‘Nowt like that!’ said a horrified Kit, one arm still outstretched, the other trying vainly to cover her state of undress. ‘We’re friends, that’s all. I never said I’d marry you.’
‘Who said owt about marriage?’ asked Popplewell, genuinely perplexed.
Kit gasped. ‘What sort of girl do you think I am?’
He swayed, his lower lip caught under one protruding tooth. ‘Well, I didn’t mean – I just hoped—’
‘Well, you hoped wrong! I must be bloomin’ mad to let you in – will you please go?’
‘Eh, Kit, I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings. I’d never hurt you for the world.’ The skinny little man looked bitterly disappointed. ‘I don’t know what I thought really – I must’ve drunk too much punch.’
‘I think you must! Now will you go?’
‘Aye, of course I will.’ He made no move to comply. ‘If you want me to.’
‘I do!’
He continued to stand there swaying. ‘So, there’s no chance—’
‘None!’
He let forth a sigh. ‘Won’t you let me have just one good-night kiss? I promise it won’t lead to anything else.’
‘No! Please, Mr Popplewell, if anybody learns you’ve been in my room it isn’t you who’ll get the sack it’s me. Parlourmaids are ten a penny. I’m not so talented as yourself.’ Perhaps flattery would entice him to leave.
‘You’ve always been lovely to me,’ came the slurred but warm reply. ‘I’d hate for this to get in t’way of our friendship. You will still be my friend, won’t you?’ When Kit said that of course she would he turned to go at last, but stopped short at the door. ‘Then won’t you just gimme a friendly little kiss? Just a weenie one.’ He contorted his toothy face and held his finger and thumb apart. ‘I promise I’ll never bother you again – unless you want me to.’
Kit decided it was the only way she was going to get rid of him. Still hesitant, she bent her head, offering not her lips but her cheek. Popplewell delivered a chaste peck, then finally allowed himself to be ejected.
Kit allowed her trapped breath to escape, then fell upon her mattress, imagining what Beata’s reaction would be when she heard this, and laughing fit to burst.
14
Any lasting damage that might have arisen from the incident was forestalled by Mr Popplewell, who took Kit aside the next morning and humbly apologized for his unpardonable intrusion. Although his feelings towards her were genuine, he said, his actions had been those of a bounder and he would understand if she wanted nothing further to do with him. However, he hoped very much that this would not spoil their friendship, for he valued it most highly.
Anyone other than Kit might have thrown up her hands in horror at the assault upon her person, but once over the initial embarrassment, the big-hearted girl replied that she wasn’t aware of anything untoward happening, all that had occurred was a kiss between friends, and that was what they would always be.
The inclement weather was to become worse, causing a cancellation of the Boxing Day meet and other festive activities. The brief respite in which Ossie made his escape back to school was followed by even lower temperatures and January found Postgate Park under an eighteen-inch snowdrift, every beck and river in the area frozen solid. The Earl grumbled that the cold weather would play havoc with the foxes’ breeding season and the hunt could expect a fall in the numbers this year. Others were more concerned with their own creature comforts. Rising to a thick layer of frost upon her window every morning, Kit grumbled constantly about the lack of heating in this ancient building, but was soon to find her heart warmed by different means.
The drudgery of sewing the smocks had produced dividends, the Countess deciding to promote her to the sewing room permanently. Initially there was opposition from the seamstress, Miss Martin – or Martinet, as Kit had quite fittingly dubbed her – who told this upstart that she was insufficiently trained to be let loose on good-quality materials. Yet, after a couple of weeks, Kit’s likeable personality, added to her consistently neat sewing, forced the dressmaker to admit that the girl was in fact very adept, and therefore she graciously began to pass on her extensive knowledge, saying that when she retired Kit could take her place – though of course this would not be for a good while yet.
