Hugh scanned the rough figures he had collected from other departments earlier this afternoon. “Is there a way to trim shipping costs?”
“I don’t see how. The price per tonnage has already been negotiated.”
Mindful of overstepping the bounds of his own limited experience, Hugh said respectfully, “But just because Morgan Shipping has always handled the transport from India, how do we know that they’re offering the best price to the States?”
Mr. Culiard opened his mouth to reply, but then closed it again and looked at the figures on Hugh’s page. “You know . . . it certainly can’t hurt to get figures from other companies, can it?”
“You’re not just humoring me, are you?” Hugh asked with lowered voice.
The man laughed, causing other workers to look up from their desks. “It was an excellent idea, Mr. Sedgwick. I only wish it had been mine.”
A secretary, a young man fresh out of typing school, approached ten minutes before the office was to close at six. “Telephone for you, Mr. Sedgwick.”
The fourth floor boasted two telephones, one in Hugh’s father’s office and the other attached to a wall over a desk and stool in the accounting department. It was to the latter that Hugh went.
“Mr. Sedgwick speaking.”
“And why isn’t Mr. Sedgwick here, is what I would like to know.”
Hugh smiled at the sound of Neville’s voice. “Ah, but I happen to know that Mr. Sedgwick is indeed here.”
“Not here . . . here.”
Returning the waves of two bookkeepers heading for the staircase with hats and coats, Hugh said, “Neville, if you recall, I said I didn’t think I could—”
“Ah, but that wasn’t a definite no. And Margery is desperate for you to meet Lillian.”
That was the part that had made Hugh leery last week when Neville approached him about the outing. “I’m not sure I want to meet someone who’s desperate.”
“Lillian’s not desperate, good man, and you’ll see why when you set eyes upon her. Margery’s the desperate one. She doesn’t like the man who’s been courting Lillian, though he’s twice as rich as you. We’ve just gotten a table at Dyer’s. I’ll order you a steak, so just hurry on over and—”
“Impossible. I would have to go home and change.”
His friend’s groan came clearly over the line. “Very well. It’ll give us an opportunity to talk about you anyway. We’ll leave your ticket at the on call desk at the Lyceum.”
“Neville, I really don’t think . . .”
“Look, Hugh,” Neville said with peevish tone. “I promised Margery you’d come, and she’ll be sullen for a week if you don’t show. Also, you know what they say about all work and no play.”
“Very well,” Hugh sighed. Rubbing his forehead as if that would somehow wipe out his stormy thoughts, he went down the corridor to his father’s office.
“Mr. Sedgwick has not returned from the auction,” his father’s secretary, Mr. Westbrook, informed him.
“Please tell him I’ve gone ahead.” He took up hat and umbrella and satchel and left the building for the half-block walk to Aldgate Station. The London Underground, the network of trains running beneath the streets, had been steadily expanding over the eighteen years since the initial four-mile track was laid. Even with having to switch trains at Paddington, the trips to and from work were cut by at least half the time his father’s coach would have taken in London street traffic. South Kensington Station, where he stepped above ground again, was but a pleasant shady three-hundred-yard stroll from their three-storey Georgian home on Queensgate.
The kitchen was his first stop. He asked Mrs. Kiddy, the cook who had been with his family since before his birth, if he could have a sandwich packed in ten minutes.
“Can’t you see how busy we are?” she grumbled from the work table, where she rolled a pastry while kitchen maid and scullery maid scurried about.
“Sorry,” he said in a contrite tone. He winked at the scullery maid, who covered a smile. “I’m not too terribly hungry.”
She shook her grey head and pointed the rolling pin at him. “Ten minutes, Master Hugh. But next time give us warning. You’ve a telephone in that office, yes?”
“Next time!” he promised. Leaving the kitchen, he considered and discarded the idea of having Amos, their coachman, bring the carriage around. Mrs. Kiddy was right about giving warning, and the poor fellow would miss his supper.
