Lessons In Loving

by Peter McAra

  ‘Oh, we’ve always had it. We keep it for special celebrations. Like taking fairy princesses to balls.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  Kate teetered towards the magic carriage. She felt glad, along with a few other feelings besides, to have the perfect excuse to cling tightly to his arm.

  ‘You look so different,’ Tom said as he flicked the reins and the carriage rolled down the drive. ‘What magic spell has your fairy godmother cast on you?’

  ‘Probably the magic of exchanging my schoolma’am glasses for these special ones.’ She smiled. ‘Not much else.’ For a second she thought of asking him if he liked the jewelled clips in her hair—clips she’d borrowed from his mother’s wardrobe. She decided against it. Enough was enough.

  ‘Well then,’ he said, beaming. ‘You’re going to be the belle of the ball, and no mistake. Should I introduce you as Cinderella when we make our entrance?’

  ‘Mmm. If you do that, Prince Charming, it might give a poor governess ideas above her station.’

  ‘Very well, Miss Cinders. I’ll try to remember that.’ He drove on, laughing to himself.

  As the carriage bumped its way down the narrow road, Kate reflected on the last time she’d travelled that way. She’d been nervous, confused, uncertain about meeting the man who might become her employer. But ever since their first night in the old mansion, he’d acted the perfect gentleman. She stole a look at him as he guided the horses between potholes and overhanging branches. He was downright handsome. Not that she hadn’t noticed that the first moment they met. Now, as he sat erect in his dinner jacket, reins in hands, she fought the urge to land a naughty kiss on his cheek. Could she control herself for the rest of the three-hour journey?

  CHAPTER 7

  Kate spent the rest of the ride imagining dancing with Tom—slow, warm, close, floating in his arms to dreamy music. How would the locals react when they spied the two of them together? Perhaps they’d think she was his latest sweetheart, met the last time he’d travelled to Sydney. Perhaps one or two of his former lady friends would spot her, wondering if Kate was a city woman scheming to marry into the wealthy Fortescue clan. No matter what, she must behave herself for every second of their time together. Too, too soon, the day would come when Tom walked into Croydon Creek with the beautiful Laetitia on his arm. By then, Kate would have left Kenilworth, forgotten it, moved on to another life. For now, she would give herself permission to enjoy the night, then waft back to reality next morning.

  The Croydon Creek Town Hall had done itself proud. As Tom helped her down from the landau, Kate saw that the old sandstone building had been festooned with coloured lanterns. As they stepped inside, she reeled. An orchestra took up the whole stage—the men in dinner suits, the women in black evening gowns. Violin bows swayed to the rhythm of a slow waltz from the Naughty Nineties. No-one had taken to the floor yet. Formally elegant in his dinner suit, Tom escorted the wide-eyed Kate to a table of smiling couples. He seated her with old-fashioned formality, then introduced her.

  ‘May I ask you to welcome the famous Miss Kate Courtney, qualified teacher of English, no less?’ He bowed towards the couple on his left. ‘First, Kate, this is Harry Chambers, and his lovely wife, Jean. Harry’s the local doctor.’ Kate watched eyebrows twitch at Tom’s assured, elegant new way of speaking. Now his voice, his language, matched his gentlemanly looks. He moved round the table.

  ‘Gideon and Fiona Stewart. They own Glasgow Station, a little to the north of Kenilworth. Stewarts have owned the place since the year dot.’ He moved a step further.

  ‘Now Bob and Mary, Kate. Bob’s the man who keeps me out of jail. My lawyer. And last but by no means least, Robert and Sally Carter. They keep me on the right side of the bank manager. That’s him over there.’ As he pointed, he mouthed an aside into Kate’s ear. ‘Rob and Sally manage my office in Croydon Creek. You should make yourself known to them. For future reference.’

  They took their seats at places marked with name cards written in stylish calligraphy. Kate imagined a little old lady, a pillar of local society, spending hours writing the cards for each table with a fine quill pen. A moment later, someone magically produced two crystal champagne flutes and filled them to the brim with pink champagne. As the bottle found its way back into an ice bucket, Kate spotted French text on the label. French champagne! And pink! This would be a singularly special evening. As she took her glass, the friendly doctor cleared his throat.

