Kitty dropped it onto her lap and stared at Jane with a white face. But Jane was engrossed in selecting her first chocolate. “Should I take a hard center or a soft?” she murmured. “Hard is somehow not so indulgent Yes… yes, I shall take hard.”
Kitty escaped from the room, leaving Jane in her chocolate dream. She took the letter to her room and studied it carefully. It was inscribed in block capital letters on cheap paper. It was postmarked London.
Why should her husband wish to kill her? Suddenly, a picture of him dancing with Veronica Jackson came into her mind. She remembered how Veronica had swayed against him.
Kitty then realized that she did not really know very much about her husband. Surely his sudden passion for her was strange in view of the fact that he had shown little interest in her during their brief engagement. And Kitty was not quite so unsophisticated as she had been then.
There was a scratching at the door and Jane’s voice called timidly, “I’ve brought you the rest of the chocolates, dear Kitty, and a letter from your mother.
“I know it’s from your mama,” she went on as Kitty opened the door, “because it’s got her name on the envelope.”
Taking the letter and smiling weakly, Kitty said, “Please do have the chocolates for yourself, Jane. I have such a headache, I must lie down.”
“Of course, my dear. But I won’t eat them all,” said Jane clutching the box. “Just a teensy bit more.”
She drifted out and Kitty sat down on the bed and slowly began to open her mother’s letter.
It contained only two sentences and the writing was sprawled erratically across the page. “Your husband is an evil man,” wrote Mrs. Harrison. “Lady Henley and I saw him at the opera in the company of a Scarlet Woman. You must pray for God’s judgment on him and forgive me for the evil I have brought upon you. Your loving Mother.”
Kitty put down the letter slowly. She felt sick. Her happiness the night of the ball seemed only a small, bright spot in her memory, with herself and her husband moving in the small camera of her mind like theatrical players. She had endured enough. There was no light and laughter left in the world. It was all a gaudy parade and a sham, peopled with carnival figures. She walked to the window and stared at the summer view sadly, as if she were looking at a childhood photograph. The magic had gone. She would return to London and become the Baroness everyone expected, rude, haughty, and cruel.
Feeling cold and empty, she made her way back downstairs. Peter Chesworth and Lady Mainwaring were waiting for her. Kitty gave them both a thin bright smile and began talking in a cold, flat voice of how much she wished to return to London. Lady Mainwaring tried to tease her back to the old Kitty but without success. She dispensed the teacups with the stiff formality of a dowager.
When Kitty had finally retired for the night and was sitting in bed propped up on the pillows and looking with unseeing eyes at the book on her lap, the door opened and her husband came in.
He gave her an endearing smile and started to take off his jacket.
“Pray, what are you doing?” asked Kitty icily.
Peter Chesworth looked around in surprise. “I’m getting ready for bed, my dear.”
“You have your own bedroom,” Said Kitty flatly. Her voice sounded dull and old.
He looked at her. “I think your accident has shaken you up more than I realized.”
“It has perhaps brought me to my senses,” said his wife. “You have my money. That is what you married me for, is it not?” He would have spoken but she held up her hand. “No… please spare me any more fake protestations of love. You wanted my money, my dear Lord, and that is all you are going to get. I am sure you can satisfy your… needs… elsewhere. In fact I gather you have already been doing so.”
Lord Chesworth flushed an angry red. So she had heard about Veronica Jackson. He opened his mouth to make a withering reply and then closed it again. A strategic retreat would be better.
“I insist you are still suffering from shock, Kitty. We will talk about this further in the morning.”
Kitty’s hard manner broke. “Oh, just go away and leave me,” she said with her voice breaking, and giving her husband more of a guilty stab to the heart than all her anger had done.
He closed the door quietly and went to walk on the beach. Of all the silly things to do, he fumed. To fall in love like a schoolboy with one’s own wife. All his amours had been with experienced women. He suddenly felt at a loss and as inexperienced as an adolescent.
The rhythmic sound of the small waves tugging at the shore finally soothed his battered spirits. He had never lacked courage before. He would woo her. That was it! And having decided on a campaign plan, Peter Chesworth took himself off to bed.