There were to be many more causes for celebration in 1876. In February Katherine Kilmaster came of age, receiving from her employer a little gold watch to pin upon her ample bosom. The following month Miss Martin suffered a stroke and consequently died – hardly cause for festivity for her bereaved relatives, but to Kit, who took her place, it was a godsend. There was to be some disappointment over the information that she would receive no extra pay, her ladyship obviously considering it enough of a privilege for Kit to have the position. However, towards the end of March came the news that as the countess’s seamstress, Kit would be expected to accompany the family to London.
She could scarcely contain her jubilation, eager for the first Sunday of the month to arrive so that she could bear this news to her family. Alas, her vainglorious announcement was to receive short shrift in the Kilmaster household, everyone ready to warn her of the grave dangers in the capital that could befall those with a penchant for ostentatious display, Amelia compounding the detraction by telling Kit that she would be far too involved with her work to see many sights anyway.
‘I’ll be moving to different climes too, in a month or so,’ announced the frizzy-haired Amelia. She and Albert had found positions with a family and were arranging to sell their house. ‘Our employers are going to set up in York. I’m really looking forward to it.’
With everyone’s attention riveted on the speaker, Kit wondered plaintively what was so much more enthralling about York than the capital. Naturally, had she herself been going there the others wouldn’t be showing this amount of interest. ‘Pity you couldn’t get a family who was moving to London,’ she said, in a tone that implied her destination was far superior.
‘Eh, they’re right posh in York, you know!’ Charity informed her. ‘It’s a lovely place.’
Gwen was quick to spot the reason behind Kit’s petty remark. ‘Her just can’t stand it if her’s not the centre of attention!’
Kit looked stricken. ‘I just meant we could have seen more of each other if she was in London.’
The accusing faces showed no one believed her.
‘You’re mean, that’s what you are,’ chastised Gwen. ‘This poor girl’s got to go back in service ’cause she can’t have children and you even go and spoil that for her.’
It isn’t me who’s always harping on about Amelia being barren! I wouldn’t be unkind enough to mention it, thought Kit. But not wishing to add to Gwen’s thoughtless proclamation, and seeing Amelia’s downcast face, she murmured that she would very much look forward to visiting her sister in York when the opportunity arose.
It was five-year-old Merry who saved the day. ‘Will you take us for a picnic, Aunt?’
Others joined her plea, jumping up and down. Kit laughed and said it was a bit cool to sit around, but she would take them for a walk down to the woods before tea. ‘Are you coming, Beat?’
Still recovering from her winter bout of bronchitis and looking wan, her eldest niece said that she didn’t have the energy and would remain by the fire. Her siblings, grabbing their outdoor wear, were happy to escape the restrained Sunday atmosphere, the younger ones laughing and dancing along the street until they were ordered to show a little decorum by sixteen-year-old Ethel.
‘Leave ’em alone,’ censured Kit. ‘They get enough of that from your dad.’
Out of the shadow of her own siblings, her mood lifted, though the thought did occur that there might be something odd in preferring the company of children. Monty’s brood seemed to reflect her attachment, never far away from her side, running back to share a joke or ask a question. Away from the colliery, the muck stacks and railway lines, across a meadow and into a wood went the happy procession, Kit indicating plants along th
e oaken path for the children to take home for their mother’s medicine chest. Amongst the canopy of newly budded branches they came to a small pond. Encouraged by the sun trap therein, she spread her shawl and sat upon it, exhorting the children to frolic at the water’s edge. Ethel sat beside her, too old and dignified to romp.
Kit withdrew a handkerchief from her pocket – not to use, but to spread upon her knee and take delight from its colourful embroidery. Beata had given it to her for her twenty-first birthday, having worked every stitch herself, even whilst in the throes of bronchitis. Kit smiled and held it up for Ethel to admire. ‘I can’t bring meself to blow me nose on it. It’s too pretty, isn’t it?’ Folding it carefully, she put it away.
It was not long before the youngsters came running back, Alice bearing a palmful of black-spotted jelly. Kit, lurching away in mock disgust, urged her to take it back to the pond immediately. Wyn stayed to question. ‘Aunt, what’s the difference between frogs and toads?’
Little Merry supplied the answer. ‘Frogs come from frog spawn and toads come from toadstools.’