  ‘A very special welcome to Miss Kate!’ Everyone raised their glasses. ‘It’s delightful to welcome some new blood to our table,’ the doctor continued. ‘Oops! I do beg your pardon. I should have left my doctor language in my surgery. The very best of luck with your undertaking, Miss Courtney.’ He pointed his glass towards Tom. ‘And congratulations to our Tom, too. For recruiting such a smart young lady to oversee his transformation.’ He smiled, drew a theatrical breath.

  ‘We must give you credit, Miss Kate. Clearly, your teaching is working. Tom sounds very different already. The very model of a cultured English gentleman.’ Smiles and nods rolled round the table. ‘We wish you the very best for your visit to Sydney, Tom.’

  ‘Thank you, Harry. I must confess to rather looking forward to it.’

  ‘We trust you to keep up the good work, Kate,’ Harry said. ‘And we all trust you will enjoy your evening with us. You deserve it.’

  So the whole table knew why Kate had come to Kenilworth. Was nothing ever private in these country villages? But then everyone round the table had likely grown up together. They conducted themselves as if they were one big family. Tom’s people had arrived three generations before, and so, very likely, had the ancestors of all the others. Kate must make an effort to blend with the familial warmth that flowed round her, holding out its welcoming arms.

  Of course she must conduct herself properly. Not for one second must she behave as if she were Tom’s lady friend. She was his governess, present at the ball purely through his courtesy. Everyone round the table knew that. So how should a governess behave when she attends a ball with her handsome, smiling pupil? She scrolled through her brain for a novel that might provide a clue, and gave up. She’d simply enjoy the evening.

  Glasses emptied and were instantly refilled. Then Sally and Robert stood, swept inviting grins towards the table, and stepped onto the dance floor.

  ‘Shall we dance?’ Tom grinned at Kate. ‘Oh, excuse me.’ He stood, leaned towards her with a bow. ‘May I have the pleasure of Miss Courtney’s company?’

  ‘How could Miss Courtney resist?’ Kate answered, eager to become a character in the fairytale happening around her. ‘When you speak like that, a lady melts.’ As Kate stood, he slid her chair back.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Courtney. But please don’t melt yet. We have some dancing to do. And don’t forget,’ his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘everyone’s watching.’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir.’ She smiled at Tom as they walked to the dance floor. ‘Every minute of our ride from Kenilworth, I was dreading the thought of dancing. Especially in these shoes. But now the music has rather cast its spell over me.’

  They took to the floor as the music switched to a spritely two-step. At the first pressure of Tom’s hand in the small of her back, Kate felt the urge to melt against him. For a moment she resisted. Then, as she breathed in his closeness, a sweet magic dissolved her willpower—was it her primitive womanly desire for him as his broad shoulders loomed above her? She wrapped her arms round his neck, let her body flow close against his chest. If he raised an eyebrow, she’d say it was her awkward shoes.

  Beautiful, soul-melting minutes flowed along with the music. Kate imagined herself as a puffy white cloud floating over the Kenilworth hills. Sometimes she dared to look up at Tom. Each time, she caught him smiling down at her. He seemed to be enjoying himself too. His strong warm hand eased into her back, guided her through the steps, firm but loving. Try as she might, she could not think of another word to describe his caring touch.

  To
m was an excellent dancer. Very likely, his mother had taught him. In her courting days, dancing would have been the appropriate way for genteel society girls to meet suitable young men. As Kate took in the scene, she watched other couples move round them with polished grace, as if they’d been coached in dancing from childhood. Kate, on the other hand, had been raised in the traditions of her mother’s lower class upbringing, learning no more than a little easy waltzing with her school friends.

  The music stopped. A pity. Tom steered Kate back to their table, arm round her waist.

  ‘I loved that.’ She must tell him. ‘And I absolutely must confess. This is the first time in my sheltered life that I’ve managed to dance on a proper dance floor, with proper music.’ And with a partner I would die for, she added to herself.

  ‘It won’t be the last time.’ Tom laughed. ‘I promise. It’s barely nine o’clock. The ball could carry on till daylight.’ He seated her and filled her champagne flute. ‘Excuse me a moment, Kate.’ He gestured to Sally. ‘Keep an eye on Miss Kate for a while, please Sally. I must circulate for a minute or two.’

  He walked away to chat with old friends while the musicians took their respite. A minute later, a loud male voice, stinging with sarcasm, cut across the lively hubbub filling the room.

