by M C Beaton
She had not counted on the resilience of youth. By the time they had arrived at the Hallidays’ place on the Thames, Kitty was remembering more about the jealous look on her husband’s face when she had flirted with Henry, than the sequel. Henry was mercifully absent from the party but her mother and Lady Henley were present. They sat under one of the huge oak trees in the garden, Lady Henley staring at her plate and Mrs. Harrison staring out across the water. Mrs. Harrison looked up as her daughter came over to join them. “My poor, poor child,” she exclaimed. “I’m all right, Mama,” said Kitty crossly.
Everyone attending the party had been asked to come dressed in white but there was something about the blinding, unrelieved white of her mother’s ensemble which teetered on the thin edge of madness. Even her long beads, which she kept plucking at, were white and she had whitened her face with too much powder. Lady Henley raised her massive head from the trough of food in front of her. “Going to take a walk with Kitty,” she announced, ponderously, getting to her feet and laying a pudgy hand on Kitty’s arm. “Come and look at the flowers,” she said, leading Kitty out of earshot.
She came to an abrupt stop behind a bank of rhododendrons. “It’s about your mama, Kitty. She’s been drinking rather a lot.”
Kitty turned wide eyes on Lady Henley. “But I’ve never seen her staggering or behaving like a drunk,” she protested.
“No,” agreed Lady Henley, “and I don’t think you will. I’ll swear that woman’s got a hose in her left boot the way she packs it away. But one minute she’s all calm and dreamy and vague and the next she’s throwing temper tantrums. She thinks the Boers have got spies all over London and she keeps trying to get policemen to arrest the most innocent people. Then she fumes on about lechers and nasty men and blames herself over and over again for your marriage.”
Kitty opened her mouth to reply when she saw the tall figure of her husband standing at the entrance to the garden. She started forward and then saw that Veronica Jackson had reached Peter first and was standing with her hand on his arm.
Feeling a lump of ice forming in her stomach, Kitty turned away and heard the rest of Lady Henley’s story through a fog of misery. “Doctor called… take time… rest… fresh air… seaside… won’t go… don’t know what to do.”
“Well, I don’t know what to do either,” said Kitty heartlessly. Her own problem loomed so large, she could find no room in her heart for anything else.
The buffet beckoned. With a shrug, Lady Henley lumbered off, lured by the irresistible sight of a plate of lobster patties.
Kitty heard a voice at her ear. “What are you doing here, Baroness, alone and palely loitering?”
She turned and found herself face to face with a tall, willowy young man dressed in a white-velvet jacket and sporting a green carnation. He had a large pear-shaped face, a spoiled child’s mouth, and very bushy eyebrows.
“I’m communing with nature,” said Kitty acidly.
“But how sensible!” he said enthusiastically. “You probably don’t remember my name. I was at your wedding. I’m Charlie Styles.”
“What a peculiar-colored flower in your buttonhole,” said Kitty.
“I wear it in memory of Oscar.”
“A friend of yours?” asked Kitty. He looked so sad.
“He was a friend of the world,” exclaimed Charlie Styles. “I speak of Mr. Wilde, the greatest poet and playwright of them all.”
He looked around at the guests with contempt. “Do you know what he called this lot? This foxhunting lot, I mean. The unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable. But since we’re at a supper party, I call them—the unspeakable in pursuit of the eatable.”
Kitty did not find this sally particularly witty but the young man had such comical eyebrows that she burst out laughing.
“Ah, my dear young lady, I see our souls are in accord,” said Mr. Styles, drawing her arm though his. “Shall we promenade and survey the English society animal at play?”
Very much intrigued, Kitty moved off with him. “Look at them all,” said Mr. Styles, waving a plump white hand around the gathering. “How foreign! How strange! Do you ever feel alone when you are in a crowd?”
“Oh, yes, indeed!” exclaimed Kitty, much struck, and remembering how foreign she had felt with both the Thackerays and the Pugsleys.
“Good!” said Mr. Styles. “We shall talk some more.”
