“Ouch! You didn’t have to hit me!”
“Ouch! You didn’t have to—”
Catherine pushed out her chair with such abruptness that it rocked on its back legs before settling against the carpet. “Some fresh air will help.”
“Of course,” Aunt Phyllis told her. “Why don’t you sit in the garden, and we’ll join you once we’ve finished?”
“And sunlight,” Catherine added with an apologetic smile. “Lots of sunlight would make me feel better . . . just coming from India . . . you know.”
She left her aunt puzzling over her meaning, and fortunately, Muriel provided a distraction by bursting into tears over the wretched green things.
On her way to the upstairs landing, after cleaning her teeth and grabbing a hat and gloves, Catherine happened to glance through the open doorway to the nursery. Even with most things packed, it was a wonderland of color, from the ceiling mural of fairies and forest creatures to the William Morris “Daisy” wallpaper and canopy-covered bed with a half dozen frilly pillows and bolsters piled up against the pink coverlet. Muriel’s nanny stood at the foot with a small nightgown draped over her arm. The side of her head rested against the bedpost, her eyes were closed. Already she looked fatigued.
Hurry, or you’ll be sorry, Catherine warned herself, starting again for the staircase. But just as her hand touched the banister, she turned and went back to her room. Her reticule was locked in the portmanteau with her jewelry pouch—a precaution she had thought of later last night. She took a couple of pound notes from it, then on second thought added two more. This time when she paused in the nursery doorway she cleared her throat, gently.
The nanny snapped to attention, her round face flooded with alarm. “I’m sorry, Miss!”
Catherine stepped into the room, took the girl’s hand, and placed the folded notes in it. “Buy yourself a nice frock or two,” she whispered. She left the girl gaping and stammering thanks. Outside, she strolled briskly up Halkin Street, crossed Grosvenor Place, and passed the Wellington Arch. Used in the seventeenth century for hunting and duels, the fifty-three-acre Green Park still retained much of its old-world charm. Dew-covered grass glistened in the morning sun, and the air carried a hint of the coming autumn. Catherine’s nerves slowly unraveled as she strolled the meandering paths through stands of trees and open ground.
One more night. A person could bear almost anything for twenty-four hours. And who was she to complain, when others had suffered much worse? Lieutenant Elham, for example. On the scale of human suffering, war surely occupied a place at the top. Being confined to a house with whining, argumentative children did not rate even being on the same page.
****
Blinded by black spots, Sidney squeezed his eyelids tight and removed and folded the spectacles. They would not slip into his left coat pocket—he remembered the pear he had snatched from a bowl in the hall—so he switched them to the right, thinking, Not very effective for staring at the sun.
But then, how many imbeciles went about staring directly at the sun?
Just one that I can think of, he thought wryly, rubbing his eyes. The caws of a colony of rooks, which had been taking short soaring flights from the branches of a nearby oak, sounded like laughter.
“Lord Holt?”
Sidney opened his eyes, blinked. One of the young women from the garden party stood amidst the black spots.
“Forgive me for intruding upon your privacy,” she said. “I was just . . . it looked as if you’d taken ill.”
“I’m very well, thank you,” he replied, squinting up at her. Guileless grey-green eyes studied him from an oval face. Soft curls of dark brown lay about her brow; the sides of her hair were drawn up into a straw hat, with several long strands curling over her shoulders. The faintest tinge of rose shaded her cheeks.
Yesterday during their walk home, his mother had remarked on how lovely the girl was, in that hinting sort of way Mother used whenever she happened to cross paths with any woman one degree removed from a nun. Ire at his mother and the Pearces had apparently dulled his perception then, just as the sun affected his vision today, for he found her fresh-scrubbed beauty refreshing. Quite a difference from Roseline’s perpetually bored expression, an affectation she assumed to be the height of sophistication.
Her name, he asked himself as courtesy propelled him to his feet. She had remembered his. Why hadn’t he paid closer attention yesterday? He dipped into his pocket again. “I was testing these.”
