When she got back from the park, Kit had a cup of tea, then decided to read a book until Valentine turned up. It was so enjoyable that she lost all inkling of time, until Cara came in to light the gas lamps and said that supper was ready. Disappointed to be eating alone, Kit rushed through the meal and went straight back to her enthralling tale. Before she knew it, the clock struck nine. It was doubtful he would come now. Hoping the friendliness of her voice disguised her forlorn mood, Kit bade the servants goodnight, said she was going to bed, and took the book with her.
* * *
The rest of the week was to take on a similar pattern, Kit despairing that Valentine would ever turn up at all. Though used to living alone, her surroundings then had been familiar and amongst her own kind, this place was totally alien. There was a limit to how much time one could give to admiring one’s new acquisitions before becoming bored.
Kit had almost reached that limit when, to her delight, Valentine arrived on Friday evening. His pleasure at seeing her there totally made up for the long wait which, he explained, was due to pressures of work and the simple fact that he had not expected her to arrive so swiftly. He had merely come tonight on the off chance that she might be here.
‘Had I realized, I would have been here like a shot!’ He kissed her hand and led her to the sofa where he sat very close, looking like a boy who has just received the promised train set in his Christmas stocking. ‘Oh dear, poor Kitty, sitting here all on your own with nothing to do.’
‘I was under the impression that you’d be living here all the time,’ she told him somewhat reproachfully.
‘I shall, now that I know you’re here – at least as much of the time as I can possibly manage. Though sometimes I will have to stay at my dreary little flat in Westminster – the House often keeps me until midnight.’
Kit said she understood that he had an important job, and asked him to tell her all that he had been doing. Replying that she would find most of it boring, he related instead a number of amusing incidents that had taken place in the House during his time there, causing her to laugh and he in turn to tell her how much he loved the unselfconscious way she displayed her merriment. They talked and laughed non-stop until supper, after which he asked if she would mind very much if he went to change out of these formal clothes. With her permission, he returned in a maroon quilted smoking jacket with an open necked shirt and corduroy trousers, though the waxed moustache helped maintain his suave demeanour.
‘Ah, that’s much better!’ He fell on to the velvet sofa beside her, resting his head on her shoulder for a moment, before lifting it to ask, ‘Kit, be a sweetheart and pour me a brandy.’ He favoured her with a warm smile as she acceded – ‘Oh, God bless you!’ – then took a grateful sip and ordered her to sit beside him again. ‘Now!’ He performed a deft tweak of both ends of his moustache. ‘You must tell me what you want to do tomorrow – and Sunday. We have the entire weekend to ourselves.’
Kit snuggled up and told him that the choice was his, she would be happy just to escape the house. He voiced the realization that he had no idea as to her preferences – apart from dancing that was. There would be plenty of opportunity for the latter on an evening, with many a colourful ball to attend, but what about the daytime? He listed the things which he himself enjoyed – museums, art galleries, boating in summer, skating in winter, horse racing, the theatre – to every one of them Kit acquiesced, her shining eyes telling him that a wonderful partnership lay ahead.
‘There is, of course, one thing that I enjoy above all,’ said Valentine, his lazy smile and his hooded eye informing her just what this might be. Finding the invitation he sought in Kit’s face, he put his glass aside, took her in his arms and delivered a long kiss.
With its increasing ardour, Kit broke free.
He misinterpreted her look of concern and murmured seductively, ‘You need have no fear, Kit. I’ll be very careful.’
It was not the right time to say he need not be concerned, for she was barren. Kit explained that her cautious attitude was merely inspired by the thought that a servant might walk in on them. Should they not find somewhere more private? Granting her a little time in which to prepare herself, Valentine said he would finish his brandy and send the servants to bed, before coming to join her.
Delivering a lingering kiss, Kit left him.
