Love Can Wait

He’d sat through the performance at the theatre with every show of interest, while mentally assessing his work ahead for the following week. It would be a busy one—his weekly out-patients’ clinic on Monday, and a tricky operation on a small girl with a sarcoma of the hip in the afternoon. Private patients to see, and a trip to Birmingham Children’s Hospital later in the week.

In his own world of Paediatrics he was already making a name for himself, content to be doing something he had always wished to do, absorbed in his work and content, too, with his life. He supposed that one day he would marry, if he could find the right girl. His friends were zealous in introducing him to suitable young women in the hope that he would fall in love, and he was well aware that his aunt was dangling Claudia before him in the hope that he would be attracted to her. Certainly she was pretty enough, but he had seen her sulky mouth and suspected that the pretty face concealed a nasty temper.

The weekend went far too quickly for Kate. The delights of window shopping were followed by a peaceful Sunday: church in the morning, a snack lunch in the little garden behind the cottage with her mother and a lazy afternoon. After tea she went into the kitchen and made a cheese soufflé and a salad, and since there were a few strawberries in the garden she made little tartlets and a creamy custard.

They ate their supper together and then it was time for Kate to go back to Lady Cowder’s house. That lady hadn’t said exactly when she would return—some time early the following morning, she had hinted. Kate suspected that she would arrive unexpectedly, ready to find fault.

The house seemed gloomy and silent, and she was glad to find Horace in the kitchen. She gave him an extra supper and presently he accompanied her up to her room and settled on the end of the bed—something he wouldn’t have dared to do when Lady Cowder was there. Kate found his company a comfort, and, after a little while spent listening rather anxiously to the creaks and groans an old house makes at night, she went to sleep—her alarm clock prudently set for half-past six.

It was a beautiful morning; getting up was no hardship. She went down to the kitchen with Horace, fed him generously, let him out and made herself a pot of tea. She didn’t sit over it but went back upstairs to dress and then went round the house, opening windows and drawing back curtains while her breakfast egg cooked. She didn’t sit over breakfast either—fresh flowers were needed, preparations for the lunch that Lady Cowder would certainly want had to be made, the dining room and the sitting room needed a quick dusting…

Lady Cowder arrived soon after nine o’clock, driven in a hired car, her eyes everywhere, looking for something she could complain about.

She had little to say to Kate. ‘Dear Claudia had to drive to Edinburgh,’ she said briefly. ‘And my nephew had to leave early, so it seemed pointless for me to stay on on my own. You can cook me a light breakfast; I had no time to have a proper meal before I left. Coddled eggs and some thinly sliced toast—and coffee. In fifteen minutes. I’m going to my room now.’

Lady Cowder wasn’t in a good mood, decided Kate, grinding coffee beans. Perhaps the weekend hadn’t been a success. Come to think of it, she couldn’t believe that she and Claudia and that nephew of hers could have much in common. Although, since he had invited them, perhaps he had fallen in love with Claudia. She hoped not. She knew nothing about him—indeed, she suspected that he might be a difficult man to get to know—but he had been kind, praising her cooking, and he might be rather nice if one ever got to be friends with him.

‘And that is most unlikely,’ said Kate to Horace, who was hovering discreetly in the hope of a snack. ‘I mean, I’m the housekeeper, aren’t I? And I expect he’s something powerful on the Stock Exchange or something.’

If Mr Tait-Bouverie, immersed in a tricky operation on a very small harelip, could have heard her he would have been amused.

It was some days later, chatting to one of his colleagues at the hospital that he was asked, ‘Isn’t Lady Cowder an aunt of yours, James? Funny thing, I hear her housekeeper is the daughter of an old friend of mine—he died a year or so ago. Nice girl—pretty too. Fallen on hard times, I hear. Haven’t heard from them since they left their place in the Cotswolds—keep meaning to look them up.’

Mr Tait-Bouverie said slowly, ‘Yes, I’ve met her. She seems very efficient, but overworked. My aunt is a kind woman, but incredibly selfish and leaves a good deal to Kate, I believe.’

‘I must do something about it.’ His elderly companion frowned. ‘I’ll get Sarah to write and invite them for a weekend.’

‘Kate only has Sunday off…’

‘Oh, well, they could spend the day. Have they a car?’

‘Kate rides a bike.’

‘Good Lord, does she? I could drive over and fetch them.’

‘Why not invite me, and I’ll collect them on my way and take them back on my way home?’

