Kit turned defensive. ‘What life? The poor lad didn’t have much of one till I arrived.’ At Amelia’s further chastening, she added, ‘Have they not found him and Myrtle yet?’
Amelia shook her head. ‘No. Heaven knows what they’re living on – and what about your Master Denaby?’ she accused. ‘Coming down the chimney in Miss Agnes’s room!’
‘That wasn’t my fault! I didn’t know what he had planned.’
‘I should hope not! He hasn’t tried to—?’
‘No!’
‘Good! Make sure you keep it that way.’
Kit asked what chance she would get for hanky-panky with the two of them separated by hundreds of miles, and used the question of distance to bring the subject round to London, though she reserved much of her enthusiasm about the place, not wishing to be accused, as before, of comparing the two cities unfavourably. In fact, she had been surprised to find such an architecturally pleasing city in Yorkshire, previously imagining York to be like others she had visited, marred by pit and foundry. This she told Amelia and Albert who, having been granted time off to enjoy their sister’s visit, said they would be happy to show her round.
Despite much of that day being spent helping in the kitchen, Kit was happy for the change of scenery and to add York to her list of places visited, only really discovering its full beauty the next day during a tour of the ancient streets. Admittedly there were industrial chimneys here, the magnificent cathedral and other historical monuments blackened by their effluvia, and yes, the Georgian symmetry was interrupted by grimy medieval alleyways that stunk of urine and were littered with rubbish, but in all Kit found York a most pleasant interlude, and declared that she wouldn’t mind living there herself.
* * *
After the initial frantic volley of enthusiasm to extinguish all signs of life from the grouse moors, and the lavish parties that accompanied such slaughter, the pace began to ease, allowing Kit to escape the chores she hated.
In the final burst of hot weather before autumn, on her next day off she decided to take her nieces and nephews on a long-awaited picnic, for this was the last they would enjoy until next year. Her announcement was not met with pleasure by all occupants of Savile Row, Sarah wanting to know who was going to supply the food for this. Kit held up her laden basket, filled with treats from the larder of Postgate Park, which engendered a whoop of amazement.
Sarah, replenishing the fireside boiler with water, voiced suspicion. ‘I trust you didn’t come by this dishonestly. Don’t put that hurt face on with me, it has been known for you to take things without asking!’
Kit replied primly that her close ally Mr Popplewell had sanctioned every item. ‘It’s only stuff that would have gone to waste. Anyway, I’m sick of watching other folk shove it down their necks. Are you fit to come with us, Beat?’
Though pale of face, a smiling Beata dragged her body from the chair and helped Kit to organize the youngsters. Collecting Owen’s eldest children along the way, they set off on their expedition.
Oh, what a joy it was to be with these little ones, thought Kit, revelling in their comical sayings, their hot breath on her ear, whispering secrets. Ensconced at their picnicking place, she stretched out on the grass, propping her chin on one elbow, to watch them scampering about the meadow and woodland. After a while, her arm beginning to ache, she lay back and narrowed her eyes against the cerulean glare of the sky. What on earth was she going to do about Thomas – or rather the lack of him? Even though she hadn’t been in the house two minutes there were still questions – when was she going to bring her sweetheart to meet them? I shall just have to find someone else, thought Kit – but where and how?
‘Come back,’ said a plaintive voice.
Eyes still distant, Kit squinted at Beata, seated beside her. ‘What?’
‘You’re always miles away these days. I haven’t had two words out of you.’
Guilty of neglecting her niece of late, Kit became instantly affectionate. ‘Aw, I’m sorry if it seems like I’m ignoring you, Beat! I were just thinking.’
‘About Thomas?’
Kit could not bring herself to confess the original lie, and so glossed over the fictitious relationship. ‘Oh, never mind about me! What have you been doing lately?’
Having been waiting for this opportunity, Beata turned coy. ‘A lad smiled at me the other day.’
Kit pounced on her for every scrap of information. What did he look like? Did Beata know his name? By the time this had been exhausted an innocent smile had been converted into a full-blown love affair.
