The Kennedy Debutante

by Kerri Maher

  “No one seems dour today,” she observed, gesturing around at the buzzing crowd, ladies in their smartest day dresses topped by elaborate feathery hats, and gentlemen in morning suits and top hats. “Nothing like dressing up to lift one’s spirits,” her mother had said as they left 14 Prince’s Gate earlier, her own spirits clearly lifted by her couture linen, weather be damned.

  “That’s because there is money to be made today,” Billy said in a low, confiding voice. “And if there is one thing the English love more than complaining about the weather, it’s complaining about winning or losing money.”

  “Complaining about winning money?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” interjected Boofie Gore, a cousin of both Billy and David Ormsby-Gore, who had just joined them. “I assume, Hurly Burly, that you are referring to the curious national aversion to actually enjoying one’s wealth.”

  “Exactly,” Billy said, “though I do wish, Boofie, that you’d toss the moniker.”

  “Hurly Burly?” asked Kick, confused. Boofie was chuckling.

  “Quite apart from the fact that I’m no longer the Earl of Burlington, I’d prefer not to have my name associated with Macbeth,” Billy said with a shudder.

  “Terribly sorry, Billy,” said Boofie, without real sincerity, “but I’ve known you as the Earl of Burlington since you were in knee britches.”

  Billy rolled his eyes at Kick, and she giggled.

  “Oh, and you’re so old,” she said to Boofie, trying to help Billy out. “You’re talking like a matronly aunt or something.” In fact, Boofie and his boat-racing wife Fiona were only a few years older than she and Billy.

  Boofie gave Kick a jokingly stern look and said, “You’re hardly one to talk about nicknames, Kookie Kickie,” referring to her now-infamous comment to the Duke of Marlborough, who’d become one of her champions.

  “Hilaaaarious,” drawled Kick as the two men laughed companionably now. She was starting to relax; Billy didn’t seem to be holding anything against her—her teeth, her family, or her height, for that matter. “Explain to me,” she went on, gaining confidence, “because English titles continue to elude me, why you were ever the Earl of Burlington?”

  “It’s arcane,” Billy said sympathetically. “But the Duke of Devonshire is the title given to the oldest man in my family. His heir is called the Marquess of Hartington, and the marquess’s son is the Earl of Burlington. So when my grandfather died last year, my father became duke, and I became marquess, but I’d had nearly twenty years as the Earl of Burlington, which is why old Boofie here can’t get used to it.”

  “Oh, I can get used to it,” said Boofie. “But I still like to associate you with Macbeth. When the hurlyburly’s done, when the battle’s lost and won,” he cackled like one of the three witches in Shakespeare’s play.

  Ignoring this admittedly funny jibe because it obviously bothered Billy, Kick asked, “And yet your family estate is in Derbyshire, not Burlington or Devonshire?”

  Billy laughed. “Yes,” he said. “I told you it’s arcane. I’m sure to an American, it also seems insane.”

  She shook her head and said with conviction, “Not at all.” In fact, she loved these little facts about English life; they were like biting into a chocolate and finding a perfect, crunchy nut inside. Then, remembering that Debo had said she would be in the Duke of Devonshire’s box with Andrew that day, Kick asked Billy, “Speaking of dukes, why aren’t you in your father’s box?”

  “Oh, I had to escape,” he said conspiratorially. “For one thing, Andrew and Debo can be a bore when they get to flirting, and for another, well, I wanted to get closer to the horses, and this box was on my way. When I saw you in here, I thought, I bet she’s never properly seen the Derby.”

  “So you came to right this wrong, did you?” Her pulse sped to a gallop.

  Putting a hand on his heart, he said gravely, “It is my solemn duty as an Englishman.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t like to keep you from such a serious matter,” she said. “And look! The weather has decided to cooperate.”

