Just Another Miracle!

by Caroline Anderson

  She ran her eye over Poppy again, and sniffed. ‘Easy to see why he chose you, though. Mind you don’t fall into the same trap. But then perhaps you’ll have more sense. Don’t envy you, though—them kids is hell, poor little mites, drive me to distraction in the holidays, but you look as if you could cope. Don’t let them drive you away—I don’t think I could stand another holiday looking after them mornings.’

  Poppy smiled faintly. ‘I can cope with the boys, Mrs Cripps.’

  ‘We’ll see.’ She sniffed again, and turned the vacuum cleaner back on. Poppy, thus dismissed, went smiling into the kitchen, shut the door and set about making a casserole for supper.

  So the last nanny had left pregnant. But what had Mrs Cripps meant about James choosing her? Surely she didn’t mean—oh. God. Poppy sat down with a plonk, and shut her eyes. Well, it wasn’t unheard of. Plenty of married men diverted themselves with the nanny or au pair, God knows, and James wasn’t even married any more, except to his job. Perhaps Helen was simply a colleague—perhaps he wasn’t having an affair with her after all, and reserved his attentions for the nannies?

  Poppy felt sick. She really didn’t want to be the object of a music hall joke. Cross with herself for indulging in fantasies over him, angry with him for leading her on and flirting with her, she attacked the hapless vegetables and hacked up the chicken with a vengeance.

  It was a good job he wasn’t there, she thought with a humourless laugh, she probably would have dismembered him too.

  Shortly afterwards the phone rang. It was the boys’ headmaster, virtually demanding an interview with their father.

  ‘Look,’ Poppy said soothingly, ‘why don’t you give me a list of suitable times and I’ll try and see what I can do—’

  ‘Two-thirty or four.’

  Poppy blinked. ‘Today? What about tomorrow—?’

  ‘No! Either he comes today, or the boys will be suspended.’

  Poppy groaned quietly.

  ‘All right, Mr Jones, I’ll do what I can.’

  She rang James’s office, and asked to speak to him.

  ‘He’s in a meeting,’ she was told.

  ‘So get him out. This is important.’

  ‘He said no interruptions, Miss—er—?’

  ‘Taylor. Get him.’

  ‘Really, it’s more than my job’s worth-’

  Poppy was at the end of her tether. ‘If you don’t get him now, you won’t have a job to worry about! Tell him the boys are in hospital.’

  He was on the line in seconds. ‘Poppy? What’s happened?’

  ‘Nothing, the boys are fine. I just needed to speak to you urgently and your guard dog wouldn’t put me through.’

  She could hear the rage and anxiety pouring down the telephone lines. ‘Damn it, Poppy, don’t ever do that again!’ he bellowed. ‘I nearly had a heart attack!’

  She felt a pang of remorse. ‘I’m sorry, but I had to talk to you. The school rang me.’

  He groaned. ‘Now what?’ he said eventually.

  ‘The headmaster is demanding an audience with you today.’

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘I don’t think you have a choice. Either you see him, or he’s suspending them. You can have two-thirty or four.’

  There was a sharp sigh from the other end. ‘Right, make it four. We’re going to run over tonight as it is, so God knows what time I’ll get home.’

  He hung up with a vengeance, and Poppy rubbed her ear and called the headmaster.

  The boys looked subdued but rebellious when she picked them up from school. Eyeing them in the rearview mirror, she thought she’d wait until they were settled at home before trying to get to the bottom of today’s fiasco.

  William broached the subject first, as they were sitting down in the kitchen with a glass of apple juice and a biscuit.

  ‘He’s going to see Dad, isn’t he?’

  ‘Mr Jones? Yes, he is. I gather you wrote something unkind about one of the children on the blackboard’

  George shrugged. ‘Lucy started it—said she didn’t believe Mummy was dead. She said she’d probably run away and left us because we were so horrid.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Poppy looked from one to the other. ‘And why might she think you were horrid?’

  William suddenly became terribly interested m the biscuit crumbs on the table.

  ‘William?’

