by Peter McAra
‘Yes, but—’ She couldn’t tell him the twisting had hurt badly.
‘Now, a little tweak this way.’ He turned her ankle gently. This time the pain was bearable. She merely moaned.
‘Yes.’ Harry transformed back into a caring doctor. ‘As I suspected. Not a fracture, just a rather bad sprain.’
‘But it really hurts!’
‘A quick injection? To relieve the pain? I keep my little black bag in my carriage.’
‘Please.’ Kate abandoned her brave face. ‘The sooner, the better, Doctor.’
In seconds, Harry returned. While the dancers gyrated to the intoxicating music, oblivious to Kate’s pain, he took syringe and ampoule from his bag and slid the needle into her ankle. She let out a breath of relief as the warm, numb feeling swam up her leg.
‘You should sit quietly for a bit,’ Harry said. ‘Perhaps a little drink?’
‘Thank you, Doctor. If you approve?’
‘It’s entirely appropriate. We’ll describe it as a medical emergency.’
Tom had stood beside her while Harry worked at his doctorly caring. He topped up her glass.
‘You poor, poor little lamb,’ he whispered. She’d never heard that sweet, compassionate emotion in his voice before. It was comforting to sense that he hurt with her.
‘I should take you home,’ he said, his face full of concern.
‘No. I mustn’t spoil the party. Go and dance your heart out, Tom. I’ll just sit quietly. Doctor’s orders.’
‘I couldn’t do that,’ Tom said, looking down at her with the care she’d read in his voice. ‘Not when my dancing partner’s in pain.’ He turned to the doctor.
‘What do you think, Harry?’
‘Mmm. If it still hurts after the shot I gave her, she must be in a bad way. I can tell she’s not a lady given to crocodile tears. She’d be better off lying prone with the ankle elevated. When she gets home, she should take something to help her sleep.’
‘It’s a three hour ride home, Harry.’
‘You should leave now. The sooner the better.’
‘We have a good supply of painkiller pills at the house,’ Tom said. ‘You need to keep a quantity of such things on a property that’s a long way from town.’
‘We don’t need to go.’ Kate winced at the thought. ‘I could lie on the landau seat. I’ll probably nod off in a few minutes. But I absolutely must not be a wet blanket. Not tonight, of all nights.’
‘Goodnight, folks.’ Tom lifted Kate off her chair, and stood with her cradled in his arms. In spite of her pain, and the dizziness brought on by the injection, she knew that he cared for her. She sagged into the hard warmth of his chest, heard the slow thud-thud of his heart as her ear pressed close to him. The table guests murmured their goodbyes, their so-sorries, their invitations to meet again soon.
Kate let herself go limp in Tom’s arms, enjoying the closeness. A few dancers glanced at them as they headed for the door, but most concentrated on the tango. Outside in the friendly dark, Tom eased her into her seat. His gentleness surprised her. Again, she fought the urge to pull him down beside her. Seconds later, the clip-clop of the horses’ shoes told her he was driving down Croydon Creek’s main street.
It seemed only minutes later that she woke. The injection had worked as a strong anaesthetic. Tom had stopped the landau. All was quiet, dark.
‘Where am I?’ Kate mumbled, still three-quarters asleep.
‘Good. You’re awake.’ Tom spoke in a friendly whisper. ‘We’re home, Kate. I’ll just carry you to your bed.’
As she opened her mouth to protest, she weighed her options. She must not attempt to walk, to flex her sleeping ankle. Not now that the pain had subsided to a gentle ache. It would be easier if she pretended to be fast asleep. She let her eyes flicker shut. He eased her out of the landau into his arms. She’d come to enjoy wilting against his chest. Now she nestled there again, basking in the warm closeness of his body.
‘Kate.’ Tom spoke in a friendly whisper. She buttoned her lips. ‘Are you awake?’ She replied with a long, slow intake of breath. Most likely, he’d think she was sound asleep.
It was a long walk to her cottage. When he reached the door, he opened it with one hand while he held her close with the other. He carried her upstairs to her bedroom, then laid her on her bed in the half-dark. She murmured, stretched, keeping her eyes closed, still feigning sleep.