The journey to London the next day was a nightmare of suffocating heat as the barometer soared into the nineties. When the train finally steamed into Paddington station, Peter Chesworth breathed a sigh of relief. His wife had sat with her head buried in a book for the whole journey. When they reached the end of the platform, to his horror, Kitty turned and held out her hand to him. “Since you have obviously so many affairs to attend to, I am sure you will not mind if I continue my visit with Lady Mainwaring.”
He looked at Lady Mainwaring for help but she suddenly seemed to have become enthralled with the mechanics of the steam engine.
“Kitty, this is ridiculous,” he expostulated. “We had better go home and talk.”
But he addressed the empty, smoky air of the station. His wife was already following the luggage out of the station at a smart pace.
Emily Mainwaring put a hand on his arm. “Something is very wrong, Peter. Please leave it to me to find out what is the matter and I will speak to you tomorrow.”
He nodded dumbly and watched their carriage until it was out of sight.
In the carriage, Kitty was giving Lady Mainwaring the benefit of a fund of social small talk, delivered in a hard, bright voice. Suddenly in the middle of an amusing anecdote about Jane Dwight-Hammond’s poems, she broke off and buried her head in her gloved hands and sobbed, “Oh, Emily! What will I do? I’m so miserable.”
Lady Mainwaring patted her hand. “Welcome back, Kitty. I thought you had gone forever. We’ll have some nice tea when we get home and you can tell me all about it.”
Under the willow trees in the garden by the canal, Kitty finally sobbed out the story of the two letters. Emily Mainwaring was shocked and puzzled. “Come now, Kitty. You must remember I have known Peter Chesworth for quite a number of years. He is incapable of trying to murder anyone. But someone is. Our first problem is to make sure you are adequately protected at all times. As for your husband, wait and see what happens. I could have sworn he was in love with you.”
“Well, I don’t love him,” said Kitty childishly. “And so he shall find out. Why, he even took Veronica Jackson around when we were engaged. I wonder how he would like it if I started going around with another man?”
Emily looked startled. “Now, Kitty, I’m sure it’s not the answer. Look—we are invited to dinner at the Barlowe-Smellies tomorrow. Your husband and Veronica Jackson will both be there—”
“I won’t go!” screamed Kitty.
“Of course you’ll go and, when you see them together, it will put all this nonsense out of your head. In fact, try to put all these dismal thoughts out of your head right now and think of something absolutely ravishing to wear instead. I never did like Veronica Jackson’s style. She’s one of those bosomy women who eats and drinks so much, she’ll look like a cottage loaf before she’s forty—which isn’t all that far off.”
Kitty looked thoughtfully at the flies dancing over the canal. “Where, by the way, is Mr. Jackson, dead?”
“No, she’s divorced. Her husband ran off to the States with a nineteen-year-old American heiress three years ago. She was very bitter about it. She felt that she ought to be able to philander but not he.”
“Serves her right,” said Kitty, stabbing the point of her parasol into the turf a
s if it were Veronica Jackson’s heart.
“Kitty, Kitty,” sighed Emily. “It will just turn out to be a very ordinary social evening at the Barlowe-Smellies and you’ll find you have nothing to worry about.”
The following evening, Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie would have given anything to agree with her. Her son, Percy, had just pointed out to her that she had invited the Baron’s mistress along with his wife.
Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie stared at the guest list in horror, hoping that if she kept on looking at it, it might somehow miraculously change. “Don’t you keep up with any of the gossip, Mama?” asked her son.
“Gossip… well… yes… servants, weather, yes… mistresses, no… assignations… bedrooms… whispers… dear, oh, dear… not right… tut… not right at all,” gasped Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie.
“Don’t worry,” said her energetic son, slapping her on the back. “Cheer up, Mater! Veronica Jackson may be a tart but she knows how to behave in company.”
He had reckoned without Veronica’s jealousy of Kitty. As a Baroness, Kitty took precedence over the other ladies in the room. Then she had no right to look so slim and ethereal and so damned virginal, thought Veronica savagely. And she did not like the way Kitty’s husband kept looking at her.
