Chapter 1 Presentation day. Finally, Kick thought as soon as she opened her eyes that morning. This is it, she kept thinking, her heart pounding. This is it. Rising out of damp sheets, Kick stole into the bathroom down the hall and ran steaming water into the tub, then spiked it with a strong dose of lavender oil to cleanse away the sour sweat that had drenched her the night before. Fear had plagued her dreams for weeks, encouraging one of her most embarrassing and least ladylike bodily functions-perspiration-and made daily baths an absolute necessity. Her new friend and fellow debutante Jane Kenyon-Slaney claimed to bathe only a few times a week, and yet she was as groomed and aromatic as the gardens of Hampton Court. Kick blamed her father''s insistence on sports for all his children, including the girls.
Perhaps if she hadn''t exerted herself so often on tennis courts or the harbors of the Cape, she would be as dainty as Jane and the other girls who''d line up with her that day. But then, she thought ruefully to herself almost in her father''s voice, she wouldn''t have won so many trophies. Still. Surely even Jane would be nervous in her place. Every photographed move Kick had made since her family''s arrival in London two months before had been leading up to the moment when she would lower herself in a meticulously refined curtsy before King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, then drink champagne with the most essential people in England. Kick had always been expected to perform better than anyone else, but here in England she wasn''t just Rose and Joe Kennedy''s fashionable daughter, eighteen years old and fresh from school, who could keep up with her older brothers when she set her mind to it. She was the daughter of Ambassador Joseph P. Kennedy, the first Irish Catholic ever to be appointed to the coveted post in this most Protestant of countries.
This time, she had to succeed. There was more than a trophy on the line. She''d been waiting for a moment like this forever, through every long mass and from inside every scratchy wool uniform at Sacred Heart. A new life. And now she had a chance at it-in one of her favorite places, thank the good Lord. She''d savored a delicious taste of English society two years before when, on a too-brief break from her year in the convent at Neuilly, she''d attended the Cambridge May Balls in a swirl of music and laughter. Now that she was free of nuns and school, she was ready to embrace it all-but as Kick, not just Kathleen Kennedy. Add to all that the problem of Rosemary, her beautiful older sister who''d be presented with her that morning, whose erratic behavior could make everything impossible, and Kick judged that her fear was well-founded.
A long hot soak in a fragrant tub would do her a world of good. Arms suspended in the water, Kick said a solemn Hail Mary and an Our Father before moving on to a short prayer asking God to guide her footsteps that day. A knock on the door interrupted her. Typical. "I''m bathing!" she shouted back, assuming it was Bobby, Teddy, or maybe Jean or Pat, one of her littlest siblings, who didn''t give a toss about the few moments of privacy she savored in a day. This day especially. As soon as she got out of the tub, she was in for relentless hours of beauty treatments, photo shoots, and then the presentation itself, followed by the most important party of her life. "It''s your mother," said Rose as she opened the door, letting in a gust of cold air.
She was wearing a tweed suit and black pumps, her dark hair sleekly coiffed and her red lipstick recently applied, looking ready for a ladies'' luncheon or a visit to one of the children''s schools. No one would know that in a few hours, Rose Kennedy would be stepping into a white Molyneux gown designed just for her and the night''s grand occasion. "A work of art," she''d said to her favorite designer on the phone. Now Rose perched on the rim of the white porcelain tub and looked down at her naked daughter. In an effort to look as slender as possible to her petite mother, who''d been monitoring every mouthful of food she ingested on one of her infernal index cards, Kick pulled up her knees, which she thought made her legs look thinner and her belly concave, then she stretched her arms around her knees in an effort to cover some of the rest. "I know you''ll make us proud today, Kathleen," said Rose, her voice sounding higher and tinnier than usual as it pinged off the tile walls and floors. "This presentation is so important for your father. For the whole family.
