A Nanny for Christmas

by Sara Craven

  In the distance a bell pealed shrilly, and the children began to emerge from the school building in laughing, chattering groups.

  Tara was one of the last to appear, and Phoebe noticed immediately that she was walking on her own, looking down at the ground.

  She cupped her hands to her mouth. 'Hi,' she called. 'We're over here.'

  The child looked up, and the wistful, slightly withdrawn expression vanished like magic.

  'Phoebe.' She hurled herself across the road. 'You're staying. You really are. I wished so hard, and it's come true.'

  'Well, I hope you don't regret it.' Phoebe returned her hug. 'I can be a real dragon.'

  'Can we go home and play another game?' Tara asked eagerly.

  'No, poppet. You have a music lesson, and then your homework to do.' Phoebe decided to get into dragon mode right away.

  'Daddy—do I have to go to music?' Tara wheedled.

  He pinched her nose gently. 'Yes, my love. Mrs Blake is expecting you.'

  'But I want to show Phoebe all my toys.'

  'There'll be plenty of time for that.' Phoebe ushered her into the back of the car and fastened her seat-belt.

  'You won't go away?' the child asked anxiously. 'People always go away.'

  Phoebe felt something twist inside her. 'I'll stay as long as you need me,' she said slowly.

  Dominic touched her arm. 'I'd better introduce you to Mrs Franks, Tara's teacher.'

  He took her across to a tall woman who'd been standing just inside the school gate, talking vivaciously to a small group of mothers. As she turned away Dominic intercepted her.

  'Mrs Franks, this is Phoebe Grant, who will be looking after Tara for me.'

  'Another young woman,' Mrs Franks said with a silvery laugh, raking Phoebe with a glance that managed to be inquisitive and dismissive at the same time. 'I do hope for your sake that she's rather more reliable than the last one, Mr Ashton.'

  Her voice became earnest. 'You see, we do feel at Westcombe Park that a stable home background is so necessary for the well-being of the individuals in our little community.'

  'Yes.' There was a touch of bleakness in Dominic's voice. 'I'm aware of that too.' He turned and strode back to the car. But Phoebe lingered for a moment.

  'Is Tara settling in at school?' she asked.

  'Naturally.' Mrs Franks bridled a little. 'We pride ourselves on making even the most awkward newcomer feel at home. Why do you ask?'

  'It's just that she came out on her own,' Phoebe said rather lamely. 'And I wondered...'

  'Isn't it rather soon to be making judgements?' Another tinkle of laughter. 'Generally children of that age find their own level without needing interference from adults.'

  'I didn't mean to interfere,' Phoebe said quickly. 'I was just—concerned.'

  'And a little over-conscientious, perhaps?' Phoebe was given a patronising smile. 'I think you can safely leave Tara to us during school hours.' Mrs Franks looked over Phoebe's shoulder. 'Ah, Mrs Dawson, I hoped I'd see you today. It's about Melanie's extra reading...'

  Phoebe returned to the car. I probably am worrying for nothing she thought. And yet...

  'Shall I come in with you?' Phoebe asked Tara as she parked the car in Derwent Street.

  'I don't think she's reached audience standard yet.' Dominic sounded amused. 'We'll go for a stroll while she has her lesson.'

  Mrs Blake, Tara's piano teacher, was a tall woman with a calm, humorous face, and Phoebe liked her immediately.

  In return she received an appraising look and a firm handshake.

  'I'm glad to have seen the last of your predecessor,' she told Phoebe quietly while Tara was finding her music and climbing onto the piano stool. 'Pretending that she'd be there to pick Tara up at my gate, and getting the child to lie for her.' She snorted. 'Unforgivable. She deserves her broken bones.'

  Phoebe would have liked to linger in the cosy house, listening to Tara's lesson. The realisation that Dominic was waiting for her was a daunting one. She wasn't sure she wanted to go strolling with him. She seemed to be spending altogether too much time in his company as it was. Hands in pockets, she walked quietly at his side down Derwent Street, and out into the main shopping area.

  The High Street had been decorated for Christmas, and a popular DJ from a local radio station had switched on the lights the previous weekend.

