He sat back in his chair and took another pull from the cigarette. Your Oxford chums would have a good chuckle, he told himself, letting out a stream of smoke. He would have laughed himself, had someone told him a month ago that he could find himself interested in someone so fresh and unworldly. Catherine Rayborn brought something out of him he didn’t even know he possessed.
William Doyle and his dull wife were another matter. They could go to blazes for all he cared. But in the course of a few hours, his thoughts had evolved from wishing to upset their comfortable little world, to hoping they would not upset his.
****
Catherine shot up from her pillow and blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings. As her mind regained its focus, an auburn head appeared in the doorway.
“Are you awake, dear?”
“Yes, come in,” Catherine said, while every molecule of her body strained to sink back into the mattress.
Aunt Phyllis hurried inside in a glow of expectancy and rustle of plisse dressing gown. “I thought of nothing but you all evening!” she gushed, as Catherine swung her feet out of the covers.
Catherine smiled and fished for her slippers. “I had a lovely time, thank you.”
Her aunt lifted her dressing gown from the back of a chair and helped her into it. “If you think that’s enough to satisfy me, dear niece, you’re quite mistaken. Cook is sending a pot of tea out onto the terrace, and I expect you to join me there and provide some details before the children are up.”
Hastily Catherine performed her morning toilette. The splash of cool water upon her face helped clear the cobwebs from her mind. She sat out on a wicker chair beside a stack of crating slats and a pail of nails, describing their meal at Gatti’s, and then the opera.
“Oscar Wilde and his wife occupied the box opposite ours,” she recollected, because she knew Aunt Phyllis would get a thrill from it. Funny, she had barely thought to be impressed when Lord Holt pointed them out, for even the Prince Regent’s presence wouldn’t have outshone her companion’s.
Her aunt poured second cups of tea, the smile never leaving her face. “I hope you realize how fortunate you are. Your mother will be so pleased.”
“Do you really think so?”
“When I tell her how high his family is esteemed? Your father will be a bear about it, but he’s too far away to do anything but growl.” As she handed Catherine the cup, a frown finally found its place. “The timing, however, couldn’t be more disastrous.”
“Yes.” Catherine agreed.
“Must you return to Girton today?”
“I really must.”
Aunt Phyllis took a sip of tea and inclined her head in thought. “That may be best, on second thought. He’ll consider it a refreshing change from the women who throw themselves at him.” Her face became anxious. “But he did ask to see you again, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Catherine assured her.
“But of course,” Aunt Phyllis said as the lines of her face eased. She sighed. “But that means he’ll be courting you in Hampstead, and your father’s relations will get to witness all the excitement instead of me. You must promise to write to me faithfully, and tell me everything that goes on.”
Her aunt had not referred to that side of the family since Catherine’s parlor visit on Friday. However disturbing was the breech, Catherine realized it was a convenient thing. It would not do to have Aunt Phyllis in communication with the Hampstead kin just now. Not until they could be made to understand the decent side of Lord Holt, as she did.
The movers were swarming about after breakfast. Catherine embraced her aunt and uncle and wished them happiness in Sheffield. Muriel clung to her with theatrical sobs until her brothers peeled her away by the arms. That led to the girl biting Bernard’s finger and his cuffing her in return, and Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Norman becoming caught up in the fracas. Meanwhile the helpless nanny stood by, looking for all the world like a soldier about to be beckoned into the heat of battle.
Uncle Norman’s coachman delivered her to Hampstead, carried her portmanteau to the door, and bade her farewell with a tip of his hat. Up in the guest room, Avis helped her pack her last-minute things. Before lunch she sat out by the goldfish pond with Sarah, Uncle Daniel, Aunt Naomi, and the children. Sarah still looked peaked, but handled the nausea better, she said, by nibbling on some ginger biscuits Trudy had concocted.
“I’m afraid it’s going to rain on you this afternoon,” Uncle Daniel said, cocking a speculative eye toward the grey clouds building in the northeast.
Catherine smiled at him. “After the monsoon, a little English rain is nothing.”
They chatted of other things. Harmonica notes drifted pleasantly from the vegetable garden, where Guy, the coachman’s son, sat on an overturned pail and played for Mr. Duffy. As much as Catherine cherished her father’s side of the family, her thoughts were preoccupied with Lord Holt. She was tempted to mention his name casually in connection with other guests at Aunt Phyllis’s party. Just a simple little test of the waters, to prove to herself that the years had tempered their low opinion of him, if indeed they had ever held one. But the fact that Aunt Phyllis had not invited them would make mentioning the party tactless.
“May I come back next week?” she asked Sarah as they left the dining room after lunch.
“But of course,” her cousin told her. “Your room is always ready here.”
“I just don’t want to take you for granted.”
“As if it would ever occur to you to do so.”
Catherine gave her a little sideways embrace, greatly relieved that no explanation was asked of her. But just in case Sarah or anyone else was wondering, she paused before the staircase and added, “I didn’t get to spend as much time with all of you as I would have liked.”
