Peter Chesworth was in the country and his wife was in town. “This could go on forever,” he sighed to himself.
Autumn was sending its red and gold colors sweeping through the woods around Reamington Hall. Smoke rose lazily into the clear air from the gardener’s bonfire, a bumper harvest had been brought in, and fires crackled merrily in all the rooms of the Hall to disperse the October chill.
Kitty had been taken to the Thackerays’ home at Cowes to recover from her fright and exhaustion. On the second day she had contracted pneumonia and for two weeks she hung between life and death, as her husband paced outside her room upstairs, and downstairs, the Thackerays grumbled about the enforced sort of semimourning which hung over their home. They blamed it all on Kitty’s origins. The middle classes, as everyone knew, were notorious wet blankets.
Finally, little by little, Kitty began to recover her strength as summer fled from the countryside and the yachts were hauled up for repairs. Chrysanthemums blazed in the rooms instead of roses. The Indian-summer sun dawned and set and still Kitty would not see her husband.
Lady Mainwaring tried to reason with her but Kitty only began to sob in a weak way and shake her head.
The shock of the final attempt on her life had left Kitty nervous and jumpy and unwilling to face anyone who had hurt or humiliated her in the slightest. Henry Dwight-Hammond and Cyril Lawton had been asked to leave a long time ago, for the very sight of either of them sent Kitty into a fever. The Thackerays had finally departed for Rooks Neuk, leaving Kitty and Lady Mainwaring alone with a skeleton staff.
At last Emily Mainwaring felt that she would scream with boredom from the daily diet of gentle walks, light meals, and lengthy silences. She at last confronted Kitty with the sharp remark, “I think you’re turning into a spoiled brat!”
Kitty looked at her with tears forming in her eyes.
“Oh, don’t start blubbering again,” snapped Lady Mainwaring. “I’m tired to death of being stuck down here and I think you’re now well enough to think about someone other than yourself. So there it is, harsh as it may be. I’m bored and your husband is at Reamington Hall, worrying himself to death about you.”
Kitty shifted uneasily and dried her eyes. “I’m sorry, Emily. I don’t seem to have much spirit left. You’re right. Let’s go back to London.”
“I didn’t say anything about London. I’m going to London. You’re going to Reamington Hall.”
“Oh, not yet. Please Emily,” begged Kitty. “Let me stay with you for a little bit.”
“Oh, well,” shrugged Emily. “I may as well take you home with me. But remember, I’m a social animal. I like my theaters and parties and my house full of people.”
Kitty suddenly smiled for the first time in weeks. “I feel better already. I think I could even look forward to a party.”
“That’s more like it,” said Emily. “Now, don’t you feel strong enough and curious enough to know the outcome of all the trouble?”
Kitty took a deep breath and nodded. Emily Mainwaring sat back and began her story.
“First of all, Grange and a squad of policemen went up the road and found Checkers unconscious in the field. Someone had hit him with a scythe…. Good God… was that you?
“Anyway, they discovered he has a record of assault and violence as long as your arm. The rest of the servants at Pevvy Chase also had pretty rotten records, except for Jenkins. Lady Henley took poison before she could be charged with anything so that’s good riddance to bad rubbish. Your mother was sent to the hospital suffering from an overdose of fairly complicated drugs administered by Euphemia Henley.
“Well, the long and the short of it is, your mama’s her usual horrible self—oops, sorry—and has plunged into her husband’s old business and seems in a fair way to be trebling her fortune. She says the aristocracy are the scum of the earth and prefers to associate with merchants’ wives.
“Mr. Grange got promoted to Chief Detective-Inspector although he feels the honor was given to him not because he solved the case but because he appears to be on first name terms with your husband… which is a very cynical way of looking at it, but probably true.
