Love Can Wait

‘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?’