A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  When the maid arrived she was taken to task by Frances for allowing her mistress to get into such a state. Any argument to the contrary was ignored. Kit, watching Angela sink deeper and deeper into oblivion, sided with the maid and said that it would take more than beef tea to restore her. ‘Go fetch a doctor. I’m not arguing – go fetch one, now!’

  ‘Kit, she’ll never forgive me for doing this!’ hissed Frances as the maid left. ‘And I’ll be implicated too.’

  ‘You should have thought of that.’ Angry at such wanton butchery, Kit was not inclined to spare anyone’s feelings. ‘Now, let’s see what we can do to make her more comfy.’ So saying, she pulled back the covers.

  But a horrified gasp from Frances told that it was probably too late to save her. Angela’s mattress was a pool of red.

  Kit stood there for a moment, riveted by shock. Then, only slightly recovered and still trembling, she made frantic gestures at the distressed Frances to leave. ‘I’ll stay with her. I can honestly say I came here and found her like this.’

  Tearful, Frances looked hesitant to depart, but Kit pushed her at the door. ‘You’re not in a fit state to answer questions! You’ll only get yourself into trouble – now go!’

  Kit paid brief attention to the other’s exit, then flopped on to a chair at Angela’s blood-soaked bedside, and watched helplessly as, before the doctor could arrive, the pretty young life seeped away.

  21

  What was so doubly awful about Angela’s needless death was that it brought back the memory of Beata’s demise. Kit supposed it was the sight of all that blood which provoked the nightmares. Whatever the reason, it totally spoiled her reunion with Valentine who, though sympathetic when she awoke crying in the middle of the night, could not fully understand the depth of her melancholy. Snuggled against his chest, Kit tried to explain that part of the reason was that she could not have children. It was the first time she had broached the subject, her vulnerable state causing her to confide in him more than usual – but he was to show complete insensitivity by responding that at least she must be relieved at never having to suffer a similar ordeal as poor Angela.

  From then on, Kit retained her confidences for female ears, gradually recovering from her melancholy to be once again the consort Val had so admired – though privately, amongst all the cavorting, she could never rid herself of that sombre reminder of mortality, and the wasted life of a child that she could never bear.

  To compensate, as he saw it, for that past gloomy period, Valentine arranged a party to celebrate Kit’s twenty-eighth birthday, hiring a ballroom and an orchestra and an army of caterers. Kit, who had assumed they were just going dancing when he told her to put on her best gown, was completely overwhelmed to find that she was the guest of honour, and her eyes filled with tears at his thoughtful act – though these were soon wiped away and she found herself dancing with almost every man in the room.

  Breathless from her latest frenetic circuit of the ballroom, she sought time to recover before taking up another offer, and joined Frances and a group of other female companions to chat for a while. Valentine was standing some distance from her, occupied in conversation with another man. Kit watched him fondly, waiting to catch his eye, at which point she would wave. Already aware that her provider had the ability to listen to two conversations at once – his right ear able to detect some relevant comment whilst the left was apparently listening assiduously to another voice – from her vantage point now she had time to detect another of Valentine’s traits. His intelligent nods and eager expression made out he was paying homage to the speaker, as if he deemed this man the most important person in the world. But Kit’s keen examination noted that his eyes were constantly flitting around the room, surreptitiously looking for someone more interesting, someone more useful, and a sudden doubt arose in her breast.

  But whilst she was still wondering if he used the same ploy with her, Valentine caught her eye and dealt her a warm gaze, thereby quashing her qualm. So much warmth did he bestow, in fact, that at that precise moment Kit found herself musing over the possibility that he would leave his wife and marry her. The thought was just as soon dismissed. It was obvious now that the fortune-teller’s prediction had been accurate – no marriage, no children. Kit must be thankful for the time he spent with her, for the generous gifts he had bestowed, for the wonderful life she had.

