“Only in jest.”
“As I’ve done with my half brother, Edgar. And as I did just now.” Lord Holt blew out a stream of breath. “I profoundly admire those with the patience to teach children. And had any of my schoolmistresses looked like you, I should have been the most excellent scholar in my class.”
The pleading little smile he wore, the anxious lift of his brow, the charm of his words proved an irresistible mixture. Catherine’s disappointment now turned upon herself, that she had taken offense so readily.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked.
“There is nothing to forgive,” she replied. “The fault is mine for overreacting.”
He winked at her. “I rather enjoy seeing you overreact. Such as when you sounded me out that day in Green Park.”
Catherine winced at the memory and smiled. “May we change the subject?”
“Very well. What are you studying this summer?”
“I’m reading The Iliad,” she replied while he took another forkful of grouse pie.
“The Iliad,” he said after swallowing. “Are you aware that Troy may have been an actual place?”
“Why, no. I assumed it was mythical.”
“As has everyone else, for centuries. But as we speak, a German named Schliemann or Schiulmann—or something equally difficult to pronounce—is excavating a site on the Aegean Sea believed to contain its ruins. I’m sure your lecturer will make mention of that when term begins.”
Catherine was beginning to realize that he commanded a wide range of knowledge, like Uncle Daniel. After a tiny bite of grouse pie, she asked, “How do you know so much?”
****
As flattered as he was for her to notice, Sidney merely shrugged. “I go through newspapers like King Henry through drumsticks. And speaking of meals, you’re not very hungry, are you?”
She gave him a look that could not be more wretchedly apologetic if she had confessed to stealing his purse. “I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s unbecoming for a woman to have a large appetite anyway,” he said, pushing his own empty plate aside. “We’ll take a stroll.”
Back on secluded Perrins Court, where they were not likely to bump into any of her kin, he offered his arm. “Now, tell me what’s going on at Girton.”
“Well, Peggy scolded me for not applying myself as diligently as I should,” Miss Rayborn replied. “But I’m trying harder now.”
“Peggy? You mean the friend from the party?” The party, where he behaved as a perfect boor, Sidney reminded himself. “Did she try to talk you out of coming?”
“She worries over me. That’s all.”
“And I didn’t make a favorable impression on her, did I? There’s a confectioner’s around the corner. If I buy her a package of sweets as an apology, will you bring them back to her?”
Giving him a little smile, she said, “Peggy’s very bright. She’ll suspect you’re trying to bribe her for my sake.”
“And she would be right, wouldn’t she?”
She pinkened modestly and changed the subject. “How is it that you’re so familiar with Hampstead? Have you ever lived here?”
Sidney shook his head. “But a good friend once did.”
“Where did he move?”
“To the States, actually. New York.” The oddity of it struck him, that she would be staying at the house of his former lover. He would believe 5 Cannonhall Road held some charm for him, were it not now infested with Doyles.
“Do you miss him very much?” she asked.
“Not so much any more. It’s not healthy to cling to the past.” And because the subject needed changing, he smiled at her and said, “But if you’ll promise not to blush too terribly, I’ll tell you that suddenly the future appears brighter than it has in a long time.”
“I can’t make that promise, Lord Holt,” she said, looking away while her cheeks flamed.
“Then, I shan’t tell you,” he teased.
The corners of her mouth tucked into the semicircles that he adored. For two shillings he would have kissed her, even though that would possibly frighten her away.
But the moment passed when she said, “I have to go back now, Lord Holt.”
Sidney nodded, though disappointed. “Will I see you tomorrow?”
“Yes,” she replied in such a way that he could tell she was hoping he would ask.
Back on Belgrave Square, he was just opening the Times when a knock sounded on the morning room door. “Yes?” he said, lowering the newspaper.
His mother entered, her face somber. “A woman rang for you a half dozen times while you were away.”
“Mother,” he sighed. “Must you continue to answer the telephone?”
