The Nanny Affair

‘What’s he doing?’ Emma asked quietly.

‘He’s courting.’ Kane’s voice was unexpectedly abrupt. ‘He knows how splendidly those branches set off his colours; he’s parading, looking for a mate, promising that he’ll give her ecstasy and young ones and keep all their bellies filled.’

A note in his words dragged her gaze from the bird strutting his stuff outside. Kane’s face had hardened into indifference, but there was a twist to his lips that gave his comment a satirical inflection.

Tentatively she asked, ‘Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?’

‘No, thank you, I have to keep going,’ he said, the words so quick and cool they were a rebuff.

Brows pleated, Emma watched the big car go down the road and turn into his drive. He’d been reasonably friendly, and then suddenly, as though she’d insulted his mother, he’d withdrawn behind an impervious armour.

‘Perhaps he thought I was flirting with him,’ she told the dogs, who were eyeing the packets of pet mince with anticipatory interest. ‘Well, he was wrong. Men with dangerous eyes and tough faces and volatile moods do nothing for me at all. Even when they’re not virtually engaged to Australian women of impeccable family. Whoa, hold your horses; I’ll make your dog biscuits this afternoon. I want to do some weeding first while it’s fine.’

Once outside, Babe found a warm place on the brick terrace and went to sleep, while Lucky investigated a score of fascinating scents around the garden before settling close to her. As Emma tugged at weeds encouraged into growth by the warm touch of spring, she decided that her unexpected holiday had altered direction. Kane’s arrival on the scene had sent her stumbling blindly into perilous, intriguing, unknown territory.

She yanked out a large sowthistle, patted back into place the three pansies its roots had dislodged, and tried to persuade herself that the slow excitement that licked through her whenever she thought of the man next door was uncomplicated attraction, a pragmatic indication from her genes that she was old enough to reproduce and that for the survival of her offspring it would be wise to choose a tough man who was a good provider, with enough prestige to protect her from other men as well as the strength to beat off cave bears and sabretooth tigers.

Basic stuff, an inheritance from the primitive past, still powerful even though it was outdated at the end of the twentieth century.

‘And don’t forget,’ she reminded herself, ‘the almost-fiancée.’

After an hour of solid work she stood to admire a bed of pansies and tall bluebells unmarred by weeds. But as she scrubbed the dirt from her fingernails she admitted that her next door neighbour had been constantly on her mind, disturbing her usually serene thoughts and refusing to go away.

The telephone rang. She scrabbled to dry her hands on the towel and ran into the kitchen. ‘Yes?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Were you outside?’

Divorced from the actual physical presence of the man, Kane Talbot’s voice made its own impression. Deep and level, with an intriguing rasp in the middle register, it brushed across her skin like velvet.

‘I was washing my hands,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful and bright and ordinary. ‘I’ve been weeding.’

‘I thought Mrs Firth had Fran Partridge to help in the garden.’

‘She does, but Ms Partridge went away this morning, and anyway, I like weeding.’ Fran Partridge was a single mother and the probable source, Emma had decided on meeting her, of Mrs Firth’s information about the locals.

How did she know Kane was frowning when he said, ‘Where’s Fran gone?’

A subtle undernote in his voice betrayed his expression. Before she’d realised it was none of his business, Emma told him, ‘It’s the school holidays and she’s on a trip somewhere with her son.’

‘Of course. I’d forgotten.’ He was silent, possibly thinking of Davy Partridge, who lived at the end of the road and rode his bike up and down on fine days, singing at the top of his voice. ‘It’s unusual for someone of your age to be interested in gardening.’

Emma bristled. ‘Is it?’

‘Most twenty-year-olds prefer to be out and raving.’ An ambiguous note of—amusement?—echoed through his words.

Emma’s teeth clenched for a second on her bottom lip. ‘Well, perhaps because I’m twenty-three instead of twenty, I enjoy gardening.’

‘Ah, a mature woman.’

