“Are you thinking about your husband again?” she teased Kitty. “Well, don’t. He will have received your note and, with any luck, will be furious at you. Any reaction is better than none, my dear. In about two days’ time, in my estimation, he will decide to come and see what we are up to, but you, of course, will not be here.”
“Why not?” asked Kitty faintly. She had done nothing but look forward to her husband’s arrival.
“Because you are not ready yet,” said Lady Mainwaring, picking up a trowel and returning to work. “Your maid, Colette, for example, is boasting that she does no work. I always listen to servants’ gossip. It may be vulgar but it is a very valuable source of information. How else would I have known that Lady Jessingham meant to cut me at the opera? She told her personal maid who told her sister who is walking out with one of my footmen who told my personal maid who told me. So I cut the old bat before she had a chance to cut me first.
“But what were we talking about? Ah, yes, Colette. We are going out to tea at the Barlowe-Smellies’—Percy’s parents. Ring for your maid to help you change and dismiss her if she shows the slightest sign of insolence. That is your first dragon. Secondly, what do you think of Percy Barlowe-Smellie?”
Kitty thought back to her wedding and to the poems and antics of the best man. “I think he’s a horrid young man,” she said.
“Then you must tell him,” said Lady Mainwaring. “But first you must deal with Colette.”
Wishing heartily that she were once again Miss Kitty Harrison of Hampstead instead of the Baroness Reamington, Kitty trailed off slowly indoors.
When she reached her room, she sat looking at the old-fashioned bellpull as if it were some species of venomous snake. But Emily Mainwaring had said she would lose her husband if she continued to be timid. At last, she reached out and gave the bellpull an enormous jerk. She waited ten minutes in fear and trepidation until the door opened.
“You rang, Ma’am?” Colette strolled into the room, the flicker of veiled insolence lurking in her black eyes.
“Please help me dress. I am taking tea with the Barlowe-Smellies,” said Kitty in a firm, clear voice.
“What d’ ye want to wear?” said Colette lazily, looking out of the window at the garden.
There was a long silence. She turned slowly from the window. Her mistress was looking at her with a distinctly imperious glare. Colette was not to know that in taking her time in turning around, she had given Kitty the necessary courage to conjure up that expression.
“If you don’t know your job,” said Kitty in a voice like brittle glass, “you may leave my service this instant.”
Colette ducked her head to hide her surprise and bobbed a curtsy.
“I’ll see to it right away, Ma’am.”
Kitty’s hard, light voice went on. “Must I keep telling you how to do your job? You will address me as ‘my Lady’ in the future—at all times. Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma—my Lady.”
Kitty’s small stock of courage ran out. But she kept her voice on the same hard tone. “Very well. You may leave. I will dress myself this once since I am very displeased with you.”
Colette scuttled from the room with bowed head. The other servants had warned her that she was going too far. They had told her of the long, miserable queues of unemployed waiting outside the agencies and that a Baroness could have her pick of personal maids any day of the week.
After Colette had left, Kitty looked down at her trembling hands. She couldn’t go on with this. She just couldn’t!
She said as much to Lady Mainwaring as they prepared to leave for the tea party. “Don’t worry,” said her friend. The first few battles are always the worst.”
The carriage rolled through the streets in the direction of Kensington and Kitty could not help looking for a tall, familiar figure with curly black hair.
They were bowling along past the entrance to the zoo when Kitty spied two familiar figures and gave a sharp cry of recognition. Lady Mainwaring signaled the coachman to stop and the carriage backed up to the couple standing on the pavement. It was Hetty Carson with John Stokes. Hetty was wearing a smart plaid dress, her jaunty ringlets bobbing with excitement. John Stokes was wearing his Sunday best and obviously feeling the heat. His high, hard collar, which, like everything about him, was too tight, was cutting into the sides of his chubby face.
“Why Kitty! You look so grand!” screamed Hetty. Then she pouted. “Why didn’t you invite me to your wedding?” Kitty stammered and blushed until Lady Mainwaring said, “I am afraid Kitty had nothing to do with the guest list. Her mother arranged everything.”
