Chapter Three #3
She walked with Rhys to the entry. “Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “It’s going to be fine. We are fine. Trust me.”
He nodded, expression grim, and then was gone. As Cat started back for the kitchen, she saw the girls edging for the stairs. Cat put her hands up, stopping them. “Let’s do the breakfast dishes first, and then you can play.”
Both girls froze and glanced at each other before looking at Cat.
“Dishes?” Jillian said, in her best, most posh London school girl accent.
“Yes,” Cat answered, checking her smile. “Those things we just ate on.”
“We don’t do dishes. That’s not our job.” Jillian gestured imperiously in the direction of the kitchen. “That’s your job.”
“Don’t you do dishes at home?” Cat asked.
“We have a housekeeper. She does the dishes, and the cleaning, and here you do the dishes and the cleaning. We’re children, not staff.”
Olivia giggled nervously, before clamping a hand over her mouth. Jillian’s arms folded over her chest, clearly empowered.
Cat was more intrigued than offended. Jillian was a bit of a princess, and out of touch with the way most of the world lived, but Cat wouldn’t punish her for that.
She’d just ease her into the real world, little by little. “Well, while I’m here, we’re all going to do chores together. You’ll make your own beds and tidy your own rooms, and we’ll set the table as a family, and then clean up as a family.”
“But you’re not part of our family. You’re not part of us.” Jillian’s voice rose, her cheeks stained a mottled red. “And you can’t make us cook and clean everything. We’re children.”
“But how will you ever run a home of your own if you don’t know how to do basic things?” Cat kept her tone mild. “Don’t you want to be self-sufficient one day?”
“Someday,” Jillian flashed. “Not today.”
“I think today is a great day to start learning. Olivia, will you please scrape the plates into the rubbish bin? Jillian, will you fill the dish pan with hot water and soap—”
“No.” Jillian practically screamed the word at Cat. “No, and no, and no. We are not going to do the dishes.” She put her hand out on her sister’s arm, keeping her from moving into the kitchen. “We are not going to do anything you tell us—”
“Then you’ll spend the day in your room, alone. Without your phone, or your laptop, or any of the electronics you love.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I don’t want to do that, but if you’re going to challenge me right and left, then you leave me no recourse.”
“You are horrible,” Jillian thundered. “Horrible and hateful. Where did my father find you?”
Cat held her breath, counted to five, and then exhaled.
She would be calm if it killed her. “I found him actually,” she said, smiling pleasantly. “Well, my friend Sarah did, on a bulletin board at your father’s hospital. He was advertising for a childminder there.”
“Did you work at the hospital?”
“No. I’ve been studying the past couple of years at UCL.”
“Have you any experience as a nanny?” Jillian demanded.
Cat shook her head. “No.”
The girl’s jaw dropped. “None at all?”
“Zero.”
“Does he know that?”
Cat’s lips twitched. She shouldn’t be amused. This wasn’t funny. But if she didn’t find some humor in the situation, she’d be back at the train station racing to London this afternoon. “I’m fairly certain Dr. Harmon understood my qualifications.”
“Which are?”
“Two graduate degrees in medieval history and literature, the second with a teaching component.”
“That’s your qualifications?”
“I love the humanities.”
“What about the other things nannies do? Sew, cook, bandage wounds and things.”
“I did make eggs this morning.”
“They were awful. It was a terrible breakfast,” Jillian snapped.
“They were overcooked,” Cat agreed, glancing at Olivia and giving her a smile. “I’ll do better tomorrow. I’ll use the timer on my watch.”
But Jillian wasn’t finished. “If you don’t know how to do anything a nanny does, why did you take this job?”
Cat shrugged. “I needed the money. Your father was in a pinch. He had lined up a proper replacement, someone the nanny agency recommended, but you scared her away, so here I am, having a splendid time with you.”
“You don’t need to be sarcastic.”
“But I am having a splendid time. I’m staying in a charming stone house on an old English estate just a mile from the historic market town of Bakewell.”
“I did not scare Miss Pettigrew away,” Jillian said, taking a furious step toward Cat. “Miss Pettigrew wasn’t up for the job and so, after a little chat, she decided she’d rather not spend Christmas with us.”
Catriona fought the urge to laugh. Jillian was absolutely diabolical, and Cat wasn’t sure if she was impressed or appalled.
“Poor Miss Pettigrew,” Cat sighed sympathetically. “But at least she had the sense to get out while she could.”
