Love Can Wait

by Betty Neels

  Mrs Pickett, sweetened by the tea and scones, agreed to come for the whole day.

  ‘A week, mind, no more than that. Sally will come up for a few hours whenever you need her. She’ll be glad of a bit of extra money—the cash that girl spends on clothes… How about a couple of hours in the morning? Nine-ish? Just to make beds and tidy the rooms and clear the breakfast. You’ll have your work cut out if Her Nibs is going to have parties and such. Sally could pop in evenings, too—help with laying the table and clearing away. I’ll say this for the girl: she’s a good worker, and honest.’ Mrs Pickett fixed Kate with a beady eye. ‘Paid by the hour, mind.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Four pounds. And that’s cheap. She can afford it.’ Mrs Pickett jerked her head ceilingwards.

  ‘I’ll let you know, and about your extra hours. Would you like to stay for midday dinner and clear up after while I get the cooking started?’

  ‘Suits me. Puts upon you, she does,’ said Mrs Pickett. ‘Do her good to do a bit of cooking herself once in a while.’

  Kate said cheerfully, ‘I like cooking—but you do see that I need help if there’s to be a lot of entertaining?’

  ‘Lor’ bless you, girl, of course I do. Besides, me and the old man, we’re wanting to go to Blackpool in September for a week—see the lights and have a bit of fun. The extra cash will come in handy.’

  Lady Cowder, informed of all this, shied like a startled horse at the expense. ‘Anyone would think that I was made of money,’ she moaned. She caught Kate’s large green eyes. ‘But dear Claudia must be properly entertained, and it is only for one week. Very well, Kate, make whatever arrangements you must. I shall want you here after tea to discuss the meals.’

  Mr Tait-Bouverie took off his gloves, stood patiently while a nurse untied his gown, threw it with unerring precision at the container meant for its reception and went out of the theatre. It had been a long list of operations, and the last case hadn’t been straightforward so there would be no time for coffee in Sister’s office—his private patients would be waiting for him.

  Fifteen minutes later he emerged, immaculate and unhurried, refusing with his beautiful manners Sister’s offer of coffee, and made his way out of the hospital to his car. The streets were comparatively quiet—it was too late for the evening rush, too early for the theatre and cinemagoers. He got into the Bentley and drove himself home, away from the centre of the city, past the Houses of Parliament, and along Millbank until he reached his home—a narrow house wedged between two imposing town houses, half their size but sharing their view of the river and the opposite bank.

  He drove past it to the end of the side street and turned into the mews at the back of the houses, parked the car in the garage behind his house and walked back to let himself in through the front door. He was met in the hall by a short, stout man very correctly dressed in black jacket and pin-striped trousers, with a jovial face and a thick head of grey hair.

  His ‘Good evening, sir,’ was cheerful. ‘A splendid summer evening,’ he observed. ‘I’ve put the drinks on the patio, sir, seeing as how a breath of fresh air would do you no harm.’

  Mr Tait-Bouverie thanked him, picked up his letters from the console table and took himself and his bag off to the study. ‘Any messages, Mudd?’ he paused to ask, and braced himself as the door at the back of the hall was thrust open and a golden Labrador came to greet him. ‘Prince, old fellow, come into the garden—but first I must go to the study…’

  ‘Lady Cowder phoned,’ said Mudd. ‘Twice. She said she would be glad if you would telephone her as soon as you return home, sir.’

  Mr Tait-Bouverie nodded absently and sat down behind his desk in the study, with Prince beside him. There was nothing in the post to take his attention and he went into the sitting room at the back of the house and out onto the small patio facing the narrow walled garden. A drink before dinner, he decided. He would ring his aunt later.

  It was a pleasant little garden, with its borders stuffed with flowers and a small plot of grass in its centre. The walls were a faded red brick and covered in climbing roses, veronica and clematis. Mr Tait-Bouverie closed his eyes for a moment and wished he was at his cottage in Bosham—roomy, old and thatched, at the end of Bosham Lane beyond the avenue of oaks and holly trees, within sight and sound of the harbour.