“Oh, that explains it,” said Hetty angrily. “Kitty’s my best friend—aren’t you, Kitty?—and I knew she would never forget me. When are you going to invite me to your new home?”
Kitty stammered, “Well—I—I’m not staying at home right now. I’m staying with my friend—oh, I forgot to introduce you.” Lady Mainwaring bowed and smiled and then sat back, feeling that she had helped Kitty enough.
Kitty looked hopefully at her, hoping Lady Mainwaring would ask Hetty to call on them, but her ladyship was giving all her attention to a couple of buskers outside the zoo and Kitty could not catch her eye.
“I shall send you a card when I am at home again,” said Kitty. “And you too, John. You know I won’t forget you, Hetty,” she added warmly.
Hetty smiled and dimpled. “Oh, thank you,” she gushed. “I always say, old friends are the best, don’t you think so, Lady Mainwaring?”
“No,” said Lady Mainwaring uncompromisingly.
Hetty flushed with annoyance. “Well, our Kitty knows what I mean. Musn’t keep you. Ta-ta, Kitty. See you soon.”
John Stokes mumbled and raised his hand in salute as the carriage rolled off.
“Encroaching little thing,” said Lady Mainwaring, unfurling her parasol.
Kitty flared up, surprising herself at her own burst of temper. “If becoming socially acceptable means becoming a snob, I would like to stop right now,” she raged.
But Emily only smiled. “You’ll see, my dear. Just wait and you’ll see.”
Percy’s father was a retired Indian army colonel and his family home abounded in brass mementos of the East, from coffee tables to gongs. The colonel, a middle-aged man with terrifying mustaches and angry-looking broken veins, emerged briefly to welcome them and tell them that this tea business was a lot of rubbish, give him a good Scotch any day, what, but his wife would look after them.
Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie was a thin, anemic woman with wispy hair and a breathless voice. She ushered them out into the garden, chattering busily. “So kind of you to… so busy… Indian or Chinese… ? you must try these… delicious… I get them from… where is Percy… ? introduce Mrs. Betty Simpson… Mrs. Edith Haughton… Mrs…. oh, dear… and James Dubois… not French… Somerset Dubois… and Henry ah… oh dear… there!”
She sat down triumphantly at the tea table and started dispensing cups with the satisfied air of someone who had just coped with a difficult situation.
Her son Percy breezed in and his eyes alighted on Kitty with a look of gleeful malice. “Well, well, Baroness,” he said, coming to sit beside her. “How’s things in Hampstead?”
“I don’t know,” said Kitty. “I haven’t been back there.”
“Quite right,” said Percy rudely. “Cut the old connections.”
“I have no intention of cutting my old connections,” said Kitty tremulously, thinking of Hetty.
“For heavens’ sakes, drink your tea, Percy, and stop chattering,” snapped Lady Mainwaring. But Percy was in full cry.
“I’ve always wondered what you lot get up to in those little houses on the Heath. Bags of middle-class sin behind the old lace curtains, what?” He grinned, winked at the company, and helped himself to cream and sugar.
It was now or never. Kitty said in a very loud voice, “I think you are an absolutely horrid young man!”
Percy blushed.
Everyone stared. Percy’s mother surprisingly flew to Kitty’s rescue. “Quite right, my dear… tell him so myself… cheeky, very cheeky… pinches housemaids’ bottoms… very hard to get good girls these days… bad, yes… good, no… cook got drunk… cooking sherry… but it’s the principle of the thing I always say…,” she ended happily.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief and burst out talking at once about the age-old problem of servants.
“Very good,” said Lady Mainwaring in a whisper to Kitty. “Now carry on as if nothing had happened.”
Percy, to Kitty’s surprise, began to talk to her in almost deferential tones about a play he had seen the night before. The rest of the company cut into his conversation, from time to time, asking Kitty how she was enjoying her new home and asking when her husband would be returning to London.
Kitty forced herself to answer their questions at some length, instead of just saying “yes” and “no.”
When she and Lady Mainwaring rose to take their departure, Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie asked if they could come to dinner the following week.