In another part of the garden, Peter Chesworth was talking to Emily Mainwaring. “Who is that most peculiar young man with my wife?”
Emily Mainwaring glanced over to where Kitty and Mr. Styles were walking. “Oh, dear, she’s got hold of I’m-always-alone-in-a-crowd, Charlie Styles. Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Very,” she added enigmatically.
The couple was moving toward them and Peter Chesworth started forward to join his wife and found, to his irritation, that that possessive hand of Veronica’s was on his arm again.
“What is it, Veronica?” he asked, looking down at her and wondering how she had ever managed to arouse any passion in him whatsoever.
Veronica tugged him away from Emily. “Do you remember what you said that night?” she hissed in his ear.
“What night?” asked Peter, straining to hear what his wife was saying.
“Why—your wedding night,” said Veronica, her long nails digging into his arm.
“You must come for tea with me tomorrow, dear Kitty,” Mr. Styles was saying.
“You said if Kitty were dead, you would marry me,” whispered Veronica.
“Eh, what? Yes, yes, of course,” said Peter, not hearing a word. What on earth did Kitty see in that effeminate fool?
Now both couples met. Veronica’s blue eyes held a glitter of triumph that Kitty did not like. She stared coldly at Veronica’s clutching hand and Peter Chesworth suddenly realized that Veronica still had hold of his arm. To jerk it away would seem rude. He smiled at his wife instead.
“I’ve found an excellent table for us over by the water,” he said, moving toward her.
“Why that is marvelous, Peter,” said Veronica. “Let’s grab it right away before someone else gets it. Do excuse us, Kitty. We appear to have interrupted a fascinating conversation.”
Mr. Styles bowed. “Our souls are in communion,” he said, leading Kitty off in a surprisingly strong grip. Kitty felt suddenly that she would like a good cry and Peter Chesworth did not know whether he wanted to strangle Veronica or shoot Mr. Styles. Well, he would take the opportunity to finish things with Veronica, once and for all.
When they sat down at their table, he took Veronica’s hand in his and leaned forward to try to firmly, but tactfully, explain to her that he was in love with his wife.
“Look… this is awfully difficult. You know I care for you Veronica and always will, but—”
“What ineffable twaddle!” a voice like a newly-honed razor cut across his speech.
It was Mrs. Harrison, glaring down at them with glittering eyes. Then she started to scream. “You whore, you slut, you scarlet woman! And as for you, you—”
Like some massive keeper, Lady Henley appeared and drew Mrs. Harrison away.
“You see what I mean, Peter?” sobbed Veronica. “The sooner we sort out this terrible situation, the better.” And she got to her feet and fled toward the house.
Meanwhile, Kitty was making arrangements to have tea with Mr. Styles on the following day. “Don’t expect anything too grand,” he said. “I have diggings with a chap in Sloane Square, Bertie Longfield—jolly good sort. He’ll simply adore you. In fact I’ll invite some of my other friends to meet you. You are lonely, I can see that.”
Kitty warmed to the understanding in his voice. “I would love to meet your friends. Yes. I am very lonely,” she added loudly, for the benefit of her husband who happened to be within earshot.
The rest of the evening seemed, to Peter Chesworth, to be like some macabre dance with his wife eluding him with all the expertise of a principal of the Covent Garden ballet. What incredibl
e bores these people were! How disgustingly loud and grasping Veronica had become! And any young man who wore a green carnation should be put up in front of a firing squad and shot!
“I’m looking for Kitty,” said Lady Mainwaring. “Is she still with Styles?”
“Yes, she is,” snapped Lord Chesworth. “Want to do a bit more manipulating and intriguing? Well, she’s over there if you want to go wind her key.” With that he sought out his hostess and thanked her for a delightful evening in a tone of voice which turned the compliment into an insult, called for his carriage, and went off to his club where—thank God—no pesky women were allowed in.
Mr. Styles’s conversation seemed to lose some of its charm for Kitty as soon as her husband had disappeared, but the idea of making her own appointments and having her own friends was novel and exciting. Assuring Mr. Styles that she would see him at three o’clock the following afternoon, she took her leave with a disapproving Emily Mainwaring.
