by M C Beaton
The fresh air did wonders for Kitty. She felt alive and happy and inclined to burst into fits of giggles at the sight of a woman in a large hat or an organ grinder’s monkey. Lady Henley felt her eyes beginning to close, glad that her young friend seemed to be in spirits. A snore from her companion sent Kitty into gales of laughter and the astonished stares from the people in the other carriages in the Row made her laugh even harder. The world around her dizzied, sparkled and whirled like bubbles in a champagne glass. She felt like dancing. She would dance! She called on the coachman to stop and before he knew what she was about, she had nipped smartly down from the carriage and started dancing away among the other carriages, her frothy skirts sailing about her. With an oath, the coachman told the footman to “get to their heads” and ran after the dancing girl. Carriages stopped, lorgnettes were raised in amazement. Voices cried, “I say, isn’t that Lady Chesworth?”
How delicious it all was! Kitty did a particularly fancy pirouette to the enchanting music singing in her head and bumped up against a stationary carriage. She found herself staring into the horrified eyes of her husband. Beside him sat Veronica Jackson, gleefully surveying her from head to toe.
Peter’s carriage had been stopped by Veronica at the corner of Park Lane. Would he mind driving her to the park? She was to meet a friend there. It would only take a minute. When they reached the park, she kept craning her head to look for the mysterious friend and Peter Chesworth had just decided that the friend did not exist when he looked down and saw his wife.
Kitty glared straight at Veronica and the champagne bubble burst. “Get out of that carriage and leave my husband alone,” said Kitty. Her voice had carried and the fashionable throng seemed to stop their carriages as one.
“Oh, go away,” hissed Veronica. “You’re drunk!”
“Get down from that carriage now… you damned harpy.”
Veronica trembled artistically against Peter. “Darling, can’t you do something with her?”
That was the final straw. Kitty seized Veronica by the arm and gave it a mighty tug. Veronica pulled back and then made the mistake of standing up. Kitty caught at her dress and gave another heave and Veronica tumbled over headlong onto the grass. There were loud cheers from several of the young men in the carriages around. Cursing, Peter Chesworth jumped to the ground to help Veronica to her feet. She immediately fell heavily against him and put her arms around his neck.
Peter was trying to ease her away from him and avoid the rain of blows descending on his head from Kitty’s parasol. Lady Henley’s coachman came panting up and Peter almost shoved Veronica into his arms. He then seized his enraged wife and carried her bodily into the carriage. “Drive on, man!” he yelled to his coachman. Kitty had begun to sob hysterically. Her hair was falling down and she had dust and dirt on her skirts from where they had whirled and brushed against the various carriages.
By the time they had reached Hyde Park corner, Kitty was sobbing quietly and by the time they reached home, she was fast asleep. He carried her up the stairs and laid her gently on her bed. He rang the bell for the maid. No reply. He left Kitty sleeping and ran quickly down the stairs to the servants’ quarters. Not a soul in sight.
There was a rumble of carriages outside and then a knock at the door. To Peter Chesworth’s relief it turned out to be an army of servants from Reamington, headed by the efficient agent, Bryson.
Mr. Bryson shook his head when Peter explained the situation. “I’m sure I don’t know where Mrs. Harrison got those servants from. I can’t find out anything about any of them.”
Peter scribbled out a report on the disappearance of the servants and sent Bryson around to Scotland Yard with it. Then he took himself off to visit Mrs. Harrison.
Mrs. Harrison was lying on a chaise lounge in the drawing room at Park Lane. She seemed composed and normal and could give him no help over the matter of the servants. “All I can tell you is that I went to Beechman’s Agency and ordered all the servants. The agency promised to forward me their references but they never arrived.” She gave him the address of the agency in Shoreditch and leaned back and closed her eyes.
“You must forgive me, Peter, but my doctor recommends quiet and rest I cannot speak to you further.”