‘Goodnight, little one.’ His whisper told her he cared. Cared for the fragile body stretched on the bed, eyes closed, apparently asleep. She felt him slip the shoe off her good foot, then ease a pillow under her ankles. Doctor Harry had said that elevation was good for sprains.
Then Tom’s fingers slipped into her hair. Bless his tender heart. In the friendly dark, she felt him grope for the big jewelled hair clips and slide them out so she might lie more comfortably. He eased a pillow under her head. Then the brush of something soft, warm, on her mouth. His lips! He was kissing her! A slow, soft, unhurried, real, kiss.
The kiss ended. Electric shocks surged through her body. A rustling sound came from somewhere close. She felt a rug being draped over her. Seconds later, she heard tiptoeing footsteps, the gentle click of the cottage’s closing front door. She lay in the dark, awash in the waves of emotion, sizzling, spine-jangling, that now broke over her body. She smiled so hard, her just-kissed lips hurt. A knight in shining armour had rescued her from the ball, driven her home, carried her to her bed, and kissed her goodnight. How could she sleep after that?
CHAPTER 8
Dawn broke over the hills as Tom walked from Kate’s cottage to the Big House. He was cross with himself. Why had he kissed Kate when his heart was absolutely set on wooing Laetitia? It couldn’t have been the lust common to all male animals—the energy that drives a bull to smash down a fence to reach a cow smiling at him from the next paddock. Sure, Kate had looked mouth-wateringly beautiful when he stole glances at her while they sat round the table with his friends. And dancing with her slender body against his, warm and close, flexing against him, had been—pleasant. Too pleasant for his wayward male instincts. His body had responded in a way which was inappropriate.
He knew very well that he hadn’t been in the company of a pretty woman for far too long. Often, he’d caught himself watching Kate, perhaps as she cleared the dinner table, or wrote on the blackboard. Then, last night. He’d been smacked between the eyeballs when he stopped by her cottage to take her to the ball. It was truly astonishing the way a woman’s looks, her body, transformed when she wore pretty clothes. At the ball, she’d glowed. The others at the table had liked her too.
‘You could save yourself from bleeding for that English lass, Tom,’ Harry Chambers had joked while the men had the table to themselves. ‘Looks as if you might have found some good wife material already.’ He’d laughed. ‘Kate’s pretty darned adorable, isn’t she, Tom? And brains too. I could tell by her conversation.’
‘It’s not whether she’s pretty or adorable, Harry. Or intelligent,’ Tom had said, ordering himself to return to the dream which had invaded his heart and soul when he met Laetitia. ‘She’s here for one reason only. To help me improve my courting game, remember?’
So why had he given in to that stupid male impulse to kiss his governess as he put her to bed? Luckily she’d been asleep at the time. She’d never know it had happened. But why, why, why had he done it? It had happened without him making any conscious decision. What was that word? Spontaneous. His way of saying, ‘Get well soon’. His way of thanking her for her company. Nothing more.
The poor little thing had suffered. He’d seen her ankle in the light of the carriage lamp as he lifted her from the landau. It was already purple and swollen. And the accident was mostly his fault. He’d pushed her to wear his mother’s shoes. She’d told him the heels were too high for her, then fallen silent. Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen acting like a spoilt child. She’d simply decided to put up with the pain and hope for the best.
Over the
next few days he’d make allowances for her suffering. But he reminded himself of the reason she was here. To coach him to court and win the hand of the beautiful Laetitia Barrington-Smythe. He loved Laetitia, didn’t he? She was his future. She would give him sons—sons with noble British blood. And those sons would keep Kenilworth on the path that destiny had ordained. Distractions from that future, set in stone back in his mother’s days, must never be allowed.
He walked to his room, peeled off his clothes, ready to fall into bed. But his mind buzzed. He knew he would not sleep. The first light from the morning sun winked at him through a window. It would be utterly impossible to drift off to dreamland. Not with those memories of warm, up-close dancing with Kate still churning in his brain. Not with that sudden awareness of her beauty invading his mind. How to release the head of steam hissing inside him? Those moments with Kate, as they’d floated arm in arm to the slow romantic music, had woken his raw male instincts. There was no way he could sleep now.
