Suddenly college students seemed so young. Catherine shook her head. “They’re not allowed past the gates unless they’re family. And we’re not allowed to go into Cambridge without chaperones.”
“Very wise,” he said. “There are a lot of wolves out there in sheep’s clothing.”
“Now you sound like my father,” she told him.
He chuckled. “I’ll accept that as a compliment.”
Twenty
As they neared 42 Belgrave Square, Sidney noticed two men in shirtsleeves and corded trousers carrying a piano down the steps toward a waiting wagon. His mother had mentioned that the Pearces were moving soon, but as their comings and goings had no effect upon his life beyond the inconvenience of sacrificing a half hour at their dull party, he had not thought to wonder when that might occur.
Now, he found himself a little more interested. He asked Miss Rayborn, “Your aunt and her family are moving soon?”
She nodded. “Tonight is their last night in the house. They’ll spend the rest of the week at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel.”
“And where after that?” Not that he gave a tinker’s curse, but once one initiated a subject of conversation, good manners compelled one to see it through.
“Sheffield. My uncle will manage a branch office.”
They had reached the front of the house and stood a little to the side of the steps, in front of the cast-iron railing. “Where will you go tomorrow?”
“Hampstead,” she replied. “But only long enough to say farewell and collect my things before catching the train for Girton.”
The Hampstead relations, Sidney thought, as it occurred to him that it was probably Leona’s house that the Doyles had moved into. Grand old estates like that were passed down through the generations and seldom came on the market. I just hope Doyle has enough couth to wipe the manure from his boots when he goes inside, he thought. He only wished he could be a fly on the wall, watching William Doyle’s face as he learned that this innocent creature had spent the morning in the company of the man he and his wife considered the biggest rakeshame in London.
She was giving him a curious look, and he realized he was smiling.
“I wish you a pleasant journey tomorrow,” he said.
“Thank you.” The corners of her mouth tucked into their charming little semicircles. “I’m glad to have had my first impression of you corrected.”
“Hear, hear,” Sidney said. The Hammersmith appointment nagged again at his mind. And there was no point in lurking here, when the Pearces were too occupied for guests. Not that he would wish to set foot inside anyway, just in case he should happen upon Mr. Pearce with his insurance policies or that girl with her shrill mouth.
As if reading his thoughts, Miss Rayborn moved her hand from its nest in his arm. “I’m afraid I can’t invite you in.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself.” Sidney took up her hand and brushed a quick kiss against the back of her glove. “It’s time for me to nip on home for hat and carriage. I’ve an important meeting at the Stock Exchange.”
****
Will I ever see you again? Catherine thought. But she could only say a much safer, “I hope you’re on time.”
“Thank you.” He touched his forehead as if the brim of a hat rested there. “Good morning, Miss Rayborn.”
Catherine smiled. “Good morning.”
She watched him hasten across the Square at almost a jog, but only until telling herself that she would be mortified if he were to happen to look back. Two laborers paused from stacking crates in the corridor to nod politely at her. Aunt Phyllis was in the library, holding up a sheet of foolscap for Riles, a parlormaid, and another laborer. “Paintings and any wall ornaments should be crated together according to their respective walls,” she was saying. “I’ve drawn up a plan here—everything from the fireplace wall shall be labeled A . . .” Eventually she looked toward the doorway and smiled.
“Did you have a pleasant outing, Catherine?”
“Most pleasant,” Catherine replied with a bittersweet little pang. “May I lend a hand?”
“Heavens, no. We’ll do them a greater service by moving out of the way. Isn’t that so, Riles?”
With a subtle lift of the brows, the butler replied, “It is a wise servant who does not contradict his mistress.”
Aunt Phyllis laughed, and Catherine marveled at how much fun her aunt could be away from the company of her children, and when matters did not pertain directly to them. After giving the butler the sketch, Aunt Phyllis propelled Catherine toward the parlor. “And now it’s time we had a nice visit without any distractions. Who knows when that will happen again?”
