A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  The others watched her fretful antics, the Fenian bomb also exploding any myth that Kit was with the MP simply for the luxurious lifestyle he could offer. It was obvious she really cared for him.

  Sarah took charge then, helping Kit into her coat and passing her hat. Kit said she would leave her luggage at the cottage for she would be coming back here, hopefully with more financial assistance. Owen abandoned his seat by Monty’s hearth, saying he would accompany Kit to the station.

  Frantic with worry, Kit tossed brief thanks over her shoulder, then made for the door. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can!’

  * * *

  When she arrived in London it was dark, although only early evening. Kit would have gone straight to Westminster, but Valentine had always been adamant in prohibiting this intrusion. Snatching at the improbable hope that he might be at the house in St John’s Wood, she decided to go there first before resorting to drastic measures.

  Hardly surprised to find that Kitchingham was not there, Kit first enquired if the servants had seen him at all since Christmas. With their negative reply she ordered Fred to bring the carriage round and set off back across the great city, in growing panic.

  There were still thousands on the night-time streets, rich and poor alike – gents sauntering to their clubs, beggars around a hot chestnut vendor’s brazier, pickpockets, harlots, Salvationists and jaded clerks – the taverns, theatres and eating houses bulging. Shops too, were yet a-brim with customers, but their illuminated windows held no joy for Kit tonight, her mind on one person.

  Eventually, the carriage reached Westminster. There was a strong police presence in the area. After a moment’s hesitation, during which she blew her streaming nose, Kit alighted from the carriage. Following the manservant’s instructions, she approached the large building and went through the front door into a communal hallway. The yellow flicker of gaslight shed lustre on a flight of marble stairs. Throat tickling, she coughed, the sound reverberating off the hard surface.

  Kit was halfway up the first flight of steps when the sound of descending voices caused her to lift her face. A young boy and girl rounded the corner ahead of their mother, chattering to each other about their day in London with Father. Travelling slightly behind, the father adopted a look of horror, this expression frozen for three seconds as he waited for Kit to betray him. Open-mouthed, Kit stalled for the briefest of moments, before tossing an anxious smile at the woman and rushing onwards up the stairs. Without a backwards glance she hurried to be around the corner and out of sight before collapsing against a wall, heart beating as if it would leap out of her breast, whilst the family continued its chattering descent.

  Only slightly recovered, she moved up to a landing and waited, unsure what to do. Through the thudding of her arteries she heard a man’s footsteps take the stairs two at a time, and swallowed nervously, sensing the anger in his tread.

  Yet, she had not gauged the full extent of it. Accosting her on the landing, his face as white as the marble stair, Valentine grabbed hold of Kit’s upper arms and delivered a violent shake, hissing like a serpent. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  However robust, Kit flinched like a child, protesting her concern. ‘I thought you were injured! I heard about the Fenian bomb and came here straight away – I was so worried!’

  ‘I warned you never to come here!’

  ‘But I’ve told you I was—’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’ His fingers dug into her plump flesh. ‘Didn’t you stop to consider that my wife would think exactly the same and come rushing up here too?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t think of—’

  ‘No! You didn’t, you stupid – my God, if she’d realized who you were!’ Abruptly he pushed her from him and began to walk along the landing. ‘Oh, go home!’

  Through the tears that had sprung to her eyes Kit watched his retreating back and all of a sudden her shock turned to anger. She had come two hundred miles nursing a streaming cold and this was how the wretch treated her! ‘My family’s at starvation’s door! I should be with them, but I came rushing here because I thought you were injured!’

  Kitchingham came striding back to hiss at her. ‘Stop screeching like a fishwife before someone calls the police. Do as you’re told and go home!’ These his final words, he marched off, wrenched on a door handle and disappeared.

  Kit had been taught since childhood never to lose her temper. A placid soul, she had suffered all kinds of insults with stoicism, until now. Blood pounding in her temples, she rushed headlong down the stairs, out to the waiting carriage and almost threw herself inside, too consumed by rage to form an instruction for the manservant to take her home. Fred, however, had seen Kitchingham’s family emerge and could not wait to tell Cara about it. With a cheery flick of the whip he steered the horse into motion.

