Catherine's Heart

by Lawana Blackwell

  “The Parker Twins adventure books,” Catherine explained. She had read several to Jewel before her sister could read them herself.

  Aunt Phyllis narrowed a playfully shrewd eye. “You’ve no young siblings, Miss Somerset . . . correct?”

  Peggy smiled back. “Correct, Mrs. Pearce.”

  “Well, the books are quite popular with the younger set. Mrs. Godfrey, the authoress, will be here today with her husband, in fact.”

  “You know her?” Catherine said with eyes wide.

  “Why, yes. Hasn’t your mother told you? She lives just on the other side of the square. We serve together on the flower committee at Saint Peter’s.” She looked at Catherine and sighed. “Unfortunately, her older son, Lord Holt, sent his regrets. I was hoping to introduce you. Every unmarried woman in Belgrave has her cap set for him.”

  “And some of the married as well, I hear,” Uncle Norman said from behind raised newspaper.

  “Norman . . .”

  He lowered the newspaper and shrugged. “I’m just telling you what I hear.”

  “You can’t fault a man for drawing the attention of some silly women, Norman,” she said as if explaining to a small boy why he mustn’t climb on the banister. “They’re an upstanding family and deserve our respect.”

  “May we help you, Aunt Phyllis?” Catherine asked, jumping into the awkward moment.

  Aunt Phyllis turned again to her and smiled. “Thank you, but now it’s just a matter of making certain the servants lay the tables properly.”

  “We’ll keep you company as soon as I’ve changed,” Catherine said, for she had worn the blue silk to church.

  “There’s a good girl. Just give your dress to Rose.”

  Catherine led Peggy up the staircase to a guest chamber and took from her portmanteau a gown of Belgian linen in a damask-like pattern of light mauve upon cream. Susan had ironed it yesterday, so it only required a light pressing. “Won’t take but a minute,” Rose the chambermaid said. “The iron’s already hot. And I’ll take tomorrow’s gown too, if you’ve a mind.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine told her.

  “Do I look appropriate?” Peggy asked after the maid had left with a dress over each arm.

  “You look very nice,” Catherine said, though she had the thought that the pearls, lovely as they were, were not quite right for the gown. She withdrew her jewelry pouch from her portmanteau. “But would you mind trying these on?”

  “Aren’t you going to wear them?”

  “Not with mauve. I brought my coral necklace.”

  Peggy allowed Catherine to unfasten the pearls and clasp on the jade beads and earrings her parents had given her for her birthday. The effect was dramatic. The jade not only enhanced the green tint to the gown’s fabric, but deepened the rich hues of Peggy’s red hair.

  “My word!” Peggy breathed, staring at herself in the long mirror.

  “Beautiful,” Catherine told her.

  Her friend turned to her and smiled. “Thank you. But you do exaggerate.”

  “Catherine doesn’t exaggerate,” said a small voice. “She’s very honest.”

  Muriel stood in the doorway, resembling an angel in nightgown of ivory satin and lace. “Why, thank you, Muriel,” Catherine said.

  The girl covered a yawn with her hand. “Excuse me,” she said with a sheepish smile. “Nanny’s polishing my shoes. May I come in?”

  “Of course.” After introducing her cousin to Peggy, she motioned to a chair. “Why don’t you sit here?”

  “Thank you.” Muriel obliged, then folded her hands in her lap. “I have some pearls too, Miss Somerset.”

  “Yes?” Peggy said.

  “They were my Grandmother Pearce’s. Only, they’re put away. Mamma says I mayn’t wear them until I’m sixteen.”

  “Sixteen will come before you know it,” Peggy assured her. “Trust me.”

  The violet eyes were doubtful. “I’m only eight.”

  “Eight? But that means you’ve reached the halfway peak. The rest of the way will be downhill.”

  “Downhill.” The girl thought it over and smiled. “And going downhill is easier, isn’t it?”

  “Much easier,” Peggy agreed.

  Until you reach fourteen or so, Catherine thought, becoming a little annoyed that Peggy was devoting her attention to Muriel. There was still so much catching up to do.

  “May I hold the pearls, Miss Somerset?”

