Kit
Written for Lillie.
It is quite all right for Kit to be dead, except on Sundays, and afternoons at three.
During the day, he is often busy serving the mistress of the manor house where he waits, and in his spare moments he frequents shops and establishments, looking for combs and jewellery; and he often goes to the barber's, because if his beard grew it would be the worst of tragedies; and in the evenings, he prepares the mistress' last cup of tea and performs her last delicate handwashing (she has such terribly soft hands, she tells the maids softly, and they take so much care; no one but Kit does it properly)--but at three o'clock, he begs leave to go down to the cemetery (to see his sister, he says, and no one objects, for it is a terrible thing to lose a sister).
Olivia walks through the trees with her face veiled, weeping in her gloved hands, her big skirts making swishing sounds of sorrow. Her long hair in pinned up neatly and covered with black gauze, and Kit remembers that when she was a little girl she wore it loose and he put daisies in it. Olivia was a beautiful child, and she is a beautiful woman now, but he wishes he were still decorating her with daisies.
That is one of the things one must give up when one dies.
On Sundays, he asks to be allowed to worship at his own church, and because he waits on his mistress so well, and washes her hands so carefully, she is tender-hearted towards him, and bids him go. From his pew in the back, he watches Olivia weep through the service and follows her secretly when she walks in the cemetery afterwards. She pauses for a long time by his grave, and puts daisies on it, and sometimes Kit can't help himself. Sometimes he weeps, too.
Then he must return to his mistress, and arrange her hair, for the girl who does it usually is quite good, but his mistress likes to complain, and she will claim that only Kit can do it properly.
Kit remembers how it all began. When their father died, Olivia was older, and everything ought to belong to her, Kit thought, and might as well, since he was disgracefully bad at taking responsibility. She managed it all, anyway. He played with the servants, and made Feste do magic tricks for him; his favourite pastime was haunting ribbon shops, not overseeing properties.
Olivia was so busy all the time! His father used to draw him out with hunting parties or fencing lessons, dancing and archery and important dinners with important people, and he had rather liked those. Olivia, though, didn't have the time, for everything was her duty; and Kit was allowed to become a recluse. He got lonely, he thinks now. He had suddenly decided he wanted to become something somewhere that was full of people. He wanted to be surrounded by people, and loved--he wanted to be loved all the time, happily, passionately, fully, sweetly. He wanted to be always smiling.
But it began earlier than that. Their mother died when he was only a little lad, and he used to sleep with her dresses wrapped around him like blankets or pressed close and clutched in his hands. When he grew older, he grew taller, and she was a tall woman, too. Sometimes he wore her dresses, so that her smell was always about him. It was hard to be lonely when he had his mother so close. Their father tired of this fancy of his son, though, when Kit was thirteen, and told him flatly that he was not to wear her things any longer.
So Kit wanted his mother's smell, and his sister's attention, and he wanted bright, gentle love, and he finally one day found out how to get all those things. He put on his mother's dress and ordered Maria to show him how to arrange his hair and paint his face, and came to Olivia for a new maid, and she took him on because to her great surprise he knew her mind almost exactly. Of course, she quickly found out; he couldn't disguise himself from her; but for two days, she was immensely fond of him and confided in him and kept him close to her, and he felt too happy for words for those two days.
Afterwards she forbade him from wearing his mother's clothes ever again, so Kit went out and bought himself a dress of his own (''Tis for my sister', he told the seamstress. 'She is my twin sister, and we measure very like'). He discovered that the whorehouses by the docks were full of ladies who didn't mind teaching him about what women did as long as he paid them afterwards. He thought it was funny. Some young men squandered vast sums at racing or cock-fighting or foolish wagers, but his money all went to making himself a woman.
He thought he made quite a pretty woman. He had fine eyes, he told himself, very fine, and his curly brown hair, when he let it grow long, looked admirable in the latest fashion. Stays and corsets gave him a woman's body, and Kit was a good name, because it could become Kitty so easily. He was glad no one had ever called him Christopher. It made it so much the simpler to remember what his woman's name was. The only difficulty was keeping the secret from Olivia, and she was always so busy!
But she was not blind, of course. She did look after him closely, secretly, because she loved him dearly, because he was her brother. She made certain of more than simply his allowance and his education. When she finally confronted him, he was astonished. He had not realised that she had noticed his disappearances, his long curls, the clothes which he kept in a chest in his room that he thought he'd locked well. It was flattering.
