A Nanny for Christmas (9 page)

'Yes. My father gave me lessons for my seventeenth birthday.' She gave him a suspicious look. 'Why?'

He shrugged a shoulder. 'It's fairly essential these days, especially in country districts.'

'Then it won't really matter to me,' she said rather flatly. 'It's almost certain any library posts going will be in cities.'

'Is that what you want?'

She gave a wintry little smile. 'It's more a question of necessity. I've been marking time—since my father... But it can't go on indefinitely. I've got to strike out. Make a life for myself.' She swallowed. 'New year— new start.'

'We'll drink to it,' he said, and pulled into the Green Man's car park.

It was a whitewashed, timbered building reputedly dating back to mediaeval times. Dominic led the way into the lounge, which was furnished in traditional style, with high-backed settles and heavy wooden tables. There was an inglenook fireplace occupied by a large, wood- burning stove, which gave out a pleasant heat. On top of the log basket, which stood beside it, a large black and white cat was fast asleep. Apart from the cat, they had the room to themselves, although there was a hum of voices and laughter from the public bar next door.

'It's very quiet.' Phoebe sat down near the stove.

'It's skittles night—the one night they don't do food,' he explained. 'Otherwise you wouldn't get a table.' He paused. 'What can I get you to drink?'

Phoebe hesitated. 'Just a tonic water, please.'

His brows lifted in faint mockery. 'Nothing stronger? You might need it.'

Phoebe's heart skipped a beat. 'I'll take my chances.' She tried to speak lightly, but she felt thoroughly uneasy.

What on earth was he going to say to her? she wondered frantically as the landlord came through from the other bar to take their order. Had he—oh, God—suddenly remembered her after all? Recalled the circumstances of their first meeting? Oh, no, she wailed inwardly. Please, no.

He came back with her tonic and a glass of bitter for himself.

He said without preamble, 'You still don't think much of me, do you, Phoebe?'

She stiffened. 'I don't know what you mean.'

'Oh, don't play games. You wear your hostility like armour plating.' He was silent for a moment. 'But, despite what you may think, I do have Tara's best interests very much at heart.'

Phoebe took a gulp of tonic. 'I—I do know that.'

'But it doesn't make you like me any better.' It was a statement, not a question. 'Well, I can live with that. The question is—can you?'

She shook her head. 'You've lost me, I'm afraid, Mr Ashton.'

'Dominic,' he said. 'My name is Dominic, and I'd like you to use it.'

'There's really no point,' she objected, startled. 'We. probably shan't be seeing each other again.'

'But I hope we will.' He stared down at his glass. 'The other night Tara suggested you should become her nanny. I said you probably had a hundred reasons to refuse.'

'Yes,' she said. She could feel herself beginning to tremble. 'I have. I told Tara—'

'I know,' he interrupted gently. 'All the same, I'm asking you to forget them all, including your dislike of me, and think of her instead.'

He reached out and covered her hand with his. 'I want you to come and look after her for me, Phoebe. Just until the New Year, when I can make some more permanent arrangement and you can get on with your life.'

He paused. 'Well, what do you say?'

P
HOEBE
stared at him for a long moment in utter silence. Then, recollecting herself, she snatched her hand away.

'No,' she said. And again, 'No. It's not possible.'

'Why not?'

'For one thing, I'm not a nanny. I'm totally unqualified to look after a child.'

'Is that all?'

'I'd have said it was enough.'

He shook his head. 'Not for me. You'll have to do better than that.'

'I already have a job—in which I'm very happy.'

'Not for much longer. I had a chat with your Mrs Preston while I was having lunch today, and she told me all about her niece coming back, and how sorry she was to have to let you go. So there's no problem there.'

She said rigidly, 'How dare you discuss me like that— behind my back? How bloody dare you?'

'You'll find I dare quite a lot, especially where Tara's well-being is concerned.' The grey eyes met hers very calmly and directly. 'I'm waiting for the next excuse.'

'Fine.' She drew a breath. 'It simply wouldn't work, and we both know it. You—you don't know anything about me—not really.'

'I'm making discoveries all the time, and expect to make more. I know you have a warm heart, and courage too, even if it does run away with your tongue at times. I know you like my daughter and care about her. And, more importantly, I trust Tara's instinct where you're concerned.'

