Buch lesen: «Inherited: One Nanny»

CHAPTER ONE

A NANNY?

The question had niggled Beau Prescott on and off throughout the fourteen hour flight from Buenos Aires to Sydney. It had reared its tantalising head from the very first reading of his grandfather’s will, pertinently included with all the other official notices sent to him in the solicitor’s packet. Now that his journey home was almost over and he was about to get answers, it pushed once more to the forefront of his mind.

Why on earth had his grandfather employed a nanny for the last two years of his life? And why was she listed in the will as another responsibility to be inherited by Beau, along with the rest of the family retainers?

A nanny made no sense to him. There weren’t any children living in his grandfather’s household. None he knew of anyway. Certainly none had been named in the will. There seemed absolutely no point in including a nanny—whoever she was—amongst the staff who were to remain as his dependents for at least another year, if not for the rest of their lives.

It was different with the others. Beau was completely in sympathy with looking after Mrs. Featherfield who was virtually an institution as his grandfather’s housekeeper. Sedgewick, the butler, and Wallace, the chauffeur, had almost equal longevity. As for Mr. Polly, the head gardener, tipping him out of his beloved grounds was inconceivable. Each one of them deserved every consideration. But a nanny-come-lately without any children to mind?

Beau turned her name over in his mind...Margaret Stowe. Margaret sounded rather old-fashioned, spinsterish. For some reason he linked Stowe with stowaway. She could be a lame-dog nanny, fallen on hard times. His grandfather had a habit of taking in the occasional oddity, putting them on their feet again. But two years of largesse and an inclusion in the will seemed a bit much.

“We will be landing at Mascot on schedule,” the pilot announced. “The weather is fine, current temperature nineteen degrees Celsius. Forecast for today is...”

Beau looked out his window and felt his stomach curl, hit by a wave of grief he’d been holding at bay since he’d received the news of his grandfather’s death. The distinctive features of Sydney were spread out below, the predominance of red roofs, the harbour, the bridge, the opera house. This view had always meant coming home to him. But home had also meant Vivian Prescott, the man who’d taken in his orphaned eight-year-old grandson and given him the world as his playground.

Not so much of a grandfather as a grand person, Beau thought, keenly feeling the huge bite that had been taken so abruptly, so shockingly out of his life. Vivian Prescott had lived on a grand scale, had cultivated a grand approach to everything he’d done. His heart should have been grand enough to last a lot longer.

Vivian...now there was a name that would make most men cringe. The Prescott family had a history of bestowing eccentric names. Beau had often winced over his, but his grandfather...never! He’d rejoiced in having one he considered uniquely his. “It means life, my boy. And joie de vivre is what I’m about.”

He’d carried it with such panache, he’d made it perfectly acceptable, a natural extension of his highly individual personality, a positive expression of artistic flair and style, a provocative emphasis to the wickedly teasing twinkle in his ever-young eyes. It was almost impossible to believe he was actually gone and it hurt like hell not to have been there with him before he died.

A spurt of anger overlaid the grief. Damn it all! His grandfather had no business dying at eighty-six. He’d always boasted he’d live to a hundred, smoking his favourite cigars, drinking the best French champagne, a pretty woman hanging on each arm as he swanned through all the glittering charity events on his social calendar. He’d loved life too much to ever let go of it.

Beau heaved a sigh to relieve the tightness in his chest and told himself it was futile foolishness to feel cheated of more time with his grandfather. The fault was in his own complacency for letting almost three years go by without a visit home. It was all very well to excuse himself on the grounds of finding South America an explorer’s paradise. A trip home now and then wouldn’t have been a hardship. It simply had never occurred to him that the old man’s long run of good health might be failing.

There’d been no hint of it in his letters. But then there’d been no mention of a nanny, either. Beau frowned again over the vexing puzzle. If his grandfather had been sick, surely he would have hired a nurse, not a nanny. Unless...no, he couldn’t—wouldn’t—believe his grandfather had gone the least bit senile. There had to be some other answer.

The plane landed. The moment it stopped, Beau was out of his seat and opening the overhead locker for his flight bag, wanting to be off with as little delay as possible.

“May I help you, Mr. Prescott?”

It was the cute air hostess who’d been so eager and willing to look after his every need on the trip. Beau flashed her a smile. “No, I’m fine, thank you.” She was a honey but he wasn’t interested in taking up the invitation in her eyes. His mind was on serious business, no room for play.

Nevertheless, he was aware of her lustful once-over as he moved past her to the exit tunnel and felt a slight twinge of regret. He’d been womanless for a while, busy mapping out a new trek up the Amazon. Still, he’d never had a problem attracting a woman when he was ready for one. Being over six feet tall and having a body packed with muscles seemed to be a turn-on to most of them, even when he looked scruffy from being too long in uncivilised areas.

His mouth twitched as he remembered his grandfather calling it his curse. “It’s too easy for you, my boy, and if you keep taking the pickings, you’ll never know the fruits of settling down with a good woman.”

“I have no interest in settling down, Grandpa,” he’d answered.

It was still true three years later, yet his grandfather’s reply plucked at his conscience now.

