Each morning her swollen eyes scoured the paper for news of the outcome of Tish and Myrtle’s trial. As it unfolded, Ossie’s prediction was confirmed – it was indeed a tragic accident. The mother had gone out to work and left the father, who was little more than an imbecile, in charge of the baby. The bath water had been too hot, the child had perished, this simple conclusion resulting in both parents being acquitted of murder. Stupid, stupid! Kit’s mind raged against Tish and Myrtle. But in her heart she knew that for the rest of her life she would never be free of her own liability.
There was no one amongst her colleagues in whom she could confide – not even Mr Popplewell. She would have been too ashamed to admit her part. She knew that all were aware of it, though, for the case had incited much discussion in the servants’ hall. One could not keep such things hidden. There had been no outright blame for her involvement, though she had overheard Mr Popplewell warning one of the maids not to cast the first stone, and knew he had been defending her, bless him.
Her own court appearance was less spectacular, though provoked similar gossip. To spare Viscount Postgate the indignity of appearing, Kit pleaded guilty to the charge of assault on the schoolmistress and was fined ten shillings, but this was as nothing compared to the guilt incurred over the greater tragedy. Neither the rebuke from her employer over the paragraph in the local newspaper – a lesser one than if the Earl had known his son was involved – nor a similar reprimand from her brother on her next day off, could make her feel any worse.
Even a month after it had happened Kit was still in desperate straits, and it was all she could do to prevent bursting into tears when, after lecturing her on her conviction, Monty resurrected Tish and Myrtle’s trial. Having read about the case, he voiced the stern hope that his sister was not responsible for the couple’s marriage. Ashamed, Kit lied and asked how could she be implicated when she had not worked for the Dolphins in ages?
But later, in the darkness of the farleymelow, she broke down and opened her heart to Beata, dear Beata who hugged and kissed her back to sanity and told her she was not to blame. Had she not simply acted out of humanity in bringing Tish and Myrtle together? God would surely forgive her.
And Kit sniffed and mopped her eyes and nodded, pretending Beata’s words had helped, whilst in private screaming out. Was there no one who could understand? Kit was unable to forgive herself.
* * *
There were pangs of guilt to be experienced elsewhere too, though of lesser magnitude. The Earl having received his wife’s drapery bill had deemed it excessive and so had put a brake on her spending until the following season. Ergo, the person who was partly responsible for the expense found herself demoted to mending and alteration. Thoroughly miserable, Kit tried to maintain her spirits with visits to the library or jaunts into the garden, though at this time of year there was little to inspire. Neither was there a handsome young aristocrat to poke his head into the servants’ hall and spend a moment chatting, for Ossie had gone to university. Perhaps it was as well he had gone. Kit had no wish for a reminder of their last awful day together – she had enough to contemplate in the weeks following his absence.
Inevitably, though, she had to face him when yuletide came upon them. Try as she might to avoid him, he finally bumped into her on the garlanded stairs.
‘I thought you might like to hear the news about Tish,’ he told her, after offering seasonal greetings.
No, I don’t, thought Kit, who had only just begun to feel better, fearing her nightmares would start all over again. But she reacted as if grateful.
‘Mr Dolphin has taken him back into the fold – installed him and Myrtle in a cottage at Cragthorpe.’
Kit blanched, and could not help a cry of objection.
Ossie was quick to read her mind. ‘Rest easy, Kit. There won’t be any more accidents. Tish has undergone a surgical operation to ensure a similar tragedy can’t happen again.’
Kit let out a sigh of relief. She had no idea what this involved, but Ossie’s air of authority sufficed to calm her. But she did voice surprise that Geoffrey Dolphin had shown such charity towards Myrtle.
Ossie said that he had done it to pacify his son, to avoid the screaming fit that Tish would surely have thrown at being parted from his wife, and to bring the scandal to a close as quietly and painlessly as possible. ‘I haven’t seen the couple myself – Tish isn’t allowed to leave the estate. But he’s relatively contented, I think.’