She looked at the spectacles and nodded. “I noticed some soldiers wearing them in Bombay,” she said. “The Indian sun can be relentless.”
“Indeed?”
“Oh, yes. Even during the monsoon.”
Realizing she had misinterpreted his question, he rephrased it. “Pardon me . . . what I meant was, were many soldiers wearing them? I’m thinking of investing in a company that makes them.”
“Why, I can’t recall. Ten or so, I should think. But surely they’re rare, because this is the first time I’ve seen a pair up close.”
“Would you care to try them?”
For a fraction of a second it seemed she would reply in the affirmative, but then the warmth faded from her eyes. “No, thank you,” she said, and gave him a civil nod. “Do have a pleasant day, Lord Holt.”
My behavior yesterday, he thought, wincing. He watched her walk away, admiring the determined set of her shoulders and the dark curls falling below her hat. Should he go after her? He took the watch from his waistcoat, allowing the hour to be the deciding factor.
Half-past nine. Which meant he really did not have the time to dally about in the Park, even though the noon appointment at Broughton Stables in Hammersmith, West London was not set in stone. After weeks of enduring Roseline’s begging and nagging, he had promised her a horse and sidesaddle, along with a place near Hyde Park to stable the animal so she could parade herself about on the occasions she managed to rise before afternoon. His coachman, Jerry, knew good horseflesh, being half horse himself. The other half was Scottish, which meant he could sniff out a bargain.
She’s just a child, really, he told himself with one more admiring glance. It was then that she wheeled around and faced him. Her pretty face worked up as if she were trying to decide whether to say something.
“Yes?” he said, lifting a brow.
“My friend and I were just being sociable yesterday,” she said with a bravado that obviously was costing every bit of her inner strength. “And for your information, I’m corresponding with an army lieutenant in Bombay.”
“An army lieutenant in Bombay?” he echoed, trying not to smile.
“Yes. A war hero too.”
“Hmm.” Sidney rubbed his dimpled chin thoughtfully. “That could be tricky. Does the war hero know about the lieutenant?”
“Know about . . . ?” she echoed, gaping at him. Knowledge flooded her expression, and she turned sharply on her heel and resumed walking.
Sidney jogged forth to catch up with her. “Wait, please.”
She continued looking straight ahead, even as he fell into step beside her.
“Forgive me for making sport. But you were so serious that I couldn’t stop myself.”
Still she did not turn her face toward him.
“And I must ask you to forgive my rudeness yesterday,” Sidney continued. “To you and to your friend.”
“Very well,” she replied in a tight voice.
“It never entered my mind that you were being anything but sociable.”
It was not true, for he assumed any eligible woman—and sometimes ineligible—who initiated conversation at a social gathering was interested in him as a potential suitor. He did not think himself vain for assuming so, for he was fully aware that his money and title were the main draws. A handsome face was an asset, but London was filled with handsome wheelwrights and shop clerks and fishermen. And daughters of polite society did not pursue them for husbands.
One lie told, he was compelled to follow it w
ith another. “I was suffering a fierce headache yesterday, which was compounded by the tragic news from Liverpool. I desired nothing more than to crawl into a corner somewhere. But as I had promised to escort Mother to the party . . .”
She ceased walking. Sympathy filled the grey-green eyes, as crimson flooded her cheeks. “Oh dear.”
“Please don’t look so stricken. You had every right to say what you did.”
“I had no right,” she argued, shaking her head.
“I’m grateful that you did. If you had not, I wouldn’t have had the opportunity to explain.”
Her posture eased slightly. “That’s very gracious of you, Lord Holt. Has it left you?”
“Left me?”
“The headache.”
“Yes, thank you. Though it’s tempting fate to be out here staring at the sun, isn’t it?”
That made her smile. She had a nice curve to her lips, the corners disappearing into tiny semicircles.
