His wife settled herself comfortably into an armchair like a roosting pigeon. “Well, first—he’s not coming to stay until after two days, and second—have you forgotten that Mrs. Jackson’s on the guest list?”
“Well, what’s that to do with it? That’s all finished, surely,” answered her husband.
“Not a bit of it. Veronica Jackson told Harriet Croombe who told Betty Jamieson who told Alice Fairbrother who told me, that he spent his wedding night in her bed. Peter will want to be near his dear mistress. He only married that little gel for her money. Strange little thing. Kept shouting at me.”
Lord Chesworth called in at his wife’s room before he left. Kitty told him of Mrs. Thackeray’s strange conversation.
“It’s the new small talk,” he explained. “She was merely complimenting you on your tea gown, saying it was an excellent fit and asking you if it were expensive. I heard you shouting at her.”
“I thought she was a foreigner,” said poor Kitty.
Peter Chesworth groaned. “Oh, well, she’ll probably think you were playing a joke on her. The Thackerays and their friends love practical jokes. Which reminds me—have you examined your bed?”
Kitty shook her head. He crossed over and ripped back the covers. Kitty screamed as two small hedgehogs made a bid for freedom. “Poor little things,” said the Baron, “they could have suffocated. I’ll take them outside. Give me that hatbox over there. Don’t look so dismayed, Kitty. It’s only meant as a friendly joke.”
But after he had left, Kitty looked dismally at the bed, imagining what it would have been like to have thrust her feet down at night under the covers. The poor things would have been dead by then. She did not think it was funny. She thought it was senseless and cruel.
She was called at five-thirty. Charades were to be performed in the music room. Kitty felt better. She loved amateur theatricals, but hoped that she would not be asked to perform.
When she arrived at the music room, the curtains had already been drawn to create theatrical darkness. There was no time to meet the other guests. She was shown to a chair facing a small stage which had been erected at the end of the room. Shuffling and excited giggles came, from time to time, from behind the stage curtains which were finally drawn to reveal Percy Barlow-Smellie. “Our charade tonight,” he announced, “is called ‘The Taming of the Shrimp’ and you all must guess who.”
The curtains closed for a minute and then swung back to reveal a young man dressed as Mercutio. His tanned face had been whitened and he wore a mop of glossy black curls. Opposite him, Kate was played by Veronica Jackson who wore a drab dress and a brown wig. “Come, kiss me, Kate,” roared Mercutio. “Oh, reelly, I don’t know as I should. Is it a refeened thing to do?” simpered Kate. The audience roared with laughter as the sketch went on in the same manner. One after another they began to call, “Got it! It’s the Baron and the shopgirl.”
All Kitty’s little bit of happiness generated by her splendid country home and her new pony faded away and she sat mute, looking down at her hands like a hurt child. At last the dreadful charade came to an end and the lights went up.
There were horrified murmurs when the lights went on to reveal Kitty sitting there. She heard someone say, “It’s really too bad of Veronica. I didn’t know Lady Chesworth was going to be here.” But Veronica did, thought Kitty, as the blue eyes stared across at her with a kind of lazy insolence. Even Mrs. Thackeray felt things had gone a bit too far, and was relieved when dinner was announced.
Dinner was a twenty-course nightmare, studded with vulgar practical jokes. Entrées heaved as if on a stormy sea because the hostess had put inflatable bladders under the plates, bon-bons flew up in the faces of the guests with a whirring noise as their clockwork mechanisms were released by the unwrapping of the silver paper, and one young matron was the succès fou of the evening by having a bustle which played “God Save the King” every time she sat down.
Kitty hoped to escape when dinner was over, but there was bridge and baccarat to be played until two in the morning and then another interminable wait while the whiskey-and-sodas and chicken sandwiches were brought in.
All the time Kitty prayed for the courage to leave. But the thought of getting to her feet and making her good-nights in front of this bright, malicious crowd terrified her.
At last she reached the safety of her bedchamber and with her heart in her mouth, ripped back the bedclothes.