‘My dear James, that’s very good of you. We’ll fix a day—pretty soon, because we’re off to Greece for a couple of weeks very shortly and I dare say you’ve your own holiday planned. ‘I’ll write to Jean Crosby. They left very quietly, you know; didn’t want to make things awkward, if you understand. A bit dodgy, finding yourself more or less penniless. Kate had several young men after her, too. Don’t suppose any of them were keen enough, though.’

Mr Tait-Bouverie, overdue for his ward round, dismissed the matter from his mind. He liked Professor Shaw; he was a kindly and clever man, but also absent-minded. He thought it was unlikely that he would remember to act upon his suggestion.

He was wrong. Before the end of the week he was reminded of their plan and asked if he could spare the time for the Sunday after next. ‘Sarah has written to Jean and won’t take no for an answer, so all you need do is to collect them—come in time for drinks before lunch. Our daughter and her husband will be here, and she and Kate were good friends. Spend the day—Sarah counts on you to stay for supper.’

Mr Tait-Bouverie sighed. It was his own fault, of course—he had suggested driving the Crosbys down. Another spoilt weekend, he reflected, which he could have spent sailing at Bosham.

Kate, arriving home for her day off with barely time to get to church, since Lady Cowder had declared in her faraway voice that she felt faint and mustn’t be left, had no time to do more than greet her mother and walk rapidly on to church.

She felt a little guilty at going, for she was decidedly out of charity with her employer. Lady Cowder, cosseted with smelling salts, a nice little drop of brandy and Kate’s arm to assist her to the sofa in the drawing room, had been finally forced to allow her to go. She was being fetched, within the hour, to lunch with friends, and when Kate had left she’d been drinking coffee and nibbling at wine biscuits, apparently quite restored to good health.

‘This isn’t a day off,’ muttered Kate crossly, and caught her mother’s reproachful eye. She smiled then and said her prayers meekly, adding the rider that she hoped that one day soon something nice would happen.

It was on their way home that her mother told her of their invitation for the following Sunday. ‘And someone called Tait-Bouverie is driving us there and bringing us home in the evening…’

Kate came to a halt. ‘Mother—that’s Lady Cowder’s nephew—the one I told about my aching feet.’ She frowned. If this was the answer to her prayers, it wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind. ‘Does he know the Shaws? Professor Shaw’s a bit old for a friend…’

‘John Shaw and he work at the same hospital; Sarah said so in her letter. He’s a paediatrician—quite a well-known one, it seems.’

‘But how on earth did he know about us?’

‘John happened to mention our name—wondered how we were getting on.’

‘You want to go, Mother?’

‘Oh, darling, yes. I liked Sarah, you know, and it would be nice to have a taste of the old life for an hour or two.’ Mrs Crosby smiled happily. ‘What shall we wear?’

Her mother was happy at the prospect of seeing old friends again. Kate quashed the feeling of reluctance at going and spent the next hour reviewing their wardrobes.

It seemed prudent to tell Lady Cowder that she would want to leave early next Sunday morning for her day off. ‘We are spending the day with friends, and perhaps it would be a good idea if I had the key to the side door in case we don’t get back until after ten o’clock.’

Lady Cowder cavelled at that. ‘I hope you don’t intend to stay out all night, Kate. That’s something I’d feel bound to forbid.’

Kate didn’t allow her feelings to show. ‘I am not in the habit of staying out all night, Lady Cowder, but I cannot see any objection to a woman of twenty-seven spending an evening with friends.’

‘Well, no. I suppose there is no harm in that. But I expect you back by midnight. Mrs Pickett will have to sleep here; I cannot be left alone.’

Lady Cowder picked up her novel. ‘There is a lack of consideration among the young these days,’ she observed in her wispy voice. ‘I’ll have lamb cutlets for lunch, Kate, and I fancy an egg custard to follow. My appetite is so poor…’

All that fuss, thought Kate, breaking eggs into a bowl with rather too much force, just because I intend to have a whole day off and not come meekly back at ten o’clock sharp.

Lady Cowder, not intentionally unkind, nevertheless delayed Kate’s half-day on Wednesday. She had friends for lunch and, since they didn’t arrive until almost one o’clock and sat about drinking sherry for another half-hour, it was almost three o’clock by the time Kate was free to get on her bike and go home for the rest of the day.

‘I don’t know why I put up with it,’ she told her mother, and added, ‘Well, I do, actually. It’s a job, and the best there is at the moment. But not for long—the moment we’ve got that hundred pounds saved…’

She was up early on Sunday and, despite Lady Cowder’s pathetic excuses to keep her, left the house in good time. They were to be called for at ten o’clock, which gave her half an hour in which to change into the pale green jersey dress treasured at the back of her wardrobe for special occasions. This was a special occasion; it was necessary to keep up appearances even if she was someone’s housekeeper. Moreover, she wished to impress Mr Tait-Bouverie. She wasn’t sure why, but she wanted him to see her as someone other than his aunt’s housekeeper.