Thanking Ossie for this revelation, Kit went on her way, hoping that this was the last she would hear on the matter, and resolving never to interfere in people’s lives again. Her emotions over the news were mixed. She was not sure Tish deserved any happiness after what he had done – and how could Myrtle ever feel the same about him? She tried to picture herself in a similar situation, but could not envisage herself forgiving someone who had killed her child.
Pondering on the relationship between Tish and Myrtle, Kit reminded herself of the need to do something about her own lack of male companion, for the family would not be fobbed off for ever.
* * *
Christmas, New Year – no occasion passed without Kit being grilled by her siblings. The only reason she went home now was to see Beata and the children, and even that was not wholly pleasurable, for Beata’s poor health forbade any kind of jaunt.
The situation was even more dire at Postgate Park now, in times of inactivity Kit having to double as a parlourmaid, her worst moment coming when Thomas Denaby’s parents were invited to stay at the Earl’s residence and Kit had to wait on them. They pretended they did not know her, of course, but she knew they did, all the upset flooding back to haunt her. There was some mischievous revenge to be had in ignoring their incessant rings for service, or allowing their morning tea to go cold before serving it. But, enjoyable though this was, it wouldn’t bring Thomas back. She must make a concerted effort to find someone else.
‘Have you got a young man?’ she asked one of the younger girls as all were sitting in the servants’ hall that Thursday evening after dinner. With the Garboroughs having finished their meal upstairs, those who served had been permitted to dine. Receiving an affirmative response, she quipped, ‘Well, can you get one for me? Preferably by Sunday.’
Mr Popplewell was in jocular mood. ‘I’d offer to step in, Kit, but I haven’t got a ladder.’
Kit dealt the skinny little man a fond tap. Such remarks on her height were permissible between close friends.
‘I wouldn’t have thought you’d have any trouble procuring a man.’ The speaker gave a sly smile at her neighbours.
Innocent to the sarcasm behind the comment, Kit smiled back, though was slightly puzzled that the others seemed to share a private joke. Leaving the table, she moved to one of the easy chairs, but found an obstacle in her way. A cup of tea in one hand, she had difficulty in moving the stool out of her path and made pathetic nudges with her knee.
Popplewell leaped up with a cry of mock exasperation, grabbing the stool with both hands and moving it aside. ‘Eh, I don’t know! Why not just use your initiative, lass?’
‘I just did.’ Kit smirked. ‘I got you to move it.’
Popplewell was gracious enough to join the laughter engendered at his expense and made as if to chase the tall young woman around the room.
But this frivolity was curtailed by the appearance of the Earl. ‘Hope I’m not interrupting?’ His questioning gaze encompassed all in the room.
‘No, my lord! We were just enjoying a bit of nonsense.’ Popplewell grinned and smoothed back his mop of wavy hair.
‘Don’t want to put a damper on your fun, Cook,’ continued the Earl, ‘but I have to say those cutlets you served us were utterly frightful.’
There was an immediate change in the mood. The cook proceeded to bare his teeth, and nod benignly, though the others knew it for a dangerous grin and crouched in preparation for the storm to come.
‘Who’s our blasted butcher these days?’ the Earl frowned, and whe
n informed, said, ‘Then change him. His meat’s not fit to give to the hounds – well, that’s all. Lecture over.’ He rubbed his hands briskly and sought to lighten his rebuke with a chat. ‘Speaking of hounds, we may have to shoot the blessed lot of them – no damned foxes to mention. Must have been that atrocious winter we had last year. Oh well, if there’s nothing better to do I suppose it will compel me to visit the House more often.’ His tone showed he found this a bore. With a final brisk rub of his hands he turned to go, then, remembering something else, he wheeled around. ‘Ah, Kit, the Countess would like to see you in her boudoir.’
Upon the Earl’s departure, Popplewell flew into a rage, throwing things about and saying that this was the final insult. ‘Not fit to give the bloody hounds – well, stuff the bastard! I’m worth better than this!’ Kicking aside a stool, he marched from the room.
