Virginia Henley (37 page)

Her appreciative audience clapped their delight at her takeoff.

“Isn’t she marvelous? Kitty, do the Foreign Secretary.” Charles cut in smoothly, “I don’t think that would be wise. Kathleen is to be presented to Her Majesty next week.” “Oh, marvelous; she’ll take an instant dislike to you of
course—far too pretty. Remember, no bright colors; it’s an unwritten rule that all the ladies wear sober attire. What shall you wear?”

“Oh, bottle green, or something equally hideous, I suppose,” Kitty said and laughed.

Patrick’s sister Julia lost no time rekindling her friendship. Kitty suspected it had a great deal to do with her new status, but she did find Julia’s social advice invaluable. The London Season was upon them, and social activities reached a frenzied peak. Charles paid careful attention to dressing the evening his wife was to be presented to the Queen. He was vying for a new appointment, and although he didn’t think he’d get to be Chancellor of the Exchequer, he thought he stood a good chance for customs collector for the Port of London.

Inside the anteroom the gentlemen handed their capes and top hats to footmen on the right, while ladies went to the left to remove their cloaks. They came together again to be announced as they entered the state ballroom. As he turned, Charles was shocked to see Kitty standing resplendent in flame-colored silk with crimson poppies in her hair.

He thought wryly, There goes my appointment.

“Their Graces, the Duke and Duchess of Manchester,” rang out across the room, followed by a shocked silence that seemed to stretch out for minutes. Inwardly she wished with all her heart that she hadn’t done this stupid, impulsive thing. Then a gentleman separated himself from a group of courtiers and walked down the ballroom toward Kitty. He bowed low in front of her.

“May I have the next dance, madame?”

“Thank you, Prince Albert, You are the most courageous man in the room.” He raised her quickly and everyone
around them gave a collective sigh that she had been accepted.

Later, when she danced with Charles, she told him she regretted her whim. “Now I shall have to learn how to dismount gracefully from my high horse. Darling, I’m sorry if this queers your chances with the Queen.”

“Nonsense; she’ll probably take pity on an old man like me, saddled with such an incorrigible snip of a girl for his wife,” and he squeezed her hard before letting her go. She dreaded the moment coming and when at last she was face to face with Victoria, Kitty sank into a curtsy and waited to be spoken to first.

“Irish, are you not?” inquired the Queen.

Kitty nodded and began. “Your Majesty, I’m sorry …”

“No need to apologize; you’d stand out anywhere, rather like a tiger lily at a funeral.”

Kitty had many offers to take her in to supper. She chose Lord Liverpool, who joked that Liverpool and Manchester should always go arm in arm. “Here comes the Prime Minister,” hissed Lord Liverpool.

Lord Palmerston, with a fatuous look toward Queen Victoria, said, “Ah, ladies, your cause has come a long way because of our gracious Queen Victoria. Because one of your own fair-sex rules, womanhood has come out of the dark ages.”

“I don’t agree, Mr. Prime Minister,” said Kitty. “The Regency and the Georgians were frankly bawdy. Victoria’s suppressions have turned us all into hypocrites.”

“However do you mean, madame?”

“Well, for example, take an innocent thing like afternoon tea.”

“My dear lady, you aren’t suggesting …” “Of course I’m suggesting! Big overstuffed sofas are more comfortable than featherbeds! Now, here’s where the hypocrisy comes in. The Victorian woman is one mass of pads, cushions and corsets from head to foot. Frilled trailing skirts prevent a man from going up and boned necklines prevent him from going down, so what is the very latest fashion? Why, the tea gown, of course! That miracle garment which falls loosely about the figure and can be discarded in a trice. Our society is based on the
hypocrisy of not being found out. Why, the last weekend we had in the country I needed a bloody program to keep the players straight as they went from one bedroom to another!”

“Brava, brava, my girl,” cheered Lady Derby. “Taking tea with other men’s wives is a shameful custom.”

Lord Palmerston bowed to Kitty with a twinkle in his eye. “Your husband is a lucky man, and I shall tell him so when I confirm his new appointment.”

The London House in Strand Lane had lawns that sloped down to the river. Kitty and Charles Patrick were running back up to the house. His shoes were muddy from the river-bank and he played tag so fiercely with his mother that his hair stood on end. The dampness had given them both a wild look. She took tea in the nursery with him and by the time he was finished, jam had smeared up his cheek and into his curls. His mouth opened in a cavernous yawn.

