Chapter Five

Miss Babcock despised Nanny Fine. She reviled the brunette's habit of brown-nosing. She detested the fact that she could not annihilate her with impunity. But most of all, she hated that Fran was right.

C.C. could pinpoint the exact moment when her ardor for Niles began to manifest itself. It all started with five simple syllables.

Cluck like a chicken.

Cluck, he said, and C.C. was hooked. Not initially, of course. Initially, she wanted to grab hold of the fire poker and poke his eyes out. But later, when he kissed her, her insides turned to oatmeal.

At first, she attributed the feeling to alcohol-induced wooziness. Upon regaining sobriety, however, the magnitude of the incident smacked the blonde like a slap in the face. Not only had Niles kissed her, but she had returned the kiss. Furthermore, not only had C.C. reciprocated, but she had enjoyed reciprocating.

When her feelings for Niles continued to germinate rather than deteriorate, Miss Babcock considered checking herself into a reputable care facility. Surely shock treatment could expunge the unnatural thoughts whirling through her brain. A posh Park Avenue businesswoman lusting after a lowly house servant?

No. Unfathomable. Never. Entirely out of the realm of possibility.

Miss Babcock had been brought up to embrace and flaunt her upper class social standing. In her youth, she had emulated her parents' supercilious perception of the servants as inferior, subhuman even. All her life, family members and pompous peers alike had instilled in C.C. the importance of dating up, not down.

This, she conceded, accounted in large part for her attraction to Maxwell. Mr. Sheffield possessed everything that C.C. had been instructed to look for in a man – wealth, good looks, wealth, membership in the highest of societal echelons, wealth. Granted, the man wouldn't recognize a hit play if it nipped him in the tochus, but his production company was by no means in jeopardy.

Then there were the children – darling, her skinny, taller sister, and the short, blonde-haired boy. Schmuey was his name . . . right?

Perhaps C.C. was not nearly as infatuated with Maxwell as she purported. In any event, the producer displayed virtually no interest in his co-worker. Even if Miss Babcock were in love with Maxwell, it was a love that would forever remain unrequited. Loath as she was to admit it, C.C. had a hunch that Mr. Sheffield had developed a teensy, weensy, little, itty bitty crush on his offspring's nanny.

Of the three kinds of men in this world - Mr. Right, Mr. Right Now, and Mr. Wrong – Maxwell was most likely her Mr. Wrong. Niles, on the other hand, was quite possibly her Mr. Right.

C.C. had two options: fervently repress her feelings for the butler, or accept that she was destined – well, doomed – to be with Niles.

The receding tiers of superficiality revealed a woman absolutely petrified. What, for instance, would her vicious, back-stabbing circle of friends think of her if she were to select choice two and enter into a relationship with the servant? Miss Babcock would become the laughing stock of the country club. She would be committing social suicide.

But did C.C. really wish to associate with such petty, pedantic people? After all, if indeed they were to ostracize and humiliate the businesswoman, could she truly call them her comrades? Nanny Fine functioned as more of a friend than any of them.

What's more, if Miss Babcock chose option number one and attempted to subdue her attraction, the repercussions would be severe: persistent loneliness, intractable misery, perpetual bitchiness.

Oh, hell, who am I kidding? I can look forward to practically all of those things with Niles. Besides, misery does love company . . .

Miss Babcock smoothed the blazer of her navy blue business suit, inhaling deeply as she prepared to request access to the butler's bedroom.

She raised her arm, then returned it to her side; lifted the limb again, then lost her nerve once more. The woman felt as though her head was submerged under water.

Don't be such a coward, C.C. reproached her lack of fortitude.

"Don't be such a coward." The blonde nearly jumped out of her snakeskin boots. "Come in," Niles called.

Spindly fingers curling around the doorknob, the jittery blonde willed the quivering appendage to remain still before responding to the invitation. "H-How did you know I was . . .?"

A smug smile materialized on the butler's tanned face. "I'd recognize the scent of the Abominable Snowman from a mile away," he teased.

"Um . . . I . . . I wanted to tell you that I . . . accept your apology."

Niles's disposition remained casual, nonchalant. Inwardly, however, his brain began chanting the lyrics to "Hava Nagila." The servant's lips parted in preparation to deliver a reply, but he was interrupted by the bickering of two of the Sheffield brood.

"You're toast, Brighton!" Gracie's shrill screeching penetrated every wall of the Sheffield mansion.

"Plain, buttered, or with jelly?"

"Good one," Niles and C.C. cheered. No sooner had they uttered these words, however, than an awkward silence enveloped the room. The butler observed the businesswoman's inability to make eye contact. He also noticed that her face resembled a fire engine.

"Miss Babcock-"

"C.C."

Hava nagila, hava nagila. Hava nagila ve-nismeha. "C.C. Perhaps, after my convalescence, I could take you to dinner," Niles suggested, "as compensation for my behavior the other day."

C.C. nodded slowly, pretending to mull over the idea. "Would this dinner constitute a date, by any chance?" Then, so as not to appear overzealous, she appended, "I was just wondering."

"Well, I'm not quite sure it qualifies as a date, considering that one of us is human and the other is . . . you." To indicate that he was only poking fun, Niles winked at the blushing blonde beauty.

Miss Babcock reciprocated the gesture. "All right. I accept. And I think I'll be in the mood for chicken that night . . ."

Strolling across the room to where the statuesque blonde stood, Niles purred, "Followed by a little after-dinner clucking?"

C.C. swooned like a teenage girl at a Beatles concert. When she regained her composure, a full ten seconds later, she adopted a brazenly seductive tone and queried, "You wouldn't happen to have any vapor rub left, would you?"

"Miss Fine!"

Maxwell was experiencing déjà vu. Once again, he had caught his nanny prying into the private affairs of his manservant.

"The butler did it."

Clasping Fran's upper arm, Mr. Sheffield hoisted the sneaky snoop to her feet. "The butler did what?"

"Miss Babcock. Well, not yet. But from the looks of things, it's bound to happen sooner than later."

"Miss Fine, what are you talking about?" the perturbed producer inquired.

Imitating the grandiloquent gestures of Barker's Beauties on The Price is Right, Fran directed her boss to the slightly ajar door of Niles's room. "See for yourself."

"Mmmmmmm!"

"I . . . don't think that will be necessary . . ." Maxwell stammered, steering his children's caregiver towards the staircase.

"Hey, I just thought of something," Fran remarked as they descended the carpeted steps. "If the two of them were to get married, her name would be C.C. the Butler."

"Nonsense, Miss Fine. They'll be Mr. and Mrs. Niles Babcock."

End.