Lessons In Loving (9 page)

CHAPTER 6

A ball? With Tom as her partner? Dancing close with him? For a whole evening. Then afterwards … But Kate knew well enough that deep down, Tom was shy towards women. And she'd come to accept he was still embarrassed by his ineptness with language, especially language that nowadays might be called up-to-the-minute. Would he want to go to a ball? And would he—could he, might he—want to take her as his dancing partner?

‘Indeed?' Kate smiled at the stolid Edna as she stood in the doorway, mop in hand. Kate must show complete nonchalance, not give the woman the least hint of her excitement. ‘This ball? What would it be like, Edna? Perhaps you can tell me a little more about it?'

‘Well, dear, it's The Creek's biggest night of the year. Everybody goes. All Tom's friends. And they dance to that old-fashioned music. Waltzes and such. I've never been, but I hears about it often enough. It's great fun, so they says.'

‘Yes. It could be a good opportunity for Tom to practise impromptu talking,' Kate said. ‘I'll tell him about it.'

‘Mmm. I'd forgotten about the Pioneers' Ball,' Tom said when he arrived for his lesson that afternoon. He smiled at her—a rather shy smile. ‘Would you like to come? As my dancing partner?'

‘Indeed.' Kate gulped before she had time to weigh the pros and cons. His sudden burst of youthful eagerness washed over her like a warm shower. ‘I should rather like to hear you talk in company nowadays.' She watched his face for any hint of hesitation, and saw none. ‘It might give me some fresh ideas for your lessons. But tell me more about the ball, Tom.'

‘The ball is Croydon Creek's occasion of the year. I should have told you about it before, I suppose. But there's so much going on with the property now. Fencing, dams, breaking in new land. My brain's been somewhat elsewhere. But if you're game, Kate, then so am I.'

How would it feel to go to a ball on Tom's arm? Yet another forbidden naughty frisson rippled through Kate's body. She mentally smacked herself. Again. Lately, those wayward moments had been happening far too often. Perhaps when Tom brushed close to her while they were both at work in the kitchen. Or when he brought her tea as they sat on the verandah after their Sunday breakfast. Sometimes he'd slide an arm round her waist as they crossed paths in the tight space of his study.

‘But I have absolutely nothing to wear,' she managed after a too-long moment of confusion.

‘You haven't seen my mother's wardrobe,' he said. ‘She loved balls. She and my father went to the Pioneers' Ball every year. He came home specially, from wherever he happened to be. The ball was very important for them.'

‘You've kept your mother's clothes?'

‘Indeed I have. She bought lots of her things from her home in Hampshire. There were dresses from Paris, Rome, those fancy London shops. What do you call 'em?'

‘Couturiers?'

‘Yeah, something like that. Could be fun for you.'

Kate wouldn't ask why Tom had just opened the door of his dead mother's chambers to her. He'd told her in a hundred ways that he'd loved his mother—worshipped her even—and that her things were sacred.

‘But wouldn't her clothes be dated?'

‘We want them to be dated,' Tom said. ‘It's the Pioneers' Ball, remember. My mother often said that some things never date—the classics. And she loved anything a mite classical. So we dress up like the pioneers did. You should see it as a fancy dress party of sorts.'

Kate remembered her own mother's frighteningly formal black ball dress. Perhaps she might discover something similar among Tom's mother's things.

‘I remember her favourite. Taffeta, I think she called it,' Tom continued. Now his smile became unashamedly nostalgic. ‘Sort of shiny pink.' Once again, he amazed Kate with his unlikely knowledge of fragments salvaged from his past. ‘It went all the way to her ankles. I've seen girls at the Pioneers' Ball wearing gowns rather like it. The men wear old-fashioned formal suits. Like you see in photographs of coronations and such.'

‘You'll wear a formal suit?'

‘A dinner suit, most likely.'

‘And dancing shoes for me?'

‘I reckon your shoes could be pretty much the same size as my mother's. Take a look later. Now what's today's lesson about?'

***

Next morning, Tom stopped by Kate's cottage on his way to work.

‘You should take over my mother's rooms for the day, Kate. Try on a few dresses and such. Go through her things till you find something that suits you.'

