A Nanny For Christmas. Sara Craven

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘YOUR favourite customer is back.’ Lynn shouldered her way through the swing doors into the kitchen with a tray of dirty crockery.

      ‘That little girl again?’ Phoebe glanced up, frowning, from her task of adding a salad garnish to a plate of egg mayonnaise sandwiches. ‘Is she still on her own?’

      ‘As ever was.’ Lynn began expertly to pack the dishwasher. ‘Odd, isn’t it?’

      Phoebe’s frown deepened. ‘I think it’s downright irresponsible of someone,’ she said roundly. ‘She’s far too young to be wandering around the streets alone. I wouldn’t say she was much more than seven.’

      ‘She’s safe enough in here,’ Lynn pointed out fairly. ‘The Clover Tea Rooms isn’t exactly a meeting place for kidnappers and perverts.’

      ‘As far as we know,’ Phoebe said grimly, filling a milk jug and placing it on her own tray together with a teapot, a sugar basin and the sandwiches.

      As she carried it through to the dining room she cast a worried glance towards the comer table by the window and its small occupant.

      The child had been coming in for the past three days, at the same time each afternoon. On the first occasion Phoebe had assumed she was waiting for some adult to join her.

      Instead, the little girl had asked for a menu.

      ‘Would you like me to tell you what there is?’ Phoebe had suggested, receiving a look of utmost scorn for her pains.

      ‘I can read it for myself, thank you,’ a clear, remarkably self-possessed voice told her, before placing an order for a sultana scone and a cup of hot chocolate.

      Even then, Phoebe hesitated. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to wait for the rest of your family? Our food is quite expensive, you see.’

      Scorn deepened into outrage in the child’s eyes. ‘I can afford to pay,’ she announced with immense dignity. She delved into her tote bag and produced a crisp five-pound note. ‘Will that be enough?’

      ‘More than enough,’ Phoebe allowed evenly, and went to get the order.

      Her meal finished, the little girl paid, worked out a tip with frowning concentration and left. A pattern that had now become established, although it made Phoebe no happier.

      This time, the child asked for hot milk with honey and nutmeg and some home-made biscuits.

      ‘You’re becoming quite a regular,’ Phoebe remarked, trying to sound casual as she placed the order on the table. ‘But, unlike most of our customers, we don’t know your name.’

      There was a pause, then the little girl said doubtfully, ‘I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.’

      ‘And quite right too,’ Phoebe approved warmly. ‘But I’m hardly a stranger. For one thing I feed you every day, and, for another, my name’s pinned on my shirt. So...?’ She waited expectantly.

      There was a pause, then the child said reluctantly, ‘I’m Tara Vane.’

      ‘That’s a pretty name.’ Phoebe gave her an encouraging smile. ‘Do you live in Westcombe?’

      This brought a decisive shake of the head. ‘I live at Fitton Magna.’

      Phoebe was silent for a moment, angry to realise that her heart was pounding suddenly. It’s only a place, she reminded herself. And what happened was six years ago. It has nothing to do with here and now.

      ‘I see,’ she said slowly. ‘Then you have a long journey home.’

      Tara gave her a superior look. ‘It’s fifteen miles. It doesn’t take long in the car.’

      ‘Ah.’

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