“It’s a wonder no man has led you down the aisle, Catherine,” Georgina purred, wedded bliss lustering her blue-green eyes and pinkening her flawless cheeks.
Christina cut her younger sister a sharp look. Turning to Catherine again, she consoled, “Oh, but there is still time.”
Until what? Catherine thought. Would she turn into a pumpkin if not married by twenty? “I’ve wanted to go to college since I was a girl,” she said, as if that would explain, and then despised herself for feeling she had to justify the lack of a spouse upon her arm. Especially with Peggy as a witness.
“And we so admire you for—” Georgina began but turned silent when the music faltered. Heads were turning in the direction of the canopy, and the hum of conversation tapered, even as the music quickly resumed.
“We should see if Aunt Phyllis needs us,” Catherine said, not even trying to hide her relief. “Come, Peggy.”
Under the canopy, Aunt Phyllis held up the cloth at one end of the punch table and leaned to peer underneath. “Sweetheart . . .” she coaxed. “If the string breaks, we’ll never find them.”
Catherine held her breath. What string?
“I’m being careful, Mamma!” came from beneath. “And she said I could wear them!”
“Aunt Phyllis?” Catherine said after exchanging glances with Peggy. “She hasn’t Peggy’s pearls . . . has she?”
Aunt Phyllis blew out her cheeks and gave Peggy an apologetic look. “I do apologize, Miss Somerset. But she’ll give them over at once. Won’t you, Muriel?”
“I just want to wear them for a little while!”
Uncle Norman stepped beneath the canopy. “What’s going on?”
“She has Miss Somerset’s pearls,” Aunt Phyllis replied, and wheeled upon the nanny hovering at her elbow. “Why weren’t you watching her!”
“I was, Missus! But she’s been giving me the slip all afternoon!”
“Well, how hard can it be to keep up with an eight—”
“Phyllis.” Uncle Norman sent a slight nod toward the nearest knot of people, seven or so who either stared at the ground or pretended not to have noticed.
While her husband walked around to the back of the table, Aunt Phyllis gave the group a helpless smile. “We’ve been so preoccupied with packing—haven’t paid enough attention to her.”
“Muriel, you will remove yourself from there this instant,” Uncle Norman said calmly, lifting the cloth.
Two small black velvet slippers appeared on Catherine’s side. Crystal cups clinked, and punch swayed against the sides of the Bristol cut glass bowl as Muriel thrust out her body. The strand of pearls swung from around her lace collar.
“Here Muriel, let’s put them away now,” Catherine said, reaching out. But she wasn’t quick enough. Muriel made a ninety-degree turn, arched out of her mother’s reach, and hitched up her skirts to sprint toward the house.
Catherine started to follow.
“Catherine . . . wait!”
She turned. Aunt Phyllis was sending her a pleading look. “If we’ll just ignore her, she’ll bring back whatever she’s taken.”
But a glance at the freckles standing out on Peggy’s stark white face was enough to galvanize Catherine into action again. “What if she breaks them?” she said, and did not wait for an answer.
Up ahead the girl sprinted across the terrace and through the door propped open for servants bearing trays. Catherine walked as briskly as modesty would allow, slowing only when she reached the terrace and heard footfalls behind her.
“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” Catherine said, pausing for the fraction of a second so that Peggy could catch up with her. “I should have hidden the pearls . . . warned you.”
“Not your fault,” Peggy said.
In the corridor they had to step around a red-faced maid scooping sandwiches from the floor onto a tray. “Out the front,” she muttered before being asked.
Sure enough, the door stood open. They were halfway to it when a child’s shriek and the whinny of a horse rent the air.
“No!” Catherine exclaimed, breaking into a run with Peggy beside her. They stopped short on the top step. On the pavement Muriel twisted and pulled as a tall man held her arm.
“MUM-MEEE!”
“Hush, Muriel.” Catherine continued down the steps, her pulse still sounding in her ears. The man looked up.
“Does she belong to you?” he said tightly.
