At the Midnight Hour (3 page)

“You are the new nanny,” the boy said, and even though it was impossible to clearly see his eyes behind his rather thick glasses, Liz could hear the accusation in his voice.

She took a deep breath and called all her training to mind. Everyone had always said she had a way with children. That was one of the reasons she’d decided to become a nanny when it had become clear to her she needed to get away if she ever wanted to get on with her life. Now, of course, was the moment of truth.

Kneeling so she would be on eye level with him, she extended an easy hand and a friendly smile. “Yes, I am,” she said slowly, her drawl evident. “I’m Elizabeth, but you can call me Liz. And you must be Andrew.”

“Andrew Philip Michael Keaton, the first,” the boy informed her haughtily. Then he threw in for good measure “You dress like a peasant.”

On that note, Mrs. Pram crossed to the armoire and opened it to reveal a row of neat gray suits.

“Miss Guiness has not had time to put on her uniform yet, Master Andrew,” the head housekeeper said primly. “You will have to excuse her.”

From across the room, Liz eyed the rows of starched pressed suits with dismay. She was supposed to keep up with a six-year-old boy wearing those? Then again, given his choice of attire...

Still, she just couldn’t picture herself in such constricting clothes. Surely the uniform didn’t matter
that
much. Maybe she could take up the matter a little later with Mr. Keaton. For now, she would just have to stall.

She tried to change the topic instead. “Why, thank you for showing me the uniforms,” she said brightly. “Now, then, I believe Andy and I would like to get better acquainted, wouldn’t we, Andy?”

“I most certainly would not.”

Liz managed to maintain her smile even then, though it was starting to strain the muscles around her mouth. Where was the insecure little boy just waiting to be loved? Not even Mary Poppins had had to put up with this. Well, all she could do was forge blindly ahead.

“Tough,” she informed him, trying valiantly to maintain her smile. “Mrs. Pram,” she said casually, “I think you may continue with your other duties now. I can take care of things here.”

“Mrs. Pram, I order you not to leave,” Andrew immediately countered with his clipped young voice. “Don’t leave me alone with her,” he ordered. “Forty-nine Americans are murdered a day, and many of those by people they
know.
”

Despite herself, Liz couldn’t quite keep the shock off her face. So he really was a walking stats book. And not very pleasant stats, at that. What was she supposed to do about this?

“Nonsense,” she told him firmly, adopting her mother’s best no-nonsense tone. “I’m here to take care of you, not harm you.” But he was still glaring at her with such a distrustful mean expression she couldn’t quite stop the next words from rushing out. “Besides,” she found herself saying, “I’ll only kill you if you drive me to it.”

“Did you hear that,” Andrew said immediately to Mrs. Pram, who was watching the interaction with avid interest. “She
threatened
me.” Then he abruptly whipped out a small spiral notebook from his inside breast pocket and promptly began scribbling something down.

This time she didn’t try reason. If this little interaction was anything to go by, the child clearly needed solid, consistent discipline. Or four older brothers who didn’t take any guff. Without asking, she simply swiped the notebook from his hands. Then, turning to Mrs. Pram, she said in her most practiced, authoritative voice, “Please excuse Andrew and me.” The woman still didn’t move, so Liz took a deep breath to say it one more time. But perhaps her determination showed now, for the older woman turned and without so much as a backward glance, marched out of the room.

That small victory achieved, Liz glanced down at the small notebook. “Infractions Committed by Nanny Number Four,” she read out loud. “I guess that must mean me.”

Andrew gave a small dignified little sniff before trying to grab the notebook back. Having grown up with lightning-quick Garret, however, she was quicker. “Infraction number one—threatened being of Andrew Philip Michael Keaton, the first, with death,” she read out loud. Looking up at the angry little boy, she said, “Well, Andy, that’s a very serious charge.”

