Kitty (24 page)

Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie turned positively pink with pleasure. Because of her fragmented manner of speaking, people rarely listened to her let alone asked her to tell a whole story. She settled herself beside the fire, took a deep breath, and began.

By filling in the gaps Kitty pieced together that Veronica had gone to Baden-Baden after being cleared of the other attempts on Kitty’s life. She had fallen in love with a handsome young man, a Count Von Richelstag. As he had seemed to be very wealthy, she had given him to understand that she was a very rich woman. Only after they were married, did Veronica find out that her Count was virtually penniless and had only married her for her supposed money. The last report was that they were ensconced on his crumbling estate in Saxony, making life hell for each other.

“Nemesis…” fluttered Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie, “… not often people like that get their deserts… very democratic!”

The last remark referred not to the unfortunate Veronica and her husband, but to the arrival of Albert Grange and his wife.

“Beginning to snow,” announced Albert, brushing his bowler and handing it to the butler. “Got a bit of a shock down the road. Chap rushed out of a cottage and nearly fell under the wheels. Kept hanging on to me and telling me to repent.”

Peter sighed, “That’s Bob Pugsley, one of the estate workers. He lost his addiction to drink and dogs and joined some peculiar religious sect. But he does the work of about five men. It was Mrs. Pugsley who turned out to miss the joys of London the most. She packed up a month ago and went back to Camden Town. Pugsley doesn’t mind. He sends her money regularly along with a barrowload of religious tracts.”

Lady Mainwaring was the next to arrive, bringing Kitty news of her old friend Hetty. “She was so threatening and hysterical, I had to threaten
her
with the police,” said Emily. “I really don’t know why people like snow at Christmas. So wet and cold and nasty.”

“What on earth happened to Hetty?” exclaimed Kitty. “And why was she threatening you?”

Emily spread her fingers out to the blaze of the wood fire. “Get me a drink and I’ll tell you all. Thank you, Peter. Now, where was I? Oh, yes. Hetty. She had been to your town house looking for you and she was in a terrible state. Her husband had run away to Brighton with one of the girls from the shop and, in some peculiar way, Hetty wanted to blame it all on you. She said you had infected her husband’s mind with your loose, aristocratic life-style. The long and the short of it is I told her not to talk such twaddle and to take herself off and she tried to scratch my face.
That
was when I threatened her with the police.”

“Poor Hetty,” said Kitty.

“Poor nothing,” sniffed Emily. “She’s a thoroughly nasty little girl.”

After the guests had warmed themselves, Kitty rang for the housekeeper to show them to their rooms and went to join her husband by the window.

The snow whirled and danced across the lawns, swirling and turning among the old trees, one minute falling as gently as on a Christmas card and the next blowing in great white sheets, blotting everything from view.

Peter Chesworth slowly took his wife in his arms and closed his eyes, conscious of nothing but the lips beneath his and the slim body against his.

“Oh dear,” twittered Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie from the doorway, “… very moving… to think… colonel and myself… so long ago… India… heat and flies… but babies… must set up your nursery… good nanny… so important… dear me… romantic… very romantic.”

“What y’ mumbling about now?” said her husband joining her in the doorway.

“Oh, go back to your whiskey and shut up,” said Mrs. Barlowe-Smellie, clearly and distinctly.