Rhoda howled with laughter.
Gently correcting the stocky-limbed child, Kit uttered a sound of discomfort as Probyn dived on to her lap and snuggled into her breast. ‘I like you, Aunt Kit, you’re like a giant cushion.’
Of all the children, Kit had come to gain a special fondness for the little boy, and now wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, pressing her lips to his pink cheek. ‘Ooh, I like you too, Probe – I wish you were mine.’
He made a rapid decision. ‘I’m going to marry you when I grow up.’
Kit thanked him, but said she would be an old lady when he was of age. He begged her not to marry anybody else. His aunt replied with another kiss to his auburn head and a hug. ‘I shouldn’t think anyone else will have me.’
Rhoda stepped in. ‘All the lads I know think you’re lovely, Aunt.’ Her sister Ethel agreed.
Kit gave a little laugh and praised their kindness. In truth, she did seem to enjoy a good rapport with males. The trouble was that none of them seemed inclined to marry her …
Chasing Thomas Denaby from her mind, she dropped her chin and looked at the watch that was pinned to her breast, saying it would soon be time for tea.
Wyn pointed up into the sky and said that they could eat tea here, for weren’t the fluffy clouds just like the cakes Aunt Kit had bought them? This evoked a medley of noisy chomping as the little ones pretended to claw at the meringue-filled sky and cram the supposed cakes into their mouths.
‘By, you’re that daft, you lot!’ Rising, Kit picked up the damp shawl and led her singing entourage back to Savile Row and less agreeable company, who, as if they had never broken off, continued to lecture their irresponsible sister on how to behave in London.
* * *
Kit fought to recoup her buoyancy and by the time departure day arrived she was once again in high spirits. Why, even the train journey itself would be an adventure, for it would be her first. Up before the birds, she stood excitedly with others on the platform of the little station, waiting to board the Earl’s private saloon carriage – though a different compartment to her employer, naturally.
Once the luggage and passengers were aboard, the railway carriage and a horsebox were shunted several miles along a private rail to the main line by one of the engines from the Earl’s mine, then coupled to the rest of the southbound train. The journey then began in earnest.
Seated next to her friend Mr Popplewell, Kit thoroughly enjoyed every bit of the long but very scenic route, drinking in each morsel of geographical information, even enjoying the pauses for refreshment along the way at noisy, smoke-filled stations, for she could now include Doncaster, Grantham and Peterborough in her itinerary – in fact, a seasoned traveller – and would have much to tell Beata when she got home.
Hour after hour after hour, Kit gazed out of the window, always finding something of interest to see, only her aching bottom giving any indication of the duration of her journey.
When, in the early afternoon, the engine began to slow down again, Kit hoped it was just another stop for refreshment, for this grimy run-down approach could not possibly signify the capital. She was temporarily spared this abysmal view as the carriage was plunged into darkness, slowly negotiating a tunnel. When daylight returned and the train emerged into a station whose platform bore the name King’s Cross, Kit enjoyed a moment of relief, but to her dismay her companions began to gather their belongings and Mr Popplewell told her this was indeed London. With a dreadful squeaking and grinding of wheels the train jolted to a stop. To loud clattering, doors were thrown open, spewing forth a crowd of humanity in which Kit was swallowed up and carried along involuntarily. The draughty smoke-filled building echoed to the whoosh of steam and the thud of people’s feet all charging down the platform towards the exit.
Outside was mayhem with an army of hansom cabs, private carriages and horse-drawn omnibuses all competing to be nearest the kerb. En masse, the members of the crowd performed a sudden dash, each trying to be first in line for a cab. Though head and shoulders above the rest, Kit felt herself once again swept up on the human tidal wave and suffered a moment of panic, but she was easily spotted and rescued, the Earl’s retinue making for a gleaming row of carriages with top-hatted coachmen, powdered footmen and railway porters who rushed to load the vast collection of trunks aboard.
