Too much of a gentleman to respond to this sarcasm, Ninian merely looked at the tablecloth. Amelia blushed crimson, Flora simpered, Gwen and Charity exchanged raised eyebrows over their teacups, whilst the host of youngsters stared from one to the other, not quite understanding the tension.
Monty ran a finger around his starched collar, trying to warn Owen with his eyes, but to little avail.
‘I mean, it’s not as if your father’s company can’t take the losses, is it? Whereas, we that do the dangerous work often have to go without basic commodities when times are bad. Does that seem just to you?’
Still his victim refused to be baited, trying instead to assume a dignified air for the benefit of all those eyes that were upon him.
Kit’s eyes displayed unusual venom for her brother, but she had no wish to pursue the issue.
‘You and your politics, Owen!’ Sarah tried to lighten the atmosphere with a gay laugh but the look she gave her brother-in-law held a warning. ‘I’m sure our guest doesn’t want to listen to that – more tea, Mr Latimer?’
Ninian smiled at her but refused. ‘Delightful though it was, I really must depart, Mrs Kilmaster.’ He rose and offered his hand to Kit, who took her own leave, telling them she would see them in a month.
The moment the couple had left, everyone relaxed with a unified sigh, then immediately began to discuss Kit’s fiancé. After rebuking Owen, Monty hauled his five-year-old son off the chair and delivered a smack to his bottom that was so hefty it almost lifted the child off his feet. ‘And that, my lad, is for being disrespectful to your mother!’
* * *
Ninian was very subdued as he drove Kit back to their meeting place. The afternoon had been so much worse than he had feared, that he saw it was impossible for this relationship to continue. Though his infatuation for Kit remained undimmed, knowing what he did now, it was socially unthinkable for him to marry her. But how did he tell her? Could he indeed tell her at all?
Watching him from the corner of her eye as they jogged along in the gig, Kit detected a new reticence to his mood, and thus began a battle to keep him, snuggling up to murmur eroticisms in his ear, caressing his inner thigh until, inflamed, he stopped the carriage there and then and, behind cover of a hedge, made urgent love to her.
I can’t give this up, he told himself, thrusting deep inside her, gripped by warm moist muscle. I can’t, I won’t.
And why indeed should he have to? The answer came as he lay atop the fleshy cushion, recovering his breath. Where was the need to marry when this lovely young woman gave herself so freely?
* * *
Worried at first, that Ninian had been put off by the awful afternoon at her brother’s house, Kit was rather relieved to find that in a matter of hours he had quite recovered and his ardour appeared uncooled. If anything his lovemaking seemed even more intense.
Not until December, when she had to remind him that, if they were to be married, she had yet to meet his parents, did she begin to suspect that all was not well. He began to show a marked reluctance to present her to his kin, saying that with their vastly different backgrounds he detested having to put his beloved through the torture he had suffered at her family’s hands. Could she not spare herself the ordeal at least until the festive season was over?
For the moment, she accepted this, but Kit began to fear that he was merely using her. With this in mind, she designed to test him, by forbidding him to sate his lusty appetite, pretending to be unwell or some other excuse, until his waning interest finally revealed the truth. The affair was over.
Both knew it, but neither knew what to do; Kit because she could not bear another rejection; Ninian, because he was too soft-hearted to tell her outright. Instead, he simply arranged to see her less often, their meetings dwindling, until the moment Kit had dreaded finally arrived. He failed to turn up at all.
Enraged and wounded, Kit hovered outside the White Hart on this bright blue January day, allowing him another fifteen minutes, but knowing in her heart that it was a waste of time. A flash of colour and the sound of hoofs caused her to turn, but it was only the local hunt, its members come to slake their thirst after the morning’s chase.