  Kit had never understood the term blind fury until now, and it was terrifying. She felt physically sick, her head throbbed and on top of everything her nose was red raw. Tense with anger, she pressed her body into the dark interior, clenching her fists at the memory, replaying it over and over in her mind all the way to St John’s Wood.

  When Fred pulled up outside the white detached villa she rushed straight inside, ignoring Cara, who waited to receive her coat, ripping off her gloves and hat, oblivious to the handful of hair that came off with it. Following her in, the manservant waited for Kit to rush into the drawing room before whispering to Cara what had happened – but Kit heard the tinkle of Irish laughter and came storming back to remonstrate.

  ‘You!’ She stabbed a finger at the maid. ‘You can pack your bags and leave in the morning!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard! Bloody Irish, planting your bloody bombs all over the place – you’re sacked!’

  ‘You can’t do that to me!’ But faced with Kit’s anger the maid was not so cocksure now.

  ‘I’ll throw you out this minute if you don’t get out of my sight!’ Kit towered over her.

  Cara flinched and hurried away, Fred making himself scarce too. Almost hysterical, Kit charged up the stairs, throwing herself on to her bed and bursting into floods of tears.

  * * *

  Naturally, there was no breakfast in the morning, though Cara was still in the house, waiting in the kitchen with her bags all packed when a puffy-eyed Kit came down.

  Far from rescinding her impetuous dismissal, Kit showed cool surprise that the maid had not yet gone. Upon hearing that the girl was waiting for a reference, she scribbled a most basic one, then showed her the door. At the last moment Cara turned defiantly and shouted, ‘Home rule for Ireland! Three cheers for the Mahdi!’ before making a swift exit.

  Kit shook her head. Even now she remained angry at Valentine’s treatment, which, added to the lack of sleep and the heavy cold, made her head throb. Placing a hand to her forehead, she stared at Dilly, the only one of her servants she genuinely liked.

  ‘Can you cook, Dilly?’

  The sixteen-year-old was eager to return her mistress’s favour – Miss Kilmaster had taken the trouble to improve her reading and writing. ‘I can do good plain food, ma’am!’

  Reminded of Popplewell’s rage over that same phrase, Kit could almost have laughed. Telling Dilly she was now in charge of the kitchen, she ordered just tea and toast for breakfast, then added that she would be going back to Yorkshire for a while. Catching sight of Fred’s expression she warned him not to waste his money on wagers, for she would be returning when her family no longer needed her. Though whether she actually would, Kit had not yet decided.

  22

  Kit’s return to Ralph Royd coincided with an outbreak of smallpox. In the damp and dismal weeks that followed there were many deaths, both from this and from another wave of measles. Owen’s children fell victim to the latter and for a time were badly afflicted, but through luck or through the villagers’ fervent prayers, they recovered. Kit’s thirtieth birthday passed without celebration.

  The coal company’s stance h
ad not altered, the owners sitting pretty in their comfortable homes. Some of the miners, weakened by poverty, had sought work at other pits but this had been denied them, the coalmasters sticking together. Owen regarded the act of these miners as betrayal and consequently refused all aid to the traitors. There was little enough food to go round as it was, without taking it out of the mouths of brave men. His children recuperated, he was now able to devote all his energy to rallying the stalwarts – they were fighting for all of Yorkshire he told them. If the masters won at this pit it would lead to a reduction in wages for all. They must stand united.

  The dispute extended to the beginning of March when, seeing an advantage in the miners’ acute distress, the masters offered to reopen the pit, saying police protection would be given to all those who wanted to return to work. Henceforth, Owen and his union were embroiled in constant battle to prevent the strike from crumbling, his ranting speeches likening the village of Ralph Royd to that of Khartoum where treacherous Egyptian soldiers under Gordon’s command had opened the gates and let the Mahdi’s troops in to murder the general. For the most part the miners stood firm, receiving support throughout the county as other pits went on strike. But noble words were poor fodder for those who were literally starving, and a few caved in, willing to suffer the insults and the cuts from flying stones in return for a full belly.