  Phoebe had spent a miserable Christmas last year and had anticipated a similarly bleak prospect this year. Instead, she'd be able to see Christmas in the only real way—through the eyes of a child, she realised on a small surge of pleasure.

  'At last—the glimmer of a smile,' Dominic remarked. 'You've been looking so serious I thought you wanted another of your little talks with me.'

  She flushed. 'A lot of things have happened over the past twenty-four hours. You can hardly expect me to be turning cartwheels.'

  'But you don't have to look as if you were about to be led out to execution either. Is the thought of caring for Tara really so traumatic?'

  'No, of course not,' Phoebe denied, startled. 'She's a darling.'

  'And you haven't found evidence that Carrie is practising voodoo in the coalshed?'

  A reluctant chuckle escaped her. 'Now you're being absurd.'

  'I was afraid of that. In which case, it must be me.' He paused, then said in a very different voice, 'What is it, Phoebe? What have I done?'

  All the muscles in her throat tightened. She looked straight ahead of her. 'You've been—very kind,' she said stiltedly. 'Perhaps I just don't respond well to— sudden change.'

  'But at least this time it's a change for the better—or should be. Unlike some in the past.' He was silent for a moment. 'And you're still grieving for your father?'

  She hesitated. 'Yes. I think I grieve most for the fact that I wasn't there. That he died among strangers.'

  'That wasn't your fault. And, though you may not believe me, there are worse fates.'

  'What could be worse?'

  He said slowly, 'To die knowing that someone you've loved does not love you in return. That you've invested your life—your energy—in worthless stock. That's a terrible loneliness.'

  She remembered things Carrie had said, and knew he was talking of his own father. The passage of time hadn't softened the pain, or the anger.

  'When I discovered I'd made the same mistake, I cut my losses immediately,' he went on, almost conversationally. 'I knew that even if I had to be alone for the rest of my life it would be worth it.'

  'But you're not alone.' A sudden image of Hazel Sinclair imprinted itself on her mind, and was suppressed. 'You—you have Tara.'

  'That,' he said, too gently, 'is not quite the same thing.' He paused. 'And what about you, Phoebe? You're not a child. You've been away to university. There must have been at least one significant other in your life. Maybe more.'

  'No one—serious,' Phoebe hedged. No one at all, she thought.

  'You mean those barriers of yours aren't just for me? But surely someone must have tried to get close—to solve the enigma?'

  'Perhaps they were perceptive enough to realise there wasn't one. That I'm just—'

  'An ordinary girl with no secrets?' he supplied drily. 'That's not perception. That's wilful blindness. And I give you due warning, Phoebe Grant—' his voice slowed to a drawl '—that I intend to search you out. To uncover all your secrets—every hidden depth.'

  Her whole body seemed to shiver. She stopped dead, turning to stare unseeingly into a shop window festooned with Christmas cheer.

  She said in a low voice which vibrated with anger, 'Well, let me warn you in return, Mr Ashton. Taking this job does not mean I'll allow any invasion of my privacy. I'm doing it for Tara—just for Tara. I will not be used for your amusement.'

  'Did I give that impression?' he came back swiftly. 'I'm deadly serious.'

  'And so am I.' Phoebe swung to face him. 'We are two separate people, Mr Ashton, who for a short time have to lead parallel lives. But one of the great things about par
allels is that they don't meet. And that's the way I want it. For all your generous salary and beautiful home, I won't accept anything else.'

  'I see.' He was quiet for a moment. 'Does this stipulation also preclude the friendship I once offered you?'

  'You're my employer,' she said. 'I'm your daughter's temporary nanny. That's it. All of it.'

  'You're certainly extremely vehement about it,' he commented wryly. 'Which makes me wonder exactly which of us you're most keen to convince.' He left that hanging in the air, and glanced at his watch. 'In the interests of parallelism, I'll see you back at Derwent Street in half an hour.'

  Parallelism indeed, Phoebe thought, glaring at his retreating back. I bet there's no such word.

  At least she'd drawn the parameters for the next few weeks, she told herself defiantly. And from now on she should be in no danger.

  But, in that case, why was she suddenly trembling like a leaf? And why was she peering along the busy street, trying to catch a glimpse of Dominic's tall figure walking away from her?

