One spring day he came bounding into their apartment in high good humour. ‘Melford’s forgiven me!’ he cried. ‘He’s asked me to go to Ireland with him next week. He’s going to buy horses and wants me to go along and ride them for him.’
‘That’s good,’ said Kitty, glancing up from a book she was reading.
‘I’ll be away for a month,’ said Freddy tentatively and she had to fight not to show her delight at the thought of being on her own for such a long time. If he knew how the idea pleased her, he probably wouldn’t go.
‘Oh, must you?’ she sighed.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It’s an all-male expedition. I can’t take you along.’
She pretended to be upset which meant that he went off feeling guilty and without lecturing her about what she should do and who she should see in his absence. He didn’t dare.
While he was away, she spent her afternoons in the Excelsior Club and passed happy hours gossiping with the girls there. In the mornings, she luxuriated in the silence and emptiness of the rooms off the Strand or strolled round the shops of the West End.
One day she wandered into the imposing premises of a picture dealer in St James’s and found herself transfixed by the paintings on show. She walked slowly in front of them, studying each with interest and though there were several she liked, there was not one that was anything like as impressive as Marie’s view of the Three Sisters, in Robbie Rutherford’s house.
She became interested in art and started to tour the dealers and galleries. When I make my fortune, she decided, I’ll buy paintings. In the meantime she’d get her eye in by looking at what was good.
When she walked home from those outings she thought about Marie. Once or twice she asked dealers if they’d ever heard of Marie Benjamin but none of them had. I wonder what’s happened to her? said Kitty to herself. She knew she was a very different person to the girl she’d been at Camptounfoot and guessed that Marie would have changed as well. Would they still like each other if they met?
It was not till the third week of Freddy’s absence that she had a visit from Peg and family. When she opened the ground-floor door she heard the sound of their voices coming from the stairs and her heart sank. She wondered if they had been told to keep an eye on her.
They usually came on a Sunday and it was only Thursday but there they were, sitting on the stairs, drinking beer from bottles and scattering scraps of food on the floor. Their attitude was that they were visiting Freddy’s house. He paid the rent, they were his friends. Kitty would have to like it or lump it.
She lumped it with ill grace.
‘I didn’t expect you,’ she said haughtily to Peg, who was unabashed.
‘We just thought we’d pay you a call and see how you were doing without Freddy,’ she said, rising from her perch on the top stair. Her husband was sitting beside her as was one of their daughters, a girl of about fourteen, and a villainous-looking four-year-old boy, who could have been anybody’s. Peg called him ‘Our Pat’, but whether he was hers or one of her daughter’s, Kitty had never found out.
Our Pat was scraping Mrs Dawkins’ paintwork with a knife, for which he received a clip on the ear from Peg that made him howl like a banshee, and they all trooped after Kitty into the apartment.
She stood in the middle of the parlour floor with her arms crossed, determined not to offer them any refreshment.
‘Well, you’ve seen me. Now you can go home again.’ she said.
‘Isn’t this a lovely place? Hasn’t Freddy done it up well?’ said Peg to her daughter, who, Kitty realised, had not been there before. Other daughters had, but since they all looked very similar, she never could tell them apart.
‘Oh yes, as well as being a great jockey, Freddy’s a champion house decorator,’ she said sarcastically.
‘And so he is, so he is,’ agreed Peg, who was smiling happily and settling herself into the most comfortable chair. Obviously she intended to stay.
‘The brass is shining something lovely,’ she said to Kitty.
‘Freddy doesn’t do it,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a maid for that.’
Peg rolled her eyes upwards. ‘A maid, and Freddy from a little turf cottage! He’s come a long way.’
There was nothing that could not be laid to Freddy’s credit. Kitty felt her temper rise and said, ‘I’m going out again soon. I think you’d better go home. Freddy’s away at the moment so you won’t be seeing him.’
‘We know he’s away,’ said Peg, making no effort to restrain the grubby child from looking for sweetmeats in the little china boxes on the side tables. ‘It’s making my heart sore not to see poor Freddy. We’ve come to see you though.’
