Lessons In Loving (3 page)

‘So youse come about the job,' he said after another swig from the bottle. ‘Governess.'

‘Yes.' Kate smiled. The silence lengthened. She stole another look at him, saw that his eyes rested on the darkening hills. He wasn't about to launch into a long conversation. She must take the initiative. ‘I brought some documents.' She reached for her reticule. ‘You may wish to study them.' She groped the bag's depths. ‘My academic record. A report on my practical teaching experience.' She was proud of the compliments written into her reports, lines like:
‘Miss Courtney demonstrated helpful and friendly rapport with her pupils, particularly the more scholarly inclined.'

Mr Fortescue looked bored. He took another sip of beer and stared out over the landscape again.

‘Last year I completed a month's practical teaching at St Stephen's School for Young Men,' Kate continued brightly. ‘Then a special course in English for children newly arrived from Europe.'

‘Later perhaps, miss.' He flicked a dismissive hand, turned to look at her, began a frank, unhurried appraisal of her body. She watched as his calm blue eyes scanned her from top to—dare she admit to that word—bottom. It was as if his hands brushed over her dark wavy hair, her thick-rimmed glasses, her neat face with its turned up nose and pointy chin. Then his eyes slipped to her hands, her breasts, her hips—slow, approving. She was glad she'd worn a demure white long-sleeved blouse, a ladylike black skirt reaching to her ankles, flat-heeled black boots—appropriate for an interview for a country governess position. A schoolma'am outfit, her friend Susan had called it.

‘Your notice said—'

‘Oh, that? My manager wrote the notice. Sent it to the Teachers College. He talks like that. Even has one of them new-fangled typewriter things in his office.' He glanced at Kate's still-full glass, then put the bottle to his lips again. ‘We got more pressing things to deal with,' he said. ‘First, reckon youse could survive here? We're a long way from town. And I reckon you'd be a Sydney girl. Youse ain't had too much time living in the bush, then?'

‘I'd be perfectly happy.' Kate must sound positive. After those few quiet minutes on the verandah, she'd sensed a mystical connection with the place. It was as if a pleasantly perfumed vine had begun to slowly wreathe itself round her, body and soul. Indeed, to be truthful, she'd already come to like the man, his accent notwithstanding. As she took in the view now tinged with the gold of the setting sun, that feeling revisited her.

‘I've always rather liked the country,' she said. ‘I suppose I inherited it from my mother. She was raised in a little town in the Hunter Valley.'

‘Farming stock, was she?'

‘No. Her father was the local bank manager.'

‘Bankers, eh? S'pose we gotta have 'em.' He reached for his bottle, held it for a second, then pushed it away. ‘Let's take a look at the cottage we've set aside for the governess.'

The notice had said ‘accommodation provided'.

He stood. ‘Not much point in more talk if youse don't like it. Follow me.'

Kate twitched. In an hour it would be dark. There seemed to be no-one else about but the two of them. And this red-blooded country man had just offered to show her to a bedroom. What should she do? What would her friends say? Kate hesitated. She'd come this far. And for no sensible reason, she trusted the man. Again, she'd run with her instincts.

Mr Fortescue led the way down the steps. As she followed, she wondered whether he might sport the bow-legged look that came with spending years on horseback. Thankfully, he didn't. He walked effortlessly, casually—a man comfortable on his home turf.

He led the way through a once-formal garden, ringed with espaliered arches now buried under a mass of rampant climbing roses. Soon he stopped at the door of a neat sandstone cottage. Kate looked up at its walls, at the gables with their freshly painted red roofs. The lawn had just been cut. Someone had planned on making the new governess welcome.

‘This was the manager's cottage once,' he said. ‘Fifty or more years ago, when Kenilworth was run by hired servants. The owners, my great-grandpapa and his wife, spent most of their time in England.' He opened the door and beckoned her inside. ‘I had the place cleaned up a bit. For the governess.' He turned to her. ‘Youse should take a look. I'll wait outside.'

Kate relaxed a fraction. The man had the manners to bestow a woman some privacy when she needed it. As she stepped through the ornate door, she watched him flop into a cane chair on the verandah.

