Katherine Wentworth (The Marriage of Katherine Book 1) Read online

  KATHERINE WENTWORTH

  D. E. Stevenson

  © D. E. Stevenson 1964

  D. E. Stevenson has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1964 by Collins.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  PART TWO

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  PART THREE

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  There are some days in Edinburgh when rain falls sullenly from leaden skies and the city looks black and grim and unutterably dreary; there are days when the wind blows like a knife, careering down the side streets, whisking up clouds of dust, tipping off hats and sending them bowling across the road . . . but when Edinburgh smiles her citizens forget her vagaries and remember only her beauty.

  On this particular day in March the weather was kind—it was a day borrowed from April—and the citizens were enjoying the sunshine. Some of them were strolling in Princes Street Gardens where already the trees were beginning to bud. I watched them, standing at the railings and looking down. Most of my life had been spent in Edinburgh so I knew the city in all her moods—grim, and mischievous and genial—I had seen her blanketed in snow, with icicles dripping from every gable; I had seen her in festive garb, to welcome royalty, with hundreds of flags fluttering gaily in the breeze.

  To-day was different—I couldn’t have told you why—the beauty of it caught my heart and I stared up at the Castle, stared at the huge black rock with its crown of buildings—old and grey and steeped in history—as if I were a visitor from a foreign land and had never seen it before. Above the jagged outline the sky was a tender blue and across it moved three large white clouds, slowly as a procession of dignified dowagers at an Assembly Room ball.

  Behind me was the rush and noise of the traffic in Princes Street but I heard it only as the background to my tapestry of dreams.

  This was the first day in the year that there was real warmth in the sun. I had opened my sheepskin coat and now a sudden impulse prompted me to take off my knitted cap and put it in my pocket. I shook my hair free . . . it was lovely to feel the sun, and the gentle breeze blowing through my hair.

  ‘Goodness, it’s Kit Loudon!’ exclaimed a voice at my elbow.

  The speaker was a woman in a mink coat and a smart green hat with a feather in it; her face was pale and fine-drawn; her hair, which lay in smooth waves beneath the green hat, was yellow. I had a vague sort of feeling I had seen her before, but when and where . . .

  ‘You haven’t changed a scrap,’ she declared, smiling and holding out her hand. ‘Besides, you used to do that at school—take off your hat and shake your head like a dog coming out of the water—and you used to say “I hate hats” and cram it into your pocket.’

  I smiled and said, ‘I’ve always hated hats.’

  ‘What fun to meet you like this! You’re just the same old Kit—I’d have known you anywhere.’

  Unfortunately I couldn’t return the compliment, it had taken me several puzzled moments to identify the woman, but she had mentioned school, and I saw now that her eyes were a curiously light brown—almost yellow—and she had a trick of opening them suddenly and very widely.

  ‘Zilla!’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Yes, of course. Look here, Kit, let’s go and have tea together. Do say you will. I want to hear all about you,’ she added eagerly.

  I was a little surprised. Zilla and I had never been great friends at school—for one thing she was two years my senior, which in those far-off days had been an immense gulf. It was only because we were both keen on games that there had been any contact between us. However, as it happened, I was free this afternoon so there was no reason why I should not accept her invitation.

  As we crossed the street together from island to island I tried to remember all I could about Zilla Maclaren and my mind went back to the green playing-fields of Dinwell School. Zilla had been captain of the first eleven when I was a very humble bowler—the sort of bowler who is summoned in despair when the other bowlers are exhausted. I remembered Zilla at the wicket: a tall lithe figure clad in a white flannel skirt with pads on her legs. Her hair was the colour of barley sugar—queer, spiky sort of hair which stood on end when she was excited. It was all coming back now. I remembered that Zilla always had the best of everything: the best bat that money could buy, the best tennis rackets—and lovely clothes! As I followed the mink coat across the street it was obvious to me that Zilla still had the best of everything.

  Her parents had been fat and uninteresting, rather overdressed when they had appeared at school functions (I remembered that quite clearly). They had taken her out to lunch on Sundays, driving up to the entrance in an enormous car; and she had had an older brother who had turned up at a cricket match and was obviously bored to death at the spectacle.

  ‘But of course he’s a Cambridge Blue,’ somebody had said. This was held to excuse him—as no doubt it did.

  As we went into the restaurant together I caught sight of our reflection in a large mirror opposite the door. We were an incongruous couple: Zilla in mink, with her perky hat and high-heeled shoes; I, bareheaded, in a shabby sheepskin coat and faded tartan skirt. However it was Zilla who had suggested having tea together so presumably she did not mind.

  We went upstairs and found a table in the window . . . and there before us stood the Castle, dreaming of past greatness in the afternoon sun.

  ‘Isn’t it splendid!’ I exclaimed involuntarily.

  ‘What?’ said Zilla. ‘Oh, the Castle. Yes, it’s looking rather fine to-day. Of course I’ve lived here all my life so I’m a little bored with the Castle. You can’t escape from it—I mean it’s always in the picture—but that’s heresy, isn’t it?’