“Your husband went back to work on his beloved estate after about your hundredth refusal to see him. Let me see, what else? Oh yes, the Dwight-Hammond sisters discovered that one of their maids had put the snakes in the bed. A man answering Checkers’ description had told her it was just a bit of a joke and that they were harmless grass snakes. Needless to say, she got well paid for doing it. She broke down and confessed when she read about your adventures in the papers. And it was Checkers who tried to kill you by sawing off the balcony.
“So that’s that. Let’s get packed and get out of this dead-alive hole.”
The house in Regents Park looked the same but did not feel the same. Early morning frost had blackened the remaining flowers and a mist rose from the canal, but it was Lady Mainwaring’s constant entertaining which made the difference. Kitty felt as though she was living in the middle of an eternal house party and after describing her ordeal for the fifteenth time to yet another party of guests, she began to feel that the whole thing had been a dream.
An odd feeling of belonging nowhere, neither to house nor class, assailed her. As the nights drew on, she began to think sentimentally about the house in Hampstead, forgetting the penny-pinching and the chill rooms.
Hetty! She had forgotten all about Hetty. Perhaps if she could stay with her old friend in Hampstead for a bit, she could get her bearings again. She did not want to think about her husband. Kitty felt, unfairly, that most of her trouble was Peter’s fault. She could not remember his kindness and endearments; only the mocking aristocrat of her wedding night who said he had only married her for her money.
But Kitty did not realize how much she had changed. Used to the type of society who called in for a visit at a country house and then stayed for weeks, she never dreamt of sending Hetty a message. Packing her trunks and calling for the carriage, Kitty could only see the rosy picture in her mind of sitting in front of the fire with Hetty and feeling at home.
It was late afternoon by the time she was ready to leave. Lady Mainwaring had not returned from her calls so Kitty scribbled a note of explanation and left it on the hall table.
As she was getting into the carriage, she felt a gentle touch on her arm and found herself staring down into the thin, frightened face of Jenkins, the maid.
“Please, my Lady,” begged Jenkins. “Just a little money, for the love of God. I can’t find work anywhere.”
Kitty felt her face burning with guilt. Emily was right. She had thought of no one but herself. She told the coachman to wait and led the shivering maid into the house and rang for the housekeeper. “This is Jenkins who has just been employed as my personal maid.”
The housekeeper looked at the shabby girl without her face moving a muscle. Lady Mainwaring trained her servants well.
“Please see that she is supplied with the necessary clothes and uniforms,” Kitty went on. “I really must leave. The carriage is waiting.” Jenkins looked downcast and Kitty cursed herself for her own selfishness. “Come upstairs with me a minute, Jenkins, and I will explain your duties.”
Once in her bedroom, Kitty turned to the maid. “Why didn’t you get in touch with me sooner, Jenkins?”
Jenkins bowed her head. “The police found out about my prison record so no one would let me near you.”
Kitty fumbled in her reticule and found her purse. “Here’s some money, Jenkins, just to get some odds and ends. I shall probably be away for only a few days.”
Jenkins’s face lit up with a radiant smile. “I’ll serve you to the end of my days, my Lady. You see if I don’t.”
“Nonsense!” said Kitty. “I should hope you will get married soon. All young girls should have a husband,” she added lightly and then bit her lip as a picture of her own husband came into her mind. But she forced herself to talk patiently and calmly to the girl about her duties, not realizing that by this very action, Kitty Harrison was now the Baroness Reamington in more than just title. Then having assured herself that Jenkins would be taken care of until her return, she ran lightly down the stairs and told the coachman to drive to Hampstead.
How jolly and familiar everything looked! How the lights sparkled from Carson’s bakery. How beautiful and familiar her beloved Heath looked, stretched out peacefully under the London twilight.
But at the Carsons’ home in Gospel Oak, Kitty received her first setback. Hetty was married, explained a much-flustered Mrs. Carson. Yes, indeed. And to John Stokes. And what was even more wonderful, they had bought Kitty’s old home just up the hill. Kitty’s face fell. She had not envisaged any men in the picture.