  Fool, she thought angrily, and marched off in the opposite direction.

  Tara was in buoyant mood when Phoebe collected her.

  'I like Mrs Blake,' she announced, dancing to the car where her father waited silently, his face unreadable. 'I wish she was my teacher for everything.'

  'Mrs Franks seems very nice,' Phoebe volunteered mendaciously, 'She has pets,' said Tara. 'And I'm not one.' She climbed into the rear seat. 'Mrs Blake is teaching me a surprise, for Christmas,' she went on gleefully.

  'What kind of surprise?' Dominic looked at her, his expression softening.

  'If I told you, it wouldn't be a secret any more,' Tara said severely. 'You'll have to wait and see.'

  She chattered happily all the way home. As soon as they arrived, Phoebe whisked her up to the nursery to do the small amount of homework the school had set. The child wasn't exactly being stretched by the tasks, Phoebe thought, watching how swiftly and almost offhandedly Tara completed them.

  'May I watch television for a bit?' the little girl appealed when she'd finished.

  'I don't see why not,' Phoebe conceded, although it occurred to her that she hadn't yet noticed a television set. 'Where do you do that?'

  'In the other sitting room—the little one. The piano's there too, so I can do my practising as well,' Tara informed her virtuously.

  'Better and better,' Phoebe said drily.

  The small sitting room was at the back of the house, and was a homelier version of the drawing room, with faded chintzes and a big sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, which housed a living-flame gas fire.

  With Tara settled raptly in front of a children's programme, Phoebe took the opportunity to look through a glass-fronted bookcase. It contained mostly fiction, some of it dating back to the beginning of the century, but there was a wide selection of modern authors too, with the unashamedly popular rubbing shoulders with the literary.

  Phoebe, who envisaged spending most of her time in the safety of her room, thought gloatingly that this book collection could become her personal gold mine.

  There was a complete set of Georgette Heyer novels, most of which she'd already read, but it would be good to renew her acquaintance with such an elegant and accomplished writer. Inside the front cover of Friday's Child a bookplate announced that this book was the property of Phyllida Ashton.

  'My mother,' Dominic said from behind her.

  Phoebe started so violently the book nearly flew out of her hands. She said breathlessly, 'I was going to ask if I might borrow it—not just take it.'

  His brows drew together. 'Phoebe, for the time being, this is your home. You don't have to ask permission for every little thing.' He turned to his daughter, his frown deepening. 'What are you watching, Tara?'

  'Only Down Under,' Tara returned, mentioning a popular soap opera a mite warily.

  The cool grey eyes rested on Phoebe. 'Isn't that slightly out of her age group?'

  'Everyone in my class watches it,' Tara pouted. 'When they talk about it, I don't know what they mean.'

  'All the same I'd prefer you watch something more edifying than Australian soap opera.' There was a slight edge to his voice.

  'It's just finishing anyway,' Phoebe put in as the child's face grew more mutinous. 'Right on time for your piano practice,' she added cheerfully.

  'And my secret.' Fortunately, Tara was easily deflected from her grievance. 'You and Daddy have got to leave the room,' she ordained grandly.

  'I'll call you when supper's ready,' Phoebe promised.

  As they walked away they heard the first rather wobbly notes of 'Away in a Manger' coming through the door.

  Dominic's face relaxed into a grin. 'Her secret is safe with us,' he said softly. 'I'll be the most surprised man in the county, come Christmas Day.'

  As he moved away Phoebe said, 'Could you spare me a moment?'

  He paused. 'What's this?' he enquired sardonically. 'More rules and regulations for my future conduct?'

  'To a certain extent.' She made herself meet his gaze squarely. 'I gathered just now you don't approve of Tara's viewing choices, and, by implication, you're critical of me for allowing it.'

  His tone was curt. 'I'd have said that was obvious. Do you blame me?'

  'I can understand your reservations.' She paused. 'But Tara's the new kid on the block. I think she's having problems settling mid-term in a new school. Something as simple as sharing a television programme with her classmates could give her the leverage she needs. Help her to fit in.'

  He was frowning again. 'Are you saying she's unhappy at Westcombe Park?'

  'I don't know whether it's as cut and dried as that. I suspect she's not particularly challenged by the work.'

