The small arms tightened around Catherine’s waist. “We missed you so-o-o much!”
Catherine patted her golden curls, smiling at Aunt Phyllis. “And I missed you.”
“You’re quite her heroine,” Aunt Phyllis said, beaming. “Why, just last week over supper she said she would like to attend Girton when she’s grown. Didn’t you, Muriel?”
The girl nodded, cheek pressed against Catherine’s ribs.
“That’s quite enough, Muriel,” Aunt Phyllis told her. “I’m serious.”
Muriel simply craned her neck to grin up at Catherine, as the maid in the background stared at the floor. However sweet Muriel’s smile, the violet eyes danced with mischievous joy of capturing the attention of all the adults in the hall.
“Muriel,” Aunt Phyllis cooed. “We’ve tea waiting in the parlor. But we can’t very well have it until you—”
“Does Jewel miss me?” the girl interrupted.
“Yes.” Catherine had to fight the urge to reach down and force away the little leech’s arms.
“And Uncle James and Aunt Virginia?”
“Really, Muriel . . .” Aunt Phyllis’s voice was developing an edge. “Don’t force me to ring your father.”
If this threat intimidated Muriel, she concealed her feelings well. Aunt Phyllis tightened her lips, but an instant later sent Catherine a conspiratorial smile. This will work, she mouthed, stepping closer. “My, my! Who do I see sliding down a sunbeam?”
Muriel giggled and buried her face in Catherine’s side again.
“I do believe the tickle fairy has come to call!”
The girl shrieked and twisted as her mother’s fingers attacked her unprotected sides. Finally the grip loosened. Catherine followed mother and giggling daughter up the corridor that ran the length of the town house. She held her own arms rigid at her sides, so she could not easily be seized again. An hour, she told herself. Sixty minutes.
The parlor was a cheerful room, its walls hung with very pale violet damask and covered with sketches and paintings. Queen Anne furniture with graceful cabriole legs sat upon Brussels carpeting. Bric-a-brac and framed photographs were artfully arranged upon crocheted table scarves, and flowers spilled from a stand at the window. Catherine and Aunt Phyllis took seats upon the sofa with Muriel between them.
“I’m going to miss this room,” Aunt Phyllis sighed, leaning toward the tea table to pour cups. “I’ve already ordered the same wallcovering for our new parlor, and I intend to make it as much like this one as possible. I believe I’ll make the adjustment more easily with familiar settings here and there.”
“Mother always tried to keep Jewel’s and my bedrooms looking the same with each move,” Catherine told her.
“Your mother and I have always thought alike. You remind me so much of her. I do hope you’ll plan to spend a couple of nights with us.”
“It’s so kind of you to invite me,” Catherine said, the only response she could give. To declare that she was looking forward to the stay would not be truthful. “But I’m afraid I’ve already made plans for tomorrow.” Not only was there the museum visit, but she had to stay in Hampstead afterward in the hopes that Peggy would ring.
“That’s just as well.” Her aunt handed her a saucer and filled cup, Spode’s Blue Italian design. “It would probably be better if you waited until after the party anyway. I’m afraid I’ll not be fit company until it’s over. But as we’re moving into a hotel Tuesday so the rest of the furniture can be packed, you must promise us Sunday and Monday nights.”
“Yes, of course.” The full extent of what Catherine had just heard registered in her mind. “Party, Aunt Phyllis?”
“Why, yes. Our farewell party on Sunday afternoon. Didn’t you receive the invitation? I posted it in mid—”
“Mother, you can barely see the scrape,” Muriel interrupted, having endured not being the center of attention for long enough. She twisted her elbow around to show her mother, then grinned at Catherine. “Bernard dared me to climb the mimosa tree in the square. I’m not allowed to cross the street without Nanny, so Father sent him to bed without supper.”
“I’m glad your arm has healed, dear,” Aunt Phyllis told her. “But the adults are speaking.” She looked again at Catherine.
“It must have been misdirected at one of the stops,” Catherine told her.
“Well, there is no harm done, is there? I’m just glad you’ll come.”