“I’m afraid not,” said Lady Mainwaring, drawing on her long gloves. “We are both in the need of sea air. We shall probably be in Hadsea or somewhere.”
Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie expressed her disappointment in her usual fragmented way. “So very, very sorry…. Seaside… ? dear me… must be… well, you know… time of year… mashers… common people… tut… common… tut… but healthy… ozone… sea-bathing… prawns. I do so love prawns,” she added, looking quite startled to find a complete sentence emerging from her lips.
When they were seated in the carriage, Lady Mainwaring turned to her companion. “You just slew dragon number two. Did you notice how polite Percy became? He won’t trouble you again. Now, wasn’t it worth the effort?”
Kitty nodded, feeling a faint, warm glow of satisfaction.
“The next step,” said her companion, “is to remove ourselves from London before your husband arrives.”
“Perhaps he will be glad,” cried Kitty. “Perhaps the marriage will suit him better this way.”
“Nonsense,” replied Emily Mainwaring. “You are newly married. People will keep asking for his wife. His wife isn’t there. His pride will be hurt. Be patient!”
Kitty reflected that her new friend always seemed to be too sure of everything. Now Hetty, she would understand the uncertainty of it all.
“I would like to visit Hetty before we leave,” she ventured timidly. “You know, the old friend I met this afternoon at the zoo.”
Lady Mainwaring looked at her in silence for a minute. Then she said slowly, “Yes, by all means. We have no engagements for tomorrow afternoon and I wish to work in my garden. But why don’t you go? You can use the carriage.”
Kitty looked surprised. She had expected an argument. She could hardly wait to tell Hetty all her news.
Hetty was as excited as Kitty. The next day when Lady Mainwaring’s smart carriage stopped outside the Carson home in Gospel Oak, Hetty ran out to meet Kitty, dancing with excitement.
“Oh, Kitty! Such a smart carriage and a groom as well as a coachman,” she shrilled. Kitty looked at the impassive back of the coachman and whispered, “Can’t we go into the house, Hetty? I’ve such a lot to tell you.”
“Go into the house!” exclaimed Hetty. “When you’ve got this spanking carriage and all? We’ll go for a drive. Wait till I get my hat.” And she ran back into the house before Kitty could reply.
She soon bounced out again wearing a huge purple toque on her glossy hair. Hetty, who had a generous allowance from Mr. Carson, had bought the hat for just such an occasion as this, despite the protests from her more sensible mother that it was headgear only suitable for a dowager.
“Where would you like to go?” asked Kitty.
“There’s a darling tearoom in Belsize Park,” bubbled Hetty, “with simply scrumptious pastries.”
Although she was a baker’s daughter, Hetty had a seemingly endless appetite for pastry.
Kitty nodded, anxious to please her friend, but she could not help feeling disappointed. Her beloved Heath looked beautiful in the summer sunshine and she had imagined walking arm in arm with Hetty, away from the crowds, sharing confidences.
Her heart sank when they arrived at the tearoom. It was crowded with people, but the determined Hetty managed to find a table in the center of the room.
“Here’s that very spot, Baroness,” she said in a loud voice.
“What are you calling me ‘Baroness’ for?” whispered Kitty. Everyone was staring at them.
“You must try the pastries here, Baroness,” roared Hetty, enjoying the sensation. “’Member when we was—were—at school together, how we used to eat them?”
“Really, Hetty! Keep your voice down and stop calling me ‘Baroness,’” said poor Kitty, her face flushing under the curious gaze of the rest of the people in the tearoom.
Hetty pouted. “You’re no fun, Kitty. After all, you are a real-live Baroness and what’s the point of being it if nobody knows?”
Unabashed, Hetty went on for the next terrible hour in the same way. It was “Baroness” this and “Baroness” that until Kitty felt ready to die with mortification. The only small grain of comfort to be had was that Hetty had assumed what she fondly believed to be an Oxford accent so no one could understand what she was saying. “Look at that dahling child with the fah hah, Baroness,” she screamed, pointing to a blonde-haired infant at the next table.
Kitty could bear it no longer. “I must leave now, Hetty. I’ve got to get ready for the opera this evening.”
