Sweet Songbird

by Sweet Songbird (retail) (epub)

  She felt him stiffen. Knowing his pride she knew she was handling the situation badly. Knowing her own she knew she could handle it no other way.

  ‘What did you expect?’ he asked, dangerously softly. ‘That I should come alone, and cap in hand?’

  ‘I didn’t expect anything.’

  ‘And didn’t hope for anything? Didn’t care?’

  What was he trying to make her say? She was silent.

  ‘Kitty, for Christ’s sake’ – his voice was sharp – ‘say something!’

  ‘Say what?’ she flared back. ‘What do you want me to say? You turn up here with no warning – and in company that you know I detest—’

  ‘They’re my friends,’ he said, stubbornly.

  Rushing on, she ignored that. ‘And having apparently had to get drunk before you even managed that. And expect what? That I should throw myself into your arms? Beg you to stay? In front of them?’ She jerked her head once more towards the table. ‘How little you know me, Luke. After all this time, how very little.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake – what does it matter who I come with? I’m here—’

  ‘And for that I should be grateful ?’ she snapped, scornfully.

  He gritted his teeth. She could feel the anger in his tense body. ‘You aren’t being very constructive.’

  Almost with relief she let her temper flare, the pent-up misery and anger of the evening loosening her tongue. ‘As I remember it, your behaviour last time we met could hardly have been described as constructive either.’

  His shrug was impatient, dismissive; infuriating. He turned to go back to the table. She caught his arm. ‘Oh, no you don’t. You can’t just ignore it, Luke. You want me to forget what happened? Pretend it was nothing? And what of next time – and the next? It’s true what I said – nothing’s changed, has it? Nothing. I see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice – Yes, you want me back – but on your terms. You won’t change. You can’t. Look at you now. You’d hit me if you could. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you—?’ Her voice was rising hysterically. She knew how she was goading him, was helpless to stop herself.

  He stood very still. For a moment, looking into his eyes, she was afraid. Then she saw the effort he made to control himself. The music had stopped. They stood alone. Glances were directed at them, curious, amused. ‘What do you want me to tell you?’ he asked, softly. ‘That I’ll never lose my temper again? What is it that you want? A milksop to tag along by your apron strings? Is that what Paris has done for you? Well, think again, my lady. No one changes Luke Peveral. No one.’

  She did not recognize the root of his anger any more than she had recognized his reasons for coming as he had, accompanied and unannounced. All she saw was the unreason and, lurking beneath it, that endless potential for violence that she so hated. She stepped back from him, fighting tears, temper and the inevitable nausea.

  He turned his straight back on her and walked away.

  She watched him for a long moment, unaware of the watching eyes. He reached the table. Moses spoke. Lottie pealed prettily into laughter.

  Very composedly Kitty turned and beckoned to a worriedly hovering waiter. ‘My cloak, please,’ she said, and was surprised at the steadiness of her own voice. It did not last. By the time she had hailed a cab and given him halting directions she was in tears. As the ancient vehicle wheeled and set off towards the Left Bank she was huddled in the back seat sobbing as if her heart would break.

  * * *

  Despite the lateness of the hour Jem was working when Kitty arrived. He stared at her. ‘Good God! Kitty – my dear, what is it? What’s happened? Oh, Lord – come in. Sit down—’

  She sank onto one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs, put her elbows on the table, buried her face in her hands and sobbed utterly uncontrollably. The floodgates of misery were open and she could not shut them. Jem watched her helplessly for a moment, then picked up a bottle from the floor where it had been standing beside him as he worked, wiped the top and stood it on the table. Then, hunting through the shambles of a room he found two glasses, peered at them a little doubtfully, wiped them, too, on his shirt tail, set them by the bottle and then sat in the chair across the table from her and waited for the storm to ease a little. After some moments the wild sobbing quietened, but Kitty did not lift her head. Hopelessly miserable, she sat, huddled into herself, the gleam of pearl and of emerald silk incongruous in the dark and squalid little room.

  ‘Well, now. What’s this?’ The concern in Jem’s soft voice almost brought tears again. Kitty scrubbed at her reddened eyes and nose with a sodden, tattered piece of lace that had once been a handkerchief, and sniffed noisily.

