A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  ‘You’d have been arrested,’ corrected Rosalind, jealous at his veneration of Kit.

  ‘We-ell!’ Kit defended herself before her audience, ‘if Mrs Dolphin didn’t even realize I was wearing her clothes, she must have too many of ’em, that’s all I can say.’

  * * *

  With her employer’s family once again in situ, Kit re-embarked on a timetable of drudgery and, robbed of her next two free afternoons, there was no chance of meeting her young admirer again. It was so terribly disappointing. She did search for him, as she passed through the village on her next Sunday visit home – clad in her own decorous bonnet – eagerly craning her neck into every nook, but never once did she set eyes on him.

  Kit held the fervent wish that the same could be said of Master Wyndham, whose lascivious attentions continued despite all protest. If anything, the attainment of his sixteenth birthday had made him bolder than ever. Unable to avoid him, for Ivy, as senior parlourmaid, gave the order as to who went where, and unable to complain to a higher office for she would be accused of lying, Kit was forced to lean on her own devices which, in effect, were few. To ‘inadvertently’ forget Wyndham’s morning tea was to receive reprimand from the mistress and Kit had had too many of those to risk more. Besides, Wyndham had started to maul her at any time of day now. Her only solution was to keep out of his way as much as possible, the most trustworthy method being to get out of the house altogether.

  If Kit had learned her lesson about borrowing her superior’s clothes, this did not extend to her infringement of other rules and she proceeded to make her illicit jaunts into the garden, a heavenly place where an oppressed parlourmaid could find a moment’s solace before returning to the treadmill.

  The particular corner into which she had strayed this afternoon had been formed into a grotto using weathered stone from an ancient ruin.

  Coated in moss and lichen, it appeared to have been standing here much longer than the house – had an almost magical quality about it, opined Kit, as her eyes roamed beyond the sun-dappled rambling roses and erect spires of pink foxgloves to its mysterious fern-filled crevasses. Under its spell, she allowed herself to be lured inside. Wandering across a spongy patch of grass she sat down upon a stone bench, cushioned from its hard surface by a blanket of greenery. Crushed beneath the weight of her body, the foliage emitted a pungent scent. Arranging the skirt of her lilac cotton print dress, Kit gazed dreamily around her, then gave a sudden sigh at the collection of grey weathered faces that peered at her through leafy tendrils – was there nowhere to escape surveillance? Under their combined stony glare, she began to feel uneasy. To linger in this sanctuary for too long, one could almost imagine the statues coming to life. Damning her imagination, Kit leaned back upon the moss-covered seat and closed her eyes, listening to the humming of bees, the trill of a robin from an ivy covered pillar. The air was very hot and still and heavy with the scent of roses. The August sun sat low in the sky, appearing to be balanced atop the wall of her hideaway, the heat of it burning her eyelids. For a long time Kit relaxed, enjoying the thoughts that wafted in and out of her brain, emerging from them occasionally to wonder what time it was.

  In danger of falling asleep, she roused herself and made the decision to go back to her work. About to rise, she heard voices approaching, and their owners were quite close, it seemed, on the other side of the wall. The grotto had two entrances – or at least Kit had supposed, but when she ran up some steps and under the stone archway she discovered that that path actually led nowhere. She was trapped.

  Protected to some extent by the shady interior and the copious filaments of ivy that draped the archway, she tried to draw the greenery across the gap like a curtain, and it partly obliged, although the disturbance of it evicted hundreds of insects, which began to crawl all over her and inside her clothes. The cool interior smelled of damp stone and earth.

  There was boyish laughter. Kit recognized it immediately. Master Wyndham had invited two schoolfriends to stay for part of the holidays. There was also some kind of teasing afoot. Everard would be going away to Rugby at the end of the summer and Wyndham seemed determined to get him acclimatized in advance of the ordeal.

  ‘Fag!’

  Trying to rid herself of the pestering insects, swiping and scratching and brushing at her clothes, Kit heard the order barked several times, the running of feet, the stricture that the younger boy was not quick enough, then the order for him to do it again – and again, and again

  ‘Fag!’ The yell was accompanied by the sniggering laughter of the perpetrators. ‘Fag!’