  Privately Owen himself wondered just how long they could hold out, for after three months union funds were now almost dry.

  Thank goodness, thought Kit, that she was here to help, her ill-gotten gains gratefully accepted now in the form of nourishment. Would that it were so easy to remedy another matter, for, added to the hardship of the strike, something far graver had occurred in Monty’s house. Whilst the rest of the family had long since recovered from their chest colds, Sarah’s persisted even into April. No comment had been made as to its nature, and no diagnosis had been sought, for even the youngest child knew what that dreadful hacking sound meant.

  There might be no love lost between Kit and her sister-in-law, but she would never wish such a dreadful affliction on anyone, and her heart went out to the youngsters who would have to watch their mother suffer the slow cruel death that had claimed Beata. Kit would do her utmost to fend that moment off for as long as she could.

  On her way back from Castleford with another basket of wholesome food to combat her sister-in-law’s tuberculosis, she paused briefly to talk to a group of rough-coated pit ponies, granted a respite from their grim underground existence, the only ones to benefit from this strike. After patting each inquisitive nose, she walked on.

  A notice was being posted on to the side of the Robin Hood’s Well. Kit looked over the shoulders of the gathered crowd to read it, instantly adding her voice to the angry rumble. Without wasting time, she hurried on to Monty’s, glad to find Owen there too.

  She planted her heavy basket on the table. ‘They’re going to evict you!’

  Both men flew out of their chairs and demanded more information; Sarah, too.

  ‘Everyone who lives in houses owned by the colliery is going to be evicted if they don’t go back to work!’ panted Kit.

  A pale-faced Sarah threw up her hands, then clutched her head. ‘Where are we supposed to go, damn them?’ Rhoda and Alice lived miles away, the latter was expecting a baby, and, besides, neither of them would want their nice neat homes invaded by a host of refugees.

  ‘You can come and stay at my house,’ came the immediate offer. Kit performed a brief head count. There were five at Monty’s and the same at Owen’s, but she had suffered such overcrowding before.

  ‘What, with your fancy man?’ asked Sarah unkindly, her face gaunt with worry and illness.

  Weary from such petty remarks, Kit did not know how she managed to bite her tongue, but with great restraint said she would ask Mr Popplewell to leave, the family came first. But they should wait until they were actually thrown out, that would give him time to find somewhere else.

  Owen said she could play an even bigger part by enlisting the help of her politician friend. Inwardly Kit balked at this but listened to his plea. ‘Tell him to use his influence to get more working men elected – which is what his lot promised when they were after our votes! Get rid of all them Pharisees. How can t’House o’ Commons represent nation unless folk of all classes are allowed a say?’ He pointed a finger at his sister. ‘Just tell him to think o’ the voters he’ll lose if he doesn’t help us. It was working men who gave him his power, they can just as easily take it away.’

  Though reluctant to lose face in approaching Valentine first, Kit recognized the sacrifice she must make for her family who was in such dire straits, and agreed to help. Going straight home, she gave Mr Popplewell the bad news about his tenancy, and to make amends, spent the next few days helping him find new lodgings.

  With her friend successfully rehoused, she caught a train to London.

  * * *

  First, she decided upon arrival at her house in the capital, there would have to be apology. Much as it choked her, she dispatched a letter to Valentine via Fred, telling him how sorry she was and that she hoped to be able to deliver her regrets in person if he would grant her the opportunity.

  It came as some surprise when the politician returned with the manservant that very same night, behaving as nice as pie, telling her he understood the reason that she had disobeyed his warning not to come to Westminster and indeed was touched by her concern. ‘But really, my sweet, you must never do it again.’ The dapper man sat beside her on the sofa and kissed her hand. ‘It almost gave me an apoplexy seeing you there.’

