by Kerri Maher
“Kathleen,” Kick replied, thinking it best to leave off her last name. The other woman didn’t seem to have recognized her.
“Come in,” she said, standing aside so Kick could enter a tiny room with a rough stone floor and simple wooden furniture. “Have a seat.”
Kick perched lightly on a chair and waited, enjoying the shafts of yellow light that filtered dustily into the room and prickled her cheeks and hands with their heat.
Soon she was joined by a gray-haired priest, a slim, wiry man who was younger than her father but much older than her brothers. Maybe forty, she surmised. She smiled at him, feeling a bit shy.
“I hear you’d like to help us at St. Mary’s?” he asked. Another Irish accent—but his tone was considerably more friendly than the woman’s had been. He held out his hand. “I’m Father O’Flaherty.”
Kick shook his hand. “Kathleen,” she told him.
He lifted his eyebrows, clearly waiting for her family name as well. “Kennedy,” she said, not wanting to begin her relationship with this man of God with a lie.
Instantly, he recognized her—his eyes widened and then narrowed, and Kick felt annoyed. That fight with her mother had been for nothing if she was going to be treated as Kathleen Kennedy no matter what. “Isn’t the Oratory your church?” the priest inquired.
“It’s my parents’ church,” she said with a meaningful nod.
“Ah. I see,” said Father O’Flaherty in a thoughtful tone that gave her hope. Yes, yes . . . he understood completely; she could see it in his suddenly amused eyes. “Then I won’t broadcast your visit to Father Williams without your permission.”
“Thank you,” she said, beaming a grateful smile. “I came because I saw your ad in the bulletin. I’d like to do what I can, to help.”
They discussed possibilities. The church led many charitable projects in the neighborhood, from bringing warm blankets and soup and Communion to elderly parishioners, to assisting nuns in teaching catechisms to local children. But what appealed most to Kick was assembling a quarterly newsletter that would inform the community of all the church’s doings and, as Father O’Flaherty gently put it, “to inspire others to help, if not with their time, then with other means they might have at their disposal.” He had been looking for someone of good education who could write a page of information in an engaging manner, put it together in an attractive fashion, and then take it to the printer down the road—who, fortunately, was a good Catholic and happy to donate his services and some paper.
“Writing was my best subject in school,” said Kick. “I can write to the Mother Superior at Sacred Heart, and she can vouch for my skills.”
Father O’Flaherty waved his hand, dismissing this offer. “Thank you,” he said, “but I don’t think that will be necessary. A young woman of your background is unlikely to have anything less than the right skills. And I am most impressed by your initiative in coming here today. That says more, I think, than your education.”
Kick blushed and glanced down at her hands. “I hope to be of some use,” she said. And, though she never would have admitted it, she was glad to have discovered some meaningful work that was, well, clean. With all her required engagements, she couldn’t afford to get sweaty and soupy before running off to a ball. She almost heard Bertrand’s sarcastic voice in protest at her choosiness, but she squelched it. She couldn’t completely take the Kennedy out of her nature, could she? She wouldn’t even want to. What she wanted was to gain some measure of independence. And she had, with a little rebellion. Why ruin it with pesky details?
She and Father O’Flaherty shook hands to seal their agreement, and when she felt how cool and tiny hers was in his warm, large hand, she was startled to be reminded of dancing with tall, big-handed Billy Cavendish two nights before. She hoped the priest wasn’t offended that she pulled her hand away so quickly.
In the tube on her way home, she chose to stand even though there were plenty of seats for her to sit in, because she enjoyed the sensation of being hurled forward, of steadying herself in the tremulous din.
* * *
The first-class train ride to Blenheim, complete with strawberries and cream in silver bowls in the dining car, couldn’t have been more of a contrast to her Underground jaunt to Sloane Square, and she wondered if there was something wrong with her because she enjoyed both trains equally and immensely.