Andrew nodded his head furiously, grabbing the notebook from her hands and scribbling yet another notation. “Infraction number two—refusal to call Andrew Philip Michael Keaton, the first, by proper name,” he stiffly read to her when he was done writing. “You may call me Master Andrew if you desire, but ‘Andy’ is out of the question.”

“I see. How about simply Andrew?”

“
Master
Andrew.”

“You may call me Liz,” she attempted cheerily.

“You’re a nanny, your title is irrelevant,” he informed her. “I can call you whatever I choose.”

She gave this last comment a little more thought. If the boy truly was insecure, he seemed determined to hide it behind an armor of snobbery and disdain. While the Bradford Agency had gone into great depth about such things as proper nutrition, exercise and education for a healthy, happy charge, there were no clear guidelines as to dealing with a brat. You simply had to use your best judgment. From what she’d seen, she was convinced a little bit of small-town upbringing would do this child a world of good.

Her mind made up, she looked at him with warm, dark blue eyes.

“I’m going to call you Andy,” she informed him with a firm but easy smile. “Andrew is a name of respect, and if you want to have respect, you must show respect. When you can do that, then I will call you Andrew.”

He glared at her a minute, but she refused to back down. It was a small battle of wills, but she’d grown up surrounded by strong-willed people so she figured she ought to have the advantage. But just as she was beginning to congratulate herself on her handling of the situation, he once again began scribbling furiously in the notebook.

“Infraction number three,” he told her. “Refusal to wear proper attire.”

She could only agree with this one. She really didn’t want to wear those starched gray things, and after a moment’s consideration she decided it would be better if she didn’t. The agency had assigned her to the Keatons because traditional approaches weren’t working with the child, so it was felt that creative handling might do better. And that was exactly what she intended to do—which meant no uniforms. “I think these clothes will just have to do,” she told him, indicating what she was currently wearing.

This time instead of the usual glare, she received a slightly more puzzled look.

“You’re a nanny,” he told her again as if this ought to have some special meaning for her. “You
have
to wear a uniform.”

She shook her head. “As a nanny, I’m supposed to help you grow and learn. And I certainly can’t do that in a uniform. Besides, you definitely can’t ride a horse in suits like that, or play catch, or go to a park, or fly a kite, for that matter.”

His confusion cleared immediately.

“I don’t do any of those things,” he informed her promptly.

“You’re only six,” Liz reasoned with him. “You’re still allowed to try new things. I believe that option is open until you’re at least ten or so.”

He frowned. “You’re making fun of me,” he accused.

She tried to shake her head no, but it didn’t do any good.

“I don’t like you,” Andrew said, and his lower lip began to jut out suspiciously. It was the first sign of normality Liz had seen, though, and she was actually relieved by this newest display. However, she truly didn’t want to upset him, so she decided to change the topic once more.

“What do you like doing?” she asked as a means of declaring a truce.

“I read,” he told her. “I have been reading since I was three. My father taught himself how to read when he was two. How old were you?”

“Probably at least six or so,” Liz admitted, and was given a disdainful glance for her obvious inferiority. She chose to ignore it. “What kinds of things do you like to read, other than statistics on how many people are murdered a day, that is?”

“That is an important statistic,” Andrew informed her. “You have to be careful, you know. There are lots of bad things out there.” He seemed to eye her for a minute, then, with a speculative gleam in his eye, he dropped his bombshell. “My mother was murdered.”

In spite of herself, Liz could not quite keep the shock from her face. Mr. Keaton had said his wife was dead, an event that must have been traumatic enough for a young boy. But he’d never hinted at murder, and that seemed such a strong charge. Then again, she thought with a small internal grimace, after exactly one hour in this dark house, what did she know? She was definitely going to have to speak with Mr. Keaton in the morning. Now, why didn’t that settle her nerves at all?

Andrew was still looking at her, his bright blue eyes still speculative. Not knowing the truth, she decided the safest course was to change the topic yet again.