He stopped in the parlor just long enough to greet his mother and sisters, Claire and Noelle, ages thirteen and eleven. “Father will be along later,” he said. “And I’ll not be here for supper.”
“But where are you going?” Mother asked, as she looked up from her needlework.
“The opera with Neville and Margery.”
“Just Neville and Margery?” Claire asked with a mocking little smile.
He smirked at her. “There may be a young lady involved, if you must know. And I’m in a dreadful hurry, so I must beg your pardon.”
Upstairs he washed his face and changed into a formal black tailcoat, with white cravat and gloves and top hat. He stopped in the parlor long enough to plant a kiss upon the cheeks of his mother and sisters, and another upon Mrs. Kiddy’s lined cheek, for she had wrapped two roast beef sandwiches.
Kensington had settled itself into an evening tranquillity, the sun bisected by Saint Clement’s steeple. He ate as the hansom bore him down Gloucester. Halfway through his first sandwich, he wished he had specified ham, for Mrs. Kiddy stuffed her roast beef liberally with garlic cloves. But the damage was done, and he was famished, so he consumed the other.
Gas lamps lit up Rigoletto on the marquee above the white columns of the Lyceum Theatre. Carriages and coaches were still pausing on Wellington to discharge people, a good sign that the opera had not yet begun. But having left his watch in his other waistcoat, Hugh could not be certain how much time until opening curtain. He paid the driver, brushed crumbs from the front of his coat, and hastened toward the entrance with top hat under his arm. About six steps from the entrance, he happened to glance toward Wellington, where a tall gentleman was helping a young woman from a coach. The first thing he noticed was that she was beautiful. And then he recognized her.
No wonder she didn’t write back, he thought, and quickened his pace toward the Lyceum’s entrance before she could look his way. Provided she were to take her eyes off the tall man, and that did not appear likely to happen anytime soon.
Twenty-One
La donna e mobile
qual piu-ma al vento,
muta d’accento e di pensiero . . .”
The song resonated from the tenor’s throat in tones as rich as the colors of the sixteenth-century Italian court setting. Lord Holt leaned close to translate. “Women are fickle, like a feather in the breeze.”
Catherine nodded, her heart pounding to the tempo of the timpani. Her aching toes throbbed to the same rhythm, but she was glad she wore the shoes, for when he came for her at Aunt Phyllis’s, he said she looked as stunning as a Nattier portrait. She had never heard of the artist, but the appreciation in her escort’s blue eyes told her it was a compliment.
“E sempre misero
qui a lei s’affida,
chi le confida,
mal cauto il core!”
“. . . and that a man will be miserable if he trusts her without guarding his heart,” Lord Holt went on.
When she looked at him he smiled. “Verdi’s sentiments. Not mine.”
Never had she known anyone like him; elegant, sophisticated, witty, knowledgeable, and confident. Thoughtful, too, beginning the evening with roses for Aunt Phyllis, cigars to Uncle Norman, and box of Cadbury’s chocolates for the children. At Gatti’s, where he had thought ahead to reserve a table, he had guided Catherine past a queue of at least two dozen theatergoers to a secluded corner. The Lobster a la Mode Francaise he ordered for her was so excellent that she was glad she had not mentioned beforehand that she was not fond of lobster. An
d once they were seated in the box at the Lyceum, he presented her with a pair of opera glasses on a silver chain.
Mother would have made her return a gift from a man to whom she was not betrothed, but it was purely a practical gift. Not that she needed them, for their seats in box four were among the best in the house.
“What did you think?” he asked over the applause during the final bows.
“Wonderful performance,” she replied, clapping gloved hands. But then, she could have accompanied him to a recitation of the London Telephone Directory, she told herself, and would not have enjoyed the evening any less.
In his coach again, Catherine ignored her aching feet, half-fearing and half-hoping that he would take her hand. And hoping completely that he would not attempt to kiss her. From what she had learned from Mother and friends at Girton, she would be required to slap him lest he assume she was of questionable virtue and despise her afterward.