  ‘And how’s Mr Wonkywords these days? Now he’s got himself a clever little governess. To teach him to talk proper.’ Along with half the people in the hall, Kate turned to look.

  ‘I’m very well, thank you, Silas. And I trust you’re well too.’ Kate caught the barbed tone in Tom’s reply. Sally nudged her arm.

  ‘Silas Smith,’ she whispered. ‘Owns the local blacksmith shop. Tom and Silas have always been enemies. Silas takes a positive delight in teasing Tom about his childish language. Sometimes it gets rather unpleasant. We’ve tried to help Tom cope with it. But old wounds take time to heal.’

  Kate watched, wincing, as the two traded oral punches. As Silas’s voice swelled, Tom’s fell to a vicious whisper. Though she couldn’t hear his words, Tom’s set jaw signalled his anger. As Tom headed back to his table, Silas grabbed his arm. Tom flicked it free, then strode away. A murderous expression burned across his face. Silas waved an arm towards him and laughed—a theatrically high-pitched giggle.

  ‘Ignore all that,’ Tom said as he took his seat beside Kate. ‘Local no-account rubbish. A little drunk. Can I fetch you something? Chocolate? Cheese?’

  ‘Thank you for your kind offer, Tom,’ she said. ‘Perhaps later. Might I be excused for a moment? I need a new handkerchief. I left some in a bag in the landau.’

  ‘Let me fetch them for you, Kate. It’s dark out there.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom. But you’re rather in demand. I’ll dash out now. Be back in a moment.’

  ‘Very well. If you’re sure?’

  She excused herself from the table and headed for the park where Tom had left the landau. She found it, and her handkerchief. Then, as she walked carefully back towards the hall, teetering on her heels, a voice made her turn.

  ‘Good evening, Princess Kate.’

  She took in the dinner suit-clad shape in the half-dark, walking a few steps behind her. The nasal, sarcastic voice told her it was Silas Smith.

  ‘So you’re Mr Wonkywords’ governess.’

  She looked away, headed towards the hall.

  He closed the distance between them, and seized her arm. ‘Just a moment, please, sweetie pie. A chap wants to chat for a bit.’ He spoke slowly, then paused. ‘Know what? The blokes reckon you’re the belle of the ball. You’re wasted on Wonkywords.’

  ‘Kindly let go of my arm. Please.’ Kate tried to keep her voice calm as her heart pounded. She tugged, but he held her tight. In the gloom of the night, lit only by the coloured lanterns above the hall doorway, the man’s eyes burned with threat. As she stared into his face, he suddenly transformed into a raw predatory male.

  ‘So what does Miss Sweetie Pie teach Mr Wonkywords all day?’ His voice turned sweet, pseudo-seductive. ‘Oh, and what does she teach him at night? Far away in the depths of Kenilworthless?’

  ‘Please. Let me go!’ Kate fought tears. She mustn’t sound weak. She tugged her arm hard, broke free, turned to walk back to the hall. ‘Keep away, Silas. Please.’

  He grabbed her wrist again. His grip tightened till it hurt. Panic flashed through her, surged into heart-stopping fear. She couldn’t outrun the man while she wore those ridiculous heels. What could she do? The street was deserted. If she screamed, would anyone hear? Would the man drag her away into the dark?

  ‘We’ll take a little stroll. Down to yonder creek.’ He pointed. ‘Cool off a bit, eh?’ He took a step along the footpath into the dark, dragging her easily despite her struggles. She drew a long breath, ready to scream for help.

  ‘Kate!’ Tom’s voice cracked through the dark like a rifle shot.

  ‘Tom!’ she gasped. ‘Heeelp me!’

  Then the sound of running feet, the jerk to Kate’s still tightly gripped arm as Silas broke into a run. Tom reached Silas, seized him, yanked him to a stop.

  ‘Let go the lady’s hand!’ Tom spoke through clenched teeth, his voice an animal snarl. ‘Before I flatten you.’

  ‘Flatten me?’ Silas giggled. ‘You and what army, Wonky boy?’

  ‘I’ve asked you once. Now let her go!’

  ‘Me and the lady—we’re taking a little walk.’ Silas tugged his arm free of Tom’s grip, swung a punch. It thudded into Tom’s chest, halting him for a moment. ‘Poor girl needs a little fresh air.’ Silas giggled. ‘Away from—’

  Smack! Tom’s fist smashed into Silas’s jaw. Silas reeled, regained his balance as he gripped Kate’s arm.

