A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Faced with the thought that the strike could last that long, Kit felt she would go mad, both from lack of privacy and the burden of divided loyalty. The village where nothing ever happened had now become a political battlefield, foreigners took the place of friends, the Kilmasters just one of many families split by the lockout.

  And then all at once it appeared to be over. The sight of some miners going back to work seemed to infect others. The trickle became a stream, the stream a river, until one morning Owen and his stalwarts found themselves outnumbered and were no longer regarded as a threat.

  Inasmuch as she felt desperately sorry for her younger brother who had fought so long and hard against injustice – and it was terribly unjust – Kit felt a wave of relief upon seeing the tents dismantled from the pasture, the houses once again inhabited, most of the foreigners being sent home. Yet, her own troubles were far from over, for though Owen resigned himself to accepting the ten per cent drop in wages, the masters had other ideas. Regarded as troublemakers, he and his ten staunchest allies, including his son, were blackballed. Unable to get a job anywhere, he was forced to throw himself on Kit’s mercy.

  Thoroughly exhausted by the turmoil, Kit had been so looking forward to having the house to herself once more, that when Owen asked if his family might stay until he or his lad found work, she was hard put to prevent a scream of frustration.

  But how could she deny her brother a roof over his head, especially with other property at her disposal? This sparked a sudden decision. No longer needed here, she would go back to her comfortable home in London.

  Telling Owen he could stay as long as he wanted, she added one proviso: ‘By the time I return, I expect to see you and Monty back on speaking terms.’

  ‘If your decision to let us stay hangs on that,’ announced Owen gravely, ‘I’ll say ta-ra now.’

  She saw that he was deeply serious. ‘You can’t not talk to him – he’s your brother, he brought you up, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘He’s a traitor,’ said Owen. ‘I’ll never talk to him again.’

  * * *

  Reflecting on this conversation during her train journey, Kit decided that it was purely through lack of work and lost pride that Owen had made this bitter utterance. Once he had found a job, he would be better disposed. Kit hoped she would be able to help in this field – though for the moment she could not prevent her mind wandering back to her own personal woes. In defiance of all efforts to fight it, she was plagued by the niggling thought that she might have contacted tuberculosis from living cheek to cheek with Sarah. Reading up on the subject, she had found opinion to be that it was after all contagious – but then why had no one else caught it when Beata had died? Still, one could never be sure, and in Kit’s weakened state of mind the idea had found fertile ground. Despite the lack of a cough, her chest felt tight, in fact her whole body felt run down and exhausted.

  Perhaps, Kit told herself, she just needed to get away for a rest – though the thought occurred that she was going to the wrong place for that. The moment Valentine heard she was in residence he would be pressuring her for favours. Maybe she would not let him know she was there, not for a while anyway. Though he really needed to be told if she did have consumption.

  Even after a few days’ rest, during which she cosseted herself with perfumed baths, boxes of chocolates and good books, Kit remained out of sorts, but still she decided to send word to Valentine. He had a right to know.

  A mere day after Fred’s delivery of the note, the politician appeared in Kit’s hallway, somewhat earlier than usual, pleased as ever to see her and enquiring straight away as to the health of her family.

  ‘I don’t ever recall a strike lasting as long as this!’ Most attentive, he escorted her into the drawing room where they sat down. ‘You must have suffered dreadful hardship. I tried my utmost to help negotiations along but was virtually told to mind my own business. Anyway, it’s over now, thank goodness, and you’re back. I’m so glad to see you.’

  Kit returned the compliment, wondering how on earth she could introduce the subject of tuberculosis into the conversation.

  ‘It’s such a happy coincidence that you chose to return at this time as I’ve been bidden to attend a party this evening – by a very important host. I assumed I would be forced into going alone but now you’re here —’

  ‘Oh, Val, I don’t know if I’ve got the energy.’ Kit looked plaintive.

  ‘Of course you have!’ came his bright reply. ‘Plenty of time to get ready – and I’ve brought you something to wear.’ He produced a box and from it took out a silver dog collar from which dangled a large pearl.

