Catherine's Heart

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Miss Turner.”

  Milly fell silent. All eyes went to Miss Bernard, standing at the faculty table. The mistress gave Milly a look of mild warning. “We are at breakfast, Miss Turner, as you’re aware. Select one with more appropriate language, if you please.”

  “Yes, Miss Bernard,” Milly said amidst hushed titters and traded smiles. She leaned her head thoughtfully for a second, then nodded.

  “From ‘Dream Pedlary’ by Thomas Beddoes,” she said.

  “If there were dreams to sell,

  Merry and sad to tell,

  And the crier rang the bell,

  What would you buy?”

  “It’s just that I have what my father calls a photographic memory,” Milly said to Catherine and Peggy on their way out of the dining room a half hour later. “Or rather, what he called it, back when he took any notice of me.”

  “I wish I had one,” Catherine said. “I wouldn’t have to study so hard.”

  “I would settle for your hair,” Peggy told Milly as they entered the reading room.

  “Don’t say that,” Milly scolded. “Your hair is marvelous.”

  And they were carrying the envy a little too far, Catherine thought, when Milly claimed she would give anything to have the loving mothers she and Peggy took for granted. She spotted her name on an envelope on the chimneypiece.

  “Who would be writing me from Cambridge?”

  “Well, open it and see,” Peggy told her.

  “Perhaps you have a secret admirer,” Milly said. She and Peggy had no mail, so they trailed Catherine to a window, out of the way of others.

  Catherine shook her head, drawing out a single page. “Secret admirers are supposed to send flowers, not letters. It’s probably a bill for the linens, but I’m sure my father paid—”

  Some slips of paper fluttered to the carpet. She watched Peggy dive for them. “What . . . ?”

  “Tickets.” Rising, Peggy looked from the slips in her hand to Catherine. “The Man of Mode.”

  Oh no, Catherine thought with sinking heart. With both friends watching, she had no choice but to scan the letter.

  Dear Miss Rayborn,

  I was delighted to make the acquaintance again of Miss Somerset on Sunday, for I have thought of you often since my attention was most grievously directed toward you during that journey from London. Yet I could not recall your surname, so did not know how to address a letter. Do you enjoy theatre, Miss Rayborn? It would give me great pleasure if you and your friends would be my guests at St. John’s on Friday evening. Tickets for third-row seats are enclosed. And I hope that you will find the character of Bellair more endearing than you did Gloucester!

  With warmest regards,

  Hugh Sedgwick

  “Mr. Sedgwick is inviting us to the performance,” Catherine said with a bland smile, as if Peggy were not holding tickets.

  “Yes,” Peggy mumbled. Her freckles stood out against her pale skin like tiny copper pennies.

  Milly bit her lip, giving Catherine a helpless look.

  “I’m sure he thought it would be too bold of him . . . writing to you after you had spoken Sunday,” Catherine said, grasping at straws. “And it was me seated across from him on the train, so obviously he still feels he owes me an apology.”

  Peggy held out the tickets. The smile she wore did not travel up to her hazel eyes. “I don’t think I care to go after all. It was never my favorite story. But do go, Catherine.”

  “I don’t want them,” Catherine said, stepping backwards.

  “Then that settles it.” Milly snatched the tickets from Peggy’s hand, the letter from Catherine’s, strode over to the fireplace, and tossed them in. She stood there for a moment, ignoring the curious looks about her, then returned wearing a satisfied expression.

  “We could have given them to someone else,” Peggy murmured, staring in the direction of the fireplace. It was obvious that her grief was not for the wasted tickets.

  “Well, I’m glad you did it,” Catherine told Milly. “It’ll send him a clear message if those seats are empty.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Milly moved between the two of them to link arms. “No Bellair is going to break up the Three Musketeers.”

  But he managed to cause some damage, however inadvertently. For though Peggy treated Catherine with no less cordiality over the following week, even congratulated her for making a passing mark on her Hellenistic Age paper, an invisible curtain hung between them. Worse still, the two pretended not to notice its existence, which only gave it more substance.

