The Kennedy Debutante

by Kerri Maher

  “I should start taking bets on when you’ll announce it,” said Bertrand. “I’d make enough to retire at twenty-six.”

  Kick followed Billy’s lead and laughed off the teasing, but suddenly her body felt tight with nerves. This was what she’d come back for, wasn’t it? Then why the sense that everything was about to slip completely out of her control?

  * * *

  The next day, nursing hangovers by the fireplace while the rain came down in sheets outside Boofie and Fiona’s house in Kings Langley, Kick and Billy drank tea and played cards and talked with their hosts about the changes the war had brought.

  “The worst isn’t the lack of sugar and meat,” said Fiona. “It’s the way it’s narrowed all our worlds. Everyone is so bored without the weekend house parties, or the ability to travel freely, they’ve taken to spreading terrible rumors about each other.”

  “How sad,” said Kick. “Well, I have no use for gossips, either. They were the end of Jack’s relationship with my friend Inga Arvad.”

  “Oh yes, we heard about that over here. The German spy?” Fiona teased.

  “Exactly,” Kick said drily. But even my father caved to the rumors about her.

  Later, while Boofie dozed on the divan and Fiona tended to the children in the nursery, Kick and Billy stretched out their legs on the enormous faded Persian rug and leaned against a couch with a navy fleur-de-lis pattern, listening to the crackle and hiss of the new log on the fire.

  “Oh, how I’ve missed fires in July,” Kick joked.

  Billy chuckled and kissed her on the mouth, then turned back contentedly to the fire.

  “So when is the run for Parliament?” asked Kick, feeling uncomfortable with the silence.

  Billy sighed. “The election’s in February, but I’ll have to start campaigning just at the start of the new year. In the meantime, my parents are doing some preparatory work.”

  “You don’t sound very excited about it.”

  “I’m not,” Billy said. “I think I should stay in the war till it’s finished, but Father’s bound and determined for me to take my place. At least I’ve gotten him to agree to let me back into the war once the election’s done, win or lose.”

  “But you won’t lose,” said Kick, trying to sound supportive even though she hated the idea that Billy was determined to go to the front no matter what. “Why do you have to run now, anyway?”

  “Well, Henry Hunloke is the representative now, and since Dad’s Under Secretary for the Colonies, he’s not about to step down to MP, and it’s really the seat for the Marquess of Hartington. Anyway, Henry’s married to Dad’s sister Anne, so the seat’s still controlled by the family. He’s just been holding it for me, really. But things aren’t well between him and Anne, and it looks as though the marriage might end. So Dad’s convinced Henry to give up the seat at the by-elections in February.”

  “I see now. So it should be a simple run?” she asked, not wanting to be the one to bring up the White character Nancy Astor had mentioned the other day.

  Billy heaved a sigh. “It ought to be. By-elections during wartime are supposed to be unopposed, and since Henry is a Conservative, it should go to me as the Conservative candidate. But this war’s turned everything upside down, especially since it’s following a long depression in the countryside. People are angry. They want more for their lives. I can’t say I blame them.”

  “Can’t your campaign promise some changes?”

  Billy smiled at her. “That’s precisely what I want to do, though Dad isn’t keen on the idea. I’ll need your support and American ideas.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” she promised, though the idea of being in further opposition to Billy’s father didn’t exactly thrill her. They weren’t married, and she didn’t want to give his parents more reasons to oppose them becoming so.

  Billy kissed her again, and as he did, Boofie’s snores crescendoed into a choke and woke him up. They all laughed, then Fiona called them into the kitchen for an early supper.

  Under the brick arches of King’s Cross station, Kick and Billy stole one last kiss before he boarded his train back up to Scotland. He was in the brown uniform she’d seen him wear a few times in 1939. He’d grown into it. Laying her hands on the pockets on his chest, she said, “This fits you so well now. You look like a hero.”

  “That means the world to me, coming from you,” he said, kissing her on the forehead. “I’ll see you soon.”

