Kitty

by Beaton, M. C.

  Kitty shuddered. “I was going to have luncheon with Mama today and I wondered if you would join me?”

  Her husband looked at her in dismay. “Can’t do it, my dear. I have a luncheon appointment in the city with a chap who’s getting me a special deal on a cart-load of superphosphates.”

  His wife looked puzzled and Peter laughed. “I forget you don’t know about farming. Well, it’s one of our farms at Reamington. Jezzald, the farmer, has been overstocking and he doesn’t even care. He’s taken the heart out of the land until it’s good for nothing. Tell you what, I’ll drop you off at your mother’s and then pick you up afterward. Then my agent had better come over and get rid of this lot of servants and get us some more.”

  “Oh, but that’s heartless!” cried Kitty. “Some of them might not deserve to lose their jobs.”

  “You’ll lose your life by one of them if we’re not careful,” said her husband grimly. “Don’t worry, my agent will sort through their references.” There was a slight noise outside the door.

  He leaped to his feet but whoever had been in the hallway was gone.

  At midday, he escorted Kitty to Park Lane and helped her down from the carriage and bent gallantly to kiss her gloved hand. Kitty looked down at the black, curly head bent over her hand and began to stammer, “P-Peter, I would like to t-tell you…” and then lost her courage. She desperately wanted to explain why she had rejected his lovemaking the night before but standing in the middle of the pavement with the coachman within earshot, she felt suddenly shy of the tall stranger who was her husband.

  “I just wanted… to know… that is, when will you be finished with your luncheon?”

  “Oh, not very long. Less than two hours if the traffic in the city isn’t too heavy. Is that what you really wanted to say?” The pale gray eyes looked uncomfortably shrewd.

  “N-no,” said Kitty. “But I’ll tell you later.”

  He watched her slight figure walk up the steps and then sprang into the carriage and directed the coachman to drive to the city.

  Lady Henley was waiting alone. “Your mama is not feeling very well,” she said. “She’s gone to lie down. Don’t know what’s the matter. She was all right this morning. Quite her usual old self. Then she had a sort of faint turn. Anyway, I’ve ordered a light luncheon for the pair of us.”

  The luncheon was indeed light by Lady Henley’s standards—only five courses with a different wine for each course. Kitty began to feel quite light-headed towards the end. Usually, she was very careful and only drank a little but Lady Henley had proved to be an unusually entertaining companion when she put her mind to it and Kitty found that she had absent-mindedly been draining each glass.

  “Where did you say your husband was?” asked Lady Henley.

  “He’s gone to buy a load of phosphates for one of the farms at Reamington.”

  Lady Henley grunted. “That’s Peter Chesworth all over. When he was in Afghanistan with my son—” She paused. “Didn’t you know your husband used to be in the army?”

  Kitty shook her head. “Well, what a strange couple you are to be sure,” said Lady Henley. “Peter was a Captain in the Wiltshires and a very brave soldier. But my poor son, John, caught a bullet and died in the hospital in Peshawar and Peter got a nasty case of enteric fever and was sent home.

  “John used to write to me a lot about Peter. Peter was his Captain. John used to say Peter would dream of nothing but Reamington. His father was alive at the time and drinking and gambling the estate into rack and ruin. ‘I’ll save Reamington!’” Peter used to tell my son. ‘Even if I have to sell my soul to do it!’”

  Lady Henley saw the distress on Kitty’s face. “Don’t take it to heart, my dear. I don’t think you realize how much his land means to a man like Peter Chesworth. He loves every stick and stone, man, woman, and child on his estate. He’s a good landlord and God knows, there ain’t many of that kind of old aristocracy left. He’ll expect you to look after his people too. You’ll need to see that John on the home farm is going to the dentist and that Molly in the village is attending school and that Jane is marrying the right man and that the old people have enough to eat. All that kind of thing. You didn’t just marry Peter Chesworth, you married all these other people y’ see. But have your fun in London first because it’s a lot of work.”

  Kitty suddenly remembered Checkers. She told Lady Henley about her husband getting rid of the servants. “Very odd,” commented Lady Henley. “But your mama got quite uppity with me. Wanted to get them herself. Probably went to some riff-raff agency.”

  The dessert was served—a bowl of chartreuse de pèches à la Reine Alexandra—and Lady Henley let out a grunt of pure pleasure. “Goody. M’ favorite,” she explained.

  “I don’t think I can eat any more,” said Kitty faintly.

  Lady Henley’s eyes glistened. In an effort to do right by her young guest, she had restrained her gluttony. But enough was enough. She drew the bowl toward her and wolfed the whole confection down, gave a hearty, satisfied belch, and called for a plate of petits fours. “Don’t think I’ll bother about a savory today,” she remarked, shoving petits fours into her mouth with amazing rapidity. The little biscuits had been served in a basket made of intricately spun and woven toffee. Lady Henley picked it up and gave it a baffled look and then, with an almost apologetic glance at Kitty, clamped her jaws around the handle of the basket and started to crunch happily, like a dog with a delicious bone. Slivers of toffee flew right and left and me room was silent except for Lady Henley’s massive crunchings.

  Kitty began to feel dizzy with the amount of food and wine she had consumed. “I think I’ll need to get some fresh air, Lady Henley,” she said, rising and clutching the back of her chair for support.

  “I’ll take you for a drive in the park,” said Lady Henley, heaving herself to her feet and ringing for the carriage.

  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 st
anding 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 longue 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.