“I suppose it’s no use me wasting my breath telling you not to go tomorrow,” she remarked in the carriage on the way home.
“No—none at all,” said Kitty.
“Oh, well,” sighed Lady Mainwaring. “At least you won’t get raped.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kitty rang the bell beside a neat white card marked Styles & Longfield on the door of a red, sandstone building in Sloane Square. The door opened and a very small girlish-looking man held out his hand. “I’m Bertie Longfield. I’m afraid Charlie was called away to see a sick aunt but his sister is acting as hostess. Do come in.”
He ushered Kitty into a small sitting room. Three elegant young men languidly got to their feet. Bertie made the introductions and said that Charlie’s sister, Charlotte, would be along directly.
The door opened and Charlotte sailed in. She looked remarkably like her brother except that her hair was brassy-blonde and she had a high falsetto voice.
“Such a charming little bird of paradise has flown among us. Hasn’t she, dear boys? Charming. Love your teagie. Do sit down, darling and have some darling, darling cakes. So delicate, aren’t they? Like the sunlight on angels’ wings.”
“Quite,” replied Kitty faintly.
“Love, love, love the drooping lines of your teagie, absolutely deevie. Beardsley, that’s it! Quintessence of Beardsley. Don’t you agree, darling boys?”
The darling boys were rolling around the room in fits of the giggles. Kitty began to be annoyed. The room was stuffy and overcrowded with all sorts of irritating bits and bobbles. Heavy blinds sealed off the summer sunshine and cast a pale light upon a large portrait of a nude of indeterminate sex which hung above the fireplace.
Kitty was reminded of a time in the schoolroom when her dress had been unfastened at the back and, instead of telling her about it, the other girls had sniggered all day. She decided it was time the new Kitty took over. A faint look of hauteur settled on her young face. “What are you all sniggering about?” she demanded in a high clear voice.
The giggling stopped. The bevy of young men looked at each other helplessly. “Oh, don’t mind them,” said Charlotte. “Boys will be boys, I always say.”
“How unoriginal of you,” said Kitty sweetly. “What for example do you not usually say. I’m sure it must be something very witty.”
To her surprise, the young men burst out in a sort of Greek chorus of “Oh, naughty, naughty. Claws in! Claws in!”
Kitty stared at them in surprise. A little light began to dawn. “Mr. Styles is a devotee of Mr. Oscar Wilde. Are you all perhaps of the… same… religion, shall we say?”
There was a stunned silence. The innocent, naive child of the middle classes that Charlie Styles had promised them, was turning out to be as formidable as a dowager.
“Oh, do have a cake,” said the much-flustered Charlotte. She bent over the tea table and a corner of her dress caught on her chair and lifted up to expose a length of black, hairy, muscular leg encased in a black sock and suspenders. Charlotte Styles was Charlie after all. Blazing with fury inside but keeping a calm, social smile on her face, Kitty got to her feet and insisted on taking her leave.
“Do not trouble yourself, Charlotte. I can see myself out,” said Kitty. As she reached the door, she raised the point of her lacy parasol and, watched by a horrified audience, she neatly lifted “Charlotte’s” blond wig from his head and threw it into the fireplace.
Charlie Styles burst into tears. “Get out!” he screamed, his face like an anguished clown’s, as the tears mixed with paint and powder coursed down his cheeks.
Kitty took several deep breaths when she reached the street. She decided to take the underground railway home in the hope that the novel experience would take away some of the nightmare of the afternoon.
She bought a ticket at Sloane Square station and went down the steps to the platform which was surely unusually crowded. As she waited in the press, a portly man told her that a train had broken down but that the line was now clear and another train would be through any minute. “I’ve never traveled underground before,” confided Kitty.
“Oh, I’m used to it,” said her portly friend. “But m’ daughter—she’s about your age—gets very excited. Here… if you move a little to the front, you’ll see the train coming along the track.”
