Lessons In Loving

by Peter McAra

  ‘A few hundred thousand? That must bring in a pretty penny.’

  ‘Wool prices are not so bad these days. They keep moving up.’

  ‘Which raises the matter, does it not, of your taking your rightful place in the overseeing—the ownership even—of Barrington Hall.’ Charles eased back in his chair, took a hearty swallow from his glass. ‘I mean to say that as Laetitia’s husband, you’d have a—shall we say—traditional right, a responsibility, for the old place.’

  ‘What does the law say?’

  ‘I really don’t know. But tradition, man. Tradition is everything in our world. At our level of society. You’re not overly familiar with the comings and goings of people in our position?’

  ‘Should I be?’

  ‘Your mother came from a very well-regarded family. From a village not ten miles from Barrington Hall. A beautiful old pile, the place she grew up in. Envy of everyone of substance in that part of the world. I’m sure she loved it. Wanted her son to respect it. Perhaps even to own it? Now that you’ve come into a bit of cash?’

  Charles had struck a low blow. Tom remembered his mother’s endless reminiscing about the family seat in the faraway green hills of Hampshire.

  ‘I want you to visit my old home, darling. As soon as you can,’ she’d said a few weeks before she died. ‘Perhaps you’ll live there one day? In England, the place where you’re born is very important. And Marley Manor is more special than most. Promise me you’ll go there one day.’

  Tom never forgot what he later came to see as his mother’s deathbed wish. Eventually, he paid his obligatory visit to the stately home, and decided he was a farmer, not a gentleman. Now he faced precisely the same challenge.

  ‘I’m a farmer, Charles. Like I said.’ Tom eased back in his chair. He’d ignore the whisky for a while. ‘Reckon I’ll spend most of my life at Kenilworth. And I hope Laetitia will too. I hope there’ll be children. We’ll need them to take over the place one of these days.’

  ‘But—’ Charles took another swig from his glass, then topped it up. ‘Your obligations regarding Barrington Hall, Tom? As Laetitia’s husband? How do you propose to accommodate them?’

  ‘You mean money?’

  ‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, yes. The old place needs a little maintenance from time to time, you’ll appreciate. And don’t forget, you’ll own it one day. In a sense. You’re aware that Laetitia is my only child. So if you marry—’

  ‘Very well. A man’s gotta look after his responsibilities.’

  Relief washed over Charles’s face.

  Tom sat back, puzzled at the man’s reaction. The whispers Tom had heard on his last visit to Hampshire, about the family being embarrassed by their looming lack of ready cash, were very likely true. Another question popped into his brain. Had Laetitia kept him dangling since his last visit so she could lay her hands on some of his money? Because she surely hadn’t seemed too interested in the other offerings he might contribute to their future. If ever they were to have one.

  ‘Well then.’ Charles took a celebratory swig from his glass. ‘I should call Laetitia. Tell her the good news.’

  ‘Good news?’

  ‘Well, Tom. That you’re happy to accept your responsibilities towards Barrington Hall.’

  ‘Hold on a minute,’ Tom said.

  ‘What do you mean, old chap?’

  ‘There’s a few things Laetitia and I have to sort out first.’

  ‘Indeed? Such as?’

  ‘For starters, Laetitia hasn’t told me if she’d want to live at Kenilworth. And if she doesn’t, well—’

  ‘Oh. So everything we’ve agreed to so far is subject to her moving to Orstralia?’

  ‘I didn’t say that. But now you have, why shouldn’t it be that way?’

  Tom let the silence gel.

  ‘I’m a farmer, remember,’ he said eventually. ‘I want a wife and children. To share my life with me. I want my children to grow up on the land. I want them to take over the property when I go. It’s been in my family for three generations. I’ve already told you that.’

  ‘And you haven’t discussed it with Laetitia?’

  ‘No.’ There was no need to tell Charles that Laetitia had ignored his plea whenever he mentioned it. She was an Englishwoman to her boot heels, she’d said. And there was no way she’d ever live on a dreary farm ten thousand miles from Hampshire, and a hundred miles from the nearest respectable shops, surrounded by thousands of bleating sheep.