From upstairs came a dull hammering. Aunt Phyllis sighed. “I’m afraid you’ll have to get used to that while you’re here. The servants are already crating the nonnecessities from upstairs. But we have to keep everything intact down here, just in case it rains Sunday. If this dry spell will hang on just a bit longer . . .”
“The pictures from my walls are all gone,” Muriel said. “But Mamma says I may keep out some of the dolls to play with.”
“It took her half a day to decide upon six,” Aunt Phyllis said with a fond look at the child.
“Not half a day,” the girl corrected with rolled eyes. “That’s exaggerating.”
“Well, a long time.”
“A long time and half a day aren’t the same.”
“Yes, dear.” Aunt Phyllis looked at Catherine. “I’ll send Jim for you after lunch Sunday.”
I’m sure I could ride with Sarah and the others, Catherine started to say but caught herself. Surely if her aunt had invited them, she would have made that suggestion herself. She was a little surprised at the exclusion, being that the occasion was a farewell party, but then, they did not socialize often and were not blood relations to Aunt Phyllis. “That’s very kind of—”
“Our new nanny’s name is Metcalf,” Muriel interrupted. “Lora Metcalf. It’s as if you’re saying ‘Lora met-a-calf.’ That’s funny, don’t you think?”
“I’ve told you that it’s unkind to make sport of people’s names, dear,” Aunt Phyllis scolded gently.
“But she agrees it’s funny.” The girl turned again to Catherine. “I’m glad she’s moving with us, because she’s nicer than our other nannies were.”
Or more desperate, Catherine guessed.
A glance at the Wellington clock on the chimneypiece told Catherine that the obligatory hour had passed, with five additional grace minutes. She did not know how she would bear two nights, but staying any longer today would not make them any more bearable. She set her cup and saucer on the table and started to rise. “Now I should—”
“Has Mrs. Doyle mentioned . . . anything?” Aunt Phyllis asked.
Catherine eased back into her seat. Was she referring to Sarah’s pregnancy? Not certain if she had the right to carry the news outside the household to anyone not directly related, she assumed a blank expression. “Anything?”
Her aunt chewed on her lip for a second and then sighed. “I trust you’ll keep this to yourself, Catherine, although I did write your mother of the . . .”
She stopped herself and cut her eyes to the child between them. Muriel, having obviously sensed that her mother’s cryptic remarks signaled that the conversation was only appropriate for adult ears, sat silent as held breath.
“Muriel dear, speaking of Nanny . . . run up and see if she’s finished packing your toys.”
“Please let me stay, Mamma.”
“Just go up there and see. You may come back down afterward.”
Muriel shook her head. When her mother attempted to take her arm, she dropped chin to chest, folded her arms, and tucked her hands into the opposite armpits with such smooth motion that Catherine suspected it was not the first time the girl had employed this maneuver. After several attempts to insert a word into the midst of the arguments and pleadings and cajoling and weeping that followed, Catherine got to her feet. Aunt and cousin paused, looking up at her.
“Don’t mind me, I’ll show myself out.” she said, leaning down to plant a quick kiss upon her aunt’s flushed forehead and, as an afterthought, pat the top of Muriel’s head. She kept one arm rigid again at her si
de, just in case the child should lunge and cling again.
****
“My nerves felt like ants were inside my skin,” she confided to Sarah after lunch, as they sat in wicker chairs on the terrace. Doctor Lloyd had paid a visit while Catherine was at Aunt Phyllis’s and insisted that Sarah spend time outside every day, heat wave or none. Uncle Daniel was inside writing, Aunt Naomi putting Bethia and Danny down for naps.
Catherine felt no qualm over criticizing her Pearce cousins, but loyalty to both sides of the family prevented her from betraying Aunt Phyllis’s vague confidence. Loyalty did not prevent her, however, from hoping Sarah would volunteer the information. But if her cousin knew anything, her face did not betray her.
“Well, a warm bath tonight will settle your nerves,” Sarah said.
“That sounds lovely.” Catherine sighed. “An hour was sheer torture, Sarah. I don’t know how I’ll bear it over there. If Aunt Phyllis rings you searching for me, you’ll know I’ve run off and joined a convent. Or a circus.”
