‘Right you are, darlin’.’ She didn’t care for that any better.
As if anxious to prove himself aware of his good fortune, Frank went out of his way to be agreeable in the days following; helping her to buy clothes for a trousseau, taking her to see the new house and carefully explaining that there was no requirement for her to work, that all she would need do was to spend her days keeping it spick and span for the two of them. ‘Like a pair of love birds we’ll be. You can leave everything safely to me. I’ll look after you.’
Kitty would thank him, while doing her best to suppress a shudder whenever he came near. Although his lingering glances revealed his increasing anticipation for the coming wedding night, she made absolutely certain that he had no opportunity for an untimely approach. Should he lightly kiss her cheek, tuck back a stray curl or put a comforting arm about her waist to draw her close, Kitty always managed to wriggle free and find something of great urgency to attend to elsewhere.
‘Don’t you worry Duchess,’ he would say, smiling fondly. ‘I can wait,’ and she could almost sense his mouth watering. If the whole thing took on a dreamlike quality, leaving her suffering from a strong sense of unreality, Kitty put this down to the speed of events.
She did not for a moment doubt that he was sincere.
The night before the wedding, Frank offered to take everyone out to the pub for a drink, except for Kitty of course who, as the bride, was expected to get an early night. In theory the outing was meant only for the men and even Archie was coerced into joining the party but she noticed that her mother considered herself included, without even being asked. In a way Kitty was thankful. Such residents as were left in the boarding house were female and content to remain in their own rooms. Kitty welcomed the prospect of time alone like a drowning man might gasp for air.
The moment they’d gone, on a swirl of finding hats and scarves and much ribald laughter, Kitty flew upstairs, two at a time, ran a deep hot bath and sank her cold, tense body into it. She lay back, telling herself that the moistness on her cheeks was caused by steam. Then dressed in her comfortable old check dressing gown, she sat on the edge of her bed, brushing her damp hair as she gazed at the familiar chimney-pots.
‘It’s the garden suburbs for me now,’ she told them. ‘Cooking my husband’s breakfast every morning, handing him his morning paper and his bowler hat; spending my days cleaning our lovely new house; tending the garden, going shopping and deciding what to cook for the evening meal. After which we’ll play backgammon or chess. No more smog, smoke or grit, so do your worst, chimneys. It won’t bother me.’ At which point she burst into tears.
A long time later, worn out by worry and exhaustion, she slept.
It must have been well past midnight when Kitty woke, wondering what, exactly, had disturbed her. It was usually quiet here, in the top part of the house, where she was rarely bothered by the comings and goings of guests. Then she heard the bed springs creak next door and the sound of muffled laughter. Of course. Clara, back home and up to her old tricks. Her animal-like grunts and groans increased in volume, as they so often did when she was the worse for drink.
Kitty considered slipping down to the kitchen to get herself a cup of cocoa until it was all over. She’d always hated the thinness of these walls. Before she was half way out of bed however, she heard her mother cry out in her ecstasy the name of her lover. Kitty froze, and in that moment realised that her engagement was at an end.
Chapter Five
In the two years since she married, Charlotte had come to understand how very easy it was to make a mistake, and how difficult to right it. She smiled at the enchantingly handsome young man so comfortably ensconced in her bed and permitted the satin dressing gown to slip an enticing inch further down her shoulder, revealing the pale orbs of her breasts, the flatness of her stomach and the promise of secrets that lay below. She could almost feel his eyes roving hungrily over her body, see his tongue licking lips gone suddenly dry, as if desperate to slake his thirst.
‘Have you cooled the wine?’ Charlotte asked, her voice sweetly matter of fact.
‘It’s ready poured.’ He was almost drooling, his breath coming short and ragged.
‘And my husband sleeps like a baby.’ She slid a finger tip into his mouth and felt him nip it gently, his tongue flicker urgently against the pad of it. Ever tantalising, she moved swiftly away. ‘Perhaps it would be wise to check.’
‘Lottie, don’t leave me. Not like this.’
