by M C Beaton
Mrs. Harrison got to her feet and turned her back to the door.
“We are not at home.”
There was an outraged gasp and the sound of retreating footsteps.
It was Mrs. Harrison’s finest hour.
CHAPTER THREE
Kitty sat down wearily after enduring the final fitting for her wedding dress and wished for the hundredth time that her fiancé were not quite so correct.
They were never alone. He had punctiliously escorted her to every society event—parties, operas, balls. Other engaged couples managed to spend some time alone together—on a balcony at a party, outside the box at the opera—there were endless opportunities. But not one of them did Lord Chesworth make use of.
Increasingly elegant and withdrawn, he chatted with her politely but never so much as kissed her glove. Arrangements were going ahead to furnish a pretty house in Green Street, but never once had her taste been consulted.
Then there was that time at the Royal Academy when she had entered one of the galleries with Lady Henley and seen him sitting on one of the benches with a lady whom he had introduced as Mrs. Veronica Jackson. Kitty recognized the lady of the red chiffon dress. Her blue eyes, amused and cynical, had raked Kitty from head to toe. “So that’s your little bride, Peter!” she had commented lazily, keeping her primrose-gloved hand possessively on Lord Chesworth’s. His lordship had simply given the lady an enigmatic look from under his hooded lids.
But they seemed to share some sort of secret, thought Kitty. Every pleasant ordinary thing they said to each other seemed to have a double meaning.
Well, he would change after they were married. And he had said he loved her. And Miss Bates had always said that a gentleman never lied.
London was in full summer bloom. Geraniums blazed in the window boxes and roses rioted in the gardens. The air was heavy with the scent of flowers. And in the evenings, the ballrooms and parties were so bedecked with great tubs of blooms that it was like stepping into a magnificent garden.
Kitty decided to forget her troubles and be “cheery.” She rolled the new word round on her tongue and felt very dashing and modern.
If only she had some friends. She had been to various tea parties and “at homes” but, with the bear-like shadow of Lady Henley next to her, conversation seemed to be inhibited. The only people who came to call were old friends of Lady Henley. Surely these bright young people must have confidences and best friends, and Kitty, thinking of Hetty back in Hampstead, did long for a best friend.
The day of the wedding arrived at last. No expense had been spared. Mrs. Rosa Lewis’s catering service had been hired and her staff of girls with their high, white, laced boots, white dresses, and chef’s hats had taken over the kitchen.
Kitty stood in her bedroom, patiently raising her arms so that Colette could drop the white gown of Brussels lace over her head. The waist and the bodice were embellished with tiny seed pearls and the train was so long it required the attentions of six bearers. Even Lady Henley’s forceful personality had not been enough to raise the necessary maids of honor and so the small children of various society families had been pressed into service.
A distant relative of Lady Henley, Mr. James Bennington-Cartwright-Browne, had been recruited to give the bride away. Kitty’s timid suggestion that she might send an invitation to Hetty had been coldly received. “Ask the baker’s daughter? Are you mad?” said Mrs. Harrison, dropping only one hairpin to show how minor the irritation was.
At last there was the church and there was the steeple, but who on earth were all these people? The pews seemed to be crowded with all of London’s fashionable society and not a friendly face among the lot of them. They had come to see the Baron marry “his little shopgirl.”
It was Veronica Jackson who had called Kitty that and society had delightedly taken up the phrase and exchanged story after gleeful story of Kitty’s terribly middle-class “refeened” behavior. It made such good gossip that Kitty’s quiet, well-bred manner was unable to contradict it. She was the latest joke in a season thin of jokes. So the shopgirl she remained.
It seemed as if it were all over so quickly. One minute she was Miss Kitty Harrison, the next she was Lady Kitty Chesworth, Baroness Reamington.
The reception was excellent, run with the firm hand of the famous Mrs. Lewis in the background. The aristocratic guests were obviously surprised, for they kept saying so in very loud voices.
Kitty waited patiently beside her new husband at the head of the long table. Would they never be able to leave? They were to spend their first night in their own town house and then travel to Reamington Hall on the following day. Kitty had secretly hoped to go somewhere exotic like Paris or Rome.
