CHAPTER 29
Joe Jr. arrived in London in the last week of September with rotten eggs and a box full of suckers, gum, and Mars bars, wanting nothing more than to get into the fight to prove he was as much a hero as his skinny little brother, who had once again been thrust into the spotlight. In the last few weeks, Jack had managed to save most of his crew after a Japanese torpedo hit their boat in the Pacific, using his prodigious and now-famous swimming skills to tow one of the injured men to shore in spite of his bad back. As if that weren’t enough, he’d floated an SOS note into the ocean on a coconut, of all things, which against all odds made it to an Australian regiment, who did indeed rescue them. It had been all over the news, and Kick had become a hero by extension at the Hans Crescent. Once she knew her brother was all right, she couldn’t help but laugh uproariously at the details. “A coconut?” she’d said to Dukie Wookie at the 400. “Even George Bernard Shaw couldn’t have imagined something like that and made it believable!”
“If I didn’t love him so much, I’d want to kill him,” Joe Jr. said to Kick over a pint of ale at the Hans Crescent. Kick was fit to burst with happiness that afternoon, what with her brother in town, a date with Billy scheduled for the weekend, and Nancy Astor picking through the club’s bar looking for boys from Virginia to cheer up, as she did periodically. Also, it was her favorite season in England—drizzly and cool one day, brilliantly blue and cold the next. She loved pedaling her bike through the streets with a scarf around her neck and yellow leaves falling on her head. Also, things felt back on promising and sturdy footing with Billy, who came to London every chance he got. Once, they’d met in Derbyshire and strolled the grounds of Chatsworth, and he’d lamented naughtily that with the girls’ school in session at the house, there was really no way to accomplish the swimming sans vêtements he’d once alluded to before the war.
“Maybe you should just let Jack be president,” Kick teased Joe Jr., “and you enjoy a nice louche life instead. I’ll set you up in a castle.”
“Lismore Castle?” Joe asked, referring to the Cavendish estate in Ireland.
“You never know,” sang Kick.
After a short visit, Joe had to go with his squadron to Cornwall, where his planes would be helping the Royal Air Force patrol the coast. “It’s coward’s work,” he’d told his sister before he left, “but I’m gonna parlay it into something real.” Then he blew out of town as suddenly as he’d blown in, and life went on in the new usual way for Kick: a steady rotation of work, dinners, and after-hours dancing. At the end of the summer, she’d gotten into trouble with Scroggins for having too many friends over to the club and taking too many calls from her “damn suitors,” and generally having too much of a social life outside the club. But she’d dropped hints to a few key friends that her boss was giving her difficulties, and two of the best had come to her rescue. Admiral Stark had told Scroggins in front of an entire room full of gin-rummy-playing captains and lieutenants that “Kick Kennedy, John Fitzgerald Kennedy’s sister no less, is a national treasure, and d’you know how lucky you are to have her?” to a mortifying but also gratifying round of hooting applause led by Tim, of all people. And Lady Astor had written Scroggins about Anglo-American relations, “which are suffering terribly now, yes in part because of Kick’s own father, but she seeks nothing but to remedy that. I advise you to let her steer her own course, for it will bring nothing but acclaim to your club and harmony to our allied men in uniform.”
At the end of October, Joe got an assignment that brought him back to London. He joined Kick for dinner at the Savoy, courtesy of Bill Hearst, who’d been spending a lot of time at the Crescent while sending dispatches on the war back to his publisher father in San Francisco. Hearst liked Kick and was always trying to convince her to write more. “Wealth and writing can by very simpatico,” he told her that night in the posh hotel restaurant. “They don’t have to be at odds.”
“You’d know better than anyone,” she replied with a smile.
“Write me an insider story on the Hans Crescent,” he suggested. “I bet you’ve gathered plenty of secrets there.”
“I am the secret, Bill,” she laughed. The truth was, she thought someday she might go back to writing. She’d enjoyed her work on the Times-Herald, and was always threatening to write Nancy Astor’s life story since the lady didn’t bother keeping a diary herself that might someday be published. The project appealed to her. But she hardly had time for anything like that now.
“Your wit is wasted on the aristocracy, Kick,” Bill said.
“What an American sentiment,” she replied in her finest faux Cambridge-educated accent.
Bill and Kick and Joe Jr. were at a large table with Angie Laycock and her husband Robert, head of the highly trained and secret British Commandos, and Lady Virginia Sykes, who was about to have a baby any moment, though her husband was stationed abroad. “In case I go into labor,” said Virginia, “I’ve brought my friend Pat with me. You know all about babies, don’t you, Pat?” Virginia smiled at her friend Pat Wilson.
