by M C Beaton
“I was worried sick about losing Reamington. A lot of the chaps in my position marry heiresses and, like a fool, I did not realize that I was also responsible for another human being. I thought you would go your way and I’d go mine. But I hate it when you go away, Kitty. Please come home with me.”
It had cost Peter Chesworth a great deal to make this speech and suddenly he realized that if she rejected him, he would feel like an utter fool. His wife gave a little sigh and he suddenly burst out, “Oh, for God’s sake, can’t you open your bloody mouth?”
The instant it was out, he could have bitten off his tongue but his wife gave a low gurgle of laughter. “Now that sounds more like the husband I know. Yes, Peter, I will come back with you on those terms. Goodness knows, I have been getting into some terrible messes. I had better tell you about them because I’ve discovered that society gossip is faster than Marconi any day.”
She began to tell her husband about her adventures with Henry and then of her visit to Charlie Styles. At first she began quietly and sorrowfully but finally the idiocy of both adventures struck her and she began to laugh. Peter laughed with her, particularly at the tale of Charlie Styles’s wig but he inwardly decided to give Henry Dwight-Hammond a bloody nose at the first opportunity.
Gratified to find that her aristocratic husband was not going to call her a naive fool and that he, on the contrary, was the first person that had ever really listened to her, Kitty went on to tell him about the evening at the Pugsleys. He laughed heartily at the story of Mr. Pugsley’s new suspenders but stopped when Kitty began to tell him about little Jane Pugsley’s “imaginings” of a hand at the window setting fire to the curtains. He would have put it down to a child’s vivid imagination had it not been for the subsequent attempts on Kitty’s life.
Peter closed his long fingers around Kitty’s little hand. “You need not be frightened again, my dear. We will go everywhere together.”
Kitty looked down at the hand clasping hers. She was held rigid in a sea of ecstatic emotion as little waves of feeling lapped through her body. All thoughts of her handsome husband being a murderer fled into the dark corners of the summer evening. Kitty sat as still as a statue, frightened to move and break the spell, quite unaware that her highly sophisticated husband was experiencing the same emotions.
Peter Chesworth was fascinated that this slight physical contact with this young girl—his wife—could hold him imprisoned in a stronger current of passion than he had ever felt before during the most intimate contact with other women.
Both of them sat, rapt and enchanted, almost painfully aware of every sight and scent in the dark summer’s night. A clump of delphiniums blazed in the darkness like a blue flame, a single ripple snaked across the canal like a brush stroke in a Chinese painting and the tinny music from a party in one of the nearby houses sounded infinitely poignant. The smells of cooking from the kitchens—wine, onions, fresh bread, and herbs—mingled with the heady scents of the flowers in the garden.
Lady Mainwaring took one step into the garden, looked at the silent figures by the water and retreated into the house. How odd to think that she had sat just like that one summer’s evening long ago with a young man who was to become her husband. Emily sighed. All that magic of youth and love fleeing before the humdrum daily routine of marriage, turning the tremulous young girl into a brittle sophisticate and the young man into a middle-aged eccentric, dying of diphtheria contracted in a London slum, because his pride had been hurt.
Past forgotten and future unheeded, the enchanted couple sat on, mute, their hands still clasped. Then there was a discreet cough behind them and the evening shattered like fragile glass. Kitty became aware of a cramp in her leg and Lord Chesworth noticed that a large beetle was crawling across the garden table.
“A person from Scotland Yard to see you, my Lady,” said the butler. “I have put him in the study.”
“That’ll be about what happened this afternoon in the underground,” said Kitty, getting to her feet. “Do come with me.”
But the detective from Scotland Yard said, firmly and politely, that he would like to see the Baroness alone. Lord Chesworth opened his mouth to protest but Kitty smiled at him so warmly and said, “I am sure it will only take a minute, Peter, and then we can go home,” that he merely shrugged and left the room.