Dispassionately, Kit watched the victorious approach of the Earl of Garborough and his group of bright-eyed, top-hatted men, jingling up the lane between bare twiggy hedgerows – a vivid host of scarlet, grey, chestnut and bay – who now gathered noisily outside the inn, a cloud rising from their foam-flecked steeds. Unnoticed, she continued to stare as Ossie Postgate, his face glowing pink, jumped down from his saddle, brandished the mask and brush and called for a clean bowl to be filled with whisky. The vessel was brought. Kit watched with revulsion as the dripping tail was dipped in, turning the whisky into a revolting bloody concoction with bits of hair floating in it. It was then seized and handed round the vociferous crowd to drink. His triumphant face emerging from the bloody bowl, Ossie caught sight of Kit then – must surely have seen the look of disgust with which she regarded him, but he showed no hesitation in coming over to greet her.
The words were laced with whisky fumes. ‘Kit! How nice to see you looking so well.’ His smile seemed genuine. In fact it was as if nothing untoward had passed between them – though his next words showed that he had not forgotten and he expressed regret that things had turned out the way they had. ‘I trust you have found other employment?’
Would it matter to you if I hadn’t? thought Kit, staring at his bloodstained cheeks, but answered merely with a nod. When all was said and done it was her own actions that had landed her in trouble. She could not blame him.
Responding to habit, Ossie scrunched up his eyes. ‘Good, good – well, I must dash!’ and he left her, to return to his own kind.
Examining her watch with a bad-tempered eye, Kit decided then that she was sick and tired of people casting her off like an unwanted garment. The time had come to put her experiences to good use.
A lengthy walk ahead of her, she struck out with a determined gait, heading for the coal king’s mansion near Ralph Royd.
* * *
Ninian was in the drawing room with his mother and various siblings when the footman came in to tell him that a young lady was here to see him. Immediately he reddened and told the minion to convey his apologies but to say that he was too ill to receive the visitor.
‘One moment!’ Mrs Latimer prevented the footman from carrying out the order, telling him instead to bid the young lady to wait and she would receive attention. When the man had gone she turned to her son and demanded to know what this was about, though she already had an inkling. ‘You cannot expect a servant to do your dirty work, Ninian. Come now, tell me quickly what is amiss.’
‘Not in front of them.’ He indicated his siblings, and they were asked to leave.
In their absence, he told his mother – a dignified and gentle lady of slender proportions, soft features and compassionate eye – of the mess that he had got into, though not in its entirety. ‘I was truly misled! Though not purposely, I hasten to add. Kit’s manner and her clothes induced me to believe that she was a suitable match and so I pursued her – indeed, I thought most highly of her – until I found out that her family was more humble than I had been led to expect.’
Mrs Latimer frowned upon this streak of snobbishness. ‘A good match does not necessarily mean that both parties should be possessed of equal funds, Ninian. If you love this young lady—’
‘Mother,’ the young man spoke with a slightly impatient, haunted look, ‘her family lives in one of Father’s houses.’
‘You mean they are colliers?’ The situation underwent a rapid change. Mrs Latimer matched his expression of dismay. ‘Then we must seek to extricate you from this mess before your father gets to hear of it!’ Notwithstanding this intention, Kit was received quite warmly into the coal king’s luxurious drawing room, Ninian’s mother gliding forth to greet this rather Amazonian young woman, whilst he himself took pains to assure her that only the very worst of maladi
es had kept him from her side. To illustrate this, he fell back upon the sofa immediately after issuing his greeting and put a hand to his brow.
Kit did not take the offered seat for a moment, but held him with her clear blue eyes, asking silently how he could sit there and lie to her after all he had promised, all she had given? Into her mind came the fortune teller’s prediction – I see no marriage, I see no children. Kit had often wondered during the last five months why all those reckless couplings with Ninian had produced nothing. Could it be that she was barren like Amelia? Who would want a barren wife? And who would look after her in her old age?
With a newly acquired cynicism, Kit decided that if Ninian could play games, then so could she. A hand went up to her brow, a puzzled expression spreading slowly across her face. ‘Oh dear, I fear I am unwell too. In fact, I feel quite bilious. I think I’m going to …’ Her words dispersing on a moan, she appeared to faint.
