News from Savile Row was mixed. Monty had been appointed check weighman by the miners, Sarah had recently given birth to a stillborn child and Beata was again racked by bronchitis. Other news went unsaid: Amelia had by now heard from Ivy, her old friend, about the mayhem brought about by Kit, but to her credit did not mention it to her elders, simply regarded her sister with disapproval. That there was somewhat more to the tale than anybody else was aware she did not doubt, for how could Kit afford such clothes on her budget? At any other time Amelia would have raised the question, but with Sarah still wan from her loss, today was not the time to cause such upset. Besides, every time one opened a topic there came a burst of coughing that made any talk inaudible.
Owen winced at the painful hacking from his niece’s chest. ‘Have you had this lass to a doctor?’ He was informed that this was unnecessary as Beata got the same complaint every winter. ‘If it’s the one and six that’s bothering you
Monty was offended ‘There’s no point in wasting Dr Ibbetson’s time.’
‘Ibbetson?’ scoffed Owen, and mimicked the doctor’s pat answer. ‘“There’s a lot of it about – I’ve had it meselfl”’
Monty would not have a word said against the physician. ‘He knows well enough what ails Beata – he’s seen enough of her. He makes up some special medicine for bronchitis that he keeps there all the time.’
‘How does he know it’s bronchitis if he han’t even looked at her?’ Owen had never cared for Dr Ibbetson, who always seemed to have something other than the patient on his mind.
‘Why, he’s a marvellous man – only has to hear the symptoms and he knows straight away!’
‘Well, his medicine doesn’t appear to be doing much good.’ Owen grimaced at another bout of coughing and indicated the pan that simmered on the range, a mixture of linseed, vinegar and liquorice, raisins and brown sugar, which Sarah made every year against the common cold. ‘You’d be as well giving Beat some o’ that jollop rather than waste your brass. It sounds right dry to me. You want to try giving her inhalants so she can get some of that phlegm up.’
‘We’ve tried it, nothing comes up!’ An annoyed Sarah put tea on the table. ‘The doctor’s told us just to keep using the medicine – Probe, leave Beata alone, will you!’ The little boy was clambering all over his sister’s lap, swinging from her auburn hair. ‘Monty, see to your son.’
Even illness could not suppress Beata’s kind indulgence. ‘He’s not hurting, bless him.’
Despite this assurance Monty grasped a handful of the child’s dress and swung Probyn on to his own lap, leaving Beata to clear her lungs without being pestered. Assailed by a less than festive spirit, he asked himself was this Sarah’s only vision of his role? A bestower of punishment and wages.
Owen was scornful. ‘Course he tells you to keep using it – it’s paying for his holiday!’
‘He must know what he’s talking about, he’s a doctor!’ Sarah glared at him.
At Owen’s persistence, his brother damned him as a blessed know-all and the matter was closed.
An umbraged Owen did not stay long after this. As he made to leave, Kit ran after him with her basket, whispering to avoid the children hearing. ‘I’ve brought these little gifts for t’kids! Here, hide ’em under your jacket.’
‘What, you’ve bought ’em?’ Owen frowned in embarrassment. It was unusual for any of the Kilmasters to bestow gifts.
Kit told him that the donation came from the Earl. ‘And there’s a bit of pie here and some cake – go on, take it, it’d only get chucked out when they start their Christmas binge.’
Instead of benevolence, Owen regarded the toys and food as an illustration of the ruling class’s wastefulness, and was appalled. Nevertheless, he took them. ‘Some of us can’t be so choosy. Thanks, Kit.’ He turned to go, then wheeled to enlist Kit’s help in another field. ‘Eh, see if you can persuade our Monty to take Beata somewhere else. Lass needs to see a proper doctor. Go on, you can get round him, he waint listen to me.’
Kit promised to try, and wished him a merry Christmas before returning to the gathering. But her mind was on other things and not long after he had left she totally forgot Owen’s request, spending much of the afternoon with only one ear on the family’s conversation. Having still a good deal left of the twenty pounds from the Denabys, she had purchased another bolt of expensive cloth, for there was to be a servants’ ball on Christmas Eve. This was hardly the news to give those who had just lost a child and so, upon leaving at the end of the afternoon, she merely told them that she would be sad not to join them at Christmas, and consequently made her eager return to Postgate Park.