Peter Chesworth took his leave and hailed a passing four-wheeler and gave the cabby the address in Shoreditch. It turned out to be an unprepossessing back street and, where the agency should have been, was a fire-blackened gap in the buildings. A slatternly woman nursing her baby on a nearby doorstep volunteered the information that the fire had taken place the previous week but whether there had been an agency there or not she couldn’t remember. He received much the same reply up and down the street and eventually gave up and decided to leave the rest of the inquiries to Scotland Yard.
When he returned home, he found that his wife was awake but looking pale and sick. She complained of a blinding headache and her eyes kept filling with tears of remorse as she remembered her behavior in the park.
Her husband, who was more worried about her welfare than he cared to admit, tactlessly gave her a blistering lecture on the evils of drink, worthy of a Methodist preacher. Kitty’s remorse fled.
“You weren’t exactly behaving like an angel yourself,” she snapped. “Parading around the park with your mistress.”
Lord Chesworth’s thin face flushed with anger. “I told you that that affair is over. Mrs. Jackson asked me to escort her to the park where she was to meet a friend…”
“Hah!” said his wife nastily.
“… to where, I repeat, she was to meet a friend.”
“And where was the friend?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” shouted her husband, feeling guilty because he was sure that Veronica had invented the whole thing. “We didn’t have time to look before you danced up, staggering and slobbering.”
“I was not staggering or slobbering,” screamed Kitty. “I was a bit tiddly, that’s all. You still have not told me what you were doing in the park with that whore.”
“I’ve told you,” shouted her husband. “Don’t try to put me in the wrong just because you’re ashamed of having made a spectacle of yourself.”
“Spectacle of myself? Spectacle of myself?” howled Kitty, jumping up and down.
“Stop repeating yourself like a bloody parrot. If you insist on behaving like a guttersnipe, you’ll be treated like one.”
“Me behave like a guttersnipe? We were above your sort of behavior in Hampstead, my Lord.”
“Nonsense. Utter twaddle! Your sort are hypocrites. Down on their knees in church on Sundays and straight into the housemaid’s bed the rest of the week.”
“My sort! What is my sort, you stupid lecher?”
Lord Chesworth had never been so angry. He looked straight at his infuriated wife and said, “Common.”
The insult burned in the sudden silence between them.
Then Kitty’s anger erupted again. Every humiliation she had suffered since she had married the Baron, burned before her eyes. Before he knew what she was about, she had picked up a vase of roses and dumped the contents over his head. “Why you little hellcat,” he shouted. He grabbed hold of her arm and gave her a hearty smack on the backside and then howled with pain. Kitty was wearing her stays.
Kitty grabbed a handful of his black curls and banged his head against the wall. He gave her a tremendous push which sent her flying back onto the carpet and then dived on top of her, pinioning her hands above her head and staring down at her flushed, furious face.
The anger slowly died out of his eyes and was replaced by a mocking look. He grinned wickedly. “Now I’ve got you where I want you,” he laughed and bent and kissed her.
Kitty kicked and struggled and tried to wrench her mouth away but he was lying on top of her and she found she could neither move nor fight the sensuous, languorous feeling that was seeping through her body. She gave a little groan and surrendered her mouth to his.
Suddenly, their attention was drawn
to the door.
“Lady Henley and Mrs. Harrison,” said the butler, staring straight ahead. Peter Chesworth raised his head and stared straight into the glittering eyes of Mrs. Harrison. The drawing room looked a wreck. Chairs and tables were overturned and Peter had roses caught in his hair and water dripping from his shoulders. Kitty, who was savagely wondering why good servants never knocked, tried to straighten her crumpled dress.
“How dare you!” said Mrs. Harrison.
“Now, now,” said Lady Henley. “They’re married, after all. We were passing and decided to give you a call. I’m feeling puckish, Kitty. Have you got anything to eat?”
The butler opened his mouth to say that dinner was to be served shortly, caught the look in his master’s eyes, and closed his mouth again.
“We haven’t got time to eat,” said Mrs. Harrison. “I would like to know what business a detective from Scotland Yard has calling on me.”
“There have been at least two attempts on your daughter’s life,” said Peter. “Surely we must do all we can to find out who is trying to kill her.”
“It’s all imagination,” said Mrs. Harrison. “I’ve never heard such rubbish. You’ve all been reading too many novels. The detective was a most inferior vulgar person.”