  Catherine answered that one before Peggy could open her mouth. “I’m afraid not, Muriel. They were a gift from her aunt.”

  But Peggy contradicted her. “Yes, certainly.” As she took them from Catherine’s hand, she gave her a look that plainly said, Aren’t you being a little harsh? “Eight is certainly old enough to take care of things.”

  “I’ll take care of them,” the girl promised, holding them aloft and swirling them gently so that they formed a heap in her open palm.

  “Careful, Muriel,” Catherine said.

  Muriel nodded and held them so that they draped over both small hands. “Mother says we shouldn’t be unkind to people who aren’t pretty, for if an ugly oyster can make a pearl, then even homely people can have something beautiful inside them.”

  “Why, that’s a lovely thought,” Peggy told her, her expression positively maudlin.

  “Yes, lovely,” Catherine said, and stepped over to the girl with her jewelry pouch. “Now, let’s put them away.”

  Muriel surrendered the strand and climbed down from the chair. “Miss Somerset, would you like to see my Queen Victoria doll? She has a real ruby brooch.”

  “Why, yes,” Peggy replied.

  “Most of my dolls are packed. But I was allowed to keep out six.”

  “Why don’t you show them all to me?”

  “You don’t have to,” Catherine told Peggy.

  Peggy gave her another reproving look as she offered the girl her hand. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  She returned when Catherine was sitting at the dressing table while Rose pinned on her pale wine-colored straw hat with satin trim. “What a delightful child!”

  “Um-hmm.” Catherine did not remind Peggy that her first sight of that delightful child was during a conniption fit over lemonade. In the mirror she could see Rose’s lips pressed as if suppressing a laugh. After the maid was gone, Catherine said, “I should telephone Sarah that I’m leaving Tuesday, so they don’t make any plans for me.”

  Not only was her cousin understanding, but, after asking Catherine to wait for a minute, came back on the line to ask if Peggy would care to visit the Hassall Commission laboratory with William tomorrow.

  “Yes, absolutely yes!” Peggy exclaimed, embracing Catherine.

  ****

  But will they catch on? Sidney, Lord Holt thought, holding up the smoked-glass spectacles to the parlor window. He had noticed a pair in a spectacle shop window on the Strand yesterday, on his way to The Crown Hotel to meet Roseline. At least something promising had developed from the evening, for he was becoming increasingly bored with Roseline’s self-absorption. Not to mention how she took for granted that he was now responsible for all of her living expenses, including the small fortune her dressmaker charged for trussing her up like a peacock.

  The spectacles came from a small factory in Birmingham, the shop owner had told him. And he had wired a triple order just yesterday, for the dozen pairs he had had in stock last week were gone, with the exception of the pair that Sidney had then decided to purchase.

  Sidney did not normally invest, especially in small endeavors, unless he had a strong inkling. That inkling had served him well in the past. He likened himself to a ship navigating between the mythical monsters Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla coaxed him to take risks, and Charybdis, to be too conservative. The trick was not to veer too close to either side.

  A knock sounded at the door. “Enter,” he said, holding the spectacles up to the window again.

  Rumfellow entered, silver calling-card tray balanced upon splayed
fingers. “You’ve a visitor, Your Lordship.”

  “Yes?”

  Sidney reached for the card, but drew his hand back when the butler said, “A Lord Faircliffe, Your Lordship.”

  “Here?” Sidney said. “In our house?”

  A brow made scant movement over the butler’s impassive face. “In the hall, Your Lordship.”

  “Well, tell him I’m out. And if he calls again, do the same. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Your Lordship.”

  “Very good.” The butler had taken only three steps when Sidney said, “And Rumfellow?”

  Rumfellow turned.

  “The hall. Have it scrubbed.” He had learned of Malcom Faircliffe’s condition only three months ago, from a mutual friend and Oxford alumnus at the Club. The affliction was commonly assumed to be contagious only through intimate association, but who could tell what scientists would discover ten years from now? Better to err on the side of caution. “Also the door . . . anything he may have touched.”

  “Yes, Your Lordship.”