Something drew him to the music room. If he sat at the piano for a while, he might soothe, distract, this rampant male energy. Naked, he flicked a finger through the messy pile of music on the floor. A Beethoven piece slid out. As he set it on the music stand, he remembered his mother playing it. Damn! Even now, near twenty years after his mother’s death, he could never sit at the piano without her ghost hovering over him, lecturing him about her love of the classics. For half his young life with her, they’d sat side by side on this very stool as she taught him to play.
‘You have a real talent for music, Tommy,’ she’d told him a thousand times. ‘Perhaps you inherited it from me. That talent is special. Nourish it. Care for it.’ After that, she’d give him what he privately came to call The Lecture of The Day. She’d covered everything, from the importance of changing his socks daily, to being sure to teach his children to play the piano. Today, the lecture would be about the absolute necessity of courting a high-born Englishwoman who didn’t yet appreciate Tom’s true talents.
‘I’m going to have another try at wooing Laetitia, Mother,’ he murmured. ‘You needn’t remind me again. You know I love Laetitia. Now I’m learning to speak properly, reckon I’ll talk her round sooner or later.’ He bashed out a thundering, angry arpeggio, and felt a little better. But he needed more. Much more. The mischievous thoughts jiggling in his brain must be blown away.
***
Kate woke as the sun peeked through the blinds in her bedroom. Her ankle hurt badly. The relief from the injection had well and truly worn off. She must limp to the Big House and hope Tom was awake. She needed the painkiller pills he’d said he kept for emergencies. She still wore her ball gown, minus the shoes. Gritting her teeth against the pain, she bathed, slipped into her workaday dress and a pair of comfy shoes. In the hall cupboard she found a broom. It would serve as a crutch until she arranged something better.
As she made her awkward way to the Big House, she imagined she heard a piano playing. No, that wasn’t her imagination. It was real—a splendid piece of Beethoven. On an earlier exploration of the rambling mansion, she’d found the music room. Besides a piano and a harp, she’d noticed a strange machine—a polished brass trumpet projecting from a wooden box with a handle attached to its side. Later, Tom had told her it was a gramophone—a new-fangled invention that could copy music as it was played, then play it again when someone wound the handle.
Why would Tom be playing the gramophone at this time of the morning? As she neared the house, she heard the music swell, fade, then swell again. She stepped inside. Music flowed through the house. She followed the sound down the hall and into the music room. There at the piano, arms flying as he pounded the keyboard, sat Tom, shirtless. The moment he saw her, he stopped. He smiled—a smile that spoke more than words. Then, as she took in his smile, she noticed something shocking. He was naked. She watched as his smile sagged. His wide eyes told her he’d just registered his nakedness, and that she’d spotted it. As he sat with his mouth hanging half-open in horror, she spoke.
‘My apologies, maestro.’ She cleared her throat. ‘I didn’t know we had a famous concert pianist in residence. You’re wonderful. Please don’t stop.’
‘I woke you.’ Concern flashed across Tom’s face.
‘Indeed you didn’t, Tom. But I should like to take one of those pills of yours, if I may. For pain. Remember?’
‘Oh. Yes. Your ankle. How does it …?’ He stood, groped for something to hide his nudity, grabbed a cushion, the only cover within reach. ‘Er, they’re in my bathroom. Excuse me.’ He walked away backwards, keeping the cushion between them.
Kate dropped her improvised walking stick and flopped onto a sofa in a fit of giggles. Soon he returned, wearing trousers and shirt, carrying a bottle of pills and a glass of water. She looked away from him to read the instructions, then swallowed two pills.
‘Keep the bottle. You’ll need more,’ he said.
Whatever he wore, he always looked a slab of raw manliness—a veritable Adonis. And a few hours before, that Adonis had kissed her.
‘Thank you, Prince Charming,’ she said with a giggle. ‘But why this piano playing? At the crack of dawn, no less.’
‘I’ll confess. My mother. It’s all her fault.’
‘I can guess. She taught you to play. Taught you to love music.’
‘Yes.’
