by M C Beaton
Kitty stumbled erect and looked around, gathering her strength for a plunge into the woods. Then at the far corner of the field she saw Checkers returning. She would crouch down in the ditch until he had gone into the cottage and then make her escape.
But before she knew what was happening Kitty found herself striding to meet Checkers with the scythe in her hand. Through a red mist of rage she saw his start of surprise and heard his complacent chuckle.
“So Kitty has claws,” said Checkers advancing on her. “Good. I likes them with a bit of fight in ’em.” He lumbered towards her, still laughing and chuckling.
In one brief, lucid flash before the red mist closed upon her again, Kitty thought with surprise, “Now I know what a cornered rat feels like.”
She sidestepped Checkers as he reached for the scythe and swiped him across the legs. He shrieked with pain and bent to clutch his injured legs when Kitty raised the blunt edge of the scythe and brought it down on his bald head, terror and rage lending her twice the strength. Checkers fell and lay still.
Kitty turned and ran out into the lane, headlong into the gloom and the green tunnels. Night had fallen and still she ran, choking and sobbing for breath.
The ground about her seemed to heave with the increasing violence of the storm, although she was protected from its full force by the height of the hedges on either side of the road.
She ran on around a corner of the lane and found herself blinded by a dazzling light in the middle of the road and started to scramble up the steep bank to safety. The sound of her name being shouted by several people finally penetrated Kitty’s fear and she stopped in her flight and slowly turned. The first person she saw was Mr. Albert Grange and with a sob of relief, she threw herself into his arms.
“Now, then, now then,” said the detective. “You’re all right now. Everything’s going to be all right. Here’s your husband.”
Kitty looked over his shoulder into Peter Chesworth’s face and collapsed, unconscious, into the detective’s arms.
CHAPTER TEN
Peter Chesworth was in the country and his wife was in town. “This could go on forever,” he sighed to himself.
Autumn was sending its red and gold colors sweeping through the woods around Reamington Hall. Smoke rose lazily into the clear air from the gardener’s bonfire, a bumper harvest had been brought in, and fires crackled merrily in all the rooms of the Hall to disperse the October chill.
Kitty had been taken to the Thackerays’ home at Cowes to recover from her fright and exhaustion. On the second day she had contracted pneumonia and for two weeks she hung between life and death, as her husband paced outside her room upstairs, and downstairs, the Thackerays grumbled about the enforced sort of semi-mourning which hung over their home. They blamed it all on Kitty’s origins. The middle classes, as everyone knew, were notorious wet blankets.
Finally, little by little, Kitty began to recover her strength as summer fled from the countryside and the yachts were hauled up for repairs. Chrysanthemums blazed in the rooms instead of roses. The Indian-summer sun dawned and set and still Kitty would not see her husband.
Lady Mainwaring tried to reason with her but Kitty only began to sob in a weak way and shake her head.
The shock of the final attempt on her life had left Kitty nervous and jumpy and unwilling to face anyone who had hurt or humiliated her in the slightest. Henry Dwight-Hammond and Cyril Lawton had been asked to leave a long time ago, for the very sight of either of them sent Kitty into a fever. The Thackerays had finally departed for Rooks Neuk, leaving Kitty and Lady Mainwaring alone with a skeleton staff.
At last Emily Mainwaring felt that she would scream with boredom from the daily diet of gentle walks, light meals, and lengthy silences. She at last confronted Kitty with the sharp remark, “I think you’re turning into a spoiled brat!”
Kitty looked at her with tears forming in her eyes.
“Oh, don’t start blubbering again,” snapped Lady Mainwaring. “I’m tired to death of being stuck down here and I think you’re now well enough to think about someone other than yourself. So there it is, harsh as it may be. I’m bored and your husband is at Reamington Hall, worrying himself to death about you.”
Kitty shifted uneasily and dried her eyes. “I’m sorry, Emily. I don’t seem to have much spirit left. You’re right. Let’s go back to London.”