After she had left Mrs. Carson, Kitty directed the carriage to her old home and then stood for a minute by the gate. From the outside it did not seem to have changed a bit.
The door flew open and Hetty bounced out. “Kitty! I saw the carriage arriving and—” She broke off as she saw the coachman unstrapping Kitty’s trunk from the back of the carriage.
“I came to stay for a little,” blurted out Kitty. “I didn’t know you were married, Hetty. If it’s at all inconvenient, I’ll leave.”
“Not at all,” burbled Hetty, excited at the prospect of having a notorious society lady under her roof. “John will be delighted. You were in all the papers. It was ever so exciting. Wait till the neighbors learn who’s come to stay!”
Hetty chattered on, her ringlets bobbing with their familiar bounce. The house looked much the same inside, as Mrs. Harrison had sold the furniture along with it. But at least it was now warm. John Stokes got to his feet when they came into the parlor. His clothes looked even tighter than before.
“Why, Kitty,” he exclaimed, getting to his feet. “Well, who would have guessed you’d turn out to be such a looker.” He kissed her on the cheek with unnecessary warmth.
“Now,” said Hetty, excitedly, “I’ll tell the maid to get your old room ready and you can tell us all about your adventures.”
Kitty looked nervously at John Stokes. She had planned to tell Hetty all about it when they were alone together. But John was leaning forward from his armchair, as eager as his wife.
So instead of the delicious burst of confidences she had planned, Kitty told her story for the umpteenth time in a tired, flat voice. Hetty clapped her hands and oohed and aahed as if Kitty had become more of a sideshow at a carnival than a friend.
By the time the pair of them let her go and she wearily climbed the familiar stairs to bed, Kitty felt very lost and tired.
Everything looked familiar but did not feel familiar. She had returned to her own class and surroundings. Why then was the feeling of homelessness stronger than ever? She stood at the window for a long time looking out across the Heath that was spread out under a large autumn moon.
The following two days were as bad as being at Lady Mainwaring’s. Hetty filled the house with her friends from morning till night and on one occasion when she had pleaded a headache, Hetty had cried so much and been so disappointed that she had felt obliged to join the company.
After one such day when she had escaped to her room, Hetty followed her.
“I’m surprised that your clothes are so simple, Kitty,” pouted Hetty. “I declare I’m better dressed than you are.” She pirouetted in front of Kitty in a creation that was so gored and hemmed and herring-boned and tucked and rucked that she had achieved the rare distinction of making tweed look frivolous.
“And haven’t you any jewels?” said Hetty. “A tiara or some such thing?”
“Come now,” smiled Kitty. “I would only wear a tiara to a very grand ball.”
Hetty stamped her foot. “There you go! Implying that we aren’t good enough for you.”
Kitty saw a chance for the confidential talk. “Of course I don’t think you’re not good enough for me. It’s just that I’m worried about my husband.”
Hetty’s wide blue eyes gleamed and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Is he going to divorce you?”
“No.” said Kitty faintly. “Of course not.”
“Well, it looks very odd to me,” said Hetty, sitting down in a chair and kicking off her shoes. “Take John and me. We’re always together and ever so lovey-dovey. Anyone would think you had been married for years.”
Kitty sat forward, anxious to explain. “It’s not that, Hetty. It’s just that our marriage got off to a bad start….”
“I’ll say it did,” said Hetty rudely. “Him and that Mrs. Jackson. Ought to be ashamed of himself. We hear the society gossip even out here in Hampstead, you know. Is he with her now?”
Kitty raised her hands to her face and stared at Hetty. “Of course not! Of course not! After what she tried to do to me?”
“What did she try to do?” asked Hetty eagerly.
Kitty bit her lip in confusion. She remembered that Mrs. Jackson’s attempt on her life had been hushed up. “Well, she was always trying to take him away from me,” amended Kitty.
“Is that all,” said Hetty, disappointed. “I’d just like to see someone try to take my John away from me.”
“But it’s not the same…” began Kitty.