She stood, stretching out her cramped knees. “I’m hungry,” she declared. “It’s too late for dinner, so how about a late-night snack?”

“Dodd does not allow snacks.”

“Dodd?”

“The cook,” Andrew said impatiently, his voice clearly implying that he was speaking to an idiot.

“Well,
I
would like a snack, so we’ll just have to think of something,” Liz told him, and without a backward glance, she headed for the door.

“Snacks are bad for you,” Andrew said, but she noticed that he followed her.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Then we’ll just have to live dangerously.”

There was silence for a bit, only the sound of their shoes striking the wood floor as they journeyed down the long hallway.

“What are you going to eat?” Andrew asked after a while.

“Hmm. Preferably something with chocolate.”

“Two million, one hundred and sixty thousand Hershey’s Kisses are produced a day,” he volunteered.

“Really?” she asked, truly impressed this time. “Well then, we’ll just have to eat some of them.”

She wasn’t sure if he was convinced, but he continued to follow her into the foyer, where she turned around in circles, realizing she had no idea where the kitchen was. Finally, giving her another condescending glance for her efforts, Andrew showed her the way to the kitchen.

The mysterious cook was nowhere to be seen, so Liz seized the opportunity to raid the pantry. There was no chocolate to be found, but eventually she did stumble upon some strawberry ice cream in the freezer. It would do the trick, she decided.

She carried it and two bowls she’d found over to the small wooden table.

“Only servants sit there,” Andrew informed her.

As long as her day had been, she was almost afraid to ask. “And where do you sit?”

He led her into an adjoining dining room. There rested a formal dining table of rich mahogany wood, set up to serve sixteen. Overhead was another dimly lit chandelier. She took the ice cream back to the wooden table.

“Sit,” she informed him curtly. Not waiting for him to obey, she began scooping ice cream into the bowls.

“Two hundred and twenty-five Americans receive nose jobs a day,” Andrew said behind her.

She handed him a bowl with two small scoops of ice cream. “Eat.”

He seemed to debate this for a minute, but when it became clear she wasn’t going to wait for him to decide one way or the other, he went ahead and sat on the other side of the table.

For the next ten minutes she was at least blessed with silence. Spooning in the ice cream bite after mechanical bite, Andrew seemed content to simply stare at her. For her part, she did her best to concentrate on the smooth, creamy texture of the sweet dessert sliding down her throat.

The house was very different. The owner much too distant, the child much too somber. But the ice cream at least, the ice cream tasted like home.

And sitting there, finally at the point she’d been dreaming of reaching for six long months now, she wondered once again if she’d done the right thing. That was the problem with small towns, she knew. They became your life, your identity. And maybe it wasn’t too bad. Until that identity became too much to handle. Until the memories were too much to bear and you knew you would never be able to progress unless you simply left. Maybe in this cold house she would forget Nick. Maybe surrounded by the mysterious Mr. Keaton and his insecure son, she could finally put the past behind her.

But then again, looking at the intense little boy sitting across from her, she wasn’t so sure anymore. He was watching her with unblinking eyes, eyes that brought back the unbidden image of Richard Keaton, standing in the foyer. Such a dark and powerful man. What went on behind those eyes? What did those eyes see, and what did those eyes feel?

She’d talked to the man for nearly an hour, and she had no idea at all.

And Alycia Keaton? Andrew said that his mother had been murdered. Surely such a thing could not be true.

Under the dim light of the kitchen, she found herself shivering.

She’d run from one dark tragedy. But where she’d arrived, she wasn’t so sure of at all.

A
fter an exhausted night’s sleep, Liz awoke to an abrupt piece of news. Richard Keaton had left.

Late in the night, he’d been called away to some sort of scientists’ convention in Geneva. According to Mrs. Pram, this kind of impromptu travel was not unusual. It seemed that Mr. Keaton maintained a fairly unstructured and highly irregular schedule. At any rate, he would be gone anywhere from five days to two weeks. And that was that.

