“Are you the new Nanny?”

14-year-old Quentin Tarquin Viscount Dunblane, only son and heir of His Grace the 14^th Duke of Leeds, was eyeing the young woman who was holding his infant sister, make that half-sister, on her hip. 2½-year-old Isabella Leonora – Izzy – turned her head in a broad baby-toothed smile when she heard her brother’s voice but didn’t take her little hand off the young woman’s very substantial breast. Quentin – QT to his friends (and “Cutie” amongst the girls in his class, but he didn’t know that) was in most respects still a little boy, yet he felt a vague sense of envy that his sister could do that. The young woman was of around average height, yet had broad hips to match her large breasts, and Quentin was aware of an undefinable desire.

“I’m the new Nurse,” the young woman smiled back at Quentin.

“What’s the difference?” Quentin asked.

“I’m sure you will work it out,” the young woman replied with an even warmer smile, sat down, unbuttoned her shirt, flipped down a flap on her white bra to unveil a large pink nipple and in seconds, Isabella had latched on and was noisily suckling.

Quentin was staring transfixed. He was about to ask further questions, but the young woman held a finger up in front of her mouth to shush him.

After a minute or too the suckling became quieter and then ceased completely, and Quentin was aware that Izzy was now asleep. In one practiced fluid motion, the Nurse detached the sleeping toddler from her nipple, closed up the bra and shirt and carried the little girl into her waiting bed in the darkened Nursery.

Coming back out to the lounge, she walked over to Quentin, squatted down in from of him and offered her hand. “You must be Quentin,” she said. “You are home a little bit earlier than I was expecting.”

“Yeah, the PE Master was taking some of the bigger boys to a match somewhere, so we were sent home early,” Quentin confirmed – not wanting to let go of the warm soft hand caressing his.

The Nurse smiled. “Are you hungry for a snack?”

“Yes please,” Quentin confirmed, “Eh, what do I, I mean...”

He trailed off.

“Yes?” the Nurse encouraged.

“What do I call you?” Quentin blurted out.

“Well, my name is Elizabeth Andersson, so I supposed you should call me ‘Miss Andersson’ – at least in public or when your parents or their staff overhear us, but when we are alone you can call me ‘Nurse’ or ‘Nanny’ – or even ‘Mummy’ if you want to.”

The last was added in a sweet voice that made Quentin feel all warm and fuzzy.

“I would like that,” he blurted, and the Nurse pulled him in to a warm embrace – something that was sadly rare in Quentin’s life.

“Let’s go and get you that snack I promised,” the Nurse said, took Quentin by the hand and let him to the kitchen.

The Ducal Palace was huge, but the family rarely used it at all. It, and the extensive grounds, were open to the public most days to offset the colossal cost of the upkeep, so His Grace’s family occupied apartments in the old stable buildings – one for His Grace and his second wife, Izzy’s mother, another for the butler and housekeeper (an elderly married couple) and one for the children and their current Nanny, or as was the case now, Nurse. Despite the opulent surroundings, it was nothing more than a pleasant 3-bedroom flat with two and a half baths, a decent lounge, a kitchen with room for a dining table and a small hall with cupboards.

His Grace “worked in the City” earning money, and Her Grace worked on spending it – so they were rarely on the Estate and practically never saw their children – or each other, for that matter.

Hiring a Nurse when the previous Nanny had resigned to go to university, had been handled by Her Grace’s new private secretary who had never met the children, had no idea exactly how old Izzy was, and had said “Yes” to “Do you want a proper Nurse?” when asked at the agency.

Over a delicious but healthy snack, Quentin and the Nurse got acquainted. Quentin readily allowed that he liked the village secondary school well enough – much better than the boarding school he had been sent to – and ignobly returned from – at the beginning of the school year.

“Your step-mother’s secretary tells me you are wet at night,” the Nurse said. She did so in a quiet non-confrontational way, but Quentin blushed all the way down his neck and got defensive – it was his daily nightmare walking up in a cold drenched smelly bed and had been the reason for him being sent home from the boarding school – an expensive “Public School”, as the English so quaintly call their must prestigious private institutions – where five generations of his ancestors had attended.

“Poor darling,” the Nurse said and came to hug him. “I’ve had the mattress replaced this morning and I promise you that you will never wake up in a wet bed when in my care.”

Quentin, burying his head in her amble bosom, didn’t challenge how that miracle was to be accomplished – at this stage if Mummy told him the sky was yellow and the sun blue, he would have believed her.

When Izzy woke up from her nap, Quentin played with her – and at the Nurse’ instigation, read some books for her. “I know the stories are a little young for you,” see said to Quentin while attending to Izzy’s smelly nappy, “but there was a letter from your new teachers that you need to practice your reading – and your sister loves it.” Quentin agreed unflinchingly.

After an early dinner, or “tea” as it is called in England, Izzy was bathed and put in a thicker nappy for the night. The Nurse then nursed her to sleep on the sofa in the lounge. Once more Quentin was on the brink of asking about it, and once more he was shushed until Izzy was asleep in her bed in her room.

“How come you can, you know, give her milk from your, your...” Quentin blushed deep red and trailed off.

“My breasts. They are called breasts,” the Nurse said. “Or boobs. Boobs is OK too. Other words are vulgar, and we don’t use them.”

“Your breast,” Quentin repeated. “I mean, have you got a baby of your own, I mean, don’t you need that to, to...”

“Lactate?” the Nurse prompted. “Yeah, that is the most common, but no, you don’t need to. I’ve had milk in my boobs ever since Mum had the twins when I was 14. She was poorly, so I helped feeding them – and I have had milk ever since.”

“How old are your brothers?” Quentin asked.

“They are eleven, just like you”

“How long, I mean, when did you stop?” – again Quentin trailed off.

“I never really stopped. Of course, I moved out from home for my first resident Nurse job when I was 19 so it was more now and then after that,” the Nurse replied.

Before Quentin could follow up on that, the Nurse took him by the hand. “Bath time!” she said and let him to the biggest bathroom and started filling the tub.

She then turned around and started undressing Quentin. “I can undress myself,” he protested.

“Of course you can,” the Nurse agreed. “You are eleven years old. But you don’t have to when Mummy is here.”

Surrendering to the joy of being cared for, Quentin docilely let himself be stripped naked – exhibiting no embarrassment at being stark naked in front of what had been a complete stranger only a couple of hours ago.

“Tsk tsk, you poor darling,” the Nurse exclaimed when she saw the red irritated skin on Quentin’s groin and upper thighs. ‘Nappy rash’ is a misnomer; you can get it from lying in a wet pajamas for many hours night after night. She washed him all over with infinite care, lifted him out of the water and dried him – gently dapping the affected areas to limit the pain.

“Let Mummy take care of you,” she said, and expertly flipped Quentin over to lay him on a towel-covered yoga matt on the floor. She then proceeded to apply a soothing layer of Izzy’s nappy cream followed by baby talcum all over Quentin’s crotch.

“Lift up your bum,” she said. Though confused Quentin complied, and the Nurse unfolded a thick tween-sized night nappy and slid it in under him.

“What are you doing?” Quentin asked startled.

“Putting your nappy on,” she replied.

“But I don’t wear nappies!” Quentin exclaimed.

“I know,” the Nurse agreed. “That’s why you’ve woken up wet, cold and miserable every night with rashed skin.”

“But, but,,, “ Quentin trailed off.

“Mummy promised you that you would never wake up wet again,” the Nurse said while hugging Quentin tightly. “How did you think I was going to keep that promise otherwise?”

“But, but,,, “ Quentin started again.