“I didn’t say anything about London. I’m going to London. You’re going to Reamington Hall.”
“Oh, not yet. Please Emily,” begged Kitty. “Let me stay with you for a little bit.”
“Oh, well,” shrugged Emily. “I may as well take you home with me. But remember, I’m a social animal. I like my theaters and parties and my house full of people.”
Kitty suddenly smiled for the first time in weeks. “I feel better already. I think I could even look forward to a party.”
“That’s more like it,” said Emily. “Now, don’t you feel strong enough and curious enough to know the outcome of all the trouble?”
Kitty took a deep breath and nodded. Emily Mainwaring sat back and began her story.
“First of all, Grange and a squad of policemen went up the road and found Checkers unconscious in the field. Someone had hit him with a scythe…. Good God… was that you?
“Anyway, they discovered he has a record of assault and violence as long as your arm. The rest of the servants at Pevvy Chase also had pretty rotten records, except for Jenkins. Lady Henley took poison before she could be charged with anything so that’s good riddance to bad rubbish. Your mother was sent to the hospital suffering from an overdose of fairly complicated drugs administered by Euphemia Henley.
“Well, the long and the short of it is, your mama’s her usual horrible self—oops, sorry—and has plunged into her husband’s old business and seems in a fair way to be trebling her fortune. She says the aristocracy are the scum of the earth and prefers to associate with merchants’ wives.
“Mr. Grange got promoted to Chief Detective-Inspector although he feels the honor was given to him not because he solved the case but because he appears to be on first name terms with your husband… which is a very cynical way of looking at it, but probably true.
“Your husband went back to work on his beloved estate after about your hundredth refusal to see him. Let me see, what else? Oh yes, the Dwight-Hammond sisters discovered that one of their maids had put the snakes in the bed. A man answering Checkers’ description had told her it was just a bit of a joke and that they were harmless grass snakes. Needless to say, she got well paid for doing it. She broke down and confessed when she read about your adventures in the papers. And it was Checkers who tried to kill you by sawing off the balcony.
“So that’s that. Let’s get packed and get out of this dead-alive hole.”
The house in Regents Park looked the same but did not feel the same. Early morning frost had blackened the remaining flowers and a mist rose from the canal, but it was Lady Mainwaring’s constant entertaining which made the difference. Kitty felt as though she was living in the middle of an eternal house party and after describing her ordeal for the fifteenth time to yet another party of guests, she began to feel that the whole thing had been a dream.
An odd feeling of belonging nowhere, neither to house nor class, assailed her. As the nights drew on, she began to think sentimentally about the house in Hampstead, forgetting the penny-pinching and the chill rooms.
Hetty! She had forgotten all about Hetty. Perhaps if she could stay with her old friend in Hampstead for a bit, she could get her bearings again. She did not want to think about her husband. Kitty felt, unfairly, that most of her trouble was Peter’s fault. She could not remember his kindness and endearments; only the mocking aristocrat of her wedding night who said he had only married her for her money.
But Kitty did not realize how much she had changed. Used to the type of society who called in for a visit at a country house and then stayed for weeks, she never dreamt of sending Hetty a message. Pac
king her trunks and calling for the carriage, Kitty could only see the rosy picture in her mind of sitting in front of the fire with Hetty and feeling at home.
It was late afternoon by the time she was ready to leave. Lady Mainwaring had not returned from her calls so Kitty scribbled a note of explanation and left it on the hall table.
As she was getting into the carriage, she felt a gentle touch on her arm and found herself staring down into the thin, frightened face of Jenkins, the maid.
“Please, my Lady,” begged Jenkins. “Just a little money, for the love of God. I can’t find work anywhere.”
Kitty felt her face burning with guilt. Emily was right. She had thought of no one but herself. She told the coachman to wait and led the shivering maid into the house and rang for the housekeeper. “This is Jenkins who has just been employed as my personal maid.”