Charlotte was laughing as she slipped from the room, though the smile faded the instant she’d closed the door. Entering her husband’s bedroom she found him, as expected, far from sleep for all the lateness of the hour. Seated at his desk by the wide bay window he scarcely troubled to glance up from the letter he was writing as she approached.
‘His best stallion, remember. Rude Awakening. Rather an apt name, don’t you think, since that’s what young Tommy will get once the deed is done. I’m sure you can find some way to bring the subject into the conversation.’ He cast her a mocking glance. ‘You do find time to talk, I suppose?’
‘Of course.’ Charlotte shivered and rubbed her arms, though the room was stuffy and over-warm.
‘Make sure he thinks the request comes entirely from you. Tell him I only ever give you dull grey mares with sway backs, and you’re looking for something more spirited and challenging.’
‘I came to see if you’d changed your mind.’
He laughed, yet there was little mirth in the sound. ‘It’s young Lord Bickerstaff, now reposing in your boudoir, whose mind must be changed. He’s refused to allow any of his stallions to service my mares but, as my own father taught me, there’s more than one way of skinning a cat.’
Contrarily now Charlotte felt hot and light-headed, as if the closeness of the room were suffocating her. ‘Why must you use me in your schemes, as if I were simply another of your damn mares needing servicing?’
He got slowly to his feet and grasping a lock of her baby-soft golden hair, pulled her towards him, causing her to cry out. Why all the fuss dearest? He’s simply an eager young stud in need of a little pleasuring. And you’re welcome to give that to him, so long as my price is met. Do I need to make my wishes plainer?’
Charlotte gazed into the handsome face mere inches from her own and knew a genuine hatred. She‘d been fond enough of Magnus Gilpin when she’d agreed to grace his home with her beauty and his bed with her passion, even if it were not quite the rapturous love match she’d once dreamed of. Charlotte had hoped all that would come later. Why should it not? In the meantime, she’d been more than content with her lot. He owned a large country estate, kept several horses and dubbed himself a gentleman farmer, having shaken off all connection with the origin of his wealth gained for him by his manufacturing father in the woollen trade.
Charlotte’s lips curled with distaste as she wrenched herself from his grip and went to lean against the cold window frame, again rubbing her hands up and down her arms as if to rid herself of his touch upon the silky skin. ‘It’s plain enough, Magnus. Whether I’ll succeed is another matter.’
‘You must. You know I will not tolerate losing.’
She could see only her own face in the glass, made opaque by the fading evening light beyond, blanking out the scene of rolling parkland. Rain was streaming down, bouncing off the stone sill and rushing on down the facade of her prison walls. Charlotte had once thought this one of the finest country houses in Yorkshire, almost a palace. It had long since become almost like a prison.
The day she’d slipped in the snow and literally fallen at his feet, exhausted after a hard day’s work in the mill had changed her entire life. Magnus Gilpin, playing the role of perfect gentleman, had instantly come to her aid.
He’d looked upon her classic beauty with its neat straight nose, pert chin and porcelain skin and been mad to possess her. ‘I always yearned to pick up a girl out of the gutter,’ he’d told her, dusting off the snow that clung to her coat with
a lingering hand. Because he‘d looked so handsome and his white teeth flashed so charmingly as he laughed, they’d married a mere three months later, causing quite a stir. ‘My pretty waif,’ he’d called her. ‘My charming vagabond.’
Charlotte had let him call her whatever he wished, do with her as he willed so long as she could live in a fine house on his Yorkshire moors, be waited upon by servants and have food in plenty to eat. Even now, in spite of all the strange demands he made of her, the comforts Magnus could offer counted for much.
Yet she’d never managed to feel the slightest degree of love for him. Would he have treated her differently if she had? No matter how hard she’d tried and however grateful Charlotte was to have escaped the rigours of the damp, overcrowded house where she’d been born, she never quiet seemed able to satisfy Magnus Gilpin. In one way or another she’d always fallen short of some desired perfection. Perhaps he didn’t truly care for her either? Perhaps he’d picked her up that day simply to place her among his other business assets, like a possession. Maybe she didn’t even deserve to be loved. Why should she? Nobody ever had before.
