Lessons In Loving (6 page)

‘Come now, Kate. The name's Tom.' His smile sent a confused bundle of messages:
I'm extremely sorry. I've been a downright idiot. Please don't up and leave. I'm trying hard. Promise I'm going to improve.

She found herself choking back a fit of giggles. Suddenly she wanted to hug the man. Stroke his messy brown hair, kiss him on the point of his Establishment nose. It was time for a complete and sincere reconciliation. She must tear down the barbed wire fence that had suddenly popped up between them.

‘Well then, Tom,' she said. ‘Can I perhaps set the table? While you carve the duck?'

‘That'd be real good.' His grin told her he'd relaxed a little. ‘Reckon we're gonna be a pretty good team.' He pointed. ‘You'll find the eating irons over there. In the second drawer.'

Kate slid the drawer open. Later she'd explain that knives and forks should better be described using the collective noun
cutlery
. But now was not the right time for such niceties. She wanted him to heal from her outburst, and anyway, he'd be more likely to remember a fancy new word in the orderly cool of his study.

‘I know some people see duck as white meat,' he said. ‘But I've found that a youngish, fresh merlot works a treat with it. So if
you
—there, I said the right word, miss—wouldn't mind a glass of red wine—'

‘Congratulations!' Kate rewarded him with a huge smile as she took a long, relieved breath. Could he keep it up? As he'd already implied, he became a driven man when the stakes were high. ‘And yes, I should enjoy a sip of a cheeky little red wine now and again.' She hoped she sounded like a wine buff.

After dinner, Kate tottered back to her armchair. She'd eaten perhaps the best dinner of her life. The vegetables, the sauces, even the crème brûlée he'd finished with a glowing stick pulled from the fire, had been masterpieces. She'd read how French chefs, all men, dominated the world of haute cuisine. Now she could believe that country boy Tom Fortescue might beat them all, with one hand behind his back.

She stole another look at him as he cleared the plates from the table. There was so much more to the man than the dusty cowboy who'd greeted her a few hours before. Whenever he talked about his mother, his face took on a boyish softness. Kate found herself pondering how their times in the study might fall into shape. He'd told her that he was committed to improving his language—that when he set his mind to a goal, he persevered. Yes, she'd love to teach him.

‘A goodnight port?' he called from the kitchen.

‘No, thank you.' There was no hidden message in his offer, but she needed to sleep. ‘A woman has to have at least a little sleep now and again,' she said lightly. ‘Tomorrow is a special day. For both of us.'

‘Well then,' he said, his head stuck in a cupboard. ‘I'll say goodnight. Make yourself breakfast. You'll find your cottage kitchen well stocked.'

‘Goodnight,' she called. ‘And thank you, Monsieur le Chef, for my cordon bleu dinner.'

‘Goodnight,' he murmured from the kitchen, as if pre-occupied. Perhaps he was already planning his next dinner?

Kate stepped into the cold starry night and walked to her cottage, navigating with the candle he'd given her. Yes, she'd lock and bolt the door before she crashed into bed. She was tired—tired from her early waking in the Railway Hotel's princely Macquarie Chambers, from the long wagon ride, and above all, from her mind's long wrestle with the task ahead of her.

Sleep would not come. In one long day, she'd transformed from city girl to country governess. Now her job was to help a handsome, wealthy man—a man who most definitely sent electric charges through her maidenly mind—to win the wife of his dreams. Over dinner she'd come to see him as a friend, rather than her employer. He was a man with whom she could spend a day, enjoying his easy warmth, his manly sense of fun.

She reminded herself, yet again, that she must never, never fancy him. They must remain workmates, nothing more. She must never even think about being close to him. He was so different from any man she'd ever met. As different from the man who'd broken her tender young heart as a gourmet meal is different from a serve of pie and peas.

CHAPTER 4

Next morning Kate woke to the sound of a wagon manoeuvring in the yard near her cottage. She peeped through the blinds. Tom stood beside a pile of timber posts as the driver pulled up the wagon beside them. Then the driver slid down from his seat and climbed onto the wagon's tray. Tom began heaving the posts onto the tray while the driver stacked them.