She headed down the hall to a living room with a huge fireplace, its stone arch streaked with the smoke of years. A kitchen adjoined the living room. She stared at it from the doorway. A new stove, its oven door still shiny, gleamed back at her. A freshly sandpapered wooden bench stretched along one wall, under a rack from which dangled saucepans, sieves, egg slices, a funnel. She moved into the sitting room. The furniture—sofa, armchairs, a coffee table—told her the place had been given a no-expense-spared tidying. A vase of freshly picked lavender filled the room with perfume. A fussy maid had recently given the cottage a last minute going-over. Yes, she could be comfortable here—happy even. Then, at last, the bedroom; from the embroidered silk quilt on the four-poster bed to the wide windows overlooking the hills, it was welcoming. And yes, there was a secure bolt on the door. She could sleep in peace whenever she slid that bolt home.

‘Well?' As she stepped back outside, Mr Fortescue looked up at her from his chair. She pictured herself sitting in that very chair on quiet evenings, perhaps with a cup of tea, taking in the darkening hills as the sun set. It might be a pleasant spot to look over her lessons for the next day before she cooked her dinner.

‘I love it.' It would be safe to let her enthusiasm show.

‘Good. Now we'll go to the place I've set aside for the lessons. They reckon I should call it the study.' He led the way to a basement room in the Big House. The room was adequate for the purpose, but missing the furniture needed to convert it to a practical classroom. If she won the job, she'd make a list of things to order—a child-sized desk for her pupil, a large blackboard. When she finished her evaluation, he escorted her back to the verandah.

‘Now we can talk about the nuts and bolts,' he said. He watched as she took her seat. ‘Hey. Your drink. Youse don't like beer?'

‘No. It's perfectly satisfactory. I'm simply …' To please him, she took a sip. She could hardly admit that she didn't fancy beer, despite her best efforts to like it.

‘Mmm. Got some questions then?' He eased his lanky frame into his chair.

‘Yes,' she said. ‘Several.' How could she tactfully unravel the tangle of queries buzzing round her head? How old was her prospective pupil? Why had his parents decided he needed a governess? Was he bright, diligent, well behaved? Would he be interested in the things she'd teach him? What stage had he reached in his schooling? What experience of real schools had he had? Who was Mr Fortescue in the scheme of things—the boy's father?—uncle?—guardian? Was the boy's mother lurking somewhere in the background? Did Mr Fortescue have a wife?

‘Perhaps if I could meet my pupil?' she said. ‘The boy I'll be teaching. Discover how old he is, plan what teaching approaches will work best for him. Then I'll be able to prepare my lessons to suit.'

‘Youse already have.'

‘Have what?'

‘Met your pupil.'

‘But I—'

‘It's me.'

CHAPTER 2

Kate reeled. The man's face creased as he tried to block a chuckle, then failed.

‘Your eyes—' He gulped, drew breath, guffawed some more. ‘Looks like youse just spotted a twenty-foot bunyip.' He choked back his chuckles. ‘Reckon I'll need another beer. After seeing that look on your face. Youse?'

‘No, thank you.'

‘Excuse me,' he said. ‘I'll give youse time to get over the shock.'

He disappeared round the end of the verandah, still chuckling. Kate fought to recover. If he employed her, this man would be her pupil. All very well. He certainly needed help with his speech. How would she cope, spending long hours, day after day, with a man like that? A handsome, well-built male with that unmistakeable aristocratic look.

Would there be just the two of them, tucked away in the newly rebuilt study inside the mansion? Then she remembered that she could lock herself safely away in her cottage at the end of the day. Already she saw the cottage as hers, even though he hadn't yet offered her the position. The quaint old building would give her the seclusion she'd need after working close beside a handsome man for hours at a time.

Her situation would be no more difficult than that of a housekeeper employed by a solitary man. There must be many such households in this remote corner of the world. From the moment she'd set eyes on him, he had seemed honest, decent. Her position was simple enough. She must behave as a model schoolma'am, twenty-four hours of the day, seven days a week. She must learn to live with his closeness, his smile, his big, strapping body, his blue-collar way of talking. They'd likely become good friends. After lessons, they'd go their separate ways, then meet again next morning. Hadn't Vida Goldstein urged women to break free from antiquated traditions, be themselves, take up positions hitherto held only by men?

