A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Frustrated, Kit asked, ‘What exactly is Classics?’

  He tried not to sound too stuffy. ‘Well, Latin and Greek, the translation and grammar of such texts, composition – you know, all that sort of thing relating to the ancient world.’

  Kit thought she knew. ‘Oh, you mean like the Cyclops and the Golden Fleece? Why, we read that when we were seven!’

  Thomas gave a rather patronizing smile. ‘Though not in its original form, I doubt.’

  Kit shrugged. ‘What about music?’ This was another of her loves.

  ‘We’re only allowed to do that in our free time and I don’t care to.’

  Kit regarded this as a wasted privilege. ‘You must have bags of free time from what you’ve told me! Are your friends similarly disposed?’

  ‘Postgate manages to find time for piano lessons in between football practices – but then he needs so little practice. He’s a magnificent sportsman, that’s why he’s Head of House even though he isn’t in the Sixth yet. And he can lick anyone in the school. I wish I were as popular.’

  Kit didn’t understand the terms he used. ‘I can’t see Master Wyndham being that popular.’

  Thomas gave an oblique smile. ‘I’ll grant he does fancy himself as a bit of a swell, but he’s good fun.’

  ‘Usually at someone else’s expense,’ muttered Kit.

  Thomas regarded this as an opportunity to mention something. Reaching an arm over the back of the bench he took the velvety grey leaf of a foxglove between finger and thumb and began to caress it thoughtfully. ‘By the by, he’s got his hackles up about me seeing so much of you.’ In actual fact Wyndham had told him that he hadn’t brought his friend here to be Kit’s companion and if all he wanted to do was canoodle with the maids he may as well go home. ‘He says …’ there was hesitation in Thomas’s voice ‘…if I don’t spend my last day here with him and Postgate he won’t invite me again.’

  Kit started. ‘You mean this’ll be our last meeting?’

  ‘Only until I come at Christmas!’ The abrupt removal of his grip on the leaf quaked the entire plant, releasing a shower of pollen. ‘If I do as he wants now we stand a good chance of being able to see each other in the holidays. We don’t want to funk it. I’m afraid I won’t even be able to get away to leave a letter or he’ll accuse me of letting the house down.’

  ‘But you’ll write while you’re away?’ entreated Kit.

  ‘I fancy not, our letters are occasionally vetted – but be assured I’ll be thinking of you all the time and the moment I’m able I’ll arrange to see you. In the meantime,’ Thomas added, taking her in his arms, ‘we must make the most of this afternoon.’

  * * *

  Kit could not recall such pain as that experienced after Thomas’s departure, the worst of it being that there was no one with whom she could share it. A Sunday visit home provided some relief in the form of dear Beata, who would listen and, at the right moment, congratulate or sympathize. But their get-togethers were few and far between, and besides, it was not Beata Kit wanted to see.

  The summer dragged by, made worse by Master Wyndham’s presence, for each time Kit set eyes upon him she was reminded of his friend. Apart from the delivery of morning tea there was scant contact between them now. Unlike his classmate, Wyndham found no interest in Kit other than to use at whim. Fortunately this did not mean a repeat of his molestation of her. He had obviously been warned off by Thomas.

  At long last the time came for her employer’s son to return to school, but alas this still left three months until Christmas – and even when the blessed season eventually loomed Kit was yet uncertain whether she would get to see her admirer, for there had been no word at all.

  Then, a wonderful surprise! Along with the letters addressed to the house came one for Kit. All a-twitter, she declined to open it in front of her fellow servants, and slipped it into her pocket to read later, thereby confirming their suspicions that it was from a man and invoking the comment that she would cop it if Mrs Grunter found out, all trying to goad her into divulging his identity. Kit wondered what the housekeeper would have to say if she knew that her parlourmaid’s admirer was none other than a friend of the Dolphins. But instead of rising to the bait, she remained silent, waiting until she was alone before ripping open the envelope.

  There was instant reward. In his first sentence Thomas informed her that he would be coming home for Christmas and would also enjoy a sojourn at the Dolphin residence. Barely able to withhold a yell, Kit pored avidly over the rest. According to its author there was so much festive mail that the masters had little time to censor it, this being so he had dared to include a few lines of poetry that would more ably illustrate his feelings for her than anything he might try to compose himself.