Her new husband seemed to be drinking a great deal of champagne in a quiet, steady manner. Mrs. Harrison was positively radiant; she would read about herself in the society columns at last! Lady Henley sat with her head sunk over her plate, for once absolutely stupefied with food.
The plover eggs served with cream cheese had been removed. That had been the eighteenth course, Kitty noted. Surely now it would end. But the last and nineteenth—soufflés glacés à l’entente cordiale and bonbonnières de friandises—was brought in and all the guests fell to cheerfully as if they were attacking the first. Then came the toasts. Kitty groaned inwardly. She had forgotten about them.
Mr. James Bennington-Cartwright-Browne was called upon to give the toast to the bride. But the gentleman had fallen sound asleep, his heavy, white, tobacco-stained moustache rising and falling gently and his freckled old hand stretched out toward his glass. His neighbor nudged him rudely and he came to life. “Eh, what? What, what?”
“Speech,” hissed his neighbor.
“Oh, eh, harrumph. Just so.” Mr. James Bennington-Cartwright-Browne lurched to his feet and surveyed the room with his rheumy eyes.
“I—ah—now—ah—declare this bazaar open.” And amid cheers and hoots from the guests, he sat down and promptly fell asleep.
He was again nudged awake. “Toast to the bride,” he was told.
“Eh, what bride?” said the old gentleman. “The shop-gel, Kitty,” hissed the woman on his other side. Once again Mr. James Bennington-Cartwright-Browne got to his feet. “Here’s to the bride. Don’t know ’er but I’m sure she’ll do,” he said and sat down again.
The shopgirl slur was not new to Kitty, but it was to her mother. Mrs. Harrison sat as if in a trance while the roar of conversation swept around her ears like the unheeding sea. “Shopgirl.” For this, she had endured the gluttony of Lady Henley. For this, she had filled her house with these laughing, uncaring, and sneering people. And—oh, bitter blow—for this she had sacrificed her daughter. Hairpins fell as thick as the leaves in Vallembrosa.
The best man was then called. He was a cheerful-looking young man with the uninspiring name of Percy Barlow-Smellie. A young matron across from Kitty leaned over and squeezed her arm.
“You mustn’t mind Percy. He’s a terrible wag,” she said.
Percy, after clowning around for several minutes pretending to have lost his speech, began.
“I couldn’t think what to say, so I wrote a poem.”
(Cheers. Good old Percy.)
“Here’s to the wicked baron
Who didn’t marry a harridan,”
(Loud laughter.)
“But he married Kitty,
Who is very pretty.”
(Groans and hoots.)
“So now that we’ve got them wed
Let’s get them into bed.”
(Screams from the ladies. Applause from the men.)
Other speeches followed while Mrs. Harrison sat on as if turned to stone. These people would drink her wine and eat her food but never, never would they accept her.
The babble died down as Mrs. Harrison got to her feet and glared around the room.
“Get out,” she said in a venomous whisper. Then her voice rose to a scream. “Get out, get out, get out!”
What
a horrified rustling of lace and chiffon, satin and silk. Like a poultry yard after the fox had just broken in, the ladies rose in a flutter of feather boas and large feathered hats. The men stolidly got to their feet. Everyone paused. Mrs. Harrison must be drunk. They could not possibly have heard aright.
Suddenly, there was an upheaval near Mrs. Harrison. Like some huge primeval beast erupting from its swamp, Lady Henley rose from a litter of bones and crusts and crumbs.
“You heard ’er. Get out. Go on. Shoo!” And putting a pudgy arm round Mrs. Harrison’s shoulders, she said, “C’mon, Euphemia. Let’s get out of here.”
The Baron turned to his new Baroness. “Well, Kitty. Shall we leave?”
Kitty gratefully took his arm. She simply wanted to get away. Everything would be all right as soon as she was alone with her new husband.
The younger wedding guests, their spirits restored, followed them, laughing and chattering, out to the carriage. The sun shone bravely while Kitty made her way shyly to the carriage through a rainstorm of rice and rose petals.
