by Kerri Maher
Kick bolted upright in the bed, and the satin slithered right off of her. Fortunately, she was wearing a nightgown of some sort. Also satin.
“Are you all right, dear?” said an older voice with an American Southern accent. “Bad dream?”
Squinting, Kick glanced around the room till she saw a woman with gray hair wearing a wrinkled white linen dress. She had been doing needlepoint in a rocking chair, but now she crossed the room to sit beside Kick on the large bed.
“Where am I?”
“Maria Sieber’s room, dear,” said the woman. “She insisted on putting you in her own bed.”
Kick narrowed her eyes and then saw the glossy black-and-white photos of Marlene and other stars on the walls, all autographed and addressed to Marlene’s daughter Maria. So she was in the Cap D’Antibes Hotel.
“Does my family know I’m here?”
The woman nodded. “Marlene phoned your mother herself. Then she put me in charge and told me to call over there when you felt a bit better.”
Kick collapsed back against the pillows, which welcomed her in a feathery embrace. Her head pounded as if she’d drunk too much champagne.
“Would you like anything to eat or drink? You’ve been asleep for hours, and it’s well past lunch.”
“Maybe some ginger ale,” said Kick.
The woman disappeared and Kick put a hand on the pale violet material that covered her belly. What had just happened in there? It had felt . . . too good. She felt certain it was the sort of pleasure she’d heard references to in movies, and was spoken about less kindly by the nuns. The sort of pleasure that was only supposed to be shared between a husband and wife. What did it mean that the thought of Billy had brought it on so powerfully?
She attempted to distract herself by examining the glossy photographs framed around the room: Clark Gable, Bette Davis, Laurence Olivier . . . So many! They would surely know what she’d just experienced, Kick thought. For a moment she wished she could make it happen again, but when she closed her eyes and tried to summon back the moment, she couldn’t. She was relieved.
Then the older woman returned with a silver tray that had the ginger ale as well as cucumber and ham sandwiches spread generously with butter, and potato chips. Chips! Kick swooned at the first crunchy bite, then tried not to get greasy crumbs on the perfect sheets.
She felt, suddenly, happy. The unexpected and divine chips, the sandwiches, the sunlit afternoon. The fact that she was still alive. The fact that her body could be abused by the ocean, then give something so wonderful back to her . . . Father O’Flaherty had told her to believe in herself. She was going to try to do more of that from now on. That very morning felt like proof that she was meant to try.
JUNE 1936
Toward the end of his last year at Eton, Billy drove off one fragrant June afternoon with Charles Granby, their white ties and top hats in the boot, claiming to be spending the weekend at David Ormsby-Gore’s house. In fact, though, they planned to crash the Trinity May Ball. I’ll be matriculating in September, reasoned Billy. I’d like to know what it’s all about.
He was surprisingly nervous as he dressed himself in a little hotel close to the college. What if everyone saw he was still just in school? Would they kick him out? Of just the ball, or the college altogether? Almost all the previous dukes of Devonshire had gone to Trinity; it would be rather embarrassing if he were to get expelled before he’d begun.
But that was the fun in this, wasn’t it? The risk? He’d taken so few risks in his life. Foolhardiness, as Billy usually called it, had always been Andrew’s strength. But something about turning eighteen and never having kissed a girl or pulled off a legendary prank had begun to wear on Billy. He and Charles had agreed to an extra dare as well: before the night’s end, each of them had to kiss—really kiss, that is—a girl the other boy chose for him. One hundred pounds and an ego were at stake.
Once the spring sun had descended in the sky, and the college students were plenty drunk and there were shadows to hide in if necessary, the two school chums set off for adventure. They accepted the first glasses of champagne offered to them and drank them quickly, and were both relieved and disappointed to discover that they were immediately recognized and welcomed by the older boys they knew, the ones who’d graduated Eton the year before. “Look who’s here!” “How’d you escape the beaks?” “Got your eye on anyone tonight?” “Have you seen the American bird? Appeared out of nowhere. Who is she?”