“No,” Catherine said. “Well, yes.” Just across the street she could see a mimosa tree with inviting branches. Clearly that was to be her hiding place.
“She dashed out in front of a horse,” he said, as an older woman joined him.
Catherine’s pulse jumped again. She took hold of Muriel’s other arm as the man released her. “Time to give it over, Muriel.”
Peggy stepped down onto the pavement. Teary eyed and sniffing, Muriel looked at Peggy, eyed the stern-faced man, then took off the necklace. “I wasn’t going to keep it.” The instant Peggy’s hand closed over it, the girl jerked her arm away, darted around Peggy, and ran up the steps. Her sobs carried through the house.
“Thank you ever so much, Sir!” Peggy said, clasping the necklace to her chest.
“Yes, thank you,” Catherine echoed.
“Just a matter of being in the right place at the right time,” he said, his voice as refined and resonant as an actor’s. He was strikingly handsome, with auburn waves beneath the brim of his bowler hat, thin mustache over full lips, and dimple centered in a square chin. While his smile was more politeness than warmth, his voice was affable as he said, “May I introduce my mother, Mrs. Godfrey?”
“Mrs. Godfrey?” Catherine forgot all about Muriel. “My sister will be so pleased to learn that I made your acquaintance. She has your stories practically committed to memory.”
The woman smiled. “Will she be here today?”
“I’m afraid not. She’s in Bombay with our parents.”
“Well, do send her my regards.”
Mrs. Godfrey introduced her and Peggy to her son, Lord Holt. The difference in names had not struck Catherine when Aunt Phyllis mentioned them earlier. Mrs. Godfrey was probably widowed at one time and remarried, she thought. She wondered why the son had decided to come in place of the husband, before reminding herself that it was none of her business.
“I’m Catherine Rayborn, and this is my friend Peggy Somerset.”
Lord Holt’s sharp blue eyes slanted a look toward the door. “And who was the little hoyden?”
Mrs. Godfrey put a hand upon his sleeve. “Sidney.”
But Catherine was not in the frame of mind to defend her. “My cousin, Muriel Pearce.”
“Catherine?”
All turned to Uncle Norman, standing on the porch.
“She was almost hit, Uncle Norman,” Catherine told him. “Lord Holt stopped her.”
He blew out a breath, the thick mustache curving down with his frown. “Thank you, Lord Holt. She’s not allowed to cross the street. She’ll be disciplined, of course. And the necklace?”
“I have it now, Mr. Pearce,” Peggy told him, holding out her hand.
“Well, very good.” He descended the steps and made a little bow. “How good of you to come, Mrs. Godfrey, Lord Holt. I do apologize for my daughter’s misbehavior.”
“Children will be children,” Mrs. Godfrey said in a tone not quite sincere.
As Catherine and Peggy trailed behind the three down the corridor of the house, Catherine overheard that Mrs. Godfrey’s younger son, Edgar, had attended the same academy as the twins. Knight-in-shining armor that he was, Lord Holt contributed nothing to the conversation.
A few covert glances were sent in their direction in the garden from guests who had resumed socializing. There was no sign of Muriel nor the nanny. Aunt Phyllis came hurrying from the house just as Uncle Norman was telling Mrs. Godfrey and Lord Holt of the Sun Insurance Company’s recent boom in business. She shook her most recent guests’ hands, and gasped when Mrs. Godf
rey explained that her husband had been called away to a train derailment near Liverpool.
“Was anyone hurt?” she asked, hand up to the base of her neck.
“We can only speculate as to how many,” Mrs. Godfrey replied somewhat evasively.
Uncle Norman shook his head. “If statistics follow their usual course, only one-fourth of the passengers on that train will have any sort of insurance.”
Aunt Phyllis clucked her tongue. She seemed to be purposely avoiding Catherine’s eyes. Did that mean the invitation to spend two nights was withdrawn? The prospect was not too grievous, however much Catherine loathed to sow any seeds of family disharmony.
“You’re welcome to stay with us,” Peggy leaned close to whisper. The pearls were wrapped, bracelet style, around the hem of her glove. Catherine knew better than to offer to put them back into her pouch.