“Would your lieutenant-war hero be terribly offended if I asked to accompany you on your stroll?” Sidney asked impulsively.
She seemed to think that over, then shook her head. “He’s in India. But still, he wouldn’t mind.”
“Very mature of him. Jealous men are such boors, aren’t they?”
“Yes.”
“Pray tell me,” he said as they resumed walking, “was it recently that you noticed the soldiers with the spectacles?”
“Why, barely over a fortnight ago. I was in Bombay visiting my family.”
“Your father’s in the military?” They had reached the northernmost part of the park. Sidney could hear the traffic noises on Picadilly Street.
“He’s headmaster of the Victoria School,” she replied. “I’m only able to visit them during long vacation.”
Long vacation. That meant she was a student somewhere. Secondary school or college? Had she mentioned that yesterday? If he was clever enough, he could figure out her name without being forced to admit he had forgotten it. “You live with Mr. and Mrs. Pearce between terms?” Surely he would have recalled seeing her, but then, he did not normally take strolls in Green Park.
She shook her head. “With relations in Hampstead.”
“I see.” And he was feeling increasingly awkward, not mentioning her name. He made one more attempt. “I’m quite familiar with Hampstead. But I can’t recall meeting anyone there by the name of Pearce.”
“The Pearces are on my mother’s and Aunt Phyllis’s side of the family. My Hampstead relations are Rayborns. And Doyles.”
He recalled her name now. Rayborn. And it rang another mental bell, especially when linked with Doyle. But the Doyles lived in Berkeley Square. “Have they resided in Hampstead long?” he asked casually.
“Only three or four months. They moved from Berkeley Square to a house on Cannonhall Road.”
****
Something in his blue eyes was unsettling. Catherine wondered if the headache had returned. “Lord Holt?”
He blinked, smiled. “Do forgive me. I was just wondering how long it has been since I’ve enjoyed such pleasant company.”
“Thank you.” Heat rose in her cheeks again. Flattered as she was, she realized that she had stretched the rules of propriety for long enough. It was not seemly to spend so much time, unchaperoned, with a man to whom she was not betrothed.
And she could not abandon her aunt all morning, no matter how severely her nerves had been taxed. No matter how much she was enjoying the company of this handsome lord. She offered her gloved hand. “I should go now. Do have a pleasant—”
“Please,” he said, closing his hand over hers. “Must you?”
“I left my aunt halfway through breakfast.”
“Then you must be hungry.” With his other hand he motioned across Picadilly. “There is a decent café . . .”
“No, thank you.” Propriety would scream at that one, and her father have an apoplexy if he ever found out.
He nodded toward a nearby bench under an elm. “Then at least sit and share my breakfast with me, and I’ll escort you back to your aunt’s.”
Before she could decline, he released her hand and withdrew a pear from his pocket. Another smile deepened the dimple in his chin. “How long can half a pear take?”
“Very well,” she said, and not reluctantly.
He sat a respectable distance from her, long legs crossed at the ankles, and drew a small folding knife from his fob pocket. Just as his voice seemed meant for the stage, his hands seemed meant for peeling fruit, so white and well-shaped with long fingers and clean nails. A splendid ring, a single diamond set in a massive gold claw, flashed blue and purple as the sun struck it at every turn of his hand. And the finger it was on—the little one—held itself aloft slightly as if to show off the diamond the better.
Catching herself staring, she raised her eyes again to his face.
Lord Holt smiled. “You should remove your gloves.”
“Thank you.” She removed them and folded them in her lap, and then accepted the slice of fruit he handed over.
“Please tell me about your family,” he asked. “How long have they lived in Bombay?”
“Three years.” She told him of her recent visit home. “And yours?”
“There isn’t much to tell.” The modesty in his tone suggested otherwise. “My father was an Exchequer judge, but he passed on when I was nine.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “Thank you. It was a very difficult time, but Mother and I slogged through it. And fortunately, she and Mr. Godfrey struck up a friendship that led to marriage a couple of years later.”
