“Ouch!” he exclaimed when she pinched him in the side.
“Good men aren’t allowed to mock their wives,” Sarah said, smiling against his shoulder.
Six
“Mind you hang on to that umbrella, Eileen,” Catherine said, wringing salt water from the hem of her gown as she noticed the dark clouds on the sea’s horizon. “We’ll use the underside to collect rainwater.”
“Perhaps there’s a brook or creek?” Mary Dereham said with a tentative nod toward the dense plant life meeting the sand.
That was a possibility. Along with the possibility of creatures of all sorts. Catherine had read of carnivorous lizards the size of ponies . . .
Don’t think that! she ordered herself. She had to be strong for the others. And she felt partially responsible for their plight, for it was she who had chartered the boat meant to carry the whole freshman class to Bombay for the long vacation.
“Tomorrow we’ll explore,” she told the others. “But our first priority must be shelter.” She pointed off toward the craggy cliffs rising above the cove. “I spotted a cave just before we hit the rocks.”
“A cave!” Eileen Stocker exclaimed in a dismal tone.
Ann Purdy broke into sobs. “We’re never going to get—”
Catherine moved over to the girl and took hold of her narrow heaving shoulders. “We’ll get through this,” she said firmly, and not just for Ann’s benefit, for other faces were beginning to crumble. She dipped into her pocket and brought out a red tin. “And look what almost floated past me.”
“My lozenges!”
Expressions lightened. In keeping with the more optimistic spirit, Peggy pulled a handful of long grass from a clump pushing out of the sand. “We should gather some on the way, don’t you think? For bedding?”
“Excellent idea, Peggy,” Catherine told her. “But quickly. And I’ll pull some bamboo.”
“What for?” Helene’s voice came from behind as Catherine started toward a stand of stalks at the jungle’s edge.
“You never know what may come in handy,” Catherine replied over her shoulder. Best to wait until they were sheltered to inform them that they would have to spend most of the evening using rocks to file sharp points to make spears.
We should collect hairpins, too, she told herself. She could feel one against her damp scalp, so surely the sea had not snatched all of them. They could be fashioned into crude hooks. Fishing line would be a problem, she thought, until she glanced back and caught sight of a certain head of long ashen hair. She could only hope that Milly’s philanthropy outweighed her vanity . . .
“Miss Rayborn?”
Catherine blinked and drew in a quick breath. The deserted island gave way to Lecture Room Two, her summer vacation turned back into the first of November. And staring down at her stood Dr. Precor of Saint Catherine’s College.
“Yes, Dr. Precor?” she said with cheeks aflame.
He clasped his hands behind his back during a silence that stretched out forever. “I said, Miss Rayborn . . . for what reason did Cato the Elder, who so fervently despised Carthage that he closed every speech to the Senate with Karthago delenda est, oppose Scipio Africanus’s consulship and plan to crush Carthage?”
She cleared her throat, shifted in her chair. “Cato . . .”
“ . . . the elder,” the professor supplied.
Think, think! she ordered herself, mentally racing through the corridors of her mind for whichever corner held the information she had absently tossed there after last night’s study session with Milly and Peggy. Easily she recalled the meaning of Cato the Elder’s closing words: Carthage must be destroyed. So why would he not support Scipio Africanus’s endeavors to do just that?
Dr. Precor was still staring, waiting, which made her all the more nervous. The fact that she could not remember the answer was not as shameful to her as the fact that she had been caught spinning wool during lecture. Finally she had to admit, “I don’t know, Sir.”
Mercifully, he allowed his eyes to linger upon her only a fraction of a second before moving on. “Miss Turner?”
Catherine looked over at Milly in the second row on her left. She could read in her friend’s expression that she knew the answer. Go ahead, tell him, she urged silently, though Milly was still looking at Dr. Precor and not at her.
“I don’t know, Sir,” Milly replied. It was obvious in her tone, at least to Catherine, that she had had to force out the words.
Dr. Precor closed his eyes, sighed, opened them, and moved on. “Miss Dereham?”
