Читать книгу His to Command: the Nanny: A Nanny for Keeps - Cara Colter - Страница 10

MAISIE, having finally settled on pink taffeta, was not impressed with the alternatives Jacqui had found.

‘They smell,’ she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

‘Only because they haven’t been worn in a long time. I’m not asking you to put them on until they’ve been washed. I just want to make sure they fit.’

‘They won’t.’

‘Probably not,’ she agreed. ‘I think your mother must have been taller than you.’

‘No, she wasn’t. I’m exactly the same height as she was, she told me.’

Pride…so predictable.

‘Oh, well, these were hers, so that’s all right.’

‘Oh, please.’ Maisie, quickly recovering from her mistake, picked up a sweatshirt featuring a cartoon character and held it at arm’s length. ‘My mother wouldn’t ever have been seen dead wearing something like this.’

Having anticipated this reaction, Jacqui produced a photograph that she’d found pinned to a display board in the nursery. It was curling at the edges, very faded and had doubtless been pinned up because of the puppy a very young Selina Talbot was cuddling, rather than for any aesthetic reason.

Or maybe it was because, behind her, an older, taller, protective presence, stood her big cousin, Harry.

The reason didn’t matter. What mattered was that she was wearing that sweatshirt.

‘Why would she keep a dumb sweatshirt?’ Maisie demanded, giving her back the picture, not thrilled to be proved wrong.

‘Haven’t you ever kept a favourite dress, even when it doesn’t fit you any more,’ she asked, ‘just to remember how you felt when you wore it?’

Maisie shrugged. ‘I s’pose.’ Then, ‘Is that Harry with my mother?’

She looked at the photograph again and then offered it back to the child. ‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘No,’ she said, fiddling with a button rather than take it. ‘It’s him.’

‘Unless he’s got a twin brother,’ she agreed.

On second thoughts, there was no question in her mind why Selina had kept the photograph where she could see it. The man might have some serious flaws, but the boy had been built for hero-worship. And his hand on her shoulder would have made the sweatshirt special, too.

Probably.

Or maybe that was emotional transference…

‘OK, it’s miserable outside at the moment so you can’t go out to play, but in the meantime I’ll put this through the wash and then maybe, if the cloud lifts this afternoon, I could take a photograph of you wearing it.’

No response.

‘With one of the puppies? You could give them both to your mother when she comes home. I’m sure she’d like that.’

‘Only if Harry will be in it, too,’ Maisie insisted, aware that she’d painted herself into a corner, but giving it one last shot. ‘So that it’s exactly the same.’

‘That’s a lovely idea,’ she said. Although whether Harry Talbot would think so was another matter entirely.

‘Will you ask him for me?’

There was a whole world of want—need—in those few words and she said, ‘Yes, sweetheart. Of course I’ll ask him.’

‘First. Before I put that on.’

She should have seen that coming.

Maisie was little, but she was bright and she knew when she was being sold a pup—in every sense of the word.

Jacqui was saved any immediate challenge to her negotiating skills, since—unsurprisingly—Harry wasn’t hanging around waiting for a chat. Once breakfast was over she left Maisie ‘helping’ Susan with some baking and went to call Vickie.

As she opened the office door, Harry looked up from the pile of post he’d tipped out of the carrier bag, his eyes so fierce that she took a step back.

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

‘Your presence in the house disturbs the very air,’ he declared. Then, after what might have been a deep breath, or possibly a ten-count while he regained his composure, ‘I accept, however, that there’s nothing you can do about it so will you please stop tiptoeing around me?’

‘It would help if you didn’t look as if you were offended by the mere sight of me,’ she pointed out.

‘I’m not…’ he began irritably, then stopped, perhaps unwilling to perjure himself and dismissing the matter with a gesture that suggested she was being oversensitive. Then did what any man who knew he was wrong would do; went on the attack. ‘Did you leave this pile of garbage here?’

‘If you’re referring to the mail, then yes. The woman running the village shop asked me to bring it up. When I stopped for directions.’

‘Then when you leave I suggest you give it back to her and tell her—’

‘I’ve got a better idea, Mr Talbot,’ she said, fed up with being the butt of his ill-humour. Whatever trauma he’d suffered, she wasn’t to blame. ‘Why don’t you…’ breathe, Jacqui, breathe ‘…tell her yourself?’ Then, be-cause she wasn’t averse to a little subject changing when she’d overstepped her own aggression threshold, ‘Have you heard from your cousin?’

He shook his head. ‘No joy from your agency, I suppose?’

‘I was just about to ring them.’

‘Help yourself.’

He pushed the telephone towards her and she lifted the receiver, then jiggled the button a couple of times. ‘There’s no dial tone.’

