Kit wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ve been to better. Ham were a bit dry, I thought. It’s a pity she wasn’t there to organize her own do.’
Amelia nodded. ‘She always put on a good funeral tea, did Mrs Feather.’ She looked down at her hands, and extended a digit. ‘Eh, look at this horrible wart. Don’t know how I got it, but I can’t get rid of it. Tried all sorts but it won’t disappear.’
Kit took this as an opening to confess. ‘I bet that’s what our Monty’s saying about me.’ Immediately interpreting that tone as a forecast of trouble, Amelia pointed out to her husband that it was time for him to bring the carriage round for their mistress’s afternoon outing. Not until he had gone did she ask for an explanation. Upon hearing it all, she shook her frizzy ginger head at her wayward sibling. ‘Eh, Kit!’
‘There’s nothing going on between us. I simply give him board in exchange for him cooking my dinner. Where’s the harm in that?’
‘But you can’t blame folk for thinking – I mean, even if you didn’t intend anything, what if he crept into your bedroom and took advantage of you?’ When Kit objected that she trusted Mr Popplewell, Amelia threw up her haunted blue eyes. ‘Eh, you’re that innocent!’ Acting the part of the old married woman, she explained, ‘You don’t have to be wed to have a baby, you know.’
Kit gave a sad little smile. ‘Chance would be a fine thing.’
Her sister’s voice was stern. ‘It’s nowt to joke about.’
‘I’m not joking. I can’t have any.’
‘How can you possibly know that?’
‘A fortune-teller once told me I’d never marry nor never have children.’ At the other’s scoffing response, Kit hesitated, then told her sister about her intimate relationship with Ninian Latimer. Gazing into Amelia’s scandalized expression, she murmured. ‘So, I’m not likely ever to get married, am I? Nobody wants a—’ She broke off but too late.
‘A barren wife,’ finished Amelia. ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m used to people going on about it now.’ A gleam of tears gave lie to the brave remark.
‘Aw, I didn’t mean to upset you!’ Kit grabbed her hand. ‘I know how you feel, truly I do. It’s all I’ve ever wanted, is bairns.’
Amelia blew her nose, fighting an embarrassing display of emotion. ‘Well, there’s nothing we can do about it. It’s the Lord’s decision – anyway, what are you going to do about your other problem? It’ll still be there when you get back, you know.’
Kit sighed. ‘Maybe I should move away altogether.’
For her brother’s sake, Amelia agreed, deciding then that it was her duty to relieve Monty of his problem, even if it meant landing herself with one of her own. ‘York’s a nice place to live.’ And there was more chance of anonymity here than in the parochial Ralph Royd.
Kit agreed, saying how impressed she had been on her first visit. ‘You’ve certainly got more to do on your doorstep – the theatre and concerts and suchlike. Mm, that’s a good idea of yours. I might just have a look round while I’m here.’
* * *
Amelia was to be amazed when her sister returned from her afternoon jaunt with the announcement that she had bought a house. Kit laughed and said she did not let the grass grow under her feet, though she couldn’t move in until the contract was signed, of course, which would be in approximately a month’s time, so she would have to suffer the village gossips until then – what would they find to talk about when she left?
After spending a week at her sister’s, Kit returned to Ralph Royd to give others the news, telling Mr Popplewell that once she had finished her outstanding orders she would be off.
Expecting him to be equally delighted, she was surprised to see his bony face drop and was quick to remove this obvious misapprehension. ‘Naturally, I’m expecting you to go with me.’
Popplewell looked apologetic. ‘I’d love to, honey, but you know all my custom is around here.’
‘Well, so is mine! People as talented as us can soon get a new lot.’
‘There’s folk depending on me, Kit. I can’t let them down, and what with the shooting season upon us – no, I’m sorry, I can’t come.’
‘You mean I’ll have to cook for meself?’ responded Kit.
‘Aw! You’ll get somebody else. And a word to the wise—’ he gripped her hand – ‘get a female, she’ll be less trouble for you. But I’d love to come and visit you in the future. Until then, I suppose I’d better start looking for new lodgings.’
