* * *
Upon arrival in London, Kit was disappointed to be told that her friend Dolly was no longer there. She had caught scarlet fever.
Still raw from her own bereavement, she was concerned. ‘Our Charity’s bairn died from that!’
‘Dozy!’ Her informant enlightened her. ‘I mean she fell for a soldier – gone off to India with him, she has.’
Kit envied her friend’s romance, but was also a little lost, for it soon transpired that none of the other servants was keen to be seen out with her, Dolly’s reputation having rubbed off. Even the ones who had been agreeable in Yorkshire were now showing reticence about talking to her, lest they too be sullied by association – though Kit herself remained innocent as to their true reason.
Hence, she who had been primarily bowled over by London, awed by its historic buildings, dashing cavalry officers in their brilliant tunics and their glossy black steeds, the expansive parks and spectacular fashions, was now in the awful position of having to spend her free time unaccompanied. And this vast metropolis was no place to be alone.
Kit fought the cowardly urge to stay home, and a week after her arrival set off on her first solo outing. Almost immediately she discovered it was a mistake. London was crammed with humanity, all of whom appeared to know exactly where they were going, unlike Kit, who had always relied on others to guide her. She marched along with purpose in her step, fearing that any hesitance, any sign of vulnerability would invite attack from the criminal element who were never far away in the big city. Constantly glancing up for street names, she found herself in New Bond Street where she paused to draw breath and take stock, pondering over a display of mourning jewellery. Perhaps she should buy something in memory of Beata. But when she enquired as to the price of an elaborate jet brooch she found herself unable to afford it, and hurried red-faced from the shop.
Embarrassment caused her to rush headlong without consideration for her route. The streets suddenly became narrower, and she realized that she was lost. The rubbish-filled lane terminated in a small market. Wondering frantically how to get back to familiar ground, she instead went deeper. The cacophony of vendors cries made her scowl and hurry onwards with a muttered curse for them to shut up. Passing three down-at-heel characters who loafed against a wall, she threw an anxious sideways glance and noticed that they were paying close attention to her smart dress.
‘Carry your bag, ma’am?’ The scruffy, unshaven speaker laughed with his companions as the young woman shrank from his impudent offer and hurried on, eyes upon the pavement. A wink and a mutter passing between them, the three set off after her, causing her to increase her speed, which amused them all the more.
Trapped within a maze of ancient archways and narrow insalubrious lanes, the three ruffians still on her tail, Kit began to panic, looking wildly about her. Then, out of an alley came a procession of tiny-shaven headed waifs from an orphanage – obviously girls for they wore pinafores. Noting authority in the orphans’ course, Kit fell into line behind them, praying fervently that they would lead her back to civilization, all the while casting terrified glances over her shoulder.
The loud clip-clop and jingle of heavy traffic and the sight of a green sward brought a sigh of relief to Kit’s lips. There was Piccadilly, a place she knew! Hurrying forth, she performed one last turn of her head and to her further relief saw that the laughing ruffians had changed course, disappearing into another street with a cheeky wave that told her they had merely been pulling her leg.
Kit slunk away, taking the familiar route home, thinking how pitiable a creature was she, forced to rely on infants to guide her.
Safe in the comforting arms of a chair in the servants’ hall, Kit found herself in the company of a new maid, with whom she struck up a conversation, for with the rest of the household hard at work they were the only two in the room. Gladys had just arrived from the country. She was to work in the kitchen, after being allowed this first hour to settle in. Even to one as unsophisticated as Kit, Gladys appeared very green and ill at ease. The former sought to warn the new girl that under no circumstances should she go out alone, telling her of the dreadful fright she herself had just had, and asking would Gladys like to accompany her on their next day off. Eager to make friends, Gladys said she would, telling Kit that she was awfully kind and allowing personal information to flow. Seduced by the other’s friendly open manner, Kit too shared intimacies, stretching out her legs beneath her ruched skirts to voice sadness over Beata, then going on to boast of the young man who waited for her back in Yorkshire.
