A Sense of Duty

by Sheelagh Kelly

  Kit was deeply offended. ‘Some folk choose not to judge by physique.’

  ‘Like your winsome viscount? If you must know you looked ridiculous dancing with him.’

  Kit gasped. He could stand there in his woollen combinations and tell her she looked ridiculous! She rose majestically. ‘Then if I’m obviously so unattractive you’ll want to sleep elsewhere!’

  Under her imposing glare he grabbed his discarded suit and retired to another room – or so Kit imagined, but moments later she was to hear the front door slam.

  In bed now, she turned on her side, though the incident had upset her too much to allow sleep. Desperate for peace, she decided that tomorrow she would go to York, where a period of solitude might help her to decide what to do. But it was obvious now that Valentine could not care less if she lived or died.

  23

  Drained from her long journey, and thoroughly miserable, Kit arrived in York on a sultry Saturday night – which was quite the wrong time to arrive for anyone desirous of peace and quiet. The rather musty, oven-like interior of her house dictated that she should open every window, but then sleep was impossible with all the noise going on. Yet, rowdy as the marketplace might be with its boisterous drunken revellers, at least they were on the outside, and their disturbance of Kit’s repose was not personal. And all alone in her bed she would have the whole of Sunday morning to recover.

  Anticipating a leisurely snooze, Kit was therefore greatly displeased to be roused by a Salvation Army band at eight o’clock in the morning. There had been trouble from these religious zealots prior to her leaving, but then their music had not greatly bothered her. Now, though, her calm shattered, she groaned and shoved her head under the pillow, pressing it to the side of her face in the vain hope of eliminating the din of the big bass drum.

  ‘Onward, Christian so-oldiers! Marching as to war …’

  ‘I’ll give you bloody war in a minute.’ Kit added another pillow to the one already in situ, but got no relief, the resonating clash of cymbal and drum piercing every defence.

  On and on and on played the band, until Kit could stand it no longer and hurled herself out of bed, opened the sash window and bawled into the glorious summer’s morning, ‘For pity’s sake, shut up!’

  Her plea was to no avail, the Salvationists banging, singing, trumpeting as if to wake the dead.

  A crowd had gathered in the sunny market square, made up of the people who lived above shops and public houses, who now started to make grabs at the band’s instruments. For a moment the din became even worse – the strangled hoots of trumpets as they were wrenched from their owners’ mouths, the hammering of instruments against the wall until the brass was full of dents, tambourines bashed over heads. Kit cheered as the police arrived and threatened to charge every Salvationist with breach of the peace if they continued. As the hullabaloo died down, she closed the window and fell back into bed with a thankful groan – but her peace was to be short-lived, ruined by the sound of a lone voice in accompaniment to a tambourine.

  ‘Onward, Christian so-oldiers! Marching as to war …’

  Rushing back to the window she shouted at the black-bonneted stalwart to have some consideration, but the thump of the tambourine and the reedy voice persisted. Driven to distraction, Kit grabbed the chamber pot from under the bed and hurled the contents with great accuracy – but alas, after the briefest of interruptions the drenched Salvationist continued to praise the Lord, urine dripping from the brim of her bonnet. Only when a policeman came to arrest the nuisance did Kit gain the peace she so desired.

  But she was now too angry to go back to bed, and instead decided to have breakfast. Preparing the frying pan to receive three rashers of bacon, she recalled Valentine’s insult, and decided that she was perhaps getting too fat and instead had only tea and toast.

  Wondering what to do for the rest of the day, she decided to visit Amelia in the hope of receiving luncheon. Relating the tale of this morning’s rumpus, and drawing laughter from her sister, Kit had to admit that it did have its amusing side but complained that such incidents were all that she needed with her worries.

  Amelia, beating a Yorkshire pudding mixture, assumed her to be referring to the family. ‘Have you still got Owen’s lot under your roof, then?’

  Kit gave an exclamation. ‘Oh good heavens, that reminds me! I must write a letter straight away – Ossie Postgate offered him a job.’ Agreeing with Amelia that it was wonderful, she added that it would put some distance between the two brothers which might make them come to their senses. ‘They still weren’t speaking when I left last week. It’s made me feel really ill being stuck between the pair of ’em.’

