by Kerri Maher
Then he listened in inscrutable silence while she described her work at St. Mary’s and her recent conversation with Father O’Flaherty. She finished by saying, “I hope you don’t mind, Daddy, but Page was telling me how much you’ve struggled with the refugees, and I just thought, here is a priest who wants to help. And maybe together you can.”
The eighteenth-century grandfather clock behind her ticked one, two, three, four, five, as her father regarded her, again with an expression that was impossible for her to read. As the seconds went by, Kick became more and more alarmed.
He tapped his knee lightly with his fingers, then finally he said, “You’ve been very busy, haven’t you?”
“Yes, Daddy. I hope that pleases you.”
“It does, of course it does,” he said. “All your siblings have been a great help to our mission here. Of course, I expected much of your older brothers. I didn’t think you would want to help in this way.”
“You never asked,” she said, sticking her chin up and out just a little.
He nodded, and she thought she saw the faintest smile on his lips. “Pardon my mistake,” he said.
“So you’ll talk to Father O’Flaherty?”
“I will, of course. But I must say, Kick, that I’m not sure how much good it will do. If our own country’s leaders, and the church’s leaders, whom President Roosevelt himself has written to, haven’t responded kindly . . .” He let his voice trail off and waved his hands, as if to imply that the good intentions had already gone up in smoke.
“There must be something you can do together,” she said. Then she added a bit of flattery to strengthen her cause. “Two smart and resourceful Catholic men.”
“I’ll try,” he promised, “if not for them, then for you and your industriousness, which I think should be rewarded.”
“Daddy, I don’t need a reward. I like to help. But.” She paused. This part was risky. She’d never made this kind of request before. “I would like one thing.”
Behind his round glasses, her father’s eyes went a bit wider with curiosity. “I’m all ears,” he said.
“Please don’t say anything about this to Mother.” Her heart was thudding; her shoulders felt tight.
Then her father burst out in surprised laughter. “But why? She’d be relieved to know that all your time and thought doesn’t revolve around a certain Protestant aristocrat. Frankly, so am I.”
“Of course it doesn’t,” she said, too quickly and, she knew immediately, too petulantly. So her parents had noticed—and even discussed—her and Billy. She would have to be more careful. Though she had promised herself to keep it from getting serious, she was finding it difficult when her thoughts strayed toward him in so many idle moments, and when she found herself so flustered by the idea of him with another girl. Not wanting to lose any of the ground she’d gained with her father, she changed her tone and explained as evenly as she could, “I would prefer you not tell Mother because when I first suggested that I work at St. Mary’s, she told me not to because she didn’t think I’d be able to fulfill my other obligations.”
“And you did it anyway?”
Kick nodded.
Joe laughed again. “Well, you’re a Kennedy, that’s for sure. As if there was ever any doubt about that. When it’s important, we stand together. And we think for ourselves. And I daresay your other obligations have hardly suffered.”
“I don’t think they have,” she agreed earnestly. “Can you put your faith in me to continue as I have been? And not tell her?”
“All right, Kick, you win. This time. Just make sure you can keep it all up. I think this rest in France will be good for you. Best for a young lady not to burn the candle at both ends.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” she lied. In fact, she was dreading France. She wished she could join her friends in the cooler climes of the Scottish Highlands rather than swim and diet with her family. And she wanted to tell her father that it wasn’t just ladies who shouldn’t overdo it, but she didn’t want to overstep. The fact that she’d gotten what she wanted out of this conversation felt like a huge victory. She walked out of her father’s office feeling lighter on her feet than she had in weeks. As light as Jack always appeared. So this was what it felt like to be free.
CHAPTER 7
A note from Peter Grace arrived the morning she was to leave for the Goodwood races and pulled Kick swiftly down from her cloud. On the stationery of the Dorchester Hotel, he’d written in a neat script:
Just arrived. I can’t wait another minute to see you. May I take you to dinner tonight? Anywhere you like.
Stealing a glance out the window at the glorious late-July day, all cloudless blue sky and a slight breeze ruffling the green trees, Kick could almost hear the horses thundering in her ears, taste the crisp white wine she and her friends would share at their picnic. It was the final event of the season. Her season, as she’d come to think of it. And how could she pass up a chance to stay at Compton Place, Billy’s family’s home in Eastbourne near the south coast?
Prince’s Gate was quiet, with her father at the embassy and her mother and half her siblings already in France. With a steady hand she started to reply to Peter’s note, then stopped. It would be better if he thought she’d already left and just missed him. Let their butler deliver the bad news. Anyway, she’d be back in a few days. She’d see him soon. Then her mother wouldn’t be able to accuse her of ignoring him entirely. And Rose did know she was planning to attend the races. Before she’d left, she’d told Kick to have a marvelous time. She just didn’t realize that Peter’s ship was due to arrive. And how was anyone supposed to know it would be early?
With that thought, Kick put on her hat and gloves and slipped out of the house, feeling very dramatic and alive.
In just a few hours, she was with Debo and Billy and Andrew, piled into one of the Cavendishes’ comfortable Austins. There was a long drive to the races, and the traffic was terrible, but the boys kept things lively with bottles of champagne and cartons of cherries. Kick refused when Billy offered to refill her glass, saying, “I don’t want to be drunk when I meet your parents!”
