Bernard Ormsby waddled over, leered at Kitty and sat down next to George. ‘Where is it you’re off to again, Reverend?’ he said in his loud, common voice.
‘New Zealand.’
‘Ah, the Cannibal Isles!’ Bernard exclaimed as George winced. ‘I’ve heard they’re a pretty ferocious lot. Saw one myself actually, a couple of years ago when I was in London on business. He was togged out head to toe in the latest fashions but with a dark brown face covered with green lines. Most odd. Could handle a knife and fork, though, I’ll say that for him.’
‘I’m told they can be very civilised,’ George agreed.
‘Do they still eat each other, though, that’s what I want to know!’ Bernard boomed.
There were small squeals of horror and a burst of fan-fluttering from the ladies who had gathered around.
‘That, I believe,’ George said with obvious distaste, ‘is something the Church Missionary Society has put an end to, thank the Lord.’
‘Good job, too, or you could end up on someone’s dinner plate the day after you arrive!’
Kitty lowered her head to hide her smile.
George, however, wasn’t amused. ‘I understand, Mr Ormsby, that the practice was a consequence of war, not an everyday activity. The victors consumed the flesh of those they defeated in a misguided attempt to ingest their vitality and spiritual essence.’
‘Oh,’ Bernard said, ‘like partaking of the Host?’
George glared—the cheek of the man. To joke about the Lord Jesus Christ in such a manner was in appalling taste!
‘No,’ he snapped, ‘not like that. It was a completely barbaric practice and it has been eradicated, thanks solely to the steadfast commitment and efforts of the society’s missionaries.’
Bernard seemed unperturbed by George’s affront. ‘And where, specifically, will you be settling in New Zealand?’
‘At Paihia in the Bay of Islands,’ George replied, ‘in the far north of the North Island. I believe it’s on the eastern coast.’
At this point Kitty’s attention began to wander again. She glanced casually around the expanse of emerald lawn and felt her heart leap wildly when she saw that Hugh had finally arrived. He had not seen her, however, and was standing talking to several of the ‘bucks’ her mother had mentioned earlier. He looked as handsome as ever, his dark, sleepy eyes and black curls offset beautifully by the deep russet of his morning coat and cream brocade waistcoat. Then, as though he could feel her watching him, he slowly lifted his gaze until their eyes met. He smiled slightly and turned away again.
She hid her own delighted smile behind her fan. She longed to go over to him but would have to wait until their paths ‘accidentally’ crossed—only then would it be proper to speak to him, and only if her mother wasn’t looking. Emily had made a point of telling her several times now not to converse with Hugh Alexander, and certainly not to spend any length of time in his vicinity, and
most
certainly not to allow herself to be alone with him.
Kitty wasn’t sure why. Hugh was in his late twenties, single and a gentleman: she had no idea why he was viewed so differently from other eligible bachelors of the district. She wasn’t permitted to be alone with any of them either, of course, no decent young lady was, but to be
specifically warned away from Hugh was puzzling to say the least. He was by far the best-looking of the lot, and the most charming, and by all accounts had considerable personal means, so she simply couldn’t understand her mother’s animosity towards him. Kitty didn’t think Emily had even made his acquaintance.
She sat up straighter as Hugh and his friends began to amble towards the little group surrounding Uncle George. When he met her gaze again, over the tops of everyone’s heads, his lips moved almost imperceptibly.
It took her a moment to decipher his words, but when she had she nodded, blushed and looked down at her hands, once more hiding a small, thrilled smile. She was to meet him at the rose arbour at the side of the big house.
She waited as long as she could stand it before whispering to her mother, ‘I’m just going to find the facilities. I won’t be long.’
‘Will you be all right by yourself? Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, thank you, Mama.’
‘All right then. Ask one of the servants—a maid, not a footman—where to go. That way you won’t get lost.’
‘Yes, Mama.’
Kitty stood up, her buttocks numb from sitting too long on the elegant but very unforgiving love seat, collected her shawl and headed across the manicured lawn, resisting the urge to glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was watching. Once out of view she ran all the way to the rose arbour, but it was so heavily draped with swathes of huge, fragrant blooms that she couldn’t see whether anyone was inside or not.
‘Hugh?’ she whispered, terrified that she might inadvertently compromise herself.