Once upstairs in the yellow glow of the gas-lit bedroom, her attitude became more hurried, her fingers scrabbling over the twenty-four buttons down the front of her bodice, the complicated laces of her stays, the layers and layers of petticoats, until finally she stood, panting slightly, in chemise and drawers. Freed, her great breasts rolled like the waves beneath their thin layer of cambric as she hurried to the dressing table stool and sat down to pull off her shoes and stockings. A nightgown replaced the chemise and drawers. One by one a dozen hairpins were ferreted out by impatient fingertips and dropped with a succession of pinging noises into a china dish. Finally, with rivulets of auburn hair about her shoulders, she felt ready to meet him – though an afterthought sent her wobbling rapidly across the room to pull down one side of the bed linen.
When Valentine entered, Kit was brushing her hair with gentle strokes, the tranquillity of the scene belying her previous activity, only the pink flush to her cheeks giving her away. She put down the brush and rose, heart racing. Instead of approaching, he sat on the bed as if staggered by what he saw.
As she came towards him smiling, he rose to meet her, ripping off his smoking jacket and wrapping his arms around her pliant flesh, kneading and moulding it to his own body. Kit responded to his kisses with gusto, her feet inching with his towards the bed. Once there he lifted her nightgown over her head so that she stood naked before him, then pressed his lips to the warm gigantic swell of her breasts, his face disappearing into soft flesh, his fingers sliding underneath her buttocks. Deeply aroused, she gave a little cry of objection as he dropped to his knees, his lips travelling down her belly. She urged him to take off his own clothes which he did, returning to her, naked and engorged. Falling on to the bed, Kit spread herself eagerly, pulled him into her, rejoicing in the contrast between their two bodies that merged into one writhing unit, rolling, arching, crashing like waves against rock …
And afterwards, as their sated, sweat-drenched bodies lay panting, each of them agreed that this association was going to be of great mutual benefit.
* * *
The pattern set, on Sunday morning Kit awoke to find a hand clamped between her thighs, and wriggled her buttocks invitingly at the warm, rigid presence to her rear, thereby sparking another sensual alliance.
Afterwards, the aroma of fried bacon filtering up from the kitchen, Valentine rose and put on his dressing gown, instructing Kit to do the same and they would go down to breakfast. Kit admitted self-consciously that she did not own a dressing gown. At which, as if seized with a burst of inspiration he rushed off, telling her to stay where she was. When he returned he was carrying a large tray bearing tea and toast, bacon, eggs and sausages, which he balanced precariously whilst slipping into bed beside her, and told Kit to dig in.
‘Though you’re not to expect this every morning, mind!’ A loaded fork disappeared into his mustachioed grin. ‘At least not from me. Cara will serve you well.’
Kit wanted to issue a scold – ‘Don’t speak with your mouth full’ – but thought better of it.
The meal consumed with relish, they leaned back on the pillows, taking time over their cups of tea, Valentine telling Kit that he had instructed the maid to bring up a bath for her. Alarmed at the thought of being discovered in such circumstances, Kit started to leap out of bed, but he laughed and told her to calm herself, Cara would only come when summoned by the bell. ‘When she’s on her way you can hide in one of the other rooms if you so wish.’
When they had emptied their cups, Valentine rang for the maid and Kit retired to another room. Upon hearing the uneven thud of feet coming up the stairs – which meant Cara and Dilly were ar
riving with the bath – she peeped around the door to watch them deliver it, finally to emerge, one of them carrying the breakfast tray. Only when she was sure they had gone did she return.
Seated in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other, Valentine smiled at her prudishness and said he hardly dared to make his suggestion now.
‘Suggest what?’ Kit hovered by the bath.
‘That I sit here and watch you bathe.’
Kit was astounded – a bath was such a private thing.
‘Why, Kit, such modesty! It’s hardly as if we don’t know one another.’ He made no move to leave the chair, issuing a smile of encouragement. ‘Come, don’t be a spoilsport. I have always been fascinated to learn what’s involved in a woman’s toilet. Having never been allowed to do so, I took you for one more liberated. You’ve always displayed such generosity in other spheres.’
