by Kerri Maher
“Rest assured,” Joe went on, “Lord Chamberlain and I are working on ways of getting the oppressed out of Germany. But I’m sure you’ll agree that peace between our nations is the essential thing. No one wants another war.”
“Wanting and getting are two different things,” warned John. “Be careful, Joe.”
“I can’t be anything else, can I?” her father replied. Jack nodded subtly.
Then, expertly, before anyone had a chance to utter another word on the uncomfortable subject, Rose swooped in: “I’ve read such wonderful things about your Sealantic Fund, Mr. Rockefeller. Please tell us all about its first beneficiaries.” Is that the extent of a woman’s role in a conversation like this? Kick wondered. To make everything pretty again? If so, her mother had certainly mastered it. But she couldn’t help feeling its triviality.
Leaning over, Kick whispered to Jack, “Which oppressed people was Daddy talking about?”
“The Jews,” he whispered back. “He wants to get some to America and some here to England.”
His answer had come so fast. “How do you know that?”
“We had a lot of time to talk on the boat.”
Of course their father had used that time to confide his plans to his sons. To educate and groom them. The last serious conversation Kick had had with her father was about the weekend she’d spent at Hatfield. She’d amused him with the irony that she’d been put in the Oliver Cromwell room to sleep and say her prayers. She had to figure out how to change that.
* * *
She needn’t have worried about her brothers. They fit right in with her new friends and set their less honorable sights on women several years older. In fact, Jack did such a first-rate job of disarming everyone that after one supper at Londonderry House, Debo’s mother Muv Mitford told her daughter, “Mark my words, someday that boy will be president of the United States.”
This report sent Kick into a fit of giggles. “Jack!?” she said to her friend. “Doesn’t she mean Joe? Surely the English of all people believe in primogeniture.”
Debo shook her head and said, “But she’s very aware that the Kennedys are not English. And come on, you must see that Joe’s more . . . sullen. Jack has such a light touch with everyone, and gets them to do everything he wants.”
“I suppose he does,” said Kick, unworried. Her father would likely be president first, anyway. He’d struck some sort of deal with FDR, and this ambassadorship was just a stone on that road.
It was Rosemary she was starting to worry more about.
Kick had just come back from a hot afternoon selling programs with her sister for a Tower Hill improvement cause, and was sitting on her bed massaging her legs, when Rosemary burst into Kick’s room, her voice dangerously shrill. “Why can’t I go?”
The obvious answer to Rosemary’s question was that she wasn’t going out that night because she hadn’t been invited to dine with the Duke and Duchess of Kent, nor had she been invited to attend Sally Norton’s ball afterward. But Kick knew that to utter such a truth out loud would be a kind of betrayal of the whole family. Her mother simply didn’t admit such oversights—for the same reason that she sent Joe Jr. and Jack to escort Rosemary to every single dance back home that she was invited to. Make sure she dances all night, boys! Kennedys should never be wallflowers.
“Honestly,” Kick said, hoping to distract her sister, “I wish I could stay home tonight after all we did this afternoon. I’m sure Bobby and Jean would love to watch a movie with you downstairs in Daddy’s theater.”
“I’ve seen all the movies already! I want to go dancing! Why do you get all the invitations? Everyone says I’m prettier.”
Kick swallowed deliberately and reminded herself not to take Rosemary’s slight personally. After all, her disheveled older sister didn’t look or sound pretty at the moment.
“You most certainly are the prettiest, Rosie,” said Kick, rising off the bed and gently approaching her sister to rub her back.
“Don’t touch me!”
Rosemary coiled her long fingers into her dark curls and started to tug forcefully, her wide-eyed gaze directed at the ground.
“Rosemary, it’s me, Kick. Didn’t we have fun together today? Let me take you to Luella and Bobby and talk about a movie. Clark Gable can cure any ill.”
“Don’t touch me! Don’t! Don’t!”
Rosemary was yelling and crying now, and Kick heard fast footsteps on the stairs and in the hall outside. She was expecting her mother, but it was her father who cradled Rosemary in his arms, leaning her head against his chest. “There, there, my darling girl. How can Daddy help you?”
Rosemary clung to her father and sobbed into his lapel.
Joe gave Kick a what happened? look, and Kick shrugged. One of those times.
Her father stood and patted Rosemary’s back, then hushed her into submission. No one else was as good at this maneuver as their tall, broad-shouldered father. As she watched him patiently sit with her sister, something cracked open in Kick’s chest and she felt like crying herself. She felt like a child. Why should she be jealous of this attention? She certainly didn’t want to be like her sister in order to get it.
* * *
Her mood improved at the Mountbattens’ penthouse, where everyone was in the mood to dance, and the feeling in the air was closer to that of a club than one of the staid debutante dances, even though this party was to celebrate Sally Norton’s presentation. Maybe the more relaxed atmosphere was because it was a smaller affair in a fashionable apartment looking down on the shimmery London streets. Or because of the Naughty Showgirls, an original and very strong cocktail the Duke of Kent was serving up. Or because the band specialized in swing. Whatever the reason, everyone danced that night. Big Apples, Lindy Hops, and the Charleston.
