Kitty

by Beaton, M. C.

  Then a breath of wind like a sigh rippled through the leaves and the kingfisher flashed over the water. Kitty tried to struggle to her feet. “What on earth do you think you are doing?” screamed Kitty.

  “What am I doing?” mumbled Henry, feeling dizzy with the combination of whiskey, hot sun, and female proximity. Then he straightened up and said in a louder voice, “I’m bloody well making love to you, that’s what. Don’t spoil the day by being coy. What else did you expect?”

  “I thought we were spending the day together as friends,” stammered Kitty.

  “Oh, come on,” said Henry rudely. “A married woman like yourself hands me an open invitation, as it were, in front of her husband, and you expect me to believe you just wanted the pleasure of my company?” He forced her down on the grass and threw a muscular leg over her slim body, excited to discover it was soft and yielding instead of encased in the usual stays.

  Mercifully, a party aboard a pleasure launch rounded the bend of the river and started rudely cheering Henry on. Henry released Kitty and cursed the merrymakers on the boat who were gleefully shouting helpful advice.

  Kitty saw her chance of escape and took it. She ran to the rowboat, jumped in, and pushed off. The strong current carried her swiftly downstream away from Henry who was shouting and cursing on the edge of the island. It was then that Kitty realized that the oars were left behind. She settled back in the stern of the boat and resigned herself to her fate, lying back as immobile as the Lady of Shalott and just about as interested in her surroundings.

  She sailed past the Star and Garter and was dimly aware of the boatman shouting to her. A stately little figure in one of her high-collared white organza dresses, a white lacy hat, and new white-buttoned boots, Kitty stared straight in front of her, uncaring and unseeing.

  Suddenly, a boat hook clamped over the bow jerked her into an awareness of her surroundings. Her rescuers were the men on the pleasure launch and she recoiled from their loud voices and reaching hands. The skipper shoved them aside. “C’mon, miss!” he shouted. “I ain’t going to let any of ’em touch you.”

  Kitty grasped the skipper’s hand, was hauled on board, and hustled into the protection of the small wheelhouse, where the skipper seated her on a small stool and slammed the door on the noisy crowd.

  She told him in a low voice that the rowboat had escaped from its moorings before Henry could climb aboard and then she blushed painfully as she realized that the skipper must have seen her with Henry on the island. But he merely nodded and puffed away at his pipe. Then he pointed out various landmarks and told her that he would set her down at Blackfriars Pier where she would find a hansom to take her home. From time to time, the leering faces of the increasingly drunken party on board pressed against the windows of the wheelhouse, looking, in the fiery rays of the setting sun, like so many bacchantes staring out of the windows of hell.

  The kindly skipper gave her his protection across the pier until she found a hansom and as the cab clopped its way to Regents Park, Kitty felt absolutely miserable and ashamed.

  Lady Mainwaring was fortunately in the garden at the back of the house and did not see Kitty’s arrival home in the cab. Kitty did not want to see that “I told you so” look on her friend’s face and was able to escape to her room and change her soiled dress.

  She would have been very annoyed had she realized that Lady Mainwaring was perfectly aware that something unpleasant had happened, after one look at her strained face. She would have been equally annoyed had she realized that Emily Mainwaring had spent the afternoon discussing her with her husband.

  Peter Chesworth was furious about the letters and furious that Kitty had gone off with Henry Dwight-Hammond.

  “The man’s a positive boor. A callow young pup,” he raged. “I’ll wait here until my wife gets back and I’ll insist she comes straight home with me.”

  “That won’t get you anywhere, Peter,” sighed Emily. “Kitty pokers up at the merest hint of bullying. Treat her very gently and she’ll come round.”

  “What about these letters?” asked Lord Chesworth.

  “Given time, Kitty will realize that her mother is strange to say the least and that the anonymous letter was simply a piece of spite.”

  “But someone did try to kill her.”

  Emily frowned. “I can’t think who on earth would want to, Peter. But Hadsea is a small place and you still get a lot of inbreeding in these country retreats. The local idiot probably had a brainstorm.”

  “But it does not have to be a local,” protested Peter. “It could be anyone.”