  “She’ll get over it with time,” was Milly’s advice. “After all, you didn’t ask him to write. And you didn’t accept the tickets.”

  “Yes,” Catherine agreed, but she could not admit to Milly that not all of the unspoken reproach was on Peggy’s part. Ever since receiving the letter, Catherine thought of Mr. Sedgwick now and again in spite of herself. She would have enjoyed seeing him, if only to have watched him upon the stage.

  Another letter in the same hand arrived one week later. Fortunately there was also a parcel from her parents, and so while Peggy and Milly admired and passed around two shawls of gossamer-like saffron and cobalt blue yarn, Catherine was able to tuck the envelope up her sleeve.

  “What is pashmina wool, Catherine?” Eileen asked, draping the blue one over her shoulders.

  “It’s from a Himalayan mountain goat,” Catherine replied, glad for the distraction. “Woven entirely by hand, because it’s too delicate for power looms.”

  “Why, Catherine, you secretive girl!” exclaimed Elizabeth Macleod from the Tennis Club.

  “I beg your pardon?” Catherine’s pulse pounded so hard she could feel it where her cheeks met her ears.

  “You’ve never told me that your parents live in India. Why, I spent my childhood in Sanawar!”

  Which was a far distance from Bombay, but provided Catherine with the opportunity to distance herself from Peggy and Milly. She ambled down the corridor comparing experiences with Elizabeth, who explained that her father was an Army captain in their Sanawar days.

  When she was able to get away to her sitting room, Catherine sank into her corner chair and opened the envelope.

  Dear Miss Rayborn,

  I dared a glance at the third row during the performance, but the seats were empty. My fault entirely, for sending the tickets with so little notice, when you no doubt had other plans.

  The Man of Mode was received very well, despite the actor cast as Dorimant forgetting a line and having to be prompted. I do wish you could have seen it.

  Laughter and footsteps sounded from very near in the corridor. She prepared to tuck the page down into the cushions. But the sounds faded and she read on.

  And now on another subject, may I take the liberty of asking if we may correspond? I understand that your studies consume most of your days, as that first year is the most difficult, but if you spare time to do so it would please me greatly. I wait anxiously for your reply.

  With warmest regards,

  Hugh Sedgwick

  She read it three times, then looked about the room for a place to keep it. Not that Peggy would snoop, but it was too volatile a thing to keep where she could stumble upon it. She decided upon the chest of drawers in her bedroom. The thought occurred to her, as she tucked the letter beneath the paper lining of her stocking and handkerchief drawer, that she should toss the letter into the fireplace. Sentiment overtook that thought as quickly as fire had consumed the first letter. After all, he was the first young man ever to write to her. It made her feel quite grown up and even attractive. And she found she rather liked the feeling.

  ****

  Drizzling rain pelted the windows and sent damp chills through the corridors all morning on Wednesday, the seventeenth of November. But by noon at least the rain had ceased, though grey clouds still lurked ominously overhead.

  “I wish the day could have been prettier for you,” Catherine said after greeting and embracing her cousin in the
entrance hall.

  Sarah looked charming as usual in a day dress of buff oatmeal cloth and short coat of plum-colored cashmere. But the dampness had gotten to the blond fringe hanging in limp tendrils over her eyebrows. “Oh, but it was raining buckets in London,” she said.

  Catherine turned to the two beside her. “These are my dearest friends, Peggy Somerset and Millicent Turner.”

  “We’re very pleased to meet you,” Milly said, taking the hand Sarah offered.

  Peggy was just as welcoming. “Catherine has told us of Mr. Doyle’s work. Do you happen to know what sort of microscope he’s observing?”

  “Why, yes,” Sarah replied, smiling. “It’s quite new. Made in Germany by a Mr. Zeiss.”