  She became grave and pulled at the neck of her summer dress in the heat of the range. ‘But it’s not just them. Oh, I’ll have to tell somebody – I think I might have got consumption off our Sarah. I’ve been right worried.’

  ‘You look as fit as a lop!’ exclaimed Amelia. ‘You’ve got no cough or anything.’

  Kit looked awkward. ‘I know, but there’s other things, and I feel rotten.’

  Still beating away at the earthenware bowl, Amelia asked what other things. Kit blushed and studied her fingernails. ‘Well, when our Beata got really bad her whatsits stopped. I haven’t had anything for three months. I just know I’ve got it.’

  When Amelia realized that Kit referred to menstruation, she looked aghast and deposited her mixing bowl on the table. ‘You soft cat!’ Flopping on to the chair opposite Kit’s she clamped both hands to her head and stared at her. ‘It’s not consumption that ails thee!’

  Still Kit did not understand for a moment. Then a flood of colour washed over her face, as the revelation hit her. ‘I can’t be!’ At her sister’s insistence that indeed she could be, Kit’s shocked expression slowly turned to one of joy. A baby! Oh dear Lord, a baby. It was incredible – after all these years!

  ‘I don’t know what you’re looking so happy for!’ accused Amelia, her own eyes wide in apprehension. ‘What’s our Monty going to say? He’s got enough on his plate.’

  Dazed, Kit shook her head, overwhelmed with thoughts of the new life within, totally oblivious to anyone else’s discomfort including her sister’s.

  Amelia rested her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands, suffering a conflict of emotions, on the one hand worried for her sister, on the other overcome with jealousy. Why was it not her who was having this child? She, who had never committed a sin in her life – at least not a serious one – and here was Kit, a total embarrassment to her family, being blessed in such a fashion with the child that should have been Amelia’s. It wasn’t fair. Somewhat peeved that Kit presented no sign of shame, she offered accusingly, ‘Your politician friend’ll run a mile now!’

  Kit did not care, for that moment totally engulfed in happiness. But Amelia had planted uncertainty in her mind, one she must put right without delay.

  After luncheon with her sister, she went back to St Sampson’s Square and packed a bag in preparation of the morrow’s return to London.

  * * *

  The next day, as the city of York erupted into violence over a Salvation Army procession in support of their arrested member, with windows smashed and fireworks hurled, their soldiers punched and kicked, their banners and clothing torn by the mob, a jubilant Kit travelled southwards, blissfully unmoved, lulled by the motion of the carriage into a state of euphoria. She was wise enough, though, to see that Valentine would probably not share her happiness, and was therefore somewhat nervous whilst awaiting his response to the note she dispatched to him on her arrival at St John’s Wood.

  This time, there was some delay in his arrival – the Liberal Government was once again in crisis and was being forced to resign over defeat of its Budget proposals. Notwithstanding his concern over losing his position, Valentine seemed courteous enough, though there was a definite lack of cordiality to his greeting, confirming to Kit that the affair had finally reached its end. All the more reason for h
er to divulge her news.

  ‘I must confess I was rather surprised to get your note,’ he told her, casually dropping his gloves into his top hat, then setting the latter on a table. ‘Pleasantly so, of course.’

  Kit had intended to entertain him first, but now decided to shock him with her announcement. ‘I’m expecting a child.’

  Kitchingham went white. For a moment he was unable to speak. When he did his tone held accusation. ‘But you said you were barren!’

  She retained a dignified stance. ‘Obviously, I was mistaken.’

  Kitchingham puffed out his chest then exhaled noisily, a sound of despair. ‘God!’ This was all he could say for a time, gazing into mid-air, rubbing a finger and thumb over his chin. At last he spoke again. ‘How can I be sure—’

  ‘It’s yours.’ She saved him the bother of finishing. ‘You know it is.’

  ‘Do I?’ The distinguished face suddenly resembled that of a weasel. ‘You seemed very intimate with that chap Postgate. Perhaps it is he who should pay for this dangerous laxity.’

