The Kennedy Debutante

by Kerri Maher

  The next day, Kick went with her mother and two older brothers to meet their father at Parliament, to hear Chamberlain speak. It was a foregone conclusion, though. England and France were at war with Germany, because Germany had at last refused to capitulate or compromise, finally showing itself to be the unyielding force so many had feared. The prime minister’s speech was complete in fewer than five minutes. Surely there’s more to say, thought Kick, when the world has started spinning a thousand times faster.

  When she emerged into the streets, flanked by her older brothers, pandemonium reigned. Kick covered her eyes with her hand after a photographer’s flashbulb popped loudly. “What do you three think?” “Mr. Kennedy! What does your father say?” “Have any thoughts on the ambassador’s failed policies?” “Miss Kennedy! Will there be a rush to the altar?” The reporters shouted and sneered.

  While Joe Jr. and Jack stayed to answer questions, Kick fled and spent the rest of the miserable afternoon poring over the classified sections of every newspaper in the house, looking at rooms, bedsits, and apartments for rent all over the city, becoming increasingly more discouraged with every depressingly spare listing, every neighborhood she didn’t recognize and assumed was poor and dangerous, every shared bathroom. Was she prepared to live in a tenement to stay in London? But then she realized how absurd that question was—because unless her parents felt confident about her residence, she wouldn’t be allowed to stay, and that was the goal of this entire project.

  God—or more likely the Holy Mother—must have taken some pity on her, because that evening Luella rapped tentatively on Kick’s door and proposed that the two of them get a flat together and suggest the plan to Joe.

  Kick’s eyes went wide.

  Luella explained, “You see, I have an English beau as well. He’s wonderful, and his whole family is, too, and . . . well, I have as much reason to stay as you.”

  “Luella! You darling dear!” Kick exclaimed, jumping up to hug the family nurse. This woman who’d been with them for years, who was only a few years older than Kick herself, who—Kick was ashamed to realize in that moment—had been invisible to Kick all year, had descended like an angel in her hour of need.

  This had to be a sign. Everything would be all right.

  “Let’s talk to him tomorrow,” Kick said, the sick feeling in her belly salved at last.

  Things went a little more her way when she was able to convince Jack to take her to the 400. Then, just before she was to go out, there was another knock on her door. It was Eunice, frowning, playing with the grosgrain on her cardigan sweater.

  “You don’t have the radio on,” her sister observed.

  “I’ve had enough bad news for one day,” said Kick, turning down the Glenn Miller record she’d put on instead.

  “I have more of it,” said Eunice.

  Kick sighed so heavily, her chest inflated and her shoulders went up, then slowly down. “Well, let’s have it, then.”

  “Unity Mitford was found in a garden in Munich, bleeding at the head,” Eunice said.

  “No,” Kick whispered, even though she believed it. The word was more of a talisman, a wish, a defiance. Poor Debo! She couldn’t even go around the corner to comfort her friend, since she was with her family in Inch Kenneth.

  “But she’s not dead,” Eunice went on. “At least, that’s what the report said. Attempted suicide. Failed.”

  Kick instinctively hugged her sister. Tight enough to feel Eunice’s ribs against hers, her sister’s sharp chin resting on the softer flesh of her own shoulder, and tight enough to find comfort in her sister’s slim arms as she reciprocated her searching embrace.

  * * *

  After a maudlin night at the 400 with everyone depressed for Debo, whom no one including Andrew had been able to reach, Billy convinced Kick to take a circuitous taxi ride back to 14 Prince’s Gate, where they would drop her off a block away so as not to be seen together by anyone in her household. “It’ll give us a chance to talk,” he said.

  “What an irony that taxis are now our refuge to talk instead of . . . you know,” she said, blushing.

  “Mmm,” Billy agreed, his voice rough and serious.

  Inside the large black car with its cracked leather seats, the lingering odor of too many perfumes in the air, Kick and Billy were silent for a few minutes. Outside, the city was black; all the twinkling lights that had once made London appear enchanted were snuffed out. In the dark, it was difficult to tell one building from another, and Kick marveled at the leveling effect this had, making a corner apothecary the same as a Swiss watchmaker’s shop.

  “Kick,” Billy said, his voice nearly a whisper.

  Turning her eyes to him, seeing his somber face as a perfect and terrible complement to what was outside, she wanted to smother him with kisses and plead to get married right away, to do something that would bring light back into their little world. She thought about Gabrielle and Pedro—the Virgin had sent Kick a powerful sign in their story, one she hadn’t fully understood until now. She wanted to wring every drop of happiness out of her time with Billy, not to wait and see what waste the war would lay.

  “Billy, I . . .”

  Shushing her tenderly, Billy adjusted his long limbs on the cramped seat and turned toward her, taking both her hands in his. “Kick . . . I . . . I love you. And—”

  “As I love you,” she interrupted. It felt good to say it out loud and see the happiness it brought to his face. Their interwoven hands in Kick’s lap were hot, but his were shaking as if they were cold.