The detective introduced himself as Mr. Albert Grange. At first sight, he was an unprepossessing man. He had a round, fat, middle-aged face embellished with a tired mustache and thin strands of hair carefully arranged on the top of his head to conceal as much of his baldness as possible. His grubby, high, celluloid collar was cutting into his jowls and his dark gray suit showed shiny patches of wear. But his little brown eyes were twinkling with intelligence and he had a fatherly manner that was very endearing.
“Well, my Lady,” he said, “I’m blessed if I know where to begin. How’s about you beginning at the beginning and telling me about everything in your own words. Now, there’s no one in the room but you and me and I’m not going to take notes. So just you talk away about every little bit that you can think of.”
“It all started at Hadsea,” said Kitty.
Mr. Grange interrupted. “No… start before Hadsea. Before you was married would be a good beginning.”
For the second time that evening, Kitty had found a good listener. She told more than she knew. The astute Mr. Grange quickly grasped that her mother had arranged the marriage but he said nothing until Kitty had reached the end of her story.
Then Mr. Grange asked in a deceptively mild voice, “You don’t suspect your husband, now, do you?”
“Of course not,” Kitty nearly screamed and then calmed herself. “Why should I?”
“Well, now. You’re a very wealthy young lady by all accounts.”
“But he has my money. I—I—mean, my m-money is his,” stammered Kitty.
Mr. Grange looked at her thoughtfully. “You must pardon me, my Lady, if my questions seem impertinent, but money breeds more crime than anything—next to passion that is. We get lots of these here creem passionellies down at the Yard. But in this case, there’s no question of another lady, now?”
Kitty thought of Veronica Jackson. He had said it was over. She must trust him.
“No—none at all, and may I suggest, Mr. Grange, that we look for someone else. I do love my husband, you see.” Her voice broke a little on the last sentence and Mr. Grange took mental note. Loves her husband all right, he thought cynically, but that isn’t the problem. The problem is—does he love her or that Mrs. Jackson he’s been seen around with? But he felt he had gone far enough.
He tried another tack. “What about this Lady Henley. You say your mother got in touch with her by advertising in the Times. Can you imagine, just imagine, mind, that this Lady Henley would want to kill you?”
Kitty giggled. “Not unless she’s turned cannibal. She isn’t interested in anything but food.”
“Well, then, has anyone shown you any bit of dislike or hate that you can think of?”
Kitty thought of the screaming, crying Charlie Styles but to explain it to the detective would send Charlie and his friends to prison. Then there was Veronica. But that would mean betraying her husband’s trust. She shook her head.
“Well, my Lady, that leaves us pretty much where we started. Now if I could just take you through it all again….”
It was two hours later when the detective decided he had gotten as much as he was going to get that evening. “I’ll call on your mother and Lady Henley tomorrow,” he said. “Now, if you would just tell his Lordship to step in here for a few minutes…”
Kitty found her husband pacing up and down the hall outside. “Of course I’ll see him,” he said when she relayed her message. “And I’ll get rid of him quickly. Insufferable little bounder. Go and see to your packing.”
But Kitty was not to learn what passed between the detective and her husband. Peter Chesworth was very silent on the road home and Kitty desperately wis
hed he would say something to raise the cloud from her mind. For the detective’s insinuations had started her worrying again. What did she know, after all, of this strange man sitting next to her?
He seemed to brighten, however, when they reached their town house. He sent Checkers, the butler, to fetch the decanter of sherry and ushered her into the drawing room. Kitty looked at Checker’s fat retreating back and when he had closed the door on them, she asked her husband, “Did you hire the servants, Peter? They are not at all like the ones at Reamington.”
“No, why?” said Peter. “Your mother engaged the staff here. If you don’t like any of them, get rid of them.”
Kitty quailed before the idea of giving the slab-faced Checkers notice. “Perhaps it’s because I am not used to many servants,” she ventured. “I will wait a few days.”
The door opened abruptly and Checkers entered bearing the tray. He turned his back on Peter as he deferentially handed Kitty her glass. She glanced up into his watery eyes and started at the look of undisguised venom on his fat white face. In a second it was gone, leaving her to think that she must be overtired and imagining things.