Amid the excited planning came a vague hint of unease, for with Viscount Postgate soon to be in residence Kit wondered whether he would bring his friend Denaby to stay. She had tried to forget Thomas, but it was very hard not to be reminded when one was using his parents’ bribe to purchase a ball gown, every stitch that went into it reminding her of her humiliation. Was she really so unappealing that folk were prepared to hand over money so as not to acquire her as a daughter-in-law?
With only days left to go, Kit was having a difficult task in finishing the gown, an ambitious project in dark turquoise satin with flounced underskirts, twists and folds and pleats, and she had taken to sneaking the odd half-hour from her chores to work on it. With much more leniency shown at Christmas towards such digression, Kit was not alone, but was joined by two other parlourmaids, each of them stitching furiously in order that they might outshine each other at the coming ball.
‘Shall we get to dance with Lord Bugger?’ asked Kit drawing laughter from her companions over the nickname. ‘Well, I’ve never heard anything like it! He swears more than any man I know. Our Monty’d never say half the things he does – especially not in front of women.’
Sophie told her that she would regret it if the Earl should choose to dance with her, as he might as well have two wooden legs for all the skill he showed. ‘I hope to dance with Viscount Postgate – now, he is good!’
Kit smiled and said she was looking forward to seeing Ossie again. ‘He got me this job, you know.’
The others shared an exasperated smile, for Kit must have told them a dozen times.
‘You won’t get to dance with him much if Mr Popplewell has his way,’ grinned Lucy. ‘He’s right smitten with you.’
Kit gave a laugh of denial. ‘Nay, he’s old enough to be me father! We’re just good pals.’
After exchanging another smile with Lucy, Sophie looked at the clock and said they had better get back to their work, it wouldn’t do for them to take advantage of the housekeeper’s generosity. Kit replied that she would just like to finish this bit and would follow on. Having packed their dresses carefully away, the others left the servants’ hall. Kit delayed her exit for quite a while afterwards, sewing industriously away until the click of the door alerted her to the time. Thinking it was the housekeeper come to chivvy her, she issued, ‘I’ll be there at once!’ But the smell of cigar smoke told her she was in more serious trouble.
Halfway along a hem, she started to rise with a look of alarm on her face and stuttered apology on her lips, but the mistress was too taken by the parlourmaid’s nimble fingers to rebuke her, instead gesticulating for her to continue. Unsure of herself, Kit did as she was told, almost choking at the clouds of smoke that came wafting over her head as the Countess stooped to watch, the blue and yellow parrot perched unsteadily upon , her shoulder.
‘You’re a fine needlewoman!’
‘Thank you, ma’am!’ Kit gave a nervous glance upwards as the bird performed a side-stepping jump from the Countess’s shoulder on to her own auburn head. ‘My sister-in-law taught me.’ She winced as the sharp nails dug into her scalp. The Countess noticed this and chastized the bird, nudging him with a finger until he grasped it and was thus replaced on her shoulder. But still she bent over the maid to watch.
‘The man’s a bloody idiot,’ said the parrot.
Wishin
g her ladyship would issue instructions for her to get on with her parlourmaiding, Kit was forced to proceed with her tiny stitches, and to endure the appalling stench of the cigar, knowing she would not be able to remove it from her hair and clothes for days.
‘Hmm! I think we shall put you to better use. Go and tell my seamstress that you’ve come to help. You’ll be much appreciated.’
Astounded by the sudden promotion, Kit was eager to escape, and folded away her gown, but was told by the Countess that she could take it with her and work on it once the main task was done.
Congratulating herself on this additional stroke of luck, Kit went off to the dressmaker’s room, where her arrival was, in fact, greatly appreciated. Anticipating the glorious silks in need of her attention – perhaps a ball gown for one of the Earl’s daughters – Kit was dismayed to be presented with a stack of gingham pieces. Not gowns for Ladies Kerenza and Ursula, but smocks for the poor children.
