Lessons In Loving Read online

  ‘Visitor for you, Miss Courtney,’ he murmured, then disappeared.

  Kate rose and walked to the door. A humbly dressed Chinese man stood in the lobby.

  ‘My name Ah Foo.’ He bowed. ‘Mr Fortescue, he send me meet you. He say sorry he can’t come. So I take you to Kenilworth.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Foo,’ she said. ‘Please excuse me, I’ll fetch my luggage. I shouldn’t be more than a moment.’

  Mysteriously, the hotel porter arrived the second Kate finished her packing. She stepped from the door of her sumptuous chambers and followed him as he shouldered her bundle and walked to the staircase. After fulsome goodbyes from porter and concierge, she stepped into the street. Ah Foo smiled, retrieved the bundle, threw it onto the tray of a wagon waiting at the kerbside, and climbed aboard.

  ‘I help you?’ Ah Foo leaned towards her, hand extended.

  ‘Thank you. I can manage perfectly well by myself.’ She hauled herself onto the wagon’s seat. Ah Foo flicked the reins. The journey to Kenilworth had begun.

  Hours passed silently as Ah Foo held the reins while the horse ambled on. They reached a down-at-heel village with a handful of shops—a general store, a milliner, a public house, a saddler, a village hall.

  ‘This place, it called Croydon Creek,’ he mumbled, then drove on.

  In late afternoon, the wagon pulled off the road and turned onto a narrow lane. Soon it passed a huge barn, a row of stables. A grand old house loomed a hundred yards ahead. The house—a mansion rather than a farmhouse—stood commandingly on a rise. Most likely, it had once been the country seat of a wealthy English family. Kate knew that in the early nineteenth century, the fledgling New South Wales government had lured wealthy English aristocrats to settle the virgin region by giving them large tracts of land, even offering them convicts to work the land. Now the old house seemed to look down at Kate, a frowning dowager eyeing a servant girl come to clear the afternoon tea things.

  ‘What business have you here, peasant maid?’ she imagined it asking her in its dated aristocratic accent.

  Kate must put aside those feelings. In a few moments, she’d be taking part in an interview. She must appear confident, positive—a woman who could teach a little boy, make him want to learn, to behave himself when he might prefer to run away and play with his toys. ‘Women must fight for their independence.’ For the hundredth time since Kate had farewelled Sydney, Vida Goldstein’s words resounded in her head.

  As they closed on the mansion, she stared up at its high sandstone walls, crowned with a roof of dark slate tiles streaked with lichen. Rows of tall multi-paned windows peered from under steep gables. Again, it seemed to speak to her in the rasping tone of an elderly duchess. The wagon entered a circular gravel drive and stopped at a flight of marble steps leading to the mansion’s stately front door. Ah Foo took her bundle and laid it at the bottom of the steps.

  ‘Mr Fortescue, he take your bundle.’ Ah Foo bowed, returned to the wagon, and headed for the stables.

  Kate walked up the steps, slowly, contemplatively. At the top, she hesitated. The moment she had dreaded and hoped for in equal measure over past weeks had now come. She absolutely must calm herself before her interview. She looked towards the horizon, hoping to absorb its quiet serenity. Rolling hills stretched in every direction. On the greener patches, sheep grazed. The scene was as still and as quiet as an old sepia photograph. A kookaburra cackled, then stopped. Somewhere in the hills, a lost lamb bleated for its mother. The perfumed breath of eucalyptus trees wafted over her. She began to feel the peace gel around her.

  A horseman rode into view. Could it be Mr Fortescue? He pulled up at a hitching rail, slid off his horse, flung a rein round the rail, and headed for the mansion. Through his loose-fitting dusty clothes she registered broad shoulders, narrow waist, neat hips. At the bottom of the steps, he smiled and waved. She stood, expectant, ordering her heart to be still.

  ‘G’day to youse, ma’am. Youse must be Miss Courtney. I’m Tom Fortescue.’

  Fighting not to wince at his use of the ‘youse’ word which had peppered his letter, she smiled down at the man. The least hint of a curtsy seemed wrong for a woman who might soon become independent. She must learn to block those out-of-date womanly reactions.

  As Mr Fortescue reached the verandah, he held out a hand. She rose, shook it, feeling its warmth, its sandpaper roughness. Surprisingly, his fingers were long, slim, complementing the gentlemanly profile of his deeply tanned face. After an embarrassingly long moment, he released her hand. She must become used to the slow, easy way he moved, spoke. And also his grammatical clangers.

  The skips in her heart slowed. She took a restorative breath, smiled back at the lanky man, likely no older than his mid-twenties. His smile signalled a friendly, easygoing nature. His aristocratic nose, sculptured jaw, hinted again that he might be descended from the ‘English establishment’ family which, she’d conjectured, had acquired the land back in the district’s pioneering days.

  Her eyes flicked to his body again. He stood over six feet tall, easy, relaxed, the width of his shoulders accentuated by his trim waist. A swathe of straight, light brown hair spilled over the back of his neck.

  ‘Hope youse had a pleasant trip, ma’am. Decent kip at the hotel last night?’

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ Kate struggled to hide her shock at his language. Every time he mouthed a blue-collar word, it blotted the image created by his patrician looks. If she won the governess job, and her pupil was his son, then Mr Fortescue would be her employer. Perhaps they’d spend time together after the interview. It would be interesting to ask him about his family history.

  ‘A busy day on the farm, perhaps?’ she asked.

  ‘Nothin’ a beer or two won’t fix.’ His smile was pure country.

  ‘We’ll sit here, miss.’ He pointed towards a table and a cluster of cane chairs at the end of the wide verandah. ‘Take a seat. Take in the view. People reckon they like to sit here. Folks hereabouts call this place the Big House.’ He hesitated for a second, then faced her. ‘Like a drink, then?’

  Did he mean tea? He didn’t seem the kind of man who drank tea, with his little finger cocked above the dainty cup’s handle. She tried to picture him making tea in a tidy kitchen, then serving it in the ornate floral tea service you’d expect in a stately mansion. The picture wouldn’t take shape. There must be a maid inside, working in the kitchen. Perhaps he’d ring a bell and she’d appear. Would she wear a long white apron and a cotton bonnet?

  ‘Think I’m gonna have a beer,’ he said, apparently reading her mind. ‘Like one, miss?’ She thought of asking for a glass of water, then changed her mind. What would Vida Goldstein have said?

  ‘Yes indeed,’ she answered, hoping she could pretend to enjoy a glass of beer. ‘Thank you.’ The one time she’d tried the Australian males’ ritual drink, during an end-of-term celebration, she’d been repulsed by its frothy bitterness.

  ‘Back soon.’ He walked the length of the verandah and disappeared round the corner. The clomp-clomp of his dusty boots died. Silence flowed over the landscape again. Kate would make use of the chance to draw breath. She pondered the looming interview yet again. If she won the governess position, perhaps the boy she would teach might sport the same accent, use the same ungrammatical words as his father. He’d need dedicated coaching to polish him into the young country gentleman who might one day inherit this stately mansion and the sweeping hillsides.

  ‘Brought a glass for youse,’ he said, placing it beside her. ‘They reckon ladies likes their beer in a glass.’ Perhaps Vida would approve of that. He applied a corkscrew to the bottle, popped the cork, and filled her glass until the creamy head overflowed. Then he took a healthy swallow from the bottle. Kate sipped carefully, hoping she’d manage to appear a seasoned beer drinker.

  ‘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.