  He spent his free weekends there, and brief holidays, taking Mudd and Prince with him, sailing in the creek, working in his rambling garden, going to the pub and meeting friends there… Perhaps he could manage this weekend, or at least Saturday. He had a list next Monday and he had no free time at all until Saturday, but it was only Monday now—he had the whole week in which to arrange things to his satisfaction.

  He ate the dinner Mudd set before him and went to his study to phone his aunt.

  ‘James, I was beginning to think you would never telephone. I’ve tried twice to get you.’ She paused, but not long enough for him to reply.

  ‘Something so exciting. Dear Julia Travers’s daughter, Claudia—my god-daughter, you know—is coming to stay for a week. Such a dear girl, and so pretty. It’s all rather sudden.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘But I’m doing my best to plan a pleasant stay for her. I’ve arranged a dinner party for Wednesday evening—just a few friends, and you, of course. Do say that you can come…eight o’clock. Black tie.’

  Mr Tait-Bouverie listened to this patiently for he was a patient man. A list of possible excuses ran through his head but he discarded them. He didn’t want to go, but on the other hand a drive down to Thame in the middle of the week would make a pleasant break.

  ‘Provided there is no emergency to keep me here, I’ll accept with pleasure,’ he told her. ‘I may need to leave directly after dinner, though.’

  ‘Splendid. I’m sure it will be a delightful evening.’

  He thought it unlikely. His aunt’s friends weren’t his, and the evening would be taken up with time-wasting chat, but the drive back to London in the evening would compensate for that.

  Lady Cowder talked for another five minutes and he put down the phone with an air of relief. A few minutes later he let himself out of his house with Prince and set off on his evening walk, Wednesday’s dinner party already dismissed from his mind. He had several cases for operation lined up for the week and he wanted to mull them over at his leisure. Much later he went to his bed to sleep the sleep of a man whose day had gone well.

  Kate, going to her bed, reflected that her day hadn’t gone well at all. After she had given Lady Cowder her lunch and eaten a hasty snack herself, she’d got into the car and driven to Thame, where she’d spent an hour or more shopping for the elaborate food decided upon for the dinner party. When she got home she had been summoned once more—dear Claudia, she was told, would arrive before lunch on the following day, so that meal must be something special, and Kate was to make sure that there was a variety of cakes for tea. Moreover, dinner must be something extra special too.

  Unlike Mr Tait-Bouverie’s, Kate’s day had not gone well.

  Claudia arrived mid-morning, driving her scarlet Mini. She was small and slender and pretty—a chocolate-box prettiness—with china-blue eyes, a pert nose, pouting mouth and an abundance of fair curls. She looked helpless but Kate, carrying in her luggage, reflected that she seemed as hard as nails under that smiling face. She had wasted no time on Kate, but had pushed past her to embrace Lady Cowder with little cries of joy which made Kate feel quite sick.

  Kate took the bags up to the guest room, fetched the coffee tray and retired to the kitchen where Mrs Pickett was cleaning vegetables.

  ‘Pretty as a picture,’ she observed. ‘Like a fairy. And such lovely clothes, too. She won’t stay single long, I’ll warrant you.’

  Kate said, ‘Probably not,’ adding silently that Claudia would stay single just as long as it took her to find a man with a great deal of money who was prepared to let her have her own way, and indulge every whim. And if I can see that in five minutes, she thought, why can’t a
man?

  Her feelings, she decided, mustn’t get in the way of her culinary art. She presented a delicious lunch and forbore from uttering a word when she handed Claudia the new potato salad and had it thrust back into her hands.

  ‘I couldn’t possibly eat those,’ cried Claudia. ‘Vegetables which have been smothered in some sauce or other; it’s a sure sign that they’ve been poorly cooked and need disguising.’

  Lady Cowder, who had taken a large helping, looked taken aback. ‘Oh, dear, you don’t care for devilled potatoes? Kate, fetch some plain boiled ones for Miss Travers.’

  ‘There aren’t any,’ said Kate. ‘I can boil some, but they will take at least twenty minutes…’

  ‘Well, really… You should have thought of it, Kate.’

  ‘If Miss Travers will give me a list of what she dislikes and likes I can cook accordingly.’