When they were seated at the table, Veronica moved directly to the attack. One of the ladies was complaining about the insolence of a shopgirl in Harridges.
“You should ask Kitty about what goes on in the minds of little shopgirls,” remarked Veronica languidly. “She can give you first-hand information.”
Kitty looked Veronica straight in the eyes. “I see you believe the gossip that I was a shopgirl before I was married. That is not true. My father was a stockbroker. The ‘shopgirl’ came about because of the jealous gossip of some raddled old tart.” And flicking Veronica a look of contempt, Kitty picked up her glass of wine and turned to continue her conversation with the gentleman on her right.
Veronica flushed dark red. She had lost round one. She turned to Peter Chesworth and began to carry on a determined flirtation. Kitty had begun to talk of the weather and how she would love to go boating on the Thames. Veronica’s eyes flashed and she moved forward for round two.
“Peter, darling,” she said in a loud voice with her hand possessively on his arm. “Do you remember that day we spent on the river, floating along under the trees? I shall never forget it.”
Once again she was transfixed by Kitty’s direct stare.
Kitty’s hard, high voice carried round the room. “If you are trying to let me know that you have been carrying on a liaison with my husband, spare your breath. I am well aware of the fact, madame, so you need not try to embarrass me or the rest of the company longer.”
Veronica got to her feet in a rage. “Why, you rude little bitch,” she hissed.
“I may be rude,” said Kitty calmly, “and I may be a bitch, but at least I’m not a silly old tart!”
Veronica burst into noisy tears and ran from the room.
There was a shocked silence, until Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie plunged in, “Treacle tart now… sustaining… nursery food, of course… filling… old nanny used to… but jam… we did love strawberry jam,” she finished brightly.
Everyone immediately started talking about nannies. The man on her left whom Kitty identified as Henry… oh, dear… of the tea party, gave her a wink and said, “I hope you’re not always going to be so brutally honest. We’ll all be scared to death of you.”
“Good,” said Kitty in a composed voice, but putting her hands under the table to stop their trembling. In her mind, a punt floated lazily down the Thames on a sunny afternoon and Veronica’s voluptuous figure was clasped in Peter Chesworth’s arms. Then she took a clear look at the young man. He was not much older than herself and had very fair hair, thick fair lashes, and blue eyes.
Addicted as she was to black curly hair and pale gray eyes, she realized that Henry… oh dear… would be considered a very handsome young man by most of the debutantes.
“Do tell me your name,” she said, blinding him with a dazzling smile. “Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie introduced you as Henry oh dear and I can’t call you that.”
He laughed. “I love the way Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie talks. It’s as good as a crossword. Great fun filling in the blanks. My name is Henry Dwight-Hammond.”
Kitty cried out in surprise. “But I was staying with two sisters of that name at Hadsea only a few days ago.”
“My maiden aunts,” said Henry. “Are they as batty as ever?”
“Oh, no, they’re sweet. I loved them.”
“I like them too,” said Henry. “If only Jane would stop spouting poems at me. When I was out in South Africa with my regiment, she sent me a poem and I left it lying around the barracks by mistake. I never lived it down. Want to hear it?”
Kitty smiled. “Yes, please.”
“Our Henry is out on the veldt
A gun in his hand he heldt
And ever to the fore
He shot the terrible Boer.”
Kitty laughed delightedly and then laughed louder as she caught the cold expression on her husband’s face.
Henry was charmed by her response. “I say, feel like taking a trip to the zoo with me tomorrow? Oh, I am sorry. I got carried away and forgot you were married.”
“Well, if it doesn’t bother you, I don’t see why it should bother me,” said Kitty lightly.
An unidentifiable gleam flickered across Henry’s eyes. “Then shall we say one o’clock tomorrow?”
Kitty nodded and smiled and then her attention was caught by the gentleman on her other side.
Peter Chesworth was unable to get a word alone with his wife. Kitty felt that he could have snubbed Veronica’s flirting easily. She continued to turn all her charm on Henry Dwight-Hammond.