Without waiting to learn the outcome of his tantrum, for such displays had become commonplace by now, Kit hurried off to the Countess’s boudoir. Anticipating instructions for the coming season’s new gowns, she was therefore unprepared for the interview that followed.
Lady Garborough looked up from her davenport and abandoned her letter-writing. There was an undercurrent to her address, a tone that somehow reflected the cool Chinese silk of the boudoir walls. ‘Ah, Kit, you may recall some time ago I had recourse to enquire as to the amount of material you were ordering from the draper.’
Kit’s heart leaped. One of her own dresses lay spread across a chair.
The Countess turned briefly to scold her parrot whose beak was ripping strips of mahogany from the edge of the desk. Replacing him on her shoulder, she proceeded to watch Kit like a hawk. ‘I wonder if you might care to avail yourself of this opportunity to qualify the answer you gave at that time?’
Kit’s skin prickled. On the previous confrontation she had sited inexperience as an excuse for her miscalculations, but now, with the damning evidence before her, she had no option but to own up. ‘I’m ashamed to confess that I used the leftover bits of fabric to make myself a dress, ma’am.’ She hung her head. ‘I humbly beg your ladyship’s pardon, but I thought nobody would want such small bits and—’
‘And so you purloined them.’ The Countess shook her head, looking stern, whilst the parrot muttered endearments in her ear, calling her his darling sweet lass. She glanced at the offending dress. ‘One would hardly class them as small bits.’
‘I’m deeply sorry for my incompetence, ma’am, but I swear there was no premeditated fraud! It just seemed an awful shame for such lovely material to go to waste.’
‘Then might you not have consulted its owner so that she could make use of it?’
Kit’s blue eyes projected apology.
‘Was it that you thought I would not notice?’ came the query. ‘Despite what you may think, I do take an interest in my servants, Kit. I see what they are wearing on their days off. And it appears you have quite a collection at your disposal.’ After a long pause, Lady Garborough demanded, ‘So what am I to do now?’
‘I could unpick it and make something for your ladyship, ma’am!’
‘I am disinclined to wear my seamstress’s second-hand clothing, Kit.’ Lady Garborough stroked the parrot’s breast with one finger. ‘Besides, I referred not to the material but to you.’
Faced not just with dismissal but with a possible gaol sentence, Kit begged for leniency. ‘I know I don’t deserve it, ma’am, but I’ve never done this kind of thing before and I swear I’ll never do it again.’
‘Are you suggesting that I keep you on?’
‘I’m not in a position to suggest anything, ma’am,’ replied Kit with all the humility she could muster.
‘Indeed you are not.’ Lady Garborough had already given this deep consideration and had discussed it with her husband. Aware of the hardship that would befall Kit’s family if she were dismissed without reference, and holding the opinion that one in her privileged position had a duty to those of lesser station, the Countess put Kit out of her misery. ‘Very well, this is what the Earl and I have decided: the only way for you to make restitution for your misdemeanour is for you to remain at Postgate Park.’
Kit could scarcely believe that she had got away scot-free, and was soon to learn she had not.
‘The cost of the material that you stole,’ her ladyship laid heavy emphasis on the word in order that Kit might learn the true severity of her crime, ‘shall be deducted from your wage in instalments. It is not my intention that your family should suffer for your wrongdoing. How much do you contribute per quarter?’ Upon being told, the Countess proceeded, ‘Very well, you shall still receive that amount – which I sincerely trust will reach its rightful owner.’
Kit gave an eager nod.
‘But until the cost of the material has been recouped you will work for no reward, in whatever capacity you are required, be it seamstress, parlourmaid or chimney sweep. Should I require any new garments for the Season you will provide them before I go. You will not be accompanying us this year but will remain here to help spring clean the house. Another will be hired in your stead. I believe that you visit your family on the first Sunday of the month? Well, I am afraid that this must be restricted to once a quarter, when you will be allowed to take home your wages. Other than this you will be granted no freedom until I am sure you have earned it.’