After they had finished their drinks, Peter escorted his wife to the door of her bedroom. He bent his head and kissed her lightly on the cheek but her body was so soft and pliant against his and that scent from her hair—gardenia, that was it—was clouding his senses. His mouth slid across her cheek and found her mouth and Kitty’s mind went spiraling off into a dark, dark night lit by bursts of fireworks. Then, gradually, as if it were happening to someone else, she became aware of long, hard fingers stroking her bosom and a lean muscular leg pressing between her thighs. Bright-colored images chased each other across the night of her mind. The sun sparkling on the blond hairs on Henry’s hand as it clutched her breast, Charlie’s blond wig lying in the fireplace, and the white body of her husband, gleaming in the electricity as he laughed at her picture. She went rigid and cold as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over her. Peter was immediately aware of her reaction and cursed himself for getting carried away. He kissed her lightly on the forehead and with a husky “good night” took himself off to his own room.
Immediately, Kitty wanted him back. Not to hold her like that in that frightening way but just… she wanted… oh, what in the name of heaven did she want! Kitty threw herself on her bed and indulged in a much-needed bout of tears.
Kitty shyly entered the breakfast room next morning but the passionate lover of the night before was immersed in the Daily Telegraph and merely smiled at her and returned to his paper.
At last he put it down and turned his attention to his breakfast. “Good God,” he exclaimed, lifting cover after cover. “This all looks as if it had been made a week ago. Checkers, who on earth is our cook?”
“Mrs. Checkers,” replied the butler blandly.
“Your wife, eh? Well you’d better straighten her out this morning, Kitty.”
Again that look from Checkers, a mixture of insolence and venom, was directed at Kitty. But this time her husband intercepted it.
“Checkers, you’re dismissed. You’ve got your marching orders. Now go, and take your wife with you. Your wages will be forwarded to you,” snapped Peter Chesworth.
The butler opened his mouth to say something and was forestalled.
“You want to know the reason, I suppose,” said Peter Chesworth. “Well, I’m dismissing you for dumb insolence and not because of your wife’s hellish cooking. Not another word. Go.”
The butler hesitated but Peter Chesworth was again reading his paper and Kitty realized that her husband did not doubt for a minute that his order would be disobeyed. Nor was it. Checkers finally choked out, “Very good, my Lord,” and closed the door quietly behind him.
Peter Chesworth threw down his paper again. “I’m dashed if I know what’s going on. Because of all this marriage mess—sorry, Kitty—I never really looked at any of the servants. I’d better run around to Scotland Yard and get that detective of yours onto Checkers. I’ve never seen anyone with such a vile look. Why, he looked as if he could have murdered you,” he added cheerfully.
Kitty shuddered. “I was going to have luncheon with Mama today and I wondered if you would join me?”
Her husband looked at her in dismay. “Can’t do it, my dear. I have a luncheon appointment in the city with a chap who’s getting me a special deal on a cart-load of superphosphates.”
His wife looked puzzled and Peter laughed. “I forget you don’t know about farming. Well, it’s one of our farms at Reamington. Jezzald, the farmer, has been overstocking and he doesn’t even care. He’s taken the heart out of the land until it’s good for nothing. Tell you what, I’ll drop you off at your mother’s and then pick you up afterward. Then my agent had better come over and get rid of this lot of servants and get us some more.”
“Oh, but that’s heartless!” cried Kitty. “Some of them might not deserve to lose their jobs.”
“You’ll lose your life by one of them if we’re not careful,” said her husband grimly. “Don’t worry, my agent will sort through their references.” There was a slight noise outside the door.
He leaped to his feet but whoever had been in the hallway was gone.
At midday, he escorted Kitty to Park Lane and helped her down from the carriage and bent gallantly to kiss her gloved hand. Kitty looked down at the black, curly head bent over her hand and began to stammer, “P-Peter, I would like to t-tell you…” and then lost her courage. She desperately wanted to explain why she had rejected his lovemaking the night before but standing in the middle of the pavement with the coachman within earshot, she felt suddenly shy of the tall stranger who was her husband.
