by Kerri Maher
Rosemary looked dubious. “This is not nothing,” she said.
Kick hugged her sister tightly. “You’re right, it’s not nothing. But I’m all right. I promise.”
After their embrace, Rosemary looked at her sister with a confused smile. “Well . . . if you say so. Mother wants me to tell you that dinner’s in an hour.”
“Thank you, Rosie,” said Kick. “I’ll clean myself up.”
Rosemary nodded and turned to leave, but at the door she paused with her large, supple hand on the brass knob. “Kick?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“Were those letters from Billy?”
Kick looked at the desk strewn with letters. The two from Billy were in her sweaty hand. “Yes,” she replied.
“I’m glad,” Rosemary said with a sigh. “I know Mother thinks he’s not right for you, but he’s the only person who’s ever been able to calm me down, other than Daddy. And that must mean something, right?”
Kick felt her heart swell to a dangerous size in her chest. “Yes,” she whispered hoarsely. “I think it does.”
After dinner, Kick turned down Joe Jr. and Jack’s offers to go to a local cabaret, because she wanted to slip upstairs and write her reply to Billy. As the moon changed places with the sun outside her window, she went through four drafts blackened with scribbles and doodles, until she was finally satisfied. She would reread it in the morning to be sure.
She tossed and turned all night, dipping in and out of dreams about Billy, and others about rough ocean waves rushing over her head. In the nightmare that finally woke her up, a wicked harlequin on a unicycle chased her off the grounds of Chatsworth. It took a rosary and two cups of coffee before she was ready to look at her letter again, and she made one small but important strike at the end:
Dearest Billy,
When I read your second letter, I was able to breathe again for the first time since we last spoke. Spain was not as dangerous as you’ve been told, and though everything beautiful and delicious about it should have taken my mind completely off you, it could not succeed. I am sorry, again, that I cannot be with you at Chatsworth on your special day, but I am overjoyed to know that when I return we can begin again, with love as our primum mobile. (Have I also made you laugh, as you correctly guessed you made me laugh, at my blasphemous use of Ptolemy?) I shall miss you every moment until then and will be in my heart, mind, and prayers, your
Kick
She’d taken out the sentence that had been her final line, and instead made it a promise to herself: Be warned, however: my brothers have always found me a tenacious sparring partner, and when it comes to the matters we must discuss, I should warn you I shan’t be a pushover. What was the point of such a wounding remark? She thought the word prayers was a sufficient reminder that her prayers were of a different sort from his and she wasn’t likely to give them up. Not after Spain.
Until then, she intended to enjoy the sun and the tan that would make all her friends swoon with envy when she returned to London. There had to be a silver lining to her absence from Chatsworth somewhere.
* * *
When Jane Kenyon-Slaney arrived to stay for a week at the end of August, Kick couldn’t contain herself any longer. She’d planned to remain quiet about Billy’s letters and his reply to hers in which he pronounced himself “the happiest man in England,” but she burst like an overblown balloon when she and Jane were alone in Kick’s room after a day of sun and swimming, a jazz record spinning to muffle their voices. Jane was the catalyst. “I haven’t wanted to bring it up,” she said, “since you seem so happy, but I don’t think I’d be much of a friend if I didn’t at least say that if you wanted to talk to me about what happened with Billy, I’m happy to listen.”
“We’re working on finding a compromise,” Kick blurted out. “A middle way, between our religions.”
Jane raised her eyebrows. “Has he proposed?”
“No, no,” said Kick, lowering her voice and sitting closer to Jane on the bed. “In fact, I don’t think it’s any secret that Billy and I had a fight and basically ended things at Blenheim.”
“Yes, and he was miserable after that, especially when you disappeared to Spain without any warning, or even saying goodbye to anyone.”
“I’m sorry about that,” Kick said, picking at a knot on the white bedspread. “But it was just too painful to talk about. I didn’t want people asking me questions I’d have to answer. Then Joe had this idea about Spain, and all I really had time to do was pack.”
