are if she walked round the house without her slippers and only in her nightgown. And I told you, Guy, you can’t call her Nurse and Auntie at the same time. She’s not both.”
“Then she’s Auntie Anne,” Guy declared. “She’s too pretty to be just Nurse.”
“You are rather pretty.” Emma, having pulled back the curtain so that considerably more of the pale sunshine flooded the room, now approached the bed and examined Ann’s face earnestly. “Yes, you are rather pretty,” she conceded again.
“But you look like a nurse when you’re wearing uniform. Even though you didn’t have a cap on. Why didn’t you have a cap on?”
“I don’t know,” Ann said weakly. And when Emma’s big, china blue eyes continued to survey her incredulously, she went on, “Oh, I suppose because I hadn’t the energy to make one up.”
“Make one up!” repeated her interrogator.
Ann nodded. “Yes, they’re bands of linen, very stiff, and you have to pin them...”
“Oh, will you show me?”
“I shall only show you if you come into bed and get warm.”
“Come in, Emma. It’s lovely and warm, and Nurse Auntie Anne is so soft and cuddly ... Like my big panda,” Guy added for generous measure.
Emma wasn’t to be won so easily. “It isn’t Nurse and Auntie — and I’ve told you and told you, Guy!” And then to Ann, “Could I put your dressing-gown round me and sit under the eiderdown at the bottom of the bed?”
“Yes, anything to get you warm. You’re shivering.”
“Well, perhaps I am the tiniest bit cold,” the little girl admitted, and climbed on to the foot of the bed, while Ann reached forward and tucked the dressing-gown around the plump little figure.
When she had unpacked on the previous evening, Ann had laid the starched band and her box of pins on the dressing-chest, which in this small room she could easily reach by putting out her hand.
The two children watched her intently as she pinned the cap into its attractive butterfly shape and then perched it on the top of her head.
“Now, you see,” she said.
“It makes you look pretty,” said Guy, with precocious masculine appreciation of a nurse’s uniform.
“You are a nurse or you wouldn’t know how to do it as quickly as that,” Emma admitted. “When are you beginning to look after us instead of Miss Pollard?”
“I’ve no idea,” Ann said dryly. “Now it’s my turn for questions. Have you any pets? A puppy, or a kitten, or a tortoise or rabbits?”
They both fixed her with large, serious blue eyes. Emma as usual took it upon herself to explain. “No one likes animals. When we stayed with Auntie Mary — she’s too old to be a real auntie, but that’s what we were told to call her — when we stayed with her, she said it wasn’t hi — hi — hydrogen, I think. It means they have germs, and those are little creatures which bite you, Miss Pollard says...”
“Uncle Iain is a germ chaser,” Guy put in sleepily from his warm nest under the bedclothes. “He says—”
“Nana — I mean Nana Woods — doesn’t like animals,” interrupted Emma, determined as always to pursue the matter to a final conclusion. “She says it’s enough trouble looking after all the human beings at Fountains, without having any animals.”
Ann resolved that as soon as she was in charge of the children, she would get permission for them to have a kitten or a puppy, or even both.
She turned to Guy. “You were telling me something that your Uncle Iain had said,” she queried softly.
“I’ve forgotten now,” came the sleepy voice.
“Miss Pollard says that Uncle Iain is a heart-throb. What is a heart-throb?”
From the foot of the bed, Emma looked at Ann enquiringly.
“Something that Miss Pollard is perhaps more competent to speak about than I am,” returned Ann dryly, reflecting that the governess must be a complete idiot to talk so freely before young children as she apparently did. She must know that they would repeat at some
“Then she’s Auntie Anne,” Guy declared. “She’s too pretty to be just Nurse.”
“You are rather pretty.” Emma, having pulled back the curtain so that considerably more of the pale sunshine flooded the room, now approached the bed and examined Ann’s face earnestly. “Yes, you are rather pretty,” she conceded again.
“But you look like a nurse when you’re wearing uniform. Even though you didn’t have a cap on. Why didn’t you have a cap on?”
“I don’t know,” Ann said weakly. And when Emma’s big, china blue eyes continued to survey her incredulously, she went on, “Oh, I suppose because I hadn’t the energy to make one up.”
“Make one up!” repeated her interrogator.
Ann nodded. “Yes, they’re bands of linen, very stiff, and you have to pin them...”
“Oh, will you show me?”
“I shall only show you if you come into bed and get warm.”
“Come in, Emma. It’s lovely and warm, and Nurse Auntie Anne is so soft and cuddly ... Like my big panda,” Guy added for generous measure.
Emma wasn’t to be won so easily. “It isn’t Nurse and Auntie — and I’ve told you and told you, Guy!” And then to Ann, “Could I put your dressing-gown round me and sit under the eiderdown at the bottom of the bed?”
“Yes, anything to get you warm. You’re shivering.”
“Well, perhaps I am the tiniest bit cold,” the little girl admitted, and climbed on to the foot of the bed, while Ann reached forward and tucked the dressing-gown around the plump little figure.
When she had unpacked on the previous evening, Ann had laid the starched band and her box of pins on the dressing-chest, which in this small room she could easily reach by putting out her hand.
The two children watched her intently as she pinned the cap into its attractive butterfly shape and then perched it on the top of her head.
“Now, you see,” she said.
“It makes you look pretty,” said Guy, with precocious masculine appreciation of a nurse’s uniform.
“You are a nurse or you wouldn’t know how to do it as quickly as that,” Emma admitted. “When are you beginning to look after us instead of Miss Pollard?”
“I’ve no idea,” Ann said dryly. “Now it’s my turn for questions. Have you any pets? A puppy, or a kitten, or a tortoise or rabbits?”
They both fixed her with large, serious blue eyes. Emma as usual took it upon herself to explain. “No one likes animals. When we stayed with Auntie Mary — she’s too old to be a real auntie, but that’s what we were told to call her — when we stayed with her, she said it wasn’t hi — hi — hydrogen, I think. It means they have germs, and those are little creatures which bite you, Miss Pollard says...”
“Uncle Iain is a germ chaser,” Guy put in sleepily from his warm nest under the bedclothes. “He says—”
“Nana — I mean Nana Woods — doesn’t like animals,” interrupted Emma, determined as always to pursue the matter to a final conclusion. “She says it’s enough trouble looking after all the human beings at Fountains, without having any animals.”
Ann resolved that as soon as she was in charge of the children, she would get permission for them to have a kitten or a puppy, or even both.
She turned to Guy. “You were telling me something that your Uncle Iain had said,” she queried softly.
“I’ve forgotten now,” came the sleepy voice.
“Miss Pollard says that Uncle Iain is a heart-throb. What is a heart-throb?”
From the foot of the bed, Emma looked at Ann enquiringly.
“Something that Miss Pollard is perhaps more competent to speak about than I am,” returned Ann dryly, reflecting that the governess must be a complete idiot to talk so freely before young children as she apparently did. She must know that they would repeat at some
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