She shook her head. “I only did so after the third time, when Rumfellow said she didn’t sound sober.”
That Roseline would be in such a state gave Sidney immense satisfaction . . . sweet revenge for the glove incident. Setting newspaper aside, he said, “Now, save that pained look for a real crisis. She’s no one of importance. And I don’t intend to see her again.”
“Sidney.” His mother’s expression did not alter. “You said you were going to start considering your future.”
“I am,” he said, and partly to soothe the worry from her face, and partly because he relished the opportunity to say it, he told her, “I’m keeping company with a very decent young woman.”
Hope mingled with doubt in her grey eyes. “Are you, Sidney?”
“I think I’m even her first beau.” He had never considered the lieutenant-war hero a threat, and the fact that she never mentioned him again said volumes about how serious that relationship had been.
“Who is she?”
“Actually, you’ve met her.”
When he informed her, she leaned down and kissed his forehead. “I can’t tell you how pleased I am.”
He smiled up at her. He could not recall the last time he had made his mother proud, and the feeling was quite nice. Especially considering the way he had achieved it. Keeping company with Catherine Rayborn was no great sacrifice.
Twenty-Three
That should hold it, Catherine told herself on the eighth of September, nine days after returning from Girton. She turned from the dressing table to look at Bethia, who sat pinned to the armchair, her lap filled by the dozing figure of Hector the cat.
“What do you think?” Catherine said.
Her young cousin eyed her bare forehead. “What did you do with the fringe?”
“Fringe is fine for schoolgirls.” Catherine bowed her head so she could see the comb, which would soon be hidden by the brim of her hat. She eyed herself in the mirror again. “Do I look more sophisticated?”
“What’s sophisticated?”
“Older,” she said. She hoped the comb would stay without allowing too many stray hairs to dangle over her forehead. A second one, at the crown of her head, captured the sides of her hair so the rest could flow down her back. Sophisticated, yet schoolgirlish. Rather incongruous, she thought, but if it pleased Lord Holt, who had suggested the change, that was all that mattered.
“Avis wishes she were younger,” Bethia said with an almost worldly sigh. “But she says she would want to know what she knows now because she was silly as a goose when she was a girl. She’s teaching me to watercolor.”
Catherine smiled at her. “And what do you wish?”
The girl thought for a minute, then gave her an artful little smile. “That you would take me with you today? I’ll be very quiet so you can study.”
Catherine turned again to smile, ignoring the pang in her conscience. “I’m afraid not, Bethia. But I’ll read to you again when I return, if you’d like. And tomorrow morning we’ll take a stroll.”
Atop her chest of drawers the tin of chocolates still waited to be brought to Peggy, who had written three days ago asking when she planned to return. The Iliad still waited on her bedside table to be read. Or at least given more than the scant attention she gave it. Which was not to say h
er eyes had not traveled many lines of print over the past nine days, but she might as well have read Mrs. Beeton’s cookery book for all the information retained by her preoccupied mind.
“You do stay in the areas where there are other people, don’t you?” Sarah asked during lunch that day, and not for the first time.
“Even Hampstead has its criminal element,” Uncle Daniel warned.
Aunt Naomi nodded. “A young girl in a secluded spot . . .”
“Please don’t worry,” Catherine replied, “I’m never completely alone.”
Her words were more true than they realized. Catherine’s conscience, already starting to scar, felt another little stab. But an hour later, she could no more stop herself from peddling Sarah’s bicycle northward than fly. And warnings notwithstanding, her relations respected her explanation that she could study more efficiently on the Heath than in the house or garden, where the temptation to visit with the others was so strong. So far only two occasions had altered that routine; a picnic after services on Sunday that she felt compelled to attend for the family’s sake, and rain on Tuesday past.