“I understand,” said Jane, putting a hand on Kick’s. “I wouldn’t have wanted to talk about it, either. No one blames you, you know. We were more worried than anything else.”
“Thank you,” said Kick, with a sigh of relief. “Anyway . . . when I arrived here after an amazing time in Spain, just about ready to forget Billy and move on, I opened the most romantic letter from him. Saying he wanted to ‘work out the differences that keep us apart.’”
“That’s wonderful, Kick!”
The girls looked into one another’s eyes, and Kick could see that Jane was really and truly happy for her, which in turn made Kick’s eyes well with gratitude. “But, Jane, this is all top secret,” Kick added in a grave tone. “It’s possible I’ll go back to London and we won’t be able to work anything out, and then . . . well, I don’t want to be a laughingstock,” she concluded, borrowing the angry word her father had used at breakfast the other day. Franklin’s made me a damn laughingstock.
“That you could never be,” Jane assured her.
“You can never be too sure,” Kick pointed out. After all, when her father arrived in England just a year and a half ago, he was the opposite.
“I’d place a bet on it,” said Jane. “And on things working out with Billy. Truly, Kick, he was a mess after you’d gone. Taking brooding walks and rides on his horse, turning down invitations, losing weight. He just kept saying he was ill, but no one believed him. I’m glad he came to his senses. I wasn’t sure, at his birthday party, if his smile was genuine or forced for his parents’ sake, but given the timing you describe, it must have been the real thing.”
“I wish I could have been there,” complained Kick.
“Oh, don’t,” Jane said, waving her hand in a pooh-pooh motion. “It was more fun for the small children, who enjoyed the elephants and other circus animals. It was all a goodwill gesture, really, the new generation of Cavendishes now inhabiting Chatsworth inviting the servants and villagers to the big house. Billy’s birthday was just a good excuse.”
“I think it’s nice,” Kick said. “And I still wish I could have been there.”
“I’m glad all of our traditions are so quaint to you, otherwise you’d be bored to tears like the rest of us. You are just what Chatsworth needs, I suspect,” said Jane. Then, emphatically changing the subject, she went on, “What do I have to do to get the attention of that handsome brother of yours, the one Debo’s mother expects to be president someday?”
* * *
Thankfully, the boys left to help their father, who’d flown back to London on a rumor about Germany and Russia, since a romance between proper Jane and playboy Jack would have ruined the halcyon perfection of those waning August days. Kick and her friend waterskied in the morning and drank cold champagne with lunches in hilltop towns, then napped in the shade of huge umbrellas on the beach. They slept too late to bother reading the papers, and chose cabarets and, once, the gaming glitz of Monte Carlo over the news on the radio every night.
Beneath the radiant southern sun, as the salty blue Mediterranean licked her toes, Kick looked forward to seeing Billy again and beginning their life together. She thought maybe this was the happiest she’d ever been.
“Kathleen! Kathleen,” came the shrieks. Her mother was yelling and waving a scarf from the deck of la maison.
Kick turned, shading her face with her hand. “Y
es, Mother?” she shouted over her shoulder.
“Come quickly!”
Kick sighed heavily—What could possibly be so urgent? Jane was asleep on a chaise, a paperback of Murder on the Orient Express facedown on her long, slim legs. Reluctantly stepping out of the cool water, Kick walked up to meet her mother.
“Is the sky falling?” she asked teasingly, fully expecting her mother to say something like The market had no fruit, what shall we do about dessert?
“Your father called. We have to leave. Now.”
“What? Why?”
“Germany’s signed a treaty with Russia. Your father has issued a statement advising Americans to leave England, and he just told me it’s worse to be here in France. Pack only what’s necessary for a few days’ travel. I’ll have the rest shipped. Probably to New York.”
Between waking Jane and throwing travel clothes into her large Boston bag, then standing in line in the intolerably crowded, confused train station and wishing she’d bathed that morning, Kick hardly had time to reflect on what was actually happening. She felt a leaden dread in the pit of her stomach in those hurried hours before finally collapsing in a first-class cabin that was stuffed to the gills with her, Jane, Eunice, Pat, and all their luggage, enduring a sauna-like heat that even the air rushing in through the open window could not assuage.