Mrs Latimer gave an exclamation of panic. Whilst her son kneeled at Kit’s side, patting her face in an attempt to bring her round, she moved across the room with the intention of tugging on the bell rope, but Kit’s half-conscious moan stopped her.
‘You shouldn’t have done it to me, Nin – what if I have a baby?’
The victim ‘came round’ to shocked faces. Indeed, thought Kit, Ninian looked a picture as he was bundled from the room by his mother.
‘I shall deal with this!’ Mrs Latimer closed the door on her son and came back to tend to the young woman who was now sitting on the carpet wearing a look of disorientation.
‘Miss Kilmaster, is it true?’ The lady appeared deeply concerned.
‘Is what true?’ Kit maintained a befuddled expression.
‘When you were coming round just then, you said … you gave indications that some indiscretion had taken place between you and my son.’
Kit allowed her expression to show that she knew what Mrs Latimer meant. ‘But please don’t blame Ninian! He has promised to marry me.’
‘Then, you are in a certain condition?’ There was a urgent edge to Mrs Latimer’s query.
‘I fear it could be so.’
Mrs Latimer wrung her hands, and wheeled away from Kit to pace the room, swishing back and forth in her grey silk gown.
Rising slowly, Kit transferred herself to a sofa and waited.
The lady spoke without turning. ‘I believe that when my son promised to marry you he meant it.’
‘You mean he has changed his mind?’ Kit sounded shocked.
The mother paused, then turned and nodded with a commiserating expression.
‘That cannot be! He must marry me, he must! How shall I live with this shame?’
Mrs Latimer resumed her agitated pacing. ‘There is little I can do about it if he has made up his mind! He is a man—’
‘I heard,’ Kit jumped in, ‘that a lady in Wakefield was awarded five hundred pounds for breach of promise.’
Mrs Latimer whirled and stared at this young woman, whose attitude left her in no doubt that she would carry out her implied threat. ‘That is a huge amount of money!’
‘It is a terrible deed that was done to her,’ murmured Kit. ‘She must have been in anguish to lay herself open to a court of law in order to defend her good name. And to think it could all have been settled quite amicably. Had the young man been gallant enough to offer her suitable recompense, he too could have remained anonymous.’
There was no equivocation.
Deeming it beneath her to haggle, Mrs Latimer went straight to her davenport and scribbled upon a piece of paper, handing it to Kit along with a look of reprehension.
Miraculously recovered, Kit did not hesitate, but took it and left forthwith, armed not simply with the cheque but with the strong conviction that nevermore was a man going to misuse her. She knew what men wanted now. Her romantic tendencies had merely attracted abuse. Instead, she would grasp what was offered, devote her energies not to finding a husband but to a hedonistic future. And if marriage was a consequence of these lucrative dalliances, then all to the good.
Part 3
Womanhood
1880-1890
18
Kit’s first act had been to hand in her notice to her elderly employer; under no circumstances would she ever be press-ganged into domestic service again. Naturally this meant she needed a place to live, and with such funds at her disposal as she’d received from Mrs Latimer, she could have chosen anywhere she liked, but she had come to think that perhaps the place to be was near her family. It was the only one she was likely to have. So, she bought a cottage on Main Street, close to the Robin Hood’s Well. Even with the addition of furniture, the sum this deducted from her bank account was but a drop in the ocean. Nevertheless, she had matured enough to see that the remaining balance, though large, would not last for ever in the hands of such a spendthrift and she intended to open her premises for business, for there would always be the need for a good seamstress. Armed with this fait accompli and a collection of gifts, she had attended the family get-together to deliver her news.
This time there was no possible way for Kit to avoid the humiliating confession that she had been jilted, but the acquisition of five hundred pounds had been an enormous influence on the family’s reaction. With or without the money, she had immediately gained Owen’s support, her brother being of the opinion that Latimer’s son treated his females in the same callous manner that his father treated his employees and Kit was well shut of him. Glad of the endorsement, Kit chose not to mention that she had obtained this payment by slightly false pretences.