‘Thank you, Tom. I will.'

As she headed for the Big House, Kate realised that Tom hadn't told her how to find his mother's chambers. She must simply explore. She climbed the wide cedar staircase, now seeing it as a work of art—a beautiful antique. He'd told her the house had been built in 1840. The staircase breathed history. She pictured Tom's mother sweeping down it, clutching the skirt of her gown in one white-gloved hand, holding the rail with the other, smiling at her little boy as he looked up at her, open-mouthed.

Kate had work to do. At the top of the stairs, she gazed up and down the long corridor. Most of the polished cedar doors were closed. Near the corridor's far end, she eventually found what must be Eleanor Fortescue's chambers.

As she opened the door, a whiff of perfume from another era tickled her nose. She slipped into the room's sombre dark, feeling like a time-travelling intruder from the future walking back into the past. The heavy curtains were closed. She opened them a crack. Family photographs hung from the walls—weddings, children's birthdays, a wharfside farewell awash with ribbons dangling from a ship's deck down to the dock. In a dark corner she spotted a glass cabinet. It housed rows of trophies—silver cups, shields, a tangle of coloured ribbons. She peered at a large cup, strained to read the now-tarnished inscription in the low light.

There were more cups and such. It seemed that all through his boyhood, Tom had been a star at country shows. Trophies for buckjumping, bareback riding, whip-cracking, winked back at her from the cabinet. Yet Tom had never mentioned his past glories. Why not? She'd ask him to tell her more when next they sat together over a leisurely breakfast.

She opened a door of the tall wardrobe which occupied a whole wall. It was packed with a still-dazzling array of long dresses. The gleam of silk, satin and taffeta caught her eye. A musty smell wafted over her, carrying her back in time.

She must force her mind back to the present. She had Tom's permission to indulge in a visit to the fairytale world of Australia's pioneering gentry. One by one, she lifted hangers from the wardrobe, then slipped into a succession of shimmering ball gowns, admiring herself in the full-length looking glass. The elegant woman who smiled back at her was not the Kate Courtney she'd come to know over a lifetime. Looking-glass Katherine was glamorous, elegant, seductive. Kate moved her hips, her hands, slipping into poses she'd seen in ancient fashion magazines. Looking-glass Katherine smiled back, sophisticated, glamorous.

At last Kate chose a gown which cast a magic spell round her the moment she slipped it over her head. The bodice was satin, the colour of clotted cream. The neckline revealed an appropriately subtle hint of bosom—modesty spiced with a whiff of the flirty coquette. It would be fun to show Tom that beneath her schoolma'am exterior lived a real woman—pretty, alluring, and—female.

A black taffeta skirt, long and full, hung from the bodice. The dress flowed over her curves as if it had been tailored, flattering her narrow waist, her neat stomach. She slipped on a ribbon necklace of black velvet with a single drop pearl. It fitted close round her neck. In a dressing table drawer, she found a pair of earrings to match.

Then the shoes. After sifting through silver, red, gold, mauve, she settled for a shiny black pair with rather dangerously high heels. She tried them on, swaying to and fro in front of the looking glass, flicking her hem to show a flash of ankle. Indeed, the heels were too high. But they became a magic ingredient, lifting the whole outfit onto a higher plane. She hoped she wouldn't have to walk far in them, but they made her look like a princess. Perhaps a Cinderella. And of course, Tom would be there to take her arm if she needed him.

An hour later, Kate strolled down the long corridor en route to her cottage, the perfect outfit draped over her arm. As she passed a large, beautifully furnished room on the ground floor, she peeped inside. A grand piano took up one corner, an elegant bar another. She pictured Tom's mother in a formal dress, playing a classical piece while her guests sipped their aperitifs. Tom's parents would likely have hosted many a decorous dinner party for their neighbours. Those neighbours would have been couples like the Fortescues, raised on huge properties, coached in the traditions of their aristocratic forebears, revelling in the dressy formality of the occasion.

The music room would have played its part. Fighting the temptation to stay, to steep herself in the room's atmosphere, Kate headed for her cottage. She could dream that on the night of the ball, a prim governess would transform into Cinderella.