Those unattached grew tired of listening and begged Kit to perform their favourite impersonations. ‘Do me mam, Aunt! Aw, go on, do me mam!’
And happy as ever to oblige, Kit launched into an exaggerated impression of Sarah’s Welsh accent, drawing forth the usual merriment. Their shouts for encore giving her confidence, Kit went on to perform her entire repertoire, ending with a new impersonation of Mr Popplewell for which she had to pick almonds from the top of a fruit cake and insert them under her upper lip so that they looked like teeth, but in trying to speak she kept spitting them out all over the place and in the end the girls fell into hysterics, rolling on to their backs and kicking up their heels to reveal their drawers.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t make fun of him, he’s lovely!’ Exhausted with laughter, Kit fell back too, her breast rising and falling in mirth, eyes squeezed shut against the sun.
A little figure ran up, casting a shadow across her face. ‘Look! I’ve found a dicky bird for your hat, Aunt!’ And Kit opened her eyes to find a dead chaffinch thrust under her nose.
She screamed, and half rolled away, but the hurt in Probyn’s blue-grey eyes made her sit up and examine his offering. The little boy studied the limp-necked chaffinch, trying to smooth its mangled feathers into place before offering it proudly for Kit’s further inspection.
Gingerly, his aunt took possession of the bird, trying not to offend her nephew. ‘Oh dear, a cat must have got him.’
Probyn leaned on his Aunt Charity’s dictum. ‘Never mind, it’ll wash.’
Kit exchanged an amused smile with Beata, and delivered a loving hug, said it would make a remarkable decoration for the straw hat she had just purchased, then wrapped the none-too-sweet bird in a handkerchief and put it carefully aside, with the final announcement that it was time for tea.
Whilst the children consumed the treats she had brought them, Kit noticed a mark protruding from Alice’s cuff and asked what it was. Drawing her sleeve further up her arm, Alice revealed an angry welt, about three inches long. ‘I were on mornings at t’factory and I fell asleep in class. Teacher gimme a whack wi’ t’cane – said it’d keep me awake.’
‘The pizzock!’ Kit recoiled, then seized Alice’s wrist for a closer look. ‘That needs attention – have you seen this, Beat?’
Beata frowned. ‘Does Mother know about it?’
‘Ooh, don’t tell her! I’ll get a whack off her an’ all.’
‘I don’t think so!’ Kit was furious, asking to know all about the culprit.
When the picnickers went home, she immediately informed Sarah of her outrage.
The girl’s mother was angry too. ‘Ach, that’s nasty! Here, cariad, let me put some ointment on it for you. Why didn’t you show me before? There, that’ll make it better.’
Kit was amazed to find that this was the extent of her concern. ‘Well, aren’t you going to go and sort this teacher out?’
‘I’ll send a note,’ replied Sarah, screwing the lid back on the jar of home-made ointment. At Kit’s look of astonishment she demanded, ‘What else can I do? I haven’t got time to go swanning all the way to Castleford. And what can I say? The child wouldn’t have been hit if she wasn’t doing something wrong.’ She turned on Alice. ‘Just make sure you stay awake in future!’
Though Alice seemed to take this in her stride, Kit was far from satisfied and, on Monday morning when she was meant to be in the sewing room, cajoled a manserv
ant to take her into Castleford. Clad in her best dress and the green silk mantle in order to make an impression, she was just about to climb into the brougham when a voice hailed her. It was Ossie, come to say farewell before going to university.
‘I’ve been looking all over for you!’ he told her, winking involuntarily. His intention to visit each and every servant personally ensured him a busy day ahead, and he was flushed from striding about the house and grounds. ‘Where are you sneaking off to?’
‘I’m not sneaking, milord!’
‘Kit,’ he scolded gently, ‘you always sneak. Come now, tell me. Perhaps you are going to meet an admirer – why else would you look so very elegant?’ His eyes perused her attire, as if with a hint of amused recognition.
Kit gave an exclamation to the contrary, then, with a desperate look at the man who had been going to drive her, she took her foot off the step and told Ossie about her niece’s bruise.