“She told him that too,” said Lady Henley. Her stomach suddenly gave a protesting rumble and she looked down at it sadly like a mother looking down on an importunate child. “Well, if you ain’t got any food, we’d better take ourselves off. Come on, Euphemia, we called at a bad time.”
“We called just at the right time,” said Mrs. Harrison, eyeing the disheveled pair. “I hope things have not gone too far.”
“Oh, come on,” grumbled Lady Henley. “Anyone would think they weren’t married the way you go on.” Her stomach issued another huge rumble and she gave it a pat. Kitty tried not to giggle. Any minute now, she thought, she’s going to say “there, there.”
Mrs. Harrison backed from the room, still staring at them.
“Mrs. Veronica Jackson,” the butler announced.
Everyone froze and gazed at Veronica who sailed in. She looked radiantly lovely and her dress of her favorite scarlet emphasized the whiteness of her skin and the glossiness of her black hair.
Mrs. Harrison swept off, her back rigid with disapproval. Lady Henley lumbered after her, grumbling under her breath with her rumbling stomach adding a sort of counterpoint.
“I thought I would call and see how Kitty was,” said Veronica brightly. Her blue eyes swept over the disordered pair and round the wreck of the room. “Been having a row?”
“Don’t be impertinent,” said Kitty. She rang the bell. “Mrs. Jackson is just leaving,” she told the butler.
“This is the last time I pay a courtesy call on you,” snapped Veronica.
“Good,” remarked Kitty indifferently, picking roses off the floor.
“Wait a minute, Veronica,” said Peter. Here was a golden opportunity to explain matters to Veronica and get her out of his married life once and for all. Then he realized his mistake. Kitty gave him one shocked look and fled from the room.
The butler waited for a minute, looking from his master to Mrs. Jackson, and then left the room, closing the door quietly.
Peter ran his fingers through his hair. “This is one hell of a mess, Veronica. Look, I’ve got some explaining to do.”
“I think you have,” said Veronica with a slight smile.
She sat down gracefully on the sofa and patted the seat beside her. Peter sat down and took both her hands in his. He felt he must break it to her as gently as possible.
“We have had many happy times, Veronica,” he began.
“Oh, yes, Peter,” she sighed mistily.
“But the time has come when I must talk to you about my marriage. I—”
The butler reentered and Peter Chesworth swore. “There are several persons to see you, my Lord. They are creating a great disturbance. They say the name is Pugsley, my Lord.”
“Oh, your wife’s friends,” said Veronica spitefully. “Send them in. You must see them, Peter.” Veronica felt that Peter’s resolve to rid himself of his wife would be strengthened by an introduction to Kitty’s low acquaintances.
“You don’t understand,” said Peter desperately. But the butler was already announcing, “Mr. and Mrs. Pugsley and family.”
The Pugsleys sidled in, gazing about them with their mouths open.
“Well, what is it?” demanded Peter.
“My Lord, my Lady,” began Mrs. Pugsley and then stared at Veronica. “’Ere, that’s not our Kitty what you was ’olding ’ands with.”
Mr. Pugsley grabbed his wife’s arm and said in a stentorian whisper, “Shut yer gab. That’s ’is fancy woman.”
Veronica rose to her feet. “I must leave you with your fascinating friends, Peter darling.” She kissed her fingers to him and sailed from the room, holding her little lace handkerchief pointedly to her nose as she passed the Pugsleys.
Mr. Pugsley took over as spokeman. “Now that ’er ’as gone,” he said, “we’ll come to the point. We’ve bin ruined, owing to that there fire what was caused by your good lady’s party.”
Lord Chesworth eyed him with distaste. “You want money, I suppose.”
Bob Pugsley shuffled his feet. “Well, that’s a bit crude-like, that way of puttin’ it, but since you ’as put it—yes.”
“I will need to consult my wife,” said Peter icily. “Should she wish to give you anything more, I will suggest she sets up a trust for your children’s care and education. Anything you want for yourself, Pugsley, I suggest you work for it.”
“You got a job for me?” said Pugsley.