Reluctantly, she agreed to let him stay, praying that the hip bath would contain her grand proportions and that the water would not overflow when she got in. Fortunately, though the water came to within an inch of the brim, no spillage occurred. Unwilling to perform more intimate ablutions, she merely lay there enveloped in steam, stroking the sponge up and down her arms, feeling self-conscious under his gaze.
‘I thought we might do the Row this morning.’
Kit flinched. ‘D’you mean in Hyde Park?’ An unpleasant memory sprang to mind of the last time she had been on Rotten Row when she had suffered the humiliation of being arrested.
‘Where else? Parade with the nobs. Then, after luncheon – well, who knows what we will do after luncheon? It rather depends on who we meet in the park.’
With Kit’s acquiescence, he urged her to get out of the bath whilst he stripped off and took her place. Even then, he insisted on watching her movements, lying back in the suds to watch as one after another item of clothing was donned: drawers and chemise, stockings and petticoats.
Postponing further accoutrement, Kit decided to brush her hair, wrapping each lock around her finger and securing it with a pin, allowing others to fall free while he watched in fascination.
But Kit was to draw the line at putting on her corsets in front of him – it was something no man should witness. Saying that if they were to go out should he not make a move to go and get dressed, she was able to acquire the privacy she desired and hurriedly completed her outfit.
* * *
On their way to Hyde Park in the open carriage, he told her that apart from everything else at her disposal she could expect a personal allowance. He understood that she would be lonely and thus wanted to provide the means for her to enjoy a shopping spree. During the conversation she was to discover that he came from a privileged family, and Kit was therefore spared from any guilt about taking money that should have been spent on his children. With a large house in Yorkshire, the one in London, a cottage in Cornwall and – remarkably – a villa in Spain, it was unlikely that he would ever be strapped for cash.
Happy in this knowledge, Kit smiled to herself as the carriage rolled sedately along.
Sunday Parade in Hyde Park was just as she remembered it, a regiment of toppers and morning coats, an intermingling tide of silken, multicoloured hats bobbing graciously to right and left; a colourful pride of peacocks. Somewhat nervously, she glanced around as the carriage turned into the Row to join others on the sandy track. Kit could have held her own with anyone, in her green braided costume and matching ostrich-plumed hat – the feather alone costing her a staggering five shillings – yet, she remained ill at ease, fearing that someone might spring from the bushes and label her a fake, thus ending her magical charade.
Valentine was quick to spot her tension and asked what was amiss, receiving the answer that she was afraid they might bump into someone he knew. In response, he laughed and said that this was the whole idea – and at this point he directed his cane at a group of people on foot who were looking in his direction and waved in recognition, telling Fred to stop the carriage alongside them.
Kit warily extended her gloved hand over the side of the carriage as she was introduced to the two men and women, who were presumably acquainted with Valentine’s wife. She was therefore stunned to receive only warmth from all four people who, at Valentine’s invitation, climbed into the carriage to join her for a spin to Kensington Palace, during which they treated Kit as if she were an old friend.
‘My dear, you must come to luncheon!’ insisted one of the women, an artificially pretty creature, much slimmer than Kit but of a similar age, with a southern accent, a ready smile and hennaed hair. ‘Unless of course you have anything arranged.’
‘Today?’ Kit decided she liked the speaker and mirrored her smile. ‘Won’t it be short notice for your cook?’
‘Not at all!’ At the young woman’s denial, a feather quivered on her aquamarine hat. ‘She’s a marvellous creature, always prepared to feed an army.’
Kit looked enquiringly at Valentine, who sat with his gloved hands resting on the cane between his legs, and who answered for her. ‘We’d love to come, Angela, thank you. How fortunate that we bumped into you, particularly as Kit knows no one in London.’
‘Oh, we’ll soon remedy that!’ Angela consulted the other woman, Frances, who gave an encouraging nod at Kit. ‘First thing tomorrow I’ll endeavour to arrange a get-together of all my friends for the afternoon – to welcome you into the fold.’