Joe was immediately intrigued by Pat, which was a bit awkward for Kick, since she knew of her brother’s history with Virginia—they’d been caught kissing when she was a debutante before the war. No one brought up that old scrap of gossip, though, even in jest, and Virginia seemed quite content to become the mother of Lord Sykes’s child. Pat Wilson was just Joe’s type, which is to say she was married. It didn’t hurt that she had big blue eyes under heavy lids and black lashes, dark hair, and lush red lips. Her second husband Robin Wilson had been with the British Army in Libya for more than two years. She had an easy way of being in her own skin, totally confident and relaxed. She was the opposite of ambitious, blond Inga, the epitome of Jack’s type of off-limits woman—though Pat was foreign, like Inga; she was from Australia, which barely tinged her accent compared to Inga’s more glamorous Danish pronunciations.
Kick listened as Joe uncoiled with this tempting stranger and talked about movies and Cornish pasties, and how happy he was to be with his sister. “We haven’t been on an adventure, just us two, in almost five years,” he said.
“Five years since Spain?” Kick exclaimed, allowing the champagne to make her a bit silly. “Impossible!”
“I love Spain,” said Pat. “The people are so warm and friendly, and I think the food is the best in Europe.”
“Don’t let the French hear you say that,” said Kick.
“Aw, the French can have their petits gâteaux,” said Joe. “I’ll take churros and chocolate any day.”
Pat snickered behind red-tipped nails.
“What part of Spain were you in?” asked Joe, now focused totally on Pat. And off they went on a detailed discussion of Barcelona. The electricity between the two of them was unmistakable, sparking in everything from Pat’s unbridled laughter to her brother’s best behavior and liberal compliments. It made Kick miss Billy all the more, especially when she noticed that Joe and Pat disappeared into their own taxi at the end of the night, when the rest of them headed to the 400. Joe wouldn’t miss out on his favorite nightclub for just anyone, and Kick found she was very jealous in that old familiar way. Once again, one of her brothers was having the sort of real fun she and Billy were waiting so bloody long to enjoy. She hated to wonder whether Billy already knew what he was missing. Worse, if he was enjoying it elsewhere, like Joe and Jack would have been in Billy’s shoes. Somehow she doubted it. She’d learned well enough from watching her brothers and father that men couldn’t keep that kind of behavior a secret for long. Still, she worried about what might be happening those cold nights in desolate Scotland when memories of her kisses might not be enough to keep him warm.
She tried to pray about these matters, to ask for guidance from Christ’s mother Mary, but somehow she couldn’t even admit in her prayers what she was really afraid of. Not to the virgin mother of God. She knew God saw her thoughts, and so she tried to avoid the thoughts altogether. All of this had the effect of making her feel removed from her faith for the first time. Instead, she prayed for Rosemary, that she might still recover and come home, get married, and be blessed with children of her own. She prayed for Rudi, wherever he was now. She prayed for her brothers, and Tim and the other boys in uniform, that they would return in one piece. She prayed last and most ardently for Billy, asking God to grant him his dearest wish to fight in the war, and then send him safely home.
The next thing she knew, she was getting more and more correspondence from Billy’s mother and sisters. They’d all be coming to a party she was throwing with Fiona Gore at Marie Bruce’s apartment in a week’s time. “Lizzy’s never been to a party like the one you’re likely to throw, so I don’t want to hear about her being corrupted,” Billy joked on the phone one night.
“You’re sure you can’t be there to defend her honor?”
“I wish more than anything that I could,” he replied, “but I have to stay here.” Kick knew better than to press the issue—Billy felt guilty enough about leaving the guards to run for a seat in Parliament; he didn’t want to do anything but follow the rule book until he had to leave.
After a short pause, he said, “Speaking of sisters, I’ve been meaning to ask about your Rosemary. I’m so sorry I didn’t inquire before.”
This was an unexpected turn in conversation. Kick was touched, but wary. “She is in a hospital,” Kick replied, not wanting to say more.
“Has the trouble I saw in her . . . worsened?”
“Not exactly,” Kick said, calculating how much to reveal. My parents couldn’t stand that she was becoming a woman? That because of her problems she couldn’t control herself around men like I can? “But it took another turn. She started sneaking out of the convent where she was living, and the whole family was so worried, and . . .”
“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too distressing,” Billy said. “It doesn’t affect my feelings for you. I just wanted you to know that I remembered her, and care about her because she’s part of your family.”
“Thank you,” Kick whispered, tears and phlegm making it hard to speak. She cleared her throat and said, “Well, my father thought it would be best if she took a rest in a hospital. And the doctors think it’s best if her treatment isn’t disturbed.”
“I see,” Billy said.
“I wish there was more to say,” she added lamely. There was more, of course. The anger and mourning and frustration she felt, the fear. But now, on the phone, with so much at stake, was not the time to bring that up.