Catherine’s neighbor on the sitting room side answered, “Cato the Elder detested the extravagance of the Scipios and their adoration of Greek culture. And he may have envied Scipio Africanus’s popularity.”
“Well said, Miss Dereham.”
As Dr. Precor walked back to the lectern, Mary Dereham sent Catherine an apologetic look. Catherine smiled back, shook her head slightly. She couldn’t expect the whole class to fall on their swords to spare her embarrassment. But in the corridor after lecture, she put an arm around Milly and gave her a squeeze. “Thank you,” she said just under the hum of conversations going on about them. “But please, never do that again.”
Milly’s face was all innocence. “Do what?”
“You knew that answer.” Catherine lowered her voice. “I don’t want you to lie for me, just because I wasn’t paying attention. It’s not right, and it’s not fair to you.”
“Oh, very well. But do try to save your grand adventures for night. Where were you this time—Paris?”
Catherine shook her head and gave Milly a sheepish look. “A deserted island.”
Her friend, who was her enemy until ten days ago, slanted her indigo eyes at her and laughed.
And I should have never doubted you, Catherine thought, smiling. You would have sacrificed your hair without a second thought.
****
One discipline mastered by every Girton student, no matter what her lecture schedule, was to check the mantelpiece of the reading room in the short space of time between breakfast and penciling her initials on the marking roll for the first of three times daily. On Tuesday, the second of November, Catherine, Peggy, and Milly each had a letter.
“Justin!” Milly said, breaking the seal after the three stood aside so others could check for mail.
Catherine recognized her cousin Sarah’s precise script and slid her thumb under the flap.
Peggy grumbled under her breath and tucked hers unopened into her waistband.
Oh dear, Catherine thought, restraining a smile. This wasn’t her first letter from Oliver Piggot. When Peggy glanced at her, she assumed a blank expression and turned her attention to the words on the page before her.
Dearest Catherine,
William has asked me to accompany him to Cambridge on the seventeenth of November so that I might visit with you while he observes a new microscope at Pembroke College. Are you allowed to lunch away from Girton? If so, will you ask permission for me to call for you—
Peggy’s voice cut into her concentration. “What is it, Milly?”
Catherine looked at Milly, who was holding a page to her bosom. “Justin and Adam Croft, the headmaster’s son, have become close friends. Adam has a stammering problem as well. But no one dares make sport of either of them, for fear of Mr. Croft hearing of it.”
“Why Milly, that’s wonderful!” Catherine said.
Milly swiped her fingertips under her eyes. “It’s good to know there are still some people in this world who treat children kindly.”
“Yes, it is,” Peggy agreed, resting a hand upon her shoulder.
Smiling appreciatively, Milly said, “And your letters?”
“My cousin Sarah,” Catherine replied. “She’s to visit Cambridge in a fortnight.”
“And you, Peggy?”
“Just a neighbor,” Peggy muttered.
****
Sundays at Girton were altogether different from the rest of the weekly routine. Serv
ices at Saint Andrew’s in Girton Village had the unfortunate reputation of being as lifeless as its churchyard, so all but a few students and staff went to Cambridge for the day. There were always fine sermons in the University Church, many conducted by distinguished visiting preachers. A leisurely lunch followed at Mrs. Golden’s Reading Room for Ladies, and then afternoon choral services at King’s College Chapel.
Such became the Sunday ritual for Catherine, Peggy, and Milly. But on the seventh of November, Catherine blinked at her reflection in the mirror above her chest of drawers and prodded her murky mind to make a decision. Girton or Cambridge?
While concentrating on the sermon would be far more difficult in Saint Andrew’s, she could be back in bed in less than two hours. Not so if she chose Cambridge, even if she left directly after morning services. Lunch was not a factor either way—during the night hours she had nibbled away a tin of Temperley’s Tempting Chocolate Biscuits and a wedge of cheese saved from supper, and her body craved sleep more than food.
At the light knocking on the sitting room door, she left the bedroom and padded around the study table, still strewn with books and papers and crumbled waxed biscuit wrappers. “Yes,” she yawned, staring at the knob as if it would turn itself. “Come in.”