“I just wanted… to know… that is, when will you be finished with your luncheon?”
“Oh, not very long. Less than two hours if the traffic in the city isn’t too heavy. Is that what you really wanted to say?” The pale gray eyes looked uncomfortably shrewd.
“N-no,” said Kitty. “But I’ll tell you later.”
He watched her slight figure walk up the steps and then sprang into the carriage and directed the coachman to drive to the city.
Lady Henley was waiting alone. “Your mama is not feeling very well,” she said. “She’s gone to lie down. Don’t know what’s the matter. She was all right this morning. Quite her usual old self. Then she had a sort of faint turn. Anyway, I’ve ordered a light luncheon for the pair of us.”
The luncheon was indeed light by Lady Henley’s standards—only five courses with a different wine for each course. Kitty began to feel quite light-headed towards the end. Usually, she was very careful and only drank a little but Lady Henley had proved to be an unusually entertaining companion when she put her mind to it and Kitty found that she had absent-mindedly been draining each glass.
“Where did you say your husband was?” asked Lady Henley.
“He’s gone to buy a load of phosphates for one of the farms at Reamington.”
Lady Henley grunted. “That’s Peter Chesworth all over. When he was in Afghanistan with my son—” She paused. “Didn’t you know your husband used to be in the army?”
Kitty shook her head. “Well, what a strange couple you are to be sure,” said Lady Henley. “Peter was a Captain in the Wiltshires and a very brave soldier. But my poor son, John, caught a bullet and died in the hospital in Peshawar and Peter got a nasty case of enteric fever and was sent home.
“John used to write to me a lot about Peter. Peter was his Captain. John used to say Peter would dream of nothing but Reamington. His father was alive at the time and drinking and gambling the estate into rack and ruin. ‘I’ll save Reamington!’” Peter used to tell my son. ‘Even if I have to sell my soul to do it!’”
Lady Henley saw the distress on Kitty’s face. “Don’t take it to heart, my dear. I don’t think you realize how much his land means to a man like Peter Chesworth. He loves every stick and stone, man, woman, and child on his estate. He’s a good landlord and
God knows, there ain’t many of that kind of old aristocracy left. He’ll expect you to look after his people too. You’ll need to see that John on the home farm is going to the dentist and that Molly in the village is attending school and that Jane is marrying the right man and that the old people have enough to eat. All that kind of thing. You didn’t just marry Peter Chesworth, you married all these other people y’ see. But have your fun in London first because it’s a lot of work.”
Kitty suddenly remembered Checkers. She told Lady Henley about her husband getting rid of the servants. “Very odd,” commented Lady Henley. “But your mama got quite uppity with me. Wanted to get them herself. Probably went to some riff-raff agency.”
The dessert was served—a bowl of chartreuse de pèches à la Reine Alexandra—and Lady Henley let out a grunt of pure pleasure. “Goody. M’ favorite,” she explained.
“I don’t think I can eat any more,” said Kitty faintly.
Lady Henley’s eyes glistened. In an effort to do right by her young guest, she had restrained her gluttony. But enough was enough. She drew the bowl toward her and wolfed the whole confection down, gave a hearty, satisfied belch, and called for a plate of petits fours. “Don’t think I’ll bother about a savory today,” she remarked, shoving petits fours into her mouth with amazing rapidity. The little biscuits had been served in a basket made of intricately spun and woven toffee. Lady Henley picked it up and gave it a baffled look and then, with an almost apologetic glance at Kitty, clamped her jaws around the handle of the basket and started to crunch happily, like a dog with a delicious bone. Slivers of toffee flew right and left and me room was silent except for Lady Henley’s massive crunchings.
Kitty began to feel dizzy with the amount of food and wine she had consumed. “I think I’ll need to get some fresh air, Lady Henley,” she said, rising and clutching the back of her chair for support.
“I’ll take you for a drive in the park,” said Lady Henley, heaving herself to her feet and ringing for the carriage.