  “Very soon?” she asked, feeling her breath catch in her throat. Don’t cry, you ninny. It was a perfect weekend.

  “Very. We have a considerable amount of making up for lost time to do.”

  He hugged her once more, lifting her off the platform for a few glorious seconds before setting her down gently, kissing her cheek, and turning from her at last to find his seat on the train.

  CHAPTER 28

  What a relief work was—it kept her so busy, she hardly had time to pine. Also, two of her parents’ friends got in touch and began filling her evenings with ever more plans: Marie Bruce, an effusively friendly woman of about forty who was living on her own in a chic apartment in the Mayfair neighborhood, and Ambassador Tony Biddle, who was very apologetic about the press visa debacle of a year ago. “The papers didn’t know what they were missing, not letting you in,” he said to her, “but I’m not at all surprised that you found another way.” He and his wife Mary invited Kick to a party where the meal was absolutely delicious, but unfortunately gave her such terrible food poisoning, she had to stay in bed for several filthy days in a kind of delirium. The only good things to come of that experience were not having to face Scroggins for a few days and getting to meet Billy’s aunt Lady Cranborne. She was working as a nurse, moving between various facilities in the city, and happened to tend to Kick at the height of her sickness. Kick had met the woman only once before and didn’t recognize her. But she recognized Kick.

  “We can’t have my nephew’s favorite so unwell,” she said as she laid a cool, wet cloth on Kick’s forehead and nestled a metal bowl by her pillow.

  “Nephew?” Kick eked out through dry, cracked lips.

  “Billy, darling,” the statuesque woman replied with a smile. “He’d never forgive me if you didn’t make it to Eastbourne next week.”

  Kick smiled, then threw up again in the bowl.

  “I advise against the rich sauces, dear. These days you never know about the milk,” Lady Cranborne said.

  Just as Kick was feeling better, a letter arrived from her father, which she read under some freshly bleached sheets on her bed at the Hans Crescent. He warned her not to let it bother her if any of her—or his—former friends were angry with him for his “anti-British” actions. He preferred to think he had been “pro-American,” and if that meant he was perceived as “anti-British,” then so be it. But the line she treasured most was “I don’t care what they say, so don’t let it bother you. You have your own life to live.”

  My own life to live. Three years before, he wouldn’t have written a line like that, let alone meant it, and it filled her with pride and hope for the future. If her years in exile from England, working and living by herself in Washington, had finally earned her some respect from her father, well then, maybe they’d been worth it.

  Her first day back at work after recovering from the food poisoning, Tim called to her across the room just as she steered a trolley of donuts and coffee toward the tables. “Homesick yet?”

  Grinning, Kick took one of the donuts, held it up as if in a toast, and took a big bite. Crumbly and barely sweet, a little savory from the oil in the fryer, it was the best thing she’d tasted in weeks. Tim laughed and nodded.

  When the second post arrived during her dinner break, it contained a fat envelope from France with the return address of the parish where Father O’Flaherty had been working. In the little room with the old leather chairs where the girls
liked to get away and smoke cigarettes and relax during their hours off, Kick sat at one of the small tables. Sweat rushed to her palms and under her arms, and her fingers shook as she fumbled with the envelope. Her last two letters to the priest had been returned, unopened, wrapped in a handwritten note:

  Dear Miss Kennedy,

  It pains me to be the one to deliver this news to you, since I know how fond you and Father O’Flaherty were of one another, but I am afraid I must report that he was killed in late May. A Nazi troupe invaded our village, and we hid the children (I dare not write where), and he died because he would not tell where they were.

  These are barbaric times we live in, and Father O’Flaherty was always a beacon of civilization and calm for my fellow brothers and sisters in God, and for the children whom he treated with such kindness one would have thought they were his own. It is a great loss to us, and to the church, but we try to speak with him daily, in prayer. I find it helps. Please know that your letters brought him singular joy. Nothing else could bring that particular smile to his face. I think he was proud of you in the way a favorite uncle might be, or a godfather. I have no doubt he continues to watch over you and all those he loved.