  ‘I put a spider in her milk,’ he blurted out. ‘But she already told on me about the Maths test—’

  ‘Maths test?’ Poppy felt she’d fallen down a hole here. ‘What Maths test?’

  He kicked the table-leg. ‘I didn’t know the answers, so George helped me. It isn’t my fault; I was sick when we did it before. She screamed.’

  Poppy was getting muddled. ‘Who screamed?’

  ‘Lucy, when she saw the spider. She’d drunk half of it.’

  ‘The spider?’

  ‘No, silly, the milk. You can’t drink spiders, the legs get all tangled—’

  ‘OK, boys, that’s enough. Right, I think we should get this homework done, and then I think a bath and hairwash before supper, and an early night.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to punish us?’

  Poppy resisted the urge to hug the little horrors. ‘I think your father will probably want to discuss it with you when he sees you. In the meantime, let’s get on, eh?’

  James was predictably furious, but then he’d had the headmaster to deal with. By the time Poppy had filled him in on the background he was a little calmer, but still not really ready to see the funny side.

  ‘I don’t know how you can smile,’ he said wearily. ‘They really are getting beyond a joke.’

  “They just need time.’

  He snorted. ‘Don’t we all? And, talking of time, Helen’s coming over this evening so we can carry on from this afternoon. I don’t suppose you could find us something to eat?’

  ‘I’ve done chicken marengo—will that be all right?’

  ‘If it’s what I can smell, it’ll be fantastic. Bless you, Poppy. Where are the boys?’

  ‘In bed, reading. Mr Carmichael?’

  He arched a brow.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on them. They’re just attention-seeking. Give them a cuddle and tell them not to do it again.’

  His mouth lifted in a wry smile. ‘I wasn’t going to hit them, Poppy.’

  ‘You don’t have to hit them to hurt them. They’re desperate for your approval. Just tell them you love them—they need to know that.’

  A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘You’re good at this, aren’t you? It’s called emotional blackmail.’

  Her mouth lifted slightly. ‘I’m sorry, but someone has to be on their side.’

  ‘It’s all right, Poppy, I understand. I won’t murder them—this time. And I’m on their side, too, you know. I’m just not very good at it.’

  Poppy watched him go. For the first time she felt some hope for his relationship with the boys.

  There was a scrunch of gravel, and James leant over the banisters.

  ‘That’ll be Helen—let her in and give her a drink, could you, Poppy? I’ll be down shortly.’

  So. At last she would meet the fabled Frisbee in person. Poppy drew herself up, took a deep breath and opened the front door.

  Well, she was certainly beautiful, Poppy acknowledged fairly. About James’s age, tall, slender, immaculately dressed in a smart pale grey suit and high heels, her blouse crisp and fresh, her make-up perfect, her hair smoothly wound into a bun—unlike Poppy’s hair, that couldn’t hold a kink and was even now slithering out of the ponytail band. At least, Poppy thought with a glimmer of satisfaction, her hair colour was her own, unlike the bottled streaks in Helen’s carefully contrived honeyblonde...

  Even so she felt distinctly underdressed in her old jeans and jumper, but horses for courses, and she’d like to see Helen after bathtime with the boys!

  The lady in question—and there was no question that she was a lady, from the tips of her immaculat
ely manicured fingers to the toes of her Italian leather shoes—slammed the door of her dark grey BMW and walked towards Poppy, eyeing her assessingly.

  At the bottom of the steps leading to the front door she stopped, undaunted by Poppy’s superior position at the top of the steps, and gave her a rather chilly smile that didn’t reach anywhere near those icy blue eyes.

  ‘You must be Poppy.’

  Poppy smiled back guardedly. ‘That’s right—and you’re Ms Fosby-Lee. We spoke on the phone. Do come in. Mr Carmichael is just putting the boys to bed; he’ll be down in a minute. Can I get you a drink?’

  Helen mounted the steps gracefully and handed Poppy her briefcase.

  ‘Thank you. Put that in the library for me, would you, my dear? I must just go and freshen up—then perhaps a glass of dry white wine?’

  Poppy gritted her teeth.

  ‘Of course. Do you know where the cloakroom is?’