  ‘Is this all I’m to wear?’ joked Kit.

  He laughed and said later, maybe.

  ‘It’s lovely, thank you, but do I have to parade it this evening? I’d much rather stay in and catch up with all your news.’

  ‘Stay in? What happened to the woman I used to know?’

  She allowed her auburn head to fall to her shoulder. ‘I just feel exhausted.’

  He sighed and looked decidedly put out. ‘How fearfully boring. I suppose I shall have to go alone.’

  ‘Do you have to go at all? I’d like to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes, I have to go. I told you, I’m expected by important people.’

  Kit fought her negativity. Normally she would have jumped at the chance of such a party. Maybe this was just what she needed to lift her spirits. She gave a smile of surrender and rose in a manner that instantly restored his good humour. ‘All right, scallywag, you’ve persuaded me! I expect we’ll have plenty of time to talk later.’

  * * *

  For a moment, whilst Dilly heaved and hauled and grimaced over the laces of her mistress’s stays, Kit felt like abandoning the whole idea, grunting and gasping as her waist was reduced almost to life-threatening proportions. Once arrived at the glittering venue, however, her favourite satin ball gown drawing looks of admiration, she was glad to have made the effort – and was particularly so upon discovering that one of the guests was most familiar to her.

  Ossie Postgate saw her the instant she entered the ballroom. How could anyone not notice Kit – especially sporting such a dress? A squadron of turquoise butterflies adorned its eau-de-Nil skirt, whilst another perched atop one magnificent shoulder as if about to take flight.

  After allowing his host sufficient time in which to greet the statuesque woman and her companion, he came forward smiling to reacquaint himself. ‘Kit, what a pleasure!’ He still possessed that uncontrollable blink.

  Recovered from the moment of startlement, Kit returned Ossie’s greeting, smiling too at the young lady on his arm – Agnes Dolphin, though the glimmer of gold upon her finger signified that she was no longer Miss Dolphin.

  ‘You know my dear wife, of course.’ Ossie looked fondly at his partner who also hailed Kit in genuine fashion, as if she had totally forgotten that the last time they had been in the same room she herself had been screaming blue murder over Thomas Denaby’s sooty apparition.

  Smiling up at her, Agnes asked, ‘And do you reside in the capital permanently now, Kit?’

  ‘Much of the time, though I’ve been in Yorkshire for several months.’

  Ossie guessed immediately. ‘Ah yes, the strike – a terrible business. Thank God it’s over.’

  Kit noticed Agnes’s quick glance at her former servant’s hand. Having adopted the fashion frowned upon by older ladies of going without gloves she was made conscious of her own lack of a wedding ring, and this in turn caused her to remember Valentine’s presence. Realizing that he was not similarly acquainted, she quickly remedied this, introducing him as her friend. Once familiarized he seemed very keen to strike up a conversation and managed to maintain it for a while until Ossie politely withdrew and said he should just go and talk to someone else. Kit was rather annoyed at Valentine’s monopoly, for the warmth of Ossie’s greeting had inspired in her a sudden urge to atone for her disgraceful behaviour whilst in his father�
��s employ. Inclining her head towards Viscount Postgate and his wife, she expressed the hope that they would be able to speak again later.

  Valentine seemed most impressed that his companion knew such illustrious people, and asked Kit how she had met them. She told him quite honestly that she had been in service at both their households, thereby spoiling the effect a little. During her account of life below stairs, she noticed that his eyes strayed away from her face and across the room to look at a pretty girl. Kit was surprised to find she did not care. Indeed, there were times during the evening when her own attention was to wander away from the social chatter, preoccupied with thoughts of her divided family and her suspected illness.

  Seated at a long supper table at one end of the ballroom, awaiting the next course, she became mesmerized by the decorative vase of flowers before her and was instantly transported to the past, to Tish Dolphin, and consequently his dead baby. Startled to recall such awful images, Kit tore her eyes away, the arrival of another course helping to take her mind off such unwanted thoughts, but just as soon she was presented with another dilemma. Upon the large white plate in front of her lay a tiny bird that reminded her of the thrush who came to feed at her windowsill. How on earth could she eat such an object? Fingering the silver dog collar at her throat, overwhelmed with revulsion, she came to decide that there was only one way to avoid this without offending anyone. She pretended to swoon, a murmur of alarm going up from others seated nearby as she toppled sideways into Valentine, who caught her deftly before she slipped from her chair.