  He frowned suddenly and ran his long fingers through his black hair. “Do you think Henry Dwight-Hammond is enough protection?”

  “No, I do not!” said Lady Mainwaring roundly. “And I think Kitty needs protection from him. I sent Judson, my footman, to follow them. He’ll keep up with them easily. A good horse is still the equal of any of these tin-pot motorcars any day. Are you going to the Hallidays’ midnight supper?

  Good, then I’ll bring Kitty and you can continue your courtship.”

  When Kitty was in her rooms changing, a breathless Judson burst in on Lady Mainwaring with the tale of Kitty’s voyage.

  “Why didn’t you take a boat out after them?” snapped Lady Mainwaring.

  The poor footman explained that there had not been another one available. He had waited on the pier and the next thing he had known, Kitty flashed past him, alone in the boat. He had ridden down to the next point of access on the river but she had disappeared.

  Emily told him of Kitty’s safe return and then sat staring at the canal, deep in thought. Obviously Kitty must be much more closely guarded. At least, she thought grimly, today would have taught her a lesson.

  She had not counted on the resilience of youth. By the time they had arrived at the Hallidays’ place on the Thames, Kitty was remembering more about the jealous look on her husband’s face when she had flirted with Henry, than the sequel. Henry was mercifully absent from the party but her mother and Lady Henley were present. They sat under one of the huge oak trees in the garden, Lady Henley staring at her plate and Mrs. Harrison staring out across the water. Mrs. Harrison looked up as her daughter came over to join them. “My poor, poor child,” she exclaimed. “I’m all right, Mama,” said Kitty crossly.

  Everyone attending the party had been asked to come dressed in white but there was something about the blinding, unrelieved white of her mother’s ensemble which teetered on the thin edge of madness. Even her long beads, which she kept plucking at, were white and she had whitened her face with too much powder. Lady Henley raised her massive head from the trough of food in front of her. “Going to take a walk with Kitty,” she announced, ponderously, getting to her feet and laying a pudgy hand on Kitty’s arm. “Come and look at the flowers,” she said, leading Kitty out of earshot.

  She came to an abrupt stop behind a bank of rhododendrons. “It’s about your mama, Kitty. She’s been drinking rather a lot.”

  Kitty turned wide eyes on Lady Henley. “But I’ve never seen her staggering or behaving like a drunk,” she protested.

  “No,” agreed Lady Henley, “and I don’t think you will. I’ll swear that woman’s got a hose in her left boot the way she packs it away. But one minute she’s all calm and dreamy and vague and the next she’s throwing temper tantrums. She thinks the Boers have got spies all over London and she keeps trying to get policemen to arrest the most innocent people. Then she fumes on about lechers and nasty men and blames herself over and over again for your marriage.”

  Kitty opened her mouth to reply when she saw the tall figure of her husband standing at the entrance to the garden. She started forward and then saw that Veronica Jackson had reached Peter first and was standing with her hand on his arm.

  Feeling a lump of ice forming in her stomach, Kitty turned away and heard the rest of Lady Henley’s story through a fog of misery. “Doctor called… take time… rest… fresh air… seaside… won’t go… don’t
know what to do.”

  “Well, I don’t know what to do either,” said Kitty heartlessly. Her own problem loomed so large, she could find no room in her heart for anything else.

  The buffet beckoned. With a shrug, Lady Henley lumbered off, lured by the irresistible sight of a plate of lobster patties.

  Kitty heard a voice at her ear. “What are you doing here, Baroness, alone and palely loitering?”

  She turned and found herself face to face with a tall, willowy young man dressed in a white-velvet jacket and sporting a green carnation. He had a large pear-shaped face, a spoiled child’s mouth, and very bushy eyebrows.

  “I’m communing with nature,” said Kitty acidly.

  “But how sensible!” he said enthusiastically. “You probably don’t remember my name. I was at your wedding. I’m Charlie Styles.”

  “What a peculiar-colored flower in your buttonhole,” said Kitty.

  “I wear it in memory of Oscar.”

  “A friend of yours?” asked Kitty. He looked so sad.

