Love Can Wait Read online

  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.

  Because she needed to keep her job, she somehow contrived to arrange her busy days so that she could spend an hour or so in the attics. There was a good deal of rubbish there, and a quantity of old clothes and pots which no self-respecting jumble sale would even consider, but she picked them over carefully in the hope of finding something worth offering. It was a thankless task, though, and took up any spare time she had in the afternoons. So it was that when Mr Tait-Bouverie called she knew nothing of his visit until he had gone again.

  ‘Really,’ said Lady Cowder in her gentle, complaining voice, ‘it was most inconvenient, Kate. You were up in the attics and there was no one to get us tea…’

  ‘I left the tea tray ready, Lady Cowder.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know that, but poor James had to boil the kettle and make the tea himself. As you know, I have had a headache all day and did not dare to leave the chaise longue.’

  The idea of ‘poor James’ having to make his own tea pleased Kate. Serve him right, she reflected waspishly. And there had been only thinly cut bread and butter and sponge cake for tea, since Lady Cowder had declared that her digestion would tolerate nothing richer. He would have gone back home hungry.

  Kate didn’t bother to analyse her unkind thoughts—which was a pity for he had gone to some trouble to do her a good turn.

  Mr Tait-Bouverie had gone to see his aunt on a request from his mother, and he hadn’t wanted to go. His leisure hours were few, and to waste some of them on a duty visit went against the grain—although he’d had to admit that the prospect of seeing Kate again made the visit more tolerable.

  Lady Cowder had been pleased to see him, regaling him in a plaintive little voice with her ill-health, deploring the fact that Kate had taken herself off to the attics so that there was no one to bring in the tea tray.

  Mr Tait-Bouverie had made the tea, eaten a slice of the cake Kate had left on the kitchen table while he boiled the kettle and
borne the tray back to the drawing room. He was a kind man, despite his somewhat austere manner, and he had listened patiently while his aunt chatted in her wispy voice. Presently he had striven to cheer her up.

  ‘I’m going to Norway in a week or so,’ he told her. ‘I am to give some lectures in several towns there, as well as do some work in the hospitals. I was there a few years ago and they asked me to go back. It’s a delightful country…’

  ‘Ah, you young people with your opportunities to enjoy yourselves around the world—how fortunate you are.’

  He agreed mildly. There wouldn’t be much opportunity to enjoy himself, he reflected—the odd free day, perhaps, but certainly not the social life he felt sure his aunt envisaged. Not being a very sociable man, except with close friends, he hardly thought he would miss that.

  His aunt ate the rest of the bread and butter in a die-away fashion, while at the same time deploring her lack of appetite.

  ‘Perhaps a holiday would improve my health,’ she observed. ‘I have never been to Norway but, of course, I couldn’t consider it without a companion.’

  Mr Tait-Bouverie, a man who thought before he spoke, for once allowed himself to break this rule.

  ‘Then why not go? Surely a companion won’t be too hard to find?’

  ‘The cost, dear boy…’

  He remained silent; Lady Cowder could afford a dozen companions if she wished, but, as his mother had told him charitably, ‘Your aunt has always been careful of her money.’

  Lady Cowder glanced at the empty cakestand. ‘Really, I don’t know what I pay Kate for—my wants are so simple, and yet she seems unable to offer me even a simple meal.’

  Mr Tait-Bouverie wished that Kate would come down from the attics; he had no more than a passing interest in her but she intrigued him. He said, half jokingly, ‘Why should you pay for a companion? Take Kate with you. She seems to be a woman of good sense, capable of smoothing your path…’