  The wet outside held steady at a light drizzle. Billy put out his bent elbow for Kick to lace her arm through and said, “Boofie, will you join us?” He did, and on their way out, they collected Robert Cecil, Jean Ogilvy, and Billy’s school friend Charles Granby. Sally Norton, who was stuck talking to the Marquess of Blandford, gave their party a sad little wave as she watched them leave. Rumor had it that Sally had a crush on Billy, and Kick couldn’t help but be relieved that another of Billy’s admirers would not be going on this little excursion.

  Billy led Kick purposefully through the crush of damp, noisy racegoers, and their group snaked closer and closer to the track. Though they were outside, all the bodies and the unmoving, humid air made Kick perspire hotly. Her hair stuck uncomfortably to the back of her neck, and by the time they reached their destination, she was fanning herself with her hand. Billy offered her a dry white handkerchief, which she accepted gratefully and used to dab her forehead and neck as daintily as she could.

  “Just in time!” shouted Billy, gesturing toward the horses, who were stamping their hooves and shaking their heads in readiness. As the whistles and whoops around them crescendoed, Kick’s heart beat faster and her eyes darted between the horses and Billy, whose gaze never wavered from the track.

  “How much have you wagered?” she asked him, leaning close to his ear so he could hear.

  “Enough,” he replied.

  Then, suddenly, the horses were thundering down the track. Had there been a shot? If so, Kick hadn’t heard it above the crowd. Billy stood still, and so did she, letting her body absorb the vibrations from the ground and the low rumble of six sets of hooves vying for the win. The horses and their jockeys strove forward, and Kick wished she knew which horse Billy had bet on so she could cheer for the right one, but he gave nothing away except his nerves, his knuckles going white as he gripped the railing in front of them. She had no such restraint, and quickly found her own favorite—a chestnut-brown stallion with a streak of white in his tail and a rider in shiny pewter silk, who was just behind the leader but whose progress seemed effortless. This horse managed to glide while the others ran and strained.

  “Go!” she shouted, bouncing on her toes and waving Billy’s handkerchief above her head. “Go, go, go!”

  Two heartbeats before the finish, her horse pulled in front of the leader and won, breezing past the finish line in a glossy brown streak.

  Billy turned to her and gave her an unexpected hug, using his own height to pull her effortlessly off the ground. “He won!” Billy shouted.

  “Your horse?”

  “Yours, too, it appeared. Bois Roussel.”

  “I didn’t want to pick the obvious winner,” she said. “I loved the way he sailed through at the end.”

  Billy laughed and hugged her again. He wasn’t stooping now.

  In the celebratory moment with Billy—absurdly tall, boyishly charming Billy—Kick had almost forgotten their other friends, but then he set her back down on the ground and offered his hand to Charles, who was frowning. “Sorry, mate. Maybe next time. I’ll get you a stiff drink in mere moments.”

  Back at the Earl of Derby’s box, Billy said to Kick, “I’ll see you tonight?”

  “If you’re going to the court ball, you will,” she said, hope making her cheeks hot again.

  “Be sure to leave a space on your card for me,” he said. He paused for just a moment, studying her face intently, as if trying to puzzle something out. Rashly, she wanted to lean up and kiss him on the lips. They looked so soft. But before either of them could say or do anything, he muttered another goodbye and disappeared to find his father’s box, leaving Kick utterly winded.

  * * *

  She left more than one space for him on her dance card. In fact, she began leaving spaces for him at every party she knew he would attend,
and when he started appearing at more and more of them, she wondered whether his presence had anything to do with hers. She certainly looked forward to seeing him. Not only was he an excellent dancer, he was a sparkling conversationalist, so full of interesting historical tidbits about their milieu—like the fact that Parliament always adjourned for Derby Day, and afternoon tea during the season had once been a time for visiting mistresses, or that in 1850, life expectancy in England was only about forty years old, which meant that the debutantes and their suitors would have been practically middle-aged!

