Love Can Wait. Бетти Нилс
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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