Presently she went downstairs to join her mother, aware that she had done the best she could with her appearance.

‘You look nice, dear,’ said her mother. ‘You’re wasted in that job—you ought to be a model.’

‘Mother, dear, models don’t have curves and I’ve plenty—on the ample side, too…’

Her mother smiled. ‘You’re a woman, love, and you look like one. I don’t know about fashion models, but most men like curves.’

Mr Tait-Bouverie arrived five minutes later, but, judging by the detached glance and his brisk handshake, he was not to be counted amongst that number.

Rather to her surprise, he accepted her mother’s offer of coffee and asked civilly if Prince might be allowed to go into the garden.

‘Well, of course he can,’ declared Mrs Crosby. ‘Moggerty, our cat, you know, is asleep on Kate’s bed. In any case, your dog doesn’t look as though he’d hurt a fly.’

Indeed, Prince was on his best behaviour and, recognising someone who had spoken kindly to him when he had been sitting bored in his master’s car, he sidled up to Kate and offered his head. She was one of the few people who knew the exact spot which needed to be scratched.

Kate was glad to do so; it gave her something to do, and for some reason she felt awkward.

Don’t be silly, she told herself silently, and engaged Mr Tait-Bouverie in a brisk conversation about the weather. ‘It’s really splendid, isn’t it?’ she asked politely.

‘Indeed it is. Do you have any plans for your holidays?’

‘Holidays?’ She blinked. ‘No—no. Well, not at present. I’m not sure when it’s convenient for Lady Cowder.’

She hoped he wasn’t going to talk about her job, and he’d better not try and patronise her…

Mr Tait-Bouverie watched her face and had a very good idea about what she was thinking. A charming face, he reflected, and now that she was away from her job she actually looked like a young girl. That calm manner went with her job, he supposed. She would be magnificent in a temper…

‘Did you enjoy your weekend?’ he wanted to know, accepting coffee from Mrs Crosby. ‘Cooking must be warm work in this weather.’ He gave her a thoughtful look from very blue eyes. ‘And so hard on the feet!’ he added.

Kate said in a surprised voice, ‘Oh, did Lady Cowder tell you that? Yes, thank you.’

She handed him the plate of biscuits and gave one to Prince. ‘I dare say he would like a drink before we go.’ She addressed no one in particular, and went away with the dog and came back presently with the air of one quite ready to leave.

Mr Tait-Bouverie, chatting with her mother, smiled to himself and suggested smoothly that perhaps they should be going. He settled Mrs Crosby in the front seat, ushered Kate into the back of the car with Prince and, having made sure that everyone was comfortable, drove off.

The countryside looked lovely, and he took the quieter roads away from the motorways. Kate found her ill-humour evaporating; the Bentley was more than comfortable and Prince, lolling beside her, half-asleep, was an undemanding companion. She had no need to talk, but listened with half an ear to her mother and Mr Tait-Bouverie; they seemed to have a great deal to say to each other.

She hoped that her mother wasn’t telling him too much about their circumstances. She suspected that he had acquired the art of getting people to talk about themselves. Necessary in his profession, no doubt, and now employed as a way of passing what for him was probably a boring journey.

Mr Tait-Bouverie, on the contrary, wasn’t bored. With the skill of long practice, he was extracting information from Mrs Crosby simply because he wished to know more about Kate. She had intrigued him, and while he didn’t examine his interest in her he saw no reason why he shouldn’t indulge it.

The Shaws gave them a warm welcome, tactfully avoiding awkward questions, and the Shaws’ daughter, Lesley, fell easily into the pleasant friendship she and Kate had had.

There was one awkward moment when she remarked, ‘I can’t think why you aren’t married, Kate. Heaven knows, you had all the men fancying you. Did you give them all the cold shoulder?’

It was Mrs Shaw who filled the too long pause while Kate tried to think of a bright answer.

‘I dare say Kate’s got some lucky man up her sleeve. And talking of lucky men, James, isn’t it time you settled down?’

Mr Tait-Bouverie rose to the occasion.

‘Yes. It is something I really must deal with when I have the time. There are so many other interests in life…’

There was a good deal of laughter and lighthearted banter, which gave Kate the chance to recover her serenity. For the rest of their visit she managed to avoid saying anything about her job. To the kindly put questions she gave a vague description of their home so that everyone, with the exception of Mr Tait-Bouverie, of course, was left with the impression that they lived in a charming cottage with few cares and were happily settled in the village.