“Are you sure you absolutely must leave tomorrow?” he asked, the side lamp bathing half his face amber.
He wants to see you again! Catherine told herself with wonder. Surely such a man could keep company with any woman he wished. So easily could she have agreed to stay. And she wanted very much to agree. After all, formal lectures would not begin until October fourth, six weeks from now. What would a few more days matter?
But Peggy had put off the trip a day for her. She did not wish to put a strain upon their resumed friendship.
And another reason rose from the murky depths of will and sentiment. She should not appear too eager, as if she had never been courted before. Which she hadn’t. Not officially.
Lieutenant Elham’s face appeared in her mind and evaporated. He spoke with food in his mouth, she remembered. How could she have purposely overlooked such a thing? You were a silly girl, she told herself. Just as you were with Mr. Sedgwick. A man pays attention to you, and you lose your head.
But it was different with Lord Holt. Because he was so much more mature, he enhanced what maturity she possessed. Just as she didn’t wish to appear too eager, she didn’t want to discourage him. How did one tread such a fine line?
“I didn’t spend as much time with my Hampstead relations as I had intended,” she said carefully, as if that were the chief consideration. “I should really return next week for a few days.”
She could study just as well in Hampstead as Girton, if she would but make herself. It’s just a matter of conquering the will.
“Now, that’s the sweetest music my ears have heard all evening,” he said. But an odd melancholy touched his smile, and he turned his face from her to stare through the window at the gaslit houses of Victoria Street.
Catherine’s cheeks heated. You’ve done it now! she chided herself. He was probably thinking that she was no different from those dozens of other women Aunt Phyllis had mentioned. If only she had given it more thought before agreeing to return so hastily!
There’s no mystery to you at all, is there? she told herself.
He faced her abruptly. “Miss Rayborn, there is something I must say.”
“Yes?” She braced herself for whatever was to follow:
Investing occupies too much of my time.
I’m not interested in courting.
Or perhaps even, Hampstead is too far away.
“As much as I would like to see you again,” he continued, “that will not be possible in Hampstead.”
I knew it! Catherine thought, but joylessly. Still, she possessed enough pride to reply with forced flippancy in her voice, “Think nothing of it, Lord Holt. I shall be too busy anyway, what with needing to study, and—”
“Will you please listen?” he interrupted, blue eyes mildly annoyed. “If I didn’t want to see you again, I wouldn’t have asked you to stay.”
The ache in Catherine’s heart lightened. “Hampstead isn’t so far.”
Inexplicably, he chuckled in a flat sort of way. “I’m aware of that. It’s your family there who would prevent it.”
“My . . . family?”
“Would William Doyle happen to be one of those Hampstead relations?”
“Why, yes. He’s married to my cousin Sarah. How do you know him?”
A silence of several seconds passed. “From Oxford. I really didn’t intend to enjoy your company so much, Miss Rayborn. You’ve put me in a quandary.”
“Why would he try to stop me from seeing you?” In fact, the reverse would be the case, for the family would be more favorable to her seeing someone who wasn’t a total stranger.
She was about to point this out, when he frowned and said, “I’m afraid I treated him most shamefully while he was a servitor at Lincoln College.”
She couldn’t imagine Lord Holt treating anyone shamefully. Hadn’t he shown patience with the waiter at Gatti’s, even when the man mistakenly addressed her twice as “Miss Dell”? But the fresh memory of his behavior at the garden party came back to her. He had a headache, she reminded herself.
“William is a forgiving person,” Catherine assured him, relieved that the obstacle between them was so easily vanquished. “But if you think it would help to clear the air, all you have to do is apologize.”
He shook his head and groaned. “How I wish it were that simple.”
“Then I’ll speak with him.”
“It won’t do any good. Trust me.”
“But why?” she asked.
“Truth is, there is more.” Another silence passed, and then, “During the years Mr. Doyle was acquainted with me, I was young and foolish and full of myself. I had lost my father as a boy, and my stepfather and mother were too absorbed in their own child to provide any moral guidance.”