‘Freddy’s gone to Ireland,’ snapped Kitty, ignoring the allusion to herself.
Peg threw up her hands. ‘Of course, he’s gone home! He’s crossed the sea to Ireland. God bless him! Did he say if he’s going to see his mother?’
Kitty had never heard a word about Freddy’s mother but was not going to admit that to Peg.
‘He didn’t mention it. He’s gone to look at some horses actually,’ she said.
‘And to see Eileen. He’s gone to see Eileen and the little ones,’ said Peg slyly.
‘He didn’t mention any Eileen,’ said Kitty sourly.
But Peg persisted, ‘Oh yes, he’s gone to see our Eileen and the wee ones. He’s so proud of them.’
‘Who exactly is Eileen?’ asked Kitty, though she knew she was playing straight into Peg’s hands by asking the question.
Peg lifted an eyebrow and her ruddy face beamed in triumph, ‘Sure don’t you know that Eileen’s my own daughter, our eldest girl and her father sitting over there is bursting with pride for her… She’s Freddy’s wife of course. She met him in my house but she didn’t like England and went back to Ireland after they were married for a bit. He goes over to see her once a year or so and he’s very good to her. Sends money every week and she’s bought a grand little farm. She and the children live in luxury I can tell you. He’s a good husband and father is Freddy. We all understand how it is with you and him. He’s only human after all and Eileen won’t travel.’
‘The children? How many children?’ asked Kitty in shock.
Peg looked round at her husband who was standing behind her with his hands in his pockets.
‘How many is it now, Thomas?’ she asked.
‘Eight, the last I heard,’ was his reply.
‘And it’ll probably be nine by this time next year if his past record’s anything to go by,’ laughed Peg merrily.
Kitty smashed her hand down on the top of the most fragile of Mrs Dawkins’ tables and sent the china flying.
‘Get the hell out of here,’ she shouted and drove them before her like a herd of sheep, pushing them down the stairs with no regard for their safety. To her satisfaction she could see that she had even succeeded in frightening the terrible Our Pat, who was crying.
When their outraged voices died away, she slammed the door and leaned against it. Her mind was in turmoil… Eileen and eight children… a farm in Ireland… living in luxury… Freddy, you swine! she thought.
While he was courting her in the Excelsior Club, plying her with flowers and sweet words, he must have visited his wife. He might even have visited her after he and Kitty moved into the Strand. She did not know whether to laugh or cry. A few months ago she would have been devastated but now – what did she feel now?
She felt relieved. She leaned her back against the door and laughed.
Long ago she’d given up any idea of marrying Freddy, though she always believed that he would be the one who would feel rejected if the matter was ever seriously discussed. She’d been afraid of what he’d do should she ever try to leave but now Peg had handed her the excuse on a plate.
Outrage, that would be her reason. How could he live with her, propose marriage to her even, while he was married to another? If she’d accepted him, he’d have been a bigamist.
What made her really ang
ry was the depth of Freddy’s duplicity. Once again he had taken her in, used her, just as he did when he sent her to lay his bets at the Derby.
Her pride was hurt especially when she remembered Peg’s snide comment about the family understanding the relationship between Kitty and Freddy. She was regarded as a home comfort, like an eiderdown or a pair of comfortable slippers, for the lord and master.
‘Damn him, damn you, Freddy!’ she shouted aloud, making the listening maid in the next room jump with alarm.
Then she stormed into the apartment calling, ‘Get out the valises, get out every bag you can find. I’m leaving.’
She took with her every present he’d ever given her as well as the things for their rooms that they had bought together. She crammed every piece of her colourful clothing into bags and hatboxes, then sent the maid out to summon a cab.
For Freddy she left a note propped, on the mantelshelf. It said, ‘I hope you had an enjoyable time with your wife and children in Ireland. Peg came round specially to tell me about Eileen. You should have told me yourself but you’re a liar to the core. I’m going away. Don’t try to follow me because if you do, I’ll cut your balls off. Kitty.’