Emily Mainwaring tried to stop Kitty from going out with Henry unescorted. “Young matrons who make a dead set at a young man, the way you did last night, can have their actions misinterpreted.”
“Oh, you’re always so cynical,” said Kitty. “I want to have a bit of fun. And he likes me.”
“I am simply stating the truth,” said Lady Mainwaring. “You have blossomed into a very pretty woman. You will find that a lot of young fellows will ‘like’ you, as you put it, given half a chance.”
“Well, I’m going anyway,” said Kitty mulishly.
Lady Mainwaring was, after all, a few years older than Kitty’s husband and Kitty did so long for the undemanding company of someone her own age.
Henry Dwight-Hammond arrived in a sparkling new motorcar that seemed to seal Lady Mainwaring’s disapproval. Motorcars were not quite respectable. Lady Mainwaring belonged strictly to the “carriage class.”
But Kitty was thrilled. It was all so exciting and “up-to-date.” Up-to-date was the latest slang expression and like most of her contemporaries, Kitty did not want to be thought old-fashioned.
“You are going to the zoo, aren’t you?” Emily asked, peering at the motorcar as if it were some strange beast.
Henry flushed. “I thought we might take a little spin down Richmond way.”
Lady Mainwaring looked Henry straight in the eyes. “I expect Kitty back not later than six this evening.”
“Oh, righty-ho,” said Henry blithely. He added to Kitty as they moved off, “She goes on like your mother.”
Kitty tossed her head. “I’m so tired of old people.”
She immediately felt disloyal but it was so jolly to bowl along in a spanking new motorcar, nipping past the disapproving stares of the ladies and gentlemen in their carriages.
They finally stopped at the Star and Garter at Richmond and Henry ushered Kitty out onto the terrace. It was a weekday, so very few people were on the river. Henry ordered champagne for Kitty and whiskey and soda for himself. The river turned and sparkled under the willow trees. A few children were playing “ducks and drakes” at the water’s edge, their high, excited screams, blown on the summer breeze, reaching Kitty’s ears. The
y sat in companionable silence for a long time until the tinny tune from a barrel organ down by the river sailed into the air. A drunk man started dancing to the music, his raucous voice floating up to them, mellowed by the distance.
“Oh, yew are my ’oney, ’oneysuckle,
I am the bee.
I’d like ter sip the ’oney
From those sweet red lips, yer see.
I luvs yer dearly, dearly,
And I wants yer ter luv me.
You are the ’oney, ’oneysuckle,
I am the bee.”
Kitty became aware of a hand on her arm and Henry’s whiskey-breath in her ear. “I’d like to sip some honey from your lips, Kitty.”
Kitty drew her arm away and stared at Henry in surprise.
He flushed and then said, “Want to go on the river?”
“Oh, yes,” said Kitty, clapping her hands in delight. Henry had probably just been singing the words of the song. She couldn’t possibly have heard him properly.
He led the way down to the river and helped Kitty into a rowboat and then started rowing swiftly upstream. It was hard-going against the current but Henry was a powerful young man and wanted to get the Baroness away somewhere quiet. Of course she wouldn’t respond to his advances in public.
At last, panting heavily, he moored the boat under the shade of some willows beside a little island. “Shall we sit on the grass for a little?” he asked. Kitty agreed and waited until Henry had spread out a carriage rug on the grass and then she gingerly sat down. Then she jumped in surprise. Henry had removed his jacket, his collar, and his waistcoat. He then flung himself down in the rug beside her and, rolling over, pillowed his head on her lap.
She gazed down transfixed by the red-veined blue eyes that were looking up at her from between their thick, blonde lashes and then suddenly down at her left breast which was being imprisoned by Henry’s hand.
She sat quite still, every detail of the scene bright and vivid as if it had been suddenly lit up by a magnesium flare. The green-and-gray river seemed to have stopped flowing and not a breath of air moved the willow trees. Each long blade of grass stood to attention, a kingfisher sat transfixed on his branch over the water, and on the tanned hand spread over her breast, each gold hair stood out sharply like a pig’s bristle.
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