It was also dreadful, for she was angry, and she told him no more. Kit was seventeen; he sighed, shook his head, and decided to die. It would suit things well, for she wouldn't need to worry about how he was faring or that he might be somewhere desperately needing her; and she wouldn't go looking for him; and he would be quite free, at last. He contemplated it for a week. It seemed too much, perhaps, but it also seemed too much to expect of him that he live in her cold, controlling house for the rest of his life.
He sees now that it was impulsive, and he often regrets it. Now, however, among women, serving the mistress of the manor house, he has learnt pride and also bitterness. He has been happy. The other girls all love him; they call him sister because he has a beautiful smile and loves them to play with his hair, because he shares secrets and money with them and keeps the mistress in a good humour. Now he has friends. Now he will not become a shrivelled, bitter man who hides himself away.
It is only on Sundays and at three o'clock on afternoons that he feels guilty, and he supposes that he deserves it to keep himself in check. It is only his proper punishment. He has grown almost used to it by now.
As much as it can be, as much as it will be, all is well.
Then, one day, Olivia begins smiling again. She doesn't go to the cemetery at three o'clock any longer, but only on Sundays, and Kit must visit her house to catch a glimpse of her. She is wearing her pretty dresses again, and once there is a flower in her hair, which makes him jealous. Only he is meant to put flowers in her long, curly hair.
He has heard that the Duke Orsino is courting her, but he heard that for love of him (for her poor, dead brother!), she refused the Duke. Perhaps it is another man. He makes sure that he is come every day at three o'clock, just as he used to come, to watch her. He must know what it is.
It does not take him long to discover. It is a boy, a soldier boy with a handsome young face and courtly manners, a soldier boy who smiles and talks and enchants Kit's sister. Kit is not sure that he approves, but it is good to see Olivia smile again. She has been weeping for too long a time, wearing her hair pinned up under black gauze for too many weeks. He is glad to see her with bright eyes again. Besides, now that she is happy, his freedom is perfect. She won't need to visit the cemetery any longer. They can both be glad of heart now.
Kit smiles, too.
But the soldier boy will not have her; he loves another lady. He apologises (how small and bitter a word 'apology' seems, how inadequate, Kit realises); he protests; he takes Olivia's hands and speaks with miserable intensity, and he loves another and will not have Kit's sister. Olivia is a good, hopeful girl. She waits for him to change his mind. He won't.
At last he does. Kit watches, feeling relief at last, as the soldier boy promises to marry Olivia shortly, as she runs away for the priest. Kit is satisfied, and he will stay to see his sister married before he goes back to the manor house. He creeps forward, kneeling in the bushes to see the soldier boy more closely, this soldier boy whom Olivia loves.
The soldier does not seem so like a boy from here. He seems older, somehow, rougher. His face is more like a man's. His eyes are darker. Kit leans forward to look at him. Well, perhaps it is his imagination, perhaps--
"Lady! Wherefore art hiding from me? Think'st I shall run away from thee, Lady?" The soldier laughs smilingly, pulling Kit from the bushes. "Nay, I'm thine." He kisses Kit's hand.
This has happened before. It is one of the exciting new pleasures of being a woman: the genteel kisses, the favours, the courtesies; the delicate language, the better seats. Kit lowers his eyes, and begins to say that he is not Olivia-- but the soldier boy kisses his mouth and he feels the funny scratch of a beard beginning, and doesn't have the heart to resist. His hand has been kissed before, but no one has ever given him a real kiss.
"Sir," he says finally, when the kiss is done (it was exciting, it was new, it was curious, it was thrilling, it was flattering--he liked it--it was love). "Nay, sir, thou'st mistaken me. I'm not thy lady. This maid thou see'st is but a maid, not like thy lady. She is Olivia, and this maid is called Kitty. I'm not thine."
The soldier boy blushes, a rough blush, a bit of colour in his cheeks partly covered by the light beard. "I crave thy pardon, maiden."
"'Tis thine, and thou must to forgive me. I shall go now."
"Thou'rt remarkably like."
"Sir?"
"Thou dost look fair close to Lady Olivia."
