Virginia Henley (40 page)

“But it doesn’t seem fair to you, Charles. I’m supposed to take these young girls to England, and that means you’ll get stuck with making all the arrangements.”

He leered and said, “If I can just get rid of you, it’ll be like having a harem. I’ll push on in the morning while the weather is holding. The Irish Sea is a bugger once the winter gales start.”

Her grandfather soon was too weak to be up and she had the servants lift him to bed. She slept downstairs, next to him. When Terry came in that night, Kitty spoke to him about getting a physician up from Dublin.

“I think that’s what we’d better do. We have to overrule his objections and do what we think best.” He looked at her kindly. “Having you here has cut my worry in half.”

The physician told them bluntly there was nothing that could be done. He diagnosed a tumor and told them it would be only a matter of days. Kitty begged for something for his pain, and the doctor gave her the only thing he could.

The laudanum worked like a miracle. One dose at bedtime assured that he slept the night through. The doctor was wrong about the time, though. It went on and on and his pain grew more severe. Each time he dirtied the sheets, she would gently wash and change him and hold his hand. She wrote to
tell Charles that she would be in Ireland for the whole winter. She knew he would understand that she was staying until the end. In spite of the emotional drain, Windrush was a haven to her. She loved everything about the old house. It seemed to draw around her and comfort her. It was a place that had always known life and death, joy and sorrow, love and pain. Death finally came on the second day of February while winter still gripped the land. She could mourn his passing; but it was such a blessed release.

As soon as she got the letter from Charles, she packed up her family and left immediately. He had a touch of bronchitis, but as soon as the doctor gave him permission to travel, he would come for her. The carriage couldn’t go fast enough to suit Kitty. The moment it stopped before the mansion in Strand Lane, she dashed out and flew up the steps. She was dismayed to see him standing in his overcoat with his traveling case in his hand.

“You should be in bed. Wherever are you going?” she demanded.

“My dearest, I’m on my way to get you from Ireland, but as usual you have anticipated me.”

“Oh, Charles, I’ve been worried to death. Are you recovered?”

“All except for a slight cough. No, no, don’t kiss me, darling, I’m probably still infectious.”

That evening as they sat before the fire, he told her, “You’ll never know how much I missed you. I’ve never known such a dreary winter in my life. You are my dearest delight.”

She kept a surreptitious eye on Charles’ cough, even though she began immediate plans for a charity ball to raise money for the orphanages in Ireland. Julia was delighted when asked to assist, and the two spent a whole day together discussing their strategy.

“There’s so much organizing goes into one of these affairs, I don’t know where to begin,” said Kitty.

“I’ll get a committee together; there’re only two things I need you for, Kitty. One is your ducal coat of arms to head up the invitations, and the other is to show up on the night of the ball. Patrick’s back in London,” said Julia happily.

“Thank God he’s safe. He wasn’t wounded or anything, was he?” asked Kitty. Julia threw back her head and laughed heartily. “Oh, you do come up with some absurd notions, Kitty. He’s escorting some Americans about London. One of his business associates sent his wife and daughter over to escape the dangers of war.” Julia rolled her eyes heavenward. “What a complacent fool to think his womenfolk would be safe with Patrick.”

Later that evening Kitty recalled with irony Julia’s words about not needing her help. Charles’ bronchitis had taken a turn for the worse. She insisted he go to bed, then sent over to Harley Street for his personal physician. Julia would have to look after the running of the charity ball after all.

“I’m afraid his Grace has a slight touch of pneumonia. Keep him in bed, keep him warm and we’ll see if he’s any better tomorrow.”

He wasn’t. Kitty slept on a couch she had moved into his room. She did everything for him herself and allowed everything else to slide. Gradually Charles began to improve, but she didn’t lessen her vigil during his convalescence. Then Charles Patrick got a hacking cough. She whisked him to bed immediately and started nursing her second patient.