He took it from her and listened as if he didn’t believe she knew her dialling tone from her elbow. The man, she thought, had a very underdeveloped sense of self-preservation.

‘Am I mistaken?’ she asked, with deceptive sweetness.

It was, of course, possible that his rudeness was a shield against unwanted pity.

If so, it was working.

He muttered something beneath his breath. She didn’t ask him to repeat it; she didn’t think it was anything she was meant—or would want—to hear.

‘It happens all the time up here,’ he went on. ‘Just as well you’ve got a cellphone.’

‘I’ll report the fault, shall I?’

‘If you must.’

She bit back her first thought, which was that, no, actually, she was quite happy to leave him without contact with the outside world and that she was sure the outside world would thank her.

No point in going out of her way to aggravate the man when she was doing such a good job of it without any effort at all, especially as she had a favour to ask him. For Maisie.

But not yet.

Phone call first.

If the news was good, he’d be in a better mood.

That was the theory, anyway. There was only one problem with it; she couldn’t find her cellphone.

Leaving Harry alone in his office, she checked her pocket, which was where her phone lived during the day. Then checked the bedside table, which was where it usually spent the night.

But yesterday hadn’t been usual in any sense of the word: witness the silver chain lying where her phone should be. She picked it up and fastened it around her wrist—just for safety—then checked beneath the bed in case it had fallen on the floor, before retracing all her moves without any luck.

It wasn’t in the kitchen either, and Maisie, enveloped in a huge apron and with smears of flour across her cheeks, just looked blank when asked if she’d seen it.

The office was the only place left and, since it was the last place she actually remembered having it, she had no choice but to enter the lion’s den for the second time that morning. This time she took the precaution of tapping on the door before opening it.

Harry looked up. ‘Well?’

‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ she said. ‘I can’t find my phone. If it isn’t in here I don’t know where else to look.’

‘I didn’t see it, but then I wasn’t looking.’ He indicated the mail spread across the desk—most of it of the junk variety and still apparently untouched. ‘Dig in. You might find anything under this lot.’

She picked up a handful of the stuff and went through it tossing most of it into the waste basket unopened—having brought it to the house, it was the least she could do—leaving personal mail and bills in separate piles to one side. When she looked up, she realised that he was watching her.

‘What?’

He shook his head. ‘Carry on, you’re doing a fine job.’

‘It’s good to know I’m useful for something, even if it is only getting rid of the rubbish.’ But she began to feel self-conscious as he continued to watch her. ‘You can put a block on most of this stuff, you know. It’s almost your duty, in fact. One phone call to save the planet…’ Then, as she binned the last of the circulars, straightened the papers on the desk, ‘All you need is a phone. It’s not on the desk, is it?’ Then, beginning to feel a touch desperate, ‘This is ridiculous. It’s got to be here somewhere. Would you mind standing up?’

She dug around the back and sides of a chair warmed by his body, totally aware that the taut backside and thighs just inches from her face were the source of that heat.

‘It’s not here,’ she said, backing off.

‘Maybe it fell on the floor.’

She’d already dropped to her knees before she realised that instead of standing aside and leaving her to it, he’d done the same. Looking up, expecting to be confronted by nothing more dangerous than his knees, she found herself looking straight into his eyes.

The cool thing would have been to smile, and carry on looking. She didn’t feel cool. This close, his tawny eyes generated enough heat to sear her entire body and she reared back, crashing against the edge of the desk and falling back to her knees with a whimper of pain.

The next thing she knew she was sitting in his chair and he was crouched in front of her, looking into her eyes. ‘Jacqui?’

‘It’s OK…’ she said, making a move to rise. ‘I’m OK.’

His hand on her shoulder kept her in the chair. ‘Don’t move for a minute. You took quite a knock.’

‘No, really.’ But her head felt as if it had just exploded and her legs were kitten-weak. Despite her protest, she stayed where she was. ‘I’ll be all right in a moment.’

‘Look at me.’ Oh, right. That was what had caused the trouble in the first place…‘How many fingers am I holding up?’

Having satisfied himself that she wasn’t seeing double, he stood up and began to gently part her hair, just above her forehead, taking a closer look at the damage.

‘Excuse me?’ she said, but nowhere near as in-your-face what-the-heck-do-you-think-you’re-doing as she’d intended. ‘Are you a doctor?’

‘Yes, and I can tell you that the prognosis is a headache and a lump the size of an egg.’

‘I could have told you that…’ Wince. Oooch. Too much talking…‘Are you really a doctor?’

‘I’m somewhat out of practice,’ he admitted, ‘but I think I can handle a minor bump on the head.’

‘Minor!’ she exclaimed.

‘See? You’re almost back to normal. I’ll go and get an ice-pack.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘You’re disputing my diagnosis? Are you a doctor, too?’

