.”
She wasn’t sure if he was convinced, but he continued to follow her into the foyer, where she turned around in circles, realizing she had no idea where the kitchen was. Finally, giving her another condescending glance for her efforts, Andrew showed her the way to the kitchen.
The mysterious cook was nowhere to be seen, so Liz seized the opportunity to raid the pantry. There was no chocolate to be found, but eventually she did stumble upon some strawberry ice cream in the freezer. It would do the trick, she decided.
She carried it and two bowls she’d found over to the small wooden table.
“Only servants sit there,” Andrew informed her.
As long as her day had been, she was almost afraid to ask. “And where do you sit?”
He led her into an adjoining dining room. There rested a formal dining table of rich mahogany wood, set up to serve sixteen. Overhead was another dimly lit chandelier. She took the ice cream back to the wooden table.
“Sit,” she informed him curtly. Not waiting for him to obey, she began scooping ice cream into the bowls.
“Two hundred and twenty-five Americans receive nose jobs a day,” Andrew said behind her.
She handed him a bowl with two small scoops of ice cream. “Eat.”
He seemed to debate this for a minute, but when it became clear she wasn’t going to wait for him to decide one way or the other, he went ahead and sat on the other side of the table.
For the next ten minutes she was at least blessed with silence. Spooning in the ice cream bite after mechanical bite, Andrew seemed content to simply stare at her. For her part, she did her best to concentrate on the smooth, creamy texture of the sweet dessert sliding down her throat.
The house was very different. The owner much too distant, the child much too somber. But the ice cream at least, the ice cream tasted like home.
And sitting there, finally at the point she’d been dreaming of reaching for six long months now, she wondered once again if she’d done the right thing. That was the problem with small towns, she knew. They became your life, your identity. And maybe it wasn’t too bad. Until that identity became too much to handle. Until the memories were too much to bear and you knew you would never be able to progress unless you simply left. Maybe in this cold house she would forget Nick. Maybe surrounded by the mysterious Mr. Keaton and his insecure son, she could finally put the past behind her.
But then again, looking at the intense little boy sitting across from her, she wasn’t so sure anymore. He was watching her with unblinking eyes, eyes that brought back the unbidden image of Richard Keaton, standing in the foyer. Such a dark and powerful man. What went on behind those eyes? What did those eyes see, and what did those eyes feel?
She’d talked to the man for nearly an hour, and she had no idea at all.
And Al
ycia Keaton? Andrew said that his mother had been murdered. Surely such a thing could not be true.
Under the dim light of the kitchen, she found herself shivering.
She’d run from one dark tragedy. But where she’d arrived, she wasn’t so sure of at all.
Chapter 2
After an exhausted night’s sleep, Liz awoke to an abrupt piece of news. Richard Keaton had left.
Late in the night, he’d been called away to some sort of scientists’ convention in Geneva. According to Mrs. Pram, this kind of impromptu travel was not unusual. It seemed that Mr. Keaton maintained a fairly unstructured and highly irregular schedule. At any rate, he would be gone anywhere from five days to two weeks. And that was that.
The announcement certainly caught Liz off guard. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved, for surely Mr. Keaton must have some sort of confidence in her to leave her alone so soon with his child, or to feel absolutely panicked, because indeed she was alone with a rather devious child. And then, of course, there was the fact that she got the fun job of telling little Andrew his father was gone.
Andrew didn’t say anything when she broke the news. But his bearing became even stiffer, his shoulders more rigid. She could see his need for toughness with such clarity, it hurt. When Richard came back, she vowed, she would have a serious discussion with him on his life-style.
Andrew was extremely difficult that day, rattling off his morbid statistics right and left. How many people died of cancer a day. How many people choked to death a day. It truly was overwhelming, and it was all Liz could do to keep her composure amid such morbidity. The child needed to get out, she decided firmly. He needed sunshine and activity and normality. Anything but all those darn statistics.
He also needed a firm hand.
That set the tone for the next twelve days. Andrew tested, she resisted. Andrew wore his stiff blue suits, she wore her flowing cotton skirts. She took him out to the pool, and when he refused to swim, she swam, anyway, leaving him to watch from the sidelines. Sooner or later, she was convinced, he would join her. But he seemed to be even more stubborn than she. She took him out to the stables, and when he refused to mount the horse, she rode it around the arena alone. Andrew didn’t go on picnics, she took him, anyway. It was a battle of two wills, and at the end of the twelfth day, when she finally tucked him into bed, the winner was still far from certain.