That had been over eighteen months ago, since when Kit’s business had flourished. Though few of the villagers could afford the fashionable styles she offered, there was bread and butter to be earned from the creation of a simple dress or various alterations, whilst the advertisements she inserted in the newspaper attracted custom from the more affluent gentry who had become regular clients.
One thing marred her life. Kit was lonely. Her days, filled with industry, passed happily enough, but she had no wish to continue working right up to bedtime, for that would defeat the whole object of her new-found independence. Nevertheless, this was what she had found herself doing in order to fill her lonesome evenings after her visiting nieces and nephews had gone home to bed. Even her fine collection of books was a poor substitute for human companionship. The sojourns with her brothers could hardly be classed as inspiring, and there was no form of entertainment in the village other than the odd magic lantern show on the evils of drink, and the chapel social meeting on Saturday night with Blind Man’s Buff being the most exciting thing on offer. True, Kit had enjoyed the occasional liaison since becoming an independent woman, and with a new carrier service in the village she was able to make frequent trips into Leeds for the music hall, and every other event that a big city had to offer, but once the fun was over she still had to return to an empty house. With the nights already drawing in, Kit was dreading another winter here.
As if to emphasize her solitary state, the first of her nieces had married and moved away. Whilst Kit had been more than happy to create Rhoda’s wedding gown, she held mixed feelings upon seeing one much younger than herself walk down the aisle. Only four and half years to go and she would be thirty. Ethel seemed not to be affected by the fact that her younger sister had married before her, nor by the jokes bandied by Owen that every young man was probably frightened to death of her. Only Amelia seemed to empathize with Kit, probably because she knew what it felt like to be unfulfilled – but at least she had Albert, sighed Kit, and the two of them had become even more devoted over their seven childless years of marriage. Kit had no one at all.
Chivvying herself over another such bout of discontentment, she reminded herself that she had no real cause for complaint. Her thriving business had helped to restore most of the money she had paid for this cottage, and even with her penchant for shopping her bank balance remained at a healthy level. She was her own mistress, who could afford
anything she wanted, and today, she decided, she would have some new corsets. Donning a kingfisher-blue paletot, with a little kingfisher on her hat to match, she set off for the Robin Hood’s Well, where the carrier would pick up his passengers and take them to Castleford.
The autumn breeze threatening to destroy her equipoise, she escaped into the public house to chat with Peggo whilst awaiting the omnibus. Living nearby, they often shared fond reminiscences about Beata. Today, the barmaid joined in. Marion had become a frequent customer, and indeed a friend, grateful for the tips and improvements Kit had made to her appearance. For herself, Kit had matured enough not to give away any of Marion’s intimate secrets, had almost forgotten that she was a man, though on the odd occasion during a fitting Beata would spring to mind, and Kit would smile and wonder if her beloved niece was up there laughing at all this.
The horse-drawn omnibus arrived, interrupting her discourse. Kit braved the elements, inwardly swearing at the gust of wind that assaulted her twixt pub and omnibus. With nothing of interest to see from the windows during a journey made many times before, she chatted amiably with her fellow passengers, Mrs Feather the midwife and Mrs Kelly. By the time the omnibus reached Castleford she had acquired an order from both.
After going to be measured for her corsets, Kit had hours to wait until the omnibus made its return. Averse to walking home in this wind, she went into a restaurant, took a seat by the window and ordered a luncheon of sausage, mashed potato and peas. It was whilst she waited for her meal to arrive, idly watching passers-by that she spotted a familiar face and her own lit up in recognition.
At first, Mr Popplewell did not heed the banging on the window. Only upon hearing the faint voice that accompanied it did he turn and see Kit gesticulating wildly behind the glass. Baring his unattractive teeth, he immediately went inside to join her, sweeping off his bowler hat.
A Sense of Duty Page 38
