Kitty

by Beaton, M. C.

Kitty dismissed him and sat on the window seat, staring out into the twilight and longing for the courage to walk away from the house herself. Gradually her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep as the dusk gathered in the corners of the room.

  She was awakened three hours later by the sound of the front door slamming and her husband’s voice. “That’s all right, Checkers. I shall be needing nothing further this evening.” Then the door of the drawing room opened and he walked in.

  His silk hat was placed at a rakish angle over his black curls and his eyes held a hectic gleam. He bent and kissed her full on the mouth. He smelled strongly of brandy.

  “Why don’t you run along and get ready for bed, my dear,” said her new husband. “And I’ll join you shortly.”

  Kitty looked at him with troubled eyes and then bent her head and left the room. What was she expected to do? If only she had had the courage to ask somebody.

  Trailing her lace shawl behind her, she walked slowly upstairs to her bedroom. Was she to go to her bedroom or his? Well, he was in charge now and would surely let her know.

  Colette had laid out a filmy nightdress on the bed. Kitty looked at it doubtfully and decided to wear one of her old flannel ones to give herself a feeling of comfort and protection. She slipped it on, buttoned it high at the throat, and climbed into bed where she sat upright, staring at the door.

  After a few minutes it opened and her husband swaggered in. Kitty shrank back against the pillows and watched in dismay as he started to strip off his clothes in the full glare of the electric light. At last he stood naked, his slim, muscular body gleaming like polished marble. Kitty had not only never seen a naked man before, she hadn’t the slightest idea of what one would look like.

  Unaware of her distress, and more than a little tipsy, Peter Chesworth put one knee on the bed and prepared to climb in. His eye caught sight of Kitty’s favorite picture on the wall and, with an exclamation, he went to take a closer look at it, standing with his hands on his hips, affording Kitty an excellent view of his naked back.

  “Good God,” he said slowly. “How on earth did that get there?”

  “It’s my favorite picture,” said Kitty, with a trace of pride in her voice, despite her fright. “I bought it all by myself.”

  “So I should hope,” he said, turning around. “For heaven’s sake girl, didn’t Lady Henley cure you of this penchant for chocolate-box art?”

  It was the final straw. Her only piece of home, her darling picture, had been scorned by this grinning, naked satyr. She sank into the pillows and let out a whimper of pain.

  Lord Chesworth was furious. “Stop acting. You don’t think I’m going to go along with this little comedy, do you? I married you for your money. You married me for my title. And that’s it. So stop squirming away there and let’s make the best of the bargain.”

  Kitty couldn’t believe her ears. “But you married me for love,” she almost screamed, raising a tear-stained face from the pillow.

  “Love?” said the Baron. “Oh, yes. I said all that when I asked you to marry me because your mama pointed out that you wanted gilt on your gingerbread. Love? There’s about as much love in this game as there ever was in one of your late lamented father’s, business transactions.”

  Kitty began to cry in earnest, great, dry, racking sobs. The Baron was unmoved. He started putting on his clothes at full speed.

  “Your type never could take honesty.” He turned in the doorway. “Why, you’re nothing but a spoiled brat.”

  He marched off down the stairs and, a minute later, Kitty heard the street door slam. She cried until she could cry no more. It could not be true. He must have been drinking. She would ask her mother in the morning. With that, she fell into exhausted sleep, like a very young child.

  Lord Chesworth had indeed been drinking and was in a black rage which was, from time to time, fanned by the unpleasant feeling that he had behaved like a cad. Well, he knew where to go for consolation. Shortly afterwards, he was ushered into Mrs. Jackson’s bedroom and, without so much as a word, began taking off his clothes again.

  Mrs. Jackson watched him triumphantly from her high, cane-backed bed. “On your wedding night, Peter? Is your little bride aware of what she is missing?”

  He slid under the covers and held her close, his head beginning to reel with the effects of all he had drunk. “Miss Kitty expects love along with my title. Love! I swear to you, Veronica, if she were dead I would take her money and marry you without one pang of remorse.” With that, he fell into a drunken stupor leaving his mistress to mull over his words, holding his head against her breast, and looking off into the distance with hard, calculating eyes. Then, she too, fell asleep.