  I am yours, in sorrow and sympathy,

  Brother Dufour

  Kick reread the letter so much, she completely lost track of time. Suddenly, Scroggins was behind her, snarling, “The Flying Yanks are here.” In an hour, she hadn’t eaten or done anything else—not that she was hungry—but when she lifted her face to Scroggins, he immediately changed his own expression, going from his usual surly frown to something like compassion. “Everything all right?” he asked gruffly.

  Kick drew a deep breath in through her nose and tried to straighten her back, but her attempt at strength failed for once and she burst into tears. “I’m sorry, Mr. Scroggins,” she said.

  With a glance at the letters on the table, he said kindly, “Take another hour or so, then come back for the dance. Work always helps.”

  She nodded, mortified and not trusting her voice.

  This was by far the worst news of the war so far. The best man she’d ever known had been murdered for protecting children. It was literally unbelievable, preposterous. How could a selfish, wheedling person like Unity Mitford be spared and not good, kind Father O’Flaherty? The harshness of that thought shocked her, and she told herself, Don’t let this make you unkind. Father O’Flaherty would hate that. But it was hard. This was so deeply unfair.

  She felt a fierce pride in all the boys who were putting themselves in mortal danger to fight this great evil, and at the same time a vertiginous fear of that danger. Her brothers, her friends . . . Billy. She couldn’t protect any of them. She cried more, feeling helpless.

  At some point, the Flying Yanks, a favorite aviator band that played all the Red Cross Clubs, began their first set, and the bright, brassy sound of trumpets and trombones filled the building and rattled the floor beneath Kick’s feet. If those boys can play music like that, then the least I can do is dance to it.

  Kick stood up and splashed some cold water from the sink on her face, and checked the mirror to make sure her eyes weren’t too puffy. She reminded herself of her father’s letter to her, and of the day she’d soon spend with Billy in Eastbourne. Then she allowed herself to remember Father O’Flaherty’s kind face, the way he’d listened to her and given her such sage counsel. She felt the tears heat up her eye sockets again, and told them no.

  She blew her nose one last time on the monogrammed handkerchief she kept neatly folded in her uniform pocket, then went downstairs to dance and laugh, trade insults and pour drinks, and in general show the boys how much they had to live for.

  * * *

  Near Billy’s family estate at Eastbourne there was the most lovely, fragrant peach orchard. When Billy picked her up at the train station the morning of her precious day off, he took her there first, saying, “I want to show you one of my favorite spots in all England.” She’d started to notice that he used the word England more than he ever used to, and in a tone that implied he was speaking of a beloved, fragile thing—a child, maybe, or an aging maiden aunt, someone in need of protecting.

  They strolled through the orchard quietly, hand in hand, listening to the seagulls in the near distance and smelling the heavy, sugary scent of the peaches.

  “The sea air is supposed to be good for the fruit,” said Billy as they bought a crate of them to take back to the house.

  “Listen to you, sounding like a gentleman farmer,” she laughed, plucking a ripe peach off one of the trees and sinking her teeth into it. It was warm and soft, just as sweet as the perfumed air had promised. “Yummm,” she said.

  When she’d finished and thrown the pit into the shade of one of the trees, Billy kissed her sticky lips. They walked hand in hand a little longer, and the peace of it was the first real balm on her heart after the news about Father O’Flaherty.

  “Are you ready to head to the house?” Billy said after a while.

  Kick knew what this really meant. Was she ready to see his parents?

  “Are you?” she countered.

  “Anne and Elizabeth are beside themselves with excitement to meet you again. You’re practically a celebrity to them.”

  Kick laughed. “I hope you’ve set them straight.”

  “Oh yes, I’ve informed them that you’re nothing special, nothing at all,” he joked.

  “Ha ha,” she said wryly.

  “Kathleen Kennedy, do I detect some nerves?”

