Inherited: One Nanny. Emma Darcy
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him, Vivian. And there’s no way I’d many a man without at least liking him.”
“Every woman likes Beau,” was his stock answer.
“Well, he might not like me,” she’d argued.
“What’s not to like?”
Maggie had always let the banter slide at that point. Putting herself down in any shape or form was against her principles. She had a long history of a lot of mean people wanting to squash self-esteem out of her, treating her as worthless and of no account in the world, and she had determinedly risen above it. Nevertheless, too many disappointments had taught her liking could not be counted upon.
It had been one of the miracles of coming to this marvellous place, everyone on the staff liking her, welcoming her into the family, so to speak, and not a mean bone in any of them. Vivian had said she was his nanny and despite his highly eccentric notion of her job with him, she’d been accepted into the household as Nanny Stowe as though it were a perfectly normal position.
Vivian’s oft-repeated idea of her roping in the wild child to extend the family line and ensure a succession of Prescotts at Rosecliff also met with general approval.
It was, of course, a totally mad idea.
Except it wasn’t quite so mad anymore.
It was beginning to feel very much like a burden of responsibility.
Maggie shook her head, hopelessly uncomfortable with the pressure to perform. Yet it was there, and she couldn’t shrug it off. Nor could she bring herself to snuff out the hope that was riding on her shoulders. People she cared about were hurting. And there was also the sense of not letting Vivian down.
“You weren’t here. You have no idea how it is,” she said accusingly to the photograph. “You shouldn’t have been off in the wilds, Beau Prescott.”
They’d had to handle it all without him. After the first couple of grief-stricken days following Vivian’s untimely death, everyone had been so busy trying to get the funeral right, none of them had looked beyond it. Only when the funeral was over, did the loss really hit, and then the solicitor had come to spell out where they stood.
The one-year residency clause in the will had brought home the fact that Vivian Prescott was gone—really gone—and Rosecliff now belonged to his grandson who clearly had no use for it since he was always off travelling. After the stipulated year, the property could be sold or disposed of as he saw fit. Vivian Prescott’s reign here was over, and so were their lives with him.
Maggie knew she could always fall on her feet somewhere else. At twenty-eight she was young enough to cope with a downturn in fortune and she’d had plenty of practice at making do with odd jobs in the years before meeting Vivian Prescott. Flexibility was her strong point. Though it would be hard leaving this magical mansion and its magnificent setting. Harder still leaving the people who had given her the sense of being part of a real family.
However, it was like the end of their world for Mrs. Featherfield, and Sedgewick and Wallace and Mr. Polly. As young at heart as they all were, they would be viewed by other employers as at retirement age. If Beau Prescott decided to sell Rosecliff, where would they go? What would they do? Who would have them?
This was home to them. They didn’t want to be split up. They didn’t want to be dumped on the useless scrapheap, surviving on pensions. They weren’t old. They had at least another twenty good years in them. Probably more.
The flurry of fear added a further weight of grief.
Then Sedgewick had remembered.
He’d stood up, elegantly tall and splendidly dignified, his ingrained authority providing a point of calm in the storm. His big, soulful brown eyes had fastened on Maggie, and there was not the slightest bit of tremulous doubt in his delivered opinion.
“Nanny Stowe, you can save us. Mr. Vivian wanted you to.”
She’d shaken her head sadly. “I’m terribly sorry, Sedgewick. I simply don’t have the power to change his will.”
“You promised him...I heard you...the very night Mr. Vivian died. It was just before the guests arrived for the party and he asked me to pour you both a glass of champagne, remember?”
“Yes. But we were only chatting...”
“No. He said—I distinctly remember it—Promise me you’ll give it a chance with Beau when he comes home. And you did. You clicked glasses with him and gave your promise.”
“It was only funning, Sedgewick.”
“Oh no! No, no, no, no!” Mrs. Featherfield had clucked. “Mr. Vivian was very serious about getting Master Beau married off to you, Nanny Stowe. He talked about it many, many times...to all of us,” she’d added significantly.
“Always treated you like one of the family,” Wallace had chimed in. “That’s where his sights were set. Getting it legal.”
Mr. Polly, his glorious gardens under threat of being taken over by someone else—or worse, destroyed by some developer—had stirred himself to put in his sage opinion. “Matter of cross-pollination, getting the two of you together.”
“And in the light of Mr. Vivian’s passing over that night,” Sedgewick had added portentously, “I think everyone must agree you gave him a deathbed promise, Nanny Stowe. One cannot disregard the gravity of a deathbed promise.”
“A chance, Sedgewick,” Maggie had hastily pleaded. “I only promised to give it a chance. There’s no guarantee that Beau Prescott would ever see me as...as a desirable wife. Or, indeed, that I’d see him as a desirable husband.”
“But you’ll give it a good chance, won’t you, dear?’ Mrs. Featherfield had pressed. ”And you do have a year to make the best of it.”
“Be assured you will have our every assistance,” Sedgewick had declared.
“Hear, hear!” they had all agreed, their eyes pinning Maggie down with their anxious hope.
She had wanted to say again and again it was only a joke, but to Sedgewick and Mrs. Featherfield and Wallace and Mr. Polly, it was deadly serious. Their future was at stake. Making some other life was unthinkable, and their expectations of continuing the status quo into the sunset were riding on her and what Mr. Vivian had wanted.
The truly dreadful part was they had convinced themselves she could bring it off—marry the heir, have his child, and they would all live happily ever after at Rosecliff. The doubts she voiced were brushed aside. Worse...they attacked the doubts by plotting outrageous ways to get around them. The goal was now fixed in their minds and it was so blindingly wonderful, they didn’t want to see anything else.
Giving it a chance did not promise a certain result, she had warned each one of them.
And what were their replies?
Sedgewick, bending his head in soulful chiding, “Nanny Stowe, you know what Mr. Vivian always preached. You must cultivate a positive attitude.”
Attitude did not necessarily produce miracles!
Mrs. Featherfield, doing her endearing mother hen thing, “Think of a baby. A new baby at Rosecliff. I can’t imagine anything more perfect.”
Babies were not high on Maggie’s agenda. She was only twenty-eight, not thirty-eight!
Wallace, a lecherous twinkle in his eye as he pointedly looked at the long tumbling mass of her red-gold hair. “No need to worry. Nanny Stowe. I can assure you Master Beau will take one look at you and his brain will register—red hot mamma. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
Maggie was not interested in the brain below Beau Prescott’s belt! Not unless there was an engaging brain above it, as well.
Mr. Polly, tending his prize roses. “Nature will take its course, Nanny Stowe. A little help and care and you can always get the result you want.”
Marriage,