From morn to bedtime during those Advent days Kit stitched until her fingertips were raw, resigned to working on her own dress by candlelight in her room, the charitable Lady Garborough totally oblivious to the incongruity of this exploitation.
* * *
As it turned out, Kit would not have been able to get home for Christmas anyway, for with it came a violent snowstorm, the only stroke of luck being that it occurred after Viscount Postgate had arrived, for the entire household was now snowbound. She half hoped to avoid the Earl’s son, for he would be aware by now of her humiliation at his friend’s hands.
Though there was little time for reading in the busy days before Christmas, Kit had discovered that Lord Garborough had an even more extensive library than Mr Dolphin and, encouraged by the rather lax atmosphere here, she had taken to repeating her previous skulduggery. Having been wholly occupied by the pile of gingham smocks, there had been no time for her to return the volume she had borrowed last week, secreting it under her bed. But now that the smocks had been delivered she sought to rectify this immediately. A feather duster tucked under her arm as explanation for her reason for being here if she was caught out, she peeked into the library, to her joy finding it unoccupied, for everyone was at breakfast.
Replacing the volume, Kit told herself she should make good her escape, but her enquiring nature would not allow her to leave the room empty-handed. To Kit the smell of old books had the bouquet of a wine cask, possessing the same inebriating effect. Outside, the world was white, but here in the cosiness of the library with its roaring log fire, the boughs of Christmas greenery, the rich oak panelling, and row upon row of leather-bound splendour, she was seduced into a mood of well-being. Sauntering along the perimeter of the carpet, trying to keep her eyes averted from the Bacchanalian prints upon the wall, her eyes perused the shelves, unable to make her choice for the selection was so vast. Curiosity exhorted her to stop and remove a volume from between its partners – but on opening the book she recoiled, for the illustrations within were outrageous. Shocked, she was about to put it straight back, then her inquisitive nature took over and she reopened the book to study its fantastic scenes of debauchery, turning the pages to discover more.
The door opened. An expert at subterfuge, Kit whipped the feather duster from under her arm and with two deft flicks of the leather volume had it replaced on the shelf before the intruder had realized what was amiss.
‘Kit, how nice to see you again!’ Ossie Postgate came forward, eyes performing their involuntary feline blink, his pleasure genuine.
Kit dropped a curtsy and returned his sentiment, thanking him once again for his help in attaining this post. Ossie replied that he was glad to assist and asked how she was getting along, receiving the reply that she was very happy. Kit answered all queries politely, pleaded silently for him not to make any mention of Thomas. To her relief, the young Viscount seemed instinctively to know the pain this would cause her, and on this issue remained silent. In addition to this kindness, he voiced hope that the road would soon be cleared of this wretched snow so as not to spoil the festivities – not that he was expecting any personal friends – thereby putting her mind at rest over the question of Thomas’s appearance.
Ossie’s eyes twinkled and he glanced at the bookshelves. ‘I see you are still in possession of an enquiring mind.’
Remembering that he had been privy to her secret at Cragthorpe Hall, Kit looked guilty and admitted she had just returned a book, her flustered protestations about treating his lordship’s library with respect receiving a magnanimous gesture.
‘There’s no need for such underhand measures here, Kit. One only has to ask.’ Upon hearing that she did not like to, Ossie added, ‘You’ll find my father a generous man.’ He reached for the volume she had obviously just replaced, for it protruded a quarter of an inch from the others. Too late to stop him, Kit was forced to watch as the Viscount opened the tome and raised his eyebrows. ‘No wonder you didn’t like to ask!’
She blushed furiously, her abashment made worse by his perpetual wink. ‘That wasn’t the one I borrowed, I was just dusting it when you came in!’
He beheld her as if she were a naughty child. ‘Kit, really!’ Then he started to laugh.
‘I’m telling the truth!’ Her fingers scrabbled along the shelves for the one she had genuinely borrowed but were unable to detect it. ‘It was one about Africa!’