At the end of the quarter-mile road bisecting the north Heath lay the Vale of Heath, once a malarial swamp and now a picturesque cluster of cottages around Hampstead Pond. The pounding of hammers rang out through the air, as laborers attached slate shingles to the roof of a bakery opening soon. Jerry, Lord Holt’s coachman, was watering the horses in a trough outside the Suburban and Hampstead Hotel. “Good afternoon, Jerry,” she said, propping the bicycle against the fence.
He looked around at her and touched the brim of his hat. “Good afternoon, Miss Rayborn. Did you have a pleasant ride?”
“Most pleasant, thank you.” She was struck by how much more affable the man was to her, respectfully so, whenever Lord Holt was not present. Inside, the hotel proprietor led her from the hall into the dining room. Lord Holt rose from their usual table under a Constable painting of the Heath. Ever mindful of her comfort, he always arranged to be early so that she would not have to wait alone.
They were taking a risk, meeting in Hampstead, but as fond of Lord Holt as she was, she could not bring herself to accept his invitation to take the coach down to the City to a restaurant with private rooms. Some of her parents’ protectiveness was ingrained in her, she had discovered, and besides, he would surely not respect her if she broke too many rules of convention.
After some strategic hinting, Catherine had discovered that the family preferred the Spaniard’s Inn and Jack Straw’s Castle to any other dining-out places in Hampstead. And with her leaving the house just after lunch, there was even less chance of being discovered. It was Sidney who suggested the Vale of Heath, away from the Hampstead shops.
Over tea for her and lunch for him, they discovered a little more about each other every day. Sometimes he would relate an incident from his boyhood or explain particulars of the Stock Exchange, and she would describe the goings-on at 5 Cannonhall Road. This particular afternoon she told him of the gifts she had bought on Highgate that morning to ship to Bombay so that they would arrive before Christmas, and the contents of her mother’s latest letter—forwarded by Peggy from Girton, where Mother had assumed she would be by this time. As conversation flowed they found they had less need of it, and the spaces of companionable silence lengthened.
After Lord Holt finished his meal they strolled outside to their usual bench by the pond. He lit a cigarette and opened the recent issue of Quarterly Review, and she opened her text. If she read at least a page, she was justified in telling the family that she studied during these outings.
Justified, but becoming increasingly more miserable, at least where her relations were concerned. This weight chained to her newfound happiness was growing heavier daily.
“I hate this slipping about, Lord Holt,” she said on that Thursday.
He did not move his eyes from the Quarterly Review but did pat her hand. “So do I, Catherine.”
It was the first time he had addressed her by her Christian name, and it emboldened her enough to say, “If I knew everything William had against you, surely I could think of a way to put it all to right.”
“Some things are irreparable.”
“You don’t know him as I do. He’ll forgive you.”
Now he lowered the magazine and gave her a weary smile. “You’re too young to understand men, Miss Rayborn. While he may forgive me if I grovel enough, he’ll still do all he can to prevent me from seeing you. That will not change, trust me.”
But what could you have done that was so terrible? she wanted to ask. The question was one of the many things crowding out the absorption of The Iliad from her mind. But she did not persist, for she could tell he was becoming annoyed. She devoted herself to staring at the open book so that he could read his magazine. And just when she had convinced herself that he was regretting ever having gotten involved with her, he put aside the magazine and turned to her. “You know what I like about sharing your company?”
“What?” Catherine asked, holding her breath.
“I don’t feel I have to bring along a dog and pony show to amuse you. We can just be quiet together. I’ve never had that with anyone else. That’s rather nice, isn’t it?”
She returned his smile. “Yes, very nice.”
“You’re a good influence on me, Catherine Rayborn.” He offered her his arm and nodded ahead. “Shall we take a turn around the pond?”
Minutes later in the shade of a poplar tree, he drew her to him and kissed her for the first time. It was a gentle press of his lips against hers, but still potent enough to make her light-headed.
“You’ve captured my heart, Catherine,” he said, his voice husky.