For it was Kick who stole the fame he’d so coveted that night. All eyes were on her. He watched, too, mesmerized. She was so relaxed, despite being completely out of place and hardly the prettiest of the girls there, but her smile was delight itself. She had a charming dimple in her left cheek, and she was a shameless flirt. But wildly successful in her flirting, to judge by the swarm of young men clamoring for her next dance.
“That one,” Charles whispered in Billy’s ear, making Kick the object of their bet.
“Right,” Billy said, feigning confidence, trying not to let his embarrassment show, knowing he’d be saying goodbye to those hundred pounds. There was no way he was up to the task of asking this otherworldly creature to dance, let alone of kissing those animated lips.
Two years later, when he saw her picture in the effusion of press about the arrival of Ambassador Joseph Kennedy and his brood, Billy’s heart had stopped for a moment. He’d never dreamed he’d see her again. When he went to the 400 the night of the girls’ presentation at court, it hadn’t been because his father told him to have a look at the debs. It had been because he thought she might be there, and he was determined not to be such a coward again.
PART 2
FALL 1938
CHAPTER 9
Finally—finally—she saw him at Cortachy Castle in September. She’d been standing on the front lawn talking to Jane Kenyon-Slaney, and he’d scared her to death by sneaking up on her and covering her eyes from behind.
“Good lord, Billy,” she said, panting with surprise as he smirked and Jane giggled.
“I do apologize, Kick, but I couldn’t resist.”
“Giving me a scare?”
“Raising your pulse.”
She blushed. “Surely there are better ways to accomplish that.”
“Perhaps,” he said, his voice mysterious. “Perhaps.”
Thumbing their noses at Hitler, Chamberlain, and the whole mess across the channel, Kick and her friends drank cocktails and danced to the phonograph well into the night. Since the house belonged to Jean Ogilvy’s family, cousins of the Cavendishes, all of Kick’s favorite people were there—Billy, Andrew, David, Debo, Sissy, Bertrand. Things took a raucous turn after midnight when someone set off the fire hydrant, Nancy Astor’s son Jakie spilled whiskey all over the Persian rug, and Bertrand nearly broke his leg during a game of blindfold tag in the damp grass. And still the boys managed to go grouse hunting the next day. “Onward, men!” Billy shouted at Andrew and Bertrand, who looked much the worse for wear.
The next night the world encroached. After a dinner presided over by Jean’s father Lord Airlie in his kilt, which he apparently never took off, everyone retired to the drawing room to listen to the news, play cards, and smoke. On the wireless was endless debate about what might and ought to happen. With Mussolini’s speech in Trieste officially declaring Italy’s support for Germany, and Hitler’s ever-tightening grip on Czechoslovakia, it was looking less and less likely that England, France, and the United States’ desire for peace would hold.
“Bloody criminal what Chamberlain’s allowing,” said David during an advertising break.
“Hear, hear,” said Billy. This was the first Kick had heard of his politics, and it sounded like he wouldn’t much agree with her father. She hadn’t fully committed her own opinion yet. On the one hand, she admired her father for wanting to spare her brothers and all the other young men in England and America another fata
l war. But on the other hand—how could they not stand up to a man who just kept grabbing for land that wasn’t his, who was making it so difficult for peaceful Jews to live in his country that they were leaving in droves? She remembered, too, what Father O’Flaherty had said about Hitler not liking the Catholics much better than the Jews. What if people like her were next on the Führer’s list?
“Do you honestly want to go to war?” asked Debo, exasperated. Kick had a feeling she was getting an earful on this topic at home, what with her two Fascist-leaning sisters and brother, and Communist sister. Unity had recently joined Hitler himself in Munich.
“Of course not, but we wouldn’t have to if Chamberlain were to grow a backbone and tell Hitler where to stuff his sauerkraut,” said Bertrand.