Definitely mockery. Her chin lifted. Very clearly she said, ‘That, I suppose, is a matter of opinion. To someone of your age I might appear quite green and raw.’

‘Sweet, actually,’ he said odiously. ‘Eleven years is enough to make us different generations. Do you want me to ring Mrs Firth and tell her what the problem with the car is?’

Didn’t he trust her to be able to dial a number in Canada? Or did he think she was incapable of understanding the inner workings of an engine? Well, Emma thought, I’ve got news for you, Mr Talbot, sir. Lords of the manor have had their day; nowadays the peasants are more than capable of running their own lives.

Calmly she said, ‘That’s very kind, but it’ll be all right. I’m sure she has some idea of how the car works and the terminology won’t throw her. Or me,’ she added dulcetly.

There was a moment’s pause until he said in an amused voice, ‘That’s put me well and truly into my place.’

‘I—’

He cut in, ‘One thing I didn’t say before—if you need anything, let me know. We pull together in the country; it makes life easier for all of us. Goodbye.’ And he hung up.

‘And goodbye to you, sir, Mr Talbot,’ Emma said, crashing the receiver down. Lucky’s tail swept the floor.

Laughing a little to blunt the raw intensity of her feelings, she said, ‘Takes a dominant male to know one! Kane Talbot might be used to running everyone’s lives around here but he’s not going to run ours. We’d better go out and do some work together, Lucky. By the time your mistress comes back I’d like to have you able to stare at a sheep without wanting to chase it, which means you need to practise those commands. And, speaking of Mrs Firth, I’d better ring her right now and see what she wants done with her car.’

Next morning the sun was shining, and although the wind from the south was cold it had polished the sky into the radiant silvery blue that spring claims as its own. Yawning, Emma drew back the curtains and scanned the green, lovely contours of hill and valley.

Mrs Firth had given her permission to order a new clutch plate for the Volvo, so the part should be in Parahai by now. Thinking of that telephone call, Emma smiled. She’d had to field a couple of enquiries about Kane Talbot.

‘A very sexy man, isn’t he?’ the older woman asked slyly.

‘If you like them rough-edged and masterful,’ Emma parried.

‘Ah, I’ve seen him in evening clothes—no sign of rough edges then! You young things might like your idols to be pretty, but as you get older you appreciate the value of strength and power and discipline. He has a charming mother too.’

‘It doesn’t seem possible,’ Emma said delicately.

‘I’d like to see you both in action.’ Mrs Firth laughed. ‘I must go, Emma. Thank you so much for helping me in my hour of need. I’ll never forget it, and neither will Philippa.’

Philippa was her daughter, five years older than Emma, and as Emma had already asked after her she knew that her pregnancy was not being an easy one.

‘I had the free time,’ Emma said cheerfully, ‘and it’s no hardship to spend it in a place like this, I promise you! Northland in the spring is glorious.’

Halfway through the morning, while she was drinking coffee out on the terrace, she said sternly, ‘Sit!’ to Lucky, and waited for him to decide not to race across the lawn and bark fearsomely at the car pulling into the gateway. He obeyed, but he did bark.

Tamping down a flicker of excitement, Emma ordered, ‘Stay.’

Whining, he obeyed, and she left him to walk across the green damp lawn.

But it was not the car of yesterday, nor the Land Rover, and the driver, although tall, was nothing like the man who had managed to make himself so at home in her mind that she knew the exact shade of his eyes: a mixture of gold and bronze and flickering tawny fire that somehow chilled his gaze instead of heating it.

The woman leaning on the gate smiled at her, and as Emma was telling herself sturdily that she wasn’t disappointed she recognised the smile.

‘Hello,’ Kane Talbot’s mother said, ‘I’m Felicity Talbot, and you are Emma Saunders, and over there, looking desperate, is L-u-c-k-y, whose name I will not say in case it persuades him to disobey you and come across.’

How could Kane Talbot have such a laughing, lovely mother? Emma shook the hand offered to her and agreed, ‘It would indeed, and I shouldn’t push him too far. Do you like dogs?’