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Love Can Wait
Betty Neels
Mills & Boon presents the complete Betty Neels collection. Timeless tales of heart-warming romance by one of the world’s best-loved romance authors.Marriage on his mind? Kate Crosby was determined to be independent. Her dreams were of owning her own catering business, not of marriage and babies! For now, she was happy enough putting her skills into practice as a housekeeper.She certainly wasn’t looking for a husband… Until Mr James Tait-Bouverie came to visit. He was irresistibly charming and firmly believed that love couldn’t wait! James challenged all Kate’s plans for the future. He challenged her to love him, to marry him. What if Kate said yes?



“Where is Kate? Off duty?” James asked his aunt.
“Waiting for me in my room,” Lady Cowder said. “I’m sure she is glad to have an hour or so to herself.” She added virtuously, “I never keep her late.”
They went presently to the small ballroom where several couples were dancing to a three-piece band. When he had settled his aunt with several of her acquaintances, James excused himself.
“But it’s early, James,” Lady Cowder protested. “Do you care to dance for a while? I’m sure there are enough pretty girls….”
He smiled at her. “I’m going to ask Kate to dance with me,” he told her.

About the Author
Romance readers around the world were sad to note the passing of BETTY NEELS in June 2001. Her career spanned thirty years, and she continued to write into her ninetieth year. To her millions of fans, Betty epitomized the romance writer, and yet she began writing almost by accident. She had retired from nursing, but her inquiring mind still sought stimulation. Her new career was born when she heard a lady in her local library bemoaning the lack of good romance novels. Betty’s first book, Sister Peters in Amsterdam, was published in 1969, and she eventually completed 134 books. Her novels offer a reassuring warmth that was very much a part of her own personality. She was a wonderful writer, and she will be greatly missed. Her spirit and genuine talent will live on in all her stories.

Love can Wait
Betty Neels


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER ONE
MR TAIT-BOUVERIE was taking afternoon tea with his aunt—a small, wispy lady living in some elegance in the pleasant house her late husband had left her. She was seventy and in the best of health and, although a kind woman, very taken up with herself and that health. She had long ago decided that she was delicate, which meant that she never exerted herself in any way unless it was to do something she wished to do. She was his mother’s older sister, and it was to please his parent that he drove himself down from London to spend an hour with her from time to time.
He was standing at the window overlooking the garden, listening to her gentle, complaining voice cataloguing her various aches and pains, her sleepless nights and lack of appetite—aware that her doctor had recently examined her and found nothing wrong, but nonetheless offering suitable soothing remarks when appropriate.
Someone came into the room and he turned round to see who it was. It was a girl—rather, a young woman—tall, splendidly built and with a lovely face. Her hair, a rich chestnut, was piled tidily on top of her head and she was dressed severely in a white blouse and navy skirt.
She was carrying a tea tray which she set down on the table beside his aunt’s chair, arranging it just so without fuss, and as she straightened up she looked at him. It was merely a glance; he was unable to see what colour her eyes were, and she didn’t smile.
When she had left the room he strolled over to a chair near his aunt.
‘Who was that?’ he asked casually.
‘My housekeeper. Of course, it is some time since you were last here—Mrs Beckett decided to retire and go and live with her sister, so of course I had to find someone else. You have no idea, James, how difficult it is to get good servants. However, Kate suits me very well. Efficient and rather reserved, and does her work well.’
‘Not quite the usual type of housekeeper, surely?’
‘She is rather young, I suppose. She had impeccable references—Bishop Lowe and Lady Creswell.’
Mr Tait-Bouverie accepted a cup of tea and handed his aunt the plate of sandwiches. ‘Someone local?’ he hazarded.
‘I believe so. She lives in, of course, but her mother lives locally—a widow, so I am told. Left rather badly off, I hear—which is to my advantage, since Kate needs the job and isn’t likely to give her notice. I must say, it is most convenient that she drives a car. I no longer need to hire a taxi to go to Thame to my hairdresser each week—she takes me and does the shopping while I’m at Anton’s. It gives her a nice little outing…’
Mr Tait-Bouverie, watching his aunt eating sandwiches with dainty greed, wondered if shopping for food could be regarded as a ‘nice little outing’.
‘And, of course,’ went on Lady Cowder, ‘she can cycle to the village or into Thame for anything I need.’
‘A paragon,’ murmured Mr Tait-Bouverie, and passed the cakestand.