  * * *

  The politician’s generosity was to continue throughout another year, during which Kit alternated her place of residence between London and York where, in his absences, she often went to ensure that her property was secure, to visit friends and to see her sister. There were also brief visits to Ralph Royd. A far more exciting destination, though, was Valentine’s house in Spain where he took her for a short holiday that autumn, unwittingly presenting Kit with her first glimpse of the sea and laughing at her childlike enjoyment of what was to him commonplace. Despite the awful bout of seasickness that accompanied the voyage, Kit was soon to recover, especially upon laying eyes on the white, sun-washed villa set at the edge of a cliff with its own private little beach where she could bathe unobserved. Her only tinge of regret was that she could not share this with her loved ones.

  Yet, Valentine’s continued benevolence did allow Kit in turn to show other forms of generosity to her kin. The following summer it was Alice’s turn to be married, her aunt rising to the occasion by making the most wondrous ivory gown that Ralph Royd had ever seen. The brief visit home for the wedding was made more enjoyable by the discovery that at last she found Mr Popplewell in residence, her old friend providing an excellent distraction from her own family’s lack of gaiety, the latter seeming even more pronounced after her wild life in the capital.

  She had received quite a shock on meeting her siblings again. In the long gap since she had last been home their appearance had deteriorated considerably, the elder ones showing signs of middle age, those with dark hair bearing large tracts of grey. Though thinning, Monty’s auburn hair retained its brightness, but his tall frame had adopted a definite stoop, and there were lines of hardship around his mouth and nose. Older herself now, and blessed with more intuition, Kit wondered if these had been etched as much by marital discord than by hard work – for Sarah too had those same lines of embitterment. Only a fool could misread those expressions as ones of wedded bliss.

  They managed to put aside their discontentment for Alice’s wedding though, and the bride herself was overjoyed at her aunt’s handiwork.

  Owen was quite the jester too, his union having recently managed to acquire a ten per cent wage rise for its members, and he teased Kit about the latest parliamentary bill to enfranchise women being defeated, saying that with her contacts he would have thought she could have held some influence. Such mention of her provider would have been unthinkable a year ago. Kit wondered if this was an indication that the family’s disapproval of her chosen life had been relaxed, but one look at their collective faces showed her this was an illusion. Despite the lack of condemnation, they remained embarrassed at her presence in the village.

  Nevertheless, this did not spoil her enjoyment of Alice’s wedding, and she was thrilled to see Rhoda’s little boy again. Like her sister, Alice had married someone with a cleaner occupation – much to her mother’s pleasure – and would be moving away after the ceremony. Being the only two daughters left at home, Wyn and Meredith finally got the opportunity to be bridesmaids – Kit having made their dresses too. But it was eleven-year-old Probyn who drew her deepest affection, looking most grown-up in the collar and tie and new suit that his aunt had brought him from London. It seemed like only yesterday he had been born, yet here he was, almost ready for work.

  Thoroughly exhilarated at seeing him again, and anxious to make the most of his last years of childhood, Kit asked Monty if she might take his son for a few days’ visit to her house in York before she returned to the capital. ‘I give you my word that there won’t be anyone else there, not even a cook.’ Her residence in Yor
k being only temporary, she had not bothered to hire a servant. ‘He won’t come under any bad influence.’

  ‘You won’t be there yourself, then?’ came his cynical enquiry.

  ‘You cheeky monkey!’ Recognizing that behind the straight expression was a joke, she punched him lightly, then turned to Probyn, who was waiting with bated breath. ‘Eh, he’s that cheeky is your dad!’

  ‘Aw go on, Father, let us go!’ begged the boy. ‘Mother, can I?’

  ‘With pleasure,’ said Sarah, though not with malice. She was in lighthearted mood, having seen another of her daughters improve their lot.

  Wyn and Merry asked if they could come too, but were reminded by their mother that they had work to go to.

  Monty turned back to study his sister, holding her with his blue eyes so that she was left under no misapprehension. ‘No newspapers, no introducing him to any of your friends, male or female – and no dancing.’

  ‘I promise,’ vowed Kit.