“You didn’t mind?”
He chuckled. “After being head of household for two years? Can you guess?”
Catherine covered a smile with her hand. “But you grew used to him?”
“Oh, absolutely. And I’m grateful that he makes my mother happy. He’s the one who encouraged her to write. They even have a son together, my brother, Edgar, who just recently turned fourteen.”
“He looks up to you?”
“I wish that were the case. I was thirteen when he was born and more interested in playing cricket than visiting the nursery. Then I was off to Eton, and then Oxford. Now that I’m home, well, he’s the one who’d rather be out swinging a cricket bat with his friends, and I’m too stuffy ancient for him. How is it with you and your sister?”
“I was only nine when she was born,” Catherine said, surprised at the easy flow of conversation, so different from yesterday’s attempt. “And so I played with her instead of dolls. We shared the same governess too. Even though our academic interests are different, we do have those bonds.”
“Then I gather she’s not like your little cousin?”
“Not in the least. In fact, she’s an absolute dear.”
He handed her another slice of pear. “But then she would have to be, wouldn’t she?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you think I mean?”
She chewed on the bit of pear to distract attention from her cheeks, which were surely betraying her again.
“Why does it embarrass you to be complimented, Miss Rayborn?” he asked.
“I’m not embarrassed,” she murmured, and the fact that he could tell otherwise made her cheeks even warmer.
He did not contradict her, just tossed the pear core into a shrubbery and offered her the damp handkerchief he had used to wipe the bench. “It’s a bit soiled. But better than pulling gloves back over sticky hands. And we should be delivering you back to your aunt’s before she sends the cousin after you.”
Did I say something wrong? Catherine asked herself as she cleaned her hands. True, it was past time to be moving on toward Belgrave Square. But she should be the one to bring that up, not him.
“Thank you for breakfast, Lord Holt,” she said, rising when her gloves were on.
He wiped his hands quickly and got to his feet. “The pleasure was mine.” He stuffed the handkerchief
into a pocket, crooked an elbow, and smiled. “Shall we?”
“You aren’t obliged to escort me,” she told him.
“Nothing would give me more pleasure, Miss Rayborn.”
When he did not move, she slipped a hand into the crook of his arm. It was her first time to walk such a way with a man, other than her father or Uncle Daniel. Her self-consciousness eased a bit when she realized how little notice they attracted. Another couple strolled in the distance, two elderly men played chess at a table set up under a dogwood tree, and nursemaids aired children or gossiped in little groups. Douglas—or Bernard—sent her a wave from a group of boys taking turns trying out a pair of stilts.
“They’ll all be wanting to run away and join the circus,” Lord Holt told her. “At least until suppertime.”
“Father took me to see some acrobats when we lived in Malta. One turned three backwards flips on stilts strapped to his feet.”
“You’ve lived in Malta? You’re quite the cosmopolitan woman, Miss Rayborn.”
That made her smile. She explained how her father had tutored the son of the Naval Hospital’s Inspector General. When he asked about her studies, she told him how pleased she was to be at Girton. “Have you ever been there?”
“Not there, but close. My father has some relations in Chesterton—to the east a bit, just across the Cam from Cambridge—but my mother fell out of favor with them by remarrying, so I’ve not been up there since the college was built.”
“I’m sorry. About your family.”
“They were bores anyway.” His blue eyes glinted as they waited for a lull in Grosvenor Place traffic. “Cambridge and Oxford, walking arm in arm. There is hope for world peace after all.”
“Well, the women’s colleges aren’t officially part of the University,” she said.
“Indeed?”
“We’re allowed to take the Tripos exam, but the scores don’t count toward a Cambridge degree.”
“How positively medieval! The old dons probably worry that the women will prove themselves brighter than the men.”
“How nice of you to say.”
“I mean it. And what about the students from the male colleges? I imagine they’re delighted to have you there. Do they make pests of themselves, flirting and all that?”
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