  “I thought as much! I would give anything to see it. The microscope in our laboratory is older than—”

  She stopped when Milly nudged her. Miss Bernard was coming through the doorway from the first lecture room. Catherine introduced her cousin, the two made pleasantries over the weather, and Miss Bernard took out her pencil and asked Sarah to sign her notebook. “Please take no offense, Mrs. Doyle. We strive to keep account of our young women’s whereabouts when they leave campus, and in whose company they are traveling. Times being what they are . . .”

  “That’s very admirable,” Sarah told her. After Miss Bernard wished them a pleasant lunch and excused herself, Sarah turned to Peggy and said, “I wish Mr. Doyle were joining us. He would enjoy discussing chemistry with you.”

  Catherine’s heart sank. Did Sarah assume that, because she had asked her friends to come for introductions, that she desired to bring them along? Not that she wouldn’t enjoy their company under any other circumstance. But she had so hoped to pour out her heart to her cousin regarding the events of the past eight days.

  She held her breath when Sarah asked Milly and Peggy, “You will join us, won’t you?”

  She eased it out again when Peggy thanked her anyway and said, “You’ll have so much catching up to do.”

  Milly nodded agreement. “Let’s plan on that the next time you visit Cambridge, Mrs. Doyle. And I shall insist you all be my guests.”

  ****

  Catherine remembered her manners enough to ask about family during the short ride to Cambridge in the hired coach. Once they were seated in the busy, quaint dining room of the Nave and Felly Inn and had given the serving girl identical orders, she related her problem to Sarah. While she was very fond of William, she was relieved that he was lunching at Pembroke College. She would not be comfortable discussing such a subject in the presence of a man—kin or not.

  The seven years between Sarah and her had seemed a huge gap when Sarah was reunited with the family five years ago. But the gap narrowed with every occasion they spent together. Catherine had even served as bridesmaid at Sarah and William’s wedding. She could tell her older cousin things that she could not discuss with her own mother.

  “Has Miss Somerset asked you not to correspond with Mr. Sedgwick?” Sarah asked.

  Catherine shook her head. “But the friendship would be over if I did—even though she realizes he has no interest in corresponding with her. It would never occur to me to act such a way if the situation were reversed.”

  “You’re looking at the situation rationally, Catherine. Like a mathematical equation. Her emotions are involved, and you can count upon them to muddy things up.”

  Catherine had to smile. “Funny you should say that.”

  “Why?”

  “Peggy puts things to equation too.” And it was one of the many things Catherine found endearing about her.

  Their meals arrived—baked perch with Dutch sauce, roasted new potatoes, and cucumber salads. Sarah thanked the serving girl, and when she was gone, gave Catherine a helpless look. “I do wish your Aunt Naomi were here to advise you. She’s much more wise about this sort of thing.”

  “Then pretend you are her,” Catherine said while unfolding her napkin. “What do you think she would advise?”

  “Are you quite sure you want to hear it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well. Naomi would first ask if you’re in love with Mr. Sedgwick.”

  “In love? Sarah, I’ve only met him once.”

  “Then tell me what you know about him. Besides the fact that he’s handsome.”

  “I didn’t say he was,” Catherine was quick to point out.

  “I see. Then he’s not handsome.”

  “Well . . . no.” Catherine narrowed her eyes. “I believe I would rather hear your counsel than Aunt Naomi’s after all.”

  “Too late,” Sarah replied, and smiled. “I suspect they would be one and the same anyway.”

  With a sigh Catherine sat as far back in her chair as her bustle would allow. “Well, he’s enrolled in Saint John’s College . . . is involved in theatre productions . . . and . . .”

  She had to think for a second. “He had the good manners to apologize for the stunt on the train, and was generous enough to send us tickets.”

  But once all was spoken, Catherine realized how meager was the collection. “I’m not pining away after him, if that’s what you’re thinking,” she said defensively. “But how can I become better acquainted with him if Peggy’s feelings constrain me from doing so?”

  Sarah picked up her fork but merely held it above her salad. “Catherine, you believe otherwise, but you’re still very young. Even in such a restricted environment as Girton’s, you’ll have occasions to make the acquaintances of many men.”