Two emotions tugged at Catherine. Pity for the man beside her, for the regret in his tone could only have come from deep inner pain. And frustration, that while his confession was obviously heartfelt, it was so vague. What was she to think?
And the confession obviously was to remain vague, for he said in an apologetic, yet adamant voice, “I know I’ve confused you, Miss Rayborn. But that’s all I can say. I just want you to understand that it’s not lack of wanting to see you again that forbids me from calling on you in Hampstead. And as you’re not allowed callers at Girton . . .”
“I don’t have to tell them,” Catherine said, barely able to keep the words from gushing forth. She had to see him again! They had known each other only for a day, yet oddly, she felt as if she had always known him. As if on the calendar of her life, this certain day had been circled many years ago.
“I can’t ask you to deceive your family,” he told her.
She appreciated that. “It would only be until we figure out a way for you to make things right with William.” And she just knew that was possible. She had never seen William act toward anyone with anything less than kindness. Or at least toward anyone not guilty of adulterating food or medicine.
“I’m afraid his opinion of me will not be so easily changed.”
“You don’t know him as well as I do.”
“Indeed.” He was thoughtfully silent for a minute. “On High Street there is a grocer, J. Porsters. It’s less than a half-mile walk from Cannonhall Road. Do you know it?”
She shook her head.
“If you’ll keep a watch out, you can’t miss it. Between it and the ironmonger’s, Skoyle’s, there is an arched entrance over a narrow little lane, Perrins Court, where there is a nice café called Banton’s.”
“I believe I could find it.”
Finally he smiled. “But of course you can. If you still wish to see me again, just wire me from Girton telling me the day and time to be there.”
Catherine wished they were speaking of tomorrow.
He scooped up her hand and held it for the remainder of the ride, squeezing so hard that the press of his ring against the inside of her fingers was painful even through the gloves. But she didn’t wish to spoil the moment, so she endured it. Besides, it took her mind off her toes.
Under Aunt Phyllis’
s portico he brushed a kiss against the back of her hand. “But for a pair of smoked spectacles, our paths may never have crossed again, Miss Rayborn. Life is strange, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” she replied. Strange and wonderful!
Chambermaid Rose answered Lord Holt’s soft knock right away, obviously having waited up for just that purpose. Once the door was closed behind her, Catherine leaned upon Rose’s shoulder for support and took off Aunt Phyllis’s shoes. The maid helped her limp upstairs on her throbbing stockinged feet.
“Have you ever been in love, Rose?” Catherine whispered in the guest room as the yawning girl unfastened the buttons along her back.
“Aye, Miss. I’ve a young man that works in the docks. He takes me to supper with his sister on my half day. I expect we’ll marry.”
Catherine was glad. She wanted to ask how she came to know she was in love, but she took pity on the girl and gave her a half crown for staying up.
“Thank you, Miss!” the girl exclaimed softly. “May you sleep well.”
But sleep was a long time in coming. Beginning from when she descended the staircase and met Lord Holt’s smile, Catherine relived every moment, every look and conversation as if her mind were a stage, herself and Lord Holt the actors. And he didn’t even try to kiss you, she reminded herself. At least not on the face. Wasn’t that proof that, no matter what occurred in his past, he was now a decent man?
****
Let’s see . . . seventy pounds wouldn’t bankrupt you by a long shot, Sidney told himself in the study just off his bedchamber. He looked over the figures again, glanced at the folded pair of spectacles upon his desk. But you’ll be kicking yourself if they catch on and you didn’t take a greater risk.
He was used to staying up late, and in fact, would still be out if he had used the tickets on Roseline. And nursing a bloated head in the morning, he thought, flicking the ash from his cigarette into the crystal tray. With your purse considerably lighter, for Roseline would have mentioned some need or want, even after he had spent all afternoon purchasing and arranging board for the horse. In his mind’s ledger, her liabilities were beginning to outweigh her assets.
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