As Lord Chesworth took his place beside her, a group of young people led by a freckled-faced, tomboyish girl placed a large box tied up with ribbon on her lap. “It’s from us—your new friends. You must open it now.”
“Don’t,” said Peter Chesworth, laconically.
Kitty looked down at the circle of laughing faces and smiled shyly. She remembered Lady Henley’s defense of her mother. They were not so bad after all.
She untied the pretty ribbons on the parcel, opened it—and screamed. A huge jack-in-the-box leapt out and hung wobbling in front of her, its mocking clown’s face dancing before her tear-filled eyes.
“Drive on,” snapped the Baron, and then turned to Kitty and held out his handkerchief. “You mustn’t take everything so seriously. If you’re ever going to feel comfortable in society, you must learn to take a joke.”
In silence they entered the house in Green Street. Kitty was introduced to the staff who were lined up in the hall. The butler, a fat white man called Checkers, who seemed to have a perpetual cold, made a speech of welcome. Then the happy pair retired to the drawing room and surveyed each other in silence.
“Well, here we are,” said Lord Chesworth crossing over to the looking glass and straightening his stock.
“Yes,” whispered Kitty, wishing he would take her in his arms.
He turned around and looked at her with some irritation. “I’ll stay here and have a drink. Why don’t you go and see your rooms.”
Kitty nodded and went up the stairs, noticing that the house seemed to be very dark. Burne-Jones stained-glass windows filtered the gloomy light down into the hall. Colette was waiting in the bedroom, unpacking the trunks.
She looked up as her mistress came in. “Well, you don’t look much like a new bride,” she commented.
Kitty felt this was an unpardonable piece of insolence, but had no spirit left to reply. She dismissed the maid and stretched out on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and wondering what the night would bring. At last she got to her feet and began to arrange her books on the shelves and a few of her photographs. She unwrapped her precious picture and looked around for a place to hang it. A heavy oil painting, depicting a group of damp, highland cattle looming through mist, hung on the wall facing the end of the bed. Kitty lifted it down and put it on the floor. She hung her painting carefully in its place. At least her new husband would see that she had some artistic taste.
Without ringing for Colette, she changed her dress and descended the stairs to look for her lord.
The house was empty and appeared deserted. A barrel organ was playing at the end of the street and the tinny music seemed to dance through the heavy silence. Timidly, she rang the bell.
Checkers informed her that his lordship had “stepped out.” His watery eyes, sunken in wrinkled flesh, managed to convey that he considered this unsuitable behavior.
Kitty dismissed him and sat on the window seat, staring out into the twilight and longing for the courage to walk away from the house herself. Gradually her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep as the dusk gathered in the corners of the room.
She was awakened three hours later by the sound of the front door slamming and her husband’s voice. “That’s all right, Checkers. I shall be needing nothing further this evening.” Then the door of the drawing room opened and he walked in.
His silk hat was placed at a rakish angle over his black curls and his eyes held a hectic gleam. He bent and kissed her full on the mouth. He smelled strongly of brandy.
“Why don’t you run along and get ready for bed, my dear,” said her new husband. “And I’ll join you shortly.”
Kitty looked at him with troubled eyes and then bent her head and left the room. What was she expected to do? If only she had had the courage to ask somebody.
Trailing her lace shawl behind her, she walked slowly upstairs to her bedroom. Was she to go to her bedroom or his? Well, he was in charge now and would surely let her know.
Colette had laid out a filmy nightdress on the bed. Kitty looked at it doubtfully and decided to wear one of her old flannel ones to give herself a feeling of comfort and protection. She slipped it on, buttoned it high at the throat, and climbed into bed where she sat upright, staring at the door.
After a few minutes it opened and her husband swaggered in. Kitty shrank back against the pillows and watched in dismay as he started to strip off his clothes in the full glare of the electric light. At last he stood naked, his slim, muscular body gleaming like polished marble. Kitty had not only never seen a naked man before, she hadn’t the slightest idea of what one would look like.
Unaware of her distress, and more than a little tipsy, Peter Chesworth put one knee on the bed and prepared to climb in. His eye caught sight of Kitty’s favorite picture on the wall and, with an exclamation, he went to take a closer look at it, standing with his hands on his hips, affording Kitty an excellent view of his naked back.