The announcement certainly caught Liz off guard. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved, for surely Mr. Keaton must have some sort of confidence in her to leave her alone so soon with his child, or to feel absolutely panicked, because indeed she was alone with a rather devious child. And then, of course, there was the fact that she got the fun job of telling little Andrew his father was gone.

Andrew didn’t say anything when she broke the news. But his bearing became even stiffer, his shoulders more rigid. She could see his need for toughness with such clarity, it hurt. When Richard came back, she vowed, she would have a serious discussion with him on his life-style.

Andrew was extremely difficult that day, rattling off his morbid statistics right and left. How many people died of cancer a day. How many people choked to death a day. It truly was overwhelming, and it was all Liz could do to keep her composure amid such morbidity. The child needed to get out, she decided firmly. He needed sunshine and activity and normality. Anything but all those darn statistics.

He also needed a firm hand.

That set the tone for the next twelve days. Andrew tested, she resisted. Andrew wore his stiff blue suits, she wore her flowing cotton skirts. She took him out to the pool, and when he refused to swim, she swam, anyway, leaving him to watch from the sidelines. Sooner or later, she was convinced, he would join her. But he seemed to be even more stubborn than she. She took him out to the stables, and when he refused to mount the horse, she rode it around the arena alone. Andrew didn’t go on picnics, she took him, anyway. It was a battle of two wills, and at the end of the twelfth day, when she finally tucked him into bed, the winner was still far from certain.

One thing was for sure: she was certainly earning her keep.

It was now after nine o’clock, and her time was officially her own. The first few nights, she’d spent learning the house. But with all its sprawling hallways, that was easier attempted than done. On the third night, she’d discovered the library in the west wing, and every night since, she’d gone there. It was a beautiful room, large and lined with row after row of leather-bound books and intricate wooden paneling. A thick crimson and gold Oriental rug padded the hardwood floor, while delicate Tiffany lamps accentuated carefully arranged reading spots. With a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, it was the only room in the mansion that felt at all comfortable.

Now she settled down on the overstuffed leather sofa to enjoy one of the many classics that lined the walls. She was almost completely engrossed in
Wuthering Heights,
her imagination lost in the haunting intensity of the Yorkshire moors, when the hair on the back of her neck prickled and she looked up.

He
was there.

“Hello,” she said softly and the word seemed to reverberate through the arched ceiling of the room. He looked tired, she noticed immediately, no longer standing quite so tall and dignified as he had that first day in the foyer. The gray hair at his temples glowed under the faint light of the hall, making him look, all at once, more stately and more exhausted than ever.

“I see you found the library,” he said at last and the words were completely devoid of emotion. He had been on a plane for the last fourteen hours, and of the past twelve days, he’d only slept about twenty hours. He was exhausted and all he really wanted to do was collapse. But there were phone calls to make and meetings to confirm and diagrams to check and equations to compute, and...

And there was this woman, with her long brown hair falling down the back of the chocolate-colored couch, the strands gleaming a burnished copper by the firelight. This woman in her deep purple skirt and brilliant pink blouse. This woman with her silver bangles on her arms and her dangling earrings tangling in her hair. This woman with the most beautiful midnight blue eyes he had ever seen. Once more her smile was open, once more the look on her face was genuine and warm.

How many times in the past twelve days had he seen her in his mind’s eye? How many times, after endless hours of computations and arguments, had he returned to his hotel room only to be haunted by images of her?

He’d only seen her for one day, damn it. And she was his son’s nanny, he shouldn’t even remember what she looked like. But he did. His damned scientist’s mind had remembered every little detail, from the way her hair curled down around her face, to the delicate arch of her cheekbones, to the haunting intensity of her eyes. Mostly, he remembered the way her face had lit up when she’d smiled at him that once, as if every bit of her had felt that smile.

