Free The Empty House by Rosamunde Pilcher Page B

matter any more, one way or the other."
    She opened a drawer in the table and laid the cloth away, and shut the drawer with a little slam which instantly betrayed her scarcely-banked rage. But her face remained cool, her mouth primly set.
    "You know that what you think matters. You've done so much for the children. You mustn't think I'm not grateful. But they're not babies any longer."
    "And what is that meant to convey, if I might ask?"
    "Just that I can look after them now."
    Nanny turned from the table. For the first time, her eyes met Virginia's. And as they watched each other, Virginia saw the slow, angry flush spread up Nanny's neck, up her face, up to her hair line.
    She said, "Are you giving me my notice?"
    "No, that's not what I intended at all. But perhaps, now we've started to discuss it, it would be the best thing. For your sake as much as anyone else's. Perhaps it would be better for you."
    "And why would it be better for me? All my life I've given to this family, why, I had Anthony to look after from the beginning, and there was no reason why I should come up to Scotland and take care of your babies, I never wanted to go, to leave London, but Lady Keile asked me, and because it was the family, I went, a real sacrifice I made, and this is all the thanks I get . . ."
    "Nanny ..." Virginia interrupted gently when Nanny paused for a breath ". . . It would be better for you because of this. For that very reason. Wouldn't it be better to make a clean break, and maybe have a new baby to take care of, a new little family? You know how you always said a nursery wasn't a nursery without a little baby, and Nicholas is six now ..."
    "I never thought I'd live to see the day . . ."
    "And if you don't want to do that, then why not speak to Lady Keile? You could maybe make some arrangement with her. You get on so well together, and you like being in London, with all your friends ..."
    "I don't need you to give me any suggestions, thank you very much . . . given up the best years of my life . . . bringing up your children . . . never expected any thanks . . . never would have happened if poor Anthony ... if Anthony had been alive ..."
    It went on and on, and Virginia sat and listened, letting the invective pour over her. She told herself that this was the least she could do. It was over, it was done, and she was free. Nothing else mattered. To wait, politely, for Nanny to finish was no more than a salute of respect, a tribute paid by the victor to the vanquished after a bloodthirsty but honourable battle.
    Afterwards, she went to say good night to the children. Nicholas was already asleep, but Cara was still deep in her book. When her mother came into the room, she looked up slowly, dragging her eyes away from the printed page. Virginia sat on the edge of her bed.
    "What are you reading now?" Cara showed her. "It's The Treasure Seekers."
    "Oh, I remember that. Where did you find it?"
    "In the nursery bookcase."
    Carefully, she marked the place in her book with a cross-stitched marker she had made herself, closed it and put it down on her bedside table. "Have you been talking to Nanny?"
    "Yes."
    "She's been funny all day."
    "Has she, Cara?"
    "Is something wrong?"
    It was hard to be so perceptive, so sensitive to atmosphere when you were only eight years old. Especially when you were shy and not very pretty and had to wear round steel spectacles that made you look like a little owl.
    "No, nothing's wrong. Just different. And new."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Well, I'm going back to Cornwall tomorrow morning in the train, and I'm going to take you and Nicholas with me. Will you like that?"
    "You mean ..." Cara's face lit up. "We're going to stay with Aunt Alice?"
    "No, we're going to stay in a house on our own. A funny little house called Bosithick. And we're going to have to do all the housekeeping ourselves and the cooking ..."
    "Isn't Nanny coming?"
    "No. Nanny's staying here."
    There was a long silence. Virginia said, "Do . . . you