As she left the dinner table that night carrying a stack of plates to wash, Tom approached her with a guilty little-boy smile.

‘A little kindness, Kate?' he asked, a tad shyly. ‘Please say no if you're not up to it.'

‘It would be my pleasure. But perhaps if you tell me what the little kindness is?'

‘Well. The ball is on Saturday night.' He paused, still shy.

‘Yes?'

‘And I don't want to waste another whole day visiting Croydon Creek. Not while my team's up to their necks in a big fencing job. Which we have to finish before the lambing season.'

‘Understandable. So …?'

‘Can you cut my hair?'

‘Mmm.' Kate had never done so much as a quick tidy-up on her dormitory friends' hair. ‘If you're game, Tom, then so am I,' she said, stifling an unexpected flinch. ‘But I have to tell you, my next haircut task will be my first.'

‘That's perfectly acceptable.'

‘I mean, you'll want to look your handsome best for the ball.'

‘I trust you, Kate. Everything you do, you do well. From teaching me collective nouns to doing the dishes.'

‘Don't say I didn't warn you.'

‘Very well, then. Tomorrow night, before dinner.'

***

Around four the next afternoon, Tom stepped into the study, freshly bathed, awash with a wholesome pine scent, probably from the special soap he'd have used to wash his hair.

‘My haircut, Kate. If you haven't forgotten.'

‘Very well. But where? And what with?'

‘Follow me.'

He led her down a hall she hadn't noticed before, and ushered her into a small room. One entire wall was taken up with a formal looking glass.

‘Our hair salon,' he said.

‘Your house has its own hair salon?'

‘Indeed. The journey to Croydon Creek and back can take six hours or more, remember. Often, the road's blocked. There could be floods, a big tree down. Since the pioneers first set foot in the New England ranges, travelling barbers and hairdressers have wandered through this part of the world. Not that one ever visited us. We were always given our haircuts here. My mother and me, my father even. Edna Stubbs did them.'

‘But I thought Edna was—'

‘She improved with practice. You will too. Shall we begin?' He climbed into the big chair while Kate flicked through drawers, searching for tools of trade. Soon she found a fine comb and a pair of near-new scissors.

‘Perhaps I should start with your neck. It will be a good place to practise.'

‘Excellent.'

Feeling shy, but knowing she must handle the confused emotions that bubbled inside her, Kate folded his shirt collar out of harm's way, then snipped upwards along his neck. She found herself smoothing his hair, tweaking tiny bunches of it, snipping them to an even length. The warmth of his skin against her fingers, the fresh pine smell wafting up from his body, melted her shyness. The wicked sprite who hovered near her whenever Tom was close by now flitted into her brain like a cheeky butterfly.

Stop! She shooed the naughty creature away. Reminded herself, for the thousandth time, that she was at Kenilworth for one reason only. To prepare a man to woo the woman he loved—the woman he wanted as his future wife. Kate's tough Mother Superior took control. Concentrate on cutting the man's hair. Do the job you're paid for. Bury those stupid girlish notions under a big rock on the hillside.
Now
. This minute!

Soon she saw that she'd done a passable job of Tom's neck. Now for the real challenge. She combed his hair straight, lifted strands so they draped over her fingers. Then she took hold of the scissors and made a tentative snip at the first strand as she held it between her finger and thumb. It fell away, leaving a neat cut. After a minute or two she reviewed the results. The haircut just might be respectable. She repeated the sequence of comb-cut, comb-cut. A circle of cut hair gathered on the floor.

‘Well then, sir. Perhaps you wish to take a look?' She handed him a mirror so he could see the back of his head.

He turned left and right as he studied her handiwork.

‘Mmm. Just a little shorter over the left ear. So it matches the right ear. Then that will do. And thank you, Miss Hair Artiste. You've done excellent work.'

Kate did as she was told. Then she took a hand towel and wiped his neck, his forehead, his cheeks, wondering if the wayward feeling somewhere below her waist was normal. Did professional lady hairdressers experience this visceral attachment when they cut the hair of young Adonises?

After a final comb, she stood beside him and surveyed her work.