“Oh, so it’s all different in high society, is it?” sneered Hetty.
The conversation was not going at all the way Kitty wanted it. In fact it was heading for disaster. Without being aware of it she reverted to one of Hetty’s ruses and put her arms around the angry girl.
“Now, Hetty, you know I’m your friend. I wouldn’t dream of saying anything to hurt you.”
Much mollified, Hetty, however, saw that Kitty was in a vulnerable state and was quick to turn it to her advantage.
“You know, dear Kitty, me and John would like you to stay ever so long. But what with paying the servants and the extra entertaining, we’re having to pinch pennies….”
Kitty blushed in confusion. “I never thought about money. I’ll arrange some for you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Sunday,” pointed out Hetty quickly.
“Well, Monday then,” said poor Kitty, feeling thoroughly embarrassed. But Hetty was not. “Ta muchly,” she said, dropping a kiss on the top of Kitty’s head as she prepared to leave. “You mustn’t mind me talking about money, but I’ve always prided myself on being frank and honest.” Picking up her shoes, she left the room without having shown one ounce of concern over Kitty’s obvious worry about her husband.
Kitty got ready for church the next morning, fighting against a growing feeling of dislike for her hostess. All her old surroundings seemed to have done for her was to reduce her to the former Kitty Harrison, quiet, shy, and unhappy, without any of the feelings of security and comfort she had expected.
The morning was gray and foggy. The Indian summer had fled and turned the world over to winter. Wreaths of chilly, throat-catching fog shrouded the roads and lanes of Hampstead and snaked their way through the branches of the trees on the Heath. This visit to church was to be the culmination of Hetty’s social triumph and she meant to make the most of it.
Before they left the house Hetty drew Kitty aside, out of earshot of her husband. “Now, I don’t want any of your die-away airs, Kitty,” said Hetty sharply, surveying her subdued friend. “Lady Worthing will be in church and she will want to talk to you but she will try and cut me. You’re not to let her, mind that! You’re to introduce me properly—in a loud voice.”
“Yes, Hetty,” said Kitty faintly. She had nearly said, “Yes, Mama!” as Hetty sounded so like her mother. With an unreal feeling of having stepped back in time, Kitty left the house in Hetty’s wake. “Cheer up, Kitty,” said John Stokes, putting an arm around her and squeezing her waist. “The missus gets a bit carried away.” Kitty shrank from him in distaste and he responded with an offended glare and was overly affectionate to his wife all the way to the church.
Still in a dream Kitty followed the Stokeses into their pew. There was Lady Worthing as of old, attired in an unsuitable hat of garden-party lace which the fog had already soiled at the edge. Her eyes bulged when she saw Kitty and the glass eyes of the little furry animals around her neck seemed to bulge in sympathy. Fog filtered into the church and hung in long, smoky bars over the pulpit where the Reverend James Ponsonby-Smythe again recited the tale of who begat whom. Kitty’s mind wandered away from the Bible readings to the time before her marriage.
How funny, she thought. I feel that if I turned my head I would see him standing at the back of the church. Then, in a great painful wave, the memories came tumbling one after another into her mind. The way he smiled, the mocking look in his gray eyes when he was amused, the feel of his hands on her body… his kiss. Slowly, she turned around and looked toward the back of the church.
No one. Only a sooty angel above the entrance, staring at her impassively through the thickening fog.
Oh, God, no one. What on earth was she doing here in Hampstead? She should be with her husband. She should be home. What an unutterable fool she had been. To have the world and more and to throw it all away, moping around Hampstead with Hetty. Hetty, who did not care one little bit for her. Hetty, who would have shown her the door if Kitty had not been a Baroness.
Kitty put her gloved hand up to her flushed cheeks. She must have been mad, out of her mind. God! God! What if he wouldn’t take her back?
Kitty Harrison had entered the church, but as the last sonorous “amen” sounded, the Baroness Reamington got to her feet and marched to the door.