Charles remonstrated, “You’re tired to death; if you don’t get some rest you’ll be ill yourself. My darling, you’ve had so much sickness to cope with all winter and now this. You mustn’t worry about me. Spend your time with the boy, but don’t sit up all night, every night with him.”

She smiled gently at his concern. “That’s what mothers are for.”

The doctor finally declared that the child was out of danger and that Charles also was better. The doctor said reassuringly, “Medicine is the practice of keeping the patient entertained while we let nature heal. I think the boy is at the stage where he needs to be amused.”

Kitty tirelessly read to him, played card games and cut out paper dolls. She made his and her false moustaches, and another one when he insisted the dog must be included. She unstuck the black cardboard from her top lip with dismay as she realized the date.

“Katie!” she screeched at the top of her lungs. “My God, why didn’t someone remind me of the ball?” demanded Kitty.

“I thought you’d given up any idea of attending; you must be worn out.”

“But I’m the patroness of this affair; I must attend! Good heavens, I never ordered a dress or anything.”

She flung the wardrobe doors wide. “I haven’t even looked at these dresses since last summer. Oh, they’ve been so sadly neglected. That pale green one is a favorite, and this lavender, but look how they are soiled. Where are all the clothes I took to Ireland last autumn? Don’t tell me they’re still in my trunks! Good God, things should be run better than this; the place must have over a score of servants and yet there’s none to keep my clothes in order.”

“How about this lovely apricot satin?” asked Katie.

Kitty slipped it over her head and it fell off her shoulders and gaped back and front. “It always was loose on me, but I’ve lost weight, I suppose, and now it hangs like a sack. The gold lace on this one actually is tarnished; the same with this silver tissue.”

“What about this wine brocade? I don’t remember you ever wearing it.”

“Oh, I suppose it will do, Katie. I think perhaps I was too preoccupied with clothes and my appearance. Somehow this winter has put things in a new light. I was a social butterfly, so vain I had to outdo everyone.”

“Excuse me, ma’am, but what about your hair?”

“Good God, it hasn’t been dressed in ages. I’ve grown so used just to twisting it into a bun. It’s so wild if I let it free. I’ll just roll it into a chignon and wear one of those nets over it. See if you can find me one that matches the dress.”

She looked at herself in the mirror with a critical eye. Her throat was scratchy and there was a spot in her chest that burned like fire. She thought ruefully, The Gypsy’s showing; I’m as sallow as a guinea.

In the carriage she wished she’d made a different selection of dresses. What she first thought was a rich wine, she now realized was a hideous maroon. When she glanced across at Charles, thoughts of herself took flight. “Do you think you should have come tonight, Charles?”

“It’s my turn to look after you, my pet. You look completely done in to me,” he said tenderly.

She did not dare tell how she really felt, for she knew he would have the carriage turned around immediately.

They arrived at the Banqueting House at Whitehall Palace amid a crush of people. As she traversed the ballroom, graciously acknowledging greetings, the room became stifling. Her chest was on fire and for a moment she thought she might faint. Julia sailed up to her with Jeffrey quietly following in her wake.

“Oh, Julia, you look magnificent,” said Kitty sincerely. Julia was gowned in purple velvet with bishop sleeves. She looked down at Kitty. “Too bad I can’t return the compliment; you look a positive dowd.”

Kitty’s lips twitched in amusement. “Well, it’s not easy for a scullery maid to look like a duchess.”

“We can’t stand together; we clash horribly,” said Julia.

“We always did,” bantered Kitty.

“Don’t look now, but we’ve just been invaded by the Americans,” said Julia.

Kitty glanced across the room. Patrick had a beautiful blonde on each arm. The younger woman, no more than eighteen, wore an exquisitely designed rose pink crinoline. Every curl was in place, and her fair skin glowed as she looked admiringly up at her escort. The older woman was slimmer but just as beautiful. She wore a most sophisticated black silk. Kitty murmured, “I wonder which one he’s after?”