Once there was nothing to do but wait until Paris, she felt that dread erupt, pumping a lava of fear through her veins. There were so many things to be afraid of, and for, and they all competed for attention as she gnawed on her ragged lips: Hitler’s erect and aggressive minions swarming Europe, perhaps soon to even march on her beloved London; Rudi, wherever he was; barefoot children speaking languages she couldn’t comprehend, missing the parents they’d been separated from; young men she loved putting on uniforms and fighting—killing. But most of all, Billy being forced to march off with his regiment before she even arrived to say goodbye, let alone begin their promised discussions.
“Excuse me,” she said, clambering over the sweaty legs of her sisters to get to the bathroom in time. She hadn’t been sick from nervous tension since school, but in the train’s tiny box of a water closet, all her anxiety poured out of her bodily. Mortified by her own weakness and filth, she wobbled back to her cabin and fell into a deep sleep.
When she woke, it was nearly dark, and most of her travel companions were taking their own turns snoozing; only Eunice was awake, reading Jane’s Agatha Christie novel. Silently, Kick lifted her head, which felt like an anvil on her sleep-sore neck. The train had stopped at some quiet provincial outpost. Breathing shallowly in the thick, humid air, she felt her empty stomach rumble and prayed that she wouldn’t be sick again. Staring out the window at the fuzzy orange horizon, she swallowed and felt a trickle of saliva burn her dry throat. She was so thirsty, and she reeked of old, curdled sweat.
Another train pulled up beside hers, and through her open window she saw six men packed together in a plain metal car without curtains or other signs of passenger comfort. They were dressed in brown military uniforms like those she’d seen in London, and she could tell at a glance that the men—boys, really, closer to Jack’s age and hardly older than Bobby—were French, not English. Two of them were reading, three were sleeping, and one was staring blankly out his window. From beneath sleepy lids, his eyes roved over Kick’s car, and when they came to her face, they stopped. She and the soldier regarded one another without speaking long enough for Kick to wonder whom he’d left behind. Where he was heading. And what he’d face when he arrived.
Cracking open the silence, the engine of her own train chugged and whistled to life, and as it pulled slowly away, she said to the unknown soldier, “Merci.”
He nodded slightly in reply.
CHAPTER 16
The specter of war had descended like a shroud on her city. Her first glimpses of London from the incongruous cradle-like rocking of the train made her heart sink lower than she’d thought possible. Virtually every man in the street, and many women as well, wore a uniform of some sort, either military or civilian. Brown, gray, and white figures moved through the relatively empty streets like parts on one of Henry Ford’s assembly lines, swift, purposeful, and cold. Sandbags were stacked high in front of houses and official buildings. Fresh posters for gas masks, enlisting, and war bonds papered sooty brick walls. She wondered how many Americans had already left. Thankfully, her father hadn’t yet set a date for their family to evacuate. More so, she was grateful that Billy had not left the city.
Almost as soon as she arrived, she rang him and they arranged to meet the following night at the Spanish restaurant where, just six months before, she’d drunkenly convinced him that it was a great American tradition to steal ashtrays from restaurants, and he’d done it just to humor her. At least the hours until she was to see him were full—no time for morose daydreaming. All the Kennedy children were required to go through their clothing and other belongings and set aside what they wanted to bring with them to America, and what they could do without for a few weeks. They had to try on the gas masks their father had ordered for them months ago, with the help of a constable trained to fit them properly. Teddy and Jean, who’d grown the most, needed new masks. Then there were the letters to write to the organizations Kick worked with, explaining that she was back in the city but unsure what was the best course of action in light of recent events. To Father O’Flaherty she simply wrote on a note card, “Returned. Hope to be in this week.”
Once they realized it, all her siblings could talk about was the fact that 14 Prince’s Gate didn’t have an air-raid shelter.
“Mother,” said Bobby, his voice suddenly low enough to make him sound masculine and nearly adult, “is there anything I can do to get one built?”