  “I didn’t enroll in college to meet men,” Catherine protested. “Else I would have gone to London University.”

  “But of course you didn’t. What I’m trying to say is . . . women need friendships with other women. William and Father are the kindest, most compassionate men I know, but most times when I have a problem to sort out in my mind, I go to Naomi. She knows just how I feel. Women have that sort of empathy with each other.”

  “We do have a bond,” Catherine confessed. “I’m more fond of her than of any school friend I’ve ever had. Even though we’ve known each other less than two months.”

  “What if you were to trade that friendship for the opportunity to correspond with Mr. Sedgwick,” Sarah said, “then discovered that you have very little in common with him? Or that there was something deficient in his character?”

  “I don’t want to trade Peggy’s friendship. But what if . . .”

  “He’s the one meant for you?”

  “It’s not entirely impossible,” Catherine said with a self-conscious shrug.

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then what should I do?”

  “Are you asking me or Naomi?”

  Catherine smiled. “Both.”

  Returning her smile, Sarah said, “If I were you, I would send him a letter stating that a correspondence would not be possible at this time, due to circumstances that you’re not at liberty to explain. But if he would care to write again in the spring—”

  “The spring!”

  “Five months, perhaps six. Not a long time in the grand scheme of life, but surely long enough for Peggy to lose the infatuation or come to the realization that she cannot hold claim to him forever. After all, she’s spent only a little more time in his company than you have.”

  “Yes,” Catherine agreed, and after a hesitation said, “But what if he forgets all about me in the meantime?”

  “Then you’ll know he wasn’t the one, won’t you? Or it may be that you’ll lose interest yourself.”

  Lose interest? Panic must have shown in Catherine’s expression, for Sarah said, “A little time is a good thing, Catherine. I once had a beau courting me so intensely that I had no time to think. He was a curate who preached brilliant sermons and visited the sick, and everyone—including me—could not see his serious flaws. Had God not prompted me to wait until I was certain of my feelings, I may very well have been pressured into marrying the wrong man.”

  “Hmm.” Catherine forked part of a pot
ato and made a show of sprinkling it with black pepper. It seemed but a degree removed from fanatical to speak of God as if He were a participant even in courtships. But the advice seemed sound.

  You came here to study, not fawn over the first man to show you a little attention, she reminded herself. And it was true, she knew next to nothing of him. If academics did not remain her top priority, she would be packing up her romantic notions—along with her other belongings—by Lent Term.

  “I’ll do that,” she promised.

  “I don’t think you’ll regret it,” Sarah said.

  They abandoned the subject of Hugh Sedgwick for things such as Bethia learning the alphabet and the search for a house in Hampstead. Sarah asked about Catherine’s lectures and daily routine. They were just finishing their meals when Catherine glanced toward the rain-flecked window and spotted a pair of legs under an umbrella, bobbing from hansom to door. It was William, who gave his coat and umbrella to the innkeeper and approached the table.

  “Cousin!” He kissed the hand she offered. “I feared I wouldn’t make it in time to see you.”

  They addressed each other as cousin in jest, but it was true in a roundabout way, for William’s Aunt Naomi was married to Catherine’s Uncle Daniel. “I’m glad you did,” she replied, returning his smile.

  He merely touched Sarah’s shoulder while pulling out a chair, but the lightning-quick look that passed between his dark eyes and her green ones was more intimate than a kiss. “Is college all you expected it would be?” he asked Catherine.

  “And more so. The days fly so quickly—I’m afraid four years will be over too soon.”

  William chuckled. “You may change your thinking on that later on. And are your lectures interesting?”

  “Vastly! I’m learning so much.”

  “Even Classics?” Sarah asked, for most of the extended family knew of her anxiety over them.

  “While they absorb most of my study time, they’re not as overwhelming as I feared, thanks to a friend’s tutelage.” A very, very good friend, she thought.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” William said, but then was distracted by the cloud drifting over from the table to his right. Two women, appearing to be in their late twenties, had finished their meals and were enjoying cigarettes with their coffee.