Jillians’ eyes narrowed. “What about us? Olivia and me?”
“What about you?”
“You mentioned Bakewell and Langley Park, but you said nothing about us.”
“Your father—”
“Not him. Us. Olivia and me. You’re supposed to be thinking about us. But you didn’t mention us at all.”
“Yes, but I don’t really know either of you well, and what I do know of you Jillian isn’t pleasant, so—”
“My mother would not like how you are speaking to me.” Jillian drew herself tall, her slim shoulders squared. “If she were here, she’d fire you for being rude, and abusive.”
“I’m not trying to be rude. I’m trying to be honest with you. Just as you are being honest with me. I thought we were having a very nice open conversation.”
“We’re not. You’re being mean.”
“Then let’s stop talking,” Cat said, “and do the dishes so we can have a better day.”
“I already told you I’m not doing the dishes. And that’s the end of that.”
“Then I guess you’re spending the day in your room.” Cat looked at Olivia, who looked utterly miserable. “Olivia, want to help me with dishes? It won’t take long.”
Jillian gave her sister a fierce look before answering for her. “No, she doesn’t. She’s not a servant, either.” And then she marched past Cat, dragging a reluctant Olivia with her.
In the kitchen, Cat washed up, wiped down the table, checked the refrigerator and pantry so she’d be prepared for lunch. She could make sandwiches, or soup and sandwiches, but maybe they could also walk into Bakewell? Have a little lunch there in one of the bakeries or cafes?
The more she thought about it, the more enthusiastic she became.
They’d take a brisk walk into the village, find a cozy place for lunch, maybe do a little window shopping and be back to meet Rhys at two.
They’d all benefit from a little exercise, fresh air, and lunch in a new place that would be on neutral ground.
Even better, there would be no cooking or cleaning up.
Cat dressed and grabbed a book, carrying it to the huge stone hearth downstairs which burned brightly.
Rhys had filled the wood bin and now and then she’d get up and add another log.
Halfway through the morning she made a cup of tea for herself and was tempted to call up to the girls to see if they wanted anything but then stopped herself.
Jillian had made it clear she wanted space, and Cat was determined to give the girl space.
Cat just hoped that Olivia wasn’t bored out of her mind.
As it neared noon, Cat silently rehearsed her invitation, practicing what she’d say when she asked them to go into Bakewell for lunch with her.
She even practiced what she might say if Jillian balked.
She’d keep it light but also be kind but firm.
It was going to be a good activity for all three of them.
A chance to do something fun—and new—together.
She climbed the stairs and knocked at the girls’ shared room. “Jillian. Olivia. I’ve an idea for lunch,” she said through the closed door.
Silence.
Cat tried again, a little louder. “Jillian? Olivia?”
Nothing. A quiet, deliberate nothing.
Cat frowned. She tried the doorknob. It turned easily. The room was empty, the beds unmade, clothes strewn about. So many clothes strewn about that it was obvious that they—one or both girls—had deliberately made a mess.
She headed to their bathroom. Empty. On to their father’s room. Empty. They hadn’t passed her on the stairs or come downstairs. So, they had to be in the cottage, didn’t they?
But the icy temperature—and the gusty breeze—in their dad’s room drew her attention and she walked deeper into his room and spotted the open window.
They couldn’t have climbed out of the window, could they?
She leaned out the window to see just how high they were from the ground when she spotted the ladder hanging on the outside of the cottage.
It was one of those portable ladders her parents had for their two-story house in case of a fire.
They’d shown her how to use it—in case of a fire.
You just hooked it on the windowsill, let it fall outside, and then climb out.
And that was what the girls had done here.
Cat shook her head, her temper rising, and unhooked the fire ladder, let it fall to the ground outside and then closed and latched the window. Just because they’d sneaked out of the cottage this way didn’t mean they were going to sneak back in.
Downstairs, she checked the coat pegs by the door and their heavy winter coats were still there, as were their hats and gloves.
So, whatever the girls were wearing wasn’t their warmest winter attire.
If Jillian wanted to freeze, that was fine, but it was irresponsible for her to take her younger sister out without her being dressed warmly enough.
Cat grabbed her coat and headed outside herself.
She checked the back garden first where she spotted the fire ladder in a pile at the base of the house.
The small flagstone path, although slick with frost, revealed small footprints leading across the garden, through the back gate, and out toward the lane.