He left half an hour later. There was no sign of the housekeeper as he got into the Bentley. He had half expected her to show him out, but it had been Mrs Pickett, the daily from the village, who had opened the door for him and stood watching him drive away.

Kate watched him too, from the kitchen window. She had to crane her neck to do so, for although she had looked at him in the drawing room it had been a quick glance and she wanted to fill in the gaps, as it were.
Tall, very tall—six and a half feet, she guessed—and a very big man. He had a clever face with a high-bridged nose and a thin mouth, straw-coloured hair going grey and, she supposed, blue eyes. He was a handsome man, she conceded, but there was nothing of the dandy about him. She wondered what he did for a living.
She went back to her pastry-making and allowed a small sigh to escape her. He would be interesting to meet and talk to. ‘Not that that is at all likely,’ said Kate, addressing the kitchen cat, Horace.
She went presently to clear the tea things away, and Lady Cowder looked up from her book to say, ‘The chocolate cake was delicious, Kate. My nephew had two slices. A pity he was unable to stay for dinner.’ She gave a titter. ‘These men with their girlfriends.’
Kate decided that she wasn’t supposed to answer that.
‘You asked me to remind you to ring Mrs Johnson, my lady.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. It had quite slipped my mind. I have so much to think of.’ Lady Cowder closed her book with an impatient frown. ‘Get her on the phone for me, Kate.’
Kate put down the tray and picked up the telephone. She still found it difficult to be ordered about without a please or thank you. She supposed it was something she would get used to in time.
Back in the kitchen, she set about preparing dinner. Lady Cowder, despite assuring everybody that she had the appetite of a bird, enjoyed substantial meals. Kate knew now, after almost three months, that her employer’s order for ‘a morsel of fish and a light sweet’ could be interpreted as Dover sole with shrimp sauce, Avergne potato purée, mushrooms with tarragon and a portion of braised celery—followed by a chocolate soufflé or, by way of a change, crème caramel.
It was of no use to allow that to annoy her; she had been lucky to get work so near her home. She suspected that she wasn’t being paid quite as much as the going rate for housekeepers, but it included her meals and a small, quite comfortable room. And the money enabled her mother to live without worries as long as they were careful.
Kate had plans for the future: if she could save enough money she would start up on her own, cooking and delivering meals to order. It would need enough capital to buy a van, equipment for the kitchen and money to live on while she built up a clientele. Her mother would help, although for the moment that was out of the question—Mrs Crosby had fallen and broken her arm and, although she made light of it, it was difficult to do much with it in plaster.
When Mrs Crosby expressed impatience about it, Kate sensibly pointed out that they couldn’t make plans for a bit—not until she had saved some money. If she could get a hundred pounds she could borrow the rest. It was a paltry sum, but would be an argument in her favour when she tackled their bank manager. It would be a risk but, as she reminded herself constantly, she was twenty-seven and if she didn’t take that risk soon it would be too late. Being a housekeeper was all very well but it was a temporary necessity.
When her father had died suddenly and unexpectedly their world had fallen apart. He had given up his work in a solicitor’s office to write a book, the outline of which had already been approved by a well-known publisher. He had given himself six months in which to write it—but within three months, with the research barely completed, he had fallen ill with emphysema and died within six weeks, leaving his wife and daughter with the remnants of the capital that they had been living on.
It had been a risk, a calculated risk which he had been sure was worthwhile, and it was no one’s fault. Kate had set about getting their affairs in order and looked around for a job. A sensible girl, she had looked for work which she could do and do well—and when she’d seen Lady Cowder’s advertisement for a housekeeper in the local paper she had presented herself to that lady and got the job.
She had no intention of being a housekeeper for a day longer than was necessary; she intended to start a cooked-meals service from her home just as soon as she could save enough money to get it started. But she and her mother had to live—her mother’s small pension paid the rent and the running costs of the little house, but they had to eat and keep warm and have clothes. Even with the frugal way in which they lived it would take a couple of years. There were better paid jobs, but they weren’t near her home. At least she could go home for her weekly half-day off, and on her day off on Sunday.

It was Sunday the next day—a warm June day with hardly a cloud in the sky, and Kate got onto her bike and pedalled briskly down to the village, thankful to be free for one day. She sighed with content as she pushed her bike up the little path to the cottage where she and her mother lived. It was the middle one of three at the top end of the village main street. It was rather shabby, and the mod cons weren’t very ‘mod’, but the rent was low and the neighbours on either side were elderly and quiet. Not quite what they had been used to, reflected Kate, propping the bike against the back fence and going in through the kitchen door, but it was their home…
Her mother came into the kitchen to meet her. Still a good-looking woman, her russet hair was streaked with grey but her eyes were the same sparkling green as her daughter’s.