Billy sat back in his chair and stared down his long legs, frowning and tapping his thumbs together.
“I’m with Chamberlain if it’ll keep you boys out of the trenches,” said Jean.
“Trenches?” laughed David. “My dear girl, this war will be fought from the sky. No more brutality in the trenches.”
“Ah yes, now there are bombs to pick off whole squadrons, not just a man’s legs,” said Bertrand.
“And they will drop from the sky like rain,” Billy added.
“How poetic,” muttered Bertrand. “You’ll be a regular Wilfred Owen.”
“I hope not,” said Billy. “As David said, we need to take a harder line with Hitler. He keeps asking for more and more. We can’t just give it to him.”
“And now we’re back to war,” said Bertrand.
“I still believe diplomacy is possible,” said David. “Kick, what does your father think?”
“He always speaks his mind in his speeches, so you know as much as I do. He still wants peace,” she said, though she wondered irritably what he might say privately to Joe Jr. or Jack.
“With due respect, Kick,” said Bertrand, “America is a long way from here. She can afford to plead for peace.”
“Maybe,” said Kick, feeling insulted, “but I am here. We are here. The Kennedys. We all want what’s best for England and America.”
Billy smiled at her, but it was a pensive smile, and maybe even a little patronizing. She couldn’t quite tell, which just went to show how little she really knew him, she supposed. She bit the inside of her cheek.
“I hope you’re right,” said David. “And I hope it matters.”
“Come on, girls,” said Debo, rising from the chaise with sudden conviction. “Someone pick out a record and shut off all this nonsense.”
* * *
Let’s escape for lunch. Meet me by the great oak at one?
The handwritten note from Billy arrived on her breakfast tray the next morning, and she must have read it one hundred times as she sipped her tea. The hours couldn’t pass fast enough, and when the time came, it was drizzling. She found him under the protective cover of a navy mackintosh and umbrella.
The oak tree was locally famous, and with good reason. It towered over the entrance to the Cortachy estate, and the leaves were turning the loveliest orange color.
“You’re frozen,” he observed.
“I suppose I am,” she said through chattering teeth.
“Can’t have that,” he said, ushering her into a black Lagonda he’d parked a few yards down the road. As soon as he started the engine, the heavens opened.
“Are you sure you want to drive in this downpour?” asked Kick. The windshield wipers hardly cleared the water long enough to see the road.
“I haven’t seen you properly in more than a month, and I’m not going to let a little rain get in the way.”
Thankfully, he was a slow and careful driver even in this luxurious sports car that would have been much more fun to drive fast with the top down. They didn’t talk much as he drove, but Kick sent up a quick prayer of thanks, since she figured the timing of the rain would make it unlikely that anyone else would head into the village for lunch. The last thing she wanted was to have to welcome anyone else to their table.
By the time they sat, damp and chilled, in the warmest corner of the village pub, Kick was jittery with excitement and dread. Was he planning to bring up Peter Grace? Or would he kiss her? Both?
They ordered a ploughman’s lunch to share, along with two bowls of the onion soup, and two ales. It turned out Billy was something of an expert on beer, of all things. Kick was amazed to hear him wax on about the regional differences in ales, lagers, and stouts. He told her that the best ale he’d ever had came from the house of his family’s gardener at Churchdale Hall, where he’d grown up.
“You know, my grandfather also loves beer,” she told Billy, thinking fondly of Honey Fitz. “He loves nothing more than a stout and a bowl of chowdah”—she pronounced the word in her best Boston accent—“for lunch.”
“Sounds like my kind of man,” said Billy.
Kick laughed hard. “That’s difficult to imagine, I must say.”
“Why?”
“Grandpa is just so . . . rough around the edges. But don’t tell him I said that.”
“Your secret is safe with me,” Billy said. Then, after a quiet slurp of soup, avoiding her eyes, he said, “It would appear that you don’t go for men with rough edges.”