“Where is Muriel?”
“Her nanny took her to Harrods for nightgowns and stockings. There is no telling what sort of merchandise we’ll find in Sheffield. And I sent the boys out to play.”
“I saw them at Green Park,” Catherine told her as they passed the crate stackers. “They were having a jolly time with a pair of stilts.”
“Stilts is fun,” murmured one workman to the other. “I built some for me son.”
But Aunt Phyllis had stopped walking. “How high were they?”
With a sinking feeling that she shouldn’t have volunteered that bit of information, Catherine held up a hand, shoulder height. “Not terribly high.”
“My boy’s was as high as a horse’s ears,” the crate assembler said.
Aunt Phyllis was not mollified. She turned toward the library door.
“Riles?”
“Madam?”
“Send someone over to the Park to tell the twins they’re not to play on stilts.”
The candlestick telephone rang as they stepped into the parlor. A maid hurried through the doorway to answer it.
“For you, Missus,” she said to Aunt Phyllis. “A Lord Holt.”
Lord Holt? Aunt Phyllis mouthed to Catherine as she took earpiece and telephone and seated herself upon the sofa.
Catherine perched herself on a chair, barely allowing herself to breathe.
“Good morning, Lord Holt!” her aunt said. “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?”
She assumed a listening pose, forehead denting.
“Very kind of you to say so,” she said eventually. “Mr. Pearce and I were honored that you and your dear mother could attend. But I’m distressed to learn of your headache. Has it eased any at all?”
After another silence, “I’m relieved to hear it. A good night’s sleep is usually the best tonic—although you may wish to try Biliousine, should one persist to the next day. Our holiday to Portsmouth would have been ruined, had I not had some in my luggage for Mr. Pearce. Be sure to take it with a little food, or your stomach will give you grief.”
Halfway through the silence that followed, Aunt Phyllis angled her head to send Catherine a smile. “No, she hasn’t told me, but we’re just now having the opportunity to talk.”
Another brief silence, then, “Yes, Catherine is indeed a charming young woman. From a good family, I might add. My sister is a saint. And with a three hundred pound per annum legacy from her grandfather—”
No! Catherine mouthed, shaking her head.
“—she’ll be no liability to any man wise enough to ask her hand.”
I want to die! Catherine’s face burned, and nausea gripped her.
“Yes . . . yes . . . I see . . .” Aunt Phyllis went on, oblivious to Catherine’s misery. “And you were given only two tickets? But you mustn’t apologize, Lord Holt. We’re quite occupied here. And Mr. Pearce and I would have no objections, given my friendship with your mother, and the good name of your family. You would bring her back here immediately afterward, yes?”
Still another silence, then, “Very good, Lord Holt. Would you care to speak with her?”
Aunt Phyllis ignored Catherine’s frantic shakes of the head and waved her over insistently, until she had no choice but to comply. Handing over the telephone, her aunt whispered, “He wants to ask you to the
opera.”
Catherine stared at the earpiece until a nudge in her side prompted her to put it to her ear. “Miss Rayborn speaking.”
“Good morning again, Miss Rayborn!”
“Good morning,” she replied. The normality of his voice made her feel better. Perhaps every family had an Aunt Phyllis, whose words sometimes had to be taken with a grain of salt. But she wished her aunt were not staring so intently. The raised eyebrows gave her the air of a spaniel with its ears cocked.
“Won’t you be late for your meeting?” she asked.
His sigh came over the telephone line. “I’m afraid that’s inevitable. But yes, I must make haste, and so do pray you’ll forgive my lapse in etiquette by ringing instead of stopping by.”
“Of course,” she said, and tried to recall her aunt’s words. Did she say opera?
“And I realize this is terribly last-minute and highly irregular, but I am suddenly in the possession of two tickets to Verdi’s Rigoletto at the Lyceum. Mrs. Pearce has granted me permission to ask you to accompany me. Would you pay me that honor?”
She could barely keep her thoughts in order. “This evening, do you mean?”
