Kitty Little (14 page)

‘Even I’m bored now.’ Archie’s voice emerged with a fit of coughing from amidst a swathe of woollen scarves and jumpers. ‘Pips has lit a fire in the library and is serving tea. That is the sum of our excitement for today.’

‘If we’re so gloomy now, how will we fare when winter really arrives?’ Kitty asked, to which nobody had an answer.

The next morning the grey clouds retreated and after a lazy morning and a late lunch, Archie came across Esme where she lay flat on her back on a glassy slope by the lake.

‘Enjoying the sun? Don’t blame you old thing.’ He propped his back against the sun-warmed wall, rested his elbows on his knees and, gazing up into a pale blue sky puffed with soft cloud, remarked on what a wondrous glow the copper beech made. In fact, all the trees bordering the lake were basking in an unexpected blaze of glory, emerald, saffron, gold and deep olive greens. A family of moorhens paddled off into the shallows, clearly irritated at having been disturbed. Out in the centre of the lake, a couple of fishermen in a lone boat were plying their rods. ‘Perhaps we should have a go at that,’ Archie idly remarked. ‘Catch some char or pike for tea.’

Esme, worrying over Kitty’s remark about the coming winter and wondering what she should do with her life, said something to the effect that if she went fishing, she’d probably only catch eels and toads.

Archie attempted to jolly her out of her soulful mood. ‘Don’t run yourself down, old thing. You’re more capable than you realise, not perhaps as organised as Kitty, but you have other strengths.’

‘Do I?’ Esme turned her gaze full upon him, surprised by the warmth in his.

‘We had some fun once, you and I, eh? All those tennis parties and picnics on the lake in the old steamboat. You falling in and frightening Ma half to death.’

‘Oh, she was always kind to me, was your lovely ma. And good to my own mother, a humble vicar’s wife. I also remember helping Mrs Pips to make coconut ice and sticky bonfire toffee.’

‘Burning it more like,’

‘And getting it all in my hair.’ They both chortled with delight at happy memories, then almost simultaneously the laughter faded as if such levity wasn’t quite appropriate.
 

‘They’re all dead. Pater, Mater, Kitty’s beloved brother, your people too.’

‘Yes.’

A chap gets lonely with all his family gone. A gel too, I dare say. Dashed bad luck for both of us. But we have each other, eh? Remember that, old thing.’

‘You know you’ll always have me Archie. If you want me.’

‘Of course I’ll always want you.’ There was a hint of surprise in his voice, almost as if he’d only just realised that this was true. ‘You know a chap isn’t always proud of what he does, or how he behaves,’ he remarked, quite enigmatically. ‘Grief and disappointment can do strange things to a person, don’t you know. But as you say, I have you. My dear little solace. My best chum.’ Then quite unexpectedly he kissed her, his mouth warm and clumsily demanding, tasting faintly of a cigarette he’d recently smoked.

Esme experienced a sudden and dizzying panic as a rush of memories clouded her mind; pictures of herself as a child in a bath, the face of her father smiling down at her, whispering something in her ear that she really didn’t wish to hear. Fingers. Hands. Touching. And then, quite unexpectedly, came a sudden kindling of desire for these were Archie’s lips, Archie’s hand upon her breast, and not at all unpleasant.

‘It’s all right, isn’t it?’ he murmured, smoothing his hand along her leg as he pushed up her skirt. ‘You don’t mind, do you? A chap has needs, don’t you know. I’ll be careful and I won’t hurt you, old thing.’

Nor did he. The weight of his lean body upon hers, the thrust of him moving inside her was an astonishing delight. If Esme could have found words in that magical moment, she would have spoken of her great love for him, told him her true feelings. But her heart seemed too full, the sensations she was feeling too overwhelming, the excitement so tight in her chest each word died in her throat, even as they formed.

‘Mum’s the word, old thing,’ he murmured softly against her ear when he was done. Esme was used to keeping secrets. She’d certainly keep this one, for hadn’t she always been willing for Archie to choose whatever game he wanted to play. The only difference being that this was a much more grown up sort of game, one she was only too eager to share without thought or question.