Kitty leaned forward but all she could see was the black mouth of the tunnel. Then she heard a faint rumbling sound and the ground began to tremble under her feet. “That’s it now,” she cried. “I can hear it coming.”
She turned her head to smile at her new friend and received a vicious shove on the back which sent her sailing onto the tracks. Everyone started screaming at once and Kitty saw the lights of the train bearing down upon her. Suddenly a man was beside her on the tracks. He lifted her bodily, threw her like a rag doll onto the platform, and then leaped to safety himself as the train thundered into the station. It was Judson, Lady Mainwaring’s footman.
Kitty was so terrified and flustered and dizzied by the anxious faces, that she would have allowed herself to be swept onto the train with the crowd, but Judson held her back. “This is a matter for the police, my Lady,” he said.
She put a trembling hand to her brow. “The police, Judson?”
“Wot’s all this ’ere?” said an authoritative voice. Judson explained, the policeman took out his notebook, and everyone began to talk at once. It had been a little fellow with a scar, it had been an old lady in a big hat, it had been that fat man over there. Kitty’s new friend explained that he had been standing beside her when she fell but that he had not seen who had pushed her. Kitty, Judson, and the most coherent of the witnesses were led off to Chelsea police station where they spent a confusing hour making statements and getting nowhere.
The inspector settled the babble. If my Lady would go home, then a gentleman from Scotland Yard would call on her as soon as possible.
Lady Mainwaring was very worried when she heard the news about the latest attempt on Kitty’s life. The sooner the girl’s marriage was settled the better. Emily Mainwaring, who had always considered herself a sympathizer with the agitators for women’s emancipation, now suddenly wished Kitty would get pregnant. That would settle her down. Nothing like a nursery full of children to keep her out of mischief. She told Kitty to go and relax in the garden and sent a messenger off to find Lord Peter Chesworth.
The light was fading over the city as Kitty sat at the edge of the canal and wondered who was trying to kill her. Perhaps the incidents were not related at all. The incident at Hadsea could simply have been a practical joke that had gone too far. And the press on the platform at Sloane Square underground station had been so great, someone could have lunged against her by accident.
She was suddenly aware of someone walking across the grass toward her and turned her head sharply. It was her husband, the expression on his face unreadable in the dimming light. He sat down next to her without a word and they both stared straight ahead at the glassy waters of the canal. The orange glow that was nigh
ttime London began to spread across the sky and the ever-present hum of the great city reached their ears, faintly. Some wild animal roared in his cage in the nearby zoo and the sharp clop of a horse’s hoofs on the street outside the house only served to punctuate the stillness of the evening.
Kitty slid her eyes sideways and studied her husband’s profile, the high-bridged nose, the hooded eyes, and the long, thin, mobile mouth. He suddenly turned and looked at her and she blushed.
“My dear,” he said, “this situation is ridiculous. Your life is in danger and I feel I should have some right to protect you.”
“You have no right,” said Kitty in such a low voice that he had to strain to hear.
He studied his wife’s averted profile for a minute and then began. “Before I met you, I was having an affair with a certain lady, I think you know that.”
“Yes,” whispered Kitty.
“That is all very definitely over.”
Now Kitty jerked her head around. “Over! It certainly doesn’t look like it.”
“I have tried to explain matters to the lady but she is… well… very possessive. I’m sorry about it, Kitty. Will you forgive me? Our marriage has had such a bad start. I feel sure we could make something of it if only we tried a little. Will you come home with me?”
He rested his arm along the back of her chair without touching her but she felt as if an electric shock had been passed through her body. She sat very still, her face unreadable in the gathering dark.
He went on, his voice hesitating slightly. “I have not been, by any means, a saint, Kitty. I have had a lot of experience with… well… experienced women. I have never had to… court a young girl like yourself and I find myself somewhat at a loss and that makes me behave in a somewhat boorish manner at times.”
Still his wife kept silent.
“I heard you say the other night that you were lonely. Well, I am lonely too, in a certain way. At the moment, all that I am asking you for is companionship. I will not… share your bed until we have perhaps reached a certain understanding.