Capability Brown had outdone himself at Blenheim. True to the title Sister Helen had given him in her arts lectures, “His Royal Highness of the Spade,” Brown’s vision for the estate grounds was fit for kings and queens. The lawns and forests surrounding the enormous palace provided a soft, leafy counterpoint to the imposing baroque architecture and the formal gardens adjoining the house. It didn’t surprise Kick that a man as powerful as Winston Churchill hailed from such a place. For this weekend in mid-May, the house was given up to pleasure, with dinners and dances and riding and tennis on the docket, and Kick couldn’t wait to participate in everything, despite the fact that she’d be enjoying the festivities under the watchful eyes of her mother and father. Alas, Billy Hartington wouldn’t be there. She wasn’t sure why she was disappointed by this, and told herself not to be ridiculous. After all, there was never a shortage of other alluring young men.
Most of her friends would be there, including Debo, Jean Ogilvy, and Sissy, whose friendship her mother was aggressively encouraging: “She’s a nice Catholic girl, who knows young Catholic men of stature. By the way, have you replied to Peter’s latest letter?” Rose didn’t seem to be aware of Sissy’s romance with David, a Protestant, and Kick wasn’t about to let her in on the news. And the last person Kick wanted to write to was Peter Grace, her sometimes beau back in New York whose misspoken blunder about wanting to impress “his girl” with his hockey prowess had ensured that she was greeted in England by a maelstrom of tabloid press about being engaged. To Peter Grace! He might have been heir to a major shipping line, but she had no intention of marrying him.
“What a lovely frock,” said Debo wistfully of Kick’s new lace-edged dress at cocktail hour. A breeze played with its hem as they stood in the Italian garden with its boxwood hedges trimmed into fanciful swoops.
“Thank you,” Kick replied, feeling embarrassed by this compliment, which she recognized was also a comment on its newness, so she quickly added, “I love your necklace.” It was a sapphire ringed with diamonds on a gold chain, and it lay daintily on her friend’s dove-gray gown, one Kick had seen a few times before. It had been something of a shock to discover that so many of the girls from good families here in England didn’t have enough money for a season’s worth of new outfits. Rose would never dream of letting Kick go somewhere wearing the same dress she’d worn to an event with a similar guest list—though Kick was beginning to wish her mother wasn’t so dreadfully aware of such things. She’d have liked to feel a little less conspicuous. Bringer of American style . . .
They were soon joined by David and Andrew and Sissy, and a plan emerged to play mixed doubles the next morning. “Best not to have too many of these, then,” said David, holding up his gin and tonic.
“Don’t be such a damned try-hard,” grumbled Andrew, who polished off his own gin and tonic and looked around for another. Debo grinned at him, though Kick noticed he didn’t meet her eyes. They still weren’t an official couple, and she’d heard gossip that although he had danced with Debo almost exclusively at the 400 the other night, Andrew was often seen in the company of other girls.
Toward dinnertime, Kick found herself with her father, the Duke and Duchess of Kent, and the Duke of Marlborough himself, whom she’d met at the Astors’ London house recently at tea. Marlborough was about a decade younger than her father but seemed somehow the same age as her dad—much older than Kent, who was in fact close to Marlborough’s age, but because Kent still enjoyed the company of debutantes and undergraduates, he was sometimes part of her own set at pa
rties, frequently without his wife—which was part of the reason, Kick guessed, that Debo had warned her about him.
“Congratulations, Miss Kennedy, on your smashing presentation at court,” the Duke of Marlborough said to her with a slight bow of his head. “The king informed me privately that he was most impressed with your composure.”
“Why, thank you.” Kick smiled and performed a brisk curtsy. She was never sure if people were subtly trying to comment on her cover for Rosemary, whom her parents had decided not to take along on this weekend house party. “And may I say,” Kick added, “that Blenheim is absolutely grand this evening. I’m very much looking forward to the sporting events tomorrow.”
Joe put a proud arm around Kick’s shoulders and said, “You might want to stay away from her and her tennis racket. She’s beaten all her sisters and even three of her brothers on occasion.”
Oh, Daddy, please don’t brag. Kick cringed. The English never bragged. Not so directly, anyway.
“I’ll have to put you on my ladies’ doubles team,” said the Duchess of Kent.