Kitty felt quite herself again, full of energy, apart from one or two odd symptoms to which she’d resolved to pay no heed. If they were still in evidence by Christmas, she’d maybe go and have a chat with the doctor. For now she was far too concerned working on a plan for their future. The success of the play had given her an idea. Filled with fresh enthusiasm, she’d decided that they couldn’t idle the days away at Repstone Manor any longer. They must work, earn money, do something useful, and Kitty had the perfect solution. One evening, over the regulatory bottle of wine, and after much clearing of her throat, she put forward her plan.

‘The play was a huge success. Agreed?’

‘Absolutely, dear heart. The locals have talked of little else since.’

‘Then why don’t we do another? Why don’t we, in fact, do any number of plays?’

Archie drily pointed out that it was too damned cold to put one on by the lake now, and the drawing room would prove rather inadequate as a theatre.

 
Kitty slipped from the sofa to sit cross-legged on the rug in her favourite spot, warming her back against the fire. ‘What I mean is that it might be fun to start our own theatre company. We could be travelling players and take our plays around the village halls and schoolrooms of Lakeland, Yorkshire and Lancashire. Anywhere, in fact, where we can get bookings. Think how many people never get the chance to see live theatre, never see a play of any sort, let alone Shakespeare
.
You could recite your favourite ditties, Archie, and I could try writing some new plays. We might even put on a musical if we can find someone who can sing. We’d need one or two more actors to join us, obviously, but that shouldn’t be too difficult.’

She was speaking rapidly now as the ideas came bubbling out. Archie was smiling indulgently at her, as he so often did when she was having one of her “enthusiasms” as he called them. ‘And you’ll play the lead, I suppose?’

‘Sometimes. You too, of course. And Esme.’

‘Me?’ Esme had been listening entranced, more than ready to agree to this thrilling scheme. She’d looked upon playing Celia as a lark, a summer caper, but hadn’t she always yearned for some excitement in her life? Now here was the chance. The solution to everything. ‘Count me in. Anything is better than being someone’s paid companion. What would we call ourselves?’

‘The Lakeland Travelling Players, what else?’ It felt almost as if the idea had been there all along, simply waiting to be discovered.

Charlotte was disturbed by the sound of Mrs Pursey hammering on her bedroom door, her peremptory tone insisting she come and calm her poor husband upon the instant.

‘Miles, get up. You must go. For God’s sake
go
!’

Her relationship with Councillor Pickering had proceeded quite satisfactorily for weeks. He’d proved to be so generous that she’d awarded him a reprieve. Now Charlotte dragged on her satin dressing gown, unlocked the bedroom door and managed to squeeze through without the housekeeper sneaking the smallest glance into the room, which was just as well or she might have seen the bare buttocks of the Town Mayor as he hopped on one leg in a tangle of trousers and braces.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

‘It’s the master. He’s gone demented.’

Magnus was sitting up in bed as she entered his room, face purple with rage, mouth a twisted black snarl. He snatched up his dinner plate and flung it at her. Charlotte ducked and it hit the wall instead. Roast pork, buttered carrots, and Cook’s special creamed potatoes hung in globules of congealed grease on the silk patterned wallpaper. He next sent the milk jug, tea pot, and cup and saucer flying from the bedside table to smash into a dozen pieces. Shards of pottery lay scattered over the Persian carpet and Charlotte gazed in disgust at the resulting mess. A posy of squashed raspberries clung to the gas mantle while Magnus began expressing his rage by ripping his pillows to shreds, sending a snowstorm of feathers flying everywhere. Dear Lord, demented was certainly the word. She felt hysteria rise in her throat; the memory of the accident hanging over her like the sword of Damocles. ‘Magnus, what the hell are you doing? Stop this at once.’

 
‘
You
should serve my supper, woman. You’re my
wife
! You owe me that much at least, lazy
harlot
that you are.’