She heard the clomp of his boots on the verandah. He carried a beer in one hand, a plate of cheese and crackers in the other. Now he looked scrubbed and tidy. Evidently he'd taken a quick wash. His disobedient brown hair had been tamed, and he'd changed into a fresh shirt and trousers. Now he looked even more attractive—a real country gentleman farmer.

‘There.' He set the cheese platter before her. ‘Youse might be a bit peckish after that long ride. Go ahead, ma'am. Ask your questions.'

‘Thank you.' She took a triangle of cheese, set it on a cracker, and bit cautiously. The cracker was crisp, the cheese fresh.

‘Why do you want a governess?' she said.

‘Fair question.' He sipped his beer. ‘Long story.' He looked away, drew an uneasy breath. Why had this smiling, agreeable man suddenly become ill at ease? He sighed again, gazed towards the hills. His shy, perhaps bashful, look told Kate that in the next moments he'd reveal something unexpected. He fiddled with his glass, looked down. Then he spoke.

‘Kenilworth, it's been in the family for three generations.' He waved a hand towards the hills. ‘My father inherited it. Then, when he reached the age of sixteen, he left. Caught the city bug. Reckoned he would never be a farmer. He worked in banks and such, travelled the country. He was never at home. Then, on a long business journey to England, he met my mother. She was the youngest daughter of one of them … whaddaya call 'em? “Establishment” families. The eldest son has a title. All that stuff. They lived on this ancestral estate in country Hampshire. If her photograph is anything to go by, my mother was a real English rose when they met.'

‘You mean a gentlewoman?' Kate offered.

‘If you say so, teacher.'

She stole another sideways look at the man. Beneath the country lad exterior he wore like a heavy overcoat, his nervousness had now become too obvious. He sat hesitant on the edge of his chair. ‘My father had been raised with the family legend as the blood in his veins,' he continued. ‘Kenilworth must always stay in Fortescue hands. Be a solid part of what they calls “the bunyip aristocracy” round these parts.'

Kate had heard that term before, applied with due disparagement to English migrants of gentry stock who had attempted to transplant the British class structure onto Australian soil. She bit away her smile, watched his eyes drift towards the hills again.

‘It all began when a fellow called Horatio Fortescue, my grandfather, first took up this land back in the 1830s. They say he was the youngest son of an earl or a baron or a duke, or whatever they call 'em. It seems youngest sons don't inherit the title. Sometimes, not even a little smidgeon of the family wealth. It was about the time the English gentry came to see The Great South Land as a place where any ambitious man could get rich.

‘So Horatio came to Australia. And he did pretty well.' Tom waved towards the hills yet again.

‘Then, my parents. Seems my father had always wanted to marry a high-born English lady. As his father had. And his grandfather too, come to that. He wanted to carry on the Fortescue tradition that would have been fed to him with his mother's milk. And from what she told me, I reckon my mother's family had always wanted her to marry money. The minute my parents met, the two of them knew they were made for each other. They married at the family seat in Hampshire. Then my father brought his bride back here to Kenilworth. She'd never seen Australia before. Never travelled. Reckon her eyes would've popped when she climbed down from the coach over there.' He pointed to the flight of elegant steps leading to the mansion's ornate front door. He paused, drew a long breath.

‘Hampshire's about as different from this place as a blowfly is from a butterfly. Tidy little green hills, sprinkled with them old castles. Tiny villages, straight out of a fairy story. See what I mean?'

‘Yes. I've come to love England from the travel books I've read, the Jane Austen novels,' Kate replied. She waved an arm towards the hills now silhouetted by the setting sun. ‘After Hampshire, New England must have come as rather a shock to your mother.'

‘Yeah, I reckon she tried hard to like Kenilworth,' Tom continued. ‘Often, I'd watch her sitting here of an evening, taking in the view. She seemed to love the hills. She'd sit me on her knee sometimes, perhaps round sunset. Tell me how beautiful it was. And all that after she'd been raised in neat and tidy Hampshire.'

He stopped, as if he'd run out of words. The silence grew. He pushed his glass away. Perhaps he was building the courage to reveal something that caused him pain.