It was another hint, but Sarah either did not recognize it or was allowing it to fly past. “Just remind yourself that it’s only temporary.”
“They say the same thing to prisoners in dungeons as they tighten the rack.”
Sarah smiled. “Now, you know it won’t be that bad.”
“I do?” Catherine feigned a little shudder before returning her smile. “Sorry. And I’ll drop the subject, as my ranting and raving isn’t going to do any good.”
“If it made you feel better, it did some good,” Sarah said, then changed the subject herself. “Did you and Mr. Sedgwick correspond last spring?”
Catherine shook her head. How many days had it been since he had visited her thoughts? It seemed of little use to go into detail about Peggy burning the letter. “It just wasn’t meant to be. And as you pointed out once before, I hardly knew him. But . . . another young man did ask me to correspond.”
“Yes?”
“An army lieutenant I met in Bombay,” Catherine said, and smiled at how wide her cousin’s eyes grew.
“A soldier? And Uncle James allowed this?”
“He and Mother were there. Jewel too. Father’s behavior was beastly, now that you ask, but he apologized later. He isn’t aware that we’re corresponding, but then, I didn’t even realize it when we said our farewells. But Father can hardly object, with Lieutenant Elham being thousands of miles away.”
“Tell me about him.”
Gladly Catherine complied. And having read Lieutenant Elham’s five-page letter until the creases were felting, she had quite a lot of information to impart. “Well, his father is a blacksmith . . .”
Seventeen
On the following morning, Catherine, Uncle Daniel and Aunt Naomi, Bethia, and Guy joined hundreds of other Londoners at the cathedral-like Museum of Natural History, peering at fossils, insect and herb collections from around the globe, and skeletons of such animals as the whale and giraffe. Afterward they had a late lunch at a café near Holland Park. While she had a lovely time, Catherine found her thoughts drifting more and more toward Peggy. What if Peggy did not wish to resume the friendship?
Her fears were put to rest at half-past four, while she was lying across her bed willing herself to concentrate on The Iliad instead of sending glances toward the door. She sprang to her feet at the knock.
“Miss Rayborn, you’ve a telephone call,” Avis said after being bade to enter.
“Bless you, Avis!” Catherine said, pausing in the doorway to squeeze the surprised maid’s hands. Downstairs, she crossed the empty parlor and scooped up the earpiece from where it lay on the table scarf.
“Good afternoon?” she said into the telephone.
“Catherine? Is that you?”
Hearing her friend’s voice brought tears to Catherine’s eyes. She gushed, “I’m so sorry I was angry!”
“Oh, Catherine . . . you had every right to be,” Peggy said. “I couldn’t believe it when Mother gave me your message. After what I did . . .”
“It’s forgiven and forgotten, Peggy.”
Silence, then, “It’s haunted me all summer. I thought of writing so many times.”
“Well, please don’t trouble yourself over it any longer. Let’s put it all behind us, shall we?”
“Thank you, Catherine.”
“And thank you for being my friend. I can’t wait to see you!”
“And I, you. It was so thoughtful of you to bring mangoes—we’re enjoying them immensely. Perhaps we can ride back to Girton together. Do you plan to return soon?”
“Wednesday,” Catherine told her. “And you?”
“Monday,” Peggy replied, sounding disappointed. “I’m in charge of our study group, so I can’t stay away for too long.” Her tone lightened. “But we don’t have to wait until Girton, do we? Say you’ll come for tea tomorrow.”
Now it was Catherine’s turn for disappointment. She explained about her aunt’s party.
“Then we’ll simply save our catching up for later,” Peggy said.
A better idea popped into Catherine’s head. “I have to make another call for a minute. But please stay by the telephone.”
Sure enough, Aunt Phyllis graciously said, “But of course you may invite your friend. Just direct Jim to her house when he comes for you.”