‘You’ve had a busy morning,’ she said with ready sympathy. ‘No time for breakfast?’
‘I had a cup of tea…’
‘You need more than that, a great girl like you,’ said her mother cheerfully. ‘I’ll make a pile of toast and a pot of tea and we’ll have lunch early. Come and sit down, love. We’ll go into the garden presently.’
Mrs Crosby frowned a little. ‘I’m not sure that this job is good for you. Lady Cowder seems a very demanding woman.’
Kate sat down at the kitchen table and Moggerty, their elderly cat, got onto her lap. The room was small but very neat and tidy and the sun shone warmly through the window over the sink. It seemed so much nicer than Lady Cowder’s gleaming white tiles and stainless steel. She said mildly, ‘It isn’t for ever, Mother. Just as soon as we’ve got a little money saved I’ll give it up. And it isn’t too bad, you know. I get good food, and my room’s quite nice.’
She pulled the breadboard towards her and began to slice bread for the toast. ‘How is your arm? Isn’t it next week that you’re to have another plaster?’
‘Yes, dear. It doesn’t hurt at all, and I only wear a sling when I’m out—then no one bumps into me, you see.’
When Kate started to get up her mother said, ‘No, dear, I’ll make the toast. It’s nice to do something for someone other than me, if you see what I mean.’
Her mother was lonely, Kate realised, although she wouldn’t admit that. Kate was lonely, too—and though they had a strong affection for each other neither of them were ever going to admit to their loneliness. She said cheerfully, ‘We had a visitor yesterday. Lady Cowder’s nephew came to tea.’
Mrs Crosby turned the toast. ‘Young? Old? What does he do for a living?’
‘Youngish—well,’ Kate added vaguely, ‘In his thirties, I suppose. Very pale hair going grey, and one of those faces which doesn’t tell you anything.’
‘Good-looking?’
‘Yes, but a bit austere. One of those noses you can look down. Enormous and tall.’ She began to butter the toast. ‘I’ve no idea what he does. Probably so rich that he does nothing; he was driving a silver-grey Bentley, so he can’t be poor.’
‘One of those young executive types one is always reading about. Make their million before they’re twenty-one, being clever on the stock exchange.’
‘Perhaps, but I don’t think so. He looked too—too reliable.’
Mrs Crosby regretfully dismissed him as a staid married man. A pity—Kate met so few men. She had had plenty of admirers while her father had been alive but once she and her mother had moved from their comfortable home in the Cotswolds they had gradually dwindled away, much to Mrs Crosby’s regret. Kate hadn’t minded in the least—she had felt nothing but a mild liking for any of them. She could have married half a dozen times, but for her it was all or nothing. As she had pointed out to her mother in her sensible way, if any of the men who had professed to love her had really done so they would have made it their business to find out where she and her mother had gone, and followed them. And done something about it.
Kate, who wanted to marry and have children, could see that it wasn’t very likely that she would get her wish. Not in the foreseeable future at any rate. She did her best to ignore her longings and bent all her thoughts on a future which, hopefully, would provide her and her mother with a livelihood.
Presently they went into the tiny garden behind the cottage and sat under the old plum tree in one corner.
‘Once I can start cooking,’ said Kate, ‘this tree will be a godsend. Think of all the plums just waiting to be bottled and turned into jam. Perhaps I could specialise in some kind of plum tart…’
‘Not this year,’ remarked her mother.
‘No, no, of course not. But by the end of next year we might have enough money to persuade the bank manager.’
Moggerty had gone to sleep on Kate’s lap, and presently Kate dozed off too.
She made light of her job, but she was up early and went to bed late and quite often did the work of two. Lady Cowder saw no reason to hire more help in the house—Kate was young and strong, and didn’t complain. Besides, Mrs Pickett came up from the village each morning to help with the housework. That she was elderly, with arthritis in her knees which didn’t allow her to do anything much below waist level, was something which Lady Cowder found unimportant; a hefty young woman like Kate had plenty of energy…
Kate awoke feeling much refreshed, ate a splendid lunch with her mother and later that evening cycled back to Lady Cowder’s house, half a mile or so outside the village. She reminded her mother that in three days’ time, on her half-day off, they would take the bus into Thame and have a look at the shops. They would take sandwiches and eat them on a bench in the pleasant green gardens around the church, and later treat themselves to tea in one of the teashops.