‘You’re very kind,’ said Kit, and extended her smile to the menfolk, who seemed similarly disposed towards her, one of them flashing an admiring glance at Valentine for his choice.
Kit was to repeat this opinion some hours later when, after a corset-threatening luncheon, the ladies withdrew for coffee and private chatter, leaving the menfolk to their claret and cigars.
Her thanks was accompanied by an embarrassed confession as she spread her skirts upon Angela’s sofa, surrounded by lacy antimacassars and a menagerie of stuffed animals under glass. ‘When I first saw you in the park, I wasn’t sure what reception I’d get.’ She took a sip of coffee from a tiny oriental cup, then put it back on the mahogany side table.
‘But why would we wish to spurn anyone so charming as our new friend?’ asked her bemused hostess.
Fearing that the women might be ignorant of her escort’s marital status, Kit said tentatively, ‘Well, I wasn’t sure if either you or your husbands were acquainted with Mrs Kitchingham.’
Angela and Frances shared a kind but hearty laugh, the latter giving her an affectionate tap with her painted fan. ‘Kit, we’re all in the same boat!’
Kit touched her lips, feeling at once relieved yet slightly decadent, the other two mistresses somehow emphasizing her own sordid status.
She tentatively asked if they had known Valentine long, a roundabout way of finding out what had happened to his previous consorts. Angela seemed to guess this and, without going into too much detail, said that in the three years she had been acquainted with him, Valentine had only had one other ‘friend’ and they had parted amicably some time ago when the woman had gone off to France – so there was no danger of Kit bumping into her. She had been very popular amongst their circle, said Angela, but Kit need have no worries about petty resentments, she would be welcomed into their little club.
Kit felt slightly grubby over her membership, but this was soon alleviated by the announcement that Angela and Frances were going to take her on a shopping trip on Tuesday morning. Added to the various other activities they were listing on their fingers, this eagerness to take care of her convinced Kit that there was nothing lewd or rude about either of them. Putting her qualms finally to rest, she hoisted her coffee cup in the manner of a toast and smiled her gratitude, deciding that in the bosom of such very good friends, life in London was going to be just as she had always dreamed it.
20
For Kit, the remainder of 1882 was a constant round of shopping expeditions, soirees and high jinks, during which she became rather fond of her illicit provider. Apart from being a generous
man, Valentine shared her thirst for enjoyment, and their time together was never dull, nor was he shy of parading his mistress before London society. The only place she was not allowed to go was Westminster, as he said this might be regarded as a little too blatant. He had invested a great deal of money in getting himself elected, and would risk his position for no one.
Sometimes, if the politician was able to free himself from duties of office, they would go to the races, or boating on the Thames. At night there was the theatre or an opera – every week provided a new experience. Even if she sometimes failed to see him for days on end there was no lack of comfort, food and wine being in copious supply. Nor was Kit ever lonely, her wide circle of female friends making sure of that. At certain times, she was even pleased that he did not turn up, for Val’s idea of enjoyment tended towards the physical rather than a witty tête-à-tête, and he could be very demanding, not to mention adventurous. Kit was now thoroughly familiarized with those erotic volumes she had seen on Lord Garborough’s bookshelf.
He had never volunteered any information about his wife and children, and Kit had never asked, the only reminder of their existence coming at holiday periods when he would vanish for weeks at a time. Kit tried not to picture the scene of domesticity that his homecoming would engender – the loving wife rushing out to greet her husband, children scrambling on to father’s knee – preferring to concentrate instead on the good life that Valentine had brought her. It was difficult, though, for one who yearned for children not to supplant the loving wife’s image with that of her own.
This was especially true in the week approaching Christmas when, faced with his absence, and overwhelmed by a tide of homesickness, Kit decided to make a trip up to Yorkshire where the lights might not be as bright as Regent Street, but she would be assured of a warm welcome.
A Sense of Duty Page 42