  Jem poured a generous splash of absinthe into a glass and pushed it to her.

  She shook her head.

  ‘Doctor’s orders,’ he said.

  She picked it up shakily, sipped it, almost choked.

  ‘Now. Tell me.’

  It came in all but incoherent bursts, the story not just of Luke’s unexpected appearance and the awful evening, but her fear, her confusion, her agony of indecision, of love, and of hatred. Like a lost child she sobbed and hiccoughed her way through her unhappiness and uncertainty. And as she spoke Jem, watching her, picking up a word here, a word there, frowned as an awful suspicion took root. He stopped her at last, with a hand upon hers. ‘Kitty—’

  She lifted eyes so swollen and tear-filled that she could barely see.

  ‘You aren’t saying – trying to say that—?’

  Her breath catching in her throat, she stared at him, sniffing. She had to say it, she knew – to make the unspeakable real at last by speaking it. ‘I’m pregnant,’ she said and the tears ran again, helplessly. ‘I’m carrying Luke’s child.’

  Chapter 2

  (i)

  ‘Chérie—’ practical Genevieve said, for at least the dozenth time, ‘you either have to get rid of it or you have to tell him—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No!’ They were in Kitty’s small, pretty sitting room. The day was hot and the shutters were closed beyond the long, elegant lace curtains. Daggers of golden light pierced the cool shadows, and dust-motes danced. Kitty restlessly stood and walked to the hall windows, parting the curtains and pushing one of the shutters with her hand so that it swung a little open, letting in the sound and light of a bright Parisian morning. ‘No,’ she said again, more calmly. ‘I can’t do either of those things. Do you think I haven’t thought of it? God! I seem to have thought of nothing else for weeks! I will not kill my baby. I won’t. I can’t. And if I tell Luke’ – she turned from the window, her face desperate – ‘he’ll never let me go. Never. And I won’t have the strength to resist him. And the child will be brought up in violence and in fear, and in the shadow of the gallows.’

  ‘Perhaps he’ll change, chérie?’ Genevieve suggested, gently. ‘You say he would want this child – perhaps fatherhood would—’

  She was interrupted and struck to silence by the sharp and bitter little sound that Kitty made. ‘Change? Luke? As soon expect the sun to set in the east this evening! He as good as said so himself last night. Jem – you know him – tell her. Tell her what he’s like—’

  Jem it had been who had very sensibly insisted that she confide in Genevieve, for whom over the past weeks he had conceived no small respect, and in whose affection for Kitty he had justifiable faith. He had been sitting in silence for some time. Now he ran stained fingers through his fair, shaggy hair and shook his head. ‘Kitty’s right, I’m afraid. The man won’t change. Not that much. Not enough. And she’s right too when she says that if he finds out he’ll never let her go.’

  ‘He’d kill me first,’ Kitty said, bleakly.

  Genevieve made a small, protesting, negative gesture at that. Jem said nothing. Genevieve stood and walked gracefully to where Kitty stood dejectedly fingering the fine lace of the curtains, slid an arm about her waist. ‘Kitty, my dear, I won’t have you looking so very sad. It isn’
t the end of the world.’

  ‘Isn’t it?’

  ‘But no.’ Briskly and comfortingly Genevieve kissed her cheek and then, her brow pensive, began to pace the room, talking almost as if to herself, counting off the points she made on long, slender fingers. ‘You cannot tell him. Eh bien, we will for the moment accept that. You will not accept a doctor’s help—’ She paused in her pacing and looked compassionately into Kitty’s white face. ‘You are sure, chérie? I know of a very good, a very reputable—’

  ‘No!’

  Genevieve shrugged. ‘Eh bien,’ she said again, ‘so that too is out of the question. So. With what are we left?’

  ‘Kitty has the baby—’ Jem said.

  ‘—and is ruined by the scandal,’ Kitty finished. ‘And then Luke will find out anyway and – oh, God, what a mess! What a bloody, horrible mess!’