Taking Lady Cowder’s breakfast tray up to her room the next morning, Kate found her sitting up in bed with a pad and pencil. She nodded in reply to Kate’s polite good morning, accepted her tray without thanks and said, with more animation than she usually showed, ‘My god-daughter is coming to stay—she will arrive tomorrow, so get the guest room overlooking the garden ready. I shall arrange a dinner party for her, of course—Wednesday suits me very well…’
‘My half-day off,’ Kate reminded her quietly.
‘Oh, so it is. Well, you will have to manage without it this week—I’ll see that it’s made up to you later on. I want Claudia’s visit to be a happy one. We can have a few friends in for tennis, tea on the terrace, and perhaps a little supper one evening. Certainly I shall ask friends to come for a drink one evening. We must keep her amused…’
And me run off my feet! thought Kate. She said, without visible annoyance, ‘I shall need extra help.’
Lady Cowder looked startled. ‘Whatever for? Surely you’re capable of a little extra cooking?’
‘Of course I am, Lady Cowder, but I can’t make beds and dust and cook meals for dinner parties and suppers, let alone teas. Of course, I could go to the supermarket—they have excellent meals, all ready to warm up.’
Lady Cowder stared at her. Was the girl being impertinent? Seemingly not; Kate had spoken gravely and stood there looking concerned.
‘No, no, certainly not. I’ll get Mrs Pickett to come for the whole day.’
‘She has a niece staying with her,’ volunteered Kate, straight-faced. ‘I think she is in service somewhere in Oxford—perhaps she would oblige for a few days.’
‘Yes, yes, see what you can do, Kate.’ Lady Cowder buttered toast and piled on the marmalade. Feeling magnanimous, she added, ‘I dare say you can get an hour or so free in the evenings after dinner.’
Kate thought that unlikely. ‘I should like to go home for an hour this evening, or perhaps after lunch while you are resting, Lady Cowder. My mother and I had arranged to go out on Wednesday, and I must tell her that I shan’t be free.’
‘Very well, Kate. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your work.’ Lady Cowder lay back on her pillows. ‘You had better get on. I fancy a light lunch of cold chicken with a salad, and one or two new potatoes. Perhaps one of your jam soufflés to follow. I’ll let you know later about dinner.’
Kate went back downstairs, dusted the small sitting room where Lady Cowder sat in the morning, got out the Hoover ready for Mrs Pickett and went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea and butter a plate of scones—Mrs Pickett needed refreshment before she started on her work and so, for that matter, did Kate—although a good deal of her day’s work was already done.
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?’
‘Oh, indeed. A delightful evening, Aunt. The dinner was superb. You have a treasure in your housekeeper, if she did indeed cook it. A big task for her, I should imagine—but doubtless she has ample help.’
‘Oh, Kate can do the work of two,’ said Lady Cowder airily. ‘Of course, I allowed her to have a daily woman to help, and a young girl—she waited at table. Some kind of a niece, I believe. The best we could do at such short notice.’
‘You plan more entertainments while Claudia is here?’
‘Oh, yes—tennis tomorrow, with tea in the garden and perhaps a buffet supper. And on Friday there will be people coming for drinks, and I dare say several of them will stay on and take pot luck. Claudia thinks she may stay until early next week. I must think up something special for Sunday. A barbecue, perhaps. Kate could manage that easily.’
She would manage, thought Mr Tait-Bouverie, but her feet would be aching fit to kill her by then, and her longed-for day off would be out of the question.
‘If Claudia is staying until Monday or Tuesday, why don’t you bring her up to town on Friday evening? I’m free for the weekend. We might go to a play on Friday evening, and perhaps go somewhere to dine on Saturday. And she might enjoy a drive down to Henley on Sunday?’
‘My dear, James, what a delightful idea. We shall both adore to come. I can leave Kate to look after the house—such a good chance for her to do a little extra work…’
‘Oh, you’re far too generous for that,’ said Mr Tait-Bouverie suavely. ‘Let the girl go home for a couple of days; your gardener could keep an eye on the house. I’m sure you will want to reward Kate for such a splendid dinner. Besides, why keep the house open when you can lock up and save on your gas and electricity bills?’