“Goodness, I’ll have to set my arms on ice tomorrow afternoon,” Kick demurred. “David and Sissy have already claimed me for a match first thing in the morning.”
The Duke of Kent raised his mostly finished martini and said, “That’s what modern medicine is for.”
“Now, now,” said Joe, “not too much of that for my daughter. Can’t have her leaving England with a taste for gin.”
“I’ll stick to the fizz, Daddy, not to worry,” she giggled, holding up her champagne coupe. She liked the occasional cocktail but preferred the slower build of the softer drinks.
The Duke of Marlborough smiled indulgently at her. Then his face darkened as he turned to Joe and said, “You know my cousin Winston might put in an appearance tomorrow. Or he might not. Difficult to tell with him. He’s always been damned mercurial in his social pursuits.”
“Not to worry,” said Joe, his face ever relaxed even as Kick could feel his posture tighten beside her. “I’ve seen Winston just recently. We had a fine talk.”
“But now, with this situation in Czechoslovakia getting worse,” the duke went on, “I must warn you he is working himself into a lather. Thinks Chamberlain’s weak, a pushover. When he sees those damned Fascists marching though Hyde Park, I practically have to pry the pistol out of his hand.”
Joe laughed it off. “The situation isn’t as bad as all that. We’re containing Hitler. You can assure Winston of that.” Then, after a beat, he added, “I have to agree about the marching in Hyde Park, though.”
Kick shivered and looked down at her drink. Two of Debo’s sisters, Diana and Unity, had been in those marches. Oswald Mosley, a prominent English Fascist and Diana’s husband, had spoken at one. She heard the Duke of Kent sigh exasperatedly and then say, “I don’t have any patience for politics at a party, especially one as excellent as this,” he said, taking his wife’s arm and looping it through his. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said curtly. He caught Kick’s eye and made an inviting expression.
“I think I might follow them,” she said, putting a light hand on her father’s arm. “And leave you two to save the world.”
“Perhaps this new Superman fellow will be able to do that,” said the Duke of Marlborough, with an unexpectedly boyish purse of his lips.
It took Kick a second to realize he was referring to the main character of the silly so-called book with all the primary-colored pictures in which Bobby had been morbidly engrossed the other week. She relished the ironic image of this middle-aged English lord doing the same thing.
“Joe, is there any chance,” Marlborough went on, “that you might procure for me a copy of the next issue before the rest of the world sees it?”
Joe smiled with genuine surprise. “I might be able to pull a few strings,” he said.
“Why, Dukie Wookie,” said Kick mirthfully, “we’ll make a Yankee out of you yet.”
Everyone laughed heartily, no one louder than the Duke of Marlborough himself. The Duke and Duchess of Kent hadn’t quite left their little circle, and so Kent offered Kick his other arm with a nod of admiration. When she knelt at her bed that night for her daily prayer, she thanked God for Bobby. I know I was scornful of his book last week, but I see now that it’s another tool to bring the Americans and the English closer together. Like the movies Daddy shows. I hope I am of even small use to Daddy and our country, and if I am, it’s all because of the gifts you have given me. For those I am truly thankful. Amen.
She woke in a fine humor and bounded onto the court for her doubles match with Andrew against Sissy and David the next morning. Lord Wickham, a close friend of the Duke of Devonshire, stumbled over to them during the last set. He had a distinctly old-fashioned air to him, with his spats and outmoded sideburns. As he watched, he drank whiskey and cheered for every good stroke Andrew made. When Kick won the match with an ace serve followed by a smash of a volley at the net, Andrew scooped her up and gave her a bear hug. “I’ll always take you for a partner when I have a hangover, Kick! You’re better than most of my mates at school.”
She beamed and replied, “Wait till you play my brothers.” Then she was annoyed at herself for making her brothers sound better than she was. Why couldn’t she just accept credit?
Andrew clutched his heart and said, “Oh God, I don’t think I could take that.”
Everyone laughed and shook hands, and Debo told Kick, “Thanks for bailing me out of that one. I never could have carried the game like you did; then Andrew would have been insufferable all day.”