  Turning again to the window, Sidney stepped to the side, then pushed aside just a sliver of curtain. A bowler-hatted figure took halting steps toward the waiting coach, where a footman waited.

  Ah, Malcom, you poor chap. Remorse spread through Sidney’s frame. It seemed only yesterday that they were staircase chums at Lincoln College. In those days Malcom was more the brother than Edgar could ever be. Whenever the doldrums threatened, Malcom could be counted upon to find some new amusement. What a sorry end to such a decent fellow.

  He focused his attention upon the coach again, and realized with a start that Malcom had turned to stare up in his direction. Even from a floor above, Sidney could detect the pallor of the skin. He let go of the curtain and moved farther to the side, resting his head back against the wall. Not until the hoofbeats faded did he allow himself a deep breath.

  It could happen to you, too, he told himself. He would have shrugged off that notion in his younger days. Slum creepers were the only ones afflicted, not gentlemen in custom-tailored suits. But Malcom was the second upper-crust man of his acquaintance to be afflicted thusly. Given his own past, Sidney sometimes felt he was living on borrowed time, and even wondered whenever gripped with a cold or sore throat if something more sinister lurked beneath.

  “Sidney?”

  He blinked. His mother stood by the lamp table, only six feet away.

  “Who was here?”

  “Just an acquaintance from Oxford,” he told her, and when she gave him a puzzled look, he shrugged. “I’m not in the mood for guests.”

  Concern replaced the puzzlement in her grey eyes. “Is something the matter?”

  You’re not a doctor, Sidney reminded himself. What could you have done for him? Better to put it out of your mind.

  “No, nothing,” he replied.

  She came closer. “What have you there?”

  “Guess,” he said, hooking the spectacles over his ears and peering at her through their dark lenses.

  “Hmm. Surely not for reading.”

  “Hardly. Here, try them on.”

  He helped her hook them over her ears, and smiled as she raised her chin to look about the room.

  “Not very efficient, are they?” she said hesitantly.

  He chuckled. “They’re for shielding one’s eyes against sunlight. I’m going to nip over to the Park to try them out.” The garden was too shady, as was Belgrave Square.

  “Must you do that now?” she asked, removing the spectacles.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Henry’s just left for Euston Station. There was a train derailment somewhere near Liverpool.”

  “You don’t say! Any injuries?”

  “I’m afraid so. At least one death.”

  “Pity,” Sidney said, meaning it. But he could also feel some relief that his investments in the Grand Junction Railway line were minimal, and so hopefully the damage to his finances would be as well.

  “Yes, a tragedy,” she agreed. “I expect he’ll be gone for days.”

  Sidney raised an eyebrow, not sure what his stepfather’s departure had to do with him, for as bad as the news was, it was not something that couldn’t be saved for the supper table.

  “Would you mind going with me for a stroll?” she asked.

  “Stroll?”

  “Across the Square to the Pearces’. The farewell par—?”

  But he was shaking his head before she could finish. “Sorry, Mother, but I can think of a hundred things I would rather do—including having my corns shaved. Just go alone.”

  Anxiety washed across her face. “Alone?”

  He sighed. She really needed to get out more, instead of closeting herself away with manuscripts most of the time. “These are the eighties, Mother. It’s quite proper for a married woman to attend a party without an escort.”

  “We wouldn’t have to stay long,” she said as if he had not spoken. “A half hour?”

  He shook his head. “That Pearce fellow tried to sell me insurance at your tea. And he’s dull as dishwater.”

  People with inheritances usually were. Almost always they were content to live on whatever a solicitor doled out to them every annum, and did not go out and actively seek new opportunities to compound that wealth. More than likely the Pearces’ friends would be of the same ilk. Or perhaps they’re all insurance salesmen, he thought with a little shudder.

  She was standing there, disappointed, so he suggested, “Why don’t you ask Edgar?” At fourteen, surely his half brother knew how to conduct himself in social situations. Or at least to sit quietly somewhere out of the way.

  “He has a cold.”

  “Then you have an excuse to stay home, haven’t you? What do you care if they’re offended, if they’re leaving London soon?”

  “Sidney,” she said with a little sigh.