The bed was thankfully empty of small creatures and booby traps. It looked comfortable and the sheets smelled of lavender. Kitty tore off her clothes and plunged between the covers like a small, frightened animal burrowing into its lair.
For two hours, she lay listening to scuffling and whispering from the corridor. What on earth was going on? Perhaps they were planning some jolly jape like setting fire to her rooms. At last the rustling died away and she fell asleep, longing for the strength and company of her elegant husband.
The morning dawned dark and depressing with sheets of rain thudding down on the lawn and filling up the weedy moat.
Kitty climbed into her clothes without the courage to ring for her maid. She met Mrs. Thackeray who was crossing the hall. “You are a bit early, my dear,” she said. “It’s only ten-thirty. But you’ll find we have a new guest in the breakfast room. The Bishop of Zanzibar. Charming man.” And with that she hurried off.
Relieved to find that an important member of the clergy was part of this naughty world, Kitty opened the door. The Bishop, a surprisingly young, dusky-complexioned man, was already eating his breakfast. Kitty murmured a shy good-morning and moved to the sideboard. What a bewildering array of dishes! Where did one begin? There was enough to keep the Camden Town Pugsleys in food for a year.
There were about thirty different dishes including porridge, cream, coffee, cold drinks, Indian and Chinese tea, bacon, ham, sausages, poached and scrambled eggs, deviled kidneys, haddock, tongue, pressed beef and ham, fruit, scones, toast, marmalade, honey, and jam.
Kitty took a little scrambled egg, some toast and tea and sat down opposite the Bishop. Here was the help she needed to guide her in this bewildering social world. Kitty had been brought up Anglican to the backbone.
She heard movements upstairs and realized that the rest of the guests would soon be joining them. “My lord Bishop…” she began tentatively.
“Yes, my child,” he inquired. He seemed to have very kind, merry eyes.
“I am in need of advice and help,” said Kitty. “Perhaps—if you could spare me some of your time. I would like to talk to you in private.”
The Bishop surveyed her. “By all means, my dear. Shall we say in the library at noon? Good, good.”
The rest of the guests began to arrive so Kitty made her escape, feeling as if a little of the burden had been lifted from her heart.
As the clock in the hall struck twelve, she pushed open the door of the library and blinked at the darkness. The curtains had been drawn but she noticed the Bishop sitting by the light of one lamp burning on a table next to the fireplace.
“Come forward, my child,” he said, stretching out a gloved hand in welcome.
Kitty sat down primly on a chair facing him.
“Why don’t you begin at the beginning, my child?” he said in a kindly voice. “Things are sometimes easier that way.”
So, in a faltering voice, Kitty began to tell him her story from the beginning, her voice gradually becoming stronger and more confident under his sympathetic attention.
She began to falter again as she described the horror of her wedding night. “My lord Bishop, I had never seen—a—a naked man before. And then he laughed at my picture.”
“What picture, my child?” asked the Bishop in a muffled voice. Kitty tried to read his expression but his hand was in front of his face and his head was bowed.
“Oh, it’s a darling picture. I bought it myself in Hampstead in this little shop next to Carson’s bakery. There are these two children running across a meadow with their
dog and there’s a dear little thatched cottage in the distance and—”
Kitty stopped in surprise. Tears were running down the Bishop’s dusky cheeks. He was moved by her story!
Then in the glow from the lamp, she noticed that each salt tear was cutting a clean white line down his face, and he was laughing. Oh, God! He was laughing as if he would never stop. The harsh mocking sound reverberated around the room. There were more sounds of laughter. Then a roar of “Surprise!” as the lights were switched on and the rest of the guests burst out from behind screens in the corners of the room.
“Oh, Cyril, you were magnificent,” they screamed to “the Bishop” who was still laughing and mopping the dark stain from his face with his handkerchief.
It had all been another terrible practical joke.
“What on earth is going on?” demanded an imperious voice from the doorway. One of the most elegant women Kitty had ever seen stood surveying the room with cold contempt. Pastel-colored tulle that could only have come from Paris, swirled about her body in elegant lines. Her hat balanced of top of her golden curls was a frothy confection of the same tulle. She had small eyes and a large patrician nose which seemed to emphasize her general air of chic rather than detract from it.