Gladys was agog at the other’s expensive appearance, and the fact that one so superior could stoop to chat with a kitchen maid. She listened with reverence until another maid entered, at which juncture Kit gave a final stretch, smiled at the new girl and rose. ‘Well, I think I’ll go and wash before tea. Remember now, you must tell me when your day off is and we’ll arrange to go to the theatre or something.’
After Kit had left the room, the maid who had entered now pounced on Gladys with a warning. ‘Here, you want to stay away from that one. She’s a bad lot!’
A look of alarm washed over the new girl’s face as she listened to the other’s further defamation of one she had thought so nice. In a matter of moments Kit was demoted from benefactress to harlot. ‘Oh, my goodness – is that how she can afford those lovely clothes?’
The other gave a curt nod. ‘So just watch yourself, don’t go out with her or you’ll end up the same way.’
‘Why, she were just telling me all about this fella she’s met,’ breathed Gladys. ‘I wonder if he knows what she’s at?’
‘Ooh, I haven’t heard about him!’ Eager to hear more, the other girl sat down beside Gladys.
Upstairs, Kit enjoyed a leisurely toilet, unaware that her confidences to the new girl were already doing the rounds of the house.
* * *
Finding it hard to comprehend the new girl’s sudden reluctance to take up her offer of an outing, Kit shrugged and said perhaps some other time. But Gladys, although still pleasant enough and happy to listen to Kit’s woes, made one excuse after the other, saying she had mending to be done or other such chores, so over the next four months Kit grew accustomed to going out alone.
Yet even by July she had not become acclimatized to the big city, and still she restricted her course to the main thoroughfares – a walk in one of the parks, a saunter along Oxford Street to look at things she could not afford, a mouth-watering tour of Fortnum’s. Despite these wonderful venues, and the distant glamour of the glittering balls that took place in the Earl’s drawing room, life was terribly lonely and she yearned for the sight of a friendly face. Today her prayer was answered, though only fleetingly. Going down to the hall on this, her Monday morning off, she encountered Ossie Postgate, who bestowed a much warmer greeting than she would receive from a member of her own family. Since he had been at university she had seen little of him, his holidays spent in one country house after the other – which was exemplified in the surrounding paraphernalia of guns and fishing tackle, rods, rackets and suitcases that he had brought with him. Kit returned his greeting with polite warmth, then a brief chat and he was gone, leaving Kit to her solitary walk. She sighed – two and a half weeks to go before she could escape to Yorkshire and meet Ninian Latimer. Though in truth she held no illusions here either, for in her absence he could well have met someone else, even have forgotten the rendezvous.
It was very hot. The air smelt of horse dung and leather harness. Taking as direct a line as possible she made for Hyde Park. Immediately upon entering she felt more lonely than ever – an insignificant dot on the vast acreage beneath a wide open sky – and struck out across the green towards other signs of life. The park was more sparsely populated than on a Sunday – a boy walking a dog, a tramp with filthy nails picking up cigar butts – though there were still plenty of the idle rich in evidence, parading their ravishing gowns to lesser folk’s envy. Spotting two young ladies in riding habits,
each upon an immaculately groomed bay with only a servant for escort, Kit recognized the Earl’s twin daughters, and inclined her head deferentially as they greeted her. Did they know that she was here for the same reasons as they, each hoping to attract a man? They would have more luck than her if the fortune-teller had spoken the truth – but Kit was determined to prove the gypsy wrong. For a while she strolled amongst the riders and those who sauntered, enjoying a smile at gambolling children and wondering what little Probyn was up to at this moment.
Meandering amongst the shade of ancient trees, their bark a mass of whorls and knots and hollows, and twiggy offshoots where branches had been lopped, Kit suddenly found herself isolated. Overcome by unease, she glanced around her but saw nothing to invoke concern. Still, the feeling persisted. She began to hear rustling in the bushes and looked round sharply, but saw no one. Increasing her pace, she hurried towards the sound of children playing – when a sudden cry caused her to break into a trot. Rounding a clump of greenery, she saw a lady and her female servant being accosted by a man with an upraised cane.