A little after midnight, Kick was catching her breath with Debo and Jean when Sally Norton dropped into a chair looking happy and flushed, her blond curls bobbing cheerfully at her shoulders.
“The boys are at their best tonight, aren’t they?” she asked.
“Indeed!” agreed Jean. “And what a wonderful party, Sally.”
“Thank you, darling,” she said. “Of course, I had next to nothing to do with it.”
“Don’t be so modest.” Debo waved her hand.
“I may have had some input on the band,” Sally said. “After all, I wanted to make sure all my girlfriends got to take plenty of turns with their beaus.”
“Speak of the devil,” said Jean as Andrew pulled Debo up from her chair and spun her onto the smooth parquet floor to “You’re the Top.” “I think I might go find James,” she added, leaving Kick and Sally alone at the table.
“Too bad about Billy and that Oxford girl,” Sally said.
“Pardon?” asked Kick, her stomach giving an unexpected lurch.
Sally looked embarrassed at her gaffe, but Kick wasn’t entirely sure it was genuine. Sally elaborated: “Oh, you know, Margaret . . . oh, what’s her surname? I can’t remember. Anyway, she’s reading literature at one of the women’s colleges at Oxford. How dull, right? And she’s not from an especially good family, so Billy’s parents would be absolutely opposed. Still, there was that photo of them in the Oxford paper.”
“Well,” said Kick, trying to laugh although she felt queasy—and she wasn’t sure if her uneasiness was because of the news itself or because of the snaky way it was being revealed to her. Serpents lie in wait, Nancy Astor had warned. “It’s a good thing Billy and I aren’t serious or anything, or I’d be terribly upset.”
“Yes,” said Sally with a raised eyebrow. “Good thing.”
Kick couldn’t help adding, “And who reads the college papers anyway?”
Sally didn’t have a reply for that.
To her dismay, Kick spent the rest of the evening trying to figure out how to get more information about this Margaret girl w
ithout sounding jealous. At last, dancing slowly in Billy’s arms, she decided it did not—should not—matter. They weren’t serious. Best to emulate Jack and keep things light.
Then she thought, Boy, am I in trouble if I have to use Jack as a model in romance.
CHAPTER 6
It was such a relief to get to St. Mary’s, away from all her other obligations and confusions, she almost wept into the tea Mrs. Allen brought her. Kick had finally become friendly with the plump woman who’d first opened the door for her at the rectory, and she now smiled warmly every time Kick arrived. Kick was fairly certain the older woman now knew who she was, because she refused to call her Kick or even Kathleen and always pronounced Miss Kennedy with a certain degree of reverence in her brogue. But she never asked anything about her life outside the church in Sloane Square, and Kick was grateful for that kindness.
Kick set to work deciphering Father O’Flaherty’s nearly illegible scrawls and translating them into what she hoped was reverent prose on the old typewriter with the W that stuck exasperatingly. She was glad when the priest visited her later, both for the break from that W and because she had an idea to propose.
After some chitchat about her family, she broached it. “Father, I hope this isn’t too completely out of the blue, but . . . I’ve been reading the papers and listening to my father lately, and from what I understand, the situation of Jewish people in Germany is getting rather oppressive. It sounds like some of them are trying to get out. And I wondered if there is anything we can do to help them.”
Father O’Flaherty beamed at her, and she felt for a moment like she was ten and had earned one of Sister Benedict’s red-penciled stars on her schoolwork. “What a noble heart you have, Kathleen.” But then his face darkened. “I have been wondering the same thing, and I’ve written numerous letters to cardinals and bishops asking what we could do to help, like opening up Catholic orphanages and homes to any children who might be separated from their families trying to escape as refugees.”
“But?” she asked.
“But,” he sighed heavily, “many fear drawing Hitler’s attention to the church. Der Führer doesn’t like Catholics much more than he likes Jews. The other problem is that even the more sympathetic priests view it as an opportunity to convert children.”
“And you don’t agree?” This surprised Kick.
“I don’t think the church should convert any child who is separated from their parents of another faith. Adults are free to make such weighty decisions, but not a child of six who feels he has no other choice.”
Kick felt instinctually that this was right, and admired Father O’Flaherty’s compassion.
“Still,” he went on. “Something must be done. Perhaps . . .” Kick knew exactly where the priest was going with his reluctant tone of voice, as she’d heard it so many times before from people who wanted something from her family. This time, though, she’d come prepared to make the offer.
“My father?”
He nodded but said, “I know you want to keep your work here private, and I respect that.”
“I think I can put you two in touch and still keep my work private,” she said.
“I would be very grateful,” he replied, exhaling with relief. “And if I may, Kathleen, I understand how important it must be for a girl in your position to have a private life, something rewarding that you can call your own. But I feel certain your parents would be very proud of what you do here.”
“Feeling proud and being supportive are two different things in my family,” said Kick, wincing inside.
“I wish that weren’t the case,” he said. “Especially for a young woman as capable and talented as you are. Have faith in them, Kick. Have faith in yourself.”