  Dawn blazed up over London and the early sun hung in the hot and already humid air. A blackbird sat on a tree outside Mrs. Jackson’s bedroom window and poured his liquid song out over the dusty city streets. The Baron mumbled “Kitty,” and groaned and turned over. He took one horrified look at Veronica Jackson’s beautiful sleeping face and swung his legs over the edge of the bed and buried his feverish forehead in his hands.

  Yesterday came back to him through a gray fog of memory, interspersed with bright flashes of total recall—Mrs. Harrison’s angry face at the wedding, the jack-in-the-box, Kitty cowering and sobbing on the bed.

  He groaned again, but softly this time, so as not to wake his sleeping partner. He must find out the truth. If Kitty really believed him to be in love with her, then he owed her a humble apology. But she must have been acting. She must.

  He suddenly decided to go round to Park Lane and find out. He could not face Kitty again until he knew the truth.

  With distaste, he climbed into the soiled clothes of the night before and decided to go to his club for a shave. He slipped from the room while Veronica slept on.

  God, what a hangover! He winced in the brassy light and started to walk toward St. James’s. Everything seemed unreal and still; a painful world filled with eye-hurting color. A bunch of roses in a crystal glass on someone’s window ledge made him blink, and a line of scarlet geraniums seemed to positively swear at him from someone else’s window box. He felt unreal and detached. A great black cloud of guilt hung somewhere on the horizon of his mind. A crossing sweeper tipped his cap and grinned at the gentleman in his wedding clothes, showing all of his large, white teeth. To the Baron, his smile seemed to hang in the air, disembodied, like the Cheshire cat’s grin. London was slowly coming to life. A cabby swerved to avoid him and swore loudly.

  After being barbered at his club and having changed into a suit of clothes which he kept there for emergencies, he downed a large glass of brandy and port mixed together, prescribed by the steward, and felt better. Of course the girl had been acting! All the same, it would do no harm just to make absolutely sure. Tipping his hat jauntily to the side of his head and carrying his cane under his arm, he made his way toward Park Lane.

  Mrs. Harrison and Lady Henley were in the morning room playing backgammon and looked up in surprise as he was announced. “Kitty!” gasped Mrs. Harrison. “Is she all right?”

  The Baron drew a chair up to the backgammon table and sat down. “That is what I mean to find out. Does your daughter think that she is in love with me, ma’am, and does she also think that I am in love with her?”

  “But—of course,” Mrs. Harrison faltered. “Don’t you remember our agreement?”

  Peter took a deep breath. “I am asking you if Kitty has any idea that I have been bought?”

  Mrs. Harrison flushed an ugly color and for once was speechless.

  Lady Henley slowly masticated a macaroon. “She didn’t know the first thing about it, Peter. I thought with all your experience with women you would know how to handle a gentle filly like that.”

  Peter Chesworth regarded both women with horror. The enormity of his behavior rushed into his mind and he nearly writhed with misery.

  “How could you do that to the girl?” he said icily. “You are nothing better than a couple of Cov
ent Garden madames.”

  Mrs. Harrison hung her head, but Lady Henley eyed him coldly. “There’s a pretty nasty name applies to you. You ain’t nothing but a sort of gigolo yourself.”

  Lord Peter Chesworth got to his feet and looked at Lady Henley with icy hauteur. “How dare you. I…” Then a slow grin crossed his face. “Lady Henley, you have just put a backgammon counter into your mouth.”

  Lady Henley looked unconcerned. “Wondered why these macaroons were so hard.” She calmly took it from her mouth, placed it on the board, and lifted the macaroon she had been mistakenly using as a counter and popped it in her mouth.

  “Sit down again, Peter,” she said. “We’ve all been carried away and have made a mess of things. What are we going to do?”

  Lord Chesworth sighed heavily. “At the moment, all I suggest is that I take her to Reamington Hall today as planned and begin to treat her like the innocent young girl she is.”