  “Not about your sisters.” Why must I always perspire at moments like this? She felt so clammy.

  “My parents have promised to be on their best behavior.”

  “Is that what they promised about Sally, too?” Kick bit her tongue hard and drew blood. She hadn’t meant for that to come out.

  “I’ve been wondering when that might come up,” he said.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for it to,” she said, blushing and looking down at the tufty green grass and feeling too hot under the bright yellow sun.

  Billy put a finger under her chin and lifted her face so that she was looking at him, then took both her hands in his. “That was all a mistake. I missed you, terribly, and she was . . . well, she was fun, and she was there. And at first she reminded me a bit of you. This sounds wretched, doesn’t it? I’m afraid I didn’t behave very honorably toward her. As the years went by, though, I assumed you weren’t coming back, that everything was against us, and I was so depressed about the war. I just . . . I wasn’t myself. But I meant what I wrote to you, that she was always second-best, and when I finally realized that wasn’t fair to either of us, I broke it off. I’m so glad I saw it in time.”

  “I heard that your parents helped to put a stop to it,” Kick said, holding her breath.

  “My parents,” Billy sighed, “did not love the match, it’s true. My father wants me to find someone who’s worthy, to use a horrible word that’s nonetheless true for him. And my mother . . . well, would it surprise you to hear that she told me she knew I didn’t love Sally as I’d loved you? And that she wanted her son to marry a woman he loved, first and foremost?”

  Kick opened and closed her mouth. “Yes, I am surprised,” she finally said. “But then, why should I be surprised? I hardly know your mother. I shouldn’t judge her.”

  “I look forward to your getting to know her better,” said Billy. “She’s fond of you, you know.”

  Kick recalled their past conversations about art, about Andrew’s art in particular, and the way she’d always admired the older woman’s sense of style and decorum. “I look forward to it, too.”

  “And my father—” Billy paused. “Well, he’s not fond of anyone, really.”

  Kick smiled sadly. The truth was, she didn’t want Billy asking about her parents, because the answers would embarrass her—her mother’s farewell to her had been
so conditional. I’ll always be here if you don’t find what you’re looking for . . . It occurred to Kick, fleetingly, that perhaps Billy should be asking about her parents, but she had too much on her mind to dwell on that now.

  He kissed her forehead. “Anyway, it’ll all be well and good if my parents are fond of my future wife, but the main thing is that I am fond of her.” Then he put an arm around her and steered her toward the car.

  Future wife? Had he really just said that? She couldn’t think on the choice of words long, though, because in minutes they were standing in the spacious entry of Compton Place.

  The duchess greeted Kick with a kiss on each cheek and a genuinely happy “Kick! We are so glad to see you back in England!” As Kick replied in kind, she stole a glance at Billy, who gave her a raised eyebrow and a see, I told you look. Then Anne and Elizabeth ran out to meet her. Both girls and their mother were so much taller than Kick, she felt conspicuously short, but paradoxically large-featured in comparison to the other girls, who had such fine noses and weak chins complemented by thick manes of brown hair. They were more giggly than Pat and Jean, who were close to their ages, and also more reticent than her American sisters would have been with a “celebrity” in their midst. Kick was the one to break the ice with questions for them, and a suggestion they all go for a ride since it was such a beautiful afternoon. On horseback, both girls loosened up and began asking Kick more about what her life was like at the Hans Crescent, and what it had been like to write for a newspaper in Washington, DC. Elizabeth even said, “But I just don’t understand why you’d leave such a wonderful place and position to come here,” at which the slightly more worldly Anne burst into laughter, pointed a thumb at their brother, and said, “Don’t be daft, Lizzy.”

  Elizabeth turned the color of an apple and bit her lip.

  Inspired to stick up for the embarrassed girl, and for herself as well, Kick said to Anne, “England has much to recommend itself in addition to your handsome brother, I must say. Someday you’ll have to come to America to see what I mean.”