'Oh, you have it all worked out,' she said bitterly. 'I , suppose this is where I dissolve into grateful tears.'

'If you dissolved into anything, you little shrew, I'd expect it to be sulphuric acid,' he said amiably. 'Think about it. I'm talking six to seven weeks at the very outside. Surely you can tolerate me for that long? For Tara's sake?'

'It's precisely for her sake that I can't do this,' she said. 'I've told you already she doesn't need an endless procession of people passing through her life.'

She paused. 'She needs one—special person, who's going to be there always.' She swallowed, aware that her heart was pounding. 'Not a nanny—a mother.'

'She had one, once.' He spoke with a kind of harsh flippancy. 'It didn't work out. But I take your point. And, as I mentioned, I'm working on that very problem at the moment. But—these things take time. After all, I've made one serious mistake already. This time I'm going to get it right.'

Not, something inside her cried out, if you're going to marry Hazel Sinclair. You'll be out of the frying pan and into the fire. You can't do it.

She drew a quick, sharp breath which hurt. This was dangerous thinking. Dominic Ashton's choice of a woman had nothing to do with her. It was not something she could afford to care about. So she stayed mute.

'And, when I do marry again, it won't be simply to provide Tara with a mother either,' he went on. 'Condemn me for selfishness, if you like, but I want a wife first arid foremost.'

'That's—natural.' Phoebe tried to relieve the nagging ache in her throat with a sip of her tonic.

'But, in the meantime, Tara needs care, and I'd like you to give my offer serious consideration. For God's sake, Phoebe, you can't pretend your present situation is ideal. Whatever your long-term plans, you're going to need another job pretty damn soon.'

'I'm aware of that,' she said. 'But I don't need charity.'
Especially from you,
were the unspoken words which seemed to hang in the air between them.

'And I wasn't offering it. All the altruism would be on your side, believe me.' He paused. 'Look—this has obviously been a bit of a shock, and if I've come on too strong then I'm sorry. But we both have problems, and this could be a solution.'

Or the start of the kind of problems I'd never even dreamed of Phoebe thought unsteadily.

She swallowed. 'I'm sure you mean to be kind...'

'Pragmatic,' he corrected.

'But I'd be entirely the wrong person—for all kinds of reasons.' She finished her drink and stood up. 'And now I'd really like to go home, please.'

'Of course.' There was a new formality in his tone. Her decision, clearly, had been accepted and he was moving on.

But wasn't that exactly what she'd wanted? Phoebe asked herself, feeling unaccountably depressed.

They accomplished the remainder of the journey in a rather taut silence.

As they entered Westcombe Dominic drew in at the side of the road in response to the imperative demand of a siren behind them.

'Trouble for someone,' he remarked as a fire engine surged past.

And in my direction, Phoebe realised, leaning forward to watch its progress with a stab of unease.

Before they got to Rushton Street, the acrid smell of burning was filtering into the Range Rover. Dominic found the way into the street barred by a police car. The driver came up to them. 'Sorry, sir, the road is closed. You'll have to go back. House fire being dealt with.'

'So I see,' Dominic said grimly, staring down the street. 'But you'll have to let us through. The fire is in this lady's house.'

'Is it, now? We understood the owner was a Mr Hanson. He's down there now in a right state.'

Phoebe was sitting rigidly, her eyes fixed on the fire tenders filling the street outside Hawthorn Cottage, the moving figures. The smoke seemed to fill her nose and mouth, choking her.

She said hoarsely, 'I'm the tenant.'

'Sorry to hear that, my love. The lads have got the fire out, but there's been a lot of damage. I reckon the whole place will have to be pulled down.'

Somehow, she found herself walking down the road. Dominic's hand was under her arm, holding her up.

'This is your fault.' Arthur Hanson loomed out of the darkness, his face contorted. 'A spark from that grate of yours. I shall sue you for negligence...'

'I didn't light the fire. I haven't been home.' Her voice shook as she looked up at the blackened masonry and empty windows. At the fallen roof. 'My clothes—my things...'

'My valuable furniture.' Hanson was almost dancing with rage. 'You haven't heard the last of this.'