  “But,” he went on slowly, deliberately, and her heart clenched. She knew what he was about to say, and the confusion she’d felt a moment ago tightened into panic. “Loving you makes me fear for you,” he said, “for your safety and health. I’ve gone over and over this in my mind, and now that the war is here, it’s real and not a hypothesis, I want to protect you.”

  Then bring me to Chatsworth. How could I be safer than I would be surrounded by four centuries of stone? But, she had time to counter herself, at what cost?

  “Before I leave,” he went on, “I also want to establish an understanding between us . . .” How her heart thrilled to that Jane Austen–like word, understanding! She moved her hands so that her little still ones covered his larger trembling ones.

  “Billy, can we speak more plainly? We don’t have much time.”

  He laughed. “You’re right. I know I can go on. It’s just that I fear your reaction to what I want to propose.”

  What I want to propose. That didn’t sound like a proposal.

  “Just say it, Billy.”

  “All right. What I said before, at Blenheim, about the war, is still true. I do not want you to compromise everything you hold dear by asking you to change yourself and hurt your family, when it’s possible I might not return. What sort of man would I be if I stranded you on this war-torn island like that?”

  “The sort who loves me,” she said.

  He smiled in a sad way she’d never seen before. “I am too English, too much a product of the Cavendish family, to let love make me reckless. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said quickly, not sure if she meant it. She wanted to be reckless.

  “Then may I ask for time?” he asked in earnest. “For the time to be in love, to pledge ourselves to one another and the promise of a future together? Time to think and talk about what we want to do about our religions and families?”

  “But how, Billy? It’s been much harder for me to find a way to stay here than I thought it would be. And it’s only a matter of time before Father sends us all back to America.”

  “And you’ll be far safer there,” he said.

  “But it will be impossible for you to visit, impossible for us to see each other. All we’ll have is letters. Paper and ink. It’s not the same as this,” she said, shaking his hands with hers.


  “This is the part I’m sorry for. I can’t change the way I feel about keeping you out of harm’s way. And I cannot marry you before we’ve established what it would mean for our churches, and our . . . children.”

  “You’ve thought about them, too?”

  “Of course I have,” he said quietly.

  Hot tears flushed her eyes. She knew she ought to be glad of his love, his desire to keep her safe. “But . . .”

  “What?”

  How could she say it? That he was a man, as well as the noble Marquess of Hartington? That even if he wasn’t like Jack or her own father, she knew it was unrealistic for him to wait for her for the length of an entire war?

  “I’ve never seen you at a loss for words,” he observed, amused.

  “I’m glad you could bring a bit of humor to this conversation,” she said, reaching for the easy, familiar sarcasm.

  “Kick, what is it? Speak plainly.”

  “It’s just that . . . well, you’re a man. You won’t wait for a wife forever.”

  At this, he laughed heartily, actually throwing his head back with the roll of it.

  “Is the sacred vow that men and women are supposed to bring to marriage such a funny thing?” she asked, finally letting something of her feelings on sacraments into the discussion.

  “No, of course not,” he said. “And I don’t mean to make fun of you or of marriage. I take both very seriously. But . . . I hardly think we’d be waiting forever. Maybe a year? We’ll write fervent, romantic letters in which we also negotiate about God, which I think would amuse him greatly,” he smirked. She couldn’t help smiling back, relieved that he was finally presenting a plan.

  “And if all goes well, and a German tank hasn’t taken off my legs, then we will figure out how to get you back here. Have no fear that the baser needs of my sex will lead me astray.”

  “They better not,” she countered.

  “If we are going to marry someday, you’ll have to put more faith in me than that.”

  He was right. She kissed him to show it. Just as she felt herself untether from the difficulties they’d been discussing and lose herself in the warmth of his lips and arms, the taxi stopped, and the driver said, “Ten Prince’s Gate!”

  And deliver us from temptation, she couldn’t help thinking to herself as her heart plummeted. Once again.

  CHAPTER 17

  Her father laughed—laughed!—when Kick and Luella suggested the two of them get a flat together and enlist their services with the Red Cross.

  “Nice try, you two,” he said. “But you can help the war efforts from the safety of American soil.” Turning to Luella, he said pointedly, “When I brought you here, you were a nice single girl, and I intend to bring you home to your family in the same state.” To Kick, he said, “I won’t tell your mother about this little request.” Then, turning his eyes to heaven, he said, “Is this your idea of a joke? I work myself into an early grave to avoid war, and now three of my oldest want to rush into it?”

  It was pointless to explain that it wasn’t just Billy she wanted to stay for, that Billy had in fact told her to go back to America. Even though she knew England would change, she wanted to stay, to have the privilege of reminiscing about the last prewar season with the only friends who would ever be able to understand. She wanted to help care for London in its hour of need, and she wanted to be in her city when the lights came back on.