  'The school has a very good reputation.'

  'So had the Clair de Lune.'

  His mouth tightened. 'And Miss Sinclair is on the board of governors.'

  'Which makes everything perfect, naturally,' she said tautly. 'Please forget that I said anything.'

  She was turning away when he put a hand on her arm. 'Wait—please. I'm not dismissing what you say out of hand. But I'm wondering whether it's a little early for you to be making that kind of judgement.'

  She smiled without amusement. 'That's what Mrs Franks said, too.'

  His brows lifted. He said bleakly, 'You spoke to her— criticised the school—without consulting me first?'

  'No,' she said. 'I simply asked if Tara was all right, and got fobbed off.'

  He said glacially, 'She may have thought it was none of your damned business.'

  She raised her chin. 'You brought me here because I care—remember? Are you now telling me that you want me to stop?'

  'No, of course not,' he said irritably. 'But I didn't expect quite such immediate involvement, perhaps.' His brief laugh was almost explosive. 'Hell, I don't suppose I knew what to expect.'

  Phoebe said quietly, 'I don't know either, but I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn. Good evening, Mr Ashton.'

  'Where are you going?'

  'Upstairs, to lay the table for our supper.'

  'For Tara's supper,' he corrected. 'You dine with me, after she's in bed.'

  Phoebe took a deep breath. 'Is that what Cindy did?' she asked, giving him a measuring look.

  'No,' he said. 'But she didn't take me to task over my daughter's well-being either. You asked me to spare you a moment. Now I require the same favour in return. Dinner will be at eight o'clock, but I'll be up to say goodnight to Tara first.'

  There was a silence, then, 'Very well,' Phoebe said icily.

  'And very wise, too,' he said silkily, and left her inwardly raging.

  She'd calmed down, at least on the surface, by the time Tara appeared in the nursery. Her supper was a savoury pasta dish, with a baked egg custard to follow, and the child ate every scrap.

  When the meal was over, Phoebe taught her to play clock patience until it was time for the child's bath.

  'It's such a waste going to bed whe
n I'm not sleepy,' Tara sighed as Phoebe tucked her in. 'Will you read me a story, please? I'd like the one about Snow White.'

  'Are-you sure? It's a bit scary for bedtime.' Phoebe fetched Grimms' Fairy Tales from the shelf.

  'I like it scary.' Tara snuggled down, listening, wide- eyed, to the traditional bloodthirsty version of the story, and giving a sigh of contentment when the evil queen met her doom at the end.

  'Phoebe,' she said, when it was over, 'are all stepmothers wicked?'

  'I hope not,' Phoebe said ruefully. 'There's a lot of them about these days.'

  'Do you think I'll have one?'

  Phoebe bit her lip. 'That's your father's business not mine, poppet.'

  'Do you think Daddy might marry Mummy again?' It was a forlorn little voice.

  'Is that what you want?' Phoebe asked gently.

  'Sometimes.'

  'The trouble is that people change,' Phoebe said, struggling to find the right words. 'And they don't always want the same things any more.'

  'Like Mummy didn't want Daddy and me.'

  Phoebe groaned inwardly. 'I'm sure that wasn't how she felt,' she said softly. 'I expect it was very hard for her.'

  'She's going to come and see me,' Tara said with drowsy satisfaction. 'She promised the last time she phoned. Then you'll meet her.'

  Phoebe forced a smile. 'That will be nice.'

  'But it's a secret,' the child warned. 'We mustn't tell anyone, or it won't happen.'

  'More secrets?' Dominic asked quizzically as he strolled in.

  'The biggest one of all,' Tara assured him, throwing her arms round his neck.

  More an unpleasant shock, Phoebe thought ruefully. But it won't happen. She's just stringing the child along.

  'Are you going to stay and talk to me?' Tara was asking eagerly.

  'No, because it's time you were asleep. I just came to kiss you goodnight.'

  'And Phoebe,' said Tara. 'Are you going to kiss her goodnight too?'

  There was a silence. Phoebe heard herself swallow, felt a swift flood of warm colour invade her face. Acrossthe bed, she was aware of Dominic watching her, the grey eyes oddly intense.