Leaning forward a bit, he lowered his voice. “I hope you’ve not been pressured into doing the same, Catherine. I remember how it was, college students away from home experimenting with new things.”
“William . . .” Sarah said.
“Well, we did promise your Uncle James we’d look out for her.”
Catherine wrinkled her nose at him. “I only know of two girls who smoke.” It was against Girton’s rules, but the nose didn’t lie. “And I tried it once but didn’t care for it.”
“Good for you. I realize this is monstrously unfair, but men talk amongst themselves about women who smoke, and their words are not usually flattering.”
The concern in his expression was too much, so Catherine couldn’t resist adding, “Besides, snuff is so much more convenient, what with not having to carry matches.”
The two stared, until the corners of Catherine’s mouth betrayed her.
“Why, you little . . .” William said with a chuckle.
Sarah and Catherine smiled at each other. Presently Sarah touched her husband’s hand and said, “Don’t keep us guessing, William. What did you think of the microscope?”
He blew out a long breath. “It was superior to any I’ve ever seen, Sarah. I intend to write to Mr. Zeiss and order three as soon as we’re home.”
“Very good.” But Sarah seemed distracted, pressing a fingertip against her chin thoughtfully.
“What is it?” William asked.
She looked at him. “Do you think you could order four instead?”
“Four? Not without applying for extra funds. But I don’t see the need for another.”
“Not for the Commission. To donate to Girton College. What they have now is . . . how old, Catherine?”
“I’m not sure,” Catherine told her. “I can recall something like Pillischer and the number 535 engraved on the base. Does that help?”
“535?” William shook his head. “It was efficient enough in its day—over twenty years ago.”
“Doesn’t seem fair that the men have all the best equipment, does it?” Sarah asked.
“No, it’s not.” His smoke-colored eyes crinkled at the corners. “An excellent idea, Sarah. We’ll do that.”
“Thank you!” Catherine exclaimed. “I can hardly wait to tell Peggy.”
“Peggy?” William asked.
“I’ll tell you all about her,” Sarah promised, picking up her reticule from the empty chair. “But if we’re to make our train, we have to leave now.”
Back at Girton, Catherine stood outside the gate and watched until their coach was out of sight. Then she hurried into the building and down the main corridor, stopping at number four. Peggy, clad in a Bloomer suit, answered her knock.
“Catherine,” she said with a weary smile. “Do come in.”
Moving into the sitting room, Catherine said, “If this is an inconvenient time . . .”
“Of course not.” Peggy closed the door. “I’m just winded. Playing Milly at ‘fives’ is like playing a tornado. Did you enjoy your lunch?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Would you care to have a seat?”
“Oh, I’m staying but a minute. I just wanted to deliver some news.”
“News?” Peggy said with raised brow.
Catherine told her of the microscope soon to be donated, and all because Peggy had so impressed Sarah with her desire that the college laboratory have a better one.
“It’ll be your legacy to Girton College,” Catherine told her.
“Remarkable!” Peggy shook her head in wonder. “It’ll be the Doyles’s legacy rather than mine, but still . . .”
“You have a share in it too.” Impulsively Catherine stepped forward to wrap arms about her. “I’m so glad we’re friends.”
Peggy submitted, arms stiffly at her side. Then she loosened and embraced Catherine. She was silent for a moment, then said in a soft voice, “Can you ever forgive me? I was so jealous.”
“He’s nothing to me,” Catherine replied thickly. And she meant it. The curtain that had hung between them evaporated, and ten minutes later they were seated and laughing over Peggy’s account of how Milly leaped like a ballerina to return an out-of-bounds return to win the game.
That evening Catherine took Hugh Sedgwick’s letter out of the drawer and read it. Twice. She intended to throw it away and forget about it. But then she told herself that, even though he meant nothing to her, he had done nothing deserving of having both his letters ignored without the favor of a reply. So she sat, drew out her pen, and after chewing on the wooden tip for five minutes, dipped it into the ink.