She could hear the hesitation crackle on the other end of the line before he said, “I hate the telephone, but I don’t have any leave coming up soon, so I have to ask if you’ve given any more thought to what we discussed at Eastbourne?”
“I’ve thought of little else,” she said, and it was true. No matter what she did during her full days, the questions about her and Billy were on a constant rotation in the back of her mind, often pushing through to the front.
“And?” He sounded a little afraid.
“Can I have a bit more time? The holidays are coming up, then the elections . . . We have some time, don’t we?”
There was a pause before he replied, “Kick, I want so much to write to my wife at the end of my days here, call my wife on the phone at Churchdale or Eastbourne. I want to know that you’re as safe as my sisters and sister-in-law. Maybe even with . . .” His voice trailed off.
“Babies hardly arrive overnight, you know,” she said, seizing the opportunity to lighten the mood—though her heart had fluttered almost painfully every time he said the word wife.
He laughed. “No, I’d have nine glorious months to spoil you rotten. And not just with things, which are impossible to come by these days anyway, but with love and joy.”
The phone’s slick receiver was slippery in her sweaty hand. “And foot rubs, I hope. I’ve heard all my pregnant friends want is a good foot massage,” she said, again trying to bring some levity.
“You’d want for no comfort,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’d have everything you needed.”
If that were true, I’d say yes in a heartbeat, she thought.
In the end, it was probably for the best that Billy couldn’t come to her party, as playing hostess had her running around like a crazed person all through the night, especially when Joe arrived with his whole squadron, who’d all been out drinking before.
“You better behave, big brother,” she said to Joe, who smelled of whiskey as he embraced her at the door to the apartment. Mercifully, he did. And in her prayers that night she thanked God for sending him with his men, because one of the young American soldiers saved the whole evening. Irving Berlin, a friend of Marie Bruce’s, had put in a surprise appearance and performance at the party, and just as he finished a rousing “Puttin’ On the Ritz” that had everyone on their feet, Elizabeth Cavendish’s brand-new blue silk party dress caught on fire at the hem.
After a moment of loud exclamations from all corners of the room, one of Joe’s men stamped it out with his well-shined boots, to more applause.
“Your party just went from excellent to legendary,” said Irving with a smile at Kick, setting his black felt hat on his head. “Congratulations.”
Kick was horrified, but when she reached the duchess and Elizabeth to ask if everyone was all right, she found them laughing. “It’s just a dress,” said the duchess reassuringly. “After a private performance by Mr. Berlin, how could anyone be upset about some fabric? We can make it into a tea-length dress with no problem.” Elizabeth herself, suddenly the giggling center of five boys’ attention, didn’t seem bothered, either. Well, thought Kick, with enormous relief, I’m glad it wasn’t my mother and Jean’s dress on fire!
“You do lead a charmed life,” Billy commented the next night on the phone, after hearing all about the evening from his breathless sister.
“I fear I’m more like a cat, with nine chances at recuperative luck, and steadily using up each one,” she said.
Billy laughed. “Well, if anyone can get a tenth, it’s you.”
She nearly said, I’d gladly lend one or two to Andrew, now that he’s getting shipped to Italy, but she stopped just before she opened her mouth. Billy had behaved so strangely when he heard the news of Andrew’s assignment. He’d hardly been able to sit still at Boofie and Fiona’s dinner, saying what rot it was that they were shipping off his brother, who was a new father with another child on the way. “It should have been me,” he’d said morosely before getting blind drunk.
Though Kick had been extremely relieved that it hadn’t been Billy who was called up, she had the uneasy sense that having to stay back and wait to do that thing he was so eager to do—punish the Huns and show them what England really is—might actually make him more recalcitrant on the subject of their marriage and religion. She hated to think that England and “everything it stands for,” the very England she herself loved, might be the wedge to keep them apart.
“I love you,” she said instead. It was the first time she’d said it before he had, and she meant it in every fiber of her body, but what she wanted most of all was to hear him say it back, to feel embraced by his words since he wasn’t there to do it in person.
“I love you,” he said, with an emphasis on the you that flooded her with such a wanton desire to kiss him, she thought about hopping on a train and surprising him that very night. Inga would do something like that. But I’m not Inga, she thought with as much reproach as regret.
She had the mounting sense that Billy had enlisted his sisters and mother in helping Kick make up her mind about the matters they’d discussed at Eastbourne. The most significant sign of this campaign came shortly after Christmas. She’d had to spend Christmas itself at the Hans Crescent, making sure the boys, including Joe Jr., who’d made it to London for midnight mass, lived it up to Bing Crosby’s Christmas tunes, and numerous performances by vulgar Santa Claus vaudeville acts, and dances with bands like the High Flyers. At last she got a few days off that coincided with the end of Billy’s holiday leave, and she’d spent two glorious days with the Cavendish family at Churchdale Hall.