  ‘Well then,’ Charles said. ‘Laetitia and I should have a little chat about it. In private, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why should I mind?’ Tom murmured as he pictured the ‘little chat’.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Charles tapped the bell again. The woman in grey opened the door, stood silent, staring into the middle distance.

  ‘Fetch Laetitia for me, Jane,’ Charles said. ‘She’ll likely be in her chambers. And Tom. Would you mind taking a little stroll? Jane will call you when we finish our chat.’

  ‘Very well.’ For the second time that day, Tom needed time to think. Like a nobleman of old, Charles was willing to sell his daughter to the highest bidder to rescue his estate from the jaws of the hungry bankers who might even now be circling. But Laetitia had a mind of her own. That had attracted Tom from the moment of their first meeting. It had told him she was more than just a thoroughbred show pony. What would she think?

  Tom had loved Laetitia for a long year—had dreamed of their creating an idyllic life together at Kenilworth. He’d pictured his children—a son who would grow into a champion horseman, a tall blonde daughter who might one day wear the Miss New England crown at Sydney’s Royal Easter Show. If they were born into the elite of rural New South Wales, wealth would be handed to them on a plate. And Tom would be the proudest father in the nation.

  Since the first moment of his infatuation with the elegant English rose, he’d seen her as his mother’s dream daughter-in-law. She was high-born, beautiful, mannered. If he had to buy her by tossing a few thousand pounds into the hat Charles now held out to him, very well. Perhaps the money would be put to good use, maintaining the mansion that would one day belong to Laetitia and himself.

  As Tom strolled into the garden, a picture of Kate popped into his mind—a cheeky bird fluttering above his head. He saw her smile, her slender body, the flick of her hands as she stood beside the blackboard in his study … Stop! he ordered himself. He must think of his future with Laetitia, nothing else.

  ***

  ‘Saluté!’ Charles shouted as he waved Laetitia into the room. She took a seat and looked up at him, puzzled as he beamed at her.

  ‘What’s all this “saluté” nonsense, Father? It’s a long time since I’ve seen you so pleased with yourself.’

  ‘My wonderful son-in-law! He’s as good as promised me a hatful of money. If the two of you marry.’

  ‘Really? And if I don’t want to marry him?’

  ‘Oh, but you do.’ Charles smiled. ‘You’ve told me, you’ve told your mother, that you think he’s quite a catch—if muscles and looks have anything to do with it. You, of all people, can polish the rough edges off him in time. He’s rather a diamond in the rough right now, I agree. But he has the right blood, the right bank account. What more do you want?’

  ‘It’s more a matter of what I don’t want.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Living in a godforsaken hole in the middle of nowhere. Thousands of miles from everything I absolutely must have to survive. Friends, shops, dining out.’

  ‘Well, reading between the lines somewhat, I rather think that living on his farm is a condition of the arrangement. So—a compromise?’

  ‘It’s all very well for you, Father dearest. Back home in your ancestral mansion, sitting on a pile of cash while I milk sheep. Or whatever it is they do with sheep.’

  ‘I don’t think they milk them. They milk cows, I believe.’

  ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to do it.’

&n
bsp; Charles sipped at his whisky, thoughtful.

  ‘Ah! I think I have it!’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Do go on.’

  ‘Marry Tom. Live happily ever after for a little while—a few months, perhaps. While he’s still in honeymoon mode, so to speak. Then we winkle a few thousand pounds out of him. Tell him there’s a deadline falling due at the bank. Which indeed there is. Those accursed sheep. My grandfather told me his bankers had urged him to sell off his cattle, replace them with sheep. Then a year or two later, damned if the Australian wool doesn’t flood the market. The property’s miserable woolclip didn’t even pay the wages of the men who sheared the sheep. And so it has continued for the past century, more or less.’ He took hold of his whisky glass, saw that it was empty, returned it to the table with a thud.

