Kitty (7 page)

“Oh, thank you, Peter,” said Kitty, her eyes like stars.

He gave her another parcel. Bubbling with excitement she opened it. It was a box of chocolates with a picture of two children standing in front of a thatched cottage on the front. He was mocking her after all. She had not forgotten the gibe about chocolate-box art. But Peter Chesworth
had
forgotten and wondered what on earth was up with the girl now.

Kitty’s first sight of Reamington Hall in all the glory of a lazy June afternoon, took her breath away.

It was a gem of a Georgian mansion, gleaming against its background of huge old trees and rolling lawns. The brougham came to a stop before the severe classical grandeur of the entrance and Kitty was led into her country home. As in town, the staff were gathered to meet her, from the butler down to the housemaids. But there was a difference. The friendly country faces smiled. Everyone seemed delighted to see her.

And when she went up to her rooms on the second floor and found vases of wild flowers arranged around the room, and the chintz curtains billowing in the summer breeze from the open windows, she felt almost at home.

She quickly donned her new riding dress, rejoicing in the brief absence of Colette who was following with the luggage and the Baron’s valet. She took off her heavy stays and threw them on the bed. She would go unencumbered for once. Her gray gabardine riding dress with the velvet insets on the collar and her smart bowler made her feel like a new person.

Her husband obviously thought so as well. “That outfit becomes you. We must begin your riding lessons right away,” he said. He was wearing jodhpurs and an old hacking jacket with patches on the elbows, and Kitty reflected that he even managed to make that comfortable outfit look elegant.

Well pleased with each other, they went out into the blazing sunshine and headed for the stables. “I am starting your training on a pony,” said Lord Chesworth. “Well get you onto something more ambitious later. What do you think of him? His name’s Carrots.”

A beautiful little piebald pony had been led out for her inspection. Kitty patted his glossy mane and prayed that this fairy tale would not fade.

As she was stammering out her thanks, a footman came running from the house. “Mr. Bryson wants to see you. He says it is very urgent, my Lord. He is waiting for you in the estate office.”

His lordship groaned. “Bryson is the estate manager. If he says it is urgent then it must be.” He called over one of the grooms. “Hanson, teach my wife to ride, will you? Just a few beginner lessons. Kitty, do forgive me.” He gave her his charming smile and strode off in the direction of the house.

Kitty felt a pang of disappointment. But Carrots was nuzzling in her pocket, searching for sugar, so she turned to the groom and prepared to master the art of riding.

When Kitty at last returned to her rooms to change for dinner, she was feeling happy and exhilarated. Hanson had said she would make a good horsewoman. But her happiness died when she realized her husband did not intend to join her. He emerged briefly from the estate office to explain. “Things are in a terrible muddle, Kitty. I’m afraid that because of—” he was about to say “lack of money” but decided it would not be tactful “—because of my neglect, there is a lot to be done on the estate.”

He ran his long fingers through his black curls. “I had hoped to have time to take you around. I tell you what I’ll do. Our neighbors, the Thackerays, are giving a house party. I’ll escort you there tomorrow and there I must leave you for a few days.”

“But I would much rather stay here with you and my pony,” said Kitty, almost in tears.

The Baron was irritated. He hoped, callously, that she was not going to turn into one of those clinging vines.

“Come now, Kitty. You need some fun to cheer you up. There are a lot of young people staying with the Thackerays.” He tried to joke. “You should leave an old fogey like me to get on with my work.”

“You’re not old. You’re only thirty!” said Kitty, the tears beginning to stand out in her eyes.

What a watering pot, thought the exasperated Baron. He must decide what was best for her.

“Don’t be silly,” he said, unconsciously imitating her mother. “You’ll like it when you get there.” With that, he escaped from the room.

Kitty sat miserably by herself through the nine courses of dinner, too downhearted to tell the butler that she was not hungry.

Afterward, she lay awake, reading in her room, waiting for the sound of her husband’s footsteps on the stairs. At last, she could hear him. Dressed in her filmy nightdress with her fine, silky hair brushed on her shoulders, she sat up and listened. The footsteps hesitated for a second outside her door and then went on down the corridor. For a long time, she sat there, staring at the door, feeling like a foreigner adrift on some strange and alien sea.

The Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Thackeray were waiting for them when they arrived the next day. As they stood on the steps of their home, both husband and wife seemed to be completely round, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

Called Rooks Neuk, the Thackeray home was modern, complete with electricity and steam heat which required the services of three resident engineers and two firemen, to maintain. It was built on the lines of a medieval castle including battlements and a fake armory. Various statues of heraldic beasts sported on the lawns and, to complete the picture, a sturdy drawbridge spanned a weedy moat.

The honeymoon couple were welcomed enthusiastically by the Thackerays. Mrs. Mary Thackeray may have been a round dumpling of a woman, but she was very smartly dressed. Kitty was glad that she had worn her new tea gown.

Mrs. Thackeray took her arm and surveyed her. “Love your teagie. Fittums! Fittums! Was it expie?”

Kitty looked at her in surprise and turned to her husband for help, but he was deeply involved in conversation with the Honorable Jeremy. She took a deep breath and decided she must learn to cope with awkward social situations herself. After all, Miss Bates had always told her pupils, “When speaking to a foreigner, who has not a complete command of our splendid language, always speak very loudly and clearly.”

“
I’m afraid I do not understand you.
Please… repeat… what… you… have… just… said… very… slowly… and… clearly.” Mrs. Thackeray took a step back. Kitty had shouted full in her face.

“I’m not deaf,” she said crossly. “I said—oh, never mind. I’ll show you your room.” Kitty was very bewildered. Mrs. Thackeray spoke English after all What had she meant? Her hostess stopped outside a door with Kitty’s name written on it on a neat white card. “I hope you will be comfortable,” said Mary Thackeray, looking at Kitty nervously, in case she should start shouting again. “Your husband’s room is over in the other wing.”

Here was another mystery! Was it usual to keep husband and wife so far apart, especially on their honeymoon?

Had she heard Mrs. Thackeray downstairs, she would have understood. “Why didn’t you put the lovebirds together?” asked Jeremy Thackeray.

His wife settled herself comfortably into an armchair like a roosting pigeon. “Well, first—he’s not coming to stay until after two days, and second—have you forgotten that Mrs. Jackson’s on the guest list?”

“Well, what’s that to do with it? That’s all finished, surely,” answered her husband.

“Not a bit of it. Veronica Jackson told Harriet Croombe who told Betty Jamieson who told Alice Fairbrother who told me, that he spent his wedding night in her bed. Peter will want to be near his dear mistress. He only married that little gel for her money. Strange little thing. Kept shouting at me.”

Lord Chesworth called in at his wife’s room before he left. Kitty told him of Mrs. Thackeray’s strange conversation.

“It’s the new small talk,” he explained. “She was merely complimenting you on your tea gown, saying it was an excellent fit and asking you if it were expensive. I heard you shouting at her.”

“I thought she was a foreigner,” said poor Kitty.

Peter Chesworth groaned. “Oh, well, she’ll probably think you were playing a joke on her. The Thackerays and their friends love practical jokes. Which reminds me—have you examined your bed?”

Kitty shook her head. He crossed over and ripped back the covers. Kitty screamed as two small hedgehogs made a bid for freedom. “Poor little things,” said the Baron, “they could have suffocated. I’ll take them outside. Give me that hatbox over there. Don’t look so dismayed, Kitty. It’s only meant as a friendly joke.”

But after he had left, Kitty looked dismally at the bed, imagining what it would have been like to have thrust her feet down at night under the covers. The poor things would have been dead by then. She did not think it was funny. She thought it was senseless and cruel.

She was called at five-thirty. Charades were to be performed in the music room. Kitty felt better. She loved amateur theatricals, but hoped that she would not be asked to perform.

When she arrived at the music room, the curtains had already been drawn to create theatrical darkness. There was no time to meet the other guests. She was shown to a chair facing a small stage which had been erected at the end of the room. Shuffling and excited giggles came, from time to time, from behind the stage curtains which were finally drawn to reveal Percy Barlow-Smellie. “Our charade tonight,” he announced, “is called ‘The Taming of the Shrimp’ and you all must guess
who.
”

The curtains closed for a minute and then swung back to reveal a young man dressed as Mercutio. His tanned face had been whitened and he wore a mop of glossy black curls. Opposite him, Kate was played by Veronica Jackson who wore a drab dress and a brown wig. “Come, kiss me, Kate,” roared Mercutio. “Oh, reelly, I don’t know as I should. Is it a refeened thing to do?” simpered Kate. The audience roared with laughter as the sketch went on in the same manner. One after another they began to call, “Got it! It’s the Baron and the shopgirl.”