Dear Mr. Sedgwick,
Thank you for the theatre tickets. I apologize that we were not able to take advantage of them, but as you suggested, studies do consume a vast amount of time here. Thus, I cannot engage in any correspondence with anyone other than family.
The lines before her faded as her mind pictured Hugh Sedgwick holding the same letter. His wheat-colored hair fell untidily over his forehead, his lips were frowning.
“Cold as a carp,” he muttered. He crumpled the page and tossed it into an ash bin. “I’ll waste no more time on her.”
And she realized she minded. Very much. She thought again of Sarah’s counsel, which she had intended to follow before being swept by the emotion of reconciling with Peggy. Who knows how any of us will feel in six months? she asked herself. Dipping her pen again, she added,
But if you still desire to correspond in the spring, I should like that very much.
Nine
Rapid population growth and modern improvements were wreaking havoc upon many of London’s picturesque areas. The baleful stream crept out in all directions like a lava flow, swallowing up green fields with flowers and hedgerows, quaint houses with red tiles and gabled roofs, and leaving in its wake railways, factories, and blocks of flats.
But the flow of modernization had treated Hampstead more kindly. Sarah loved the area more than any she had ever visited. Four hundred feet above sea level, it was London’s most elevated village. Its main street, Highgate, was just four miles from the teeming heart of the metropolis, yet the area still retained its old-world charm, with winding, hilly streets, quaint nooks, and byways.
The house happened upon William and her on the twenty-ninth of November, over seven weeks after deciding to relocate. They were only hours away from purchasing a redbrick Georgian home found for them by a house locating agency. While it was only a little larger than the Berkeley Square house, it was conveniently located on Church Row in Hampstead and an easy stroll from Saint John’s, the parish church.
But Mr. Mitchell had recently learned of a situation where a gentleman of title had emigrated with his family to New York and wished to liquidate all properties in England. “You should give the house a look,” the solicitor advised around the briar pipe clenched in his teeth. “The fellow’s eager to sever all ties here, so he’s asking far less than it’s worth.”
The following afternoon William left the Commission early. Sarah and William, Father and Naomi bundled into coats and cloaks, leaving Bethia and Danny in the care of Avis and Marie. In their traces in front of the coach, Comet and Daisy snorted vapory plumes and stomped their impatience to get going.
“They ain’t afraid of them hills,” Stanley said, blue eyes brighter now that little Lottie was sleeping longer stretches. Almost a half hour later the coach turned eastward from Christ Church Road onto Cannonhall Road, named for the old cannons that served as kerbposts. Presently they were confronted by a three-storey stone conglomeration of pointed arches, buttresses, and mullioned windows. Numerous chimneys rose from a slate roof stained by time and lichen to a richly variegated greyish red.
“Thornfield,” Sarah breathed, her gloved hand wiping away more of the glass condensation.
“Yes, Thornfield,” Naomi echoed. “I can just picture Jane Eyre sitting beneath a tree with her sketching tablet.”
“And a madwoman locked away in the attic
,” Father said.
Sarah gave him a wry smile. “Father . . .”
He winked at her. “But in an interesting, Gothic sort of way.”
“A dozen chimneys,” William said. “Must be a coal mine underneath.”
Mr. Mitchell, standing on the gravel drive with another gentleman, stepped up to open the door. “Keep your seat, Mr. Russell,” he instructed Stanley as he helped Sarah from the coach. “Mr. Prout’s coachman is in the kitchen laying a fire. Riley’s his name. Why don’t you drive around to the stables, blanket the horses, and go warm yourself?”
“Aye, Sir,” Stanley said. When all eight human feet were on the ground, the empty coach rumbled away.
Sarah kissed the solicitor’s cold bearded cheek. “You could have waited inside,” she said with a little shiver.
“It’s just as cold inside. It’s been empty for three weeks.” He put his hand on the shoulder of his companion, a man with liberal grey in his side-whiskers and crow’s feet behind his spectacles. “May I introduce Mr. Prout? He represents Sir George Kelly, the owner.”