  Still under onslaught from insects, Kit grew more and more annoyed. She had had little relationship with Everard but the sound of any child being tormented until he burst into tears and then to be mocked for being a cissy had the power to enrage her. Without concern for her own dilemma, she charged through the living curtain to confront the gang.

  ‘You mean little devils!’

  The youths screamed in girlish fashion at the huge figure that descended upon them and had begun to flee until Wyndham saw that it was only a servant and marched back to challenge her.

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if my parents were around!’ His pudgy face was scarlet at being made to look a fool before his friends.

  ‘And neither would you do the things you do if your parents were around!’ retorted Kit, deference overridden by anger.

  Wyndham knew exactly what Kit referred to. His face donned a sneer as he looked up at her – for she was a good head and shoulders taller. ‘Playing with your bosoms? Father wouldn’t mind at all. He probably sent you for me to practise on.’ His two friends and Everard stood open-mouthed at Wyndham’s offer. ‘You can touch her up too, if you like. She can’t say anything or she’ll be sacked.’

  Kit gasped with fury and humiliation. ‘I don’t care if you do get me sacked, I won’t stand by and see a little boy treated so cruelly and I won’t be treated like dirt!’

  Wyndham’s reply was arrogant. ‘Why, you are dirt.’

  ‘Pack it in, Dolphin!’ One of the other boys came forward now, his initial shock overcome by an air of authority. ‘That was inexcusably rude.’

  ‘She’s only a servant, Postgate!’ Wyndham seemed taken aback. His brother Tish who had tagged along but was afraid of the angry shouting, had half hidden himself behind a wall.

  ‘All the more reason to set a good example.’ Postgate was relentless. Despite the habit he had of scrunching his eyes up from time to time, in the manner of a cat, it was obviously not an indication of nerves, for he was more of a lion than a tabby. ‘Apologize at once or I’m afraid I’m going to have to thrash you.’

  Wyndham had never understood his friend’s attitude. Most of the other boys in his house at school treated the lower orders as an inferior race, drew great enjoyment from poking fun at the yokels, but not Postgate. Yet, there were many more important aspects to this young man which Wyndham did respect and, chary of losing his friendship, he backed down from his stance.

  ‘I thought she liked it,’ he mumbled as if Kit were not present. ‘She didn’t order me to stop.’

  ‘How can I order you to do anything?’ demanded a red-faced Kit, who had pulled out a handkerchief and was twisting it nervously through her hands. ‘You’re my employer’s son, you just said yourself I’d lose my job if I kicked up a fuss – but seeing as you’re probably gonna get me dismissed anyway, I might as well go the whole hog and tell you that I don’t like it! I don’t like it at all and I want it to stop, if you please!’ She was close to tears. Alarmed, the half-hidden Tish hopped from foot to foot, moaning.

  Once again Postgate stepped in. ‘Do the decent thing, old chap.’ His voice forbade argument. ‘Show a little house spirit. I’m sure your father wouldn’t really like it if he knew.’

  Afraid of bringing retribution upon himself if the truth came out, and not wishing to jeopardize this important friendship, Wyndham muttered an apology and said he would not do it again, his eyes flickerin
g only briefly to the parlourmaid’s face as if it were abhorrent to him.

  Still plucking at the handkerchief Kit thanked him, but sought to take advantage of the other boy’s obvious influence. ‘And could I impose upon you not to let on to anyone you found me in the garden?’

  ‘Your secret is safe with us.’ The young lion was first to respond, consulting Wyndham, who gave a sullen nod, then the other boy, who gave more eager affirmation. Kit noticed that the latter was much taller than the other two, though built like a beanpole and rather stooped, having the appearance of a sapling under assault from a breeze.

  Last to be consulted was Everard, who refused to promise that he would not tell.

  ‘You little sneak!’ accused Postgate. ‘After – what’s your name?’ He spun swiftly on Kit, who provided her name. ‘After Kit risked her honour to save you!’

  ‘I don’t need a woman to save me!’ Everard was furious at hearing himself dubbed a little boy by Kit. ‘I may tell, I may not.’ Before anyone could catch him he ran off. Infected by panic, Tish followed.