It was true, she told herself to soothe the stab of guilt. Just because they were not her primary reason for returning did not make the secondary reason any less genuine.
“Are you limping, Catherine?” Aunt Naomi said, joining them.
Catherine turned to her and made a little grimace. “I stubbed my toe on the bedpost.”
Two hours later at King’s Cross Station, she whispered to Peggy, out of Uncle Daniel’s and Bethia’s hearing, “I’ll explain later, but please don’t say anything about Lord Holt.”
Twenty-Two
Though Girton’s summer pace was refreshingly relaxed, it was still a routine to which Catherine had to readjust herself after two months away. But she thought she was applying herself fairly well until the twenty-seventh of August, four days after her return to school, when Peggy took it upon herself to inform her otherwise.
They sat at Catherine’s sitting room table with a tin of chocolate Preak Freen biscuits between them. Catherine was penciling notes from The Iliad, and Peggy was reading the May issue of Philosophical Magazine, in which, she explained, chemist G. Stoney proposed that electricity was composed of discreet negative particles he referred to as “electrons.”
“But if they can’t be seen under a microscope, how can he be so sure they even exist?” Catherine asked.
“By the way they’re influenced by other materials. He used a cathode ray tube—” She stopped and squinted curiously at Catherine’s notebook.
“What is it?” Catherine asked, shielding her writing with her hand.
Peggy lay down her magazine and shook her head. “We’ve less than six weeks before term starts. At this rate, you’re not going to finish The Iliad. Remember how adamant you were about studying ahead so you wouldn’t have to struggle so?”
“But what do you think I’m doing now?”
Peggy reached over, brushed Catherine’s hand aside so that the half dozen penciled Lady Catherine Holts were visible. Mortified, Catherine covered the writing again and opened her mouth to snap something about Peggy minding her own business. But the concern in her friend’s expression gave her pause.
“You’re right,” she admitted, shame heating her cheeks. “I’m just not quite
used to being back. But I’ll try harder to concentrate.”
Peggy pressed her lips together, the hazel eyes skeptical.
“I really will,” Catherine said. “Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe you think you will.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t want to make you angry.”
“I won’t be angry,” Catherine promised, trying to mean it. “Please, say what’s on your mind.”
Hesitantly, Peggy said, “You know how we’ve complained of Milly’s obsession with her stepmother?”
“Are you implying that I’m obsessed with Lord Holt?”
“How long did you spend with him? A day? And now you speak of leaving Tuesday to see him again, when we’ve only been back four days?”
The past five sleepless nights chose that particular instant to extract their toll from Catherine. Suddenly she could not fill her lungs with enough air. “I can’t help it, Peggy,” she whispered. “You’ll understand when you’re in love.”
Peggy stared, and at length said softly, “As you were with Lieutenant Elham?”
“I never said I was in love with him,” Catherine protested, chagrined at the memory of how she’d prattled on about the man. On her dresser sat another long letter from Bombay. She dreaded the duty of having to inform him that she would be too busy to correspond. “That was a schoolgirl infatuation.”
“And so it’s different this time?”
“Yes.” Catherine nodded to emphasize her answer. “I can’t explain it, but it’s very different.”
“I’m just worried about you. Girls who give their hearts so easily can end up in all sorts of trouble. And the fact that you can’t mention his name to your family is an ominous sign.”
“But I plan to tell them about him.”
“When?”
“Soon. And I sheltered my heart for nineteen years, so you needn’t worry over me.”
“You mean your father sheltered your heart.” Peggy blew out a breath, muttering, “It’s a curse to be pretty. I could save a man from a burning building, and he would thank me and perhaps toss me a shilling. All you have to do is ask why one is rubbing his eyes, and you’re taken to the opera.”
Catherine laughed. “You overdramatize everything, you know? You should be writing plays instead of analyzing compounds. Or analyzing me, for that matter.”
Rolling her eyes, Peggy said, “I just don’t want you to be hurt. Please promise you’ll be careful, and not allow him to take advantage of you. I have a feeling he’s used to an entirely different sort of woman.”
“I’ll make that promise, if it will make you feel better. But it’s not necessary.”
A knock sounded. Beatrice Lindsay stuck her head through the doorway.
“We’re making taffy in the kitchen. Join us!”
Catherine turned to Peggy again. “Go ahead. I won’t slack off while you’re gone.”
But Peggy smiled and reached over to take her pencil. “No one says you shouldn’t have some fun.”
****
In the train carriage bearing down upon London three days later, Catherine took little heed of fellow passengers or passing scenery, her attention fastened upon the text she held open before her.
Then after he had wrought this shield, which was huge and heavy, he wrought for him a corselet brighter than fire in its shining, and wrought for him a helmet, massive and fitting close to his temples, lovely and intricate work, and laid a gold top-ridge along it, and out of pliable tin wrought him leg-armour. Thereafter when the renowned smith of the strong arms had finished the armour he lifted it and laid it before the mother of Achilleus . . .