Lady Cowder, who was mean with her money, said thoughtfully, ‘You know, James, that is a good idea. You have no idea how much this place costs to run and, of course, if I’m not here to keep an eye on Kate she might give way to extravagance.’
‘I’ll expect you around six o’clock,’ said Mr Tait-Bouverie. ‘And, if by chance I’m held up, Mudd will take care of you both. You’ll come in Claudia’s car?’
‘Yes. She’s a splendid driver. She does everything so well. She will make a splendid wife.’
If she expected an answer to this she was to be disappointed. Her nephew remarked pleasantly that he must leave without delay and embarked on his farewells, saying all the right things and leaving the house by a side door.
He was letting Prince out of the car for a few moments when he heard voices, and saw Mrs Pickett and her niece leaving the house from the kitchen door. They wished him goodnight as they reached him, and then paused as he asked, ‘You’re going to the village? I’m just leaving, I’ll give you a lift.’
‘Well, now, that would be a treat for we’re that tired, sir.’
‘I imagine so.’ He opened the car door and they got in carefully.
‘You will have to tell me where you live, Mrs Pickett.’ He started the car and said over his shoulder, ‘What a splendid dinner party. You must have worked very hard.’
‘That we did—and that poor Kate, so tired she couldn’t eat her supper. Had a busy time of it, with all the shopping and the house to see to as well as concocting all them fancy dishes. Now I hears it’s to be a tennis party tomorrow—that means she’ll have to be up early, making cakes. Missed her half-day off, too, though she didn’t say a word about it.’
Mrs Pickett, a gossip by nature, was in full flood. ‘It’s not as though she’s used to service. She’s a lady, born and bred, but she’s got no airs or graces, just gets on with it.’ She paused for breath. ‘It’s just along here, sir, the third cottage on the left. And I’m sure Sally and me are that grateful,’ she chuckled. ‘Don’t often get the chance of a ride in such a posh car.’
Mr Tait-Bouverie, brought up to mind his manners by a fierce nanny, got out of the car to assist his passengers to alight—an action which, from Mrs Pickett’s view, made her day. As for Sally, she thought she would never forget him.
‘I cannot think what possessed me,’ Mr Tait-Bouverie told Prince as he drove back to London. ‘I have deliberately ruined my weekend in order to allow a girl I hardly know to go and look at shop windows…’
Prince leaned against him and rumbled soothingly, and his master said, ‘Oh, it’s all very well for you to approve—you liked her, didn’t you? Well, I’m sure she is a very worthy person, but I rather regret being so magnanimous.’

Lady Cowder told Kate the following morning, making it sound as if she was bestowing a gracious favour. She sat up in bed while Kate drew the curtains and put the tea tray beside her.
‘There are some employers who would expect their staff to remain at the house during their absence, but, as I am told so often, I am generous to a fault. You may go home as soon as you have made sure that your work is done, and I expect you back on Sunday evening. Harvey, the gardener, will keep an eye on things, but I shall hold you responsible for anything which is amiss.’
‘Yes, Lady Cowder,’ said Kate, showing what her employer found to be a sorry lack of gratitude. Kate went down to the kitchen to start breakfast for the two ladies, who liked it in bed. More extra work for her.
It would be lovely to have two whole days at home; the pleasure of that got her through another trying day, with unexpected guests for lunch and a great many people coming to play tennis and have tea in the garden.
Mrs Pickett’s feet didn’t allow her to walk too much, so Kate went to and fro with pots of tea, more sandwiches, more cakes, lemonade and ice cream.
‘It’s a crying shame,’ declared Mrs Pickett, ‘expecting you to do everything on your own. Too mean to get help, she is. I suppose she thinks that having Sally last night was more than enough.’ Mrs Pickett sniffed. ‘It’s the likes of her should try doing a bit of cooking and housework for themselves.’
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?’
Mr Tait-Bouverie rose to the occasion.
‘Yes. It is something I really must deal with when I have the time. There are so many other interests in life…’
There was a good deal of laughter and lighthearted banter, which gave Kate the chance to recover her serenity. For the rest of their visit she managed to avoid saying anything about her job. To the kindly put questions she gave a vague description of their home so that everyone, with the exception of Mr Tait-Bouverie, of course, was left with the impression that they lived in a charming cottage with few cares and were happily settled in the village.
Presumably, thought Mrs Shaw, who had been told about the housekeeper’s job, it wasn’t quite the normal housekeeper’s kind of work. There was talk about tennis parties and a pleasant social life in which, she imagined, Kate took part. Not quite what the dear girl had been accustomed to, but girls worked at the oddest jobs these days.