  Her persistence was most vexing. But because he did not care to see reproach in her eyes over the next few days, he stifled a groan and replied, “Very well. But only a half hour . . . understood?”

  “Thank you, Sidney,” she said with a relieved smile. “You’ll be dressed soon?”

  He waved a hand. “Yes, soon.”

  Eighteen

  In the Pearces’ garden, Riles and parlormaids Mildred and Valerie bustled through the doorway with silver trays laden with sandwiches and plovers’ eggs, olives and pineapple slices, assorted cakes, and little dishes of sugared raspberries. The gardener arranged chairs facing the gazebo. Up on the platform three men in fitted breeches, silk stockings, blue satin coats, and powdered wigs, and a woman in embroidered silk with square neckline, tuned a viola, cello, and two violins.

  Aunt Phyllis stood at the center table under a huge open canvas canopy, turning a vase of white Madonna lilies this way and that, and stepping back from it.

  “It’s all so lovely, Mrs. Pearce,” Peggy said.

  “I hope so.” Aunt Phyllis rotated the vase again. “Should they face this way?”

  Brushing a petal from her aunt’s sleeve, Catherine replied, “Yes, that looks nice.”

  A half hour later, strains of chamber music provided backdrop to a dozen conversations rising from a dozen knots of people dressed in Sunday finery. Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Norman moved from group to group, soaking in compliments and best wishes for their futures.

  “I can’t imagine living this way,” Peggy told Catherine when they were finally able to withdraw and listen to the string quartet play what Peggy informed her was the second movement to Haydn’s Emperor. “So serene and elegant.”

  “They don’t live like this every day,” Catherine assured her. She could see Muriel’s nanny, a plump young woman who looked no older than seventeen, admonishing Bernard and Douglas against chasing each other around a plum tree and pelting each other with olive pits. And most days are not so serene.

  As if to confirm Catherine’s thoughts, Muriel broke loose from the nanny and dashed about the garden as if she had been lo
cked away for a year. Twice Catherine witnessed near-collisions between the lace-and-frills cyclone and a guest whose attention was divided between walking and keeping steady a dish and cup.

  ****

  “We’re terribly late,” Sidney’s mother fretted over the rustle of her skirts.

  “Fashionably late,” he corrected, hands in pockets. Because his legs were long and unencumbered with a skirt, his shoes made one strike against the grass of the Square for every two of hers. “Besides, it’s just a garden party, not a formal dinner.”

  She nodded, but after a hesitation said, “Still, I asked—”

  “Yes, yes,” he seethed. “You asked!”

  But however humiliating it was to be chastened like a small boy, he had to admit to himself that he had lingered too long in the morning room reading the Times. She was looking straight ahead, but he could see the crimson spot upon her cheek.

  “I do beg your pardon, Mother,” he said with calmer voice. “I should have dressed earlier.”

  Now that his pique at her was tempered, his resentment of the Pearces swelled for having nothing more productive to do than gather neighbors for sandwiches and shallow conversation. A half hour, no longer, he promised himself. If his mother protested, she knew the way home.

  ****

  “Please don’t tell your aunt, but the costumes and music don’t actually match,” Peggy leaned close to murmur as the quartet played the first movement to Mozart’s Symphony no. 40 in G Minor. “The costumes are baroque, but the music is classical.”

  Catherine stared at her. “You’re the only person in London who would know that.”

  “Not so,” Peggy said, but with a pleased smile. “Any devotee of music would know. But one can’t fault the musicians. Powdered wigs lend a more theatrical atmosphere than top hats.”

  “Then, why don’t they play baroque music?”

  “I’m sure because it’s too dramatic and emo—”

  “Cath-erine!” a female voice trilled. “How long has it been!”

  Catherine and Peggy rose from their chairs, and Catherine introduced her friend to Christina and Georgina Lorimer, second cousins twice removed on Mother’s side. Christina was three months younger than she; Georgina, eighteen months. With her family moving about so much, Catherine had rarely seen them over the years, the last time being a Christmas supper at her grandparents’ four years ago. Now each had a husband attached to her arm. Christina introduced hers as Thomas Smith, dentist, and Georgina’s as August Crane, bank clerk.