Rose, who stood at the window fiddling idly with the pearls at her neck, replied, “If the ambassador couldn’t get one built, I doubt the ambassador’s son could, but you are more than welcome to try.”
“I’ll speak with Page,” he said resolutely.
The nearness of danger had the effect of honing everything down to its sharpest state. When she saw Billy’s face illuminate with boyish delight the moment he saw her, Kick felt her own longing for him like a blade. He ushered her into a small private room at the back of the restaurant, behind the cover of a heavy curtain.
“I had no idea this was back here,” she marveled, looking around the small room with the candles and olives and wine on the table. “What would people think?” she joked.
“I don’t care,” he murmured, pulling the curtain closed and swooping her into his arms in one smooth gesture. When he kissed her hello, every inch of her tingled with goose bumps, a ticklish feeling that made her fear she might burst into giggles. Not for long. As their kiss deepened and he pressed her body against his, the sensation changed to an intense, nearly painful ache. She curled her arms around his neck and wove her fingers through his fine brown hair.
“I’ve missed you, too,” she said when they separated.
“I made sure to come hungry for food so I wouldn’t want to devour you,” Billy said, taking a step back and sighing regretfully, still holding her hands.
“How gallant of you,” she replied.
But even the deliciously piquant meal wasn’t up to the task. They ate and talked until they were satisfied in one way and more ravenous in the other. During the main course, Billy put his hand on her leg just above her knee, and though it gave him some trouble to eat without his left hand, he never removed it. She wanted so much to bring up their letters, and their promised discussions, but she’d vowed to herself that she would not at this reunion. She wanted him to remember why he’d written those letters in the first place.
After coffee and pears poached in wine, Billy said, “I can’t let you go yet.”
“And I can’t run the risk of being home too late,” Kick said. “Not while things are so volatile, and my
parents are on high alert.”
Billy nodded, then looked down at his watch. “It’s almost midnight,” he told her.
“It is?” She had no idea. “I have to get home,” she moaned.
Billy frowned. “We have much to discuss.”
She nodded solemnly.
“Thank you for . . . not . . . tonight.”
“Soon, I hope,” she said.
“Very,” he agreed.
And she heard the clock strike up again in her mind.
* * *
Kick padded downstairs the next morning to the sound of a radio crackling up from the dining room. Everyone who wasn’t away at school or abroad, which meant Bobby, Teddy, Eunice, Mother, and Daddy, sat in varying states of shock at breakfast—her mother with her fingers on her temples, her father with his fist at his mouth, Eunice slouched on the table, and Bobby and Teddy with shoulders up to their ears. The voice on the wireless was narrating an invasion of Poland by Hitler’s army.
Kick sat, unacknowledged, and listened.
Rose began to pray quietly, and Joe stood up and shouted, “Damn it!” before leaving the room.
It’s happening, Kick thought, this time without the sickening panic that had engulfed her on the train to Paris and instead with the same focus she’d learned to apply to races and tennis matches. Help me, Blessed Virgin, she begged as she began to calculate her next moves.
The single-mindedness was difficult to maintain in the next forty-eight hours. Joe Jr. and Jack arrived home immediately and almost magically, swooping into 14 Prince’s Gate like foul-smelling heroes. On September 2, following a defeated speech by Prime Minister Chamberlain, London heard its first air-raid sirens and the Kennedys underwent their first drill. Their butler, who’d served in the last war, brought order to the chaos with everyone running to and fro throughout the house. A few of the servants thought that real bombs were about to start falling. In the huddled, dark silence while sirens wailed outside, a frightened Teddy tried to cross the room to sit with Joe Jr. but tripped over Jean, managing in the process to sprain her ankle and rip the blackout shade covering the sitting room window. Rose shouted at him about what a stupid thing that was to do, and did he want to get them all killed? Teddy ran to his room in tears, and Luella followed while Joe Jr., who’d gotten a bit of medical training in Spain, gently inspected Jean’s swollen ankle.