“May we offer you some refreshments?” Aunt Phyllis said.
Uncle Norman offered an arm to Mrs. Godfrey. “Yes, may we?”
“None for me, thank you,” Lord Holt replied, making no move to budge from the terrace. “Do have some, Mother.”
Mrs. Godfrey was more gracious. She ambled with Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Norman toward the canopy, pausing to meet other guests. That left Catherine and Peggy sharing company with Lord Holt. Or at least sharing the terrace, for he stood staring out at the mingling guests with an unreadable expression.
You have to be sociable, Catherine told herself, and cleared her throat. “Have you lived in Belgravia all your life, Lord Holt?”
“Mostly.” The polite smile returned. “And you?”
“I’ve lived all over. I’m a sophomore now at Girton College. Miss Somerset here as well. Are you acquainted with Somerset Tailors on Saville?”
Resuming his stare at the assemblage of guests, he said, “I have not had that pleasure.”
Catherine shot Peggy a puzzled look and received one in return. Should they just walk away and leave him to the comfort of his own company? But what if he was simply timid in social situations? That did not seem likely, given his commanding presence, but who could tell what was inside another’s head?
That he was so handsome made Catherine more willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Obviously Peggy felt the same, for she said, “You must be very proud of your mother, Lord Holt.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied with the same wearied tolerance one reserves for small children who ask too many questions. The message was clear.
Are you this rude to everyone? Catherine thought.
She looked at Peggy again. Her friend nodded, hazel eyes stormy. “If you will excuse us . . .” Catherine began, then realized she had no reason to give for walking away.
The relief that came to Lord Holt’s expression told her that none was necessary.
“What a bundle of conceit!” she said to Peggy as they sat again in chairs facing the baroque-classical musicians.
“He would drown in a rainstorm,” Peggy replied with a glance over her shoulder. “Did he think we were flirting with him?”
The thought had not occurred to Catherine. But if women threw themselves at Lord Holt all the time, as Aunt Phyllis implied, it would only be natural for him to assume they were doing the same. “Oh dear. I hope not.”
Peggy shrugged. “Perhaps he resented having to rub elbows with us commoners.”
Suddenly the musician playing the viola twitched, raised his bow to brush his cheek, and glared out toward some shrubbery at the edge of the gazebo. Catherine saw two brown heads duck. Douglas and Bernard had finally found something with which to amuse themselves.
“Did you see that?” Peggy asked as a bit of green landed in the woman’s high white wig.
“My cousins.” Fortunately, before Catherine could expend too much angst wondering if she dare involve herself, Uncle Norman strode around the gazebo and quietly ordered the twins into the house. They obeyed, grinning and unrepentant.
The next time Catherine sent a casual glance toward the terrace, there was no sign of Lord Holt, nor Mrs. Godfrey.
“Gone?” Peggy said.
“Apparently.”
“At least he saved my necklace.”
Catherine nodded. “And he didn’t throw pits at anyone.”
But she decided that when she wrote home of meeting Mrs. Godfrey, she would leave out the part about her snobbish son, so as not to spoil any of Jewel’s fondness for the books.
It occurred to her that Lieutenant Elham might be familiar with Mrs. Godfrey’s stories, having such a large family. She could picture him patiently reading to a younger niece or nephew. He was just the sort of man to whom children would be drawn. And even though a medal was pinned to his chest, it would never occur to him to behave snobbishly toward anyone.
A little ache pricked her heart. How was it possible to miss someone with whom she had spent so little time? You hardly know him entered her mind, but it was as if the voice of Sarah were saying it. Deep within herself, Catherine was certain that she knew him, better than she knew most people. The brief meeting, combined with his letter, had given her a glimpse into his soul, and it was a good one.
If only she had met him earlier in the summer! But then, she told herself, perhaps she would have stayed in Bombay and forgotten about Girton. She realized that the idea of doing so did not distress her as much as it should.