“Fair enough,” he said. “But I do.”
She wished she could have convinced him otherwise. With all the other troubles occupying her mind these past few days, she hadn’t given much thought to this meeting, but now that she was on her way and it was a reality, all she could think about was Lord Wickham insulting her and Sissy at Blenheim. Billy’s father, Edward Cavendish, hated Catholics with an equal or maybe even greater fervor. One of his most well-known statements was that it was a shame he could see Westminster Cathedral from his London house. Billy’s mother Mary, whom everyone called Moucher except her children’s friends, who were obliged to refer to her as Duchess, was reputed to be much more friendly, with a flair for art and antiques that Andrew shared. Kick hoped to find some common ground with her there.
Soon enough, their party was mingling beneath a sprawling white tent where maids and footmen bustled about making people in top hats and peacock-feathered hats comfortable. It was hard not to reach for every coupe or highball to undo the knots behind her ribs. She’d met plenty of lords and dukes, and was way beyond her flash card days, but her hands felt damp, and she worried she’d put on too much Vol de Nuit. It wasn’t even nuit, after all. But Billy liked it.
Billy. She could tell he was tipsy, and wondered if his parents could as well.
She timidly sipped some champagne, and then Billy said, “There’s Mum and Dad,” looking over at the tall couple who were greeting the Marquess of Blandford at the other end of the tent. The duchess, who had a long and elegant neck that was accentuated by wearing her hair up, wore a stylish dress the color of terra-cotta with wide shoulders, and a brown hat with cardinal feathers that matched the duke’s red waistcoat. The rest of Billy’s father’s attire was hardly befitting a duke at the races—h
is trousers and sleeves were frayed, and Kick was sure there was a moth hole in his jacket. She’d heard that Billy’s father was eccentric, but she hadn’t expected him to be pauperish as well!
Taking her gently by the elbow, Billy led Kick over to them.
“Mother, Father, this is Kathleen Kennedy,” Billy said. “Kathleen, these are my parents, the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire.”
Kick shook each dry hand offered to her and smiled, though Billy’s father smiled back in the least genuine way possible. The duchess seemed friendly enough. Just keep smiling, Kick told herself, but then she remembered—these foolish young people might be enamored of your money and fine teeth—and she slid her lips closed.
“Are you enjoying your time in England, Miss Kennedy?” asked the duchess, her voice low and musical like her son’s.
“Very much, thank you,” Kick replied, clearing her throat. “Billy’s made me such a fan of the races, and I’m honored to be here with you today.”
“He hasn’t corrupted you with betting, I hope,” said his father, with a stern look at his son.
Billy chuckled. “Of course not, Dad,” he said.
“I wouldn’t dream of placing a bet myself,” added Kick. Then she remembered something Billy had told her about his father’s success in betting and said, “But I enjoy watching Billy. I feel certain he’s learned from the best.”
The duke was momentarily taken aback by Kick’s flattery. “I’ll let the horses be the judges of my success,” he said.
“They always are,” the duchess singsonged in a vaguely reprimanding way.
“The flowers you’ve chosen for the tent are divine,” Kick told her. “The roses have the most delicate scent. My mother also likes arrangements of roses without other flowers mixed in. ‘Rare beauty is best left alone,’ she always says.”
“Why, thank you,” said the duchess with a gracious nod.
“Of course, Moucher mostly leaves such details to her staff,” added Billy’s father.
Perhaps you’d like to add that her flower arranger is a nice Irish girl? Perhaps an immigrant you saved from the clutches of the IRA and made Protestant? Kick straightened her back and was glad of the two inches of height her heels gave her. “Indeed,” she said, “you’ve chosen your staff well, then.”
“We’re going to be late for our party,” said Billy, nodding at his parents and putting a steadying hand on Kick’s back. “Please excuse us.”
They let the young pair go without hesitation, and Kick flashed as many of her expensively straight, white teeth as possible as she took her leave of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, though her knees had begun to feel like custard.
“You know,” Debo said quietly to Kick as they unpacked their lunch, “Sally was quite put out that she wasn’t invited to come along with us today.”
What a relief, Kick wanted to reply. Having Sally and Billy’s parents to contend with would have been too much for her exposed nerves. Trying to sound casual, she inquired, “Oh? Who left her out, anyway?”
“Andrew doesn’t love her. Thinks she stirs up trouble.”
“Speaking of stirring up trouble,” Kick said, seeing an opportunity to get the information she wanted without bothering Billy, “Sally said something to me at her dance the other night about Billy and some girl at Oxford . . .”
Debo laughed. “Margaret? She’s practically a maiden aunt. Some distant relation. She and Billy always got on, but don’t worry, she’s engaged to a man named Thomas Brown. They’re going to run a school together. No, Sally’s the one who has her sights set on Billy, so watch out.”
“Sally?” said Kick, feeling stupid. But of course it made sense—Sally was trying to make trouble between her and Billy without having to admit what she really wanted. Kick so disliked dishonesty of that sort. She’d have preferred an honest rival.