****
“. . . and his mother’s African violets almost always win the blue ribbon at the village flower show,” she was telling Peggy in Aunt Phyllis’s coach the following afternoon, after attending Christ Church with her Hampstead kin—except for Sarah, who still feared venturing too far from the house. “He became fascinated with the military as a boy, when a regiment quartered in Spennymore, and so his mother’s brother purchased his commission.”
“Thank heaven for wealthy uncles and aunts.” Peggy touched the pearls above the modestly scooped neck of her gown, a pale brown silk run through with sage green threads. “Or your lieutenant would be forging horseshoes, and I would be married to Oliver Piggot.”
“Really! So you feel some affection for him after all?”
“Absolutely none. At least not the sort of affection that leads to marriage. But you seem to feel some of that for your lieutenant.”
“Marriage? I still hardly know him, and won’t see him again until next summer.” Which was not to say that the idea had not entered Catherine’s mind once or twice. Perhaps thrice. She was about to tell her of Lieutenant Elham’s fondness for Keats, when it occurred to her that she was monopolizing the conversation. Worse, it was more monologue than conversation.
“Do forgive my selfishness, Peggy. I’ve not even asked about your summer.”
Peggy smiled. “If you were selfish, we wouldn’t have had those lovely mangoes for breakfast. But there is little to tell. We study on our own, and those of us taking the same courses have formed discussion groups. It works quite well, for we assign text readings so that no one lags behind.”
Catherine could picture it all in her mind, and she felt a twinge of envy. “You’re returning tomorrow?”
“Yes. I wish you were going up there with me. Are you quite sure you can’t leave early?”
Catherine sighed. “I’ve promised to spend two nights with Aunt Phyllis, and I daren’t even try to get out of it. And I planned to spend Tuesday back in Hampstead, to pack.” She thought for a second. “But . . . there is very little to pack, actually. Sarah’s servants went ahead and laundered the clothes from my trunk Friday.” She raised a brow hopefully. “Do you think you might—”
“Wait until Tuesday? Of course.”
“Thank you!” Catherine leaned forward and took her hands. “We’ll have a wonderful year, won’t we?”
“We will.”
“I just wish I had read more Homer,” Catherine confessed.
“You will when we get to Girton,” her friend said. “I’ll keep your nose to the grindstone.”
“Ouch!” Catherine said, wrinkling her nose in jest. Another subject popped into her m
ind, or rather, three smaller ones. Should she warn Peggy what to expect?
Surely they’ll be ordered to be on their best behavior, she thought. Aunt Phyllis’s commands carried very little weight, but on special occasions she effectively managed to bribe them with offers of rewards. Why borrow trouble that might not even happen?
Riles the butler answered the door and directed Jim to take Catherine’s portmanteau up to the guest bedroom. He escorted them to the parlor, where Uncle Norman put newspaper aside and rose from an armchair. Catherine had just started making introductions when Aunt Phyllis hurried through the doorway in a gown of pale bluish-green silk. She was not without virtues, and her chief one was an ability to make a person feel that he or she was the most important person in the room. She clasped Peggy’s hand and said, “How good to make your acquaintance, Miss Somerset! Shame on Catherine for not telling us what beautiful hair you have! And those pearls, they’re exquisite!”
“Thank you,” Peggy replied, blushing to the roots of her red hair. “And for inviting me here.”
“It’s our pleasure. And I want you to know that my husband and sons buy exclusively from Somerset’s. Isn’t that so, Norman?”
“They do quality work,” he confirmed, stepping forward to shake Peggy’s hand and to smile at the kiss Catherine planted upon his cheek. He was a broad-shouldered man, almost completely bald, with a mustache as thick as a hairbrush. He wore an air of quiet competence befitting his management position at the Sun Insurance Company. But in matters pertaining to his children, he reminded Catherine of a rider who, having given up hope of grasping the reins, hangs on to the edge of the saddle for dear life.
“Bernard and Douglas are dressing,” Aunt Phyllis said, as Uncle Norman returned to his newspaper. “And Muriel is napping. She’s so beside herself over having guests that her nanny couldn’t coax her to settle down. I had to read three chapters of a Parker book to her before she fell asleep.”
“Parker book?” Peggy asked.
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