  I smiled vaguely but did not reply.

  ‘You’re married!’ exclaimed Zilla, glancing at my ring.

  ‘Yes. At least I was. He died four years ago.’

  ‘Have you any children?’

  ‘Two—and a stepson.’

  Zilla looked at me in surprise. ‘You don’t seem old enough, Kit.’

  ‘Nonsense! You know how old I am.’

  ‘Twenty-seven, I suppose, but you certainly don’t look as much. You could pass for twenty-two—or less.’

  ‘With my back to the light,’ I suggested, smiling at her. Once again I couldn’t return the compliment for Zilla looked a good deal more than her twenty-nine years.

  She drew off her gloves and smoothed them thoughtfully. ‘What a lot you’ve done,’ she said. ‘I’ve done nothing.’

>   ‘Nothing?’ I echoed in surprise.

  ‘Oh, I’ve travelled a lot of course. Do you remember Jean Playfair at school? She and I travelled about all over the world and went to all sorts of interesting places. I simply love travelling. Then Jean married a London stockbroker—a frightfully dull man—and I couldn’t find anybody else congenial. I still go abroad when I can but it isn’t so easy nowadays. Since my parents died I’ve been keeping house for Alec; you remember Alec, don’t you?’

  ‘Your brother, who was at Cambridge?’

  Zilla nodded. ‘He bought a house at Barnton, overlooking the golf course. Alec is fond of golf and can play there or practise in the evenings when he comes home from the office. He used to play every evening in the summer but now he seems to prefer pottering about in the garden. . . . But tell me about you. What did you do when you left school?’

  ‘I managed to get a job in Oxford, working in a library. It was very interesting and I liked it. That’s where I met Gerald.’

  ‘You mentioned a stepson.’

  ‘Yes, Gerald had been married before and had a little boy of seven years old.’

  ‘That must have been difficult for you.’

  ‘Goodness, no! It was lovely to have Simon. There was nothing difficult about it. Gerald was doing historical research and some coaching in the evenings so we managed to find a little flat in a beautiful old house not far from the river. We were there for four years. . . .’

  I stopped suddenly, partly because the waitress had brought our tea but more because I had been swept back into the past and I didn’t want to talk about it, especially to a woman who was to all intents and purposes a stranger. We had been so happy in that little flat—Gerald and Simon and I—it had been quite perfect. Then the twins had arrived, long before they were expected, causing a good deal of surprise and alarm. Their hold on life had been so tenuous that Gerald had christened them himself the night they were born. He explained to me afterwards that he had done it carefully, according to the directions in his prayer-book, so he was sure it was all right. He had done it, not because he believed for a moment that an unchristened infant was in danger of hell, but because he thought it would be nicer for the babies to have names . . . and remembering Paris, where we had spent our honeymoon, he called them Denis and Marguerite.

  We had a few weeks of anxiety about the babies, but soon they began to flourish and we were able to bring them home from hospital.

  I had been afraid that Simon might be a little jealous of the twins, for naturally they needed a great deal of care and attention, but Simon adopted them as his own and nothing pleased him better than to help me to look after them. He would sit on a low chair near the fire to watch them have their bath, and he loved giving Daisy her bottle.

  Gerald pretended that the twins were a joke. I remembered him saying teasingly, ‘This is a nice thing to do to an old grey-haired man like me.’ He was only thirty-five but his life had not been easy and there was grey in the thick dark hair above his ears. ‘An old done man,’ said Gerald and hobbled about my room and made me laugh. In reality he was proud of the twins; I had discovered this curious fact one evening when Professor Dudgeon dropped in for a chat. The babies were asleep in bed . . . and suddenly, without a word, Gerald had risen and gone out of the room, returning a few moments later with a baby in each arm.

  ‘Allow me to present Denis and Marguerite, sir,’ he said—and with that he sat down and displayed their charms with a proprietary air which amused me considerably.

  ‘Dear me, how very small!’ remarked the professor.

  ‘They’re putting on half a pound a week.’

  ‘That seems—er—very satisfactory. Did you say they were twins, Wentworth? They do not resemble each other in the least.’

  ‘They aren’t identical twins; that goes without saying.’

  ‘Ah,’ nodded Professor Dudgeon. ‘Not identical. You say “that goes without saying”? I am not a geneticist, so I’m afraid . . .’

  Gerald was not a geneticist either, but he explained that a male and a female child are never identical twins.

  ‘Dear me, how interesting,’ commented Professor Dudgeon. ‘One wonders why that should be the case.’

  Perhaps Gerald did not feel competent to enlighten the professor or perhaps it was because Simon was sitting on the window-seat, listening with both his ears. Whatever the reason, Gerald changed the subject by displaying the babies’ hands. ‘Look, sir, aren’t they amusing?’ he said.

  Thus adjured the professor put on his spectacles and did as he was told. ‘How very curious! Just like—er—real hands!’