Kit’s involuntary yell of, ‘Murder!’ startled the attacker, and immediately he ran off.
The silken-clad victim, though possessed of a rather stout constitution, was extremely flustered and was helped to a bench by her maid and Kit. ‘Oh, how fortuitous that you happened along at this moment, my dear!’ She praised her saviour, grasping Kit’s plump arm in gratitude. ‘Heaven knows what would have happened – the vagabond!’ There was a slightly foreign note to her voice.
Kit had recovered some of her own decorum and tried to match the lady’s manner. ‘He was dressed like such a gentleman too.’
‘Be not deceived by his appearance, my dear!’ The lady made rapid attempts to cool herself with an ostrich feather fan. ‘Good breeding extends far beyond apparel.’
Inferring accusation, Kit blushed. But the lady did not seem to intend any slur for she continued to address the young woman as one of her own class, even bidding Kit to sit beside her, the lilac and mauve silk rustling as she made room on the bench, and the maid standing by.
‘You should not be out alone, my dear!’
Kit said that sometimes she preferred solitude. The lady agreed and said that, anyway, a maid was not much use if one was attacked. With a disparaging glance at her servant, she asked, ‘Is there anything, anything at all, I can do to repay your bravery?’
Kit eyed the other’s jewelled brooch with a hopeful pause, but her hint went undetected and she was forced to give some flippant response. ‘That which I most desire is impossible for you to give. I should like very much to be married.’
‘Ah! You and all the other young beauties in the park, I imagine.’ The lady beamed, her white cheeks crinkling. ‘But, my dear, your wish is so simple to answer! A handsome young woman like yourself—’
‘I fear I am too tall.’
‘Mais non – statuesque!’ The lady began to question her. With whom was she acquainted?
Suddenly remembering the calling cards in her beaded bag, Kit snatched this first opportunity to use one, embroidering its presentation by adding that she was a companion to the Countess of Garborough.
This was met with faint astonishment. ‘I cannot believe you have found no eligible bachelor amongst such distinguished company!’
‘I confess there are many I’ve admired,’ sighed Kit, ‘but sadly my feelings are not reciprocated.’ Whilst not forgetful of Ninian, she began to see in this lady an opportunity to hedge her bets.
‘Tosh! They must be blind. I know a dozen perfectly charming young men who would leap at your company.’ The lady produced her own card. ‘This is my address. Call there tomorrow afternoon and I shall be most happy to make introductions.’
At the inscription ‘Baroness Cazalet’, Kit became flustered and tried to remember which day she would be off next week. ‘I’m afraid I shall be unavailable tomorrow – but I should dearly love to call upon you Tuesday week if that would be acceptable?’
The Baroness was most gracious and said that would be fine.
After making sure that the lady was fully recovered from her ordeal, Kit went on her way, unable to believe the opportunity that had arisen from a mere walk in the park.
* * *
Seven nerve-racking days later, Kit set out for Baroness Cazalet’s residence, to reach it being required to take a hansom cab across London. Arriving in her best attire at a leafy terrace, she took the six steps up to the front door of the three-storeyed residence and rang the bell. Beset by terror that her lack of social graces might give her away, her heart had not stopped thudding since she had set out. The door was being opened. Kit galvanized herself.
A footman escorted her through the black and white tiled hall, with no indication that he beheld Kit as anything other than a lady. She had never been shown such deference in her life. However, the main test would come from another direction.
Double doors were thrown open, revealing a sparkling scene of young ladies and gentlemen, all smiling politely as the latest guest was announced. Accustomed to grand interiors, Kit gave no thought to her surroundings, concentrating instead on her own role and the roomful of people she would have to hoodwink. Maintaining her posture, she glided straight across the carpet to be received by her hostess.
‘My dear Miss Kilmaster!’ Baroness Cazalet’s round face lit up. ‘How wonderful that you could come. Let me introduce you to my other guests.’