  ‘So I can go?’ Probyn leaped into the air with a whoop, then set about preparing for his expedition. ‘Can I take me soldiers, Aunt?’

  A smiling Kit replied that he could, then noticed that one of the lead figures had its head swathed in what appeared to be a bandage and its body wrapped in a blanket. ‘Eh, I don’t know if he’ll travel very well if he’s wounded.’

  Probyn sighed. ‘He’s not wounded! That’s the Mad Mahdi – that’s his turban and robes.’

  ‘Oh, of course I recognize him now!’ Kit’s exclamation gave rise to a brief discussion about General Gordon’s outrageous comment in the press that if the Government refused to send a relief expedition to help him in the Khartoum, he was going to adopt the Muslim faith and resign as British Envoy.

  This in turn led to a condemnation of all foreigners including the Fenians, who had recently set off bombs in London, killing one person and injuring half a dozen. Monty showed concern for his sister’s safety but Kit laughed and said he did not realize how big London was – the bombs had been miles away from where she lived. Giving Monty her thanks for allowing Probyn to go to York, she said that she would have the boy back safe and sound in three or four days.

  * * *

  When they arrived at York station, instead of taking Probyn to her own home, Kit took him to Amelia’s, saying they would get a better class of luncheon there. But there was ulterior motive, as Probyn was to discover when, upon driving away from Aunt Amelia’s in a hansom, Kit directed it not to her house but back to the railway station.

  Before his aunt had time to explain, the boy objected, ‘Aw, you said we could see the soldiers!’ Aunt Kit had told him they might be lucky enough to witness a military parade, York being a garrison town.

  ‘Aye, but I know where we could see them for sure,’ grinned Kit. ‘I bet you’d much rather go see the Changing of the Guard at Buckingham Palace!’

  Probyn looked at first astounded, then a smile of awareness spread across his face. ‘You mean, we’re off to London?’

  ‘Aye! It’ll be much more exciting than your aunt’s boring little house – but don’t tell your dad, else he won’t let you come again!’ Kit looked gleeful, knowing her nephew was adept at keeping such secrets, having been weaned from infancy on his aunt’s escapades. ‘I know all these train journeys are a bit of a chew, but if we go now that’ll get you there in time for a good night’s sleep and you’ll have the whole of tomorrow for sightseeing.’

  Imbued with his aunt’s sense of adventure, an eager Probyn replied that he didn’t mind how many trains he had to go on, he was having a right grand time.

  Laughing conspiratorially, they alighted from the cab and went to the ticket office, where Kit purchased two return tickets to London. She would have Probyn back in a few days as promised and nobody would be any the wiser.

  But Kit had reckoned without the fact that Valentine might not appreciate a third presence in the drawing room when he came to see his mistress. When, upon his homecoming that evening, Valentine found the usual lusty interlude denied him, and discovered the reason behind this to be a small ginger-haired boy who was watching agog from his seat by the fire, he was none too impressed. In fact, Kit considered his surly greeting to her nephew to be downright rude.

  ‘Oh dear, Probe, Mr Kitchingham seems to be in bad humour tonight. Perhaps he’ll be a little more amenable after supper.’ With a telling expression, she rang the bell to summon Cara and told her to serve the meal.

  Valentine disliked the flippant tone, and stalked ahead of her into the dining room – though he did pull out a chair and made sure she was comfortably seated before going around to the other side of the table.

  Looking awkward in this totally foreign environment, Probyn waited to be asked to sit down. Showing great kindness, and wishing Valentine would be as good-hearted, Kit pulled out the chair beside her and patted its moquette seat, telling the youngster to come and sit there. Throughout the meal she continued to pay him such court, asking him what he liked best about the food, offering second helpings of beef and gravy, and whilst not completely ignoring Valentine, making sure he knew she was annoyed at his treatment of her loved one.

  After a heavy dessert, noting that Probyn was almost falling asleep at the table, Kit took him up to his room, attending to him personally, tucking him into bed and saying they would have a lovely day together tomorrow, listing the places they would visit – Madame Tussaud’s, the Horse Guards, the Tower of London, Buckingham Palace.

