worse, destroyed by some developer—had stirred himself to put in his sage opinion. “Matter of cross-pollination, getting the two of you together.”
“And in the light of Mr. Vivian’s passing over that night,” Sedgewick had added portentously, “I think everyone must agree you gave him a deathbed promise, Nanny Stowe. One cannot disregard the gravity of a deathbed promise.”
“A chance, Sedgewick,” Maggie had hastily pleaded. “I only promised to give it a chance. There’s no guarantee that Beau Prescott would ever see me as...as a desirable wife. Or, indeed, that I’d see him as a desirable husband.”
“But you’ll give it a good chance, won’t you, dear?’ Mrs. Featherfield had pressed. ”And you do have a year to make the best of it.”
“Be assured you will have our every assistance,” Sedgewick had declared.
“Hear, hear!” they had all agreed, their eyes pinning Maggie down with their anxious hope.
She had wanted to say again and again it was only a joke, but to Sedgewick and Mrs. Featherfield and Wallace and Mr. Polly, it was deadly serious. Their future was at stake. Making some other life was unthinkable, and their expectations of continuing the status quo into the sunset were riding on her and what Mr. Vivian had wanted.
The truly dreadful part was they had convinced themselves she could bring it off—marry the heir, have his child, and they would all live happily ever after at Rosecliff. The doubts she voiced were brushed aside. Worse...they attacked the doubts by plotting outrageous ways to get around them. The goal was now fixed in their minds and it was so blindingly wonderful, they didn’t want to see anything else.
Giving it a chance did not promise a certain result, she had warned each one of them.
And what were their replies?
Sedgewick, bending his head in soulful chiding, “Nanny Stowe, you know what Mr. Vivian always preached. You must cultivate a positive attitude.”
Attitude did not necessarily produce miracles!
Mrs. Featherfield, doing her endearing mother hen thing, “Think of a baby. A new baby at Rosecliff. I can’t imagine anything more perfect.”
Babies were not high on Maggie’s agenda. She was only twenty-eight, not thirty-eight!
Wallace, a lecherous twinkle in his eye as he pointedly looked at the long tumbling mass of her red-gold hair. “No need to worry. Nanny Stowe. I can assure you Master Beau will take one look at you and his brain will register—red hot mamma. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
Maggie was not interested in the brain below Beau Prescott’s belt! Not unless there was an engaging brain above it, as well.
Mr. Polly, tending his prize roses. “Nature will take its course, Nanny Stowe. A little help and care and you can always get the result you want.”
Marriage, unfortunately, was not a bed of roses. It was a lot more complicated.
Maggie couldn’t truthfully claim she absolutely didn’t want it. Not having met the man, how could she know one way or the other? Even looking at Beau Prescott’s photograph and assessing his physical attractions, she couldn’t help feeling terribly uneasy with the situation.
It was fine for Vivian and all the faithful staff to dismiss the possibility of Beau Prescott’s not liking her or her not liking him. They didn’t want to admit the possibility. Maggie, however, had her reservations and many of them.
Besides, when it came to marriage, there was a matter of chemistry, too. Good-looking men had often left Maggie quite cold in the past. They were so full of themselves, there was no room for a two-way relationship. Not really. All they wanted was for a woman to fall on her back for them. Well, no thanks.
But maybe there could be magic with Beau Prescott. He did look very engaging in the photograph. If enough of Vivian had rubbed off on his grandson...
The ache in her heart intensified. Vivian Prescott had given her the most wonderful two years of her life. She hadn’t realised quite how much she’d loved that old man until... suddenly he wasn’t here anymore... and never would be again.
Joie de vivre.
Did his grandson have the same amazing zest to find pleasure in everything? Or make pleasure out of nothing! Or did one have to be old before time became so precious, the need to make the most of it inspired a creative talent for delight?
Her bedside telephone rang.
Maggie dropped the photograph back in the drawer of her writing desk, shutting it away before answering the call which would be from Sedgewick, telling her the real live flesh-and-blood Beau Prescott was on the last lap of his journey home. Her heart fluttered nervously as she picked up the receiver.
“He’s earlier than we thought, Nanny Stowe.” Sedgewick’s plummy tones rang in her ears. “Master Beau does have a way of getting out of airports in record time.” A touch of pride there.
They all loved him; Sedgewick, Mrs. Featherfield, Wallace, Mr. Polly. To them Beau Prescott was still their wild child, grown to manhood admittedly, but in no way changed from their long affectionate view of him. They wanted her to love him, too, but that was an entirely different ball game. To Maggie he was a stranger, even though he was Vivian’s grandson.
“Did Wallace say how far away they are?” she asked.
“About twenty minutes.” A lilt of excitement, anticipation. “I trust you are dressed and ready, Nanny Stowe.”
To knock Beau Prescott’s eyes out. That was the general advice. The plan. Consensus had been absolute—Mr. Vivian would have expected it of her.
“Yes, Sedgewick,” she returned dryly. “But I think it best to give Master Beau time to greet you and Mrs. Featherfield before I intrude. After all...”
“Splendid ideal We’ll hold him in the vestibule chatting. Then you make your entrance. I do hope you’re wearing black, Nanny Stowe. It looks so well against the red carpet on the staircase.”
Maggie rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sedgewick, I am wearing black,” she assured him. “In mourning. Not for dramatic effect.”
“Most appropriate,” he warmly approved. “Though you must remember Mr. Vivian’s principles, Nanny Stowe. You don’t mourn a death. You celebrate a life. We cannot let sadness get in the way of...uh...propelling the future forward.”
“Thank you, Sedgewick.”
Maggie put the receiver down and heaved a long sigh, needing to relieve some of the tightness building up in her chest. She wandered around the room, trying to work off her inner agitation. Then on impulse, she opened the French doors that led onto the balcony and stepped outside.
The view drew her over to the balustrade. It was beautiful. Maggie doubted there was a more splendid position than here at Vaucluse, perched above Sydney Harbour, the magnificently kept grounds and gardens of Rosecliff spreading down to the water’s edge in geometrically patterned tiers, each one featuring a fountain to delight the eye.
The mansion itself was a famous landmark for tourist cruises on the harbour. Built on a grand scale in the neoclassical style and set