  ‘Did your wife suspect?’ Kit displayed concern. ‘Oh, Val, I never meant — ’

  ‘Not a thing!’ He pacified her with a hug. ‘But promise me you will keep to the rules we set ourselves at the outset.’

  ‘I was just so worried!’ She returned his embrace.

  ‘I know, I know. I felt wretched afterwards at being so harsh. But what could you have done if I were injured? Nothing at all.’

  Kit gave a nod of understanding, vowing she would never endanger his marriage again. Negating her own remarkable appearance in a tea gown that ranged from pale cream to dark chestnut and paid glorious compliment to her hair, her breast rose in a sigh as she remarked of his wife, ‘She’s very pretty.’

  Valentine agreed, adding that his wife’s nature matched her sweet countenance. ‘But there are other things a wife just cannot provide. Dear Kit, how I’ve missed you.’ Admiring her voluptuous form for a second, he ground her lips with his own, then led her to the stairs.

  Kit was weary from her journey and would have much preferred to curl up and go to sleep. But to deny him this would be to destroy his receptive mood and she had come here to seek help. Meeting his sensual gaze, she allowed him to lead her upstairs.

  * * *

  Permitting a respectable period to elapse between their lovemaking and the question of the striking miners, Kit went all the way through supper without mentioning a word, asking instead what he had done in her three-month absence. Had they caught the person responsible for the bombing?

  Picking at his meal, Valentine said blame had been put on O’Donovan Rossa who had already caused a series of explosions in London and carried out a similar attempt to destroy Parliament in Quebec. ‘Someone – a British nurse by all accounts, God bless her – managed to get five shots into him in New York, but unfortunately he survived.’

  Kit said she would liked to have put five shots into Cara, then begged pardon for the poor meal but she hadn’t had time to hire anyone else. ‘So there’ve been no more explosions?’

  He laid his knife and fork together, mopping at his moustache before replying. ‘About a month ago we were sitting in the House when there was an almighty bang – shook the entire building. Turned out it was caused by gas in the Palace Yard.’ He took a sip of wine and grinned. ‘Probably all the hot air spouted by that windbag Churchill. Gave us a frightful shock though.’

&nbs
p; ‘I heard Mr Gladstone was going to retire.’ Kit tried to work the conversation round to the striking miners.

  ‘He’s been persuaded that it’s his duty to stay in office for the moment. There’ll be an election at the end of the year anyway.’ Valentine savoured the last of his wine and gazed thoughtfully into mid-air. ‘What else have I done? Ah, a memorial service at St Paul’s for General Gordon, tried to avert a war with Russia—’

  Kit broke in to ask if the threat was real.

  ‘Indubitably. The hostilities have sent the Stock Exchange into a total panic. Fortunately, I managed to sell my shares before they plunged too far. Anyway, that’s quite enough of me.’ He rose and led the way to the drawing room. ‘Come sit by me and reveal what you’ve been doing in Yorkshire.’

  At last Kit had an opening. With a great sigh, she leaned against him to relate everything that had taken place during the last three months, concluding her sad tale with news of the threatened evictions. ‘They might be out on the streets by the time I get back.’

  ‘But that’s truly awful,’ responded Valentine. ‘So you don’t plan to stay in London?’ .

  Kit shook her head. ‘I didn’t like to leave them at all.’ There came a brief hesitation. ‘But I thought you might be able to lend a sense of direction to their plight.’

  Valentine gave a futile shrug. ‘My sympathies go out to the colliers, naturally, but from what I’m told it appears that the only answer is for them to go back to work. A reduction in wages is better than no wage at all. There’s a general depression in the entire coal trade. In all fairness, one can’t expect the owners to shoulder the burden.’

  ‘Why not?’ was her simple question. ‘They’re the ones with all the money.’

  ‘I know it seems unfair—’

  ‘Because it is unfair! I was expecting more from an intelligent man like yourself. When I mentioned a sense of direction, I referred to your capacity as a politician.’