“Shall we go inside?” Mr. Prout asked when introductions were concluded. But in the empty entrance hall he excused himself to join the servants downstairs in the kitchen. “I’m too old to be gadding about from room to room, and the house speaks for itself. You’ll know where to find me.”
The men carried lamps to light the nooks, crannies, and corridors without access to windows. Some pieces of furniture remained, a pianoforte in the sitting room, a rug and painting in the morning room, a chess table in the library. “Sir George shipped most of it, gave some to servants, and a fellow will be collecting what’s here to sell on consignment,” Mr. Mitchell explained. He ran a finger along the dusty top of a chess table. “But Mr. Prout says if any particular pieces strike your fancy, you’re welcome to buy them.”
By the time they stepped into the upstairs parlor, all images of the redbrick Georgian on Church Row dissolved in Sarah’s mind. She could see herself rocking a baby at the oriole window from which one could look beyond the grey stone house across the road and see Hampstead Heath, 240 rolling acres dedicated for public use.
“It’s straight out of a novel,” she said, her voice ringing against oak paneling and marble flooring.
“The lady of the manor,” William teased, but in such a tone that assured Sarah he was just as awestruck. “We would need more servants.”
“Mr. Prout could supply you with information on the ones who haven’t yet found other situations,” Mr. Mitchell said, his lamp resting upon a half-table while he lit his pipe.
Naomi ran fingers along a section of carved wainscoting. In a voice filled with maternal concern she asked, “Can you afford this?”
“You mustn’t overburden your finances,” Father cautioned.
“We can afford it,” William assured them, stooping to test the chimney flue as he had in other rooms.
Thankful for the we, Sarah nodded. It had taken William months and months to accept that her inheritance—as well as the shipping income—was as much his as hers. “Please don’t worry, Father.”
“Very well.” But concern lingered in his green eyes. “Still, shouldn’t you pray over it before making any decision?”
“We’ve prayed God would lead us to the right house for almost two months now,” Sarah told him. “Don’t you think it’s remarkable, that this one should practically fall into our laps within hours of buying the other one?”
Father smiled. “Yes, remarkable.”
“I think Avis will be pleased with the fireplaces,” William said. Wiping the soot from his hands with a handkerchief, he walked over to Sarah’s side. “You’re that certain this is the one, Sarah?”
She drew in a lungful of chill, tobacco-tinged air. How could she explain, even to those she loved most, how much at home she felt? No matter that the cornerstone was laid at the turn of the century, it was as if this house was built with her in mind. And as she had assured her father, she had prayed so fervently over the past two months. Surely God had led them there. “I’m certain, William.”
The look upon his face said he would find a way to give her London Bridge should she desire it. “Well, let’s finish our tour. We do want to make sure that madwoman isn’t lurking about.”
They all started moving toward the door. Naomi reached out for Mr. Mitchell’s lamp when he tried to manage it, the doorknob, and his lit pipe at the same time.
“Why, thank you, Mrs. Doyle,” he said with a little inclination of the head.
“You’re welcome,” Naomi replied. “Tell me, Mr. Mitchell, do you know why Sir George left England in such haste?”
The solicitor took his pipe from his lips, holding it aloft as he opened the door. “It’s quite a tragic story, actually. As Mr. Prout tells it, he could no longer abide his young wife’s infidelities. She was carrying on with some baron she’d met at a soiree, a scoundrel of the lowest order.”
“How sad,” Sarah said. But that such a marvelous house would have its history tainted did not dampen her enthusiasm for it. After all, Jeremy Blake had brought dishonor to the Berkeley Square house long ago, and still she had spent many happy years there.
“Indeed, sad,” Mr. Mitchell agreed. “And the irony of it is, the scoundrel’s mother authors children’s books with moral lessons. Pity she didn’t teach them to her son.”
Sarah and William’s eyes met. Lots of people write children’s books was the silent message she sent him.
And his to her was, We both know of whom he’s speaking.
“Do you happen to know the mother’s name?” Sarah had to ask. Not that it has anything to do with us was the next silent message she sent her husband.