"I am her sister," says Kit quickly, and turns to escape. He meant only to watch the wedding, not to interfere. The soldier boy lets him go, most thankfully, but he still cringes inside and wishes he had never been found. It will be just his luck if something happens. To punish himself, he does not let himself see the wedding, but goes back directly to his mistress' manor house, and airs the bedchambers by himself, thinking of nothing but Olivia and her soldier boy.
A few months after the wedding, he goes back again. He can hardly help himself. She is his sister, his dear sister, and he wants to see her happy. She must be happy.
She is. She is smiling and singing softly, walking in the garden, with her face alight, and Kit feels a glad, full feeling in his heart. That is well. All is well, if Olivia is content now. He makes to leave. For a little while, though, he lingers in the kitchens to talk with Maria and Feste. Maria is married now to Sir Toby, and she agrees that Olivia is happy. Feste watches them both with keen eyes and enquires to know whether he has two mistresses or a master and mistress, and Kit tries to tease him, which fails, and to get a trick out of him, which succeeds. Feste takes three pennies from Kit's brown curls.
Kit has missed all this. They are good people, his sister's servants, and he did love them when he was a boy. It makes him glad to stand in their company once more. Before he leaves, he kisses them both and gives Feste half a crown to make those keen eyes glitter with amusement but not displeasure, and makes for the door;--and then Olivia's husband catches him.
"Olivia!" he calls, catching Kit's arm.
"Nay, sir, I--"
"Oh, now methinks I know thee. Kitty, is't not? Olivia told me she hath got no sister called Kitty."
"Of a certainty not. A lady does not get herself sisters; 'tis impossible." Kit tries to shake him off, cautiously. "I am still her sister, and she would know if she but saw me. Ah! but my mistress will miss me. Let me go, sir. I must home."
"But tell me who thou art before thou dost. Art her sister?"
"I tell thee, truly."
"She hath no sister."
"She thinks me dead."
"What?" He stares at her, startled. "Wherefore dost not tell her thou live'st?"
"'Twould break her heart. 'Tis no matter. Let me go, sir."
"Nay, but--"
"Sir, I beg thee--"
"Thou'rt a fair maid. I bethink me thou'rt beautiful. Wherefore dost not console thy sister?"
"She is past that. She hath forgotten me, and 'tis better."O
Olivia's husband crinkles his forehead fetchingly and his eyes darken with confusion, but he drops his hand and releases Kit's arm. That is all that Kit needs, and he makes quickly to go, half-tripping in his haste. It is, he thinks, better that he does not come again. Olivia is well, and happy, and he knows it well. He does not need to come again, and it will be better that way. He goes back to the manor house, resolute.
But it is not so simple. Perhaps nothing is, he thinks. Perhaps that is man's punishment, or man's destiny, or some such nonsense--he is inclined, now, to call everything nonsense, in his frustration. For Kit cannot forget about Olivia's husband and his crinkled forehead, his kind eyes and fond, firm voice, and the pleasing way he kissed Kit's hand-- Thou'rt a fool, Kit tells himself, as he washes his mistress' hands in his special careful way and she sighs with relief. He is a fool. Even if he were not simply a boy wearing woman's clothes, Olivia's soldier is Olivia's. It is none of his business. He has no right. It would be wrong. He glowers fiercely at his mistress' long yellow hair as he braids it before bedtime, and repeats admonishments. He cannot have Olivia's husband. He is not to go back to her house. He is to stay with his mistress and serve her as he has done for so long unshaken.
If only it were so simple! If only things made sense. Kit cannot help going back to look at Olivia's husband (it is only to look, he whispers to himself, only to see, not to speak or greet or have, no, nothing like); he cannot help going back and haunting the kitchen while Maria insists worriedly that he must go home, while Feste's keen, bright eyes watch him sarcastically and cleverly and he knows that he has no place here any longer.
It is only that Olivia's soldier has such a fine face, such pretty manners. He is so good and sweet to Olivia and seems to be so fond of her. He treats her so well. Kit envies. Kit has never envied his sister before, but now he is secretly jealous of her luck and her soldier.
One day Olivia's husband catches him again. It shows no skill on the soldier's part, for Kit is bad at concealing himself and comes so often, but he acts as though he's made a great accomplishment. He stands Kit proudly and looks at him with great interest and curiosity, like a moth he's just captured or an important book he's been searching through a library for all afternoon.
