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Kate agreed silently.
That evening there was a barbecue, the preparations for which were much hindered by Claudia rearranging everything and then demanding that it should all be returned to its normal place—which meant that by the time the guests began to arrive nothing was quite ready, a circumstance which Claudia, naturally enough, blamed on Kate. With Kate still within earshot, she observed in her rather loud voice, ‘Of course, one can’t expect the servants to know about these things…’
Kate, stifling an urge to go back and strangle the girl, went to the kitchen to fetch the sausages and steaks.
‘Now you can get the charcoal burning,’ ordered Claudia.
Kate set the sausages and steaks beside each other on one of the tables.
‘I’m wanted in the house,’ she said, and whisked herself away.
She made herself a pot of tea in the kitchen, emptied the dishwasher and tidied the room. It was a fine, warm evening, and the party would probably go on for some time, which would give her the chance to press a dress of Claudia’s and go upstairs and turn down the beds. First, though, she fed Horace, scrubbed two potatoes and popped them into the Aga for her supper. When they were baked she would top them with cheese and put them under the grill.
One more day, she told herself as she tidied Claudia’s room. The drinks party the next day would be child’s play after the last few days. She wished Mr Tait-Bouverie joy of his weekend guests, and hoped he was thoughtful of his housekeeper. She wasn’t sure if she liked him, but she thought he might be a man who considered his servants…
The barbecue went on for a long time. Kate did her chores, ate her potatoes and much later, when everyone had left and Lady Cowder and Claudia had gone to their rooms, she went to hers, stood half-asleep under the shower and tumbled into bed, to sleep the sleep of a very tired girl.
Since Lady Cowder and her goddaughter were to go to London in the early evening, the drinks party the next day was held just before noon, and because the guests had tended to linger, lunch was a hurried affair. Kate whisked the plates in and out without waste of time, found Lady Cowder’s spectacles, her handbag, her pills, and went upstairs twice to make sure that Claudia had packed everything.
‘Though I can’t think why I should have to pack for myself,’ said that young lady pettishly, and snatched a Gucci scarf from Kate’s hand without thanking her.
Kate watched them go, heaved an enormous sigh of relief and began to clear lunch away and leave the house tidy. Horace had been fed, and Harvey promised he would be up to see to him and make sure that everything was all right later that evening. He was a nice old man, and Kate gave him cups of tea and plenty of her scones whenever he came up to the house with the vegetables. He would take a look at the house, he assured her, and see to Horace.
‘You can go home, Missy,’ he told her, ‘and have a couple of days to yourself. All that rumpus—makes a heap of work for the likes of us.’
It was lovely to sleep in her own bed again, to wake in the morning and smell the bacon frying for her breakfast and not for someone else’s. She went down to the small kitchen intent on finishing the cooking, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.
‘You’ve had a horrid week, love, and it’s marvellous to have you home for two whole days. What shall we do?’
‘We’re going to Thame,’ said Kate firmly. ‘We’ll have a good look at the shops and have tea at that patisserie.’
‘It’s expensive…’
‘We owe ourselves a treat.’
They sat over breakfast while Kate told her mother about her week.
‘Wasn’t there anyone nice there?’ asked Mrs Crosby.
‘No, not a soul. Well, there was one—Lady Cowder’s nephew. He’s very reserved, I should think he has a nasty temper, too. He complimented me on dinner, but that doesn’t mean to say that he’s nice.’
‘But he talked to you?’
‘No, only to remark that it had been a pleasant evening.’
‘And?’
‘I told him that it might have been pleasant for some, and that my feet ached.’
Her mother laughed. ‘I wonder what he thought of that?’
‘I’ve no idea, and I really don’t care. We’ll have a lovely day today.’
A sentiment not echoed by Mr Tait-Bouverie, who had welcomed his guests on Friday evening, much regretting his impulsive action. After suitable greetings he had handed them over to Mudd and, with Prince hard on his heels, had gone to his room to dress. He had got tickets for a popular musical, and Mudd had thought up a special dinner.
Tomorrow, he had reflected, shrugging himself into his jacket, he would escort them to a picture gallery which was all the fashion and then take them to lunch. Dinner and dancing at the Savoy in the evening would take care of Saturday. Then a drive out into the country on Sunday and one of Mudd’s superb dinners, and early Monday morning they would drive back.
A waste of a perfectly good weekend, he had thought regretfully, and hoped that Kate was enjoying hers more than he expected to enjoy his. ‘Although, the girl is no concern of mine,’ he had pointed out to Prince.
Presently he had forgotten about her, listening to Claudia’s ceaseless chatter and his aunt’s gentle complaining voice. A delicious dinner, she had told him, but such a pity that she wasn’t able to appreciate it now that she suffered with those vague pains. ‘One so hopes that it isn’t cancer,’ she had observed with a wistful little laugh.
Mr Tait-Bouverie, having watched her eat a splen did meal with something very like greed, had assured her that that was most unlikely. ‘A touch of indigestion?’ he had suggested—a remark dismissed with a frown from Lady Cowder. Indigestion was vulgar, something suitable for the lower classes…
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?’