“I think you’re tired,” she said.

“Not!” he protested stubbornly, but at the same time he yawned again.

“Look, you be a good boy and have a nap now, and later, when nurse gives you your bath, I’ll come up and watch.”

“Can I splash you?”

“No, not in this velvet dress you can’t.”

“I’ll splash nurse,” he countered.

“You little bugger, I bet you will,” she said and laughed.

“Daddy?” he asked hopefully.

“I suppose he’ll let you,” she agreed and lifted him into bed, fully dressed, minus the muddy shoes.

“I love you,” she whispered.

“Love you,” he answered sweetly.

She slipped into her bedroom to smooth her hair before Charles arrived. It was almost five and she could count on his arrival like clockwork. She was on the upstairs hall landing when she heard him.

“Kathleen, come and see the surprise I have for you!” he shouted happily.

She lifted her skirt and began a rapid descent when his next words caused her to hesitate.

“Can you imagine the damned fellow being in England months and not visiting us?”

Her eyes sought out the dark figure beyond Charles, and she stopped dead from the sudden shock.

“You’re not seeing a ghost—it’s your cousin Patrick.”

He looked as reluctant as she was for this meeting as he took a stiff, tentative step forward.

“Bumped into him this afternoon and practically had to drag him here,” continued Charles in a hearty tone.

She swayed visibly and caught hold of the banister to steady herself. Time stood still as she confronted the man who stood before her. His mouth was set in a grim line, his body tense. His eyes were sharp as a hawk’s; they would miss nothing. His aristocratic face tilted arrogantly and he said in a deliberately bored voice, “How are you, cousin?”

Anger began to swell inside her and she moved down the staircase with eyes blazing. “Weren’t you able to pull off marriage with the American, then?” she asked cuttingly.

“I leave marriage to others,” he said dangerously.

“Ah, you don’t know what you are missing, my boy,” said Charles, who had no idea how inflammatory the remark was.

Patrick stiffened visibly as he watched Kitty through narrowed eyes. She could feel his hatred but could not comprehend it. It was she who had the right to hate him after what he he had done to her.

Charles was putting glasses of sherry in their hands and ushering them into the drawing room. “Here’s the best part. Wait till you see my son. You’ll be jealous as the very devil,” he said and laughed, already heading toward the stairs.

“Charles, no!” cried Kitty. “He’s having a nap and you know how I hate you to disturb him,” she pleaded.

“Nonsense; whatever’s gotten into you? You know I can’t resist showing him off to all and sundry.” He winked at Patrick affectionately. Patrick murmured, politely, “I heard you’d had a child.”

They stood alone like two protagonists unable to control events that swirled about them. Neither spoke. The muscles in Patrick’s jaw clenched like a lump of iron. Kitty’s bottom lip trembled until she caught it between her teeth. Each could feel the heat of the other’s anger.

“Here we are. Come and see your Uncle Patrick. He’s come all the way from America,” urged Charles.

Patrick looked up and saw the little boy walking down the stairs dragging a dirty stuffed donkey with its tail missing. His eyes narrowed, puzzled at the child’s age. Kitty, thinking her son would be terrified at the dark, forbidding figure, picked him up protectively and Patrick said, “Good God, I thought he was a baby.”

“Not a baby!” cried Charles Patrick, soundly thumping Patrick with a jam-smeared fist.

Patrick’s eyes widened in comprehension as he looked over the black curls into Kitty’s eyes. God help me, he knows! thought Kitty.

Patrick’s face softened as he gazed at the child with wonder. He finally realized Charles Patrick was using his finger
to make a sticky jam pattern on his velvet lapel. “I don’t suppose they beat you, but they ought to,” he said softly. The boy gave him such a sweet smile that he had to resist the impulse to take his child in his arms.

Kitty said hurriedly, “Charles, please take him to bed; it’s wicked of us to spoil him like this.”

“Come on then, old son, Mother’s all straitlaced disapproval tonight.” Charles flashed an apologetic look at Patrick. “Usually she’s off and running at the first madcap suggestion.”

“I remember,” said Patrick acidly.

When they were alone again, Patrick said, “I shall be at Half-Moon Street tomorrow evening. I demand a reckoning.”

“I shan’t come!” she retorted with outrage.

“I don’t believe I heard you correctly,” he said in a tone so quiet and menacing she felt her blood run cold.

Charles returned. “Well, what do you think of him?”