“Beau, you’re thirty years old. It’s time you thought of having children. As it stands, you’re the last of our family line, and I for one, don’t like the thought of our gene pool coming to an end. It’s our only claim to immortality, having a line that goes on after we die.”

Had the old man been feeling his mortality then?

“Grandpa, there’s no time limit on a man to have children,” he’d argued. “Didn’t Charlie Chaplin have them into his nineties? I bet you could still have one yourself.”

“You need to stick around to bring them up right. Think about it, Beau. Your parents weren’t much older than you are now when their plane crashed in Antarctica. No second chances for them. If you don’t take time out from your travelling to get married and start a family, it may be too late before you know it.”

Too late...misery dragged at Beau’s heart. Too late to say goodbye to the wonderful old man who’d given him so much. Too late to say one last thank-you. Too late to even attend the funeral, held while Beau was still deep in the Amazon valley, out of range of any modern form of communication.

All he could do now was carry out his grandfather’s will as it had been set out for him, even to keeping a useless nanny in his employ for another year. And making Rosecliff—the Prescott palace—his residence for the same period of time.

Maybe the latter was his grandfather’s solution to making his footloose grandson stay still for a while, long enough to marry and start a family. Beau shook his head in wry dismissal of the idea. He wasn’t ready for it. He felt no need for it. Making it happen would be wrong for everybody concerned. Scouting Europe was next on his agenda. He wasn’t about to set that aside, and it was plain irresponsible to establish a nest he knew he’d be flying out of.

His long-legged stride beat all the other passengers to the immigration counter. He was through that bit of officialdom in no time and luckily his duffel bag was amongst the first pieces of luggage on the carousel. Having hefted it onto his back, and with nothing to declare, Beau headed straight for the arrival hall.

As he came down the ramp he spotted Wallace, his grandfather’s chauffeur, smartly attired in the uniform he was so proud of—convinced it added a dignified stature to his shortness—and clearly determined on maintaining the correct standard of service.

The sense of emptiness that had been eating at Beau was suddenly flooded with warmth. Wallace had taught him everything he knew about cars. Wallace had acted as father-confessor through troubled times. Wallace was much more than a chauffeur. He was family and had been since Beau was eight years old.

“It is so good to see you, sir,” Wallace greeted in heartfelt welcome, his eyes moistening.

Beau hugged him, moved by affection and a rush of protectiveness, patting him on the back as though the wiry little man was now the child in need of comfort. He had to be feeling the loss of Vivian Prescott as much, if not more than Beau. Wallace was in his late fifties and though spry for his age and certainly competent at his job, probably too old to start over with a new employer. His future was undoubtedly feeling very uncertain. Beau silently vowed to fix that, one way or another.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here, Wallace,” he said, drawing back to re-establish appropriate dignity.

“Nothing you could have done for him, sir,” came the quick assurance. “No warning. He just went in his sleep, like he always said he wanted to, right after a bang-up party. As Nanny Stowe says, the Angel of Death took him kindly.”

The unctious Angel of Death declaration instantly conjured up a complacently righteous woman stuffed full of sweet homilies. Beau barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. He had to bite his tongue, as well. Nanny Stowe clearly had Wallace’s respect. Giving voice to a stomach-felt, “Yuk!” was definitely out of place.

He managed a smile. “Well, a bang-up party was certainly Grandpa’s style.”

“That it was, sir. Always had marvellous parties.”

Beau’s smile turned into a rueful grimace. “I should have at least been here to organise a fitting funeral for him.”

“Not to worry, sir. Nanny Stowe took care of it.”

“Did she now?”

Beau balefully added officious busybody to complacent and sickeningly righteous. How dare a mere nanny take over his grandfather’s funeral? Sedgewick would have known what was required, having butlered for Vivian Prescott for nigh on thirty years, but a nanny who hadn’t rated highly enough to be mentioned by his grandfather while he was alive? Beau was deeply offended at the high-handedness of the woman. Who the hell did she think she was?

“Well, let’s get on home. The sooner the better,” he said, feeling distinctly eager to let Nanny Stowe know her presumptuous reign of authority was over.

“Can I take your bags, sir?”

“This one.” He handed over the flight bag for Wallace to feel useful. “Might as well leave the other on my back.” The little man’s knees would probably buckle under the weight of it.

“I could get a luggage trolley, sir.”

“Waste of time.” He waved towards the exit doors and set off, steering Wallace into accompanying him through the crowd of people still waiting for other arrivals. “I’d like you to tell me about the funeral,” he added through gritted teeth, wanting to know the worst before he met the interloping nanny.

The chauffeur looked pleased to oblige. “We did him proud, sir. As Nanny Stowe said, it had to be a grand funeral for a grand man. And so it was, sir.”

“How grand, Wallace?’ Beau demanded, extremely dubious that Nanny Stowe would have a full appreciation of his grandfather’s scale of grandness.

“Well, sir, we started with a splendid service in St. Andrew’s Cathedral. It was packed. People overflowing outside and on the streets. Couldn’t fit everyone in. Nanny Stowe got the notification list together and it included all the charity boards your grandfather sat on, all his friends from far and wide, politicians, everyone from the arts. It was a big, big turn-up.”