  Kate sounded so polite that Lady Cowder hesitated to do more than murmur, ‘Perhaps that would be best.’

  When Kate had left the room Claudia said, ‘What an impertinent young woman. Why don’t you dismiss her?’

  ‘My dear, if you knew how difficult it is to get anyone to work for one these days… All the good cooks work in town, where they can earn twice as much. Kate is a good cook, and I must say she runs the house very well. Besides, she lives locally with a widowed mother and needs to stay close to her home.’

  Claudia sniggered. ‘Oh, well, I suppose she’s better than nothing. She looks like a prim old maid.’

  Kate, coming in with home-made meringue nests well-filled with strawberries, heard that. It would be nice, she thought, serving the meringues with an impassive face, to put a dead rat in the girl’s bed…

  Claudia Travers wasn’t the easiest of guests. She needed a warm drink when she went to her room at night, a special herb tea upon waking, a variety of yoghurts for breakfast, and coddled eggs and whole-meal bread—all of which Kate provided, receiving no word of thanks for doing so. Claudia, treating her hostess with girlish charm, wasted none of it on Kate.

  Lady Cowder took her god-daughter out to lunch the next day, which meant that Kate had the time to start preparing for the dinner party that evening. She was still smarting from her disappointment over her half-day off. No mention had been made of another one in its place, and over breakfast she had heard Claudia observing that she might stay over the weekend—so that would mean no day off on Sunday, either.

  Kate, thoroughly put out, started to trim watercress for the soup. There was to be roast duck with sauce Bigarade, and Lady Cowder wanted raspberry sorbets served after the duck. For vegetables she had chosen braised chicory with orange, petits pois and a purée of carrots; furthermore, Kate had been told to make chocolate orange creams, caramel creams and a strawberry cheesecake.

  She had more than enough to get on with. The menu was too elaborate, she considered, and there was far too much orange…but her mild suggestion that something else be substituted for the chocolate orange creams had been ignored.

  After lunch she started on the cakes for tea. Claudia had refused the chocolate sponge and the small scones Kate had offered on the previous day, so today she made a madeira cake and a jam sponge and, while they were baking, made herself a pot of tea and sat down to drink it.

  As soon as Claudia left, she would ask for her day and a half off and go home and do nothing. She enjoyed cooking, but not when everything she cooked was either criticised or rejected. Claudia, she reflected crossly, was a thoroughly nasty young woman.

  The cold salmon and salad that she had served for dinner the previous evening had been pecked at, and when Lady Cowder had urged her guest to try and eat something, Claudia had smiled wistfully and said that she had always been very delicate.

  Kate had said nothing—but in the kitchen, with no one but the kitchen cat to hear her, she’d allowed her feelings to erupt.

  Sally, Mrs Pickett’s niece, arrived later in the afternoon. She was a strapping young girl with a cheerful face and, to Kate’s relief, a happy disposition. She served tea while Kate got on with her cooking, and then joined her in the kitchen. Mrs Pickett was there too, clearing away bowls and cooking utensils, making endless pots of tea, laying out the tableware and the silver and glass.

  Kate, with the duck safely dealt with and dinner almost ready, went to the dining room and found that Sally had set the table very correctly. There was a low bowl of roses at its centre, with candelabra on either side of it, and the silver glass gleamed.

  ‘That’s a marvellous job,’ said Kate. ‘You’ve made it look splendid. Now, when they have all sat down I’ll serve the soup from the sideboard and you take it round. I’ll have to go back to the kitchen to see to the duck while you clear the dishes and fetch the hot plates and the vegetables. I’ll serve the duck and you hand it round, and we’ll both go round with the potatoes and the veg.’

  The guests were arriving. Kate poked at her hair, tugged her skirt straight and went to open the door. It was the local doctor and his wife, both of whom greeted her like old friends before crossing the hall to their hostess and Claudia who was a vision in pale blue. Following hard on their heels came Major Keane and his wife, and an elderly couple from Thame who were old friends of Lady Cowder. They brought a young man with them, their nephew. He was good-looking and full of self-confidence. And then, five minutes later, as Kate was crossing the hall with the basket of warm rolls ready for the soup, Mr Tait-Bouverie arrived.