“Good God,” he said slowly. “How on earth did that get there?”
“It’s my favorite picture,” said Kitty, with a trace of pride in her voice, despite her fright. “I bought it all by myself.”
“So I should hope,” he said, turning around. “For heaven’s sake girl, didn’t Lady Henley cure you of this penchant for chocolate-box art?”
It was the final straw. Her only piece of home, her darling picture, had been scorned by this grinning, naked satyr. She sank into the pillows and let out a whimper of pain.
Lord Chesworth was furious. “Stop acting. You don’t think I’m going to go along with this little comedy, do you? I married you for your money. You married me for my title. And that’s it. So stop squirming away there and let’s make the best of the bargain.”
Kitty couldn’t believe her ears. “But you married me for love,” she almost screamed, raising a tear-stained face from the pillow.
“Love?” said the Baron. “Oh, yes. I said all that when I asked you to marry me because your mama pointed out that you wanted gilt on your gingerbread. Love? There’s about as much love in this game as there ever was in one of your late lamented father’s, business transactions.”
Kitty began to cry in earnest, great, dry, racking sobs. The Baron was unmoved. He started putting on his clothes at full speed.
“Your type never could take honesty.” He turned in the doorway. “Why, you’re nothing but a spoiled brat.”
He marched off down the stairs and, a minute later, Kitty heard the street door slam. She cried until she could cry no more. It could not be true. He must have been drinking. She would ask her mother in the morning. With that, she fell into exhausted sleep, like a very young child.
Lord Chesworth had indeed been drinking and was in a black rage which was, from time to time, fanned by the unpleasant feeling that he had behaved like a cad. Well, he knew where to go for consolation. Shortly afterwards, he was ushered into Mrs. Jackson’s bedroom and, without so much as a word, began taking off his clothe
s again.
Mrs. Jackson watched him triumphantly from her high, cane-backed bed. “On your wedding night, Peter? Is your little bride aware of what she is missing?”
He slid under the covers and held her close, his head beginning to reel with the effects of all he had drunk. “Miss Kitty expects love along with my title. Love! I swear to you, Veronica, if she were dead I would take her money and marry you without one pang of remorse.” With that, he fell into a drunken stupor leaving his mistress to mull over his words, holding his head against her breast, and looking off into the distance with hard, calculating eyes. Then, she too, fell asleep.
Dawn blazed up over London and the early sun hung in the hot and already humid air. A blackbird sat on a tree outside Mrs. Jackson’s bedroom window and poured his liquid song out over the dusty city streets. The Baron mumbled “Kitty,” and groaned and turned over. He took one horrified look at Veronica Jackson’s beautiful sleeping face and swung his legs over the edge of the bed and buried his feverish forehead in his hands.
Yesterday came back to him through a gray fog of memory, interspersed with bright flashes of total recall—Mrs. Harrison’s angry face at the wedding, the jack-in-the-box, Kitty cowering and sobbing on the bed.
He groaned again, but softly this time, so as not to wake his sleeping partner. He must find out the truth. If Kitty really believed him to be in love with her, then he owed her a humble apology. But she must have been acting. She must.
He suddenly decided to go round to Park Lane and find out. He could not face Kitty again until he knew the truth.
With distaste, he climbed into the soiled clothes of the night before and decided to go to his club for a shave. He slipped from the room while Veronica slept on.
God, what a hangover! He winced in the brassy light and started to walk toward St. James’s. Everything seemed unreal and still; a painful world filled with eye-hurting color. A bunch of roses in a crystal glass on someone’s window ledge made him blink, and a line of scarlet geraniums seemed to positively swear at him from someone else’s window box. He felt unreal and detached. A great black cloud of guilt hung somewhere on the horizon of his mind. A crossing sweeper tipped his cap and grinned at the gentleman in his wedding clothes, showing all of his large, white teeth. To the Baron, his smile seemed to hang in the air, disembodied, like the Cheshire cat’s grin. London was slowly coming to life. A cabby swerved to avoid him and swore loudly.