Year's Happy Ending. Бетти Нилс
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and went upstairs. It was too early to feed Dee; she pottered round her room for half an hour, aware that she would have liked to have stayed and talked, and aware too that she had said too much anyway.
She gave the baby her bottle presently, turned the twins up the right way and tucked them in once more, and got herself ready for bed. It was very warm and she had taken too hot a bath; she sat by the open window for quite some time, brushing her hair and thinking about her future. The professor had been joking, supposing her to be content with a lifelong job with the same family and an old age in some cottage, but it held more than a grain of truth. She didn’t relish the idea in the least. She got up and went to look at herself in the triple mirror. No one—no man—was likely to fall for her; sandy hair was bad enough, sandy eyelashes were the utter end; the lovely green eyes she ignored and studied the rest of her face; the small straight nose and much too wide mouth above a determined chin; there was nothing there to enchant a man. She overlooked the fact that she had a pretty figure and nice hands and legs, all she could think of was curly blonde hair and bright blue eyes fringed by dark curling lashes. Her own lashes curled, but being sandy they were almost invisible. ‘I could of course dye them,’ she told her image, but perhaps that would make the rest of her face look odd. She got into bed, fretting about the eyelashes and fell asleep almost at once.
She awoke to pitch darkness and a whimper, thin as a kitten’s protest; by the time she was sitting up in bed to listen, the whimper had become a furious roar. One of the twins was having a nightmare; she shot out of bed and went on bare feet through the day nursery and into the adjoining room where the pair of them slept. It was Suzanne, half awake and bellowing with fright. Deborah plucked her gently from her bed, gathered her into her arms and sat down in the little arm chair by the window, half strangled by the child’s arms. It took a few moments to wake her up completely and twice as long to get her to stop crying. Deborah had soothed the sobbing to a series of sniffs and gulps when Simon woke, sat up in bed and demanded to know why Suzy was crying. The two of them were very close; he got out of his bed and came to join them, perching on the arm of the chair, demanding to know in a loud voice what the matter was.
‘Well, that’s what we are going to find out,’ said Deborah reasonably, ‘I expect it was a nasty dream, wasn’t it? But you are wide awake now and dreams aren’t real you know. You shall tell me about it and then you’ll forget it and when you’ve had a nice drink of warm milk, you’ll go to sleep again and wake up in the morning quite happy again. Now tell Nanny what made you cry, darling?’
Simon slid off the chair and she turned her head to see why. The professor was leaning in the doorway, huge and magnificent in a dazzlingly-striped dressing-gown. The little boy hurled himself at him and was swung into his arms, to be carried to his bed and sat on his uncle’s knee.
Deborah, her hair hanging in a clean, shining curtain on her shoulders and down her back, bare feet digging into the thick rug, gave the professor a passing glance, and turned her attention to Suzy; she had forgotten that she hadn’t bothered to put on her dressing-gown and there was nothing in his face to remind her of that fact. She bent her head to hear the child’s tearful whispering, tossing back her sandy tresses with an impatient hand. The telling took some time with a good deal of sniffing and gulping but she listened patiently and finally when the child had come to a halt said hearteningly: ‘There now—it’s all right again, isn’t it? You’ve told us all about it and although it was a nasty dream, you’ve forgotten it because we all know about it, don’t we? Now I’m going to get you some milk and then I’ll sit here until you’ve gone to sleep again…’
‘Let me have her here,’ suggested the professor, who went on: ‘I should put your dressing-gown on before you go downstairs.’ His voice was quite impersonal but she gave a horrified squeak and pattered out of the room without another word. Bundled into her useful saxe-blue robe, buttoned from neck to ankle, she was glad of the few minutes it took in which to heat the milk. What must he have thought? She was no prude, after all she had three brothers, but children’s nurses to the best of her knowledge didn’t go prancing round in the dead of night in cotton nighties and nothing else when there were strangers around. And the professor was a stranger, and although she didn’t care a jot for his opinion of her, she squirmed at the idea of giving him something to snigger about…snigger wasn’t the right word, she conceded, give him his due, he wasn’t like that. All the same she dared say that he would have no hesitation in remarking on her dishabille if he felt like it.
She removed the milk from the Aga, poured it into two mugs, put them on a tray and bore it upstairs with a stiff dignity which caused the professor’s fine mouth to twitch, although he said nothing, merely took the mug she offered Simon while she sat Suzy on her lap and coaxed her to drink. The pair of them were sleepy now; the milk finished, she tucked them back into bed, refused the professor’s offer to sit with them until they were well and truly asleep and bade him a dismissive goodnight. Only he wouldn’t be dismissed. ‘I’m going to make us a hot drink,’ he informed her, ‘I’ll be in the kitchen when you are ready.’
He cast an eye over the two drowsy children. ‘Ten minutes at the outside, I should imagine.’
‘I don’t want…’ began Deborah and was stopped by the steely look he bent upon her. ‘You will have to be up soon after six o’clock for Dee—it is now a little after two in the morning; you will need to sleep as quickly as possible, a hot drink helps.’
He was right, of course, although it wouldn’t be the first time she had gone short of sleep, and he was right about the twins too, they were asleep within minutes of being tucked in. She waited for a good five minutes and then went downstairs to the kitchen, cosy and magnificently equipped, to find the professor pouring steaming milk into two mugs.
‘Cocoa,’ he said, barely glancing at her, and handed her one.
She sat down at the table and drank it as obediently as Suzy had done, and tried to think of something to say; but small talk didn’t come easily at the dead of night and anyway, her companion seemed unworried by the silence. She had almost finished when he observed: ‘It’s the twins’ birthday in two weeks’ time—I’m giving them a dog—a golden labrador puppy—he’ll keep them busy and sleep in their room, that should stop the nightmares.’
‘You approve of animals in bedrooms?’
He gave her a surprised look and then smiled thinly. ‘I suppose you have been trained to discourage it?’
‘Well yes, but personally I think there’s no harm in it. Our cat always sleeps on my bed when I’m at home.’ She drank the last of her cocoa. ‘We haven’t got a dog—at least he died last year…I don’t suppose you have much time for one?’
‘Very little, but I have three. Two labradors and a Jack Russell—there are cats too—my housekeeper has two and a constant supply of kittens.’ He put down his mug. ‘You had better go to bed Nanny.’
He had spoken so abruptly that she opened her green eyes wide, just for only a few moments she had forgotten that he didn’t much like her. She put her cup in the sink, said ‘Goodnight’ in a quiet little voice and went back upstairs. The twins were sound asleep, so was Dee; she got into bed and was asleep within two minutes.
She had fed Dee and was dressed and ready for her day before the twins woke, their disturbed night forgotten and bounding with energy, but she was used to them by now; they were sitting down to their breakfast no more than five minutes late, shovelling corn flakes into their small mouths by the time their uncle appeared, Mary hard on his heels with fresh coffee and toast. He bade the room a general good-morning, gave it as his intention to drive the twins to school and ate a huge breakfast with no more than a quick look at Deborah, sitting behind the coffee pot, clean and starched and severe. ‘In that case,’ she remarked, ‘I’d better phone Aunty Doris and ask her not to come.’
‘For God’s sake, do—that garrulous woman…’
‘Little pitchers have long ears,’ said Deborah sternly and then blushed because she had sounded like a prig.
‘What’s a pitcher?’ asked Suzy.
‘Doesn’t