  Kit was to read those lines over and over again, delighting in the knowledge that she and Thomas would soon be reunited – might even get to dance together, for once again Mr Dolphin had arranged festivities for his domestic staff on Boxing Day.

  It felt almost a duty to have to make a yuletide visit to her brother’s house. Hardly before she had arrived there, Kit had an urgent desire to get back to Cragthorpe and the arranged dance. Even Beata, her normal harbour in times of turbulence, was less agreeable company, for her habitual winter cough had descended, proving such an irritation when one was trying to divulge intimate gossip.

  Kit first sighted her niece’s willowy form on Main Street, travelling from the opposite direction. Hunched into her shawl, her skin like tallow, she walked like a middle-aged woman, thought Kit, not a young girl. Running, she came to meet Beata. At once the face lit up, eager for Kit’s news on Thomas, which the other was as keen to bestow.

  ‘Come to t’farleymelow!’ she urged her niece as they set off up the incline. ‘I’ve got a birthday present for you. Where’ve you been?’

  Beata replied that she had visited Dr Ibbetson with her cough. ‘I’ll give you three guesses what he said.’

  Kit grinned and quoted the physician. ‘“There’s a lot of it about – I’ve had it myselfl”’ Beata echoed the words, laughing breathlessly as they reached the top of the incline. The privies had obviously been recently cleaned out, for the whole village stank. Voicing distaste, Kit put her eye to the peephole in the door, then both went inside and sat next to each other. Prior to anything else, Kit handed over the roll of thick edging lace she had bought for her niece’s sixteenth birthday. Beata displayed ecstasy and said that the lacework was so fine it must have cost a fortune. Kit admitted it had – that was why she could not afford to buy Christmas gifts for anyone else, though she had managed to plunder the larder at Cragthorpe. Removing the cover from her basket, she revealed a dozen oranges and a selection of confectionery. After bestowing sufficient praise upon her own gift, Beata shoved it up the leg of her drawers, saying she would save it for her wedding trousseau, then asked for the latest news on Thomas.

  For a while Kit took the stage, but with the cold air savaging Beata’s lungs, it was hard to relate one’s hopes and dreams. Her voice drowned out beneath another bout of coughing, she signalled that perhaps they should go home where it was warmer.

  Warmth was in the greeting Kit received too. Little Probyn was now sixteen months old. His hair was a pale sandy red and had developed a little curl at the front. Toddling over, arms upstretched, he squealed as his aunt swept him high into the air then squashed him against her breast to deliver a kiss. Almost immediately he struggled to be down again, eager to be on his newly shod feet and show off his prowess. Rhoda was in the throes of handing over her pay packet, receiving a penny in return. Kit remarked on how she had grown lately. Like her elder sisters she was now taller than her mother. Trapped by their rug-making, the rest of the girls made no move to break their fireside circle, though they called out in gladness to Aunt Kit, who came to inspect their work.

  ‘We’re trying to get it finished for tomorrow,’ Ethel told her, the hook weaving in and out. ‘And we will if everyone pulls their weight,’ This stri
ct addition was for the younger ones, towards whom Ethel was wont to be rather oppressive. ‘You can help us if you want, Aunt.’

  Kit said perhaps afterwards, when she had warmed her fingers, then accepted a cup of tea from her sister-in-law, greeted her brother, and sat down to enjoy the company.

  Sarah was not so rigid in her Wesleyanism as some, and apart from carols the girls were allowed to sing songs to make their work lighter. Wyn broke into tune with ‘The First Day of Christmas’ and inevitably got the wrong words. There was much sniggering as each sang their own line – three French hens, two turtle doves – all awaiting Wyn’s repeated mistake, the glee building into an explosion of laughter as they chorused the final line – ‘And a parsnip in a pear treeee!’