‘Sarcasm is so unattractive.’ Then, ‘Besides, you’ve read my CV. You know exactly what I am.’

‘I’ve got a fair idea, although I’d still like to know why you dropped out of your nursing course at university.’ She took a breath to speak but he raised a warning finger that didn’t quite touch her lips. ‘Save it. Keep quiet and don’t move. I’ll be right back.’

‘I was just going to tell you to mind your own business,’ she muttered rebelliously, but only after he’d left the room.

Obviously he knew what he was talking about when he’d advised her to keep quiet, because she wished she’d obeyed him.

‘Susan is making you a cup of tea,’ he said, returning a minute or two later with crushed ice wrapped in a cloth. He laid it gently against her forehead and said, ‘How’s that?’

‘Cold?’ she offered. Then, because that sounded ungrateful, ‘Wonderfully cold.’ It was certainly a lot better than the thought of tea, the very idea of which made her feel sick. She didn’t tell him that; Dr Harry Talbot would be diagnosing concussion and whisking her off to hospital before she could say Jack Robinson and wouldn’t that make him a happy bunny…? ‘Thank you,’ she added, reaching up to take over the job of holding the ice-pack in place, her fingers getting entangled in his as they changed over.

‘What’s Maisie doing?’ she asked, more as a distraction than out of any deep concern.

‘Being Maisie.’

Weirdly, she understood exactly what he meant, but, feeling guilty as well as stupid, she said, ‘Damn it! What have I done with my phone? I was sure I’d put it in my pocket.’

‘Maybe it’s fallen out somewhere. You’ll find it when it rings.’

‘But I want it now!’ Then, blushing—that sounded sooo like Maisie at her very worst—‘Sorry…I just need to know what’s happening. Maisie shouldn’t be left out on a limb like this.’

‘I thought you said she wanted to stay.’

‘That’s not the point.’ Then, leaning her elbows on the desk, both hands clutching the ice-pack as she rested her head against it and trying to think through the pain…‘But you’re right. She seems happy enough.’

‘But of course you want to get on with your own life.’

‘I didn’t say that.’ She looked up at him from under her hands. ‘Did I say that?’

‘No.’ He looked as if he was going to say something but clearly changed his mind. Then, after a moment, ‘Did you find her anything more practical to wear in the meantime?’

‘Yes. And then again no.’

‘Well, that’s clear.’ He doubled up opposite her as if to check that her eyes weren’t glazing over.

‘I found her some stuff,’ she said, rousing herself, ‘but she really doesn’t see herself as a sweatshirt and jeans girl.’

‘She can’t spend her entire life in party dresses,’ he objected, not moving. ‘She must have some ordinary clothes.’

‘Your confidence does you credit. But yes, I suppose you’re right. There’s obviously been some kind of a slip-up on the packing front. Fortunately I found this.’ She dug around in her shirt pocket and fished out the photograph she’d found. Her fingers were wet and she wiped it on her sleeve before handing it to him. ‘It’s her mother wearing the same stuff.’

He stared at it for a moment, then returned it to her, without comment. ‘Did it do the trick?’

‘Would you exchange pink taffeta frills for denim bib overalls without a fuss?’

‘Fortunately, I’ve never had to make that choice.’

Was that a smile? Just the tiniest hint of one?

Encouraged, she said, ‘Actually, I had a bit of a brainwave and suggested I take a photograph of her exactly like this one. That seemed to do the trick.’

‘So what’s the problem? You need a camera? There’s got to be one around here somewhere.’

‘Thanks, but I have a camera. I was going on holiday,’ she reminded him.

‘Then why is she still in the pink frilly thing? I mean, there’s no shortage of puppies.’

‘No. But it’s not just the puppy.’ She wasn’t likely to have his undivided attention again any time soon. Best not waste it. ‘You were in the original photograph and she wants one exactly like it.’ Then, because she didn’t want him to say no without giving it some thought, she quickly added, ‘There’s no rush. The clothes are in the wash and it’s not exactly fit to take photographs out there this morning.’ Even if she could see straight. ‘In the meantime I’d better go and have another look for my phone.’

‘Jacqui…’

She made an effort to stand, but her knees didn’t feel quite up to it. It was nothing to do with the way he’d said her name. Very softly, not as if he wanted to make sure she was listening, but just because he wanted to say it…

‘I’m sorry.’

Her mistake.

‘What for?’ There were so many things to choose from…‘It wasn’t your fault I banged my head.’

‘About your holiday.’

Oh, that…

‘I promise I won’t say another word about it if you’ll let Maisie have her photograph.’

‘You provide the sun—’ he didn’t exactly growl, the embryo smile had gone but he didn’t seem bothered by her blatant attempt at a little emotional blackmail ‘—and I’ll turn up for the photo call.’