Jealous of her beauty, her own mother had largely ignored her, and a bully of a stepfather had spent time with her only to teach her how to steal from market stalls, which saved him the trouble of earning an honest crust. Charlotte had made strong objections to being schooled in thieving, when her mother was sober enough to listen, only to be accused of telling fibs.
‘One of our Lottie’s wild fancies,’ she’d say, warning that if such wickedness were repeated, the child would be packed off to a wayward girl’s home. Until that moment, Charlotte hadn’t known what an untruth was but she soon learned to become an expert in both lying and stealing. Lies were what her mother expected, so that was what she was given.
‘Eeh, our Lottie, where did you get this nice bit o’ brisket?’
‘Kaye’s butchers let me ‘ave it cheap.’
‘Nay, see where yon pretty face’ll get you. Tha’ll go far lass. Think on.’
As far as a prison cell if I’m not more careful, the young Charlotte worried, avoiding sight of her stepfather’s smirking face. She’d keep away from Kayes for a while and try it on with another stall holder, but the fear of being caught was sharp in her. At least at first.
There were times when Charlotte would’ve liked to insist her stepfather take the risks himself, but apart from the fact that he was a dangerous man to cross, he was fond of making lewd suggestions that he could find alternative ways for her to earn her keep. In the end, despite her better judgement, she’d got caught up in the excitement of it all and begun to steal on her own account. A scarf here, a pretty ribbon there, and always some tale to disguise the truth of what she was about. Charlotte became adept at making believe these items had been acquired legitimately, and that she was part of a normal, loving, happy family. In this way she created a protective shield about herself and, in a desperate attempt to disguise any lingering remnants of shame and guilt, came to live in a world of make believe.
Consequently she dealt with her feelings for Magnus Gilpin in much the same manner, for the union hadn’t worked out quite as either of them would have wished.
Their differences, surprisingly enough, were not caused by class. He, naturally, had taken it for granted she’d be eternally grateful, for what girl with her background would not? He could offer her the promised land: entry into a world far removed from her humble upbringing. It was a sign either of his arrogance, or of his security in Yorkshire Society, that he was able to consider a match which a lesser man would balk at. And Society had indeed accepted her, flocked to her door in fact, even if her vowels were rather too flat and her sense of humour at times bordering on the vulgar.
Yet much as the ladies of Halifax longed to ridicule her as nothing more than a novelty, and a cheap one at that, they forgave her because Charlotte Gilpin had that most precious commodity: style. Unconventional, eccentric, sometimes downright outrageous but once seen, never forgotten.
Charlotte’s style seemed to demand she be tricked out with beads, earbobs, floating scarves, frills and furbelows which no one but a girl who completely lacked breeding would be seen dead in. Yet far from cheapening her, these tricks only added to her charms. They knew of no other young woman who would dream of wearing green gloves with a blue costume and making it seem the last word in chic, or a startlingly pink hat with a red coat and look simply ravishing in it. Nor anyone else of their acquaintance whose dresses were cut quite so low, or so prick-neat, nor the skirts display such a vulgar show of ankle. There was no other word to describe this idiosyncratic attire except racy. From the tips of her pale golden hair to the toes of her dainty feet, every satin smooth curve of her petite body tantalised and bewitched. Her nose tilted to just the right degree, her eyes slanted, her lips - why indeed her lips never seemed anything other than blush pink and so fulsomely shaped they almost begged to be kissed. As for her figure, it was a miracle to these good Yorkshire ladies how it was she could keep it so neat without recourse to the iniquitous corset. Secretly they longed to emulate her and throw their own away, but dare not.
In addition to heart-wrenching beauty, Charlotte Gilpin boasted a most engaging personality. She bubbled with energy and enthusiasm and had a wayward knack for mimicry which frequently left them in stitches. They were, quite simply, enraptured by her.
Was it any wonder if the ladies of the County Set admitted, in the strictest confidence and only amongst themselves, (should they ever feel the slightest twinge of resentment and jealousy) that they understood perfectly why their menfolk lusted after the girl.