  Faking unconsciousness, Kit heard the scraping of a chair and a man’s voice saying, ‘Let me help you, old chap.’ And, lifting a befuddled face she found herself supported between Valentine and Viscount Postgate.

  Her apology brushed aside, Kit was helped from her seat by the two men and taken to an anteroom where, at her insistence, the pair left her and returned to their meals.

  Once certain they had gone, Kit relaxed as much as her corsets would allow, then sat there thinking for a long time until she could be sure the meal was over. Valentine’s appearance confirming this, she allowed herself to be escorted back to the ballroom.

  ‘You’re beginning to worry me,’ he told her, patting the arm that was linked with his. ‘I think we’ll have the doctor in tomorrow.’

  Standing beside one of the marble pillars that supported the edge of the room, Kit nodded, wafting her Honiton lace fan. ‘I haven’t felt well for weeks. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I’m afraid I might have something serious.’ She was about to tell him the extent of her fears when she noticed his eyes were flickering again. Though he responded in a perfectly solicitous manner, saying she should not worry until the physician had had a look at her, she knew she had lost her hold on him. Standing back from the gathering now, watching them perform the Lancers, she noticed how ridiculous they appeared with their strutting and cavorting. How could she ever have envied their life of extravagance and indolence? All it produced in her now was a sense of unfulfilment.

  The dance finished and the orchestra changed to a waltz. Automatically, Valentine took her hand and attempted to lead her on to the floor, but Kit refused, saying she would sit this one out. As Kitchingham was escorting her to a seat, Ossie Postgate waylaid them and asked if Kit had recovered.

  She smiled at him, saying it was most kind of his lordship and that she was fully recuperated.

  ‘In that case,’ said the fair-haired man, with an assured little bow, ‘I should be honoured if you’d consent to dance with me.’

  Noting Valentine’s look of surprise when Kit accepted, Ossie sought to explain. ‘I trust you don’t think me impertinent to steal Kit away, but, as you see, my wife has deserted me.’ He indicated the floor where Agnes was dancing with their host.

  ‘Not at all.’ Valentine inclined his head, yet was, Kit realized, rather put out.

  Enjoying his discomposure, Kit placed a light hand on the shoulder that was slightly lower than her own, then followed Ossie’s lead into the waltz, smiling at him.

  Ossie held her gaze, blinking occasionally. With the plumpness of youth drained from her face, Kit seemed almost beautiful tonight. ‘It really was a pleasure to find you here,’ he told her, one hand upon her waist as they swayed from side to side. ‘I’m not just saying it. I’ve often wondered about you over the years.’

  Moving quite gracefully for one so large, Kit said she had thought about him too. ‘It’s for that reason I’ve been waiting to speak to you all evening, to apologize for my thoughtless attitude towards you and your parents after you’d been so kind as to give me a position.’ Seeing his face begin to negate this she deterred him from speech. ‘No, I acted abominably, and I’m truly sorry.’

  ‘You are pardoned, madam.’ Ossie wore that teasing smile she remembered from his boyhood.

  ‘I hope to extend my apology to Lady Agnes too,’ said Kit, ‘but if I don’t get the opportunity, will you pass on my regrets? Dare I ask how Tish is, these days? Are he and Myrtle still together?’

  The Viscount’s air remained merry. ‘Yes, they’re doing splendidly! Have their own little cottage on the estate with chickens and rabbits and whatnot. Agnes and I call upon them occasionally. They seem contented enough, all things considered.’

  Still burdened with guilt over her part in the affair, Kit wondered if Myrtle shared her own emptiness over the absence of children. But to the Viscount she voiced only gladness that they were happy.