  ‘They are real hands!’ exclaimed Simon indignantly.

  But I knew exactly what Professor Dudgeon meant; the babies’ hands were pink and soft, and small as rose-petals, but just like real hands.

  The babies lay and stared; they were perfectly contented—as they always were with Gerald—and presently their eyes closed and they went to sleep in his arms.

  By this time the two men were in earnest discussion about a promising young student who had unaccountably ‘gone stale’ so I was able to remove the babies and carry them back to bed.

  Simon followed me and helped to tuck them in. ‘Daddy shouldn’t have wakened them, it was naughty of him, wasn’t it?’ said Simon.

  ‘Daddy can do whatever he likes,’ I replied.

  Simon nodded thoughtfully. ‘You promised to obey him. I heard you say it—quite loud.’

  It was strange that I should remember this incident so clearly—as clearly as if it had happened yesterday instead of seven years ago—it was only one of the many delightful and amusing incidents that had happened during the four short years of my life with Gerald at Oxford. I thought of this as I watched Zilla pouring out the tea.

  ‘Oxford,’ said Zilla thoughtfully. ‘It’s a beautiful city—so alive and interesting. Why did you come back to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Principally because of Aunt Liz. It didn’t seem to matter what I did or where I went, and she wanted me, so——’

  ‘I remember your aunt!’ Zilla exclaimed. ‘She was tall and thin and wore glasses. She used to come to school concerts and things, didn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, my parents died when I was a small child and Aunt Liz looked after me. She’s my father’s sister—the only relation I’ve got—so it seemed natural to come back to Edinburgh and be near her. I don’t live with her of course; it wouldn’t work.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘In India Street,’ I said.

  ‘Down there!’ exclaimed Zilla. ‘I wouldn’t like that!’

  Obviously this was true (mink coats are not very common in India Street) but all the same it was a comfortable little flat and I had been lucky to get it. The rooms were well-shaped—I had been able to fit in all the furniture that Gerald and I had collected—and the sitting-room window had a lovely view over the Forth to the hills of Fife.

  ‘Do you ever hear from Lina Hardwicke?’ asked Zilla.

  ‘Yes, of course. She’s a great friend of mine.’

  ‘I know. That’s why I asked. Lina was clever, wasn’t she? One of Miss Humble’s bright girls.’

  This had been a great joke at Dinwell School. Miss Humble was fond of saying, ‘Be bright, girls.’ If we had done particularly well, it was in our reports: ‘A bright girl, I am satisfied with her progress.’ It was the highest praise, seldom bestowed.

  The remembered joke brought us in closer touch and we smiled at each other.

  ‘Lina was very bright,’ I said. ‘When I was at Oxford we saw quite a lot of each other. She read Law and took an Honours degree.’

  ‘How amazing! What is she doing now?’

  ‘She’s married,’ I said—and smiled. It really was rather funny, for Lina had talked about a Career (with a capital C), but she had fallen for a large young man with curly hair—admittedly very attractive and had married him without delay. They lived in Birmingham and had four children and were very badly off.
/>   ‘What a waste,’ said Zilla as she thoughtfully stirred her tea.

  ‘I suppose it is—in a way,’ I agreed. ‘Lina could have married and had children without bothering about Law—a course of Domestic Science would have been more useful—but they’re blissfully happy and that’s the main thing. I haven’t seen Lina for ages but she writes to me when she has time.’

  Zilla had kept up with quite a number of school friends—far more than I had. Some were married, some had jobs of one kind or another.

  ‘This is fun,’ declared Zilla. ‘I’m glad I found you; and I don’t mean to lose you again, Kit. You’ll come and see me, won’t you? Alec is away all day so it’s rather lonely. I haven’t enough to do.’

  I looked at her in amazement. It was incredible. Zilla was actually complaining because she hadn’t enough to do!

  ‘You’ll come and see me, won’t you?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yes, I should love to,’ I said. ‘I’m afraid I must go now, Zilla. It’s been fun meeting you again.’

  ‘You needn’t go yet.’

  ‘I must, really. The twins are at a party and I’ve got to fetch them at six.’

  ‘But there are all sorts of things I want to talk to you about.’

  ‘Thank you for my nice tea,’ I said and rose to go.

  ‘Kit!’ she cried. ‘Wait a minute. You must tell me your phone number—and I don’t even know your name! Give me your card.’

  It seemed ridiculous that she didn’t know my name—I couldn’t help laughing—and of course I had no card, I had never possessed visiting-cards in my life, but fortunately I had a used envelope in my bag so I scribbled the number on it and gave it to her.

  ‘Wentworth!’ she exclaimed. ‘Is that your name? I know some people called Wentworth, they live near Wandlebury.’

  ‘I expect they’re Gerald’s relations,’ I told her.

  There were more questions coming, I could see, and as I had no time nor any inclination to discuss Gerald’s relations I said good-bye and hurried away. It had been amusing to meet Zilla like that but I didn’t expect an invitation to Barnton. She would lose the envelope and forget all about me.