At a loss to know how to deal with his black mood Charlotte found she was trembling, as always in response to his tantrums. Inwardly she prayed Councillor Pickering had made a safe, if undignified exit from her bedroom window over the orangery roof. It was the reason she’d chosen that room, safely tucked away at the back of the house.

She took a step closer, offered soothing, well practised phrases in an attempt to calm her husband.

Magnus continued to storm at her. ‘Look at you, half-dressed at this time of day.’

‘I was about to bathe and change for dinner,’ Charlotte lied. How dare he upbraid her in front of the servants, this woman in particular who had never liked her. It was too much. She whirled about and ordered the housekeeper to leave, closing the door on her startled face. Perversely, Magnus now countermanded his earlier demands.

‘Don’t you tell
my
housekeeper what to do,’ he yelled. ‘I
need
Mrs Pursey. She at least takes proper care of me.’

‘I thought you wanted
me
to feed you.’ Charlotte managed a smile, picked up the fork and offered it to him. ‘Come along now, open wide, there’s a good boy. Eat up, then you’ll get better.’

 
But Magnus was not in the mood for her wheedling today. A curl came to his lip, an odd frown on his flushed face. ‘I’ll have my revenge, make no mistake. But not yet, my lovely. I shall choose the time and place. Play the devoted wife and whore all you wish. You won’t know from where, or when it will come, but it will be all the sweeter for me when I take it.’

Fear flared within her. Surely he didn’t guess about her regular stream of attentive lovers? She’d been most discreet. Not even the servants guessed. At least she hoped not. Charlotte strived to tease him into a better humour. ‘What are you saying? You can’t blame me for
Rude Awakening
shying like that, now can you? It’s your own temper at fault. You shout at poor Mrs Pursey. Now you’re shouting at me. What can we do to please you?’

He stared at her for a long moment while a slow smile spread across the once handsome but now somewhat bloated face. He leaned forward to speak in a hissing whisper, as if not wishing anyone to overhear for all they were quite alone in the room.

‘We both of us know the truth, do we not? Just remember
I
am still in control. I
know
you tried to kill me. Pity you didn’t succeed. But perhaps one day I shall return the compliment. That will be vastly amusing. With or without the use of my bloody legs you are still my wife, and I can do with you exactly as I please.’

In the silence that followed this devastating statement, Charlotte could hear the loud ticking of the mantel clock which seemed in fierce competition with the beating of her own heart. She felt suddenly, desperately afraid, for in those few seconds he’d wiped away the false sense of security she’d wrapped about herself. Now, each swing of the pendulum reverberated in her head, ticking her life away, and outside the four walls of this stifling bedroom she was only too aware that the house buzzed with servant’s gossip like angry bees.

Charlotte realised, in that moment, that she had no choice but to escape, if only for a little while, before the suffocation of her situation drove her quite mad. To leave him entirely, she decided, would be a mistake, since she’d no wish to relinquish her rights to his vast fortune. When he did ultimately die, and she prayed each night that it would be soon, every last penny would be all hers. Might well have helped him along the road, were it not so risky.
 

Nevertheless she had no wish to be carted off to a police cell while she waited for this much-longed for demise. The servants had never liked her, had always resented a woman of their own class setting herself above them. They would lose no opportunity to place the blame on her, if they got the slightest whiff of scandal. And if her presence so infuriated Magnus, what might he not utter in his next rage, or the one after that? Once the truth was out, that his fall was the result of a deliberate act on her part, who would save her? Mrs Pursey for one would be the first to call in the police.

It was Charlotte herself who called the doctor, on the telephone Magnus had had installed for his business dealings. He came, young and earnest, eager to make headway in his chosen profession to find poor Mrs Gilpin utterly distraught. She sobbed out her concerns for her poor demented husband, begging he be given some draught to cool his blood, to help him sleep and come to terms with his disability, before managing to faint at the doctor’s feet, quite spectacularly on cue.

When she came round, it was to find herself ensconced in her own bed, the concerned young doctor holding
sal volatile
to her nose. She spluttered and choked, then smiled weakly at him, all her senses on alert.