  They went on to chat about mutual acquaintances, including Mr Popplewell, the Earl’s cook, enjoying a chuckle over his tantrums, Kit telling Ossie that she had seen him quite recently and he was much mellowed.

  ‘It must be your influence, Kit.’ Ossie glanced at Valentine then. ‘And Mr Kitchingham, is he a special friend?’

  Kit gave a wry smile, enjoying herself now more than at any point in the evening. ‘He was. He’s fast falling out of favour, I can tell you.’ The tune was three-quarters of the way through, she wished it could last longer.

  ‘And what of your family? Did they suffer much hardship during the strike?’

  She threw up her eyes and said it had been awful, adding that her younger brother, Owen, and his son had been blacklisted and were unable to gain re-entry to the pit. None of the local collieries would employ them either. Hence, they would have to remain under her roof for the foreseeable future. ‘That’s why I’ve come back to London. Much as I care for him, it’s difficult to have your house overrun.’

  ‘Tell him to come to the Garborough mine,’ instructed Ossie.

  For once it had not been Kit’s intention to curry favour and she gave a cynical laugh. ‘If you thought I was trouble—’

  ‘He’ll have his chance. Tell him to mention our conversation to the colliery manager.’

  She studied his face as they moved from side to side. ‘You mean it? Will he be able to get accommodation too?’

  Her partner gave a nod. ‘Father’s just had another row of houses erected at Garborough Junction.’

  Kit showed gratitude. ‘Well, I’ll not refuse your kind offer, but you should be warned: Owen’s a strong union man – and I can tell you now he won’t accept a job if his friends aren’t granted the same favour.’

  ‘The colliery manager’s a fellow of principle. Your brother will get a fair hearing, the others too, though you should warn them we won’t tolerate any rabble-rousing.’

  The music was at an end. Kit breathed her gratitude and said she would write to Owen tomorrow. Allowing Ossie to escort her back to Valentine, she thanked the Viscount again, then watched him go back to his wife.

  ‘A charming man,’ muttered Valentine, watching Ossie’s easy manner as he moved amongst the guests.

  Kit agreed. ‘And generous too. He’s offered to help my brother out of trouble.’

  Valentine construed this as some kind of slur over his own lack of assistance. ‘Obviously he has more influence than some.’

  ‘I meant no slander. I k
now you did your best—’

  ‘Legislation has its limits, Kit. The working man can only hope to better himself by his own efforts – unless of course he has a charitable aristocrat at his beck and call.’

  She clamped her jaws together, setting her lips in a hard line.

  ‘As a former member of his staff you appeared to be very at ease with Viscount Postgate.’

  ‘Take me home,’ said Kit.

  ‘Very well, but are you certain you wouldn’t like to stay and dance with your – friend?’

  Kit turned and walked to the door. Valentine followed at a sauntering pace, and paused to issue smiling apology to his host for being forced to leave by reason that Miss Kilmaster was unwell.

  ‘You didn’t have to leave with me,’ she told him in the darkness of the carriage as it made its way across London.

  He did not reply. In fact the journey was undertaken in complete silence after this.

  When they reached St John’s Wood, upset at his behaviour, Kit went straight upstairs. Valentine did not accompany her but went into the drawing room and poured himself a drink from a crystal decanter.

  Struggling over the laces on her corset, and all the layers of clothing, it took Kit a long time to undress. She was still not ready for bed when the door opened and Valentine came in wearing a somewhat hangdog expression, though he made no apology for his boorishness. Instead he took off his patent shoes, white waistcoat and dinner suit, then, still clad in his underwear, he came to stand behind her as she brushed her auburn hair, bending over to kiss her neck. Kit allowed this, but when his hand slipped under her chemise she shrugged him off.

  Offended, he straightened and looked at her reflection in the mirror. ‘What’s the matter with you these days? You used to be such fun.’

  ‘I’ve told you I don’t feel well.’

  ‘Well enough to dance with an aristocrat – and I’m not surprised you feel so unwell, you’re always stuffing your face with those.’ He indicated the half-empty boxes of chocolates on the bedside table. ‘Do you really want to become any fatter?’