“I like your collection of books,” Liz managed to say as she swallowed under the intensity of his gaze. It seemed an eternity had already passed since he’d walked into the room, and she’d spent it all pinned under the scouring examination of his eyes. But nothing showed on his face. He’d stared at her for several long moments, and she still had no idea at all what he was thinking. It seemed that even tired, Richard Keaton remained as elusive as ever.

“I didn’t select them,” Richard said abruptly, indicating the books as he pushed himself away from the doorframe. His lips thinned into a grim line and he crossed the room to the small bar. There was a decanter of brandy out and he poured himself a stiff glass.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked curtly.

“I’m fine,” she replied softly. What went on in that mind of his that he always looked so controlled and grim?

She found that she really wanted to know. This was her new life now, and in a way, this was her new home. Certainly it would be easier if she could at least carry on a simple conversation with this man.

“How are things coming?” Richard asked abruptly, surprising them both with the sound of his voice. “I see that you are still here.”

“Well enough,” Liz said, hope flaring at the possibility of conversation. “Andrew’s trying, but he hasn’t driven me to murder yet.”

“Is he eating?”

“Yes.”

“Sleeping?”

“I’m actually not so sure about that,” she said honestly. “I think he may be reading on the sly, after lights-out, but I have yet to catch him in the act.”

Richard merely nodded.

“How was Geneva?” Liz asked after a bit, setting the book aside once and for all as she took in the man in front of her.

“Busy.”

“Did the conference go well?”

“Well enough.”

“You look tired,” she said softly.

“I am.”

“You’re not much for conversation, are you?”

“So I’ve been told.”

She smiled at that, not noticing the way his hand suddenly trembled at its impact. He was still as reclusive and reserved as she remembered. But she could try, couldn’t she? After all, Mrs. Pram wasn’t much for friendly overtures, and as much as Liz honestly liked Andrew, it would be nice to have some adult conversation from time to time.

The thought of Andrew, however, brought her to a more sobering point.

“I imagine,” she began slowly, “that you would probably like to spend some time with your son now that you’re back.” Not waiting for his reply, she rushed on. “I had planned to take Andrew fishing, but I could cancel that if you’d like.”

“Fishing?”

Liz smiled wanly. “It’s part of my campaign to get him out of the house more. I have to tell you, he’s a rather morbid child.”

“Is it working?”

“Not yet,” she admitted. “Now he brings his books with him and reads while I do whatever.”

Richard nodded, but remained silent, his eyes focused on the fire while he slowly turned the glass in his hand.

“So would you like me to cancel my plans? Perhaps he would enjoy it more if you took him fishing,” Liz pressed. Andrew needed his father; it didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that.

“I don’t fish,” Richard said, and whether he’d intended it or not, in that instant he sounded exactly like his son.

“Then do whatever,” Liz prompted. Why was he so cold to the idea? Andrew was his son, for goodness sake. His only child. Somehow, she would have thought that with the mother’s passing away, the father and son would be even closer. Yet...

“That won’t be necessary,” Richard said abruptly. “Continue as scheduled, Miss Guiness.”

She paused now, getting the distinct idea that Mr. Keaton was indeed determined to avoid his son. On the other hand, she was just as determined that the two do something together, if only for the sake of her six-year-old charge.

“What about joining us for lunch?” she suggested levelly.

“I have an appointment.”

“Tea? Dinner? A midnight snack? I’m sure it hardly matters to Andrew, as long as he gets to see you.”

“I don’t know if that will be possible just yet.” Once again, the words were emotionless.

They began to anger her. How could he ignore his own child? Couldn’t he see how insecure Andrew was? Couldn’t he see how much his own son missed him? Maybe that was the problem. Maybe with all his science and experiments, he didn’t understand how children worked. She selected a new tack.

“He talks about you a lot,” she said softly. “He has really missed you.”

But whatever response she was hoping for, it wasn’t what she got. Once again, the words were clipped and cold.

“Miss Guiness, Andrew has not seen me in five years. He doesn’t even know me.”

