‘If you mean watch her and catch some of her enthusiasm,’ Bridget returned rather sharply, ‘then I couldn’t do better. She’s awfully keen, you know.’
‘Keen to get you involved.’ Actively, Emma meant.
Rina Collingwood was a woman who was in the top echelons of the movement, a member of the more militant W.S.P.U., the Women’s Social and Political Union. She never smiled and rarely spoke, unless it was to give one of her pep talks, expounding on such subjects as the enthusiasm of the working women and factory girls in the north whom she had been meeting with recently, holding them up as peerless examples. She was a striking-looking woman. Tall and slim, with pale, flawless skin, she wore her shiny black hair wound in a coil around her small, neat head, giving the impression she was wearing a coronet. She had extraordinary grey eyes, so light they might almost have been silver, with a mesmerising quality when she fixed them on anyone. She was uncommunicative about her private life and held herself rather aloof. Everyone except Emma seemed to be intimidated by her, but Emma’s opinion didn’t really count. She was welcomed into the Sisterhood of course, but it was clear she was also expected to help serve the sandwiches and cakes, and with the washing up.
‘Oh, nonsense,’ Bridget said sharply in answer to Emma’s warning about Rina. ‘It’s just that she’s so committed herself she feels everyone else should be, too.’
‘She hasn’t got a place at Cambridge waiting for her.’
‘I don’t see why the two should be mutually exclusive.’
Emma raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, keep your eye on her, that’s all I say. Before you know it, she’ll have you chaining yourself to the railings at Number Ten.’
It was Rina who had tried to persuade Bridget to approach Lydia with the intentions of enlisting her interest and support, but Bridget couldn’t do this, recalling her previous rebuff. So Rina had taken it upon herself to write to Lydia. It had been a woeful mistake.
‘You must have warned Rina that Mama wouldn’t agree,’ Kitty said.
‘And she didn’t. A polite refusal would have been enough, but perhaps Rina’s letter wasn’t quite tactful. Aunt Lydia seemed to feel she’d almost been threatened. Emotionally blackmailed, I suppose, is the phrase. At any rate, her reply was very sharp … she said she could never support those who didn’t understand there were more appropriate ways in which women could gain power. By being so aggressive, the W.S.P.U. was simply demonstrating why they should not be allowed the vote and thereby gain power and a right to help run the country.’
Rina had been coldly furious at the response. ‘You didn’t tell me your aunt was a member of the Women’s Anti-Suffrage League.’
‘Aunt Lydia? There’s nothing more unlikely.’
‘Really? Then it’s remarkable how similar their views are.’
Kitty said, into the silence after Bridget finished speaking, ‘And on Sunday, you thought she’d actually—’
‘What I thought doesn’t matter, Kitty. It was ridiculous even to have contemplated such a thing in the first place. Even Rina wouldn’t – well, it didn’t happen anyway.’ She jumped up and left, and this time Kitty didn’t try to stop her.
But why had Bridget even mentioned that woman? Kitty was beginning to dislike this Miss Collingwood intensely. But she was heartened by the feeling that Bridget’s initial enthusiasm for her was wearing off.
Fourteen
Marcus had stayed with the decision he’d made on Sunday evening: rather than spend an impatient night waiting until he could see his father the next day here in London, he’d driven down to Loddhurst, only to find on arrival they’d missed each other. While he had been driving down, his father had been on a train travelling in the opposite direction, to London. His manservant informed Marcus that in order to give himself more time the following day before he needed to leave London for Paris, Sir Aiden had decided to put up for the night at his club; he himself had telephoned Mrs Stanhope’s residence to leave a message for Marcus that his father would call on him shortly after breakfast, but he had been too late.
Marcus cursed himself for not telephoning his own intentions to drive down to Loddhurst, but at the same time he didn’t feel inclined to drive straight back to London. He would stay the night at Loddhurst, set off very early the next morning and catch his father breakfasting at his club. But even in that he was frustrated. A puncture on the way back (a commonplace hazard of motoring on unmetalled country roads) held him up and he arrived to find Sir Aiden was already on his way to Paris.