The housekeeper looked at the shabby girl without her face moving a muscle. Lady Mainwaring trained her servants well.
“Please see that she is supplied with the necessary clothes and uniforms,” Kitty went on. “I really must leave. The carriage is waiting.” Jenkins looked downcast and Kitty cursed herself for her own selfishness. “Come upstairs with me a minute, Jenkins, and I will explain your duties.”
Once in her bedroom, Kitty turned to the maid. “Why didn’t you get in touch with me sooner, Jenkins?”
Jenkins bowed her head. “The police found out about my prison record so no one would let me near you.”
Kitty fumbled in her reticule and found her purse. “Here’s some money, Jenkins, just to get some odds and ends. I shall probably be away for only a few days.”
Jenkins’s face lit up with a radiant smile. “I’ll serve you to the end of my days, my Lady. You see if I don’t.”
“Nonsense!” said Kitty. “I should hope you will get married soon. All young girls should have a husband,” she added lightly and then bit her lip as a picture of her own husband came into her mind. But she forced herself to talk patiently and calmly to the girl about her duties, not realizing that by this very action, Kitty Harrison was now the Baroness Reamington in more than just title. Then having assured herself that Jenkins would be taken care of until her return, she ran lightly down the stairs and told the coachman to drive to Hampstead.
How jolly and familiar everything looked! How the lights sparkled from Carson’s bakery. How beautiful and familiar her beloved Heath looked, stretched out peacefully under the London twilight.
But at the Carsons’ home in Gospel Oak, Kitty received her first setback. Hetty was married, explained a much-flustered Mrs. Carson. Yes, indeed. And to John Stokes. And what was even more wonderful, they had bought Kitty’s old home just up the hill. Kitty’s face fell. She had not envisaged any men in the picture.
After she had left Mrs. Carson, Kitty directed the carriage to her old home and then stood for a minute by the gate. From the outside it did not seem to have changed a bit.
The door flew open and Hetty bounced out. “Kitty! I saw the carriage arriving and—” She broke off as she saw the coachman unstrapping Kitty’s trunk from the back of the carriage.
“I came to stay for a little,” blurted out Kitty. “I didn’t know you were married, Hetty. If it’s at all inconvenient, I’ll leave.”
“Not at all,” burbled Hetty, excited at the prospect of having a notorious society lady under her roof. “John will be delighted. You were in all the papers. It was ever so exciting. Wait till the neighbors learn who’s come to stay!”
Hetty chattered on, her ringlets bobbing with their familiar bounce. The house looked much the same inside, as Mrs. Harrison had sold the furniture along with it. But at least it was now warm. John Stokes got to his feet when they came into the parlor. His clothes looked even tighter than before.
“Why, Kitty,” he exclaimed, getting to his feet. “Well, who would have guessed you’d turn out to be such a looker.” He kissed her on the cheek with unnecessary warmth.
“Now,” said Hetty, excitedly, “I’ll tell the maid to get your old room ready and you can tell us all about your adventures.”
Kitty looked nervously at John Stokes. She had planned to tell Hetty all about it when they were alone together. But John was leaning forward from his armchair, as eager as his wife.
So instead of the delicious burst of confidences she had planned, Kitty told her story for the umpteenth time in a tired, flat voice. Hetty clapped her hands and oohed and aahed as if Kitty had become more of a sideshow at a carnival than a friend.
By the time the pair of them let her go and she wearily climbed the familiar stairs to bed, Kitty felt very lost and tired.
Everything looked familiar but did not feel familiar. She had returned to her own class and surroundings. Why then was the feeling of homelessness stronger than ever? She stood at the window for a long time looking out across the Heath that was spread out under a large autumn moon.
The following two days were as bad as being at Lady Mainwaring’s. Hetty filled the house with her friends from morning till night and on one occasion when she had pleaded a headache, Hetty had cried so much and been so disappointed that she had felt obliged to join the company.