‘Aw no, I won’t be chucking you out,’ said Kit. ‘You might as well stay here. They’ll have nowt to gossip about once I’m gone. I don’t want t’place to stand empty. Stay as long as you like, I won’t be coming back.’
* * *
Within a month the transfer of ownership of the house in York was completed, and after making swift purchase of carpets, curtains and basic pieces of furniture, Kit was able to move in. In common with many of her previous purchases it had been rash. City dwellings being a lot more expensive than in rural areas, its procurement almost halved her bank balance, but the notice in her window advertising the occupant’s dressmaking skills would soon restore it to health. In addition, Mr Popplewell had insisted upon paying rent for the use of her cottage. Kit found it rather amusing to think of herself as a woman of property.
The fact that her new dwelling was antiquated with jutting upper storey and crumbling stucco, was squashed between shops and public houses, and had the smell of an incontinent old lady, mattered not at all to Kit. It was in the centre of town, and had been chosen for its lively surroundings. From its window, should she have time to lift her eyes from her sewing machine, she could watch all the activity in the marketplace, or if she so chose, could have an afternoon off to mingle with the shoppers. With the employment of a maid of all work there was no need to attend to anything other than herself – though Lizzie’s cooking left a lot to be desired after Mr Popplewell’s culinary expertise.
During that first year Popplewell came to visit quite often, bringing the occasional bunch of flowers to brighten Kit’s sparsely furnished parlour, taking her to the races, boating on the Ouse or for walks around the ancient Bar Walls – though Kit made sure he always wrote to say when he would be coming. It wouldn’t do for him to bump into one of her other callers – for with her flamboyant dress and magnificent proportions it hadn’t taken her long to find another circle of admirers.
No longer the innocent maid courted by schoolboys, Kit had come to realize what an impression she made on men, knew very well what deeper yearnings ran behind those admiring expressions, and played them for all she was worth. Her open smile luring them into introduction, men queued to court her. Sometimes, to test her own power, Kit had the audacity to invite them to her house four at a time, pretending innocence when they found themselves amongst rivals and offering consolation by organizing a game of cards or charades. By the end of the evening her sparkling banter and her ability to flirt with all at the same time had erased any insult and they came to enjoy a sort of brotherhood – though each hung back when the time came to leave, hoping that he would be the one who was asked to stay behind and sample her pleasures. But, of these there were few, for Kit had resolved never to sell herself cheaply. The rest were merely diversions until someone better came along.
However, these acquaintances had their uses, for they introduced Kit to a new batch of customers, and she was very soon inundated with orders. Hence, with such a full life, she had no chance to visit her relatives – though she frequently corresponded. The first chance she had to visit Ralph Royd was at Christmas when, all garments completed, she hurriedly shut up shop and caught a train, bearing gifts for her nephews and nieces. She genuinely missed not seeing them on a regular basis, but most of them were grown up now and, if not married, were occupied in work. They were not the little people she had taken on picnics – though Probyn could still be relied upon to supply unwitting entertainment.
With Mr Popplewell gone to spend the festive season with relatives, Kit fou
nd herself alone in the cottage. Naturally she was invited to take dinner with Monty’s family, and on Boxing Day Owen played host. But as Christmas in the Kilmaster household was little different to the rest of the year, plus the fact that Kit was seated opposite the portrait of Beata that she had always loathed, so that it watched her throughout the meal, it was not long before she was packing her bag to return to York.
After a miserable yuletide, the New Year celebrations proved to be more uplifting, with gentlemen aplenty to take her dancing, and a constant flow of admiration over her evening gown, which in turn produced a flurry of orders. In all respects, Kit announced that 1882 was going to be an exceptionally good year – though just how good she was yet to find out.
* * *
One day in January an impromptu visit to her sister’s place of residence on the Mount coincided with the arrival of a guest. The tall, mustachioed, very distinguished looking man in black overcoat, striped trousers and a top hat, was alighting from his carriage as Kit crossed the road towards it, trying to negotiate a width of frosty cobblestones without damaging the heels of her kidskin boots before reaching the footpath. Accustomed to men being struck by her appearance, she reacted with a dignified smile at his open admiration, at which he swept off his top hat to reveal dark, closely cut hair. Noting that they were heading for the same residence he stepped back with a slight bow and allowed her to pass through the iron gateway first.