  Helen gave a tinkling little laugh. ‘Rather better than you do, I imagine. I’m hardly a stranger to the house.’ She looked Poppy up and down. ‘James is very taken with you, my dear. I must say he’s been incredibly fortunate—reliable domestic staff are so hard to find these days.’

  Poppy raised an eyebrow just the merest fraction. ‘Really? We’ve never found that—but then we’ve had the same people for years. We don’t seem to have any trouble keeping them, so we don’t have to look for them very often.’

  She smiled sweetly. Helen, bereft of a satisfactory answer and not at all sure if she actually had been insulted or not, turned on her heel and stalked off to the cloakroom.

  Poppy watched her go with satisfaction, and debated putting some syrup of figs in her drink. Unfortunately it would be rather easily detected in white wine. Pity she wasn’t having port.

  She dumped the briefcase in the library, opened a well-chilled bottle of Chablis and poured a glass, taking it through to the library and setting it down on the desk.

  ‘Domestic staff, indeed!’ she muttered.

  Then she went back to the kitchen and peered dispiritedly into the pot of chicken marengo. There was enough for two generous portions—not surprisingly, because that was what she had planned on catering for. Oh, well. She could have a cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee in her flat.

  With a heavy sigh she measured out the wild rice and threw it in a pan of boiling water, then topped and tailed the fresh thin green beans. Damn Helen. This was her favourite meal.

  James came down and found her muttering into the cutlery drawer.

  She slammed it shut ‘OK?’

  ‘Not really.’ He gave a weary sigh. ‘I need to talk to you later. They’ve got some idea in their heads that Clare died because of something they did wrong. I’ve tried to reason with them—I don’t know, maybe I’ve got somewhere. Where’s Helen?’

  ‘Freshening up. James, don’t worry. They’ll be all right.’

  She met his eyes and felt guilty for doubting the depth of his feeling for the boys. He tried to smile, but it was too much effort, and he closed his eyes and ran a hand tiredly over his face.

  ‘Oh, Poppy, I wish I had your faith.’

  She put a hand on his arm, seeking to comfort him. ‘Don’t worry,’ she repeated softly. ‘We’ll get there.’

  He opened his eyes then, and looked at her searchingly. ‘I hope so—God, I hope so.’

  His eyes dropped to her lips, then flicked back up to trap her in the flames of green and gold that burned in their depths. Poppy was mesmerised, drawn like a moth to the flame.

  His lips parted on her name and she leaned towards him, her eyes wide with need.

  ‘So this is where you’ve all got to!’

  They leapt apart guiltily.

  ‘Heten—sony I wasn’t around when you got here. Can I get you a drink?’

  Her eyes moved from James to Poppy and back, knowledge burning in their ice-blue depths. She slipped her arm possessively through James’s, and looked up at him through her lashes. ‘Well, I did ask Poppy—’

  ‘It’s in the library. I opened the Chablis. Would you like a glass, James? I put the bottle back in the fridge.’

  ‘That would be lovely—don’t worry, I’ll get ir.’ He opened the fridge and took the bottle out, gesturing to her with it. ‘Poppy?’

  ‘No, thank you. It’s a little early for me.’

  ‘I’ll take the bottle, then. What time will supper be ready?’

  ‘Any minute—where would you like it?’

  ‘Have you eaten?’

  ‘Yes,’ she lied smoothly, ‘I ate with the boys earlier.’ Not for anything would she give that woman the satisfaction of knowing that she’d given up her supper for her!

  ‘Oh, well, in that case, perhaps we’ll take it through to the library and have it while we work. Give me a shout when it’s ready and I’ll come and get it’

  He ushered Helen out, and left Poppy in a fulminating silence in the kitchen.

  She dished up the casserole, laid the things on a tray and took it through to the library.

  ‘There’s no need for you to wait on us—thank you, Poppy,’ James said, his eyes warmly appreciative. She smiled.

  ‘You’re welcome. There’s some sorbet in the freezer, and cheese in the fridge. I’m going up to my flat now.’

  ‘OK, thanks. Goodnight, Poppy.’