  “That’s it,” said Lady Henley. “Give her a bit of fun too. I don’t think she’s had much so far.”

  Mrs. Harrison blushed guiltily. “There, there, Euphemia,” said Lady Henley with surprising kindness. “You can’t go on blaming yourself. We’ll just need to sort things out the way we can.”

  Mrs. Harrison was the first person to arouse anything approaching warmth in Lady Henley’s fatty heart. Mrs. Harrison had fed her well, deferred to her and paid her debts. No one had ever done as much before. A strong bond of loyalty and friendship had sprung up between the unlikely pair.

  With a heavy heart, Peter Chesworth returned to his new town house and entered his wife’s bedroom on tiptoe, feeling like a criminal.

  She lay with her long dark hair fanned out on the pillow. Her cheeks were smudged with tears and she slept heavily like a tired child. He was just about to leave when she opened her eyes wide and stared at him like a cornered animal.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed and took her hand in his. “Kitty. I owe you an apology for last night. I was very drunk and did not mean a word I said. Can you forgive me?”

  Kitty looked at him doubtfully, in silence.

  He went on. “Well go to Reamington today. You’ll like that, won’t you? Well pay calls on all the neighbors and—and—you can have a pony of your own.”

  Kitty brightened with excitement. “I would love that, my Lor—I mean, Peter.”

  “That’s my girl,” He leaned forward and gave her a brotherly kiss on the cheek, trying not to notice when she flinched.

  “Now get dressed, my dear. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

  After he had left, Kitty flew around the room looking for her prettiest dress. The world had miraculously righted itself. She was about to pack her trunks when she remembered that that was the duty of her maid. Perhaps she might even begin to like Colette.

  When they were seated in the railway carriage, the Baron handed Kitty a parcel. “I bought you something to read on the train,” he said and, as she unwrapped it, he went on. “It’s a book about all the sorts of birds and animals you’ll find around Reamington.”

  “Oh, thank you, Peter,” said Kitty, her eyes like stars.

  He gave her another parcel. Bubbling with excitement she opened it. It was a box of chocolates with a picture of two children standing in front of a thatched cottage on the front. He was mocking her after all. She had not forgotten the gibe about chocolate-box art. But Peter Chesworth had forgotten and wondered what on earth was up with the girl now.

  Kitty’s first sight of Reamington Hall in all the glory of a lazy June afternoon, took her breath away.

  It was a gem of a Georgian mansion, gleaming against its background of huge old trees and rolling lawns. The brougham came to a stop before the severe classical grandeur of the entrance and Kitty was led into her country home. As in town, the staff were gathered to meet her, from the butler down to the housemaids. But there was a difference. The friendly country faces smiled. Everyone seemed delighted to see her.

  And when she went up to her rooms on the second floor and found vases of wild flowers arranged around the room, and the chintz curtains billowing in the summer breeze from the open windows, she felt almost at home.

  She quickly donned her new riding dress, rejoicing in the brief absence of Colette who was following with the luggage and the Baron’s valet. She took off her heavy stays and threw them on the bed. She would go unencumbered for once. Her gray gabardine riding dress with the velvet insets on the collar and her smart bowler made her feel like a new person.

  Her husband obviously thought so as well. “That outfit becomes you. We must begin your riding lessons right away,” he said. He was wearing jodhpurs and an old hacking jacket with patches on the elbows, and Kitty reflected that he even managed to make that comfortable outfit look elegant.

  Well pleased with each other, they went out into the blazing sunshine and headed for the stables. “I am starting your training on a pony,” said Lord Chesworth. “Well get you onto something more ambitious later. What do you think of him? His name’s Carrots.”

  A beautiful little piebald pony had been led out for her inspection. Kitty patted his glossy mane and prayed that this fairy tale would not fade.

  As she was stammering out her thanks, a footman came running from the house. “Mr. Bryson wants to see you. He says it is very urgent, my Lord. He is waiting for you in the estate office.”

  His lordship groaned. “Bryson is the estate manager. If he says it is urgent then it must be.” He called over one of the grooms. “Hanson, teach my wife to ride, will you? Just a few beginner lessons. Kitty, do forgive me.” He gave her his charming smile and strode off in the direction of the house.