“Probably servicing them both at the same time if I know Patrick,” sneered Julia.

Jeffrey spoke up immediately, “That’s a disgusting thing to say, Julia.”

She laughed lightly. “Oh, you know my little jokes. I love my brother very much, in spite of his taste in women.” She looked pointedly at Kitty.

Kitty was dismayed to see Patrick bringing the younger lady over to introduce her. He bowed stiffly before Kitty and said, “May I present Her Grace, the Duchess of Manchester, Miss Amanda Astor.”

The girl’s laughter trilled out. “Oh, Patrick stop!” She turned to Kitty and said, “Patrick thinks I’m so gullible, I’ll believe anything he tells me.”

There was a stunned silence for a moment as the people around them couldn’t quite believe what they’d heard. Kitty’s lip trembled for a moment, but she caught it between her teeth and said softly, “I thank you sincerely for coming tonight, and I welcome you to England. I hope you are graciously received wherever you go.”

She turned to Charles and said, “Please excuse me,” and fled to the ladies’ room.

Patrick gave his companion a cold stare. He turned to Charles and asked, “Is her Grace unwell?”

“Patrick, lad, I’m worried to death about her. She’s had the devil’s own time of it lately. Buried her grandfather in Ireland, then dashed home to nurse me with pneumonia. To top it all off, Charles Patrick had a bad bout with bronchitis and she’s been up every night for a month.”

“Is he out of danger?” asked Patrick worriedly.

“Now, you know she wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t better,” assured Charles.

“Please convey my deepest sympathy to your wife, Charles,” said Patrick, crushing the impulse to run after her and comfort her. “Perhaps she’s caught the boy’s cold.”

“You may be right. I’m going to take her home to bed.”

The muscles in Patrick’s jaw clenched as he bit back the jealous retort that almost rose to his lips. He burned to go to her, but he wouldn’t break his bond. He had to be content with the knowledge that if she needed him, she would seek him out.

In the powder room Kitty smiled through her tears, “When he presents that dumpy little fat woman as Queen Victoria I hope she takes him at his word!” She despaired when she looked in the mirror. “He couldn’t have caught me looking worse!”

After a week in bed her strength came back. Charles found a tutor for Charles Patrick, and the boy took an immediate liking to him.

“Charles,” Kitty said, “Mr. Bromley is a lovely young man; he’s so easy to talk to.”

“Yes, he fits in well. Patrick recommended him,” he said offhandedly.

“Damnit all, does he have to meddle in our lives?” she stormed.

“Why, darling, we never see him.” He smiled indulgently. “However, I’m well aware you jar on each other’s nerves. The air fairly bristles whenever you come face to face.”

The following week she and Charles were just coming out of Humphrey’s Print Shop when she spotted Patrick with an entirely different woman on his arm. She quickly took Charles Patrick’s hand and crossed to the other side of the street.

“Kathleen, that was Patrick. You just cut him dead!” said Charles.

“What do you expect when he’s out with one of his whores?” she demanded hotly.

“Sssh,” Charles cautioned as he looked askance at the boy.

The following week, when young Charles was out with his tutor, Patrick was delighted to run into the boy. He eagerly scanned the dark head and handsome features of his son. Young Charles’ friendly curiosity got the better of him as he
eyed the young woman with Patrick. “You must be one of Patrick’s whores!”

Mr Bromley was aghast. “Forgive him, sir; he has no idea what the word means.”

“But that’s what my mother called her,” protested Charlie.

Patrick was at pains to calm the woman. She was incensed, for that’s exactly what she was.

As collector of customs for the Port of London, Charles was kept busy. Kitty was so proud of his achievements, but the extra work load kept him away from home long hours, and he traveled constantly among ports.

Kitty knew a great restlessness within her. When she saw Julia, she invited her to come out of London for the hot months. “I’m planning to go to my country place in Kent. We could ride every day, and why don’t you bring young Jeffrey along; the boys would be great company for each other,” enthused Kitty.