“Why, I’m not certain. But my granddaughter reads the stories. They have to do with a set of twins—”
“The Parker Twins?” Naomi asked.
“Yes, that’s it,” the solicitor said, then glanced up at the high ceiling. “The bedchambers are above. Shall we?”
They went up the grand curving staircase and moved from room to room, each as grand and welcoming as the last. Yet whenever Sarah pointed out some structural adornment—such as the balcony leading from the master bedchamber window, William merely nodded or gave her a pained smile. After inspecting every room, they ended up back downstairs in a kitchen three times the size of Berkeley Square’s. Mr. Prout, Stanley, and a man with brown hair and ruddy cheeks rose from a worktable six feet from a cavernous fireplace. Beneath, a long sinewy tom uncurled himself to rub his side against the table leg and give them a mildly interested stare. He was a mixture of grey, amber, and black, and three of his legs were white, looking as if he wore white boots.
“Hector comes with the house,” Mr. Prout said. “The Kellys feared he’d not make the journey. He’s an excellent mouser. Well, what do you think?”
“It’s a wonderful house,” Sarah replied with strained voice.
“Very nice,” Naomi said.
Sarah felt a touch on her coat sleeve and turned. William was giving her an odd look. To the others he said, “Will you excuse us?”
Mr. Prout waved them on and pulled out a chair for Naomi. “But of course. Take your time.”
They walked down a corridor, turning into a room that appeared to be the parlor of the cook’s apartment. Trudy would love that, Sarah thought.
William set the lamp upon a dusty chest of drawers and turned to face her.
“What’s wrong, William?” she asked.
“You’ve fallen in love with this house.”
“Well, yes.”
He winced. “I can’t live here, Sarah. I’m so sorry.”
She stared at him. “Just because of Lord Holt?”
Dark eyes pained, he nodded. “But you liked the Church Row house, remember? The stained glass windows . . . being able to stroll down the street to Saint John’s . . .”
“Yes, I did. And you liked this house until Mr. Mitchell brought up his name. I could understand if Lord Holt ha
d ever lived here, but—”
“The fact that he is connected in any capacity ruins it for me, Sarah. You heard of the damage he did to the family who lived here. Look at how he treated you at the bookshop. And you haven’t any idea how he thrived upon tormenting me at Oxford. That man taints everything in his path, and the less I’m reminded of him, the happier I am.”
Sarah allowed her protests to die in her throat. He was already making a sacrifice by having to drive to work a longer distance each day. And buying a house wasn’t like buying a new bonnet, but a huge investment of not only money but emotion. She could not ask him to live in a place where he would never feel at home.
“Very well,” she said.
“But do you understand?”
“Not completely,” she admitted. Raising a hand to touch his collar, she mustered a smile and said, “But I know how difficult it is for you to deny me anything. I don’t have to have this place to be happy.”
“Thank you.” He gathered her into his arms. “I’ll make it up to you, Sarah.”
“You don’t have to,” she murmured into his shoulder. “You’re more important than any house.”
When they returned to the kitchen, William said to Mr. Prout, “Thank you for meeting us here. But it’s not for us.”
“Ah, but one can’t expect everyone who looks to buy,” he said with a good-natured shrug. “And it’ll sell quickly, once our advertisements are published next week.”
The one on Church Row was lovely, Sarah reminded herself.
“Why don’t we take the back door out to the coaches?” Mr. Mitchell suggested.
The garden’s winter dreariness consoled Sarah a bit. Her eyes drank in the dead vines clinging to the low stone wall, icicles hanging from bare shrubbery limbs, and brown grass crackling beneath their shoes. Anything to lessen her adoration of the house. And then she raised her head. “Oh my . . .”
****
William looked beyond the low wall. To the far southeast Saint Paul’s regal dome rose above the whole hazy spread of the eastern metropolis. The country to the east and west was picturesque in the highest degree—fine old homes against a backdrop of richly undulating land diversified by pleasant pasture slopes and wooded hills.
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