Presumably, thought Mrs Shaw, who had been told about the housekeeper’s job, it wasn’t quite the normal housekeeper’s kind of work. There was talk about tennis parties and a pleasant social life in which, she imagined, Kate took part. Not quite what the dear girl had been accustomed to, but girls worked at the oddest jobs these days.

Mrs Shaw, whose own housekeeper was a hard-bitten lady of uncertain age who wore print aprons and used no make-up, dismissed Kate’s work as a temporary flight of fancy. There was certainly nothing wrong with either Kate’s or her mother’s clothes…

Mrs Shaw, who didn’t buy her dresses at high-street stores, failed to recognise them as such. They were skilfully altered with different buttons, another belt, careful letting-out and taking-in…

Mr Tait-Bouverie did, though. Not that he was an avid follower of women’s fashion, but he encountered a wide variety of patients and their mothers—mostly young women wearing just the kind of dress Kate was wearing today. His private patients, accompanied by well-dressed mothers and nannies, were a different matter altogether. He found himself wondering how Kate would look in the beautiful clothes they wore.

He had little to say to her during the day; the talk was largely general, and he took care to be casually friendly and impersonal. He was rewarded by a more open manner towards him; the slight tartness with which she had greeted him that morning had disappeared. He found himself wanting to know her better. He shrugged the thought aside; their encounters were infrequent, and his work gave him little time in which to indulge a passing whim—for that was what it was.

After supper he drove Kate and her mother home. It had been a delightful day and there had been plans to repeat it.

‘We mustn’t lose touch,’ Mrs Shaw had declared. ‘Now that we have seen each other again. Next time you must come for the weekend.’

Sitting once more with Prince in the Bentley, Kate thought it unlikely. As it was she was feeling edgy about returning so late in the evening. Even at the speed at which Mr Tait-Bouverie was driving, it would be almost midnight before she got to Lady Cowder’s house.

Mr Tait-Bouverie, glancing at his watch, had a very good idea as to what she was thinking. He said over his shoulder, ‘Shall I drop you off before I take your mother home? Or do you wish to go there first?’

‘Oh, please, it’s a bit late—if you wouldn’t mind…’

The house was in darkness when they reached it, but that wasn’t to say that Lady Cowder wasn’t sitting up in bed waiting for her with an eye on the clock.

It was foolish to feel so apprehensive. She worked long hours, and Lady Cowder put upon her quite shamelessly in a wistful fashion which didn’t deceive Kate—but she couldn’t risk losing her job. She didn’t need to save much more before she would be able to see the bank manager…

Mr Tait-Bouverie drew up soundlessly and got out of the car.

‘You have a key?’

‘Yes. The kitchen door—it’s round the side of the house…’

Kate bade her mother a quiet goodnight, rubbed the top of Prince’s head and got out of the car.

‘Give me the key,’ said Mr Tait-Bouverie, and walked silently beside her to the door, unlocked it and handed the key back to her.

‘Thank you for taking us to the Shaws’,’ whispered Kate. ‘We had a lovely day…’

‘Like old times?’ He bent suddenly and kissed her cheek. ‘Sleep well, Kate.’

She went past him, closed the door soundlessly and took off her shoes. Creeping like a mouse through the house, she wondered why on earth he had kissed her. It had been a careless kiss, no doubt, but it hadn’t been necessary…

CHAPTER THREE

KATE found herself thinking about Mr Tait-Bouverie rather more than she would have wished during the next day or so. Really, she told herself, there was no reason for her to do so. They were hardly likely to meet again, and if they did it wouldn’t be at a mutual friend’s house. She told herself that his kiss had annoyed her—a careless reward, a kind of tip. Her cheeks grew hot at the very idea. She dismissed him from her mind with some difficulty—but he stayed there, rather like a sore tooth, to be avoided at all costs.

Lady Cowder was being difficult. She seldom raised her voice but her perpetual, faintly complaining remarks, uttered in a martyr-like way, were difficult to put up with. She implied, in the gentle voice which Kate found so hard to bear, that Kate could work a little harder.

‘A big strong girl like you,’ she observed one lunchtime, ‘with all day in which to keep the place in good order. I don’t ask much from you, Kate, but I should have thought that an easy task such as turning out the drawing room could be done in an hour or so. And the attics—I am sure that there are a great many things there which the village jumble sale will be only too glad to have. If I had the strength I would do it myself, but you know quite well that I am delicate.’

Kate, offering a generous portion of sirloin steak with its accompanying mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, French-fried onions and buttered courgettes, murmured meaninglessly. It was a constant wonder to her that her employer ate so heartily while at the same time deploring her lack of appetite.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.