He also found a note had been left for him to say that Sergeant Inskip had called. He would be obliged if Marcus would present himself at the police station at the earliest possible moment. Inskip. What did he want? Marcus had spoken to him and to Chief Inspector Gaines after the shooting had happened and he didn’t want to talk to either of them any more until he’d had the chance to speak with his father. In the circumstances, with Sir Aiden in Paris, this might not occur for some time. He felt himself in a dark mood. Hiding in a corner of his mind, still waiting to spring out, was that demon asking whether he had unwittingly done anything – anything at all – that might have contributed towards the death of a woman he had come to consider a friend. Albeit one whom he felt he had never really known, a woman outwardly so extrovert, but who he’d discovered had secrets even from her family. It wasn’t, however, in his quick, impatient nature to mope, and certainly not over something that might only exist in his imagination. And over and above that was the need to see Kitty.
Nothing had passed between himself and Lydia on the subject of Kitty but he was fairly certain she had known how he felt, and had not been entirely averse to the idea of a match between him and her daughter. Why else had she tried to get Kitty to join them on those morning rides, left him alone with her for long periods while she herself was dressing, if not to encourage their acquaintance? At the same time she’d made it clear that Kitty was to be allowed her first Season. Girls so looked forward to the excitement of it, she had constantly stressed, and with good reason. It was a time in Kitty’s life that would never be repeated, a glorious time when the world and all its possibilities would be opening before her, when she would learn the ways of the world, make friends and acquaintances who would stand her in good stead all her life. Kitty should be given opportunities she herself had never had.
The word ‘opportunity’ hadn’t fallen on deaf ears and Marcus had with difficulty conceded that he must hold back. He’d known it might be a risky strategy not to make his intentions clear to Kitty, or even to hint at how he felt without actually declaring himself. There was more than a chance that during her year out she might meet some sprig of the aristocracy who would sweep her off her feet, or be a better proposition than he would ever be, and she would become spoken for before he had the chance to ask her. The devil of it was the uncertainty about Kitty herself. He was by no means sure if she even liked him. You never knew with women, and Kitty was always so cool. She seemed to draw into herself whenever he tried to reach out to her and he couldn’t make out if this was natural reserve or whether he actually aroused some antipathy in her. Which didn’t bear thinking about. Caution had never before been a word in his vocabulary, but he was learning his lesson; this was too fragile a situation to risk by making the wrong moves, in the wrong direction, too soon. For the first time in his life Marcus appreciated what the term ‘falling in love’ actually meant. He felt he had literally tumbled into a vertiginous spiral, totally astonished that he should have fallen for this grave young woman with the clear hazel eyes.
He went straight to Egremont Gardens after dutifully presenting himself to the police as requested in the note. He considered that what transpired there had been a waste of time for everyone concerned: with the best will in the world he hadn’t been able to summon up any more detail about what he’d witnessed in those few fatal minutes in the Row. It was not that he had no remembrance of it – every single moment was still there in his head, and would be forever – it was simp
ly that everything had happened at once and was all over within such a short space of time. There was little that could be told which hadn’t in any case been corroborated by the many other witnesses to the shooting.
Although the request had been left by Inskip, DCI Gaines had also been there when he arrived, and after a while it had become clear that he’d been summoned not only because he’d been a witness to the shooting, but also to give them opportunity to probe further into his relationship with Lydia. Alerted, he had parried questions about how he’d come to know her, why he’d been so friendly with her and in the end they had let him go. He had left them, he hoped, with the impression that he was just one of those young nincompoops dazzled by a mature, fascinating older woman.