One by one, the guests were introduced. A glass of sherry in her hand, a smile upon her lips, Kit found herself fully accepted by this noble circle. From the moment she entered the drawing room until the time came to leave, she was shown not one hint that she was any less than they. Moreover, she found herself surrounded by young men, every one of whom treated her like royalty.
At the end of the afternoon, the Baroness took her aside and whispered that one gentleman was particularly taken with her and would very much like to meet her again in Hyde Park on Sunday. ‘I should be happy to act as chaperone, should you so wish.’
Kit tried to curb her eagerness and asked which one might it be. Upon him being indicated, her heart sank, for if anyone was out of place here it had to be the foppish young man with the monocle, his loud laughter and his ‘don’t-cher-know’ being most off-putting, even for one as lacking in suitors as Kit. The Baroness noted her reluctance and said that of all the gentlemen, Mr William Sinclair was most eligible. ‘He is extremely kind and generous.’ She spoke the following word behind her fan. ‘And rich. And he is most taken with you. I beg you, do not disappoint him. Should you feel oppressed in any way, I will be in the carriage behind.’
Not wishing to be ostracized, Kit agreed to join the Sunday parade in Hyde Park. After all, she could always ask the Baroness to make other introductions.
* * *
Sunday was another glorious day – not a cloud in the sky – and the whole of London seemed to be out enjoying it – the gentleman in his top hat, frock coat and kid gloves, the urchin in his rags. Hurrying towards Rotten Row, where she had been told to meet the Baroness’s entourage, Kit felt that the whole of high society must be arrayed before her, a vast multicoloured tide of silk and quivering plumage. Mingling with the parade, head above the crowd, she felt at once dowdy, though she was clad in the very best material. The scent of flowers teased her nostrils, their vendor extending a fragrant posy. Kit ignored her. Having the vantage of height she was quick to spot the Baroness’s landau with its four occupants and another besides, the latter containing her admirer. Bracing herself, she made her approach.
A smile on his monocled face, William Sinclair passed the Baroness an envelope, then rushed forward to greet his companion. She was helped into his carriage and, with the other vehicle travelling behind, joined the magnificent parade along the sandy track towards Kensington Palace. The day was one of shimmering blue and green. Upon the Serpentine bobbed a flotilla of rowing boats, swans and ducks. Bathers frolicked at the water’s edge, children in
sailor suits chased toy boats, dogs ran alongside carriages, pink tongues lolling.
Despite all of this, the rendezvous was turning out to be as bad as Kit had expected, her companion’s affected behaviour provoking intense irritation, though she was careful not to show it.
Conversely, he seemed to find her quite charming and begged that they might become more closely acquainted. Swaying gently to the movement of the carriage, Kit forced herself to suffer his breath on her cheek, and with a smile asked if he did not think they were quite close enough at present. Regarding her comment as a jest, he uttered an uproarious laugh, and asked her to marry him.
Kit was flabbergasted. ‘Mr Sinclair, I climbed into your carriage less than two minutes ago! How can you know I’d make a suitable wife?’
He scooped her hand in his, uttering overtures and saying he had known she was the woman for him the moment he set eyes on her.
Under his amorous attentions Kit looked wildly over her shoulder at the Baroness, who merely waved. ‘Sir, I cannot marry you!’
‘Oh, but why?’ His face implored her.
Kit opened and shut her mouth like a goldfish, searching the air for an answer. ‘Because I don’t love you!’
‘Can you not come to love me?’ He sounded desperate.
Having been rejected herself, Kit donned a compassionate expression. ‘Given time, perhaps I could—’
‘Then let us marry!’ Sinclair was almost on his knees.
She was about to refuse again, when a band of men came pouring from every direction, surrounding both this carriage and that of the Baroness, grappling with the occupants and hauling them from the vehicle. Finding herself manhandled, Kit gave a cry of terror and tried to beat off her assailants – until she noticed to her further horror that some of them wore police uniform. Thence, respectful of the law though frightened out of her wits, she permitted herself to be bundled rudely from the carriage, heart and lungs pumping as if they would explode.
A Sense of Duty Page 35