There was the dull ring of boot heels on cobbles, and Hugh appeared. ‘Kitty,’ he said, opening his arms to her.
She rushed into them and he drew her back into the privacy and security of the roses.
‘I thought you weren’t going to come,’ he murmured, looking down at her eager face and gently stroking her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
To Kitty, his touch was intoxicating.
‘I had to pretend I was going to find the…you know,’ she said, gazing up at him adoringly. ‘I didn’t want…’
He pressed his fingers softly against her lips. ‘I know, my darling. We have to be so very careful, don’t we?’
She nodded and let him lead her over to the bench in the shade of the arbour. He sat, then pulled her down onto his knee and held her there, her face burning at the unmistakable feel of him beneath the fabric of his trousers.
‘I only have a couple of minutes—Mama will be wondering.’
‘Then let’s make the most of them,’ Hugh murmured.
He lowered his head and kissed her lips with such passion and urgency that Kitty felt it from the top of her head to the tips of her slippered toes. His hand began to creep over the bodice of her gown and then beneath it, his fingers burrowing between her breasts.
Then suddenly, and with such stridency that Kitty’s heart actually stopped for a second, a voice demanded, ‘Kitty Carlisle,
what
do you think you are doing?’
Kitty tore herself off Hugh and spun around to see Ida Ormsby blocking the doorway of the arbour, an expression of both shocked censure and gleeful triumph on her face.
The horror of being discovered and the rich, overly sweet scent of the roses all at once conspired to convince Kitty that she was going to be sick. She bent over, retching, but by the time the feeling had passed and she was able to straighten up again, Ida Ormsby had disappeared.
‘Oh, Hugh,’ Kitty gasped, blinking back tears of dismay, ‘what will we do?’
He was on his feet now, grim-faced, straightening his jacket and his cravat. ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to go.’
Kitty’s stomach lurched. ‘Go? Where? What about me?’
Hugh fixed her with a level stare. ‘You’ll have to go back out there, pretend nothing’s happened. She might not say anything.’
Kitty stared back disbelievingly: Ida Ormsby was one of the district’s worst and most vindictive gossips. ‘Why can’t we go out together? Then
we could tell Mama about our plans to be married.’
Hugh flicked a dried rose leaf off the sleeve of his jacket. He didn’t look up. ‘I’m sorry, Kitty, but I don’t have any plans to be married.’
Kitty suddenly felt alarmingly light-headed. ‘But I thought…’
‘I know what you thought.’ He did glance up then. ‘Look, you’re a lovely girl but I’m not interested in being saddled with a wife. I’m sorry, but there’s nothing more to be said.’
And with that he stepped past her and strode off down the path towards the front of the house.
Kitty stood alone for several long seconds, then pulled her shawl tightly around her shoulders. The day was still warm, but she felt bitterly cold, a sharp iciness that came from deep within her. She took a long quavering breath, stepped out of the arbour and made her way back to the party guests.
As she reached the lawn, she gradually slowed and then stopped as she saw that every single face was turned towards her.
She sat on her bed, one hand rhythmically smoothing a section of white quilt. She’d risen at seven o’clock as usual, washed her face and hands in cold water, and had dressed by the time Dinah, her mother’s housegirl, knocked on her bedroom door with a breakfast of scrambled egg and a pot of tea on a tray.
‘Your mam says you’re not to come down this morning, Miss Kitty,’ Dinah said, giving her an apologetic look containing more than a hint of sympathy.
Kitty nodded. Dinah must know what had happened—there had been enough raised voices after her mother had dragged her home from the garden party yesterday afternoon. Immediately after her reappearance on the lawn, Kitty had been bundled into the Carlisles’ gig and taken home. Emily had been disturbingly white-faced and silent but hadn’t exploded until they were within their own four walls, her wrath enough to confirm that Ida Ormsby had indeed publicly divulged every detail of what she had seen in the rose arbour. Kitty had subsequently been sent
to her room, with strict instructions not to come out until summoned.
She spent the night alternately weeping and sitting at the window, staring out at the moonlit garden but seeing nothing. She was hungry too, her mother not having sent up any supper, but the discomfort of her rumbling stomach was nothing compared with the stabbing, burning agony that consumed her entire body as the truth of his betrayal seeped into her during the long night.
‘Thank you,’ Kitty said to Dinah, and took the tray.