Without waiting for a reply to her question, she walked straight up to Kitty and held out her hand encased in a pink kid glove. “I’ve come especially to meet you, Lady Chesworth,” she said in a light, pleasant voice. “May I introduce myself since no one else seems able to? I’m Emily Mainwaring.”
Kitty had heard of Lady Mainwaring through the medium of the gossip columns. King Edward himself had called her the smartest woman in London.
“I have called to invite you to take a drive with me,” she went on.
Kitty nodded her assent. She would have gone for a drive with Lucifer himself in order to get out of that dreadful room and away from Veronica Jackson’s mocking stare.
Outside, the summer sun was once again shining merrily.
Once in her open carriage, Lady Mainwaring tied a carriage veil over her hat and called to the coachman to “spring ’em.”
Kitty thought that nothing else could surprise her that horrid day. But she was wrong. As the carriage bowled past the lodge gates at a fast clip, Lady Mainwaring said, “I’m kidnaping you, you know.”
Kitty gasped and clutched at the side of the swaying vehicle. Lady Mainwaring laughed. “I’ve got the best intentions,” she shouted above the noise of the rushing wind made by the speed of the carriage. “We’re stopping for lunch at the nearest inn and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Kitty sat in silence watching the summer scenery flashing past. The hot sun was drying up the puddles in the road and sparkling raindrops hung from the wild roses on the hedgerows. She decided she didn’t care if she were being kidnaped. She never wanted to return to Rooks Neuk again.
The horses slowed to a canter, then a trot, and turned into the pleasant courtyard of an old coaching inn.
“We didn’t need to go as fast as that,” explained Emily Mainwaring blithely. “I just like a touch of the dramatic now and then. Very good for restoring the spirits.”
Kitty’s spirits began to soar. She had a sudden feeling that all her nightmares were coming to an end. She followed her companion through the public rooms of the inn and out into a sunny garden at the back.
Lady Mainwaring waited until the landlord’s wife had finished drying the rain-spattered table and then unfurled her parasol and leaned back in her chair.
“I called to visit my old friend Amelia Henley,” she said. “I’m sorry I missed your wedding but I happen to have just got back from Rome.
“Well—Lady Henley—after she had finished eating a whole goose, bones and all, I assure you—told me that she and your mother had made a cruel mess of your marriage arrangements and she begged me to help.
“The whole thing intrigued me so I drove down to Reamington Hall to find your husband up to his neck in the estate books. Where was his wife? I asked. He replied that you were having a high old time with the Thackerays. Now no one—unless they have the hide of a rhinoceros—has a high old time at the Thackerays. So I didn’t say anything to him. I just rode to the rescue.
“Now, tell me all about it.”
Lady Emily’s honesty was patent and so for the second time that day, Kitty told her story.
“Just what I thought,” said Lady Mainwaring when she had finished. “Look, Kitty—I may call you Kitty, may I?—I will send my coachman back to Rooks Neuk—dear God, what a name—to collect your baggage. You shall come back to London with me and by the time I’ve finished with you, you will be the smartest matron in town and all the young men will be at your feet.”
“I don’t want all the young men at my feet, Only my husband,” cried Kitty.
“You are not going to get your husband at your feet the way you are now,” said Lady Mainwaring briskly. “You have allowed yourself to be bullied unmercifully by all concerned. Now I am going to bully you, but only to put some stiffening into your backbone.”
She looked at Kitty’s pretty organza dress. “Who chooses your clothes for you?”
“My mama and Lady Henley,” said Kitty.
“Choose your own always,” said her new friend.
“Clothes that someone else has imposed on you always sit on your body as if they don’t belong to you. We will go to the dressmakers in London and you will choose exactly what you want to wear. It is no use wearing something in perfect taste if you don’t feel pretty in it.”
Lady Mainwaring twirled her parasol and looked on her new friend with amused kindness.