Milly came through the door, ash blond braids coiled upon her head like a silver crown, a forest-green-and-black striped silk lengthening her five-foot-seven frame.
“Catherine . . .” Milly’s eyes traveled from the uncombed hair falling to Catherine’s waist to the bare toes peeking out from the hem of her dressing gown. She took a step closer, brushed a finger against Catherine’s chin, and stared at the black speck that came off on her fingertip.
“Chocolate biscuit,” Catherine explained, too sleepy to be embarrassed.
“Breakfast is laid,” Milly said. “Why haven’t you dressed?”
Taking a step backwards, Catherine nodded toward the table. “The Hellenistic Age.”
“But the composition isn’t due until Tuesday.”
“Yes, Tuesday,” Catherine sighed. And if she burned the midnight oil again tonight, perhaps she would be able to explain competently to Miss Welsh, lecturer in Greek and Roman Society, the effect of Greek culture upon the known world in fourth-century BC.
“Did you go to bed at all?”
“Uh . . . no.” Catherine blinked at her and smiled. “But I’ll make up for it after church. I’m going to join the Girton group, so you shouldn’t wait.”
But wait she did, Peggy as well. While Milly brought toast, quince jelly, and tea from the dining hall, Peggy chose from Catherine’s wardrobe a costume of blue India cashmere with an overdress of a grey-blue shade called nuit de France.
After Catherine finished her toast and tea, sponge bathed, and brushed her teeth, both helped her into her clothes. Peggy gathered the sides of Catherine’s chestnut brown hair into a comb at her crown, over which she pinned a blue velvet hat. And the two went the second mile by declaring they would accompany her to the village church.
“Please, you’ve done enough,” Catherine protested.
“We three musketeers have to stick together,” Peggy said.
“Stick together,” Milly echoed. “All for one and one for all.”
“That’s so . . . sweet,” Catherine said, touched to tears by their self-sacrifice. She yawned, then said, “I love you both.”
“We love you, too.” Milly exchanged sage looks with Peggy. “But don’t go pinning medals on us just yet. We plan to enjoy lunch and the afternoon service in Cambridge once we’ve put you back to bed.”
The three walked up Cambridge Road with seven Girton students and Miss Scott. Chatter was kept to a minimum, everyone either preparing hearts for worship or being hushed by Miss Scott for not doing so. Other groups of parishioners strolled in the same direction, turning onto the lane leading through the churchyard to the south entrance. On either side, old and not-so-old gravestones were shaded by lime trees.
Twelfth-century Saint Andrew’s was a squat, solid structure of light brown fieldstone, with parapets and a range of Gothic perpendicular windows situated below a handsome clock tower. In the pew Catherine was flanked by Peggy and Milly—just in case. Reverend Murray’s soft-spoken sermon on The Milestones of Life did not help Catherine’s state of semi-attentiveness; but then, it would have been the same had he thundered out the story of Gideon and the Midianites.
Less than an hour later she lay in her chemise, sandwiched between sheets and covers, listening to the bedroom door easing closed. From far outside the window drifted the lowing of cattle. The sound was always a comfort to her urban ears. How serene they are, she thought. They’re content to munch on grass and don’t care a pin about Ancient Greece.
****
The study was smaller than Hugh would have expected, considering Reverend Leigh’s positions as vicar of Saint John’s Chapel as well as head of the History Department. An oak desk took up most of the space. The shelves groaned with worn-looking books with titles such as The Marrow of Modern Divinity and Hebrew and English Lexicon of the Old Testament. Stuck in a space between books was an odd item for one who lived an ecclesiastical life, a mottled cricket ball with frayed lacings.
“From the winning game against Eton when I was in sixth form,” the heavyset man explained from the opposite side of the desk, after a glance in the direction Hugh was looking. “I was fielder for a little school in Sutton, so it was quite a victory.”