Aunt Phyllis did not hold a grudge after all. When the last guests were gone and Peggy delivered back to Saville Row—with a bandbox of leftover sandwiches and cakes—she linked arms with Catherine, surveyed the litter of food bits remaining on the tables, and pronounced the party a roaring success.
Catherine managed to conceal her surprise. Perhaps with family rows being so commonplace at 42 Belgrave Square, her aunt did not realize how unsettling they were to the outsiders who witnessed them.
“I have to say I was disappointed that you spent so little time with Lord Holt,” Aunt Phyllis said.
“Oh, he obviously thought it was more than enough time.”
“Indeed?” She gave Catherine a puzzled look. “I can’t imagine that, but then, they did leave early. Perhaps they were more upset over the train derailment than they let on.”
Somehow, Catherine didn’t think that was the case. They strolled toward the house, trailing behind a chambermaid carrying a chair, while other foot-weary servants hastened back and forth from house to garden.
“If we weren’t moving,” Aunt Phyllis said, “I would certainly never think of hiring those same musicians again. They expressed no gratitude whatsoever when I paid them. You know, talent is one thing, but if one is to market one’s talents, one must learn common etiquette.”
“Mm-hmm,” Catherine murmured.
A nightgown-clad Muriel bounded down the staircase with curling rags bobbing in her hair, and handed Catherine a fairly good picture she had penciled of a robin perched upon the edge of a birdbath.
“Will you give this to Miss Somerset, and tell her I’m sorry I was naughty?”
“Now, there’s a dear,” Aunt Phyllis purred.
“Ah . . . certainly,” Catherine told her, moved in spite of herself. Still, as the child’s hapless nanny escorted her upstairs to finish the preparing for bedtime ordeal, Catherine went into the guest room to check the contents of her jewelry pouch before locking it inside her portmanteau.
Nineteen
Laborers employed by Sun Insurance arrived the following morning, assisting the servants with disassembling the household. Now that the garden party was in the past, they would be able to crate all but the most essential items such as beds, linens, dining table, and the kitchen pots and dishes required for one more day.
Tomorrow, Aunt Phyllis informed Catherine at the breakfast table, everything else would be packed, requiring the Pearces to move to Queen Elizabeth Hotel on Piccadilly Street for the duration of the week.
Muriel was cross, having won most of last night’s bedtime skirmishes—which eventually involved Aunt P
hyllis as well as the nanny. The twins were no better. As little control of the children as Uncle Norman possessed, he gave at least an aura of fatherly discipline that held them somewhat in check. Aunt Phyllis placated and pleaded, mediated every petty argument, and even offered bribes, to the point where it seemed that every bite Muriel consented to fork past her rosebud lips, every civil word the twins said, earned them some future treat, plaything, or privilege.
But instead of making the children happy and obedient, these indulgences only worsened their moods and escalated their misbehaviors.
“Mother . . . make Bernard stop repeating every thing I say,” Douglas complained.
“Mother . . . make Bernard stop repeating every thing I say,” Bernard echoed.
“Now, Bernard . . .”
“Cook put those green things in the eggs,” Muriel whined. “I don’t like those green things.”
“They’re onions, not green things,” Douglas said. “Don’t you know anything?”
“They’re onions, not green things. Don’t you know anything?”
“Mo-therrrr!”
“Mo-therrrr!”
“Bernard, I’m not going to tell you again to stop that,” Aunt Phyllis said for the second time, then looked up at Catherine. “You’ve hardly touched your food, dear.”
“I’m a girl-l-l,” Douglas singsonged, daring his brother with his eyes.
“I’m a girl-l-l,” Bernard echoed, nonplused.
“Boys!”
“I’m feeling a little unwell,” Catherine replied in the first space of silence. Three-quarters of what was an excellent omelet was growing cold upon her plate. Her tea had turned lukewarm. The buttered mushrooms had developed an oily sheen. Unwell was no exaggeration, for it described perfectly the condition of her nerves.
“Tell Cook I want one without the green things,” Muriel whined.
“Wait, dear,” Aunt Phyllis told her. “I’m speaking with Cath—”
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