Kit thanked the Countess for her leniency, and asked if a message could be sent to inform Monty of this for he might be worried over her non-arrival this Sunday. The lady relented and said that Kit could go herself tomorrow morning and confess to her crimes. As the miscreant turned to go, Lady Garborough called her back to collect the incriminating dress. ‘Since this is of no earthly use to me, allow it to hang in your room as a reminder, and let us hope that it helps you to learn your lesson – though I should take a very dim view if I were to hear that you had been wearing it until it is paid for, Kit.’
‘Oh, bugger,’ said the parrot.
My feelings exactly, thought Kit. Thanking the Countess, she left the room with one small crumb of comfort. At least, visiting tomorrow, she would be spared all that cross-examination from Gwen on Sunday over the imaginary beau. After taking the dress to her room, she returned to the servants’ quarters, wondering how long it would take the others to learn about the episode, but for now acting as if nothing had happened.
For a moment upon entry she thought the buzz of gossip was about her, for it stopped as she appeared but, on seeing her, one of the footmen announced laughingly, ‘Eh, he’s finally gone and done it, Kit!’
Still reeling from her own scrape, she looked confused.
‘Old Poppy – he’s gone!’
Kit was stunned. ‘What – d’you mean for good?’
Their faces were still creased in laughter at the incident. ‘Aye! Packed his bag, stuck his head in to say ta-ra and went!’
Kit was deeply hurt – she had always placed such value on Popplewell’s friendship. How could he leave her without a word? It had been one thing after another lately.
‘Aw, look, she’s upset that he didn’t wait to say goodbye to her,’ teased a youth.
Oblivious to the implication, Kit disguised the extent of her injury by retorting. ‘Why should he? I’m nowt to him. Anyroad, I’m up early tomorrow, I’m off to bed.’ Feeling more wretched than ever, she went to prepare for the morrow’s journey.
* * *
‘Kit! What brings you here so early – Saint Friday, is it? Oh, you haven’t got the sack have you?’ Sarah’s dark eyes were less than welcoming as her sister-in-law appeared in the doorway, interrupted her baking.
Kit asked cheekily how could she think such a thing, picked up her little nephew and gave him a kiss, then explained that as her services would be required on Sunday she had been allowed to come today. ‘I set off at the crack of dawn to get here and this is the welcome I get!’
‘Well, don’t stand with that door open, come in if you’re coming. It’s freezing!’ Sarah’s bad
-tempered face was temporarily hidden as she bent to take a loaf out of the oven and insert another tray of uncooked dough.
‘Ooh, that smells lovely!’ Kit set Probyn on his feet and unwrapped her shawl, face aglow from her brisk walk. Having expected to find only Sarah and Probyn in the house she was surprised to receive a greeting from Beata. ‘Off work again?’
‘She’s never worked since last time you were here,’ explained a harassed-looking Sarah, knocking the hot loaf out of its tin. ‘Still, she earns her keep in other ways, looking after that terror – Probyn Kilmaster, just you wait till your father gets home!’ He was attempting to scale the sideboard but, having once tasted paternal retribution, went to sit quietly next to Beata.
After some thought, he asked his mother, ‘Will I go down t’pit when I grow up?’
‘Not necessarily.’ Sarah did not hold with the foregone conclusion that the coal owner’s tenants would send their sons down the pit. ‘If you work hard at school maybe you can get a better job.’ She put her hands on her hips. ‘Well, now! We were going to treat ourselves to a bacon sandwich for breakfast but I don’t think I’ve got enough.’
‘Kit can have mine,’ said Beata, rubbing at her scrawny breast. ‘I’m not right hungry.’
Her aunt objected. ‘I don’t want to take the food out of your mouth!’ She apologized for not bringing her usual basket of goodies, adding that it was unlikely she would be so liberally endowed again after Mr Popplewell’s sudden walkout.
‘No, honestly, Kit. I couldn’t stomach it.’
‘No wonder you’re all skin and bone, turning your nose up at good food!’ The bad temper hid Sarah’s concern. She tried to coax. ‘Do try, Beat – half a rasher.’
Tears came to Beata’s eyes and she begged to be excused from eating it.
A Sense of Duty Page 31