'And neither have you, Mr Hanson.' The fire officer came up to them. 'From what I've seen, I'd say it was a fault in the electrics. You've been warned about dangerous wiring in other properties of yours.'

'The sitting room light,' Phoebe said numbly.

'Very probable, miss.' He patted her shoulder. 'Be thankful you weren't injured.' He paused. 'We couldn't save much, but one of the lads brought out a tin box. Does that belong to you?'

'Yes.' Phoebe gulped, aware that tears were running down her face. 'It's got my private papers in it. Some photographs...'

He nodded. 'I'll get it for you. Now, have you got somewhere to go tonight?'

'Yes,' said Dominic. 'She has.' His arm was round her, pinioning her against him. Without it, she thought, she might well have fallen to the ground.

'Then if I could have the address, sir? Because I'll need to talk to the young lady tomorrow. And the insurance company will want to know too.'

'She'll be at North Fitton House at Fitton Magna.'

The quiet words penetrated the tear-dimmed haze around her. She looked up at him, her eyes dilating. She tried to say no, but no sound would come from her dry mouth.

'Don't be a little fool,' he said softly as the fire officer moved away. 'What choice do you have? We'll collect your box and I'll take you home.'

After that everything seemed to dissolve into a blur. The only reality seemed to be the tin box she held on her lap. She could feel the sharp edges pressing into her hands.

She was still clutching it when Dominic led her back into his drawing room and sat her gently down on the sofa. She watched him kick the smouldering logs back to life. Saw Carrie bustle in with a tray of tea, and place it on a table in front of her.

Dominic sat down beside her. 'You can put it down now,' he said. 'It's quite safe.'

She shook her head numbly. 'It's all I have left,' she said. 'Everything in the world. That's quite funny, isn't it? Because it's not a very big box.' And she began to laugh, while the tears splashed down her white face.

From a distance, she heard Carrie say, 'Shock. I'll call Dr Foster.'

Then she felt herself lifted, held close on his lap. Her face was pressed into his shoulder. She breathed the fragrance of clean wool, and the sharper, evocative scent of his skin, so alien in its masculinity, yet somehow so completely, so achingly familiar. And all the time fierce sobs fought their way up from the depths of her being, shaking her whole body.

He was stroking her as if she were a young, frightened animal, his hands gentling her back, coaxing the tense muscles to relax. Smoothing her tangled hair.

'It's all right,' he whispered, repeating the words over and over again like some mantra. 'Everything's going to be all right.'

And, when she could cry no more, she lay in his arms, spent and shivering, watching the dancing flames and thinking how easily she could have been overcome by smoke and trapped in the burning house.

It was only when Carrie brought the doctor in and Phoebe caught her swift, appraising glance that she actually realised that she was still sitting on Dominic's knee.

Face hot, she scrambled awkwardly to her feet, avoiding his eyes.

Dr Foster was kind and matter-of-fact, assuring her that tears were an excellent therapy, and prescribing bed, cocoa and a mild sedative as follow-up treatment.

'And a hot bath first,' added Carrie, ushering her upstairs. 'Everything's ready for you.'

Phoebe sank gratefully into the hot, scented water. She could hardly believe how swiftly and fundamentally her life had changed. She looked round at the immaculately tiled room, at the thick towels warming on their rail, the dark red silk dressing gown waiting to receive her.

It was the kind of luxury she'd avoided over the past few years, and it was undeniably seductive. But she knew she must resist it.

The dressing gown was far too big. She had to roll up the sleeves and wind the sash twice round her slender waist before trailing back into the bedroom. She supposed it must belong to Dominic, and wearing it made her uneasy, but, under the circumstances, she had little choice.

The bed had been turned down, she saw, and the prescribed cocoa was waiting on the night table with the tablets the doctor had left.

Phoebe had just set the beaker down when Carrie came bustling in.

'All gone? That's a good girl,' she approved briskly. 'Now, you have a good sleep, and tomorrow everything will seem much better.'

'Everything's gone, Carrie.' Phoebe settled obediently against the pillows. 'I've been left with the clothes I stand up in. That's something you hear people say, but you never think of it actually happening.'

'Well, don't you worry about it,' Carrie advised comfortably, turning off the light. 'Mr Dominic will take care of everything. You'll see.'