  ‘Mais non.’ Genevieve was sucking her lip thoughtfully. She resumed her pacing. ‘Let me think.’

  The other two watched her, Jem curiously, Kitty with affection and no trace of hope. She herself was beyond thought, almost beyond worry. The past weeks, and especially the past few days had exhausted her.

  Genevieve had stopped in front of her, and was eyeing her contemplatively. ‘It does not show.’

  Kitty shook her head. ‘Not at all. In fact – as you’ve all been pointing out so often – I’ve actually lost weight. It must be something to do with the way I’m built.’

  ‘When is the baby due?’

  ‘I think, so far as I can be sure — Christmas.’

  Genevieve was again counting on her fingers. ‘So you are – four months gone?’

  ‘About that.’

  ‘Your contract with Charles is until October?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She counted again. ‘Three months. It is too long.’

  ‘Too long for what?’

  ‘Too long to hide it.’

  ‘But – Genevieve – how can I possibly—?’

  ‘Hush now. Listen. We embark, we three’ – she included Jem in the warmth of her smile – ‘upon a small conspiracy. Come’ – she took Kitty’s hand – ‘sit down. We’ll talk. Jem, would you be kind enough to ring for fresh coffee?’

  ‘What kind of conspiracy? What good would it do? In a couple of months at the latest I’ll start to show—’

  ‘Exactement. A couple of months. The end of September. If we can keep your secret until then, then we might be able to keep it forever. It depends upon you. Can you manage it? Can you keep on working for another couple of months?’

  ‘Yes, I think so. Physically I’m fine. Even the sickness is passing. I think it’s the worry that’s been making me ill—’

  ‘Precisely. So – if we make a plan, and you no longer need to worry, then all will be well, yes?’

  Kitty shrugged doubtfully. ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘But of course. So. This is what we do—’ Genevieve stopped as the door opened and a little maid in neat black dress and crisp white apron and cap entered carrying a silver tray upon which was set a steaming coffee pot and three delicate china cups. They sat in silence as she set it upon the table. ‘Merci, Lisa,’ Genevieve said pleasantly. The girl left the room. Unhurriedly Genevieve poured the coffee and handed out the cups. ‘Eh bien. I was saying. This is what we do. First – absolutely nothing for a month. Kitty works as if all is well. You can do that?’

  Kitty nodded.

  ‘Good. Then – towards the end of August you complain a little of tiredness, of lack of appetite, of inability to sleep. To Charles I shall speak – delicately – of a crise de nerfs, of women’s weakness – he will be sympathetic. All of Paris will be sympathetic. We shall enlist the help of our favourite journalists – a word here, a word there. By the end of September no one will be surprised if you have to break the contract with Charles and go home to rest, to nurse your poor overwrought nerves and repair the damage done to a delicate constitution by so much hard work—’

  Kitty had to laugh at that. ‘Me? A delicate constitution?’

  ‘There, you see? You feel better already, non?’

  Kitty sat thoughtfully for a moment. ‘We don’t tell Charles?’

  ‘Pouf! Tell Charles? Don’t be absurd. You know what a terrible gossip he is! He couldn’t keep a secret if his life depended upon it! No. We don’t tell Charles. We don’t tell anybody. The less people who know, the better. And also – you don’t go to England. You stay here, in France, where I can keep an eye on you and this – Luke – cannot find you. If he comes – he gets the same story as everyone else. We get you away to the country where for a few months you become a poor bereaved widow about to give birth to your first child. No one will know, chérie. In January – February, perhaps – you will return. And no one will be any the wiser.’

  ‘Might they not guess?’ Jem ventured, not wishing to deflate such positive optimism.

  Genevieve waved an airy hand. ‘So they guess? What can they do? What do they know? Kitty – this is the only way. Between us we will manage it.’

  Kitty cleared her throat. ‘And – the child?’ she asked, hesitantly.

  Genevieve looked at her in surprise and with a trace of exasperation. Why – it will be adopted, of course. It’s the only sensible thing.’

  ‘I – yes. I suppose so.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear. I will arrange everything. You just get through the next couple of months.’