  “He was a friend of the world,” exclaimed Charlie Styles. “I speak of Mr. Wilde, the greatest poet and playwright of them all.”

  He looked around at the guests with contempt. “Do you know what he called this lot? This foxhunting lot, I mean. The unspeakable in full pursuit of the uneatable. But since we’re at a supper party, I call them—the unspeakable in pursuit of the eatable.”

  Kitty did not find this sally particularly witty but the young man had such comical eyebrows that she burst out laughing.

  “Ah, my dear young lady, I see our souls are in accord,” said Mr. Styles, drawing her arm though his. “Shall we promenade and survey the English society animal at play?”

  Very much intrigued, Kitty moved off with him. “Look at them all,” said Mr. Styles, waving a plump white hand around the gathering. “How foreign! How strange! Do you ever feel alone when you are in a crowd?”

  “Oh, yes, indeed!” exclaimed Kitty, much struck, and remembering how foreign she had felt with both the Thackerays and the Pugsleys.

  “Good!” said Mr. Styles. “We shall talk some more.”

  In another part of the garden, Peter Chesworth was talking to Emily Mainwaring. “Who is that most peculiar young man with my wife?”

  Emily Mainwaring glanced over to where Kitty and Mr. Styles were walking. “Oh, dear, she’s got hold of I’m-always-alone-in-a-crowd, Charlie Styles. Don’t worry, he’s harmless. Very,” she added enigmatically.

  The couple was moving toward them and Peter Chesworth started forward to join his wife and found, to his irritation, that that possessive hand of Veronica’s was on his arm again.

  “What is it, Veronica?” he asked, looking down at her and wondering how she had ever managed to arouse any passion in him whatsoever.

  Veronica tugged him away from Emily. “Do you remember what you said that night?” she hissed in his ear.

  “What night?” asked Peter, straining to hear what his wife was saying.

  “Why—your wedding night,” said Veronica, her long nails digging into his arm.

  “You must come for tea with me tomorrow, dear Kitty,” Mr. Styles was saying.

  “You said if Kitty were dead, you would marry me,” whispered Veronica.

  “Eh, what? Yes, yes, of course,” said Peter, not hearing a word. What on earth did Kitty see in that effeminate fool?

  Now both couples met. Veronica’s blue eyes held a glitter of triumph that Kitty did not like. She stared coldly at Veronica’s clutching hand and Peter Chesworth suddenly realized that Veronica still had hold of his arm. To jerk it away would seem rude. He smiled at his wife instead.

  “I’ve found an excellent table for us over by the water,” he said, moving toward her.

  “Why that is marvelous, Peter,” said Veronica. “Let’s grab it right away before someone else gets it. Do excuse us, Kitty. We appear to have interrupted a fascinating conversation.”

  Mr. Styles bowed. “Our souls are in communion,” he said, leading Kitty off in a surprisingly strong grip. Kitty felt suddenly that she would like a good cry and Peter Chesworth did not know whether he wanted to strangle Veronica or shoot Mr. Styles. Well, he would take the opportunity to finish things with Veronica, once and for all.

  When they sat down at their table, he took Veronica’s hand in his and leaned forward to try to firmly, but tactfully, explain to her that he was in love with his wife.

  “Look… this is awfully difficult. You know I care for you Veronica and always will, but—”

  “What ineffable twaddle!” a voice like a newly-honed razor cut across his speech.

  It was Mrs. Harrison, glaring down at them with glittering eyes. Then she started to scream. “You whore, you slut, you scarlet woman! And as for you, you—”

  Like some massive keeper, Lady Henley appeared and drew Mrs. Harrison away.

  “You see what I mean, Peter?” sobbed Veronica. “The sooner we sort out this terrible situation, the better.” And she got to her feet and fled toward the house.

  Meanwhile, Kitty was making arrangements to have tea with Mr. Styles on the following day. “Don’t expect anything too grand,” he said. “I have diggings with a chap in Sloane Square, Bertie Longfield—jolly good sort. He’ll simply adore you. In fact I’ll invite some of my other friends to meet you. You are lonely, I can see that.”

