Page 30 of The Music of Love

Portia decided to see Nanny before she departed for London. The last two times she’d gone to the cottage Mrs. Fant had told her the old lady was not feeling well.

When Portia crested the rise that overlooked the cottage she saw both Fants doing something near the shed on the far side of the cottage. Nanny herself was in the small garden on the other side of the house and Portia headed toward her, feeling as though she were racing against the clock—or at least the Fants—to reach the old lady. Perhaps it was just her over-developed imagination, but she suspected they disapproved of her visits.

Luckily, Nanny saw her before the Fants did. “Signora Stefani.” She began to stagger to her feet.

“Please, Nanny – don’t get up. How are you feeling today?”

“I’m excessively well, Signora.” Nanny’s blue eyes twinkled, making her resemble a good fairy from some children’s tale. She was so tiny a stiff breeze would carry her away.

“You’ve recovered from your illness?”

“Illness? What illness? Why, I’ve never been ill a day in my life! I come from fine country stock, you know.”

Just then Mrs. Fant came around the corner of the cottage and Portia was positive she saw dismay, quickly followed by annoyance, on the woman’s face.

“Hello, Mrs. Fant.” Portia gave the sour-looking servant a pleasant smile.

“I have a visitor, Mrs. Fant. Please see to tea for the Signora and me.”

“Are you sure you’re feeling up to entertaining, Mrs. Kemble?”

The look Nanny turned on her must have been one she’d developed for recalcitrant charges. “Of course I’m well enough.” Her voice was icy with displeasure and the housekeeper was wise enough to scuttle off to make the tea. Nanny shook her head before speaking in a stage whisper, “I cannot abide those people.”

“Why don’t you dismiss them? Or ask Mr. Harrington to do so? He dotes on you, Nanny. He wants you to be happy.”

Any mention of Stacy always put a large smile on her face.

“He does love me, doesn’t he?” She preened for a moment and then her lips trembled. “The poor little mite—sent away so young.”

“Sent away? By whom?”

“Why the earl, of course; he couldn’t abide him.” She looked as though she might cry and Portia couldn’t bring herself to pursue the subject, even though she was more curious than she should be. Instead she changed the topic.

“Tell me about your childhood, Nanny. What part of the country did you grow up in?”

“I grew up just outside Thurlstone, but you know that Miss Mary. I’ve known all you girls since you were born. Our family has worked for Harringtons since The Conqueror, my pa used to say.”

Before Portia could respond, Mrs. Fant returned with the tea tray. “I thought you might like this calf’s foot jelly Lady Watley left for you, Mrs. Kemble.”

Nanny’s vague gaze sharpened when it landed on the Yorkshirewoman, who was holding said jelly. She gave a dismissive sniff at either the jar or her servant. “Signora Stefani will pour, Mrs. Fant. You may go.” She made a shoeing motion.

Mrs. Fant could hardly argue with such a direct dismissal, but she did give Portia an accusatory look, as though to say it was all her doing.

While Portia let the tea steep she picked up the jar.

“The nerve of that woman bringing me her wretched calf’s foot jelly.”

She looked up at the venom in the older woman’s voice. “Who is Lady Watley?”

Nanny’s eyes narrowed, making her resemble a rather evil little fairy. “She’s nothing but a harlot.”

Portia’s eyes widened, but Nanny didn’t notice.

“She had a chance to marry the best man in Britain and picked that—that, oaf, instead.”

Portia didn’t have to stretch her imagination too far to guess who Nanny considered the best man in Britain. “Do you mean Mr. Harrington?”

Nanny nodded her head vigorously, her eyes glinting with spite. “Wanted him for his money, she did.” Her chin quivered and a single tear rolled down one cheek. “Oh how she hurt him. He isn’t one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but I know him like he was my own.”