Lady Worthing was waiting for her on the porch. “My dear, Lady Chesworth,” she positively simpered. “So nice to have you back among us.”
“She’s staying with me,” said Hetty fiercely.
Stumbling slightly on her two-and-seven-eighths-of-an-inch heels, Hetty pushed herself in front of Kitty. “Aren’t you going to introduce me, Kitty dear?” said Hetty, pinching her friend’s arm. Kitty politely made the introduction which Lady Worthing ignored. She drew Kitty’s arm through her own and said in a loud voice, “Really, my dear Lady Chesworth, I should have thought you would have cut your connections with trades-people.”
“Not at all,” said the Baroness sweetly. “I am not like my mother, Lady Worthing. I should never dream of cutting you just because your money comes from trade.”
Hetty sniggered with delight and to Kitty’s horror, Lady Worthing’s eyes filled with hurt tears. “That’s telling her, Kitty,” crowed Hetty triumphantly. But to her annoyance, Kitty smiled at Lady Worthing and said in a voice loud enough to carry to the ears of the listening congregation, “I would be very honored if you would call on me when I am next in town. I plan to start entertaining and I am sure you would like your daughters to meet suitable beaux.”
Lady Worthing gave her a look of pure gratitude and muttered gruffly that she would be delighted. Kitty then set off down the hill at a great pace with Hetty stumbling furiously after her.
“What on earth were you doing—being nice to that old bitch?” raged Hetty.
Kitty could hardly explain it to herself. She only knew that she had suddenly realized that Lady Worthing was a lonely, silly old woman with nothing but her position as Princess of Hampstead to keep her going. She had felt sorry for her. Still, Kitty could not help understanding Hetty’s rage a little. There had been no need for her to be so kind.
Instead of replying to Hetty’s-question, Kitty slowed her walk and stated that she would be leaving London for the country. Hetty shrugged. “We were beginning to wonder when you were going to leave. You will remember the money you promised, won’t you, Kitty, dear?”
“Of course,” said Kitty sharply. “Perhaps as a last favor you could ask your maid to pack for me. I’m going for a walk.” And oblivious of John Stokes’s cry of “What! In this weather?” she left the road and plunged into the Heath, walking straight in front of her until the sounds of the home-going congregation had faded behind her. “What on earth had prompted me to go and stay with Hetty?” she thought savagely.
• • •
“What on earth prompted her to go and stay with Hetty?” Lord Peter Chesworth stared at Lady Mainwaring in surprise. “Don’t ask me,” she snapped. “How should I know? Nostalgie de la boue or something like that. She’s been pretty shaken-up by the whole business, of course.
“I am disappointed,” she went on. “I got so interested in that girl but I suppose I fancied myself a bit of a Pygmalion and got carried away. Kitty seemed to be becoming so sure of herself and sophisticated and then—bam! She was weeping and sniveling.”
“Don’t be so damned cruel,” said Peter waspishly. “She’s been through a lot. Do you think there’s any chance of her coming back to me?”
Emily Mainwaring looked at him and took a deep breath. “Not if you mope around here, there isn’t. For God’s sake man, who would ever have thought that Peter Chesworth would need instruction where women are concerned. Forget she’s your wife. Go and kiss her and drag her back by the hair. If you don’t, she’ll potter the rest of her life away, dithering from home to home. To be crude—go and have a try at that long-preserved virginity.”
Peter Chesworth suddenly grinned. “What a horrible woman you are to be sure. But I’ll try anything. Although I hope I can find her in this weather.”
His carriage crawled its way through the yellow fog in the direction of Hampstead. When he reached Gospel Oak, there was a delay while Mrs. Carson gave him instructions on how to get to her daughter’s home.
Then there was a very ruffled and petulant Hetty to deal with, when he finally found the right address. At last she volunteered that Kitty had gone walking on the Heath and if my Lord asked her opinion, his wife had gone off her head.