“Thank you, Father,” she replied, glancing down at her tea and blushing. “That means a great deal to me.” She hoped that God would be more like Father O’Flaherty, inclined to compassion, rather than like some of the other priests and nuns she’d known, who were inclined to punishment. For she knew her sins were many, and she feared what they might become if she continued to dwell too long on the hands and lips of Billy Hartington.
* * *
She spent the next few days agonizing over a few pressing problems: Now that she’d said she would, how on earth was she going to tell her father about St. Mary’s and ask about helping the Jewish refugees? She felt guilty that she wasn’t acting fast enough. There was also the vexation of Billy and that girl from Oxford that Sally Norton had informed her about. On top of all that, Peter Grace had written to say that he would be visiting England soon for the specific purpose of seeing her. She prayed and prayed for guidance, but received no answer.
Then, during the most staggeringly dull sporting event she’d ever attended—a cricket match at Cliveden, the Astors’ estate—a sign was presented to her in the unlikely form of Page Huidekoper, her father’s ambassadorial assistant. Page was only a year older than Kick, and she’d always assumed it was the other girl’s friendship with FDR’s son Jimmy that got her the job. To Kick’s annoyance, her father was always singing Page’s praises and suggesting the two of them get together, but Kick could never see them having a particularly good time. Despite her youth, Page always appeared so competent and stern in her blouses buttoned up to her neck, and her slim skirts, matching jackets, and sensible heels.
That day, though, Page surprised Kick in her fluttery linen dress, with her hair swept up and a deep coral stain on her lips. She handed Kick a glass of ice water with a slice of lemon and observed, “You look like you need some refreshment.”
Page looked so relaxed and summery, and Kick was regretting her choice of a raw silk dress; though it was tea length and loose enough, the fabric didn’t breathe at all, and the back of her neck and underarms were slick with sweat. She was glad Billy was not there to see her looking so out of sorts.
Grateful for the water, she gushed her thanks to Page. After drinking it down in a few gulps, she ladled on the sarcasm and asked, “What brings you to this most exciting of games?”
Page laughed. “I love baseball back home, and your father thought I might enjoy the English version, so he gave me the afternoon off to attend this game.”
“And what do you think? Are you now a cricket enthusiast?”
“Ha. Cricket makes American baseball seem as fast-paced as horse racing.”
Kick cackled. “Thank goodness it’s not just me. Everyone wants to talk about the finer points of play, and I just want to say, ‘Has anything at all happened? Even once?’”
She and Page went back to squinting at the game, trading the occasional jibe about this player or that, when it dawned on Kick that here was her father’s assistant. Who better to give her advice about her predicament?
But could she trust Page?
She decided she didn’t have much choice. It was her moral duty to introduce him to Father O’Flaherty; God wouldn’t have given her the idea if it was not.
“I need your advice,” Kick began.
Page seemed surprised, but said of course she’d like to help, and then Kick explained her situation with St. Mary’s, and about wanting to help the Jews but also wanting to preserve the little bit of independence she’d created for herself. She also explained her mother’s posture toward St. Mary’s.
“I’m impressed,” said Page, which irritated Kick. She made it sound as if she were a decade more mature. “But I’m not sure why you’re so worried about your father. He’ll be impressed, too.”
“You don’t think he’ll say I have other more important duties, like Mother did?”
“More important than your church? Than helping him with his job?”
“You really think this could help him?”
“I know it can. I heard him on the phone the other day trying to convince an orphanage to open its doors. But that sham of a conference at Évian has made everything harder.
”
“I know,” said Kick. She’d read the papers carefully during the week that representatives from all over the West had met in Switzerland to discuss, then not do nearly enough for, the thousands of Jews who wanted to leave Germany. “It’s shameful that the United States in particular should put such a small limit on the number of refugees,” Kick said. “The country is enormous!”
“Your father agrees,” said Page.
Kick thought for a moment. “Do you think he would mind not telling my mother?”
Page cocked her eyebrow, then said, “Perhaps you are not aware of how much he doesn’t share with your mother?”
Kick felt herself flush hotly, though not from naïveté. No, she knew what Page was talking about. But she was red with a mix of relief and anger that this girl, who wasn’t even a member of the family, should make such a comment about her father. “Of course I know, Page,” Kick replied.
“Well then,” said Page, putting out both her hands, palms up. You have your answer.
Kick didn’t waste more time. While she felt clear about her motives—and also, if she was being honest, a sense that even her father had weaknesses, too, which made her feel less alone and somehow stronger—she knocked on Joe’s office door at 14 Prince’s Gate as soon as she returned from Cliveden.
Though he sounded harried when he shouted “Come in” from the other side of the heavy wood door, his face brightened when Kick entered.
“Hello, darling,” he said, kissing her on each cheek before they settled down on the sofa together. “How was the cricket?”
“Hopeless,” she said. “Page thought it made baseball look like racing, and I agree.”
He laughed and unbuttoned his gray suit jacket as he reclined and crossed his legs. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
Kick nearly lost her nerve and said something benign about the upcoming family vacation on the French Riviera. But she managed to say, “I have . . . an . . . opportunity for you.”