All Kitty’s little bit of happiness generated by her splendid country home and her new pony faded away and she sat mute, looking down at her hands like a hurt child. At last the dreadful charade came to an end and the lights went up.

There were horrified murmurs when the lights went on to reveal Kitty sitting there. She heard someone say, “It’s really too bad of Veronica. I didn’t know Lady Chesworth was going to be here.” But Veronica did, thought Kitty, as the blue eyes stared across at her with a kind of lazy insolence. Even Mrs. Thackeray felt things had gone a bit too far, and was relieved when dinner was announced.

Dinner was a twenty-course nightmare, studded with vulgar practical jokes. Entrées heaved as if on a stormy sea because the hostess had put inflatable bladders under the plates, bon-bons flew up in the faces of the guests with a whirring noise as their clockwork mechanisms were released by the unwrapping of the silver paper, and one young matron was the
succès fou
of the evening by having a bustle which played “God Save the King” every time she sat down.

Kitty hoped to escape when dinner was over, but there was bridge and baccarat to be played until two in the morning and then another interminable wait while the whiskey-and-sodas and chicken sandwiches were brought in.

All the time Kitty prayed for the courage to leave. But the thought of getting to her feet and making her good-nights in front of this bright, malicious crowd terrified her.

At last she reached the safety of her bedchamber and with her heart in her mouth, ripped back the bedclothes.

The bed was thankfully empty of small creatures and booby traps. It looked comfortable and the sheets smelled of lavender. Kitty tore off her clothes and plunged between the covers like a small, frightened animal burrowing into its lair.

For two hours, she lay listening to scuffling and whispering from the corridor. What on earth was going on? Perhaps they were planning some jolly jape like setting fire to her rooms. At last the rustling died away and she fell asleep, longing for the strength and company of her elegant husband.

The morning dawned dark and depressing with sheets of rain thudding down on the lawn and filling up the weedy moat.

Kitty climbed into her clothes without the courage to ring for her maid. She met Mrs. Thackeray who was crossing the hall. “You are a bit early, my dear,” she said. “It’s only ten-thirty. But you’ll find we have a new guest in the breakfast room. The Bishop of Zanzibar. Charming man.” And with that she hurried off.

Relieved to find that an important member of the clergy was part of this naughty world, Kitty opened the door. The Bishop, a surprisingly young, dusky-complexioned man, was already eating his breakfast. Kitty murmured a shy good-morning and moved to the sideboard. What a bewildering array of dishes! Where did one begin? There was enough to keep the Camden Town Pugsleys in food for a year.

There were about thirty different dishes including porridge, cream, coffee, cold drinks, Indian and Chinese tea, bacon, ham, sausages, poached and scrambled eggs, deviled kidneys, haddock, tongue, pressed beef and ham, fruit, scones, toast, marmalade, honey, and jam.

Kitty took a little scrambled egg, some toast and tea and sat down opposite the Bishop. Here was the help she needed to guide her in this bewildering social world. Kitty had been brought up Anglican to the backbone.

She heard movements upstairs and realized that the rest of the guests would soon be joining them. “My lord Bishop…” she began tentatively.

“Yes, my child,” he inquired. He seemed to have very kind, merry eyes.

“I am in need of advice and help,” said Kitty. “Perhaps—if you could spare me some of your time. I would like to talk to you in private.”

The Bishop surveyed her. “By all means, my dear. Shall we say in the library at noon? Good, good.”

The rest of the guests began to arrive so Kitty made her escape, feeling as if a little of the burden had been lifted from her heart.

As the clock in the hall struck twelve, she pushed open the door of the library and blinked at the darkness. The curtains had been drawn but she noticed the Bishop sitting by the light of one lamp burning on a table next to the fireplace.