Since Louis Challoner had declared himself not yet equal to replying to the letters of condolence which were arriving by every post, Ursula had taken on the task, assisted by Hester Drax, who was at that moment sitting bolt upright at the table, addressing envelopes in her neat, careful script. She’d suggested that typing them on the machine she had in her office upstairs would be quicker and more efficient but Ursula had been shocked. ‘My dear, that would never do! People would think us quite ill-bred.’
Ursula was not the woman to break with convention, and it was frightfully bad form to answer personal letters other than by hand, especially those following a bereavement. Lydia had been popular and many, many such letters expressing genuine sorrow and sympathy had already been received, though perhaps fewer than might have been expected. Obviously a number of people were waiting to see how the wind blew, whether they should in future receive a family mixed up in the mysterious circumstances of a death which was involving police investigation. Gossip was rife. There was no smoke without fire. However inconceivable it was to her family that Lydia could have been mixed up in any kind of questionable activity, it was now plain by the amount of police interest that the fiction of her death being due to an accident could no longer be sustained, and it would not have taken long for rumours to circulate. It was a harsh fact to accept, but there were those who would want nothing to do with the family of a woman who had been sufficiently connected with the sort of scandal which had ended in her being murdered.
This was an attitude which Ursula fully understood, and in fact had a great deal of sympathy with. Had her own family not been concerned, had she been on the other side, she would have behaved in the same way. As it was, she had been careful not to allow, even to herself, that it was somehow a breach of bad taste for Lydia to have got herself into such a scandalous situation, and she had dealt competently with the myriad tasks necessary in a house suddenly deprived of its mistress, the burden of which must sooner or later, of necessity, fall on Kitty’s unprepared shoulders, poor child.
Meanwhile, she had been grateful to Miss Drax for her help in fielding telephone calls and attempting to fend off the attentions of the press, who hadn’t been slow to latch on to the story, while Ursula herself attended to the dreary business of cancelling the arrangements for Kitty’s coming out, now unthinkable. Originally, those preparations had been a self-imposed task she had willingly taken on when Lydia had thrown up her hands and declared she wouldn’t know where to start. Now it was her job to see to the orders being countermanded:
The ball to celebrate the coming out of Miss Kitty Challoner has regrettably been cancelled, owing to a recent, sad bereavement in her family, therefore arrangements made with you for catering at the home of Lady Dunstable, Curzon Street, will not now be necessary …
Flowers will not be needed for the event scheduled for the 29th June …
Please cancel the order for champagne … for the appearance of the Quintus String Ensemble and the Roxy Ray Dance Band … for the carriage attendants …
As for the funeral … There would first have to be a post mortem, according to DCI Gaines – a routine procedure in cases of violent death, he’d been quick to reassure them. After which there would be an inquest, which would be adjourned until the police had completed their enquiries. Mrs Challoner’s body would be released for burial, since it was clear how she had met her death, though enquiries as to why she had been killed, or by whom, would continue.
The funeral would be a small, private affair with only the family and a very few especially close friends, and Ursula had suggested to Kitty that afterwards, they might go down to Southfields – just herself, Kitty and Bridget. She was gratified to see how the suggestion had been received: it was as though a blind had been lifted for Kitty and the sun had come out. ‘Southfields? Oh, Aunt Ursula!’
Southfields, Ursula’s pretty, comfortable house with its own distinctive smell of woodsmoke, old timbers and beeswax, spices at Christmas, roses in summer, its unchanging country house traditions. Tennis, and tea on the lawn. A hammock under the trees. No constant, painful reminders, as here in Egremont Gardens, of how things had been this time last week, last month. When Ursula, who was desperately missing her home herself, had made the suggestion, Kitty had smiled, for the first time in days. Not a polite, social smile, but a real smile, although it had vanished almost as quickly as it had appeared. ‘But I can’t. I can’t leave Papa alone, here.’
‘I’ve already spoken to your father. He’s willing to stay at his club.’ Ursula only just stopped herself from saying that he might as well be miserable there as at home.
‘I can’t let him do that!’