For a moment she considered confiding in Dinah, but knew this would merely annoy her mother even more if she found out. And Dinah had her own problems; she had been told only yesterday morning that her services would no longer be required in the Carlisle household. Her wages were one shilling and sixpence a week, and Emily couldn’t afford her.
‘I’ll come back for the tray when you’ve finished,’ Dinah said.
Kitty nodded and closed the door. She poured herself a cup of tea, but left the egg for the flies that were buzzing on the windowsill now that the sun was up.
When Dinah came back to collect Kitty’s uneaten breakfast she brought a message from her mother: Kitty was to come down to the parlour at two o’clock, but not before then.
The morning hours trudged past. At midday Kitty heard the crunch and squeak of wheels on the carriageway at the front of the house, and peered through the window to see Uncle George and Aunt Sarah alighting from their gig. Both were grim-faced, but then they nearly always were. She heard them go into the house, then the droning murmur of hushed voices before they left again an hour later.
At two o’clock she went downstairs and stood warily at the parlour door, waiting for her mother to acknowledge her. Emily was working on a piece of embroidery and, it seemed to Kitty, deliberately did not look up for some time. When she finally did, Kitty could see she’d been weeping.
‘Sit down, Katherine,’ Emily said.
Kitty tensed—her mother only ever addressed her by her proper name when she was in the most dire trouble. She sat down.
They looked like bookends, sitting one at each end of the sofa wearing almost identical black dresses and expressions of remorse, though for different reasons.
Emily completed two more stitches then set her embroidery aside. She sat in silence for a moment, then contemplated her beautiful young daughter with infinite sadness.
‘You know that your behaviour yesterday was the worst thing you could possibly have done, don’t you?’ she said eventually. She didn’t sound angry now, just sad.
Kitty nodded and opened her mouth to explain.
Emily whipped up her hand to stop her. ‘No, I don’t want to hear excuses, Kitty, and I certainly don’t want to hear any of the details.’
‘But I loved him, Mama!’ Kitty burst out. ‘And I thought he loved me!’
‘If Hugh Alexander had loved you, he would have been here yesterday afternoon asking for your hand. It’s the only thing he could have done to save the last remaining tatters of your reputation. But he wasn’t here, was he?’
Kitty remained silent: her mother was right.
Emily took a deep breath. ‘Did you not once listen to me when I spoke to you about that man?’ she demanded.
‘I did, I listened,’ Kitty said, although they both knew she hadn’t taken any notice.
‘Did it never occur to you that there were good reasons for the things I said about him?’
‘I thought I loved him,’ Kitty said again, but with less conviction this time.
‘Oh, piffle! Love! What do you know about love?’
Again Kitty was silent. Yesterday she was sure she knew everything about it, but today there was only pain—and a growing sense of humiliation.
‘Do you remember Minnie Bentley?’ Emily said. ‘Her father was chief clerk at Ormsby’s mill.’
Frowning, Kitty nodded. She and Minnie had been friends, then two
years ago Minnie’s family had suddenly left the district.
‘Did Minnie ever tell you why they left?’
‘She said her father had a new position in Birmingham.’
‘Well, he may or may not have had a new position, but the real reason they went was because Minnie…’ Emily faltered. ‘Well, Minnie got herself into trouble.’
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘She found herself in the family way.’
Kitty’s mouth fell open. ‘A baby? Minnie had a baby?’
‘Well, I assume she had it. Naturally they left before it became too obvious.’
‘Poor Minnie.’
‘Stupid Minnie,’ Emily amended. ‘Poor Mr and Mrs Bentley is more like it. Truly, the shame of it.’ She took a deep and ragged breath. ‘Kitty, I have to ask you this. Did you and that man, well, are you still…intact?’
Infinitely relieved that she actually still was, Kitty muttered, ‘Yes,’ and watched as the colour slowly crept back into her mother’s face.
‘Well, that’s some consolation, I suppose. The reason I mentioned Minnie Bentley is because of who fathered her child. It was Hugh Alexander, Kitty, and, obviously, he refused to marry her.’
Kitty felt as though someone had struck her. She seemed unable to breathe and there was a roaring noise in her ears. She wanted to refute it, to shout that Hugh would never do such an awful thing, but she knew in her heart that he would. After yesterday, how could she not?