  Smack! Tom landed a second punch. Silas’s grip on Kate’s arm faltered. He fell to the pavement. Kate heard a thud as his head hit the ground. Then he groaned. So he was conscious.

  ‘Mmm.’ Tom looked down at the man sprawled on the pavement, then took Kate’s shaky hand. ‘We must go. Leave that garbage to rot.’

  ‘But shouldn’t we—?’

  ‘Don’t worry. His cronies will be out and about looking for him soon enough. Let’s return to our table. Our friends will be concerned about us.’

  Tom’s words needed no explaining. Kate walked with him, heart thudding, as he strode back towards the hall. As she held his hand tight and kept close beside him, she heard his angry breaths subside. Her grip on his hand tightened of its own accord. That hand’s warmth, its strength, was a lifebelt thrown to her as she was flung about in a stormy sea. She’d resist the urge to wrap her arms round his waist, press against the warmth of that lean muscular body. She must thank the man who’d just saved her from something—awful. Thank him from the depths of her heart. But how?

  ‘You’re not hurt, Kate?’ he asked, solving that problem for the moment.

  ‘No. Just a little shaken.’ She rubbed her wrist where Silas had gripped it, took long, slow breaths. ‘That horrible man. What was he …?’

  ‘I told you. A local no-account. Fighting drunk. He acts like that after a few too many beers. What would you call it?’

  ‘Dutch courage? It doesn’t matter. You saved me. I’ll never, ever, be able to thank you enough, Tom.’ He squeezed her hand, lightly, supportively. ‘I was so frightened. Thank goodness you appeared in the nick of time.’

  ‘Well then. Perhaps a healing glass of champagne?’ Tom eased a gentle arm round her waist.

  ‘Thank you. Let’s head back. Join in the fun.’ Kate squeezed his hand tight once more, hoping he’d read it as her way of thanking him without words.

  As the night waltzed by, they danced again. Whenever they took to the floor, Kate’s nervousness dissolved. Perhaps Tom had chosen easy dances for her, having deduced that the slow two-step was her favourite. A few minutes later, as they flowed round the floor, the music died.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ The orchestra’s conductor turned to face the crowd. ‘A special request from a young lady.’ He pointed to an elderly white-haired
woman sitting close to the stage. She wore a blazing purple ball gown with a fox fur draped round her shoulders., She must have been at least eighty.

  ‘Miss Emily has asked for a tango. Not to dance herself. She told us she loves watching the tango. So …’

  A few couples left the floor, laughing to their friends that they weren’t equal to the athletics of the tango. Then the conductor turned to the players. They stopped juggling their music sheets, set their instruments at the ready. The leader flicked his baton and the jaunty music surged through the hall. As the exciting rhythm seduced the audience, the more confident dancers stepped onto the floor.

  ‘I’ll lead, you follow,’ Tom ordered the confused Kate. ‘Now spin!’ Miraculously, she survived the first spin. With practice, she might even enjoy the next. She did, glowing with the heady excitement of her unexpected success. Then, as he twirled the arm she held above her, ready for another flirt with paradise, she tripped. Ouch! Pain shot up her leg. She’d twisted her ankle. She slid to the floor in a heap. The dancers ignored her.

  ‘Help!’ Kate squeaked. She struggled back onto her feet. Pain exploded through her ankle like an electric charge. She held out an arm to Tom. He took her hand, eased her towards their table.

  ‘Aaaah! My ankle.’ Kate gasped with pain.

  ‘Here.’ Tom draped one of her arms round his neck, swept her off the floor, and carried her to their table in his arms.

  ‘Perhaps you might take a look at Kate’s ankle, Harry?’ Through her agony, she heard the caring in Tom’s quiet request as he spoke to his doctor friend.

  ‘The tango was perhaps a bit much for you, Kate?’ Croydon Creek’s doctor looked hard at her, sympathy glowing in his eyes.

  ‘My ankle,’ Kate gasped. ‘The pain’s killing me.’

  ‘Forgive me. This might not be the best time or place, but I should like to take a quick look.’ He stood. ‘Sit here. Put your foot on my chair. Take off your shoe.’ She obeyed, wincing.

  ‘I’ll try not to hurt. Just take a quick look.’ He took her bare foot and twisted it gently. She squealed with pain. ‘Can you feel my fingers on your toes?’