  ‘If Tom doesn’t come good, we’ll be bankrupt within the year. We’ll be out on the street, my child. You understand the urgency?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose so,’ Laetitia said reflectively. ‘But after you ease the money out of his pockets, what becomes of me?’

  ‘You’re living at Kenilworth, the cheerful newlywed. Then one day, some disaster happens—I’ll leave the details to your creative mind. I’m sure you’re quite capable of inventing something. Then you absolutely refuse to stay there another minute. You sail home into the arms of your loving parents, and live happily ever after in our debt-free mansion. Which will be yours, lock, stock and barrel, when your mother and I shuffle off our respective mortal coils. Then, when you’re ready, you can organise a quick divorce, take up with a chap from the army of eager young bloods who’ve come courting you over the last year or two..’ His pause was long, deliberate. ‘Otherwise—’

  ‘Mmm.’ Laetitia eased into her chair. She could likely tolerate a few months at Kenilworth, given the undoubted benefits that would flow from her sacrifice. But first she must talk with Tom. She had some ideas of her own to put before him.

  CHAPTER 14

  Kate fell into a healing sleep as soon as she nestled into the little sofa bed her mother had made for her in the cottage kitchen. She woke early next morning, ready for work. For the moment, she had no income, no home. What to do? Somehow, she must put aside the pain of her separation from the man she would always love. For the next few weeks, survival must take priority.

  A study of the Positions Vacant columns in the newspaper confirmed what she’d suspected. The Western Australian government desperately needed teachers to work in Western Australia’s booming gold towns. Very likely, those places were awash with potential pupils, and the public service men responsible for the schools had not had time to catch up with the exploding population. Why not apply? While her wits were afire with the notion, she sat at the kitchen table and wrote.

  The Officer In Charge,

  Teacher Recruitment,

  Western Australia Department of Education,

  377 Hay Street,

  Perth,

  Western Australia.

  Dear Sir,

  I wish to apply for a teacher position as recently advertised by you.

  I qualified for my New South Wales teaching certificate last year, and subsequently taught in a rural location in that state.

  I have come to enjoy working in a rural setting. It has developed my skills in self-sufficiency, and dealing with pupils who have been raised some distance from a city, with its amenities for education such as museums, libraries, &c.

  I should be delighted to visit you for an interview. I await your early reply. Upon its receipt, I shall take passage to Perth on the first available steamer.

  Yours faithfully,

  Katherine Ann Courtney

  No, it was not appropriate to mention that she had taught only one pupil, and he a strapping adult male.

  After showing her mother the letter, then posting it, Kate visited the docks. A coastal steamer, the Lady Ann, was due to leave for Perth in two weeks. She resisted the impulse to book her passage then and there. First, she must visit Kenilworth to collect her belongings, her outstanding pay, and say farewell to a sackful of memories. And all while Tom was a-courting in Sydney.

  ***

  It was near midnight, two days later, when Kate reached her Kenilworth cottage in a sulky she’d hired for a week from a Croydon Creek stable. With a sigh, she sagged onto her bed. She was home. But wait. She must put aside such thoughts forever. Kenilworth was not home. It was a bundle of memories. Memories she’d ordered herself too many times to forget.

  As she stepped into Tom’s study next morning, his ghost greeted her—sitting on the chair where he sat for his lessons, thumbing the little pile of English classic novels he’d recently bought to read for homework.

  As she’d expected they would, Kate’s tears welled. She sat in his chair and let them flow for a while, then ordered herself to get on with the business of leaving. Whatever happened as she spent time in this space, she must never let herself slide back into the what-might-have-been. Just as pasted-on pictures on an old billboard fade with time, her memories would fade likewise.

  Tom had hired her to help him woo the woman of his dreams. She’d done a professional job, and his wooing had come to a happy ending. At least for the loving couple. Kate should be downright pleased with herself. As she drifted into sleep in the friendly warmth of the old house she’d once called her cottage, she revisited the resolution she’d vowed many nights before. Forget, delete, rub out.

  Next morning she woke fresh, purposeful. Forgetting was not going to happen while she tarried at Kenilworth. She left the study, reminding herself to collect her books and notes later. For the moment, she could spend her last hours in the old mansion, simply enjoying it. It was permissible to remember Kenilworth, but not its owner.