‘But you have such talent. I’d never have guessed you played the classics. And so brilliantly.’
‘Blame my mother.’
‘But why at the crack of dawn?’
‘Er…’
‘Very well. Let me guess some more. The ball, the music, the old-time atmosphere, reminded you of your mother. And you couldn’t resist the temptation. Crack of dawn notwithstanding?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you know something, Tom?’
‘What?’
‘You’re gifted. I know because my mother’s a piano music devotee. She began dragging me to concerts when I was a babe in arms. I suppose she wanted me to catch the bug. It never happened. I love to listen, but I grew to be about as musical as a crow squawking on a barbed wire fence. I never progressed from that. But you—’
‘Yes?’
‘Forgive me, Tom. But you’re sounding somewhat monosyllabic.’ She waited as he deciphered her words. ‘Could it be that you need breakfast, a cup of tea? And please don’t get into the habit of saying “yes” all the time. It won’t impress Laetitia.’
‘Ye—thank you, Kate. I’d be delighted to join you for a refreshing cup of tea.’
‘I’ll make breakfast,’ Kate volunteered. ‘I can manage scrambled eggs. They’re the absolute pinnacle of my repertoire.’
‘No, Kate. Not with your ankle and all that. But let’s go to the kitchen. You can cheer me on from the sidelines.’
‘Very well,’ Kate murmured. Before she could resist, he scooped her into his arms as if she were a ball of cottonwool, then whisked her to the kitchen. Too bad that their closeness ended so quickly, Kate thought. Within ten minutes, he’d revived the fire in the wood stove, had the kettle simmering and the scrambled eggs ready to serve.
They ate in friendly silence. The pills had swept Kate’s pain away. Cheerful again, she watched Tom eat, wondering how the morning would progress.
‘I’ve been thinking.’ Tom spoke at last.
‘Indeed? You have lots to think about. I understand that.’
‘You’re coming with me.’
‘I’m what?’
‘Coming with me. To Sydney. When I go to meet Laetitia.’
CHAPTER 9
Kate reeled. ‘Taking me to Sydney?’ She groped for words. ‘Excuse me, Tom. You’re visiting Sydney to court the woman you love. I’d be as useful as a third leg. I’d absolutely be in the way. What would Laetitia think?’
‘A moment ago, my dear governess, you told me to stop saying “yes”,’ Tom said his voice no-nonsense, practical. “Stop being monosyllabic”, you said. I’ve learned that’s exactly the kind of
thing that upsets Laetitia. But I don’t know when I’m doing it.’ He looked hard at Kate. ‘I need you, Kate. You’ll be my protector, my governess. You’ll keep an eye on things. Coach me when I need it.’
‘But as I said, what will Laetitia think?’
‘The gentry are used to it. They could hardly live without a servant or two at their beck and call. A manager of business, a wardrobe mistress, a butler. Indeed, having you around will give me a little, what word should I use? I mean a bit of a leg-up, but I can hardly say that, can I?’
‘Cachet?’
‘Good. Having you on call will give a bloke a bit of cachet. How does that sound?’
‘Well, seven out of ten. And I shouldn’t say “bloke” in front of Laetitia if I were you.’
‘What should I say? Chap?’
‘Perhaps you could say “me”. It’s a fine English pronoun, remember.’
‘Thank you, Miss Governess. You’ve proved my point. How can I trust myself to say the right word if you’re not there keeping an eye on me?’
‘It sounds rather bizarre. Taking your governess with you when you go courting.’
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ Tom said. ‘There’ll be times when I’ll need a little privacy.’
Kate winced at the thought. She juggled with the happy prospect of journeying to Sydney with Tom versus the pain of watching him court Laetitia. The idea of Tom being alone with the woman whose picture now stood on his bedside table wrenched at her fragile heart. For one last time, she let herself revisit his kiss. She absolutely must never do that again. It made the pain of his plans to marry so much worse for her. She hoped he’d keep the comings and goings of his courtship to himself. She didn’t need to know the details. When a man built like Tom courted a blonde English beauty, there’d likely be scenes that polite women would shrink from imagining.
‘But I want to have you close by, accessible, twenty-four hours of the day, just in case.’