To his horror, his lordship smiled and said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I have. There is a cozy cottage available on my estate and the job of farm laborer that goes with it.”
“’Ere,” said Bob Pugsley, grabbing his wife’s arm for support. “Let’s get out of ’ere.”
“We ain’t goin’ nowheres, Bob Pugsley,” said his wife, oblivious of the fact that her youngest was being sick on the carpet and that her eldest was trying to stuff a silver candlestick into his jacket. “We’ll take it, my Lord, and gladly. And beggin’ your pardon, I’m sure, I ’opes there ain’t any ’ard liquor or dogs on your place.”
Peter smiled and shook his head. He scribbled a note. “Here! That’s to my agent. He’ll start your husband working right away and help you set up the cottage.”
Bob Pugsley saw the prison walls closing about him. “It’s me back, me Lord,” he yelled. He clutched his back, gave several artistic moans and fell to the carpet, calling faintly for brandy.
Mrs. Pugsley looked on unconcerned. “We’re most grateful, your Lordship, ain’t we Bob?” She pushed her moaning husband with her foot. “C’mon then, Bob, afore you dies of shock.”
Showing surprising strength for such a small woman, she hauled her husband to his feet and marched him to the door. Her offspring fell into line behind her. “We’ll pray for you, me Lord,” said the eldest Pugsley child with an ingratiating smile.
“Thank you,” said his lordship, putting his hand inside the child’s jacket and recovering the candlestick. “Thank you very much.”
When they had left, he gave a sigh of relief and went in search of his wife. She was in her bedroom, changing to go out.
“You need a maid,” he remarked. “The mysterious Colette seems to have disappeared along with the rest.”
“I have done without a maid to dress me for most of my life, so I don’t see why I need one now,” said Kitty pettishly.
“Then you had better change your dressmaker,” remarked her husband. “Who is going to fasten all those buttons on the back of that very pretty gown you’re wearing?”
Kitty twisted around. In her agitation, she had left the back of her dress undone. “I’ll do it myself,” she said, fumbling behind her with the tiny buttons.
He watched her for a few seconds and then went to stand behind
her. “Here, let me,” he said quietly. “It’s one of the things that husbands are good at.”
“Particularly mine,” said Kitty bitterly as his long fingers deftly fastened the buttons. “He’s had lots of practice.”
Peter took her by the shoulders and spun her around. “I’ve explained and explained to you about Mrs. Jackson. Don’t you trust me?”
“No,” said his wife, in a small voice.
He made an exasperated noise and bent to kiss her but she stayed motionless and unresponsive in his arms. He felt as if she had slapped him. He put her away from him and stormed to the door. “I’m going out.”
“To Mrs. Jackson, I suppose,” said Kitty, her large eyes bright with unshed tears.
“Damn Mrs. Jackson and damn you,” raged her husband. “I’m going to my club—to get drunk.”
He went out and slammed the door.
Kitty stared around the room, irresolute. If only she could trust him! She would take her problem to Emily Mainwaring.
Lady Mainwaring was at home working in her garden. She listened sympathetically to Kitty and then put down her gardening tools and came to sit at the table by the canal. “I believe him, you know,” said Emily. “Veronica Jackson is a vulgar, grasping woman and your husband is too much of a gentleman to cope with that kind.”
“I wondered if I could come back here and stay with you?” said Kitty.
Emily shook her head. “You know you have a home here any time you want but, my dear, at the moment I think you should be with your husband. Give him another chance. You can’t keep running away. I’m sure he is very much in love with you.”
Kitty looked at her with a cynicism that sat oddly on her young face. “Every time I trust him, Veronica pops up again.”
Emily put her hand over Kitty’s. “We’re all invited to the Thackerays’ place at Cowes. You didn’t know? Probably Peter didn’t have a chance to tell you.
“Now, you are surely sophisticated enough to cope with people like the Thackerays. Their jokes are a bit cruel but harmful only if you let yourself be hurt. They have a splendid yacht and it will make a very romantic setting for you and Peter. You’re not going to let the Jackson woman just walk off with him, are you?”