  How could I ever have liked you? thought Kit. But she continued to look him in the eye, and spoke with dignity. ‘Viscount Postgate is a gentleman. If he were the father of my child I am certain he’d own up to it, but unfortunately he is not, you are, and I’d be willing to announce it in court if needs be.’

  He knew her of old, could tell straight away she was bluffing. ‘What good would that do but to denounce you as a woman of loose virtue?’

  ‘And denounce you in turn as a cad.’ She tried to keep her voice and eyes level. ‘Make no mistake, I’ve got my child’s future to think about. I’ll do anything I have to.’

  He bemoaned loudly, ‘How you’ve misled me! Did I mean nothing to you but money? I always believed you were the kindest and softest creature on earth.’

  ‘Soft, yes, but not soft in the head. You’ve been using me. I know it, you know it, everyone knows it. The least you can do is pay for your fun.’

  He uttered a laughing gasp, sweeping an arm around the sumptuous room. ‘And what do you call this? In three years you’ve wanted for nothing. You have servants, a carriage, beautiful gowns—’

  ‘I’d prefer a father for my child and a husband who loves me!’ Her calm exterior was beginning to crack.

  ‘Come now, Kit, you knew it wasn’t that kind of arrangement.’

  She fought the urge to cry. ‘Yes, I did – but I never expected this to happen in a million years.’ Face brimming with emotion that he could deny the life they had created, she laid a hand over her abdomen as if to protect her baby. ‘And I certainly didn’t think I was living with the sort of man who’d denounce his own child.’

  He threw up his arms in surrender. ‘Very well! You win. I accept it’s mine. But you must understand that I can never offer you anything other than financial support.’

  Kit nodded sadly.

  ‘Now, you’ll obviously want to return to Yorkshire.’ There was a businesslike tone to his voice. ‘I’m prepared to give you three hundred pounds to buy a house.’

  ‘I’ve got a house – I’ve got two houses!’

  He uttered a noise of despair. ‘Then what are you complaining about, woman? Three hundred pounds is more than ample to bring up a child.’

  ‘It’s not a child it’s your child! I’ll bet your other two don’t have to fight you for every penny. I want a thousand at least, and I also want you to pay the accouchement fees – I’ll be staying here till it’s born.’

  ‘Impossible! I can’t have you being seen with a belly out to here. People will talk.’

  Kit barked with false amusement. ‘That didn’t seem to concern you when you brought me here!’

  ‘That’s entirely different. It’s common knowledge that a man needs a companion when he’s away from home. People turn a blind eye, wives expect it – but if that companion is so careless as to get herself into a delicate condition the neighbours miraculously recover their sight.’ Kitchingham turned and walked to the door. ‘This is ridiculous, I refuse to stand here and argue. Let me know when you’re in a less hysterical state of mind and we’ll talk sensibly – but I can tell you now to expect no more than I’ve offered.’

  ‘I’ll let you know, all right!’ yelled Kit, losing all sense of decorum now. ‘From the public gallery for all to hear!’ She formed a tight smile as he stopped in his tracks. ‘And don’t say I wouldn’t ’cause I would.’

  The threat made him even more angry. ‘I’ve been perfectly fair with you and this is how you repay me. It’s disgraceful!’ He stabbed a finger at her. ‘Well, you can threaten as much as you like, but you won’t get a penny more than three hundred. And I should be grateful if you can be packed and ready to leave when I return in three days’ time!’ He slammed the door after him.

  * * *

  Kit had never visited the Houses of Parliament before, and her approach to this majestic building the following day was less than confident. Having worn her most flamboyant attire to add a touch of bravado, she found it sadly lacking, her normally sturdy legs trembling like an invalid’s even before she had entered. Almost nauseated by her sense of awe, and overtly conscious of the child within, she tiptoed uncertainly through the hallowed portal, weaving her way through the mass of officials and ordinary members of the public, following directions to a steeply-terraced gallery where she eventually took a front seat and waited for Valentine to arrive. Dismayed to find her view obscured by a grille, she feared that her threat might be in vain, that he might not see her. Would she have the courage to draw attention to herself?