Hovering at her window to catch the guest’s arrival, Amelia looked most put out and embarrassed to see her sister arrive at the same time, and rushed out of her own entrance to intercept her whilst a fleet-footed Albert sped to the front door to greet his employer’s visitor.
Kit was rather disgruntled to be hauled through the tradesmen’s entrance. ‘Do I gather I’ve come at an inopportune moment? I just thought you’d like this as soon as possible.’ From a brown paper parcel she produced the dress that Amelia had ordered last week.
‘That was quick!’ Amelia’s anxiety-ridden blue eyes examined the seams, further offending its maker.
Kit took off her gloves and replied with dignified restraint, ‘That’s because I put it before all my other orders.’
Chastened, Amelia thanked her and asked how much she owed.
‘You don’t think I’m charging my sister, do you?’ Kit unbuttoned her coat. ‘Though a smile and a cup of tea would be nice – that is, if I’m allowed to stop.’
Realizing how shabbily she had behaved, Amelia bade Kit take a seat by the range. ‘I’m sorry, if I’d known you were coming I’d have told you not to.’ At Kit’s outraged laugh she smiled apologetically. ‘I mean, I won’t be able to spend as much time as I’d like with you. We’ve got an important guest for high tea. He’s a member of the cabinet.’
Returning from the drawing room where he had deposited the visitor, Albert told his wife he would see to matters if she wanted to chat with Kit. With the sandwiches and dainties already prepared it was only a matter of serving them. But in devoted fashion she insisted on helping him and left Kit to her own devices for fifteen minutes or so, after which she finally had time to relax.
In her sister’s absence Kit had helped herself to a cup of tea and a big slab of fruit cake loaded with cheese, but now accepted a refill. ‘I see you’ve got rid of that wart you had on your finger.’
Amelia put down the teapot and extended the unblemished digit. ‘The laundry woman fixed it for me. She rubbed a pea on it – fancy, that’s all it took!’
The listener was aghast. ‘The mucky cat! How could you let her?’
Amelia was puzzled. ‘She rubbed it on the wart, then wrapped it in paper and burned it.’
After a confused pause Kit burst out laughing. ‘Oh a pea! I thought you said her pee.’
‘Our Kit, you’re that daft. Trust you to come up with summat vulgar.’ But Amelia laughed too, as did her husband.
Kit felt someone watching her then and turned towards the doorway to see the visiting politician. Her lack of discomfiture upon being studied so closely obviously intrigued him for he seemed loath to tear his eyes away, though politeness forced him to do so. He lingered in the stone-paved corridor.
‘I’m sorry to intrude but I appear to have taken a wrong turning.’ In actual fact, upon hearing Kit’s hearty laughter he had done so deliberately. ‘I should be grateful if you could direct me to the convenience.’
Whilst Albert complied immediately and his wide-beamed wife shot from her seat to bustle around red-faced, Kit paid close heed to the politician before he disappeared, having instantly recognized the look he gave her. So, when Albert was later summoned to show their guest out, Kit decided it was time for her to depart also.
Their exits coinciding, Kit and the politician smiled through the fading light in acknowledgement of each other, the latter once again standing aside for her to pass through the gateway.
Equine breath emerged as a cloud on the wintry air, as did his own as he indicated the carriage and asked, ‘Could I perhaps offer you a lift, Miss—’
‘Kilmaster.’ She studied the blue eyes that were on a level with hers, the dark hair streaked with the faintest hint of grey at the temples, the waxed moustache, the gentrified air. ‘If it wouldn’t take you out of your way. I live in St Sampson’s Square.’