“But I think he’d like to,” she countered immediately, not willing to give up.

The words were coaxing, tugging at him, but he fought them off with another sip of the brandy. Yet, deep inside, he felt the depths of his turmoil swirl again. The guilt, the uncertainty, and perhaps most of all, the vulnerability. He had cared once for Alycia and Andrew. Sometimes, late and tired as he was now, he could almost remember other nights, when he’d looked down at the sleeping baby, and had felt his heart constrict in his chest. But Alycia had destroyed that, as she’d destroyed everything that had ever meant anything to him.

He couldn’t look at the boy without seeing her. And he couldn’t look at the child without wondering... Alycia’s death had been her final victory, leaving him alone with all his doubts. Andrew was the symbol of that triumph, the small blond reminder of Richard’s vulnerability, and all the things the tenth smartest mind in the nation would never know.

“I am a busy man,” he finally said. “You and Andrew will just have to accept that.”

She looked at him a long time from across the room on the couch. His coldness intimidated her, but she drew up her spine against it. She’d never been a timid person, she reminded herself. She’d led a sheltered life, but it wasn’t as if she’d been hiding from the world. There simply had never been the need to explore it until now. But here she was, and darn it, this man was being stubborn. She would not let him scare her into silence with his scowling face and cold eyes.

“I can’t,” she said suddenly out loud, her chin coming up as she openly challenged him. “Andrew is your son, and he needs you. You are his father, and you need him.”

His lips turned wryly, but he hid it by downing the last sip of brandy. Putting down the glass, he turned to face her with dispassionate ice-blue eyes.

“If you cannot accept my terms,” he said curtly, “you are free to leave.”

The finality, the coldness of the statement, shocked her. For a moment, she felt a rush of panic. She’d blown it. She’d pushed her employer too far, and now she would be sent home. But after the panic, came the anger. How could he be so distant toward his own child? How could he possibly be so cold?

She couldn’t understand it. All her life she had been surrounded by the easy laughter of a large family. She was accustomed to sharing, touching, reaching out. She’d already called home twice in the twelve days she’d been here to tell everyone she was all right and get her mother’s advice on handling her young charge. That was the way the Guiness household worked. Everyone was there for everyone.

She didn’t understand the Keaton kind of remoteness at all. And she could not accept it.

“Look,” she said at last, sitting up straighter. “I know I’m overstepping my bounds here, but I really feel you should reconsider spending more time with Andrew. He’s in a new environment now, in a large and lonely house. He’s insecure.” Her voice grew more earnest. “He’s scared. And his own thoughts offer no comfort. He thinks his mother was murdered.”

The last words were spoken softly, but she could see the impact even across the room. The man froze completely, his face turning to utter granite.

“He knows?” Richard questioned harshly.

She could only nod.

He laughed, a mirthless sound in the firelight. “Of course, the Wynstons told him. That would be something they would do. Take the child and turn him against me completely. Anything to advance their petty war. I should have known.”

“The Wynstons?” she questioned quietly, feeling confused.
He knows?
Not, what a foolish thought, but
He knows?
Good God, was it true?

“Alycia’s parents, of course.” And then, because he was tired, he found himself saying, “Andrew is right, after all. Alycia was murdered.”

He could see her eyes go wide with the impact of the confirmation, and it prodded him on.

“Everyone thinks I did it.”

If he’d been trying to shock her, Liz thought vaguely, well, then, it had worked. She was shocked. She was sitting on a leather sofa with so many thoughts running through her mind, she didn’t know where to begin to sort them out.

Could he really have murdered his wife? And if so, why hadn’t the agency warned her about this? Surely they wouldn’t send her to a house where the father was a suspected murderer. But then, if no charges had ever been filed, it would be just like the prim and proper Bradford Agency not to mention something as undignified as rumors in the file. She supposed there might be legal implications, as well, such as slander, but still...