Which implied that he knew something about the prevailing weather conditions at Hill Tops that she didn’t.

It didn’t matter. He’d promised. And the sun had to shine eventually, if she stuck around for long enough—it had been shining in that old photograph she’d found, hadn’t it?—which was why, instead of responding with something snippy like ‘you’ve got a deal’, she smiled—a real smile this time—and said, ‘Thank you.’ Then, rather more weakly, ‘Now we’ve sorted that out, is there any chance of a couple of aspirin?’

‘Only if you’ll lie down for an hour and give them a chance to do their job.’

‘Are you sending me to bed?’

No, no, stupid thing to say. The way she felt at that moment, he’d have to carry her and she didn’t think that lying against his chest listening to his heart being put through its paces—she wasn’t stick-thin like his glamorous cousin—would do her condition any good at all.

‘What about Maisie?’ she demanded, in an attempt to shift that image from her brain.

‘Susan will take care of her.’

‘She’s got other things to do. Chickens, house-work…’

‘That isn’t your problem.’

OK, so she’d been hoping he might have a complete change of heart and volunteer to take care of Maisie himself, but her head hurt too much to worry about it.

‘All right. But there’s no way I’m going to bed. You’ll have to ask those dogs to budge up and let me share their sofa.’

‘I could, of course, insist that you go to the local A&E for an X-ray, since you’re obviously not in your right mind.’ Then, taking pity on her, ‘Come on. You can put your feet up in the library.’

‘The library? You mean you’re letting me back into the posh bit of the house? After this morning?’

She blinked. Had she really said that? The crack to her skull must have been harder than she’d thought.

He clamped his jaw down hard, presumably because it was against medical ethics to yell at someone in pain. Demand that they shut up.

She actually saw the slow breath he took, although if he counted to ten he did it mentally, before he said, ‘I think “posh” might be stretching it a bit, but at least you won’t get covered in dog hairs.’

She thought she should probably say something, but couldn’t think of anything sensible, so left it and he put a hand beneath her elbow, eased her to her feet.

‘Can you walk?’

‘Of course I can walk,’ she said, doing her best to ignore the fact that the room was spinning and clutching the ice-pack to her head. ‘I’m not an invalid.’

‘No, just a pain in the backside. Don’t you ever give your mouth a rest?’

‘Of course I…’ She stopped. ‘That was a trick question, wasn’t it?’

He didn’t answer, possibly to demonstrate that one of them had some control over their mouth, although if she had been a betting woman she might have had a mild flutter on the chance that it was because he was trying not to laugh. Definitely trying not to laugh. Almost definitely.

And, OK, doing a pretty good job of it.

She had a quick glimpse of panelled hall, the bottom of the substantial oak staircase that led to his bedroom and then she was in a room that had the perfect air of shabby comfort only attained through generations of occupation by the same family.

Velvet curtains that had once been green, but which now, except in the deepest folds, had faded to a silvery grey. A richly patterned Persian rug, worn practically threadbare. A huge Knole sofa standing four-square to a handsome fireplace which was laid with logs and only needed a match to send the reflection of flames flickering off the bookshelves that lined the walls.

Not a bit like the bare stone interior of the horrible giant’s house in her childhood story book.

First impressions could be so wrong…

Harry crossed to the hearth and hunkered down to put a match to the fire, although the room wasn’t cold. She perched on the edge of the sofa as he coaxed the fire to life, watching his deft movements, quick reaction as a log fell into the hearth, his broad back. And forgot her own pain as her stomach wrenched in empathy for pain she could not even imagine. And she closed her eyes.

‘Jacqui?’ She jerked them open. ‘Are you OK?’

‘Yes,’ she said, but without conviction.

‘You look a bit pale. Do you feel sick?’

She did, but not as a result of the bang on the head. ‘I’m fine, really.’

He continued to look at her for a moment, before turning back to the fire. When he was sure it had caught, he placed a guard in front of it.

‘Shall I take that?’

She looked down at the ice-pack, which was beginning to melt into her lap. ‘None of this is necessary,’ she protested. ‘I should be—’

‘What?’

Looking for her phone. Chasing Vickie to find out what was happening. But then, as Harry had pointed out, Maisie was happy enough. This was what she’d wanted. So why was she getting her knickers in a twist, instead of doing as she was told, lying back and letting everything work itself out?

‘Nothing,’ she said.

‘Right answer.’

And this time the crease at the corner of his mouth was deep enough to qualify as a smile. Lopsided maybe. A trifle wry, even. But a heart-stopping improvement on the alternative.

She could live with ‘wry’.

‘Now all you have to do is put your feet up and I’ll go and get some aspirin.’

And to prevent any further argument, he bent, picked her feet up in one hand, pulled off her shoes and placed them on the sofa.