After one such day when she had escaped to her room, Hetty followed her.
“I’m surprised that your clothes are so simple, Kitty,” pouted Hetty. “I declare I’m better dressed than you are.” She pirouetted in front of Kitty in a creation that was so gored and hemmed and herring-boned and tucked and rucked that she had achieved the rare distinction of making tweed look frivolous.
“And haven’t you any jewels?” said Hetty. “A tiara or some such thing?”
“Come now,” smiled Kitty. “I would only wear a tiara to a very grand ball.”
Hetty stamped her foot. “There you go! Implying that we aren’t good enough for you.”
Kitty saw a chance for the confidential talk. “Of course I don’t think you’re not good enough for me. It’s just that I’m worried about my husband.”
Hetty’s wide blue eyes gleamed and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is he going to divorce you?”
“No.” said Kitty faintly. “Of course not.”
“Well, it looks very odd to me,” said Hetty, sitting down in a chair and kicking off her shoes. “Take John and me. We’re always together and ever so lovey-dovey. Anyone would think you had been married for years.”
Kitty sat forward, anxious to explain. “It’s not that, Hetty. It’s just that our marriage got off to a bad start….”
“I’ll say it did,” said Hetty rudely. “Him and that Mrs. Jackson. Ought to be ashamed of himself. We hear the society gossip even out here in Hampstead, you know. Is he with her now?”
Kitty raised her hands to her face and stared at Hetty. “Of course not! Of course not! After what she tried to do to me?”
“What did she try to do?” asked Hetty eagerly.
Kitty bit her lip in confusion. She remembered that Mrs. Jackson’s attempt on her life had been hushed up. “Well, she was always trying to take him away from me,” amended Kitty.
“Is that all,” said Hetty, disappointed. “I’d just like to see someone try to take my John away from me.”
“But it’s not the same…” began Kitty.
“Oh, so it’s all different in high society, is it?” sneered Hetty.
The conversation was not going at all the way Kitty wanted it. In fact it was heading for disaster. Without being aware of it she reverted to one of Hetty’s ruses and put her arms around the angry girl.
“Now, Hetty, you know I’m your friend. I wouldn’t dream of saying anything to hurt you.”
Much mollified, Hetty, however, saw that Kitty was in a vulnerable state and was quick to turn it to her advantage.
“You know, dear Kitty, me and John would like you to stay ever so long. But what with paying the servants and the extra entertaining, we’re having to pinch pennies….”
Kitty blushed in confusion. “I never thought about mon
ey. I’ll arrange some for you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” pointed out Hetty quickly.
“Well, Monday then,” said poor Kitty, feeling thoroughly embarrassed. But Hetty was not. “Ta muchly,” she said, dropping a kiss on the top of Kitty’s head as she prepared to leave. “You mustn’t mind me talking about money, but I’ve always prided myself on being frank and honest.” Picking up her shoes, she left the room without having shown one ounce of concern over Kitty’s obvious worry about her husband.
Kitty got ready for church the next morning, fighting against a growing feeling of dislike for her hostess. All her old surroundings seemed to have done for her was to reduce her to the former Kitty Harrison, quiet, shy, and unhappy, without any of the feelings of security and comfort she had expected.
The morning was gray and foggy. The Indian summer had fled and turned the world over to winter. Wreaths of chilly, throat-catching fog shrouded the roads and lanes of Hampstead and snaked their way through the branches of the trees on the Heath. This visit to church was to be the culmination of Hetty’s social triumph and she meant to make the most of it.
Before they left the house Hetty drew Kitty aside, out of earshot of her husband. “Now, I don’t want any of your die-away airs, Kitty,” said Hetty sharply, surveying her subdued friend. “Lady Worthing will be in church and she will want to talk to you but she will try and cut me. You’re not to let her, mind that! You’re to introduce me properly—in a loud voice.”