  Kitty warmed to the understanding in his voice. “I would love to meet your friends. Yes. I am very lonely,” she added loudly, for the benefit of her husband who happened to be within earshot.

  The rest of the evening seemed, to Peter Chesworth, to be like some macabre dance with his wife eluding him with all the expertise of a principal of the Covent Garden ballet. What incredible bores these people were! How disgustingly loud and grasping Veronica had become! And any young man who wore a green carnation should be put up in front of a firing squad and shot!

  “I’m looking for Kitty,” said Lady Mainwaring. “Is she still with Styles?”

  “Yes, she is,” snapped Lord Chesworth. “Want to do a bit more manipulating and intriguing? Well, she’s over there if you want to go wind her key.” With that he sought out his hostess and thanked her for a delightful evening in a tone of voice which turned the compliment into an insult, called for his carriage, and went off to his club where—thank God—no pesky women were allowed in.

  Mr. Styles’s conversation seemed to lose some of its charm for Kitty as soon as her husband had disappeared, but the idea of making her own appointments and having her own friends was novel and exciting. Assuring Mr. Styles that she would see him at three o’clock the following afternoon, she took her leave with a disapproving Emily Mainwaring.

  “I suppose it’s no use me wasting my breath telling you not to go tomorrow,” she remarked in the carriage on the way home.

  “No—none at all,” said Kitty.

  “Oh, well,” sighed Lady Mainwaring. “At least you won’t get raped.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Kitty rang the bell beside a neat white card marked Styles & Longfield on the door of a red, sandstone building in Sloane Square. The door opened and a very small girlish-looking man held out his hand. “I’m Bertie Longfield. I’m afraid Charlie was called away to see a sick aunt but his sister is acting as hostess. Do come in.”

  He ushered Kitty into a small sitting room. Three elegant young men languidly got to their feet. Bertie made the introductions and said that Charlie’s sister, Charlotte, would be along directly.

  The door opened and Charlotte sailed in. She looked remarkably like her brother except that her hair was brassy-blonde and she had a high falsetto voice.

  “Such a charming little bird of paradise has flown among us. Hasn’t she, dear boys? Charming. Love your teagie. Do sit down, darling and have some darling, darling cakes. So delicate, aren’t they? Like the sunlight on angels’ wings.”

  “Quite,” replied Kitty faintly.

  “Love, love, love the drooping lines of your teagie,
absolutely deevie. Beardsley, that’s it! Quintessence of Beardsley. Don’t you agree, darling boys?”

  The darling boys were rolling around the room in fits of the giggles. Kitty began to be annoyed. The room was stuffy and overcrowded with all sorts of irritating bits and bobbles. Heavy blinds sealed off the summer sunshine and cast a pale light upon a large portrait of a nude of indeterminate sex which hung above the fireplace.

  Kitty was reminded of a time in the schoolroom when her dress had been unfastened at the back and, instead of telling her about it, the other girls had sniggered all day. She decided it was time the new Kitty took over. A faint look of hauteur settled on her young face. “What are you all sniggering about?” she demanded in a high clear voice.

  The giggling stopped. The bevy of young men looked at each other helplessly. “Oh, don’t mind them,” said Charlotte. “Boys will be boys, I always say.”

  “How unoriginal of you,” said Kitty sweetly. “What for example do you not usually say. I’m sure it must be something very witty.”

  To her surprise, the young men burst out in a sort of Greek chorus of “Oh, naughty, naughty. Claws in! Claws in!”

  Kitty stared at them in surprise. A little light began to dawn. “Mr. Styles is a devotee of Mr. Oscar Wilde. Are you all perhaps of the… same… religion, shall we say?”

  There was a stunned silence. The innocent, naive child of the middle classes that Charlie Styles had promised them, was turning out to be as formidable as a dowager.

  “Oh, do have a cake,” said the much-flustered Charlotte. She bent over the tea table and a corner of her dress caught on her chair and lifted up to expose a length of black, hairy, muscular leg encased in a black sock and suspenders. Charlotte Styles was Charlie after all. Blazing with fury inside but keeping a calm, social smile on her face, Kitty got to her feet and insisted on taking her leave.