“Forgive me . . . yes, this evening. The curtain opens at eight, and we could have a light supper at Gatti’s if I come for you at half-past five.”
I’ll lend you a dress, her aunt mouthed.
Catherine needed little more encouragement than that. In fact, less would have sufficed. “Very well, thank you.”
****
Roseline will be furious, Sidney thought, closing the front door after himself for the second time. She was terribly fond of attending the opera, if only because it meant seeing and being seen by the right people. But she had little call to complain. Not considering the money he would be spending on her horse and all its trappings.
Jerry started to climb down from the driver’s seat of the landau.
“I’m fine,” Sidney said, and stepped inside unassisted. “Let’s get a move on.”
A sudden whim had prompted him to leave Jerry at the reins just minutes ago and return to the house for the telephone. Miss Rayborn would be here in Belgravia for only another twenty-four hours or so. He had spoken truth when he told her that he couldn’t recall a more pleasant morning, and had an unshakable feeling that he would enjoy the evening more in her company than in Roseline’s.
There was only one fly in the ointment. He happened to know, as would any stockholder worth his portfolio, that telephone lines were now extended to most of Hampstead. If Miss Rayborn happened to ring her relations today, the opera would be off. True, he would still have the satisfaction of having angered William Doyle again, but the victory now seemed a little hollow.
Catherine. He had not known her Christian name until Mrs. Pearce spoke it over the telephone. It seemed to fit her looks and personality, and even somehow added to her attraction.
You’re turning into a sentimental sop, he told himself, but smiling.
****
“Are you quite sure I should?” Catherine asked Aunt Phyllis. Not that she could do anything to alter the situation now, after accepting Lord Holt’s invitation. “That’s less time I’ll be spending with you.”
Her aunt took her by both hands, the brown eyes filled with excitement. “My dear, this is vastly more important! You would be foolish not to seize this opportunity. And you’ll simply have to visit us in Sheffield to make up the time, won’t you?”
A nagging little thought lurked in the back of Catherine’s mind as she accompanied her aunt upstairs and listened to how dozens of young women would gladly trade places with her. What would Mother and Father think? But she tried to silence that voice by reasoning that Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Norman represented her parents as long as she was their guest. Why, her parents would expect nothing less than for her to obey them! And Aunt Phyllis had all but ordered her to accept the invitation.
“Let’s go ahead and lay out your clothes,” Aunt Phyllis said, flinging open her mahogany wardrobe. “I do believe my pearl grey satin would be a perfect contrast to your dark hair. Thank goodness we’ve not gotten around to packing the extra clothing. I’ve slippers covered in the same fabric. I only hope they fit you. I think my feet are more narrow than yours.”
“I’ll make them fit,” Catherine said, and felt a little like Cinderella when they did. Cinderella with cramped toes, albeit.
Peggy rang at ten-past five, just after Aunt Phyllis had dabbed some Jardin de Coeur on Catherine’s wrists and behind her ears, and the maid Rose had put the curling iron away. “I can’t talk long,” Peggy said over the telephone line. “Father’s expecting a call from a customer. But I’ve discovered what I want to do after college!”
“I gather you had an interesting day,” Catherine said, touching the ringlets cascading from the pins at the crown of her head. They swayed gently with her every movement, as did the sapphire and gold ear wires Aunt Phyllis had lent her.
“Vastly! We analyzed samples of stock from a chemist shop in St. Giles. But I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Mr. Doyle said he was impressed with my analytical skills, and that there’s no reason a woman shouldn’t work for the Commission. Of course he was being kind, but—”
“William wouldn’t have said that if he didn’t mean every word.”
“You’re quite sure?”
Catherine smiled as if her friend could see her. “I am. William’s wise enough to see what an asset you would be to them.”
“Thank you, Catherine,” Peggy gushed. “Well, Father’s making motions to me. But I just couldn’t wait to tell you.”