  ‘Oh, Poppy, before you go, I wonder if you could find me a little mineral water?’ Helen asked with a sugary smile.

  ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ she said under her breath, and sketched a curtsey that Helen missed.

  James, however, didn’t, and followed her out

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said immediately. ‘She’s just...’

  ‘Condescending?’

  Poppy snorted inelegantly. ‘She doesn’t even bother to do that!’ She shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sorry—I’m well aware that I’m your employee, but...’

  Her shoulders lifted again, and dropped tiredly.

  ‘You look shattered. Go to bed.’

  ‘But you wanted to talk to me about the boys.’

  ‘It’ll keep. I’ll look in later and see if you’re still awake, but don’t bother to wait up. This could take some time.

  ‘Wake me if you like.’

  ‘OK.’

  She turned towards the stairs and saw Helen standing in the doorway, listening. The woman’s dainty, sharp little chin lifted with challenge, and Poppy smiled innocently. Had Helen heard her telling James to wake her? Probably. She wondered what she would make of it, and decided she didn’t care.

  ‘James is getting your mineral water—goodnight, Ms Fosby-Lee.’

  Helen turned on her heel and stalked back into the library in silence. Poppy, stifling a chuckle, ran lightly up the stairs, humming softly.

  All in all, she felt she’d won the first round.

  She knew he was there, although he made no sound. She lay still for a moment, listening for the faint sound of his even breathing, then opened her eyes, wondering if she’d imagined it, but she hadn’t. He was standing at the foot of the bed, silhouetted against the light, watching her.

  She felt curiously vulnerable, knowing he had watched her while she slept. Her fingers curled defensively into the quilt, pulling it higher like a shield.

  ‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he said softly.

  ‘Sorry, I meant to stay awake, I know you wanted to talk to me. I’ll get up—’

  ‘No—no, stay there. The heating’s gone off, you’ll get cold.’

  He lowered himself to the edge of the bed and watched her in silence as she sat up and pulled her dressing gown round her shoulders. Suddenly her perfectly respectable nightdress seemed flimsy and insubstantial under the lingering caress of his eyes.

  ‘Has Helen gone?’ she asked, to break the silence as much as anything.

  ‘Yes, she went a few minutes ago. I’m sorry she was rude to you.’

  ‘Oh, she wasn’t rude,’ Poppy said with characteristic fairness.

  ‘Just bloody ar
rogant.’ He smiled faintly. ‘She can be a bit like that.’ He moved nearer, his hand reaching out to touch hers where it lay on the bedspread.

  He turned it over, tracing his finger along her life line. ‘I wonder what life’s got in store for you, Poppy?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Goodness knows—some bucolic young farmer, probably, and long hard hours raising endless pigs and sheep and children.’

  She could see his mouth lifting with a smile.

  ‘And will you like it?’

  ‘I don’t know—I’ll tell you when I get there.’ She hesitated for a second. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Work, work and more work—interspersed with difficult interviews with the boys’ headmasters, I expect.’ He gave a dry chuckle that covered a wealth of loneliness and despair. ‘I can hardly wait.’

  Her hand closed over his gently. ‘Oh, James...’

  He met her eyes, his own filled with longing. ‘The nights are the worst, when I’ve worked myself to a standstill and still I can’t sleep. It isn’t even sex—if it was it would be easy to deal with. It’s just someone to hold on to, to share the long hours with.’ He reached out to her, his voice husky with emotion. ‘Let me hold you, Poppy.’

  It was beyond her to resist him. She lifted her arms, and he moved into them with a deep sigh, easing down on the bed beside her and enfolding her in a gentle embrace that demanded nothing.

  There was no question of right or wrong; it felt completely natural to lie there in his arms, her ear against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart.

  He lifted his head and studied her for a moment, then his hand came up and he threaded his fingers through her hair. ‘So soft,’ he murmured, and, bending his head, he laid his mouth gently against hers, his kiss a gift of infinite tenderness.

  ‘Oh, Poppy,’ he breathed, and then without warning the kiss changed, his mouth suddenly seeking, demanding, hard and hot and hungry, and Poppy felt her senses come alive in a wild surge of primitive passion.