  Otherwise, Christmas at Ralph Royd was an unedifying affair: a trip to chapel and dinner at Owen’s house. Having performed a morning address he was still all fired up by midday, which meant, thought Kit dismally, they were to be treated to an after-dinner sermon on the union. The return of two miners’ candidates to Parliament, both without Liberal opposition, said Owen, showed that the working man was beginning to have his voice heard. Kit wished it was not heard quite so vociferously and tried to shut her mind to it, choosing instead to watch Monty’s little boy play with the rest of the children, all the while thinking of Thomas.

  ‘Well, our Kit obviously finds my conversation scintillating!’ Owen’s jocular comment shook her from her thoughts. ‘Just ’cause nobody’s taking any notice of thee – away then, maungy mug, let’s hear all thy news.’

  Sharing the briefest conspiratorial glance with Beata, Kit blushingly admitted she did not have much to tell. With most of her activities centred on Thomas she dared not voice them for fear of revealing her lover too soon. She said only that she was looking forward to dancing at the servants’ ball.

  ‘A dance?’ said Owen, beholding his well-built sister. ‘Is Mr Dolphin sure the foundations can take it?’

  As Kit lashed out playfully, Monty looked despairing of the example she set for his daughters. How could he explain to them it was an ungodly pursuit when their aunt defied all propriety? ‘You and your dancing.’

  ‘What about that Master Tish?’ asked Owen. ‘Is he still following you round?’

  Kit frowned and said she had seen very little of him lately. ‘I feel really sorry for him, especially when his family goes off to London and leaves him behind. I doubt they’ll ever let him marry, being such a simpleton.’

  Owen agreed that it was unjust. He should be allowed to be a man. Sarah and Monty told Kit to mind her own business.

  Owen said it was obvious the young man wouldn’t have enjoyed the same education as his brother, then. Kit said that was of little significance. ‘They don’t teach them much to say it’s a fancy school.’ She told them about the narrow curriculum, explaining that they seemed to learn only about the ancient world.

  Owen scrutinized her. ‘You seem to know an awful lot about it. I hope you’re not secretly hobnobbing with the gentry?’

  Kit blustered, sharing another quick glance with Beata. ‘I’ve just sneaked a look at the young master’s books that’s all. D’you know, that Wyndham is a filthy little devil, leaving his drawers all over the place for me to pick up – and you should see the colour of them. They’re blacker than our Monty’s!’

  Their father’s mock outrage caused a titter amongst the children. Having veered the subject away from its dangerous course, Kit was glad when the conversation returned to the miners, and she was able to spend the rest of the afternoon dreaming about Thomas.

  * * *

  How swiftly could a realized dream evaporate. The Boxing Day ball fulfilled all its promise, only to be over in the blink of an eyelid. Allowed one ecstatic waltz with her secret paramour, trying not to gaze into his eyes for fear of giving herself away, Kit was then forced to watch him depart into the drawing room with his hosts, permitting the servants to ‘enjoy their treat without further interference from their superiors’, in Mr Dolphin’s words. Hitherto bereft, she must perforce depend on the kisses snatched when delivering his morning tea – kisses, oh so brief – for once again the jealous, spiteful Wyndham had forbidden his friend to have any dalliance with the parlourmaid, even to the extent of bursting into Thomas’s bedroom in the hope of catching them out.

  All too soon, Thomas was gone, leaving Kit to rely on the whispered promise that he would write when he could, and would make a gargantuan effort to see her in the summer.

  11

  Perhaps this year, thought Kit, returning to her life of drudgery after Christmas, perhaps this year they’ll take me down to London. At least it would help to break up the awful hiatus that yawned between now and her summer liaison. To this end, she spent the next dark months making herself appear far more industrious than was real, ensuring that such diligence was observed by her employer.

  Paradoxically, rather than ingratiate, her efforts simply grated on Mr Dolphin’s patience. Her constant appearances in the corridors when he happened to be passing, her perpetual bustling and dusting and humming – could he never find a place that was unsullied by her over-endowed presence? Was it not enough that he had to control his wife’s suicidal urges, without this one ruining his peace too? Inevitably, Kit was to draw her master’s wrath.

  ‘Get out! Get out, you stupid trollop!’ Faced with her looming presence once again, just as he was settling into a nook to read his newspaper, he hurled it into an untidy pile and railed at Kit. ‘If I should be offended by that fat backside once more, you will regret it!’