  ‘Will Mr Kitchingham be going with us?’ asked the sleepy boy, in a tone denoting aversion.

  Kit smoothed back his curly forelock and delivered a kiss to his brow, wiping away a smudge of soot. ‘No, he’ll be busy at his work. It’ll be just thee and me.’ With this she patted him, wished him goodnight and left the room.

  Downstairs, she was about to tackle Valentine about his behaviour when he jumped in first.

  ‘Could you not have warned me that your nephew would here?’ His face was cross.

  ‘Oh, I do beg your pardon!’ said Kit mockingly. ‘I thought this was my home. I didn’t realize I had to seek your permission before inviting members of my family here.’

  The reply from behind the waxed moustache was terse. ‘It would simply have been nice to be consulted.’ He made no move to touch her, his attitude unbending. ‘How long do you intend for him to stay?’

  ‘I haven’t decided yet.’ Though accustomed to controlling her emotions, Kit had a struggle to contain her rising anger. A red tide crept over her cheeks.

  Holding his frame erect, Valentine rose and strode to the door, speaking as he went. ‘Then when you do, perhaps you’d be good enough to inform me so that when I next come here I can be sure to expect what I’ve paid for.’

  Kit’s mouth flew open, her eyes looked for something to throw at him, but before she had chance to retaliate the door to the hall had slammed, followed by the sound of the front door.

  Lips pressed together in a bloodless line, she fumed for a while longer, pacing up and down to try and calm herself – how dare he? The wretch, she did not care if she ever saw him again!

  * * *

  But three days later, when Kit was making the long return journey to London following the delivery of her nephew back to Ralph Royd after his brief but exciting sojourn in the capital, she decided she did care whether she saw Valentine again. How could she not, after sharing over two years of intimacy? Life would be so much duller without him. More pertinently, she had grown fond of her mode of living and had no wish to jeopardize it, but was none the less disinclined to have him tell her who she could and could not see. She had sworn long ago to let no man misuse her again. Trying to picture what she would do if he were to sever their contract, Kit swayed in time to the kitty-come-home of the train’s wheels, hoping, praying, that she had not made a grievous error.

  When she arrived at St John’s Wood that evening, being charged the earth for her transport from the station by growler, but not having the energy to argue with its se
edy-looking coachman, Kit’s mood was to descend even further upon entry to the house.

  Met by Cara in the gaslit hall, she asked had Mr Kitchingham visited in her absence.

  ‘No, ma’am,’ returned the Irish maid, with her usual air of assuredness. ‘I dare say he was afraid Master Probyn was still here. Himself s not too fond of children. Well, I’m sure he’s fond of his own o’ course, but that’s a different matter. And Master Probyn was a bit rowdy with his games of soldiers an’ all.’

  Kit was offended, not least by Cara’s perpetually familiar attitude, and almost thrust her coat at the maid. ‘No rowdier than any normal boy.’

  Cara waited to receive her mistress’s hat. ‘Well now, I wouldn’t know, not having any boys of my own – all I meant was, Mr Kitchingham’s not coming here to play with children, is he?’

  ‘Just what are you implying?’ Kit regretted asking almost immediately, for the maid’s expression told it all.

  But, despite the insolent slant to her eye, Cara’s civil reply bore an air of innocence. ‘I didn’t mean nothing, ma’am. Just quoting a fact.’

  From her lofty position, Kit had the advantage and, looking down her nose at the maid, said, ‘You don’t like me, do you?’

  Unintimidated, Cara replied, ‘’Tis not for me to like nor dislike, ma’am.’

  ‘You’re right, it isn’t.’ Eyes still fixed to her adversary, the taller woman gave a curt nod. ‘So I suggest you alter your tone when speaking to me, because if you don’t buck your ideas up you’ll find yourself looking for another post.’

  ‘Sure, I’m not the only one,’ muttered Cara on her way to the kitchen.

  Overhearing her, Kit spun and demanded that the maid repeat herself.