His sentimental smile gave Hugh just a fraction of hope. Obviously Reverend Leigh, whose blond hair and beard had no traces of grey, had not yet forgotten what it was like to be young. Perhaps he had even laughed privately at the prank, and had only sent for him out of a clerical obligation to set him back upon the straight and narrow.
But hope faded when the somber expression resumed itself. The minister laced thick fingers together atop the folded handkerchief upon his desk and fastened brown eyes upon Hugh’s face. “You have attended chapel faithfully for almost four years now, Mr. Sedgwick. Thus, I have labored under the assumption that you are a Christian . . .”
That stung. “But I am, Sir,” Hugh mumbled.
“And you believe what you did was Christlike?”
“No, Sir.” The fresh memory of Reverend Leigh turning his back to the congregation to offer prayer burned into his mind. “I beg your forgiveness for my . . . humiliating you.”
“Is that why you think I’m angry?” The minister sighed, shaking his head. “I am only too aware that obesity inspires levity among weak-minded individuals. What you did was far more serious than humiliate me. You made a mockery of worship, the awesome privilege of communing with a holy God. He had Moses take off his sandals when He appeared in the burning bush. We may not take off our shoes, Mr. Sedgwick, but He is still to be reverenced.”
Shame washed through Hugh with feverish chill.
“I will not ask why you did it, Mr. Sedgwick. Of course it was to win some wager. No doubt the laughter was music to your ears.”
It was indeed, but now the memory sickened him. And he had thought himself so clever! He wiped his forehead. “I wish I had never done it.”
“Wishes cannot alter the past, young man.” Slowly Reverend Leigh unfolded the handkerchief and spread it upon the desk. Bold black painted letters spelled out Exitus acta probat. Not a humorous phrase per se, but when pinned to a certain area of the back of a minister’s vestment, could cause a nave filled with college men to double over in their pews.
“The end justifies the means,” Reverend Leigh translated flatly. “For someone with such mediocre marks, at least you’ve learned your Latin.”
Hugh winced. The temperature of the room had jumped ten degrees, and the walls were closing in on him like the torture chamber in Poe’s “The Pit and the Pendulum.”
“How did you get your hands upon my vestment?”
“I slipped into the vestry late last night, Sir.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, Sir.”
/>
“Then I would like the names of everyone involved in the wager.”
There was no wager, rose to Hugh’s lips. But he could not bring himself to compound his sin with a lie. Yet he could not turn in his friends—even though one had so obviously broken his vow of secrecy. “I can’t tell you that, Sir.”
“And why not?”
Hugh decided to risk appealing to the vicar’s not-too-distant youth. “Sir, would you turn in your friends, if you were me?”
The brown eyes narrowed. “You know I could have you sent down.”
“Please don’t,” Hugh said, moving to the edge of the chair. “I’ll do anything.”
In a silence that seemed palpable, save the pulse pounding in his neck, Hugh sat under the minister’s scrutiny. Finally Reverend Leigh sighed.
“Very well.”
Hugh let out a breath, only then aware that he had been holding it. “Thank you, Sir! I’ll never forget this.”
“Nor shall I, Mr. Sedgwick. And now to your penance.”
“Penance?”
“You did just say you would do anything, yes?”
“Oh yes, Sir. Anything.”
“First, you will put every shilling you won in the parish poor box. Can I trust you to do that?”
“I’ll put it in your very hands, Sir.”
“That will not be necessary. The box will do.” The vicar sat back in his chair and folded his arms. “During your slipping about last night, you must have noticed crates of hymnals. They arrived Wednesday, but must be inscribed before we can set them in the pews.”
“Inscribed, Sir?”
“Inside the cover, with ‘Saint John’s College Chapel.’ ”
“And you want me to do the inscribing?” That didn’t seem such a difficult penance.
“In your neatest hand. There are two hundred. I’ll not assign work on Sunday, so you will begin tomorrow.”
Two hundred? Hugh was careful not to allow panic to creep into his expression. Better than being sent home, he reminded himself. “Of course, Sir. But if I may beg your pardon . . . I’ve rehearsals every evening this week. May I wai—”
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