It was a warm day. After a couple of minutes, Tom peeled off his shirt. Kate gaped at his muscled torso. She watched, mouth open, as he bent and flexed, heaved and lifted. His work trousers clung to his narrow hips. With each lift, muscles rippled under his tan. He transformed into a classical bronze statue, such as she'd seen displayed at the new Sydney Art Gallery, come to life. That body came from years of hard work. What girl wouldn't melt over a man with such a shape? She imagined her friend Susan's squeals of lust.

The day she arrived, Kate had stolen occasional furtive looks in Tom's direction. She'd liked his gentlemanly features, his tall, lean frame. Now, as he innocently displayed his perfect body, she smiled. She'd landed herself a rather handsome employer. After breakfast, she'd head for the study, try to lift her thoughts above male flesh. That could be difficult.

Tom climbed onto the wagon tray and stood holding the stack of posts steady as the driver flicked the reins and the wagon lumbered away.

A few minutes later, as Kate headed to the study to begin her preparation for the evening session, she heard a horse pull up outside. She looked down from the verandah to see an ancient sulky stopped near the hitching rail. An elderly woman, dressed in grey pinafore and dusty boots, slowly eased herself out of the sulky, then collected a bucket and some rags from its boot. She must be Edna Stubbs, the cleaning lady.

‘Hullo,' Kate called from the verandah. ‘You must be the famous Edna.'

‘Dunno about famous,' the woman said as she took rheumaticky steps towards the stairs. ‘And you must be Kate.'

‘Yes. Can I help you with anything?'

‘Thank you, love. Got a big box of groceries in the sulky's boot. Real heavy. My poor old knees. They hurt a treat if I carries heavy loads upstairs.'

‘I'd love to help. Perhaps you'd like to wait on the verandah while I collect the box? I'd enjoy a talk.'

‘Thanks m' dear.' The woman inched up the steps, then flopped into a cane chair, puffing. Kate found the box of groceries and carried it up the stairs. The old woman still hadn't recovered her breath.

‘I'll fetch you a cup of tea,' Kate offered. This would very likely create the opportunity for a peaceful chat. Perhaps Edna would share some interesting bits and pieces from Tom's childhood. Kate excused herself and returned in five minutes with a laden tray. She set the verandah table with teacups, milk and sugar, and a plate of biscuits she'd discovered in a bottom drawer. Then she poured Edna's tea and sat beside her.

Edna claimed her teacup, took a biscuit, and leaned back in her chair. ‘Thank you, love.' She took a long sip from her brimming cup. ‘It's all getting a bit much, this cleaning for Tom. But there's nobody else round these parts can do it. So I'll muddle on for a year or two more. Till he gets himself a nice little wife.'

‘You've heard about Tom's plans to marry?'

‘Yes, love. He tells me all that stuff. I'm pretty much a mother to him, you know.'

‘So you're the lady who cared for him after his mother died?' Kate paused, hoping to lead Edna into some useful reminiscences.

‘Oh, yes. Poor little fella.' Edna looked away, as if the memory might bring tears she'd want to hide. ‘I remember the day he came back from the hospital in Sydney. After he'd said goodbye to poor Eleanor. She'd suffered for years. One thing after another, from when she first arrived at Kenilworth. Then she died. Poor little Tom. My heart went out to him. When he came home I could see he was real sad. Just eight, he was. Trying to be a little man. Trying not to cry.'

Edna sniffed, wiped her eyes.

In that moment, Kate knew that the elderly woman had loved Tom. Still loved him. She looked away, took a sip of her tea, while Edna composed herself.

‘Martin, he was Tom's dad. He's dead now, o' course. He took me aside. Asked me if I'd take care of Tom for a bit.'

Kate wanted to know more about the subject close to her heart before Edna moved on to other things. But by now the elderly woman was powering on with a full head of steam. Where would it end?

‘Perhaps you might tell me about Tom's schooling,' Kate said. ‘It could help me plan his lessons.'

‘Schooling?' Edna laughed—a throaty, coughing wheeze. ‘A few weeks after poor Eleanor'd passed on, Martin comes up to me, all serious. “Edna,” he says. “Reckon you could teach Tom his lessons? Like his mother did? All you gotta do is sit down with him and take him through his books.”

‘So I looked a bit puzzled. I didn't have much schooling meself. What with living in these parts and all. And me the eighth of eleven kids. My father worked as a rouseabout on one of the big properties round these parts. My ma cooked for the working men. Anyway, Martin knew all that, but he didn't seem to mind.