“I’m glad you didn’t wait, or I should have missed your call,” Catherine said, and tried to imagine the shock on her friend’s face as she added, “Lord Holt will be by very soon. We’re going to the opera.”
The pause that followed was as gratifying to Catherine’s ears as the exclamation at the end of it. “Lord Holt?”
“Yes. You remember, the man who—”
“I remember! But how . . . ?”
Catherine smiled again. “I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.”
There was another pause, then a hesitant, “But what about Lieutenant Elham?”
He had not visited Catherine’s thoughts since she and Lord Holt shared the pear. “Well, we’re not engaged. And it’s just one evening at the opera.”
“Yes, of course,” her friend said with a little less conviction than Catherine would have wished.
Muriel and Aunt Phyllis came through the parlor doorway as Catherine replaced the earpiece.
“You’re so pretty!” Muriel cried.
“Why, thank you Muriel.” Catherine folded the girl into her arms, aware that she was risking another clinging episode, but too giddy with anticipation to be cautious. And fortunately, Muriel detached herself when the embrace concluded.
****
In 1834 when Parliament rescinded the charter given to the East India Company, breaking up a monopoly of two and a half centuries, the late Cyril Sedgwick was one of the small independent merchants who seized this new opportunity. Offering his greengrocery on Baker Street as security, he borrowed money from the Bank of England to build a two-storey brick building on Aldgate. There, family members and a growing number of hired workers packaged tea, purchased through the auctions in Mincing Lane, into the distinctive Royal blue tins for crating and shipping to shopkeepers in a widening circle of patronage.
Whereas Cyril had the initial dream, eldest son Fuller made Sedgwick Tea a household name by blending different varieties of teas from differing Indian regions to achieve a consistent taste. He offered free tins to families on holiday in such resorts as Brighton and Portsmouth, so that the fame would spread as those travelers returned home, and took advantage of the freight services offered by railways in the 1850’s to reach markets as far north as Yorkshire and later, Scotland.
And so it was expected that Fuller’s three sons would make their marks one day, especially Hugh, the eldest. Sinc
e leaving Cambridge, Hugh had been making those marks in accounting ledgers. None of his sons would be figureheads, Fuller determined, but would be competent in every aspect of marketing tea. It was the only way a family business should operate, if they expected to hand it down through generations of Sedgwicks to follow.
It made sense to Hugh, and so he did not mind in the least that he would have to prove himself before being given his own office, on the top floor of the four-storey building across Aldgate from the one Grandfather Sedgwick had purchased almost fifty years ago. The desk placed near the desk of Mr. Culiard, head accountant, afforded him contact with the other accounting staff—to include, besides Mr. Culiard, three bookkeepers and two secretaries—and any workers or visitors with business on the fourth floor. A solitary office would have limited the human contact, and when one spent hours with one’s nose following a pencil, that contact was vastly important.
He was not alarmed over his lack of passion for his work. He had only been employed for two months, so surely that would come later. Besides, London would be a very giddy city indeed, if every person felt a passion for work. Competence and commitment to duty were more important than passion. His father seemed pleased with both in Hugh’s regard, and just this morning had assigned him his first actual project. Under Mr. Culiard’s mentoring, he was to determine the profitability of extending Sedgwick Tea’s range of marketing to the States. Several factors had to be considered, including overseas—as well as railway—shipping, storage, advertising, and maintaining a branch office to control such operations.
“Fortunately, we would not have to add tariffs to our expenses, as the U.S. Congress exempted coffee and tea nine years ago,” Mr. Culiard explained that afternoon, his chair drawn up beside Hugh’s desk. He was forty or so, long-nosed and lean and usually in want of a haircut. He could have been a caricature of Dickens’ Bob Cratchet but for an awareness of his own competence that gave him the courage to speak his mind.
“How long do you think that will last?” Hugh asked.
The accountant nodded approval. “Excellent question. They could vote to withdraw that exemption at any time. And so we would have to set prices with that in mind, else we could find ourselves having to raise them sharply and lose customers if the tariff is applied.”
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