Love Can Wait

“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

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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.