  Kitty felt a pang of disappointment. But Carrots was nuzzling in her pocket, searching for sugar, so she turned to the groom and prepared to master the art of riding.

  When Kitty at last returned to her rooms to change for dinner, she was feeling happy and exhilarated. Hanson had said she would make a good horsewoman. But her happiness died when she realized her husband did not intend to join her. He emerged briefly from the estate office to explain. “Things are in a terrible muddle, Kitty. I’m afraid that because of—” he was about to say “lack of money” but decided it would not be tactful “—because of my neglect, there is a lot to be done on the estate.”

  He ran his long fingers through his black curls. “I had hoped to have time to take you around. I tell you what I’ll do. Our neighbors, the Thackerays, are giving a house party. I’ll escort you there tomorrow and there I must leave you for a few days.”

  “But I would much rather stay here with you and my pony,” said Kitty, almost in tears.

  The Baron was irritated. He hoped, callously, that she was not going to turn into one of those clinging vines.

  “Come now, Kitty. You need some fun to cheer you up. There are a lot of young people staying with the Thackerays.” He tried to joke. “You should leave an old fogey like me to get on with my work.”

  “You’re not old. You’re only thirty!” said Kitty, the tears beginning to stand out in her eyes.

  What a watering pot, thought the exasperated Baron. He must decide what was best for her.

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, unconsciously imitating her mother. “You’ll like it when you get there.” With that, he escaped from the room.

  Kitty sat miserably by herself through the nine courses of dinner, too downhearted to tell the butler that she was not hungry.

  Afterward, she lay awake, reading in her room, waiting for the sound of her husband’s footsteps on the stairs. At last, she could hear him. Dressed in her filmy nightdress with her fine, silky hair brushed on her shoulders, she sat up and listened. The footsteps hesitated for a second outside her door and then went on down the corridor. For a long time, she sat there, staring at the door, feeling like a foreigner adrift on some strange and alien sea.

  The Honorable Mr. and Mrs. Jeremy Thackeray were waiting for them when they arrived the next day. As they stood on the
steps of their home, both husband and wife seemed to be completely round, like Tweedledum and Tweedledee.

  Called Rooks Neuk, the Thackeray home was modern, complete with electricity and steam heat which required the services of three resident engineers and two firemen, to maintain. It was built on the lines of a medieval castle including battlements and a fake armory. Various statues of heraldic beasts sported on the lawns and, to complete the picture, a sturdy drawbridge spanned a weedy moat.

  The honeymoon couple were welcomed enthusiastically by the Thackerays. Mrs. Mary Thackeray may have been a round dumpling of a woman, but she was very smartly dressed. Kitty was glad that she had worn her new tea gown.

  Mrs. Thackeray took her arm and surveyed her. “Love your teagie. Fittums! Fittums! Was it expie?”

  Kitty looked at her in surprise and turned to her husband for help, but he was deeply involved in conversation with the Honorable Jeremy. She took a deep breath and decided she must learn to cope with awkward social situations herself. After all, Miss Bates had always told her pupils, “When speaking to a foreigner, who has not a complete command of our splendid language, always speak very loudly and clearly.”

  “I’m afraid I do not understand you. Please… repeat… what… you… have… just… said… very… slowly… and… clearly.” Mrs. Thackeray took a step back. Kitty had shouted full in her face.

  “I’m not deaf,” she said crossly. “I said—oh, never mind. I’ll show you your room.” Kitty was very bewildered. Mrs. Thackeray spoke English after all What had she meant? Her hostess stopped outside a door with Kitty’s name written on it on a neat white card. “I hope you will be comfortable,” said Mary Thackeray, looking at Kitty nervously, in case she should start shouting again. “Your husband’s room is over in the other wing.”

  Here was another mystery! Was it usual to keep husband and wife so far apart, especially on their honeymoon?

  Had she heard Mrs. Thackeray downstairs, she would have understood. “Why didn’t you put the lovebirds together?” asked Jeremy Thackeray.