At least she got that much right, Beau brooded.

“You know how your grandfather loved handing out red roses...”

His trademark.

“You’ve never seen as many red roses as there were in that cathedral. I reckon Nanny Stowe must have cornered the market on them. They covered the casket, too. And everyone who came to the service was handed a red rose in remembrance.”

A nice touch, Beau grudgingly conceded.

They emerged from the hall into bright morning sunshine. A sparkling blue-sky day, Beau thought, his spirits lifting slightly. The chauffeur pointed to where the car was parked and they turned in that direction.

“Go on, Wallace,” Beau urged. “Describe the service to me.”

“Well, sir, the boys’ choir sang beautifully. They started off with ‘Prepare ye the way for The Lord’ from the musical, Godspell. It was one of his favourites, as you know. Loved the theatre, your grandfather did.”

“Yes. It gave him a lot of pleasure,” Beau agreed, beginning to have a bit more respect for Nanny Stowe. The woman did have some creative thought, though it probably stemmed from an ingrained attention to detail. A nitpicking fusspot came to mind, nothing escaping her eye or ear. Nevertheless, his grandfather would have relished the theatrical note at his funeral service so however it came about could not be overly criticised.

“Sir Roland from the Arts Council made a wonderful speech...”

His grandfather’s closest friend. The obvious choice.

“The bishop got a bit heavy with his words, I thought, but the readings from the bible were just right. Nanny Stowe chose them. All about generosity of spirit.”

“Mmmh...’ Beau wondered if Nanny Stowe was plotting to spark generosity of spirit in him, too.

The Rolls-Royce was parked, as usual, in a No Parking zone. Beau reminded himself to ask Wallace how he got away with that, but he had other things on his mind right now.

“The choir finished with a very stirring ‘Amazing Grace.’ Beautiful, it was,” Wallace went on, as he opened the trunk of the car to load in Beau’s luggage. “Then at the graveside, we had a lone piper playing tunes of glory. Sedgewick thought of that. Your grandfather was very partial to a pipe band when he was in his cups, if you’ll pardon the expression, sir.”

“Good for Sedgewick.” Beau warmly approved. Nanny Stowe hadn’t known everything! She’d probably be the type to follow the “early to bed, early to rise” maxim and had never witnessed his grandfather in his cups.

“What about the wake?” he asked, freeing himself of the duffel bag.

“Oh, we all knew what your grandfather would want there, sir. Oceans of French champagne, caviar, smoked salmon, pickled quails’ eggs...everything he liked best. Mrs. Featherfield and Sedgewick made the list and Nanny Stowe got it all in. She said the cost was not to be a consideration. I hope that was right, sir.”

“Quite right, Wallace.”

Though he’d certainly be checking the accounts. A blithe disregard for expenses was fine for his grandfather. For such an attitude to be adopted by the ubiquitous Nanny Stowe raised a few ugly suspicions about where the money went. Feathering her own nest before the grandson and heir arrived might be right down her stowaway alley.

As he dumped the duffel bag in the trunk, Beau was wondering if the family solicitor had been holding a watching brief on his grandfather’s estate while all this had been going on. Surely his legal responsibility didn’t begin and end with posting off a set of official documents to Buenos Aires.

Beau was champing at the bit by the time Wallace had ushered him into the back seat of the Roller. Home first to scout the nanny situation, then straight off to check the legal position. However, there was one burning question that couldn’t wait. As soon the car was in motion, he asked it.

“Why did my grandfather acquire a nanny, Wallace?”

“Well, you know how he liked to have his little jokes, sir. He said he needed to have a nanny on hand, ready to look after him when he slid into his second childhood since there was no telling when it might happen at his age.”

That seemed to be taking provident care a bit far. “Was there any sign of encroaching second childhood, Wallace? Please be frank with me.”

“Not at all, sir. Mr. Prescott was the same as he ever was, right up until the night he...um...passed over.”

At least he was saved the Angel of Death this time. “But he kept the nanny on regardless,” Beau probed for more information.

“Yes, sir. Said she was better for him than a gin and tonic.”

Beau frowned. “She didn’t stop him drinking, did she?”

“Oh, she wouldn’t have dreamed of doing that, sir.” Wallace sounded quite shocked at the idea. “Nanny Stowe is very sociable. Very sociable.”

And knew which side of her bread was buttered, Beau thought darkly, making sure she kept in good with everyone. There seemed no point in further questioning. Nanny Stowe had Wallace sucked right in. He wasn’t about to say a bad word about the woman, despite her staying on so long without any nanny duties to perform. Such dalliance smacked of very dubious integrity to Beau. He was glad the chance to make his own judgment on her was fast approaching.

“Do you mind if I use the car phone to call Sedgewick, sir? He particularly asked to let him know when we were on our way.”

Beau couldn’t resist one dry remark. “I’m surprised it isn’t Nanny Stowe who wants to know.”

“Sedgewick will inform her, sir.”

Of course. “Go right ahead, Wallace. I wouldn’t deprive anyone of the chance to put out the welcome mat for me.”

And he hoped Nanny Stowe would be standing right in the middle of it, shaking in her boots!