‘“Tom loves you, Edna,” Martin says to me when we sits down to talk about it. “Eleanor reckons every time you come to clean, he follows you round like a puppy.”

‘Which were true, Kate,' Edna confirmed. ‘“But hold hard, Mr Fortescue,” I said. “I don't know much about readin' and writin'.”'

The picture forming in Kate's mind took on new depth with every word that flowed from the wheezing old woman's lips. She must keep Edna talking. To keep up the flow, she beamed an encouraging smile at her.

Edna continued. ‘Then he said, “You're the only one round these parts as could take care of him, Edna. I'm always coming and going. Travelling to Perth or Melbourne or wherever. I'll make it worth your while. How about you live here for a bit? So's you're a mother to him.”'

Kate stole another sideways look at Edna. Was that a tinge of guilt in her eyes?

‘So I took the job,' she continued. ‘Moved my stuff in to one of them rooms upstairs, and took over as Tom's mum. It didn't bother me that I had to leave my old place for a while. My old man Bill had died not long before. He worked on the roads. Then he got hit by a fall of rock. Sad, it was. We lived in the roadman's cottage. Just an old shack. They built 'em for the roadmen back then because it was a long way from town. And there I was, a widow, with nowheres to go. So Martin's offer suited me pretty good.'

Kate saw the lonely little boy clinging to his surrogate mother's skirts like a lost duckling swimming close to a stray duck. He would have been sad, bewildered, and very alone. And the warmth from Edna's motherly heart would have flowed out to him.

Edna lowered her empty teacup onto the saucer with a suggestive clink. Kate took the hint, refilled it, watched as Edna took a long slow drink.

‘Mmm. All this remembering. Makes a girl a bit weepy.' Edna sniffed, rubbed her eyes.

‘So you taught Tom his reading and writing?' Kate asked, seizing her opportunity to get a word in edgeways.

‘Yeah. I just worked him through his correspondence school lessons.'

‘How long did that go on for?'

‘Till he was twelve. Four years. Then Martin sent Tom to a fancy boarding school. Over in Armidale.' She pointed to the hills. ‘And I don't mind telling you, love … them lessons was getting a bit hard for me. I had to skip the tricky bits.'

‘But when Tom went to boarding school, how did he find life there?'

‘Poor Tom. Every time he came home for the school holidays, he'd tell me things. Like he was bullied, laughed at, teased, left by himself. No friends. Reckon the teachers gave up on him early on. They told him he had this thing. Something wrong in his brain. Learning something or other.'

‘Learning difficulties?'

‘That's right. You know about it?'

‘Indeed. We were told of it at teachers' college. Some children are quite bright, but they stumble over things other children take for granted. Certain bits and pieces of reading, spelling, arithmetic. Many get over it as they grow.'

‘Yes, dear. The doctors told us that. But the teachers at that terrible school. Real nasty, they were. I shouldn't be surprised if—' Edna stopped.

Kate picked up the thread. ‘One of my college teachers told us he had learning difficulties when he was at school. But when he began university, everything gelled for him. Now he's rather famous in his field. Australian literature.'

Edna picked up her story. ‘Anyways, what with that thing in his brain, and the bullying and everything, it must have been years of hell for the poor little tacker. He loved it when he came home for the holidays. He'd ride his horse, help with the shearing, fencing. He got to be pretty good on the plough. Made more dams. You can never have too many dams round these parts. The droughts, they can be cruel. Anyway, Tom told me later that he always wanted to run away from that school.' A tear ran down Edna's cheek. She wiped it with her napkin, took a long sip of tea.

Kate bit her lip to block her own tears.

‘So the minute he could run away, he did.' Edna wasn't about to stop telling what may well have been her life story as much as Tom's. ‘He turned fourteen, and came back to Kenilworth. I could tell he was real pleased to be outa that awful place at last. So he worked with the men on the property. After a while he started to manage Kenilworth. The business manager in Croydon Creek, he helped, o' course. Did all the paperwork. And Tom got to be pretty darn good pretty quick. Year after year after year, the money just poured in. O' course, the good wool prices helped. But Tom turned out to be a real good manager. Way better than his father.'