  Kitty’s face had cleared a little, the lines of strain relaxed. Impulsively she leaned forward and took Genevieve’s hand. ‘I don’t know how to thank you. Why didn’t I tell you before? It’s been so horrible—’

  Genevieve patted her hand comfortingly. ‘Well it isn’t over yet, but at least you are no longer alone. Now, one question remains. Where shall you go to have the baby? It must be in the south, I think—’

  ‘There’s a chance I might be able to help there,’ Jem said, unexpectedly.

  The two women looked at him in surprise.

  Jem thought for a moment before continuing. ‘There’s a place I know in the Lot valley. It’s very quiet – miles from anywhere, in fact. Just a small village and – about a kilometre downriver – a ruined watermill called La Source. The mill belongs to the family of a friend of mine. The mill itself is ruined, but the house is fine – they use it each summer for a month or so. Apart from that they’re only too pleased to let Gaston’s friends borrow it. The valley is a wonderful place to paint, and I think they rather like the idea of lording it as patrons of Gaston’s penniless artist friends. In the autumn and winter there’s never anyone there. I’m sure I could get them to let us have it. It would be perfect—’

  ‘But – alone? In the heart of the country? When she does not have the language?’ Genevieve shook her head vigorously. ‘I had in mind a small town – somewhere civilized, with shops, and—’

  ‘And people to ask questions,’ Jem put in. ‘Like – why should an English widow with very little French choose to have her child anywhere but England?’

  ‘That we must risk. We cannot bury poor Kitty in the middle of nowhere alone—’

  Jem hesitated for just one second. Then, ‘She won’t be alone,’ he said quietly, ‘I’ll be with her. If she’ll have me for the duration, that is—’

  Kitty stared at him in astonishment. ‘Jem! I couldn’t impose on you so!’

  ‘But why ever not? I shouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to do it. There’s nothing for me in Paris at the moment. I can as easily paint at the mill – easier, perhaps. There’ll be fewer fatal distractions. No bars. No cafes—’

  ‘No absinthe,’ Kitty said.

  He laughed. ‘Well – just a little perhaps. You can’t expect me to go without the delights of civilization entirely! Don’t you see, Kitty – we’d be helping each other. You have to get away, and it would be better for me to leave the temptations of Paris for a while before they ruin me entirely. La Source is the perfect answer for both of us. There’d be no questions asked – the local
s have long since got used to the comings and goings of Gaston’s eccentric artist friends. And anyway, what is more natural than a penniless American and his pregnant English wife escaping from Paris for the winter?’

  Genevieve was staring at him in dawning delight. ‘But it’s wonderful!’ she breathed. ‘Wonderful!’ She turned to Kitty. ‘You see? Between us we have arranged it all—’

  Kitty looked from one to the other, blinking, her heart too full for words. Jem and Genevieve, an unlikely enough alliance, smiled at each other well satisfied. ‘More coffee, I think,’ Genevieve said.

  Never, Kitty thought, had the old adage of shared troubles being halved been proved to be truer. With the strain of facing alone an uncertain future that had seemed to threaten nothing but trouble and eventual ruin eased, she immediately felt better. Under Genevieve’s watchful eye she rested more, ate more sensibly, and her health improved. The terrible and until now all but constant nausea eased. Her energy returned; she no longer felt drained at the end of each performance. She was confident that Genevieve’s practical timetable would work. She could last out until the end of September. Luke she did not see again. With no word or sign he had apparently returned to London as abruptly as he had come, a fact for which in her present state of mind she could feel nothing but thankful. She thought of writing to Pol with her news, but resisted the temptation, knowing Genevieve to be right when she said that the fewer people who knew the secret the better. There was, in any case, nothing Pol could have done but worry, and in that there was little point. She would tell her later, when it was all over; hopefully her friend would be too involved with her new husband to spare too many thoughts for Kitty. Her real remaining problem – what was to become of the child once it was born, a problem she declined to share with Genevieve, who so blithely assumed adoption – she put determinedly to the back of her mind. She would have months in which to decide – months of peace and of quiet. The secret now, she was sure, was to take life one step at a time. And the first step was simply to get through to September.