You’ll regret not protecting the heels too, Catherine thought. She was proud of herself for concentrating more diligently on Pope’s translation since the heart-to-heart chat with Peggy three days ago. Even Peggy had noticed, expressing amazement over the eight notebook pages of notes—without a single Lady Catherine Holt penciled in the margin.
****
Because Perrins Court was not open to carriage traffic, Banton’s drew very little patronage from those merely passing through Hampstead. Sidney only knew of it himself because he and Leona had met there occasionally during their early days together. Locals filled about half of the dozen tables, yet the absence of gasoliers in favor of candles gave an atmosphere of privacy.
Sidney was pleased to discover, as he entered the café at two in the afternoon on the last day of August, that no painful memories of Leona swooped down upon him. In fact, he found himself hoping that her relationship with Sir Kelly had improved. It was good for the children, when their parents loved each other. When the waiter, a man of thirty or so in white shirt, waistcoat, and apron, brought coffee, Sidney decided to go ahead and order their meals. There was little risk to doing so, he told himself, for she would be here.
His own appearance had not been decided definitely until yesterday evening. You probably wouldn’t even be here if not for the glove. Not that he wasn’t smitten with the girl. But that was exactly the problem. He had always prided himself on maintaining control of his feelings. The thought that some little part of his heart would be attached to someone, of its own doing, was frightening.
Finding the calfskin glove at Roseline’s flat was the factor that pushed him over the edge. For an actress, she could have at least constructed a decent lie. But she had merely insisted that he had left it there, even after he tried it on and showed her the slack in the too-large fingers. He was relieved it was over, only regretting having spent so much money on her. Especially the horse. She can buy her own oats.
He was certain she wouldn’t be without male attention for long, for some other twit was sure to come along, if he wasn’t there already. Perhaps the glove’s owner. And more power to him! Sidney thought. I’ll buy him a drink if I ever find out who he is.
Catherine Rayborn appeared in the doorway, cheeks flushed and hair drawn back into a chignon under a narrow-brim straw hat. When their eyes met she looked surprised and relieved.
“Miss Rayborn,” he said, getting to his feet as she approached the table. “I was relieved to receive your wire.” Not that he doubted for a minute that he would hear from her, but because women liked to believe there was some element of mystery to them.
“Thank you,” she said as she slipped into the chair he held for her.
“I’m happy to see you again.”
“It’s good to see you too.” she said shyly.
“I took the liberty of ordering.”
“Oh. Very good.”
Seating himself again, he took her hand across the small table and said softly, “Tell me . . . how is it possible to grow even more beautiful in only one week?”
She gave him a little smile, averting her eyes. “The light is dim in here.”
“Not from where I’m sitting. In fact, there’s a little aura about you, like a painting of a saint.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Sidney smiled and thought that her chief charm was that she did not realize her own beauty. In the gilded world to which he was accustomed, of arched eyebrows and affected coy smiles behind fans, she stood out like a pearl on a strand of paste jewels.
He only wished she had worn her hair as she did in Green Park, the back long and loose, with tendrils curling over her shoulder. He could never fathom why women chose to braid and coil and tuck away one of their most unique and attractive features, but of course he would not tell her so and spoil the moment. She was no doubt trying to look mature for him, and he appreciated that.
“How did you get away?” he asked.
She looked uncomfortable. “I said I was going for a walk.”
“Which is true,” he reminded her. “You did walk, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
****
A waiter brought two dishes of grouse pie and grilled mushrooms. Ordinarily Catherine was fond of both, but nervousness had driven her to consume seconds on boiled beef and s
uet dumplings from Trudy’s kitchen. She had assumed she and Lord Holt were meeting for tea at such an hour in the afternoon. The suet dumplings were swelling in the pit of her stomach like sponges in bathwater.
But, because he was considerate enough to order for her, she speared a mushroom with her fork. Perhaps fungi did not require much room.
“Are you glad to be back at Girton?” Lord Holt asked after swallowing a bite of grouse pie.
Not as glad as I am to be here with you, Catherine thought, and lowered her eyes so that her expression would not betray her. “It was good to see some of my friends again.”
“My fondest memories of University are of the times I spent with friends.”
She raised her eyes to his again and smiled, pleased that he felt the same way.
He smiled back. “Tell me . . . what led you to enroll in college?”
“I hope to teach one day,” she replied.
A faint look of distaste crossed his face. Catherine wondered if it had to do with the grouse pie or the notion of her teaching. “Is there something wrong?” she asked.
“Not at all.” Dabbing lips with napkin, he said, “I just hate to see beauty wasted on brats too young to appreciate it.”
An uneasy sense of disillusionment robbed her of any pleasure the compliment would have brought. This, from the man she loved? “I happen to be very fond of children, Lord Holt.”
His blue eyes widened, as if he was just now realizing what he had said. “Do forgive me, Miss Rayborn. I’m actually fond of them myself.”
“Than why would you—?”
“It was merely a term of endearment.”
“Endearment?”
“Yes.”
She wanted to believe that. But the word still hovered out there between them, refusing to be put aside.
He put his fork on the cloth. “Miss Rayborn, have you never lovingly labeled your sister a brat?”
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