  But as much as she enjoyed dancing and flirting with him, she kept her distance. If there was one thing she had learned from watching both of her parents in the baffling waltz of their marriage, it was not to give too much of herself to anyone. Her mother’s frequent solo travels abroad, and her father’s dalliances—it all appeared to keep things interesting between them. Kick had once snooped in her mother’s desk back in Bronxville and found a letter from her father, who was working in Washington at the time, and it was radiant with love and admiration for Rose. Kick hoped it might be possible for a couple to share that sort of love and be more together, though the other men she’d observed up close didn’t give her much hope. Her gadabout brothers didn’t seem prepared for greater togetherness than their father did.

  Romance was so complicated—and that was true even for a couple like her parents, who had religion and nationality in common. She couldn’t imagine how complicated it must be for a couple like Sissy and David. And she was ever cognizant of Wickham’s warning, Sooner or later they’ll see what you and your family really are. Unlike Bertrand’s Ah, Kathleen Kennedy, which she felt could be addressed by behaving differently on her own terms, Wickham’s words were more insidious, implying that she and her family were hiding dark secrets behind a pretty veil of money and hygiene. So, even if she felt a thrilling tightness in her chest each time Billy asked her to dance, Kick decided it was in her own best interests not to think too much about the Duke of Devonshire’s oldest son.

  Please, Lord God, she prayed more than once beneath the ornate arches of Brompton Oratory, deliver me from temptation. I don’t want to let anyone down, especially not Daddy, who’s worked so hard to bring us all here, to make sure our family is respected here in England. Show me the right path, and guide me down it without stumbling.

  When her mother suggested she step out with Michael Fitzgibbon, then Ralph Heany—both well-to-do Catholic boys on the London social circuit—she went because she assumed each time that this was the course she was supposed to follow. But she found herself in the dark each time. Michael bored her during lunch with his plans for returning to Ireland and starting his own bank, and Ralph kept finding ways to ask if she’d introduce him to her father. She tried to remind herself that the nuns had told her God’s will wasn’t easy to follow, and she resolved to do better. She just wished London didn’t offer so many enticing detours.

  CHAPTER 5

  “Jack!”

  Kick ran down the stairs at 14 Prince’s Gate and threw herself on her brother in an enormous hug. It was always a bit of a shock to see him after a long time away, and remember how golden he was, especially in the summer, how tan, how rakish the glint in his blue eyes. Through his rumpled travel suit, she could feel how thin and bony he was—the mysterious afflictions that had tormented his back and lungs since childhood were at work again. Mother would have many choice words about his characteristic lack of concern for his appearance and health when she returned from checking every detail of the Independence Day bash to be held at the embassy that night. But for now, right now, her brother was hers.

  “Kick!” he exclaimed, embracing her in return; despite his skinniness, his arms felt strong around her.

  She pulled away with a sisterly challenge on her face, and sang, “I said it fi-irst.”

  “No rest for the weary, I guess,” Jack sighed with good humor. “All right, then.”

  And assuming the familiar waltz position, they began dancing jig-like around the foyer, barking the rhymes with each beat.

  “Jack,” she began.

  “Hack,” he followed.

  “Black.”

  “Shack.”

  “Rack.”

  “Tack.”

  “Mack.”

  “Lack.”

  “Uh . . . uh . . . track!”

  “Knack.”

  “Stack.”

  “Thwack.”

  “Pack.”

  Jack opened his mouth for another rhyme and instead began to laugh, then cough. He backed away so he could cover his mouth with a hankie. “You win, little sister.”

  “Are you all right?” she asked, her heart thudding from their dance.

  He finished hacking and said, “I’m fine. All that sea air, you know, and now the fog. I hope Mother isn’t here to see me.” As usual, he didn’t sound worried that their mother might see him in such a state, but rather annoyed at what her reaction would be if she did.

  Kick shook her head. Everyone else in the family had gathered around. Joe Sr. and Joe Jr. had followed Jack into the house, and all the other Kennedy kids plus Luella had rushed down when they heard Kick and Jack’s familiar rhyming dance. They hadn’t seen their brothers since Christmas, and hadn’t seen their father in weeks, since he’d gone to America for his namesake’s graduation from Harvard. In fact, the whole clan except for Rose was at that moment standing in the exact same spot, the foyer of Prince’s Gate, for the first time in nearly a year, and there was a raucous round of hugs and greetings and tickles and pokes and “Come here, let me show you this!”