  He wished her good evening and smiled at her as she opened the drawing room door. Her own good evening was uttered in a voice devoid of expression.

  Mindful of her orders, Kate waited ten minutes then announced dinner and went to stand by the soup tureen. Claudia, she noticed, was seated between the nephew and Mr Tait-Bouverie and was in her element, smiling and fluttering her eyelashes in what Kate considered to be a sickening manner. A pity Sally hadn’t spilt the watercress soup down the front of the blue dress, thought Kate waspishly.

  Dinner went off very well, and an hour later Kate helped clear the table after taking coffee into the drawing room. Then she went to the kitchen, where the three of them sat down at the kitchen table and polished off the rest of the duck.

  ‘You’re tired out; been on your feet all day,’ said Mrs Pickett. ‘Just you nip outside for a breath of air, Kate. Me and Sally’ll fill the dishwasher and tidy up a bit. Go on, now.’

  ‘You don’t mind? Ten minutes, then. You’ve both been such a help—I could never have managed…’

  It was lovely out in the garden, still light enough to see around her, and warm from the day’s sunshine. Kate wandered round the side of the house and onto the sweep in front of it, and paused to look at the cars parked there: an elderly Daimler—that would be the doctor’s—Major Keane’s Rover, a rakish sports car—the nephew’s no doubt—and, a little apart, the Bentley.

  She went nearer and peered in, and met the eyes of the dog sitting behind the wheel. The window was a little open and he lifted his head and breathed gently over her.

  ‘You poor dear, shut up all by yourself while everyone is inside guzzling themselves ill. I hope your master takes good care of you.’

  Mr Tait-Bouverie, coming soft-footed across the grass, stopped to listen.

  ‘He does his best,’ he observed mildly. ‘He is about to take his dog for a short stroll before returning home.’ He looked at Kate’s face, pale in the deepening twilight. ‘And I promise you, I didn’t guzzle. The dinner was superb.’

  He opened the door and Prince got out and offered his head for a scratch.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Kate haughtily. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘A most pleasant evening,’ said Mr Tait-Bouverie.

  Kate heaved a deep breath. ‘Probably it was, for you. But this was supposedly my half-day off, and on Sunday, when I should have a full day, I am not to have it because Miss Travers is staying on.’ Her voice shook very slightly. ‘We—I and my mother—were going to spend the day at Thame, looking at the shops
. And my feet ache!’

  She turned on her heel and walked away, back to the kitchen, leaving Mr Tait-Bouverie looking thoughtful.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MR TAIT-BOUVERIE strolled around the garden while Prince blundered around seeking rabbits, his amusement at Kate’s outburst slowly giving way to concern. She had sounded upset—indeed, he suspected that most girls would have given way to floods of tears. Knowing his aunt, he had no doubt that Kate was shown little consideration at the best of times and none at all when Lady Cowder’s wishes were likely to be frustrated. He had been touched by her idea of a day’s outing to Thame to look at the shops. The ladies of his acquaintance didn’t look at shop windows, they went inside and bought whatever they wanted.

  He frowned as he remembered that she had said her feet ached…

  Back in the house, Claudia fluttered across the room to him. ‘Where have you been?’ she wanted to know, and gave him a wide smile. ‘Are you bored?’ She pouted prettily. ‘Everyone here, except for Roland, is a bit elderly. ‘I’d love to walk in the garden…’

  He had beautiful manners and she had no idea how tiresome he found her.

  ‘I’m afraid I must leave, I’m already late for an appointment.’

  Claudia looked put out. ‘You’ve got a girlfriend…?’

  He answered her in a bland voice which gave no hint of his irritation. ‘No, nothing as romantic, I’m afraid. A patient to check at the hospital.’

  ‘At this time of night? It will be twelve o’clock before you get back to town.’

  ‘Oh, yes. But, you see, people who are ill don’t observe conventional hours of sleep.’ He smiled down at her pretty, discontented face. ‘I must say goodbye to my aunt…’

  Lady Cowder drew him a little apart. ‘You enjoyed your evening?’ she wanted to know. ‘Isn’t Claudia charming? Such a dear girl and so pretty, is she not?’