Hetty’s wide eyes gleamed. “Are you going with your husband, Baron Reamington?” she shrieked.
“No,” whispered Kitty, hoping by the very softness of her voice to bring down the strident tone of Hetty’s. “That’s what I want to talk to—”
“You’re probably going with one of your friends. A duke or an earl, I dessay.”
Kitty paid for the tea and almost shoved her friend out of the tearoom and into the carriage. Hetty’s forehead was glistening with sweat under the heavy velvet toque. “There,” she said in more her normal voice, settling back in the carriage with a sigh of satisfaction. “That’ll give all those snobbish old cats in Hampstead something to talk about. Hetty Carson having tea with a real-live Baroness!”
But by the time they reached her home in Gospel Oak, Hetty began to feel nervous. Perhaps she had overdone things a bit. She hugged Kitty. “I’m sorry, Kitty. I got so excited at seeing you again, I didn’t give you a chance to talk. Please remember, your old friend Hetty is always here if ever you need help.”
Kitty’s heart was touched. She hugged her friend back and forgave her everything. “I’ll come to call as soon as I get back, I promise,” said Kitty.
Hetty climbed down from the carriage with a quick look up and down the street to see which of the neighbors was watching. She opened her mouth to point out that she could call at Kitty’s new home, but shrewdly decided that her friend had had enough for one afternoon.
Kitty was very thoughtful on the road home but still loyal to Hetty. She had been awful in the tearoom but Hetty was a warm-hearted girl, she decided, and worth twice as much as any of her new-found society friends.
But Kitty still had to admit to herself that she was very disappointed. She had a longing to catch and reorganize some of her old life before she left for the sea. A woman trudged along the pavement, followed by a retinue of grubby children that marked out the burden of her yearly pregnancies. Kitty suddenly thought of the Pugsleys in Camden Town. Now that she was rich, she could surely do something better for them than serve out soup.
Feeling quite cheerful, she outlined her plan to Lady Mainwaring. Her ladyship looked at her young friend in some dismay. “It’s very nice to play Father Christmas, Kitty, but don’t get carried away. Start off helping them in a very small way and see how they can cope with it.”
Kitty went off happily to make her plans and Lady
Mainwaring stared at the photograph of her late husband in despair. Sir James Mainwaring had been a great philanthropist—in the drawing room. He wrote pamphlets and held forth, at length, on great schemes to help “the great unwashed.” One militant lady had actually suggested, one day, that he should actually go out and do something about it. Sir James had stalked off to his study in a sulk and the offending lady was never invited again. But the barb had rankled. Sir James had at last gone on an organized tour of the East End slums. It had caused a lot of publicity.
A photographer from the Daily Mail had asked him to pose holding a very dirty baby. Within two days, Sir James had contracted diphtheria and died.
Lady Mainwaring hoped Kitty knew what she was doing. Then she shrugged. There were some things that Kitty would just have to find out for herself.
Kitty had decided what to do. She remembered the Pugsleys’ worn, chipped, and battered furniture. She would buy, and have delivered, new furniture to the house in Camden Town. With an energy and resolution that surprised her, she descended on Harridges in Knightsbridge and ordered a quantity of sturdy oak furniture and bedding to be delivered that day. The next day she received a letter by the first post.
“Dere, Miss,” she read. “Thanking you for the furniteerr. We ar having a party on Satterday in your honor at nine in the eevning. Pleese to cum. Yrs. Freda Pugsley.”
Lady Mainwaring tried to stop Kitty from attending, but Kitty would not change her mind. She longed to see all that sparkling furniture lighting up the Pugsleys’ dingy home.
On Saturday morning she called on her mother and Lady Henley to tell them of her plans. Lady Henley was outraged. Exploding in a cloud of wine-biscuit crumbs, she told Kitty that the whole scheme was madness. Mrs. Harrison, however, seemed indifferent. “Go if you want,” she shrugged, “but I would like a word with you in private before you leave.”
Kitty followed her into the study. Mrs. Harrison’s hair-pins seemed particularly agitated and popped out of her head like tiny bullets.
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