He assisted her into the closed carriage. ‘I’m afraid I do not know York very well, but no place is very far from another in such a small city – at least compared to London.’ Upon establishing that his driver knew where to go, he climbed inside and sat beside her. ‘I do beg your pardon, I should introduce myself.’ He gave his name as Valentine Kitchingham, then tapped on the roof with his silver-topped cane for the driver to move off.
Kit rested her gloved hands in her lap. The air in here was little warmer than outside and she noticed that her breath eddied around his face as she asked, ‘You hail from London then, Mr Kitchingham?’
‘I reside there for most of the year, yes, but only by nature of my work.’ He told her what she already knew – that he was a Liberal MP. ‘I’m a Yorkshire lad by birth. My constituency is here too.’
With not the slightest hint of Yorkshire in his accent, it occurred to her that he was only trying to ingratiate himself, but she made no disparaging remark and charmingly told him how she had so enjoyed her visits to the capital and hoped to go again some day. ‘As a matter of fact I’m quite new to York myself. It’s a very quaint place, isn’t it? I love its antiquities. And there are such varied social occasions. It has so much more to offer than my own small village.’
Ascertaining that this was in a mining community, Kitchingham said he had many colliers in his own constituency and that he deeply sympathized with their struggle against the coal masters. He hoped to be able bring in legislation to help them.
The carriage advanced upon the turreted tower of Micklegate Bar, and negotiated its limestone arch. Kit said that whenever she passed through one of these ancient entries to the city she imagined the decapitated heads of traitors looking down at her. To which Kitchingham chuckled and said that although he shared her love of history he was glad that, being a politician, he had been born into more enlightened times. As the iron wheels rolled down a hill characterized by old-world charm and across the bridge over the Ouse, they exchanged desultory chitchat. All too soon, though, they arrived in the marketplace where the stallholders were packing up their depleted stocks, the greasy road beneath littered with squashed fruit and vegetables, feathers and bits of paper.
The carriage proceeded to the end of the wide street, heading towards the towers of the Minster that projected far above the roofline, its stupendous presence dwarfing everything around. Finally the vehicle slowed, its driver calling to enquire where to pull up. Kit said there outside the Golden Lion would do. Turning to her escort, she invited him in for refreshment. But after looking at his watch on the end of its gold chain he regretfully declined, saying that he had to catch a train in half an hour back to London.
‘I wish
I were going with you,’ said Kit without artistry.
‘Who knows, perhaps we can arrange it some time.’ Her suave companion emerged from the carriage to help her alight. The way he looked at her left her in no uncertain terms as to his desires.
Kit smiled in similar fashion to show that she understood, then pointed. ‘That’s my little house there. You’re most welcome to call the next time you’re in York, Mr Kitchingham.’
She was encouraged that he made a point of scribbling her address down in his notebook, telling her, ‘I should be honoured, Miss Kilmaster.’
Thanking him for the lift, she waited on the pavement for his carriage to move off, shivering slightly, before waving and going inside, a smile playing about her lips.
* * *
The next time Kit saw Amelia she received an admonishment. ‘I thought you’d come to visit me, not arrange assignations – don’t bother to fib, I saw you get into his carriage! You’ll get me dismissed, you will.’
There was to be even more outrage when Kit showed her the violet-strewn card that had arrived on Valentine’s Day, bearing a London postmark and an inked message beneath the printed verse that proclaimed, ‘My heart’s desire is to be your Valentine’.
‘A romantic soul, isn’t he?’
Amelia snorted, ‘Romantic, my foot. Have you thought that a man of his age must be married?’
Kit was amused as she perched on a chair and studied the Valentine. ‘Well, it had crossed my mind.’
‘And you’re still prepared to consort with him?’ Amelia slammed the brown glazed teapot on the table between them, rattling cups against saucers before sitting down opposite, her face prim beneath the frizzy ginger fringe. ‘He won’t leave his wife, if that’s what you think.’
‘Who said I want him to?’ retorted Kit.
‘What sort of a thing is that to say?’ Amelia paused abruptly in the pouring of tea. ‘How would you feel if someone did it to you?’ The Kilmasters had always been made to heed their brother’s philosophy: do unto others as you would have them do unto you.
A Sense of Duty Page 40