  In despair, as Jack went to play boy hero in Scotland on Daddy’s orders, to rescue the survivors of the torpedoed Athenia, Kick went to the Red Cross to inquire about the shared homes for women who volunteered as nurses. Maybe if she had meaningful work to do, her father would change his mind—or she’d make just enough salary to allow her to stay anyway. After standing in line for close to two hours, she came face-to-face with a harsh-looking woman not much older than she was, with wind-scrubbed cheeks and an accent Kick could barely understand.

  “I hardly need to ask your name, do I?” the woman snorted. “I’d rather ask what a fine Kennedy lady is doing looking for work of this sort. Bedpans and blood.”

  Kick smiled as kindly as she could. She hadn’t imagined she’d encounter hostility like this for wanting to help, and she realized how foolish she’d been for not considering the possibility that she’d be recognized—Of course these girls read the society pages! It’s a national pastime. “I want to do my part,” Kick offered.

  “Don’t suppose you’ll be needing the form for accommodations, then,” the woman sneered, handing Kick a white sheet of paper with blanks to fill in, volunteering her hands in the service of king and country. Fearing the newspaper maelstrom of speculative gossip if this young woman went to the press with her information—Ambassador’s daughter looks for anonymous digs in London—and the betrayal her parents would surely feel when the news broke, Kick did not ask for the other form.

  When she returned to 14 Prince’s Gate, she found her travel trunks stacked in her room. All the desperation she’d been trying to channel productively unleashed like a storm inside her. She tore down the hall. Her mother was the first person she saw, in her own bedroom, sorting jewelry.

  “Have you set a date?” Kick demanded.

  Rose turned around and looked surprised to see Kick standing at the entrance to her room. “As soon as your father can arrange it,” her mother replied.

  “Two days? Ten?” Kick was yelling, her voice hysterical. Though Billy was due to leave in five days to join the Coldstream Guards, it was thankfully only for training, so he would still be in England, where she’d be able to visit him.

  “I don’t know, Kathleen.” Rose stood, and her calm demeanor made Kick even more irate.

  “How will we know? When will we know?”

  “We need to live as if we might leave the next day,” Rose replied. “Which is why you must pack immediately. Where have you been all morning? Eunice and Pat and Jean have finished already.”

  “And Rosemary?”

  Rose sighed and looked fleetingly away from Kick. Then she set her small brown eyes on her daughter and said, “Rosemary’s staying to complete her Montessori training.”

  “What?”

  “Kathleen, I can’t discuss this with you until you’ve calmed down.”

  “I am calm!” she shrieked. She felt sick, though not like she had on the train from Cannes. This was worse—a vertiginous nausea had set in. She felt dizzy and queasy, like she was at the edge of a great and terrible precipice, staring down into certain doom.

  Rose stood and walked slowly to the door, and stopped inches from Kick. “Ask the cook to make you some tea, and calm yourself. Then pack. We’ll discuss this later.”

  Without waiting for her daughter to respond, Rose closed her door. If Kick had leaned forward even a centimeter, her nose would have touched the fine wood panel. She might as well have been in the closet in Bronxville, six years old again. All this time, she’d been seeking her parents’ approval, looking for ways to get what she wanted with their blessing. But she saw now that she wasn’t going to get what she wanted that way. She was going to have to summon the courage to go after it alone. She hoped God would help. Instead of packing, she found her wooden rosary and started to pray.

  * * *

  It embarrassed her to realize that she lacked the courage to defy her parents in the way she would have to in order to stay in London. She turned once more to the want ads, and even went to visit some of the bedsits, most of which were in unfamiliar parts of the city where getting to any of her favorite haunts would have required nearly an hour on the tube. In two apartments she heard mice in the walls, and in one, she saw large black insects scuttling around the single cupboard of the so-called kitchen. All the money in the bank with Kathleen Kennedy written on it wasn’t going to help her if she was going to stay in London against her parents’ wishes. Standing in a fifth and final apartment—this
one at least in central London, a few precious blocks from Covent Garden—barely big enough for a small bed, desk, and wardrobe, she was embarrassed at how frightened she felt at the prospect of actually living there. The thought of tea and digestive biscuits for dinner depressed her. At least I’d be as thin as Mother always wanted me to be, she thought bitterly.

  On her way home, she literally ran into Bertrand—her bowed head bonked right into his chest. “Whoa, whoa, there,” he said, taking her upper arms in his hands and holding her out for inspection.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, for once doing a rotten job of faking levity.

  “I know I’m not Billy, but is it so bad to see me?” he asked.

  She shook her head and opened her mouth to reply, but her throat was so clogged with strangled tears that she couldn’t speak.

  “Kick,” Bertrand said more seriously. “Are you all right? Can I help?”

  She shook her head again, wrapping her arms around her body and shivering.

  Bertrand led her into a nearby pub, ordered her a shandy, and sat her down at a discreet corner table.

  “Drink this, then decide if you want to talk,” he told her, pushing the half-pint glass toward her.

  She did as she was told, guzzling the sweet combination of lemonade and beer. Bertrand always knew just what to order.

  “Thanks,” she said. Then a burp escaped, and she blushed deeply and put her hand to her mouth.