“Are . . .” Are you asking me about Peter? But her voice failed her.
Billy set down his spoon and looked her in the eye. “I’m sorry. I don’t want to be ridiculous. But I did hear about Mr. Grace,” he said. “I’ve noticed you haven’t worn the gift he gave you, here or in the few photos I happened to see of you in France.”
“You looked?” This revelation sent her heart straight into her throat.
Billy nodded. “Then I realized I was being absurd, and I should just ask you directly.”
“What are you asking, exactly?” There was her heart in her neck again, making it hard to speak normally.
“Are you engaged?”
At this, she had to laugh. “Far from it. As you guessed, the gift was unwanted.”
Billy looked relieved—she hadn’t realized how much tension he’d been storing in his shoulders until he let them down.
“But,” she began. This was a moment for honesty, after all.
“But?”
“My mother wished it wasn’t.”
“Is that all?”
“She is my mother.”
“I have one of those, too.”
“More to the point, I think, you have a father.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “We each have one difficult parent, haven’t we?”
“Mmmm.” Kick chased a ribbon of onion around her bowl with her spoon, feeling her pulse throbbing in her neck.
“Let’s not worry about them just yet,” said Billy. “Can we agree to do that?”
Kick looked up at him. He was so handsome, so . . . unexpected. “I’ll try,” she said.
Billy smiled and raised his hand to her face. His palm covered her entire cheek, and he cupped her jaw, just as he had at Goodwood. This time he used his thumb to gently stroke her temple.
To better absorb his warmth, the clean scent of his white shirtsleeve, she closed her eyes. It was little more than a blink, but in that fragment of a second he kissed her. His lips held to hers and at last she had confirmation that they were as gentle as she had imagined. Even better was the promise, the sensation as he pulled reluctantly away, that more of this exquisite closeness was in store.
* * *
The next ten days were a bizarre mix of parties and races at which people were either looking for a radio to turn on or trying to avoid news altogether. Debo was firmly in the latter camp, as she didn’t want to be reminded of the trouble her older sisters might be getting into, and Kick followed her into it willingly to numb her own worry about what might be happening to Rudi and other innocent people in Hitler’s wa
y. One piece of good news came in a letter from Father O’Flaherty: he and her father had convinced another orphanage in Ireland to open its doors to one hundred children. Billy headed back to Trinity for his final year of university while Kick went on to Frances Dawson’s house in Balado, where everyone drank too much to calm their nerves.
Since she was also in Scotland, Rose summoned Kick to a golf course clubhouse to have lunch and warn her that they might all have to go back to America if Chamberlain didn’t find a way to peace with Hitler. Joe was working around the clock to ensure that wasn’t the outcome, but there were no guarantees. Finally, on September 28, Lord Chamberlain took yet another flight to Munich. This time with France’s Daladier at his side, his purpose was to sit down with Hitler and Mussolini to sign an agreement that would keep Germany from expanding further. They could have Czechoslovakia, but no more. Like everyone else, Kick slept restlessly and felt jumpy all day long.
Two mornings later she woke in her bed at 14 Prince’s Gate for the first time in a month, to the rowdy whoops of her younger brothers downstairs. In her nightgown and robe, she stood at the entrance to the breakfast room. “Well?” she asked Bobby and Teddy.
“Dad and Chamberlain won!” shouted Bobby.
“Hitler signed the agreement?” she asked.
Teddy threw his stuffed bear in the air, and Bobby said, “Yes! There won’t be a war!”
“That’s wonderful news,” said Kick, heaving a long-held sigh of relief. Daddy must be so happy, she thought.
There was celebrating to be done. Even before she’d finished her egg and fruit, the phone rang and it was Debo saying everyone would be at the Café de Paris that night. Kick planned to go to St. Mary’s for a few hours in the afternoon, but at the moment she had the strongest urge to get outside. The sun was shining and there was officially no threat of bombs.