“The secret of social success is to do and say exactly what you want—within limits. If anyone is teasing you or being witty at your expense and you can’t think of anything witty or clever to say in your defense—don’t Be damned rude. Be extremely honest always. Nothing frightens a social crowd more than honesty. And anyone they are frightened of—they make the current fashion.
“Care to give it a try?”
“Oh, yes,” breathed Kitty. “But my husband. He is coming to meet me at the Thackerays tomorrow.”
“You shall send him a loving little note,” said Lady Mainwaring. “Say you are bored with the country and have gone with me to London for a short stay. Say you will miss him, but that you appreciate that he is too busy at the moment to have any time for you.”
A shadow crossed Kitty’s face. “You are in love with him, aren’t you?” asked her companion. “Most women are. Your husband is a very attractive man who has been spoiled by too much feminine attention.
“You must make him run after you.”
“Are you sure you are not mistaken?” asked Kitty timidly.
“Me?” said her ladyship forcefully.
“I, my dear, am never wrong.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Lord Peter Chesworth closed the estate books with a weary sigh. An evening breeze brought in the heavy scent of lime from the old trees bordering the drive.
He had better set out in the morning to see how Kitty was getting along. After all, things were apt to get a bit rumbustious at the Thackerays’. He hoped they hadn’t gone too far. His thin black brows met in a worried frown. Perhaps he should not have left her alone. He remembered the faint look of contempt on Lady Mainwaring’s face when he had explained where Kitty was. With a pang, he suddenly remembered being seventeen himself when everything had seemed to matter so much, a gangling youth standing nervously at his first ball, frightened by the chattering sophistication of the older debutantes.
Well, he would rescue her tomorrow and perhaps take her to the seaside. He frowned again. Why had the word “rescue” entered his mind?
When he arrived at Rooks Neuk at noon on the following day, the guests were just finishing breakfast. Veronica Jackson immediately came fluttering up to him, but of his wife there was no sign.
Mrs. Thackeray handed him a note.
His thin face flushed angrily as he rea
d Kitty’s letter. She had no right to go off without waiting to see him. Then let her have her independence. He would continue to put his affairs in order. He had no intention of rushing up to town. It would teach her a lesson.
He refused offers of breakfast, abruptly made his good-byes and, clutching Kitty’s note in his hand, marched out to his carriage.
Veronica Jackson came fluttering after him. “Why can’t you wait, Peter? It’s not like you not to make the most of an opportunity.”
Peter Chesworth studied the weed in the moat. “I have a lot of work to do, Veronica.”
She pressed closer to him. “But your little shopgirl isn’t waiting for you, is she?”
He turned and looked down at her, an unfathomable expression in his light eyes. “Don’t call my wife by that silly name, Veronica. I must leave. Good-bye.”
He strode off across the drawbridge, leaving an angry Veronica to stare after him. She would have been even angrier, if she could have realized what he was thinking.
Lord Peter Chesworth was thinking of his wife. He was remembering her delicate figure, shy voice, and large gray eyes. By comparison, Veronica seemed… well… somehow overblown.
Kitty was at that moment sitting in the pretty garden of Lady Mainwaring’s Regents Park home and wondering why her husband had not come after her.
At last, she voiced her thought aloud. Lady Mainwaring put down her gardening tools and turned to look at her.
The garden, which was Lady Mainwaring’s pride and joy, sloped gently down to meet the Regents Park canal. It glowed with every kind of English garden flower—stocks, sweet william, pansies, marigolds, lupins, and delphiniums. Rambling roses rioted up the iron trelliswork on the white walls of the house and over by the garden wall, a bed of herbs added its heady scents to the summer air—thyme, marjoram, basil, parsley, and mint. A huge weeping willow trailed its long fingers in the green waters of the canal and its fluttering leaves sent dancing patches of shadow over Kitty’s troubled face.
She was seated at a small cane table by the water’s edge. In her pink-and-white spotted organza dress with the high, boned collar and her broad-brimmed picture hat, she looked as if she had stepped out of a French painting, reflected Lady Mainwaring. Monet—or was it Manet?
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