Mrs Shaw, whose own housekeeper was a hard-bitten lady of uncertain age who wore print aprons and used no make-up, dismissed Kate’s work as a temporary flight of fancy. There was certainly nothing wrong with either Kate’s or her mother’s clothes…
Mrs Shaw, who didn’t buy her dresses at high-street stores, failed to recognise them as such. They were skilfully altered with different buttons, another belt, careful letting-out and taking-in…
Mr Tait-Bouverie did, though. Not that he was an avid follower of women’s fashion, but he encountered a wide variety of patients and their mothers—mostly young women wearing just the kind of dress Kate was wearing today. His private patients, accompanied by well-dressed mothers and nannies, were a different matter altogether. He found himself wondering how Kate would look in the beautiful clothes they wore.
He had little to say to her during the day; the talk was largely general, and he took care to be casually friendly and impersonal. He was rewarded by a more open manner towards him; the slight tartness with which she had greeted him that morning had disappeared. He found himself wanting to know her better. He shrugged the thought aside; their encounters were infrequent, and his work gave him little time in which to indulge a passing whim—for that was what it was.
After supper he drove Kate and her mother home. It had been a delightful day and there had been plans to repeat it.
‘We mustn’t lose touch,’ Mrs Shaw had declared. ‘Now that we have seen each other again. Next time you must come for the weekend.’
Sitting once more with Prince in the Bentley, Kate thought it unlikely. As it was she was feeling edgy about returning so late in the evening. Even at the speed at which Mr Tait-Bouverie was driving, it would be almost midnight before she got to Lady Cowder’s house.
Mr Tait-Bouverie, glancing at his watch, had a very good idea as to what she was thinking. He said over his shoulder, ‘Shall I drop you off before I take your mother home? Or do you wish to go there first?’
‘Oh, please, it’s a bit late—if you wouldn’t mind…’
The house was in darkness when they reached it, but that wasn’t to say that Lady Cowder wasn’t sitting up in bed waiting for her with an eye on the clock.
It was foolish to feel so apprehensive. She worked long hours, and Lady Cowder put upon her quite shamelessly in a wistful fashion which didn’t deceive Kate—but she couldn’t risk losing her job. She didn’t need to save much more before she would be able to see the bank manager…
Mr Tait-Bouverie drew up soundlessly and got out of the car.
‘You have a key?’
‘Yes. The kitchen door—it’s round the side of the house…’
Kate bade her mother a quiet goodnight, rubbed the top of Prince’s head and got out of the car.
‘Give me the key,’ said Mr Tait-Bouverie, and walked silently beside her to the door, unlocked it and handed the key back to her.
‘Thank you for taking us to the Shaws’,’ whispered Kate. ‘We had a lovely day…’
‘Like old times?’ He bent suddenly and kissed her cheek. ‘Sleep well, Kate.’
She went past him, closed the door soundlessly and took off her shoes. Creeping like a mouse through the house, she wondered why on earth he had kissed her. It had been a careless kiss, no doubt, but it hadn’t been necessary…

CHAPTER THREE
KATE found herself thinking about Mr Tait-Bouverie rather more than she would have wished during the next day or so. Really, she told herself, there was no reason for her to do so. They were hardly likely to meet again, and if they did it wouldn’t be at a mutual friend’s house. She told herself that his kiss had annoyed her—a careless reward, a kind of tip. Her cheeks grew hot at the very idea. She dismissed him from her mind with some difficulty—but he stayed there, rather like a sore tooth, to be avoided at all costs.
Lady Cowder was being difficult. She seldom raised her voice but her perpetual, faintly complaining remarks, uttered in a martyr-like way, were difficult to put up with. She implied, in the gentle voice which Kate found so hard to bear, that Kate could work a little harder.
‘A big strong girl like you,’ she observed one lunchtime, ‘with all day in which to keep the place in good order. I don’t ask much from you, Kate, but I should have thought that an easy task such as turning out the drawing room could be done in an hour or so. And the attics—I am sure that there are a great many things there which the village jumble sale will be only too glad to have. If I had the strength I would do it myself, but you know quite well that I am delicate.’
Kate, offering a generous portion of sirloin steak with its accompanying mushrooms, grilled tomatoes, French-fried onions and buttered courgettes, murmured meaninglessly. It was a constant wonder to her that her employer ate so heartily while at the same time deploring her lack of appetite.

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