The English have been so accepting of the Kennedy family so far, but today will show them and the world that there is no difference between us and them." "Of course, Mother," Kick replied, because it was easier than pointing out that more than half of the many articles written about their family had included references to their Catholicism, or Irish descent, or both. It was only with her new friends-Jane, Debo Mitford, Sissy Lloyd-Thomas, and Jean Ogilvy-all of whom would be queuing with her to curtsy before the king and queen, that Kick could sometimes forget who she was. Rose made an effort to smile, then said, "You''ve done a wonderful job of keeping your figure, Kathleen. And, after some initial stumbles, of knowing who everyone is and engaging everyone important in conversation. The newspapers love you." "Thank you, Mother," Kick replied, now shivering in the tub. Her mother had left the door ajar, and a draft was blowing in, cooling the water and giving her goose bumps.
It didn''t help that Rose kept referring to her "stumble" from a month ago, when Kick had mistaken Lady Smithson for Lady Winthrop at the opera, a gaffe made worse by the fact that Lady Winthrop was a rotund matron whose husband had expatriated to Paris to live with his French mistress, and Lady Smithson was a statuesque but hardly fat beauty whose husband discreetly kept a French mistress in Bath. Thankfully, Lady Nancy Astor had come to her rescue with her trademark double-edged wit and said to Lady Smithson, "Gretchen, you can hardly expect such a young American to be familiar with the hypocrisies of English society as soon as she steps off the boat. Give her another few weeks and she''ll be insulting you without your even knowing it." It was a profound show of support from Lady Astor, once a belle from Virginia who was now a member of Parliament and one of the most important hostesses in her adopted homeland. When Lady Smithson had huffed off to find her seat, Kick had gushed her thanks to this fellow American, who''d replied with a wave of her hand, "Any opportunity to put that woman in her place is a welcome one, my dear." After that, Kick had made herself a set of flash cards, so that she could study every single name and face that appeared in the papers and magazines, and in the copy of Burke''s Peerage her mother had given her to study a week before they''d sailed from New York, insisting she must know who everyone was. She never got another name wrong. "I remember how difficult it could be, playing a role like this," her mother went on.
"There were times when I wanted to run away from all the duties of being a mayor''s daughter. But I''m glad I never did." "Seems like Grandfather would have made everything fun," Kick said, thinking fondly of her mother''s father, Honey Fitz, infamous former Boston mayor and number one grandfather. He never tired of playing on the floor with her and her siblings as children, or taking them to races and dockyards and political meetings as they got older. "He did," her mother agreed, looking down at her hands, "some of the time. But there is a big difference between being a parent and being a grandparent. He was different with me than he is with you and your brothers and sisters." "Mother," Kick said, sensing her mother''s little pep talk was winding down, and wanting very much to warm back up again, "the water''s getting cold.
" Rose stood and brought Kick one of the plush American towels she''d immediately ordered from New York when she saw the sad state of English towels, which were, as she''d put it, "little more than dishrags." Kick stood with a waterfall sound and wrapped herself in the blessedly toasty towel that had been waiting on that most ingenious of English amenities, the warming rack. She loved that the English had found so many weapons to combat the constant chill: warming racks in the bath, hot water bottles in bed, chic scarves from Liberty, steaming tea and sweets at four in the afternoon when it seemed the gray would never dissipate. Rose looked once more at her daughter, appraisingly, and Kick worried she might say more, but after a beat Rose informed her, "Hair and makeup is at eleven." Then, with that heavy sigh she indulged more and more often when thinking of her oldest daughter, she said, "Now to attend dear Rosie. Thank goodness I can count on you to take care of yourself, Kathleen." Rosie. Rosemary.
Her mother''s namesake and doted-on darling who was nearly twenty, a year and a half older than Kick herself, who so often acted more like she was ten. Which could be charming-until it wasn''t. Rose left in another puff of cold air. Despite the warm towel, Kick felt chilled down to her toes. At Buckingham Palace, there was a last-minute kerfuffle as Kick and Rosemary were lining up with the other debutantes because KickÕs train wasnÕt properly fastened to the white lace gown that had been han.