‘He will do very well, Kitty. I’ve told him it’s more than time he went back to business – it won’t attend to itself for ever and it’s hardly fair to Mr Estrabon to leave him with all your papa’s responsibilities as well as his own. He has promised – he will go back full time to his office tomorrow. It will do him no harm, he needs to be occupied,’ finished Ursula, whose remedy this was for all ills.
To tell the truth, her patience with her brother was wearing a little thin, despite the sympathy she felt for him. The tragedy seemed as though it might have left its permanent mark on him. He made sporadic visits to his office but for the most part he shut himself away in his study and hardly came out, except for meals, where he made no effort to pretend, as everyone else was valiantly trying to do, that things were as near normal as possible. They were not, of course, and never could be again, but one had to make an effort.
Although she was a little out of temper with Louis at the moment, she was actually very worried about him, too. Apart from the shock of what had happened to Lydia, something else was weighing on his mind. Of course, knowing her brother so well, she was aware that he was simply acting as he often had when he was a boy: easygoing if things were comfortable, but thinking only of himself, withdrawn and sulky if they were not. He appeared to have forgotten Kitty and even when he was prompted to comfort her, so caught up in his own grief the attempt was counter-productive. An exodus to Southfields would do them all a great deal of good. She had other reasons, too, for wanting to be there, and not only because her own dear home was beckoning. Bridget was not as clever at hiding things from her as she thought. Far more aware of her children’s concerns and what motivated them than anyone gave her credit for, Ursula knew that being here in London was not good for Bridget; she was absorbing too many of these outrageous feminist views. She didn’t intend, if she could help it, to allow her headstrong daughter to involve herself in indiscretions she would certainly regret later. Cambridge, however much Ursula deplored it, was turning out to be the lesser evil.
The door to the small room she’d appropriated for their task opened. ‘Kitty, there you are! Just the person to help me with these envelopes.’ Smiling, she turned to the other woman. ‘Miss Drax, I’m most awfully grateful for the time you’ve spared to help me, but now Kitty’s here I needn’t keep you any longer from your work.’
‘It’s nothing, Lady Devenish, I’m glad to do what I can. But – if Miss Kitty has the time …’
‘I’ve all the time in the world,’ Kitty said. How could anyone think she had not? her words implied.
‘I can ge
t another hour or two on the book then … I’m hoping it will be ready for the publisher in a very short time.’
‘Well done, Miss Drax. You’ve done us a great service.’
‘No more than anyone else would have done, I’m sure.’
Ursula sighed after the stiff, departing figure. ‘Really, I don’t know! But she is so good at this sort of thing.’ Kitty saw Lydia’s open address book, the pile of black-bordered envelopes and the box of matching, black-edged writing paper which had been ordered by Hester and delivered at express speed. ‘And I’m afraid she is not often given credit for it. What a pity one cannot like her.’
Kitty was turning over the stack of business letters. ‘You’ve been awfully busy.’
‘They’re all finished now, everything cancelled.’ Ursula hesitated. ‘Dear Kitty, I’m so sorry you should have missed all this.’ She waved a hand over her now unnecessary lists of arrangements. ‘Perhaps, when everything is over … next year …’ She faltered, seeing Kitty’s expression, and then went on hurriedly, ‘Well, well, we’d better get on. It’s only a matter of addressing envelopes.’
Kitty took Hester’s place, after which they worked in silence, and were still busy when the flowers came, an enormous basket of them, brought in by young Thomas. ‘For me?’ No one had ever sent Kitty flowers before, and she looked overwhelmed at this huge extra-vagance of pink and red roses, white carnations and freesias set in damp moss, filling the room with their perfume as she extracted and read the card and then passed it to her aunt. ‘May I call on you? If not today, at any time, whenever you wish. Marcus.’ She blushed as red as any of the roses and looked bemused, bereft of speech.
‘How delightful! How very kind,’ Ursula said.
Thomas coughed. ‘Mr Villiers is in the hall, Miss Kitty. He said he would wait for a reply.’
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