Lessons In Loving by Peter McAra Page A

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?
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Yes. It could be a good opportunity for Tom to practise impromptu talking,’ Kate said. ‘I’ll tell him about it.’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜But I have absolutely nothing to wear,’ she managed after a too-long moment of confusion.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜You’ve kept your mother’s clothes?’
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜Couturiers?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜But wouldn’t her clothes be dated?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜I remember her favourite. Taffeta, I think she called it,’ Tom