  Occasionally during her wait, Kit became so frightened that she almost answered the urge to leave, to let things be, to go home to her family. But that would be to let him get away with it. And so, clinging to her important reason for being here, she continued to wait, gazing down through the grille on to the scene beneath.

  In the midst of the theatre formed by rich panels of wood and green leather benches was a huge sturdy desk, its area as large as a miner’s parlour. It was laden with manuals, piles of documents and brass-handled boxes which to the imaginative mind might have contained treasure. Also upon it lay a gold-coloured ornamental mace. At intervals, groups of men would slip into the benches to one side or the other of the desk, at the far end of which sat a number of men in wigs, one of them apparently overlooking the proceedings from a throne.

  Gradually, the entire chamber became packed for, unbeknown to Kit, Mr Gladstone was to make his resignation speech. Never having seen the Prime Minister, she was ignorant as to his identity at first, but, spotting Valentine, she sat up like a ramrod.

  Amongst the ranks of morning coats, top hats, winged collars and striped trousers, seated at the end of a green leather bench, he looked exceptionally splendid today, one leg crossed over the other in relaxed, rather arrogant pose, whilst the Prime Minister made his speech. Others beside him appeared similarly comfortable, a few of them even apparently asleep. Far from being soothed by their calm demeanour, Kit found her tension increasing. Pressing her face to the grille, she willed him with all her might to look up.

  His arms crossed, Kitchingham’s neatly trimmed head remained at the same interested tilt for some time as if listening assiduously to the Prime Minister’s oration, only a sporadic twitch of his polished shoe interrupting his pose. But as he rolled his head to nod at his neighbour at some pertinent point in Gladstone’s speech, his thoughtful gaze turned upwards, and that was when he saw a movement in the Ladies’ Gallery. How could he not recognize that hat?

  Kit gulped at the sudden vehemence that overcame his gaze – but noting that his confident air had been involuntarily sapped, she gained strength from this and maintained her determined expression. Slowly, she unbent her trembling legs and rose to her feet.

  She had hoped it would be enough to frighten him, but he was made of sterner stuff. With the utmost insolence he turned his head away and proceeded to ignore her. Someone to her rear expressed irritation. Unnerved, Kit sat d
own, heart thudding, not knowing what to do now.

  And then, she noticed the involuntary movement of his hand as it fidgeted with the handkerchief in his breast pocket, caught his surreptitious glance – saw that he was bluffing too – and knew that she had him cornered. Sustained by this revelation, but aware that this was not the time, she continued to attend the Prime Minister’s speech, gaining patience from the knowledge that under Valentine’s cool facade he was as riddled with nerves as she was.

  A sudden commotion on one of the front benches drew her attention away momentarily. An elderly Member appeared to be having a fit. His speech interrupted, Mr Gladstone shared others’ concern – until it was discovered that the old man had simply been dreaming. A titter ran through the chamber. Kit took her chance. She stood again.

  ‘Excuse me!’ All eyes turned aloft. A look of sheer panic rippled Valentine’s face and he shook his head rapidly as if to plead with her not to proceed, his look of capitulation telling Kit that he would grant her anything she asked. Feeling a glow of triumph, she apologized to the waiting assembly. ‘I beg your pardon, I was addressing this lady here.’ She redirected her enquiry to the person sitting beside her, indicating her intention to leave, drawing huffs and grumbles over her interruption of the dignified proceedings as she edged along the row.

  On her way back to St John’s Wood in a cab, drunk on victory, Kit took issue with her conscience: she really shouldn’t have frightened him like that, after he had looked after her all these years. But the memory of his insulting words the night before soon helped remove a little of her compassion. She had her child to think of now: the child that he had denied. Under no circumstances would she allow it to become some despised outcast living on poor relief.

  When Valentine arrived that evening he was cool but polite, agreeing to every demand she made. She would remain here until after the birth, have the assistance of the best doctor, would continue to have use of the servants and carriage and would receive a lump sum of seven hundred and fifty pounds. She would also, for this year only, have the use of his villa in Spain. In exchange for this most generous of settlements she would be as discreet as she could in her dress, would not flaunt her state before the neighbours, would remain indoors during the period in which her girth was too large to conceal and would leave London within a fortnight of being delivered, never to return and never to approach him again.