Lord Wickham approached them then, and clapped both David and Andrew on their backs, saying, “That was disgraceful, men.” He was trying for a jovial tease, but with the boozy thickness in his voice, the jest fell flat.
Putting on an indulgent smile, David said, “Certainly the ladies deserve most of the credit today.” Then he quickly kissed Sissy’s hand in appreciation; she had indeed played extremely well.
“How can you let these convent girls show you up, lads? And one a Yank? Even worse!”
Now I see what this is about, thought Kick. Reflexively, she reached for the wit most Englishmen appreciated, and said in a featherlight tone, “You can hardly blame them, Lord Wickham. God’s not on their side.”
Before anyone could laugh or augment her quip, Wickham narrowed his eyes and jabbed his finger toward Kick as he snarled, “Your time will come, Kick Kennedy. These foolish young people may be enamored of your money and fine teeth, but sooner or later they’ll see what you and your family really are.”
“That’s enough, John,” Andrew said with a clenched jaw.
“Yes, I believe it is,” Wickham spat before marching off toward the house.
“Don’t listen to that old drunk,” David assured Sissy and Kick. Sissy looked close to tears, but Kick stood fuming with her hands clenched into sweaty fists. Wickham may have been drunk, but Kick knew the whiskey had only loosened his tongue to speak what he felt was the truth. But how many Englishmen did he speak for? Kick wondered. Too many, she suspected moodily, starting with Billy Hartington’s father. She felt horribly guilty, as if she’d let her parents down, and vowed to step up her efforts on the cardinal’s luncheon.
She was still brooding when she got back to London, was sullen and cantankerous all through dinner. Just before bed as she said her prayers, there was a knock on her door and a soft “Kick? It’s me, Rosemary.”
Kick opened her door to see her sister holding a tray of desserts, smiling like a child who’d gotten away with something big. “I thought you needed some cheering up,” she said with hopefully raised eyebrows. “Let me in quickly, so no one sees.” No one meaning Rose, who wouldn’t want to see her two daughters stuffing themselves with sweets.
As the rich, sugary flavors of cream cakes and chocolate éclairs worked their magic on her mood, Kick was grateful tha
t Rosie wasn’t asking any questions about why she’d been so cranky that evening. Sometimes her older sister was just that—the thoughtful, more mature one who looked out for her younger sister. “Remember when we used to sneak candy bars into our rooms at Hyannis Port and eat them after everyone went to bed?” Kick asked.
Her mouth full of cake, Rosemary smiled and nodded. In the silvery spring moonlight, her sister was exquisite—her skin flawless, the curves of her nose and lips soft and inviting.
“Thanks, Rosie,” Kick said. “I needed a treat tonight.”
“You’d do the same for me,” said Rosemary with a shrug.
I certainly hope so, Kick thought to herself, though she wasn’t sure. Her sister’s needs were so often beyond what cake could fix. But it felt good to promise she’d try.
CHAPTER 4
Derby Day was nearly ruined by rain, and everyone in the Earl of Derby’s box at Epsom Downs was talking about it. Kick was bored to death of all the complaining when Billy Hartington appeared suddenly at her side and said, “Lovely weather, isn’t it?”
“Not you, too!” she said, but her voice was merry and not reproachful. She was embarrassingly glad to see him. She wondered again if Andrew or David had told Billy about her quarrel with Lord Wickham, and if it had resonated with him. Instinctively, she closed her lips around the expensively tended teeth Wickham had criticized. Oral hygiene was one of her mother’s obsessions, and she took enormous pride in her children’s healthy white smiles; all nine children used to travel into New York City to see dental specialists. But Billy appeared so genuinely pleased to see her, she couldn’t help but grin again. He was just as good-looking as she remembered—tall, dark, and handsome, the real McCoy.
“Should I not apologize for the perpetually lousy weather of my country, and the resulting dourness of my countrymen?” Billy asked. He was once again stooping over, with the hand that had just shaken hers now pinned behind his back; his other hand held a sweating highball glass containing a gin and tonic. Kick hoped he didn’t slouch just because she was so short.