Her heart was filled to bursting, and she could scarcely believe her happiness. Leaning her head upon his broad shoulder, she said, “And you mine, Lord Holt.”
“Sidney,” he corrected gently, combing fingers through the hair behind her neck.
“Sidney.”
He lifted her chin and kissed her again, this time not quite so gently. If she could freeze time, Catherine thought, she would wish to be there in his arms forever. But eventually and reluctantly she had to tell him that it was time to leave, lest a worried Uncle Daniel come searching for her.
Jerry, adjusting one of the horses’ bridles, wiped his hands upon his trousers and hastened to open the door to the coach. He stood beside it, as formal as a palace guard. Sidney did not even look at him. Catherine’s family had always relied on hired carriages and omnibuses, so the only other coachman in her acquaintance was Stanley Russell. While Stanley always maintained a respectful attitude, he was also treated as part of the Doyle-Rayborn family.
Perhaps that’s supposed to be the exception, not the rule, Catherine thought as Sidney touched her cheek before entering the coach. Jerry closed the door behind his employer, nodded at her, and climbed up into his seat.
****
“Mrs. Doyle, may I have a word with you?” Mrs. Bacon asked the following afternoon.
“But of course.” Sarah closed her ledger book and rose slowly from her writing table at a parlor window facing the Heath. The constant nausea was no better than when it started one month ago, but she was learning that she could at least hold her meals by avoiding certain foods and almost constantly nibbling on the ginger biscuits Trudy made for her. “Please, have a seat.”
The housekeeper settled into a chair, and Sarah another. “It’s none of my business, Mrs. Doyle, but I’m concerned over Miss Rayborn.”
For a second Sarah thought she meant Bethia, but the gravity in the housekeeper’s bespectacled eyes was in keeping with problems concerning someone older. “You mean my cousin?”
“Yes, Missus.” Mrs. Bacon drew breath. “Susan gathers up the laundry at night. She told me the clothes Miss Rayborn wears for those walks on the Heath always come back smelling of smoke.”
A ludicrous picture of Catherine gathering sticks to build a fire flashed through Sarah’s thoughts
.
“Tobacco smoke,” the housekeeper clarified as if privy to the scene in Sarah’s mind.
“I see.” And that explained something—Catherine’s professed need to find a spot on the Heath, when the house and garden abounded with private nooks and crannies. Perhaps the habit sprang from the pressure of studying so intensely, or perhaps it was the fashion among college women now. Is she afraid we’ll tell Uncle James? Surely her cousin knew them all well enough to know they would not pack tales unless the matter was far more serious.
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mrs. Bacon.”
“There’s something else, Missus.”
“Yes?”
“Susan doesn’t want Miss Rayborn to know that she’s the one who told. The servants are all very fond of her, and . . .”
“I understand. Please tell Susan she has nothing to worry over.”
“Thank you, Missus.” Mrs. Bacon got to her feet. “Hate to see Miss Rayborn take up such a nasty habit, her so young and all.”
“So do I.” Sarah sighed. “And I suppose I should speak with her.”
Because now that she had time to digest the information, she believed she would be failing her cousin if she did not at least express her concern.
****
Catherine and Sidney were in the middle of their third kiss when their solitude was infringed upon by voices with lilting Celtic accents. The four laborers from the bakery were seating themselves on the slope leading into the pond and digging into lunch pails.
“T’sn’t fair that the wee one of us gets the biggest sandwich, now is it?” stated one in the tone that suggested he had made the same observation before.
“Can I help it if me wife loves me more than yer mum loves you?” was the merry reply.
“You had your chance, Kenny,” said another. “That Flanagan woman would ha’ married you at the drop of a hat.”
“Better to have no sandwich than that woman,” the first grumbled, to the chuckles of his mates.
Smiling at their banter, Catherine turned again to Sidney. He broke the severe look he was sending in the men’s direction to shake his head at her and mutter, “No better than dogs, are they? Come, Catherine.”
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