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Florence nodded solemnly. “I'd better call Mr. Allan.”

She disappeared off and Hadley looked down at the sleeping twins.

She hadn't realized until now how attached she'd become, how much she actually liked what she was doing. Now that it was about to be taken away from her, and she was fairly sure that it would be, she realized that looking after the McLeod-Allan children was by far the most satisfying and rewarding job that she'd ever had. She realized that she didn't want to leave.

When Florence came back she was if anything paler than she'd been before. Even her lips were color-less, like she'd been out in the cold for far too long.

“It's not good news,” Hadley said, and it didn't need to be a question.

Florence shook her head. “He's in China, on business, important business by all accounts.”

“There's no need for him to come, Maeve is coming, and besides, Henry is fine, it's just a broken arm.”

“I think you underestimate just how acrimonious this divorce was,” Florence said. “Mr. Allan had no intention of coming when I told him about Henry. But as soon as he heard that his ex-wife was going to be here, he said he'd be on the first flight.”

“Jesus,” Hadley said. “It's like a competition over the kids.”

Florence nodded and Hadley looked at her from across the room and wanted to hold her, to hug her, but didn't dare move.

“I'd better go to Henry,” Florence said.

Hadley let her go, not stopping her until she was right at the door. “Flo, we're going to be okay, aren't we?”

Florence closed her eyes for a moment. “I don't know,” she said, finally.

And Hadley didn't know if she was talking about the job or the relationship or something else entirely.

Chapter Twenty Seven

The red-haired woman blew through the house like a hurricane, leaving a trail of suitcases, shawls, and airline paraphernalia behind her.

Florence gritted her teeth as she picked up a scarf and folded it as neatly as it could be folded. The material was slippery and silky and the design obviously Indian. Maeve McLeod was home, and she rushed straight off to dote over her children.

In Florence's opinion, the best thing that Maeve could have done was to be sensible, caring, but not over-indulgent. By fussing over Henry the way she was, his mother was only going to end up with a son who milked his injury for all it was worth. Still, that wasn't going to be her problem for much longer.

The town car carrying Mr. Allan had slid into the driveway in the late afternoon. Mr. Allan had climbed out, stalked into the house, spent three minutes talking to his children, then disappeared away again, telling Florence he'd deal with her later.

Whatever later meant.

Florence couldn't quite believe that she'd entertained The Sound of Music fantasies about the man. Actually, when she settled down to think about things, there were few things about this summer that she could really believe.

It was after nine by the time Allan appeared again, and this time he snapped at Florence to follow him to his study, a room that had been locked up until now.

“Quite the summer you've had,” he said, settling into his desk chair.

Florence stayed standing and silent.

“I've been doing some digging around, and do make sure that I've got this straight, you've done half the job that you've been employed to do, you've lost a credit card and an immense amount of cash which you've then covered up, and you've sought outside employment despite being contracted to work for me.”

Florence looked at the carpet. “Yes, sir.” There wasn't exactly much point in denying it.

“At least that makes my decision an easy one,” he said. “You're fired. Please collect your things. There'll be a car waiting to take you to the station first thing in the morning.”

Florence wanted to defend herself, but she couldn't. How could she defend herself against the truth?

“Sir, yes, sir.”

She walked out of his study on shaking legs, wondering what she was going to do, and where she was going to go.