The young gentleman seemed to treat it very lightly. ‘Tell Alice to count herself lucky. At my school I was flogged until I bled!’
Kit remained obstinate. ‘Well, begging your lordship’s pardon, I don’t think it’s right.’
‘And you were going to give this schoolmistress a piece of your mind when I caught you,’ said Ossie. At her nodding sigh, he turned to the footman, ordering him to get down, and saying he could not allow him to be held responsible for Kit’s venture. For a moment, she appeared thwarted – until Ossie sprang up into the driver’s seat and invited Kit to sit alongside him. ‘If there’s to be any trouble, I’m going to enjoy it myself! ’ And with a flick of the reins he launched the vehicle towards Castleford.
Never, thought Kit, never have I had such a wonderful time in all my life! Basking in the illustrious company – such a handsome companion, who laughed and joked with her as an equal – she almost forgot the real reason for her visit until the carriage came to a halt outside a school.
‘I’m a bit nervous now,’ she confessed. Her companion laughed and, jumping down, said he would accompany her. ‘Oh no! I can’t let you get involved, milord.’
‘You think I’ve brought you all this way not to get involved in the fun?’ Ossie smoothed her ruffled state. ‘Calm down! I won’t come if you don’t want me to. I’ll wait here and then take you for an ice cream.’ Kit could scarcely believe this was happening, her mind in a whirl. What had got into the Viscount today?
It took a while for her to find the right classroom and in doing so Kit began to reconsider her plan. Oh, she was still angry, but her rage had somewhat cooled overnight and the impetus of attack had been lost to her. However, the image of Alice’s bruise prompted her to carry her plan through. She entered the classroom and made towards a large blackboard, in front of which was the teacher’s desk, feeling not like a big strapping woman but a little girl. Thankfully, Alice was at work and not amongst the ranks of pupils who, one by one, lifted their eyes from ink-blotted exercise books to study the interloper.
Unsmiling, Kit stated her reason for being here. The schoolmistress listened to her complaint, but showed little remorse and said that should Alice fall asleep again she would receive similar punishment.
Irked by the officious little squit who was not much older than herself, Kit asked how she would feel if a bigger person inflicted such damage. ‘If I were to shove you around you wouldn’t like it, would you?’ She nudged the teacher’s arm, which received the instant command for a girl in the front row to fetch the headmaster.
‘I hardly touched you!’ protested Kit, and was still arguing with the woman when reinforcement came in the form of the headmaster. The mistress immediately burst into tears, and the headmaster told Kit that if she did not leave the building she would find herself arrested – he had already sent for the police.
Not realizing how intimidating she must appear to the much smaller man, Kit none the less continued to tower over him and protest over the conduct of his underlings, whilst the class looked on agog. It was to her misfortune that the police station happened to be close by and at that juncture a constable appeared, placing her under immediate arrest.
Shocked that it had all happened in the space of five minutes, Kit tried to protest that she was not the guilty one here, and enjoyed a flush of relief as Ossie burst into the classroom. ‘Ask this gentleman, he’ll tell you! He’s Viscount Postgate!’
Seeing a member of the constabulary hurry into the school, Ossie had deduced that it might have something to do with Kit and had come to investigate.
The officer asked for confirmation of his identity, though there was little doubt that a person of note stood before him. Grave-faced, but privately rather enjoying the adventure, the Viscount endorsed Kit’s announcement, gaining immediate respect from those involved. Asked if he knew the miscreant, Ossie said that Kit was an employee of his father and explained that this unfortunate incident had arisen from a sense of injustice; Kit felt that her niece had been dealt with too severely.
The headmaster obviously resented this interference but said that he would investigate the matter himself. Meantime, he would not have his teachers intimidated. He insisted that Kit be prosecuted.
‘But I hardly touched her!’ cried Kit.
With the tearful victim giving lie to this, the constable had no alternative but to lead Kit away.
Acute embarrassment followed. There were many to witness her humiliation in the moments it took to get to the police station for the streets were busy with workmen and shoppers. A host of unsavoury-looking people hung around the building, all seeming to eye her as she rushed through the door.