‘I’m sure this one’s far more stimulating.’ Ossie continued to grin.
‘It’s disgusting! I’ve never seen anything like it.’ Kit felt she might faint with the heat of embarrassment.
Ossie replaced the volume he held in his hand and, out of personal interest, took down another, the content of which proved to be even more lurid.
Kit covered her eyes as he held it out to show her. Laughing kindly, he made a gesture at the shelf. ‘Then I beg you, stay away from this section completely.’ He was obviously familiar with every volume in it.
Kit said indeed she would, wondering how a young aristocrat could behave in such a manner before the gentler sex.
She was about to leave, then thought to ask about a mutual acquaintance whose welfare often occupied her thoughts. ‘Do you know if Master Tish has been found, sir?’
Ossie replied, ‘Not to my knowledge.’
Kit looked satisfied that Tish and Myrtle had managed to evade capture. She hoped they were happy.
It was as well she left then, for not long afterwards the Earl came looking for his son.
Ossie chose not to report the amusing incident with Kit, but did put forth the request that she be allowed to borrow a book occasionally, adding that as she had been treated very shabbily by Denaby, it would be a charitable action.
The Earl granted his request. ‘But she isn’t to have free rein. Heaven knows what she’ll choose.’
Ossie smiled to himself, having just witnessed Kit’s amusing mistake.
However, he had misinterpreted his father’s concern. ‘The poor must not be allowed to think for themselves,’ explained the Earl. ‘It’s our duty to guide them. I shall leave it to you to pick something suitable.’
Ossie promised to do so but, his company requisitioned by his father, he was forced to wait until later in the day, when he turned up in the servants’ hall with a selection of reading matter. A blushing Kit expected that his favouritism would attract detrimental comments from her colleagues, but in fact there were none, for she was to discover that it was not favouritism at all. The Viscount treated everyone equally, seemingly a friend to each.
So it was that when his lordship’s son was the first in line to ask her to dance at the servants’ ball, Kit had learned enough to know that it was nothing more than an illustration of his noble lineage. There would be no dalliance with this young man.
However, there were plenty more fish in the sea and Kit was to dance with all of them that evening. Never had she had such an exhilarating time in her life, she announced to Mr Popplewell who now took his long-awaited turn, whisking her around the ballroom in a surprisi
ngly sure-footed manner – even if the two of them were most unevenly matched, he being only five foot six, which in itself brought his face into line with the most appealing portion of Kit’s voluptuous anatomy.
Lapping up his compliments about how absolutely ravishing she looked in her turquoise gown, with her auburn hair sculpted into a waterfall of ringlets, Kit had no inkling that her radiant response would be interpreted as encouragement. Not even when, at the end of his allotted time, Popplewell pressed her hand to his lips and thanked her for making him the happiest man in the world, did she guess, putting his enthusiasm down to his vast consumption of punch.
Not until the wonderful evening had ended, the band had played the National Anthem and the tired but jubilant servants went off to bed, did she discover the result of her performance.
After taking off her gown and caressing it lovingly for a second, Kit hung the garment on her clothes rail. With weary movements, she sat on the bed and pulled at the laces on her corsets, sagging with relief as her restricted flesh burst free.
A soft tap came at the door. Thinking it was one of the girls, Kit did not bother to hide her chemise and drawers, but upon opening the door to see Mr Popplewell she stifled a shriek and closed it in his face. Nothing happened. After a nervous moment, Kit opened the door a crack and peered round it. The skeletal, toothy apparition was still there.
‘Can I come in?’ He was still dressed as for the ball, though his tie was slightly askew and his eyes were glazed.
‘No! Go to bed,’ she hissed at him. But then he looked so forlorn that against her better judgement she opened the door wider and gave a rapid summons. ‘What are you doing here? You’ll get us dismissed!’
‘Oh, Kit, you’re that gorgeous!’ He made an inebriated move to grab her but she staved him off with an outstretched arm. At which he looked confused. ‘I thought – well, I thought there were summat between us …’
A Sense of Duty Page 27