  ‘Oh, leave the little squirt!’ Wyndham fell into a heap on the mossy grass and pretended to be bored with the whole matter. ‘He won’t say anything. At least we’ve got rid of Tish.’

  ‘Is he likely to rat?’ enquired Postgate, one eye blinking.

  Wyndham gave a sound of mirth. ‘Nobody listens to the poor idiot anyway. God, it’s hot!’

  Disregarding their smart attire, Postgate and the beanpole fell down beside him. Kit was about to sneak away when she heard Wyndham’s sly utterance, ‘Of course I didn’t promise not to tell about her borrowing father’s books.’

  Kit wheeled around, mouth agape, her trepidation resurrected.

  ‘Beware the all-seeing one!’ mocked Wyndham.

  But Postgate knew his friend a lot better than Kit. ‘He’s having you on – Dolphin, you blighter!’ and he fell on the other, landing playful punches to all parts of his body, the beanpole joining in and the three of them rolling around on the ground, not like gentlemen, thought an amazed Kit, but like street arabs. Unsure of her position, she hovered there for instruction.

  After sating their high spirits, the three youths emerged from their tussle with laughing faces, starched collars smudged with dirt and all memory of previous antagonism wiped away.

  ‘God knows what she wants with a book like that anyway!’ It was not said spitefully, Wyndham was in better humour now. ‘It’s not likely she’ll ever get to travel.’

  ‘No, but I like to learn about other countries,’ objected Kit. ‘It’s all right for you, sir, who probably learn all about it at your fine school —’

  ‘Geography!’ Wyndham was contemptuous. ‘That’s just for squirts in Prep.’

  Kit wanted to retort what exactly did they learn, but was too in awe of the young gentlemen even though they were three years her junior. The Postgate one was rather nice – she wondered what on earth he found in common with Wyndham. Anxious to learn whether or not the latter was serious about betraying her, she hovered, twisting the handkerchief round and round one finger.

  The boys studied her. What a sight I must look, thought Kit, insects and bits of greenery infesting her auburn hair. A fit of whispering and giggling ensued, drawing a crimson flush to her cheeks. Embarrassment, combined with the heat of the afternoon, occasioned damp patches to appear under the arms of her printed cotton dress.

  ‘This is most impolite,’ laughed Postgate and sought to spare Kit’s discomfort by telling her, ‘I do beg your pardon, but my friend Denaby seems most taken with you.’

  ‘Postgate!’ The blushing beanpole punched the other on the arm, sparking another bout of wrestling.

  Kit too blushed, unravelling the handkerchief and twisting it round her finger again, raising her voice above the hullabaloo. ‘If you please, sir, may I leave?’

  ‘Of course, off you go!’ The obvious leader of the trio grinned at her in friendly manner, his eyes performing their leisurely feline blink. ‘And have no concern, we won’t divulge your little secret.’

  Kit showed gratitude. ‘Thank you Master Po —, Po—’

  For some reason Wyndham found her stammering reply incredibly funny and rolled around on the floor, amusing his colleagues. ‘Po-po!’

  Increasingly humiliated, Kit was forced to explain, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name, sir!’

  ‘Pay no heed to these jackasses, Kit.’ The youth jumped to his feet and beheld her kindly. ‘My name is Ossie Postgate – and may I suggest you make good your escape before my oafish friend blames you for giving him an apoplectic stroke?’

  To another hoot of laughter from Wyndham, Kit fled, leaving behind the sounds of renewed wrestling.

  Try as she might to compose herself, the episode had left Kit highly ruffled and her reappearance in the servants’ quarters provoked interested comment.

  ‘Where the devil have you been?’ demanded a cross Ivy. ‘You said you were going to fetch new linen and that was over half an hour ago!’ Reaching up, she picked at a strand of greenery that Kit had overlooked in her auburn hair. ‘Went to look for it in the hedge bottom, did you?’

  ‘Sorry, I got waylaid by the mistress on my way down the corridor.

  She told me to change the flowers in the drawing room so I had to go get some from the gardener.’

  Ivy remained suspicious. Kit was always sloping off, trying to dodge work. ‘That’s not your job – and it didn’t take you half an hour.’