  She walked through the garden. In her absence, flowers had blossomed—carnations, pansies, climbing roses. Tom’s homesick mother would have asked the gardeners to plant those flowers. Every year since, they’d have burst into bloom again, reminding Tom of the woman who’d given birth to him, then died, leaving him alone in a cold uncaring world.

  As she walked the halls of the Big House, Kate fought memories again. The music room stood silent. The sleek wooden panels of the grand piano had gathered dust. For a moment, she saw Tom sitting at the keyboard, thundering out classic Beethoven in the early morning, with a strange, fraught expression on his face. What had happened to him that morning? Was the piano his way of recalling the deepest parts of his mother’s love? In years to come Kate would smile at the memory of the country lad, tall, broad-shouldered, monosyllabic, losing himself in classical music as he sat naked at the keyboard of that polished grand piano.

  As the evening chill flowed over the landscape, Kate headed for the verandah. A horse’s neigh broke the silence. She imagined Tom slipping out of the saddle, leading the horse to the stable. Over many an evening she’d sat in this very chair waiting for him to come up to the house. And always, she’d enjoyed the little heart-flutter of happiness that came with knowing he was back safe from the hills. Then, perhaps as they took their glass of Madeira on the verandah, they would watch the night drape its cloak of darkness over the hills.

  During the long train journey from Sydney to Armidale, she had time to recall her moments in the dark of the summerhouse at the Blackheath weekend cottage. Her skin prickled as she relived the touch of Tom’s hot, questing hands, remembered the sensations sizzling through her body in the steamy dark. Why had he signalled to her from his balcony in the middle of the night? What had he been thinking? What could it mean? Why had her body responded like a fluttering butterfly wherever his hands touched it? Why had she let go of every last one of the inhibitions she’d stitched around herself all through the months, day and night, when they’d worked side by side? That night, both had known well enough that he was about to arrange his marriage to Laetitia.

  Along with the other memories she’d ordered herself to erase, Kate must kill those wayward thoughts. To let them stay would keep her bleeding with hopel
ess longing, re-opening old wounds that would never heal. Again, she mouthed the mantra she’d repeated many times since she’d watched Tom running beside the train at Blackheath station on that sad morning. Forget him. Forget him. Forget him.

  She walked round the garden to the back door to say a last goodbye to the old house. A pair of Tom’s muddy boots caught her eye. She could almost hear him padding down the hall to the study in his socks, eager to take his afternoon lesson. Now, as she left the Big House for the last time, she must come to grips with cold reality. She would never see Tom again. Forget him, she ordered herself for the millionth time. She shouldered her rucksack and stood at the bottom of the staircase for a last glimpse of the purple haze blurring the horizon.

  Now she must face another reality. Where to from here? First, she must drive to Croydon Creek to collect her pay from Rob Carter, Tom’s manager. He’d likely be extremely curious about the outcome of Tom’s Sydney visit.

  ***

  ‘A cup of tea, perhaps?’ Sally Carter asked as Kate sat in the office in sleepy Croydon Creek in the rising heat of the morning.

  ‘Yes, please.’ Kate was desperate for tea.

  ‘I made some sandwiches.’ Sally smiled. ‘Do you have time to join us for lunch before you catch the coach to Armidale?’

  ‘Indeed. I have all the time in the world.’

  ‘Really? We thought you’d want to dash back to Sydney.’

  ‘I prefer to move more slowly nowadays.’

  ‘Oh dear. You must have caught that disease at Kenilworth?’

  ‘Perhaps. I’ve decided to let fate rule for a while. I’m not exactly desperate for a job.’

  She thought of the respectable handful of sovereigns nestling in her handbag since Rob had paid her—more than enough for the passage to Perth if a certain letter should arrive from Western Australia. Rob joined Kate at the table while Sally set it for lunch.

  ‘Tell me all, Kate,’ Rob said, clearly dying to hear the latest about his employer’s courtship.