"Kitty, maid," he says. "Thou'rt come again."
"Yea, sir, but I do wish me I had not. I beg thy forgiveness. I shall get me--"
"Nay, stay a moment. I confess I had looked for thee and wondered where thou wast gone. Tell me truly, maid, who thou art. Olivia hath got no sister, she tells me. She means it. What art? Art not her sister--perhaps her cousin?"
�Not so. No, nor her sister, neither, sir. I am i' the wrong, I did tell thee untruth. Please, I shall go from thee and her, for I have wronged thee both."
"Stay a moment," he repeats, lifting his hand to touch Kit's shoulder. "I would know who thou art. Verily thou'rt beautiful, as fair as the lady herself. Thou dost much resemble her. I had thought thee her twin once, and did not doubt thee when thou didst call thyself her sister." A sudden frown came into his eyes as a thought struck him. "Are not--her daughter?"
"Nay, sir! I am not!" Kit tries to weep, but he was never good at pretence, and he is a little too frightened and a little too unhappy to manage it. Instead, he shudders, and Olivia's soldier puts his arm about Kit's shoulders gently.
"Come now. Thou need'st not be distressed, maid. 'Soath, though, thou art pretty, and very like her." He touches Kit's chin and cheeks, studying his face, and Kit realises it to be almost the fourth time he has told him so. Perhaps--but that must not be so. There could be nothing worse, he thinks fervently, nothing worse. Olivia is his sister. He will not wrong her. He will not.
"Let me go, sir, give me leave to go. I shall go! Thou dost not understand me! I am very like thy lady, but I am not she, no, sir, not for all I have her face. Thou must to let me go. Please." Now he is frightened enough to weep, and Olivia's husband seems overwhelmed with pity. He takes Kit's chin in his hand and kisses the side of his mouth, and those kind eyes are full of concern. "Nay, sir," says Kit miserably, shaking his head, "but I am not the maid thou think'st me."
It has been his best secret, and it has made him happy. He has, indeed, never been happier. To wear his mother's dresses, to have Maria arrange his hair, to get courtesies from the gentlemen and confidence from ladies, to be flirted with and loved and happy--he has been happy to be a woman, more than quite anything in the world. But he knows that Olivia's husband is not his, and it is not worth her happiness to keep him, he knows. He cannot have the soldier boy. Olivia used to share things with him when he was a lad, and she was kind to him. Sometimes she even gave him things all of his very own, and sometimes they were her things to begin with. The soldier is something Kit cannot share, and he belongs to Olivia, and it is time Kit let her keep her things, for he is not a lad now. He shakes his head and looks carefully at the soldier's face.
"I am not a maid, sir."
Olivia's soldier sighs. "Many ladies are not, Kitty. 'Tis not so terrible a crime as thou think'st."
"Not so, sir. I am no woman. I am Olivia's brother, sir, thy lady's brother for whom she wast in mourning this last year. She thinks me dead. Oh, she would die of shame did she know, I tell thee truly."
"Her brother?"
Kit is seized with happiness, now. He has told his secret, and Olivia shall have her husband. He nods happily, brightening all over, and takes the soldier's hand. "Aye, sir, her brother. I am her brother. Christopher, sir, is he thou speak'st to."
"Her brother?"
"Aye, sir!" Kit smiles. "Aye, so I am."
"I--I tell thee, I cannot think what to say."
"Nay, thou need'st say nothing. I am glad thou dost but know, now. I beg that thou wilt not tell her that I live, but return to her, and I will go back to my home. I shall not trouble thee again, sir. Here." Kit draws himself away now, gently, letting go of the soldier's hand, and turns, relieved. It is all well. Olivia's husband is safe, and he is free, and he will not need to come back again. He would run from the grounds, but of course a lady does not run; so he walks with dignity until he is on the road, and then he laughs, joyfully. He is free at last, and will never need to return.
He does not think so spare a thought for Olivia's husband, though he does remember Maria fondly and regard even Feste's memory with a smile. He goes back to the manor house and washes his mistress' hands so well she tells him that she has never felt so relieved.
Kit has never felt so triumphant.
It is quite all right for him to be dead, now, all the time--on Sundays, even, and every afternoon.
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