Inside, Ossie continued to support her as she was charged with assault, persuading the desk sergeant not to incarcerate her but to hand her instead to his custody and he would ensure that she appeared at the police court. His aristocratic demeanour lending sway, Kit found herself free to go for the time being – though with a thought as to the gauntlet of people outside, she refused the Viscount’s offer of an ice cream to cheer her up, and instead begged to be taken directly home.
Miraculously, Kit was to find her exit unobserved. The layabouts had now organized themselves into a threatening knot, their attention focused on a police van that was emerging through a gate in the side of the building. In the noisy rush that followed, men and women hammering on the sides of the van, cursing and screaming, Kit and her escort were able to slip unnoticed back to the brougham. Still tense and increasingly frightened, she hurried to climb aboard, for the police van and its encircling mob were approaching the road and the Viscount’s horses were in danger of bolting, all the while shying and chewing at their bits.
‘Hang the bitch! Murdering bastard! Murderer, murderer!’ The crowd continued to envelop the police van until its horse gathered speed and was able to pull away, though it was still pelted with rotten fruit and stones.
Only then did Kit glimpse the terrified face peering through the bars. Myrtle!
Trying to keep control of the horses, Ossie climbed up next to Kit, noting her astonishment. ‘You know the person?’ He grappled with the reins.
‘It’s Myrtle that ran off with Tish!’ Kit’s eyes were round, her own trouble forgotten for the moment. ‘Oh, milord, I have to find out what’s happened.’
Still having difficulty in controlling his horses, Ossie hailed a member of the mob, which was still hurling threats after the police van. ‘You, fellow! What has that woman done?’
The man, his face twisted in fervour, stopped brandishing his fist and turned briefly to answer. ‘Don’t you read the papers? Her and that loony she married are up on charges of killing their baby. Put the poor little mite in boiling water, skinned it alive. They should flog ’em both to death! Hang her! Hang the bastard!’ Enraged afresh, he resumed his vocal attack on the van though it was now too far away for the occupant to hear.
Kit retched. Words stifled by horror, her mind savaged by the appalling image, she could only blurt to her companion, ‘Go, please go!’, lurching back in her seat as
the carriage sprang forward, one hand covering her mouth to contain the threatened vomit. That poor mite! Would Tish and Myrtle hang? They deserved it!
For a time, needing all his concentration to keep the horses from bolting, Viscount Postgate remained silent, as shocked as Kit. Not until they were two miles down the road did he utter an opinion. ‘Good God, I can hardly believe it! It must just have happened – Dolphin never said a word – well, of course he wouldn’t! Oh Lord, they must be absolutely beside themselves. It must surely have been an accident.’
‘Oh, can you please stop, milord, I think I’m going to be sick!’ Kit looked decidedly ill. Immediately he pulled on the reins, allowing her to get down. She rushed over to a hedge, putting as wide a distance as possible between her and the Viscount before bending double.
Respecting her feelings, Ossie remained in the carriage, wearing a perturbed expression. When she eventually stumbled back to the vehicle her face was ashen and tear-stained, her breast filled with guilt and self-abhorrence, for she had come to realize who was truly responsible for the death of that innocent babe. The one who had brought his parents together.
15
It was the night-time that was worst. Through the day Kit had plenty of work to occupy her – though this did not prevent the awful spectre from dancing into her mind at unexpected moments. But the nights, the dreaded blackness, gave rise to such horror that she scarcely dared to close her eyes, knowing that the ghastly apparition would at once appear – a baby plunging into boiling water again and again and again. Toss and turn as she might, she could not put the child’s suffering to rest – would she ever? No amount of tears would expunge her own guilt. Why, why had she not listened to Tish’s parents, or old Beth Garbutt, they who knew him best? And between the awful visitations, Kit was goaded by the fortune teller’s words to Myrtle: A friend will help you achieve your aim, but you ’ll come to wish they hadn’t. It was all her fault.
A Sense of Duty Page 30