  Joy filled Kick’s heart as she hugged and kissed her father and Joe Jr., who looked handsomer than ever and utterly carefree now that he was finished with college, ready to embark on what he had always referred to as “real life.” He was darker than his younger brother, in looks and disposition. Ever the brooder, Joe Jr. had thick cola-colored hair he kept combed back, and his eyes were deeply set like Kick’s own. He smiled less easily than Jack, and sometimes Kick thought that made his smiles more precious to win. He smiled at her now, and enveloped her in a hug so much stronger than Jack’s that Kick felt more alarmed about her other brother. But the last thing Jack needed was a mother and sister nagging him about his health.

  As she’d predicted to herself four months before when she arrived in London, Kick became all but invisible to her father with his oldest sons in the room. “Give them some space!” he shouted at the rest of his children, so that he could lead Joe Jr. and Jack on a grand tour of the house. The littler Kennedys trailed behind like eager spaniels, but Kick slipped away to her own room, where she could savor a little privacy before the big events of the day. Perhaps there would be benefits to her new invisibility, but still, she’d begun to get used to her father’s compliments and attention in recent months, and this slide back into her brothers’ shadow jabbed at her insides.

  The next few hours were a chaotic sprint to the Fourth of July dinner at the Dorchester Hotel given by the American Society of London, to be followed by a party for 1,500 hosted by Joe and Rose at the embassy. There was no time for catching up, only bathing and freshening and throwing clothes and footballs down the halls in euphoric excitement. Somehow, under the sheepherder-like guidance of Luella, all nine Kennedy children—Joe Jr., Jack, Rosemary, Kick, Eunice, Pat, Bobby, Jean, and Teddy—all managed to make themselves presentable for the soirees. Together with their parents, they occupied three taxicabs that honked and shoved their way through London toward the festivities.

  The Dorchester was festooned with American flags and red, white, and blue swags of every size, shape, and dimension. Sparklers crackled and men attired as minutemen drank ale. As the Kennedys entered, a big brass band wearing white linen jackets, stars-and-stripes bow ties, and white straw hats was playing an up-tempo “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

  “Is this re
ally England?” laughed Jack.

  “Looks more like New Orleans to me,” agreed Joe Jr.

  The two brothers shook hands and grinned so hard, their cheeks practically eclipsed their eyes, and Kick knew why: they had a running bet for how many women each of them would speak to that night, and likely another for who would bed one first. Kick sighed. Her brothers were NSITs. She didn’t like to think what Debo and the others would say about that. Tomorrow, she’d have to give her brothers a stern talking-to about which of her friends were off-limits.

  Fortunately, it was mostly Americans that night. The Kennedys were seated with the Rockefellers, who were in town with their son David. Joe Jr. and Jack immediately set about grilling him for his knowledge of local haunts. Because of course Kick’s word as a girl wasn’t good enough—even though David gave them precisely the same advice about the 400 and Café de Paris that she had in the car on the way over. She rolled her eyes at them.

  John Rockefeller had imbibed just enough of the freely flowing “Independence punch” to ask Kick’s father, “So, Joe, what are you planning to do about the Jewish problem? You must know from your recent visit stateside that they are very unhappy with the things Hitler is saying. Damned incendiary, I have to agree. Do you believe what he says? Take him seriously?”

  “I think we have to,” Joe replied, keeping his expression a balanced mix of appreciation for his countryman’s concern and stoic belief that he was in the right. Kick watched Jack and Joe watching their father, as if they were memorizing images for a test. “Hitler is many things, and I think so far he is showing himself to be a man of his word. For better and worse. His opinion of the Jews in Germany is . . . unfortunate.” Joe frowned, letting just enough emotion onto his face that Kick could tell the subject was painful to him, though she’d heard her father get annoyed at the Jewish journalists over the morning papers many times.