She was angry enough to do it too and the knife still rested in her skirt pocket.
It took two cabs to carry away all her possessions and she sent the contents of one of them to a furniture storage emporium that the cabbie knew. She and half of her extensive wardrobe went back to Cora White’s, where she spent one night before finding a room a few yards along the road.
‘If Freddy comes looking for me, don’t tell him where I live,’ she warned Cora.
In fact, it was a relief to get away from Freddy and make it look as if it were his fault. That let him off the hook and he would not pursue her too hard.
Of course he did turn up at Cora’s the day after his return from Ireland. Kitty was there, working in the office, totting up columns of figures, when he appeared. She looked up and saw him standing in the office doorway and her heart did not even miss a beat. He was like a semi-stranger, someone she used to know, and he had no effect on her heart at all.
‘I’m sorry, Kitty,’ he said but she held up a hand magnanimously.
‘Don’t go on, Freddy. It’s over. It was wrong of you not to tell me. You should have let me make up my own mind whether I wanted to take up with a married man or not.’
‘I couldn’t help myself. It’s like this…’ started Freddy in his most silken voice but she got up and pushed him backwards out of the door.
‘Go away. It’s over. It was good while it lasted. I’m not asking you for anything. Let’s leave it at that,’ she said. He did not push back.
When he left she was jubilant. It was as if a burden had been lifted from her and a whole new horizon revealed. She could do anything she liked, go anywhere she liked, answerable to no one but herself… Kitty Scott was free!
To celebrate she took the rest of the day off, hailed a cab and went to the West End. She’d go and look at some more pictures. She might even buy one because while she was living with Freddy she’d managed to amass a fair amount of money.
The fashionable crowd always thrilled her because it seemed so wonderful that she, the bondager’s bastard, should be moving among them, accepted as one of them, with money in her purse and fine clothes on her back. She was sauntering along, pausing to look at the pictures in dealers’ windows, when the cries of a newspaper vendor caught her attention…
‘Tunnel collapse at Hyde Park… Fifty men entombed… Engineering peer feared among them…’
Why did a cold hand clutch at her heart when she heard those cries? She hurried across the road to the newspaper man and bought one of the sheets he was holding out.
‘Tragedy in London Tunnel’, screamed the headline across the front page.
The story beneath it said that rescue teams were working frantically to try to reach a party of men trapped below ground by the fall in a new tunnel being built beneath London. The man in charge of the project, Sir Timothy Maquire, had gone down with the first party of rescuers but there had been a subsequent fall and he was trapped as well.
Kitty’s eye ranged down the close print, looking for the location of the accident…
‘Hyde Park, near Apsley House, the home of the great Duke of Wellington’, it said. She dropped the newspaper on the ground and started to run. Apsley House was not far away.
As she ran she became ragged Carroty Kate again. Tim Maquire’s gold half-sovereign bounced up and down in her pocket. She always carried it with her. In her mind she had a vivid memory of him, the most handsome man she ever saw in her life. The epitome of glamour.
The end of Piccadilly was packed with people and horse-drawn ambulances. Frantic policemen were trying to disperse the crowd of onlookers, who stood with shocked faces watching injured men being helped out of a gaping hole in the ground.
Beside it was a building site with tarpaulin-covered shelters and huge steam-powered diggers, now silent. Solemn-looking men were standing about in groups. The crowd gave a groan whenever a group of dirt-covered men came out of the mouth of the cavern carrying a stretcher on which lay a body with a piece of sacking thrown over its face.
There was an ambulance waiting and one by one, five dead men were laid inside it. When it was driven away another ambulance took its place and the terrible procession of stretcher-bearing parties went on. As each body was brought up, a shaken-looking man wearing a bowler hat looked at their faces and shook his head as he called out a name.
She pushed her way unceremoniously through the crowd, glad that she was tall and could see over most people’s heads. She found a viewing-place beside a grim-faced policeman.
‘You shouldn’t be here, madam,’ he said disapprovingly, thinking she was a sensation seeker.