She’d arrived equipped with what passed for luxury gifts these days—two bottles of champagne, a box of Swiss chocolates for the duchess, cigars for the duke, and a pack of nylons and a brand-new lipstick each for Billy’s sisters and Debo. Plus, a real present for Billy, which she planned on giving him in a private moment. The ladies received Kick’s presents with exclamations of thanks and joy over tea and cookies in the drawing room, where a tall tree was trimmed with colorful glass orbs. The whole family was there, except Andrew, who hadn’t gotten leave, and the duke, who’d escaped to his home studio to tie flies for his next fishing expedition. Kick wondered whether he’d be testing them in the bath that night. Everyone was lazily warming their feet by the fire and enjoying the twinkle of lights on the tree.
Then the duchess handed Kick a small black box that was festively tied with a red tartan ribbon. Kick almost said, I can’t accept this! I didn’t get you anything of substance! But the smile on the duchess’s face made her realize that not to accept would be the height of rudeness.
Pregnant Debo shifted sleeping Emma in her arms and leaned forward to get a better look as Kick’s trembling hands undid the ribbon and then lifted the top off the box. When Kick saw the delicate diamond-and-pearl cross pendant necklace glittering on the black velvet, she gasped, feeling guilty not just for her poor hostess gifts but also because the gift of a cross from Billy’s Protestant mother felt . . . strange.
She looked from the duchess, who wore a face of bright expectation, to Billy, who wore the same, and gushed, “It’s absolutely gorgeous.”
Billy helped her fasten it under her hair, then everyone commenced oohing and aahing over its beauty and the way it complemented her creamy skin. Kick felt a bit better when she learned that Billy’s parents had splurged on gifts for all the girls in the family, with Anne and Elizabeth each receiving golden bracelets, and Debo a ruby-and-diamond cross similar to Kick’s.
Still, when she and Debo had a moment alone, Kick fingered the cross, which sat perfectly in the space between her collarbones, and whispered so that no one else could hear, “I can’t believe this gift!”
“They want Billy to be happy,” Debo said. “Now that I have little Emma, I can understand that. A mother’s love is . . . well, I just want the world for Emma.”
“I can’t help but feel I’m wearing a Protestant cross, not a Catholic one.”
Debo sighed. “That might be true, I must admit. Have you thought more about it? What about converting? We’re not heathens, you know.” Debo’s voice was light, teasing. But she definitely wanted some sort of insight, and suddenly Kick felt wary of giving it to her, since she was now Billy’s sister-in-law, the mother of his first niece and maybe soon nephew.
Kick laughed it off. “I know that, of course. I just . . . it’s such a huge decision. I’ll lose my own mother, to say nothing of my soul, if I convert.”
Debo put a hand on her rounded belly and said, “Losing your mother would be terrible. But you’d gain a most wonderful mother-in-law.”
Kick smiled but didn’t say more. Debo’s own mother, Muv, had made a choice to care for Unity at the expense of caring for her other daughters, and so Debo’s affection for Andrew’s mother had become more ardent, more loyal, than it might otherwise have been. But Kick was in a reverse position, with her own older sister gone.
“Do you like it? Mother’s gift?” Billy asked much later that night, when they were alone in the drawing room with a fire and glasses of brandy. She was full of roast beef and potatoes and carrots and red wine, relaxing in Billy’s childhood home. She wished the cross could be the pièce de résistance. And it was, in a way.
“How could I not love it?” she said, fingering the smooth pearls. “It’s beautiful, and ever so thoughtful and generous.”
“I still love the cuff links you gave me all those years ago,” he said, “though there are fewer occasions to wear them these days.”
“Those days will return,” she said.
“I’m not so sure,” he said. “I sometimes wonder if Chatsworth will ever be what it was in 1930. You should have seen it then. It was the stuff you read of in books.”
“It can be again,” she said firmly, squeezing his hand.
“The famous Kick optimism.”
“Speaking of which, I want you to know it’s my New Year’s resolution to find a solution to our dilemma as soon as possible. That word, wife, you said on the phone, is still ringing in my ears.”
Billy smiled and kissed her. “Good.” He kissed her again. “And I love your gift this year,” he said, patting the pocket where he kept his new handkerchiefs, one embroidered with his initials, the other with hers. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get you more than stationery,” he said, “but there’s hardly any shopping by the base, and I like to be able to pick things out myself. And anyway, Mum was so excited about her gift, I wanted to let it have center stage.”
“I love your gift,” she said, because she did—the paper was so luxurious and velvety, with her name embossed at the top in a rich burgundy. “Paper like that is impossible to come by. Who’d you kill to get it?”
Billy waggled his eyebrows like a matinee movie villain, then put his hand behind her head and pulled her in for a long kiss that ended all conversation for the evening.