It had obviously been raining heavily though the sun was trying to fight its way through the yellowish-grey pall that hung over the city, bringing a sparkle to the pavements. In a matter of only a few minutes Kit had found herself spirited from the interior of one carriage into another, this one pulled by horses. Only now, safe within its leather-scented confines and guarded by those who had been here before, was she able to draw breath and look around her as the Earl’s carriage moved off with a procession following behind.
Bouncing gently up and down in the carriage that made a series of turns, her gaze followed a roofline comprised of ornamental spires and towers and cupolas. At one point the wide road was amassed with vehicles, the pavements with shoppers and clerks hurrying to their luncheon. Kit had never seen such magnitude of people and traffic, glad to be safe in here and not amongst that chaos. The immaculate greys who pulled the carriage trotted along the great shopping thoroughfare, with Kit craning her neck for a better view of the treasure trove that lay within those splendid bazaars and emporia, and thinking that the streets of London must surely go on for ever.
Constantly thrilled by new sights, she let out a little moan when the carriage made a sudden detour from Oxford Street into a quiet backwater, mayhem giving way to the genteel tranquillity of a square of tall four-storey houses in dark grey, red and yellow brick, a lawned garden at its centre. The carriage stopped. They had arrived.
For a moment of anticlimax, Kit sat there looking out at the almost rural scene. Around the perimeter of the iron fence that contained the garden stood broughams and saddle horses who tossed restless heads, jingling their harness. Others exited first, whilst she still idly gazed. At impatient behest, she eventually alighted into the damp atmosphere.
The road had been sprinkled with sand in order that the horses did not slip, its gritty texture collecting on the soles of her shoes as she moved away from the carriage to stand amongst the pile of trunks that were being unloaded. Through a gap between the houses she glimpsed the magnificent portico of a church, though the true charm of the vista was lost upon Kit, who had anticipated more. Where was the ornamented splendour that she had envisaged for an earl’s London residence? Where were the landscaped grounds? The building, though huge, fronted directly on to the square and was in no way remarkable. Compared to some of the buildings she had seen on her journey it was extremely plain, with only a section of iron railing on either side of the door to separate it from the footpath, and judging by the small number of windows it would be equally unimpressive inside. The only indication that this house belonged to an earl was the brass p
late on the door bearing the family name. Visibly uninspired by its simple Georgian elegance, Kit followed her companions across the threshold.
The interior was quite stunning. All disillusionment put aside, Kit allowed herself to be embraced by the deep red welcoming walls of the entrance hall, and wandered open-mouthed into the staircase hall with its magnificent vaulted ceiling, its elaborate wrought-iron staircase, its walls draped with plaster garlands, oil paintings, and niches containing busts of Greek gods. In contrast to the house in Yorkshire there was no peeling gilt, no threadbare upholstery, the whole effect one of ormolu splendour.
Revolving slowly, she came face to face – if that were the correct terminology – with an immense portrait of a naked woman and experienced a sharp thrill that ran the entirety of her body. It was not the nudity that so impressed Kit but that its subject was almost as amply endowed as herself. Fascinated, she studied every inch of that dimpled expanse, the shell-pink folds and blushing pleats. How, she debated, could she herself be classed as unattractive if an earl chose to hang such a portrait upon his wall?
Reproved by the steward for her blatant inspection and ordered to come to the servants’ quarters, Kit did as she was told. Her own room was as one might expect for a minion, and she did not tarry long there before going to fill her rumbling stomach. Afterwards, given the afternoon off in which to settle in, she was invited to come on a tour of the area by one of the small number of housemaids who resided here permanently, and eagerly accepted. Escorted from the peaceful enclave, Kit found herself back on the busy thoroughfare and heading towards a giant monument which Dolly told her was called Marble Arch. Her companion’s hard face reminded her of Rosalind and she was therefore somewhat wary of her, but this girl turned out to be much more fun, telling Kit she must accompany her to the theatre on their night off. Both showed amusement for each other’s accent, Kit hiding a smile at the way Dolly pronounced the word as ‘thee-etre’, and Dolly teasing Kit for her flat vowels.
A Sense of Duty Page 28