  Kit recoiled. How anomalous that in this great baronial hall, which epitomized chivalry, its master treated this maiden with utter contempt!

  Barging a retreat through the brass-studded door, the angry young woman stormed along twenty-five yards of dimly lit corridor towards the servants’ quarters, muttering oaths, blinded by fury and the fact that her eyes had not yet acclimatized to the sudden drop in light. It was in this state that she almost tripped over a badly placed bucket. Her boot made noisy contact, sending soapy water slopping over the sides and across the floor.

  She emitted a bellow, demanding to know who had left it in such a stupid place.

  In response, a meek figure emerged from a gloomy corner and began to mop the floor. ‘I’m ever so sorry, miss!’

  ‘Myrtle!’ Kit took out her frustration on the underling. ‘You blinkin’ dimwit – I could’ve broken me neck!’ It constantly amazed her how one so incompetent managed to keep her job. Contrary to Amelia’s prediction that she would last only a few weeks, Myrtle was still here almost two years later. Kit was about to say much more when another figure came to stand at the girl’s side, issuing disapproval.

  ‘I’ll thank you not to be rude to Myrtle.’

  ‘Master Tish!’ After only a moment staring from the scullerymaid’s disarrayed hair to the master’s son, Kit quickly deduced the situation and put a hand to her mouth. ‘Aw, what are you thinking of—’

  ‘Oh, please don’t tell anyone!’ Myrtle put down the mop to lisp tearfully. ‘We’ve only had a little kiss.’

  Her own secret love affair in mind, Kit immediately swore affiliation. ‘Be calm! I’d never give you away.’ Intrigued, she looked at Tish, at the possessive arm he laid around Myrtle’s waist and the determined glint in his eye. It was as if she had never seen him before. ‘But how long have you two—’

  ‘We’ve been friends since the day I arrived,’ gushed Myrtle. ‘I told you before, didn’t I?’ Got on like a house on fire.’

  Kit recalled their conversation. ‘You’re a bit more than friends, though,’ came her observation.

  Myrtle blushed and looked adoringly at her companion. ‘We love each other.’

  Tish found his voice. ‘Myrtle’s my sweetheart. I’m going to marry her.’

  ‘Are you, Master Tish?’ Kit smiled, forgetting all about her previous contretemps. ‘Then I’m very pleased for you.’ The tone of her voice said she was not treating this
seriously.

  Myrtle reddened further but this time with annoyance. Turning to her young man, she advised him tenderly that she had been here a long time and had better go before someone came looking for her. They would see each other again tomorrow.

  Once he had departed in the opposite direction she picked up her mop and bucket and set off towards the kitchen with Kit, telling her. ‘He’s not as loony as people think, you know!’

  ‘Obviously not, but—’

  ‘We do love each other and we want to be married, but we’re hardly ever able to be alone together!’

  Kit felt desperately sorry for the couple, but reminded Myrtle that this was the master’s son. It was unlikely he would give his consent to the marriage.

  Myrtle was still indignant. ‘I don’t see any good reason why they won’t allow Tish some happiness. It’s not as if they’ve got somebody picked out for him like they have for Miss Agnes and Master Wynd—’

  ‘Who?’ Kit frowned. This was the first she knew of it and it had to come from someone like Myrtle. ‘And how do you know?’

  ‘I just heard folk talking. Miss Agnes—’

  ‘I know about her! Who’ve they got for Wyndham?’

  ‘You know Viscount Postgate? Well, he’s got a sister—’

  Kit nodded as Myrtle proceeded, achieving a little more understanding of the situation. Reiterating her long-held opinion, she spoke to Myrtle with more equanimity now. ‘I can’t understand anyone marrying for power or money, can you?’

  ‘No. Even if Tish were heir to a fortune I wouldn’t be interested in his money. I just love him. I know he’s a little bit slow and has trouble doing certain things but if we were allowed to marry I could look after him. It’s just not fair.’

  Kit thoughtfully agreed, her romantic nature coming to the fore. They had almost reached the kitchen. ‘Promise you won’t give us away?’ lisped Myrtle.