  ‘No, but I had to wait ages for him to cut some. You know what these gardeners’re like, won’t let you touch anything. Then on my way back I ran into Master Wyndham and his friends—’

  ‘Oh, now it’s all coming out!’ jeered Rosalind. ‘I thought there’d be a man involved.’

  ‘You speak for yourself,’ scolded Kit. ‘Master Wyndham just asked me to fetch some cordial for him and Master Ossie and – the other one whatever his name is.’

  ‘Master Ossie?’ Cook gave a quizzical frown.

  Having invented the elaborate lie Kit now had to follow through, and bustled about collecting tumblers. ‘Yes, you know, that fair-haired boy with the rosy cheeks – not the tall one, the other one. Nice boy.’

  Lily’s bulldog jaw emitted a gasp of outraged laughter. ‘She means Viscount Postgate!’

  At the unified splutter of mirth Kit stopped in her tracks.

  ‘Master Ossie indeed, nice boy indeed – his father’s the Earl of Garborough, I’ll have you know!’ Whilst others guffawed, Cook performed a weary shake of head. ‘What next? Is no man safe from her designs?’

  Kit tried to explain that it had been merely an observation, he was a nice boy, how was she to know he was a viscount?

  Rosalind sought to warn her. ‘Well, don’t think you can get your claws into this one. He’s been earmarked for Miss Agnes.’

  * * *

  The next morning Kit delivered tea to the young guests’ rooms, leaving Master Wyndham’s until last, as was her usual habit. Both boys were drowsy, allowing her to make good her escape before they realized that it was the girl from the garden and thus place her in a humiliating position. Anticipating the usual assault, she finally delivered Wyndham’s tea, but to her relief nothing happened. He did not even bother to open his eyes. Expecting some kind of trick – that he would leap up at her at the last minute – she could hardly believe that he had allowed her to escape unscathed.

  Similarly, her forays into the house, which previously would have met with Wyndham’s groping, today went unimpeded. Greatly unburdened, Kit would have liked to reissue thanks to Ossie Postgate – for in her eyes he would be for ever thus – but in the knowledge that he was a viscount, it was improbable that she would make social contact with him again.

  The day went as had any other day before it. For the most part of it Kit evaded work as best she could, then went to bed.

  The moment she entered her room she was aware of a presence hiding behind the door. Encountering Wyndham she gave a sharp inhal
ation and tried to run but he grabbed her, wrapping both arms around her and pinioning her own arms so that she could not strike out at him.

  ‘Shut up!’ Seeing she was about to scream he hissed at her, ‘Shut up, you stupid bitch!’

  ‘You shouldn’t be in here!’ Dancing around trying to dislodge him, Kit twisted this way and that, envisioning some horrible assault upon her person.

  ‘I can go anywhere I like, it’s my house!’ Wyndham grimaced, trying to hang on to her but she was much bigger than he and in her struggles eventually toppled over, bringing his weight down on top of her and knocking the breath from both of them.

  Eyes wide, Kit fought to inhale. Being the first to recover she tried to push him off and clamber to her feet but Wyndham struggled to remain on top of her, himself gasping for breath.

  ‘Agh, you stupid slut, I think you’ve broken my arm!’

  ‘You promised you’d never touch me again!’ she tearfully accused, all the while trying to push him off. ‘If this is what a gentleman’s word is worth—’

  ‘For pity’s sake!’ Wyndham staggered to his feet and closed the door, trapping her. ‘Keep your voice down! I only came to deliver a message!’

  Breast rising and falling, Kit jumped to her feet and pulled her clothes to order. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It might have been easier to ask that before you inflicted these injuries – my God, I’m certain you’ve broken my arm!’ He grimaced and examined it.

  ‘Please, Master Wyndham, you shouldn’t be in here! I beg you go before anyone comes.’ Kit’s agitation gave way to a frown. ‘How did you know it was my room anyway?’

  ‘I make it my business to know.’ Wyndham turned smug. ‘Come here all the time, as a matter of fact, just to keep an eye on things, you know. Oh, if only Father could see the selection of books from his library that have made their way here.’

  ‘I always put ’em back though! Anyway, what message is so important that you have to wait till this hour to deliver it?’