No, “my Lord” hadn’t asked her opinion and didn’t want it either. Peter Chesworth slammed his way out of Hetty’s home, leaving her to take her temper out on her husband. John Stokes thought she was angry because he had put his arm around Kitty and assumed Kitty had complained to his wife. “She’s such an attractive little thing,” pleaded John. “I couldn’t resist giving her a bit of a cuddle.”
Hetty naturally demanded a full explanation and having got it, promptly went into strong hysterics and would have gone on all afternoon, if John Stokes had not, with an unexpected turn of strength, slapped her across the face with the full force of his pudgy hand.
Kitty sat on a bench on a rise in the middle of the Heath and stared dismally at a wall of fog a few inches in front of her face. In fact, it was all so miserable she felt almost glad. She could not be expected to take any action in a fog like this—any action, that is, like going back and facing the one-time friend she now detested. So although Kitty knew every inch of the Heath and could easily have picked her way to the road, she stayed where she was, looking at her feet and listening to the sound of water dripping from the trees all around her.
Kitty had often sat on this bench before and could remember the view on a summer’s day when the Heath seemed to roll from beneath one’s feet all the way down to the spires of London Town. How she used to sit and dream that the church spires of Central London were in fact the towers of Camelot and that if she sat very still and waited long enough, she would see her knight riding up the hill toward her.
She heaved a great sigh that moved the fog slightly in front of her face and, as if in mischievous reply, a small breath of wind rippled through the fog sending it streaming in ribbons across the grass. Then the heavy silence fell again. But the little breeze returned with his playmates and suddenly, all about her, the thick fog started moving and shifting and swirling, making changing shapes and figures dance through the trees like so many ghosts. Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie slid behind a birch with a teacup in her hands, Lady Henley loomed up and dispersed in fragments and Checkers and the housekeeper from Pevvy Chase did a mad sarabande in the bushes. Now she could see several yards in front of her and somewhere high above London the sun must have been shining for the fog began to change to a light, golden yellow.
Then the little breeze seemed to scamper away leaving a few moments of stillness and quiet until with a great whoo-oo-oo-sh, the east wind swept across the expanse of the Heath like some great bustling mother looking for her naughty children.
The huge bank of fog rolled away, the sun shone down bravely on the sparkling grass and there, far away, were the spires of Kitty’s Camelot. And walking slowly up the Heath towards her came her husband.
Kitty slowly got to her feet and walked forward. Both of them were desperately rehearsing in their minds what they would say and do. They had nearly reached each other when a great gust of wind swirled a thick cloud of dead leaves around them. Kitty stumbled and fell down the hill into his arms. Peter collapsed under her weight and they both burst out laughing and giggling as they rolled over and over to the bottom of the hill, Peter Chesworth smothering his wife’s face in kisses. At last, they came to a stop and sat up, both of them covered in grass stains and wet leaves and twigs. Neither one had said a word to the other. Neither had uttered any of the well-rehearsed speech in mind.
Slowly, Peter reached out his long fingers and took his wife’s chin in his hand. What an infinity of sky, sun, turning leaves, and glittering grass before his lips met hers.
The sky faded to a deep blue barred with long, thin, crimson and yellow clouds before the Baron and the Baroness left the Heath. The evening star shone out and one by one the twinkling lights of nighttime London began to reflect its beauty. Blissfully unaware of the curious stares of passing stragglers, the couple stopped occasionally to kiss, to laugh and, like all lovers the world over, to “do you remember when….”
Kitty’s trunk was corded ready on the step and the Baroness was told by the terrified little maid that her mistress was “not at home.”
Hetty twitched the lace curtains as the couple climbed dreamily into the carriage and sank into a long embrace.
“Just look at that, John! Behaving in that disgraceful way. And on a Sunday too! And they’re all mud and leaves all over. You wouldn’t catch me behaving like that.”
Her husband said nothing, but he watched the carriage with a wistful expression on his chubby face until it had turned the corner and disappeared from view.