“He’s a fine young cockerel, to be sure,” answered Patrick truthfully.

“Stay for dinner. Believe it or not we’re entertaining Julia and Jeffrey tonight,” invited Charles.

“Can’t be done, Charles. Like nothing better, but there it is, old man,” he lied desperately.

“All right, I know you’ve probably got so many irons in the fire you haven’t time for your old friends, but I’m warning you, we’ll catch up with you one of these days and spend the whole evening together.”

Patrick shot Kitty a meaningful look. “Yes, very soon, the whole evening.”

That night at dinner Kitty changed the subject every time Patrick’s name was mentioned. Although she pretended to listen to Julia, her ears strained to catch what Jeffrey and Charles were saying.

“He’s sold all three mills. He’s finally out of the cotton business for good,” said Jeffrey.

“I wonder what he’ll invest the money in? I only ask because if we followed Patrick’s lead, we wouldn’t go wrong,” said Charles.

Julia said, “He has vast shipping interests these days with that Bolt fellow in Liverpool. I hope he puts the money into slaves. The profits are unheard of.”

Kitty went cold. She put her fork down and pressed her napkin to her lips. When she was able to speak she said, “Charles, you don’t believe he would do such a thing, do you?”

“Darling, I can understand your repugnance for such dealings, but in the past I haven’t been above a bit of slave trade myself; as Julia says, it’s very profitable.”

She wanted to walk out on them all, but instead she politely changed the subject. Later Jeffrey put his hand on her arm and said quietly, “She’s only speculating, you know. You don’t think for one moment Patrick consults Julia about his dealings, do you?”

“Of course not.” She gave him a quick, reassuring smile, but she was far from reassured. She’d have to see him now. She had sworn she wouldn’t attend the command performance Patrick had ordered her to, but now she knew she had no choice.

She knew before she opened her wardrobe door what she would wear. It was a burnt-orange walking suit edged in deep brown sable. It had cost the earth. She brushed her hair until the black curls cascaded down her back, and perched the matching fur hat on a saucy angle. She took a parcel from the bottom bureau drawer and marched forth to do battle.

Patrick opened the door himself; she noted there were no servants in evidence. An expression of satisfaction, quickly
veiled, came into his face when he saw her. “I knew you’d come.”

“You infuriating bastard, I didn’t come because you ordered me to,” she spat. He looked at her with distaste. “If you live to be a thousand, you’ll never become a lady,” he said quietly. “At least wait until you’re over the threshold before you start screaming like a banshee.”

She trembled with rage, but at the same time realized he had the advantage so long as he kept rigid control of his temper.

More calmly she stepped inside. “It appears you delude yourself with the idea that you are the aggrieved party and deserve some sort of explanation. Let me quickly disabuse you of any such notion, Mr. O’Reilly.”

His temper flared. “You shallow little bitch, you think a simple explanation on your part is enough to set everything right when you’ve done your damndest to destroy me and almost succeeded.”

She looked around for a seat. “I might as well make myself comfortable while you bore me with an interminable catalog of grievances.”

He towered over her, his wrath frightening her more than a little. She had had to sit down because her trembling legs had threatened to collapse.

“It was the simplest request in the world. All you had to do was wait for me. I gave you money and I gave you my word that I would return and we would be married. But oh, no, you acted the thoughtless, selfish, willful child and came racing headlong to America. A more stupid act I can’t conceive of. They say the Irish are thick, and by God they’re right! I should have known better than to pick you out of the bog! You’re as wild and uncivilized as a bloody aborigine from a rain forest and always will be!” He caught his breath and her beauty stabbed him to the heart. “The great pity is
you have no conception of the pain and heartache you’ve caused me,” he went on in a quieter tone. “They told me at the plantation you had died from the fever and showed me your grave. I kept vigil and mourned at that graveside like a faithful dog! I didn’t want to stay in America, but I couldn’t bear to leave you in the cold ground alone. It almost turned my brain. I came to the conclusion that my only way out was to join you in death. Then I discovered you hadn’t died but had been sold as a slave. There are no words to describe what I went through then. I had rather you were dead a thousand times over than sold to some brothel.” The quiet voice was deceiving; it masked a fierce temper. He sneered now. “I should have known not to worry about you. You can take care of yourself better than anyone who ever drew breath, can’t you, Kitty? Well, I hope you’re pleased with yourself. Because of your blind ambition for a title, you’ve deprived me of my own son!”