When she turned to look at him, however, he saw that her face was streaked with tears. ‘I know Tim Maquire. I’ve known him since I was a child. I want to make sure he’s all right,’ she said.
The policeman’s heart was touched.
‘I’m sorry,’ he told her, ‘but they brought his body out ten minutes ago. Sir Timothy Maquire is one of the victims. I think you should go home. This is not a place for you.’
She walked all the way to Whitechapel in a state of shock, weeping as she went, oblivious to the curious eyes of people she passed on her way. She was mourning the dreams of her youth, mourning the loss of her beau ideal.
* * *
The work on Falconwood was almost finished. The beautiful old house was slowly being restored to its former glory and on a fine summer evening its new owner, Lady Emma Jane Maquire, sat with her son Christopher and his grandmother-by-adoption Tibbie Mather, on the lawn and admired the transformation that had been brought about. While the women chatted, the child played on the grass with his dog, a sprightly little fox-terrier that ran barking after twigs he threw for it.
The women watched him indulgently and Emma Jane said, ‘It’ll be lovely when we’re all here together. Tim’s going to be so pleased when he comes up next week and sees the improvements in the house. The workmen have done a fine job.’
The words were barely out of her mouth when a horse came cantering up the drive, scattering gravel as it went. She anxiously called Christopher to her as a man jumped from the saddle and came running towards them.
‘It’s all right,’ said Tibbie. ‘It’s only Dr Robertson from Maddiston, but what in the name’s the matter with him!’
Alex Robertson looked distraught, eyes stricken and hair flying, when he stood before them. To Tibbie he said, ‘Take the child away please, Mrs Mather.’
Emma Jane stood up with consternation in her face and gasped, ‘What’s wrong? What’s wrong? Is it Tim?’
Tibbie hurriedly did as she was bid but before she was out of earshot, she heard Robertson saying, ‘I’m sorry, Emma Jane, I’m afraid it is…’
She seemed to crumple when the terrible news was broken to her. Never a big woman, s
he looked as if she contracted and shrank when she heard what he had to tell her.
‘Oh no, oh no, not Tim, not Tim,’ was all she said over and over again. Robertson wished with all his heart that he had not been the one Sydney chose to be the bearer of such awful tidings.
He held the sobbing Emma Jane in his arms and tried to comfort her. ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. He was too brave. He didn’t need to go down…’ he told her.
‘Why, what happened?’ she asked, looking up at him through a sheet of tears.
‘Sydney sent a telegraph message to say that ten men were trapped in a fallen part of the tunnel. Tim went down with a party to try to dig them out but more of the tunnel fell in. All of the rescue party was killed… that’s what Sydney said.’
Emma Jane’s eyes were wide and staring in horror. ‘In the tunnel. It must have been dark. Oh my dearest Tim. There must be a mistake. I’d have known if he was dead. I would have felt it… I love him so much, you see… He couldn’t go without me knowing,’ she whispered, grasping at straws.
Robertson shook his head. ‘No, my dear, Sydney sent me a telegraph message. He would know all the facts before he did such a thing,’ he told her.
‘I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it. I can’t live without him. He’s everything to me,’ she sobbed and laid her head on his shoulder for comfort.
Robertson was in anguish. Having to comfort her was agonising for him and he wanted to weep as well but he knew why Sydney had sent him the message. Such terrible news had to be told by someone who cared for Emma Jane. It could not be broken by a stranger.
‘Ssh, ssh,’ he said to her, ‘come and sit down. I’ll give you something to calm your nerves.’
She shook her head. ‘That won’t help. It wouldn’t change anything. Oh God, what am I going to do without him? He was everything tome.’
Robertson looked across the grass and saw Tibbie standing beneath a copper beech tree holding the boy by the hand. He was a sturdy little fellow with his father’s curly black hair and well-built body but it was obvious he was upset and puzzled by his mother’s grief, for though Tibbie was trying to divert him by talking and pointing in the other direction, he kept turning his head to look back over his shoulder.
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