But it was this ability to captivate men, Charlotte soon realised, which had so attracted Magnus to her, and had proved the chief source of rancour between them. Even in the first year of her marriage, her life had become fraught with unexpected difficulties. He’d called her his prize, his golden chalice, and then proceeded to hand her round as if she were indeed a cup that others might drink from.
To Magnus Gilpin, having men lust after his wife was all part of a game, one that bore a strong resemblance to the chances he took at the gaming table or at the races. He possessed something they wanted, therefore he could gamble with it. He might permit them a taste, a sip, so long as they returned the favour. Nothing gave him greater satisfaction than the sight of one of his friends or business rivals, young or old, jockeying to kiss her hand or anxious to lead her out onto the floor in a waltz. He did not mind who flirted with her, or how many billets deux she received, so long as he personally selected the beaux in question.
Today, for the first time and since necessity demanded it, he’d decreed that her guest’s thirst be slaked completely, so long as the price was agreed beforehand. He had turned pimp for his own wife, so long as the encounter produced a nice fat profit, in this case a fine race horse.
He came to her now and pushed open her gown, allowing his gaze to wander over her nakedness, and smiled. ‘Tell him you risk a good deal by allowing him into your bed. He will never know that the reverse is the case, so why should he argue the toss? Get his bond in writing, Charlotte, on your buttocks will do if you lack paper.’
Charlotte gazed at him, saying nothing. At one time she might have rebelled, even refused absolutely to comply, but she’d learned the value of obedience for there were precise rules to this game. She only had to flutter her lashes the very slightest degree in the wrong quarter, receive flowers from an admirer who hadn’t first sought her husband’s permission, for Magnus to instantly reclaim what was rightfully his and inflict whatever punishment he considered appropriate. He would watch, with a brooding discontent in his dark eyes, fury building as she laughed and teased whichever poor soul she’d set out to enslave. He would return the uninvited flowers with a curt note, or bar the sender from ever partaking of dinner at his table again.
Once, while attending an anniversary ball of an old friend, Magnus had discovered her dancing alone in the conservatory with a young captain.
‘What is this?’ The ominous quiet of his voice had so chilled her, she could only stare at him, unspeaking. Even her valiant partner had deemed it wise to hold his tongue.
Magnus had taken her arm in an iron grip and propelled her out into the garden in order to give full vent to his feelings on her questionable behaviour. Charlotte, desperately struggling to keep pace with his long strides had been quite out of breath by the time she managed to wrench herself free from his grip. ‘For pity’s sake, what’s up with you? We were doing nowt wrong, only dancing.’
‘Doing nothing wrong. You were doing nothing wrong.’
‘Well then, why make such a fuss?’
He’d swallowed an explosion of rage. ‘Do please watch your grammar, Charlotte. How many times have I told you? As for this latest charade, I do not recall giving you permission to disport yourself so openly with that fop,’ referring to Julian Webster, the son of one of his fiercest competitors at the race track.
‘Julian is a poppet and wouldn’t hurt a fly,’ Charlotte had retorted, carefully rounding her vowels. ‘And it were that hot in the ballroom.’
‘Was too hot.’
‘Like I said, too hot by ‘alf.’
‘Damn you, woman, you’ll do as I say, understand?’ Then he’d flung her to the ground, ripping her gown in the process. ‘You’ll offer favours to no man unless I say you may. Is that quite clear? I’ll tell you with whom and when. Don’t ever forget that I am in control. If you play the slut with me, woman, you’ll be back where you came from, in the gutter.’
‘You’re me bloody ‘usband, not me keeper!’ she’d unwisely responded, some imp of madness making her hit out at him, partly caused by the folly of youth and partly from the confidence she held in her own charms. She was soon to regret such recklessness.
He’d taken her home, stripped the clothes from her back and whipped her, using the silken cord from his tartan dressing gown. Afterwards, as she sat sobbing, terrified of moving in case she exacerbated the pain in her back, he carefully explained how the punishment was not out of lack of love on his part, but meant only to cure her of disobedience, in particular her persistent waywardness.
Kitty Little Page 6