“Sally’s liked Billy since before you set foot on British soil,” said Debo.
“Does he . . . ?”
Debo shook her head. “Not since you blew onto the scene.”
Kick blushed and felt her belly settle down.
Debo tutted, a smile on her face, a secret discovered. “I see you return the feelings. So . . . has he kissed you yet?”
“Deborah Mitford!”
“What? You might be Catholic, but you’re not a nun.”
“And Billy’s not an n-sit.”
“He doesn’t have to be to kiss you.”
“Well, he hasn’t. And I appreciate his restraint,” Kick said. Kissing would complicate things much more.
“You mean you don’t want him to?”
Kick thought of the way she felt when she danced with Billy, and how often she’d wanted to reach up and touch his lips.
She must have taken too long to answer, because Debo said, “I can tell you do! You should see the dreamy look in your eyes.”
“Oh, stop,” Kick said, looking down at the ground and busying herself with the picnic blanket. “Billy is charming,” she said, “but how serious can we possibly be?”
“Look at his uncle with Adele née Astaire,” said Debo. “Look at the bloody former king of England, for heaven’s sake.”
“I’m sure I’m not the sort of woman a man would risk everything for.”
“Have you read the papers, Kick? Everyone’s crazy about you. Even the notoriously reticent English aristocracy. You’ve cast something of a spell.”
Kick was about to reply that she was hardly a witch with supernatural powers, when Billy and Andrew came over and both girls put fingers to their lips at precisely the same moment, then giggled. It seemed a promise that they would talk more later. It was a new opening in their friendship, and Kick was glad.
Later, when Billy’s horse won the race and therefore the bet he’d placed on her, he scooped Kick up into the same sort of ecstatic embrace he had at the Derby, and when he set her back down on the ground, he put his hand on her cheek. “You seem to bring me the best of luck,” he said. “I didn’t win half so often last season.”
His hand felt hot and smelled salty, of sweat and the thick rope he’d been clutching while the horses thundered down the final yards of the track. She had the most intense urge to taste his hand, and felt ashamed almost as soon as the thought occurred to her. He bent down, and she thought for a second that she might finally know what his lips would feel like on hers, but he aimed instead for her forehead, where his kiss lingered a little longer than necessary, just long enough for her to confirm the softness of his lips and stir in her the acute desire for more.
* * *
“What on earth were you doing at Goodwood? When you had Peter Grace waiting for you?”
Her mother had made a special long-distance call from France just to yell at her. The phone had rung practically the moment Kick walked in the door. Jack handed Kick the receiver with a whistle of warning. Rose must have seen the picture in the paper of her picnic with Debo and the boys.
“Mother, it’s fine. I’m going to see Peter soon.”
“He’s been waiting three days! He didn’t come to London to see the sights, Kathleen. You couldn’t invite him along to Goodwood?”
Not in a million years! “It was too late for that, Mother. Besides,” she lied, “I didn’t know when he was going to arrive. He surprised me. Aren’t you always saying you prefer it when Daddy makes plans?”
“A marriage is quite different. Your father and I need to make plans because of his job and you children. When you’re a young lady of marriageable age, you need to think more about the men and what they want.”
Rage pulsed from Kick’s heart into her intestines, legs, arms, and her reeling brain. Peter was hardly the man she was going to do that for, but she knew there was no way she could say that to her mother. Ever. And anyway, why was Rose giving her such a hard time lately? The lunch she’d planned for the cardinal had be
en a major success, and all the press about Kick had been positive of late. “I’m going to see him, Mother,” she said through clenched teeth. Because she was. She just hadn’t figured out the details.
“Where? When?” her mother demanded.
“Tomorrow,” Kick said, since that was most likely. Today was already mostly gone. “Lunch,” she added, since that, too, was most likely. Dinner felt too romantic.
Her mother was silent for a few seconds, and Kick thought she could hear her breathing fire through her nose. Finally, she said, “I have to go. This is costing a fortune. But think, darling. You don’t want to ruin your excellent reputation.”
Kick slammed down the phone.
The next day, she let Peter Grace take her to one of the liveliest places she could think of for lunch—the Savoy—following a morning trip to the National Portrait Gallery, where he showed a distinct lack of interest in any of the famous people whose pictures hung gorgeously on the walls, except for the heroes on both sides of the Revolutionary War. John Adams, Ethan Allen, even King George and Benedict Arnold—all their ruddy visages deserved praise, he seemed to think. But “Oscar Wilde? How’d he make it in here?” Peter gaped. “He’s hardly in league with Washington or Wellington.” Kick thought it pointless to try to explain. This, right here, is why I cannot marry you, she also thought.
She wished she wanted to. Peter wasn’t a bad man; on the contrary, he was polite to a fault. He was tall and athletic with dark hair and eyes. Nothing extraordinary—or unexpected like Billy’s puckish face juxtaposed with his height—but he was handsome enough. And he was intelligent and successful. There were also the unavoidable facts that he was an upstanding Catholic from a good family with a grand career in the shipping lines in front of him. She wondered if loving Peter, or someone like him, would make her mother softer toward her. Give the two of them more moments like those in Guerlain.
