She walked with hand threaded through his arm, his remark echoing over and over in her mind.
“My mother would like to see you again,” he said with a sidelong smile. “You two should get to know each other. One day soon, couldn’t you say you’re going shopping in the city? Or to study? The British Museum Library, perhaps?”
Her pulse jumped for two reasons. Delight, because it was common knowledge that when a man asked a woman to spend time with his family, he was fairly certain he wanted her for a wife. And panic, because while she could rationalize her outings over the Heath, this would be an outright lie.
Beneath it all surged a dull disappointment.
“Why did you say that?” she asked when certain that they were out of the workmen’s range of hearing.
“Because we shan’t have time any other way. By the time you—”
“No,” she cut in. “Those men.”
His blank look was followed by an arched eyebrow. “Frankly, they cheated me out of the opportunity to steal another kiss.”
That brought back the still-fresh memory of the first three, and her knees went a little weak. Still, she could not understand the scorn that was in his voice under such benign circumstances.
Another young couple approached, holding hands. The four traded nods, and when there was some distance between them, Lord Holt turned his face to her again and frowned.
“You’re not still fretting over that, are you?”
Catherine looked up at him. “They were just minding their own business. You sounded as if you hated them.”
He sighed, patted the hand resting in the crook of his arm. “I admire how you see some good in everyone, Catherine. But you’ve spent much of your life outside of England, and you’re still in a very sheltered environment. You haven’t noticed what the Irish are doing to this country. Always with their hands out, too lazy or drunk to earn their bread like everyone else. Everyone I know despises them—except for my mother, who is just as sheltered as you are.”
It was true that she was sheltered, even now with the relative independence of a college student. But one thing living abroad had taught her was that every culture had its good and bad elements. “How can you accuse them of being lazy when you’ve seen them working on that bakery every day?”
His second sigh was longer, tinged with impatience. “Very well . . . there are some exceptions to every rule, I suppose. But I reserve the right to associate with whom I please, and that will never include the Irish.”
Catherine did not know how to respond to that, so she walked with him in silence and tried to push the disappointment from her mind. At length he stopped and turned to rest both hands upon her shoulders.
“But if this troubles you so much, dearest Catherine, I shall be only too glad to march over there and apologize. I can’t bear to have you disappointed in me.”
“Please don’t,” she said. That would be far worse, for she was certain they had not heard him.
“Then, will you forgive me if I promise to watch my tongue henceforth?”
He was giving her the look of a small boy caught sliding down the banister, and she melted under it. He had a difficult childhood, she reminded herself. Losing his father so young. A difficult childhood would naturally generate harsh opinions.
And he said you’re a good influence on him. Wasn’t his offer to apologize to the men evidence of that? Surely the more time they spent together, the more she could influence him to view people different from himself through less condemning eyes.
“I will,” she said, smiling up at him.
“That’s my girl,” he said, and kissed her forehead. A childish laugh came from the lower bank of the pond. A small boy, holding the string to a toy boat, was pointing up at them.
“We don’t stare at grown-ups, Master Charley,” the boy’s nursemaid admonished, sending Catherine and Lord Holt an apologetic look.
Sidney winked at Catherine. “We should get you back to Cannonhall Road before you—and young Master Charley—get into trouble.”
****
Upon her return, Catherine changed her clothes and sat out on the terrace with her young cousins. She read The Butterfly’s Ball and Grasshopper’s Feast twice to Danny, then to Bethia the final four chapters from The Parker Twins and the Weeping Knight.
“You’ll wear Catherine out,” Aunt Naomi said to the children when she fetched them to wash up for supper.
“I enjoy reading to them,” Catherine told her, and reminded herself that she had done so countless times before meeting Sidney. The fact that holding a Parker Twins book made her feel closer to him was irrelevant.
“What is all that, Father?” Sarah asked that evening when Uncle Daniel entered the parlor with an armload of parcels wrapped in colored paper.
Uncle Daniel, who had excused himself after supper, replied, “I finished my first draft this morning—”
“Congratulations, Daniel!” William interjected.
“Thank you,” Uncle Daniel said when all congratulations were given. He handed a parcel to Bethia, perched on the arm of William’s chair. “And so I felt a little celebration was in order.”
“That’s where you went this afternoon,” Aunt Naomi said.
Uncle Daniel gave his wife a wink and a parcel. “Did you think I had a secret rendezvous?”
“Daniel . . .” Aunt Naomi cut her eyes toward Bethia.
As if on cue, the girl looked up from picking at the ribbon about her parcel. “What’s a ron-dee-view?”
“It’s a meeting, Bethia.” Uncle Daniel smiled at Catherine and handed her a parcel. “Father’s just teasing Mother.”
Catherine was glad to have something upon which to direct her attention, for the guilt that crept through her at the mention of the words “secret rendezvous” was surely apparent on her face. During the untying of ribbons and rustling of paper, Uncle Daniel placed two parcels on a lamp table, then sat again on the sofa to watch.
“Thank you, Father!” Bethia exclaimed, holding up a small Blue Willow china cup from a tea set. Sarah’s gift was a calfskin case small enough to fit in a reticule and containing a hairbrush, comb, and mirror; William’s, a pair of fine leather gloves. Aunt Naomi received a bottle of Bouquet a la Marechal perfume. Catherine received a cloth-covered papeterie with a hook-and-eye lid and fitted with cream-colored stationery and envelopes.
There was even a wind-up toy mouse for Hector, which Uncle Daniel allowed Bethia to open. Amidst the thanks going around, Sarah said to her father, “But you’re the one celebrating. Didn’t you get anything for yourself?”
“I did. The pleasure of watching you open them.”
“Who are the other two for, Father?” Bethia asked.
“Danny,” he replied. The boy was asleep in the nursery. “And Guy.”
“How kind of you to think of Guy, Daniel,” Aunt Naomi said.
He shrugged, but smiled at her. “I saw a flute in a shop window and decided he must have it.”
They admired each other’s gifts, and laughed over Hector’s ignoring the wind-up mouse as if to say You can’t seriously expect me to chase that thing. The lightness and camaraderie took Catherine’s mind off her guilt for a little while, but when she retired to her bedchamber she was seized by panic.
Three weeks! She had read barely a third of The Iliad. It would be impossible to meet the study goals she had set at the beginning of the long vacation. You should return to school, she told herself. But the dread produced by the thought of leaving Sidney far overshadowed any panic over her studies.
Twenty-Four
But Catherine’s plans were changed in the most abrupt fashion. A light knocking sounded at her door while she was sitting up on the pillows reading Homer. Or at least attempting, for the memory of Sidney’s kisses kept interfering with the portion of her mind attempting to concentrate on the text.
“Come in?”
The door opened and Sarah entered, fair hair loose over the shoulders of her dressing gown of lig
ht blue peau de soie. She said, “Don’t get up.”
“Is something wrong?” Catherine asked, noticing the discomfort in her green eyes.
“There’s just something I need to discuss with you, if I may.”
“Of course.” But Catherine could not lie there and allow her cousin, in her condition, to stand. She drew up her knees under the covers. “Do sit, will you?”
“Thank you.”
She knows rushed into Catherine’s head as her cousin hefted herself up slowly to sit on the bed’s foot. No, how could she? You’re just imagining things.
“What’s the matter, Sarah?” she asked when her inability to bear the suspense outweighed the dread of knowing.
“Well . . .” Sarah tugged at the hem of her nightgown to cover her slippers, and leaned back against the bedpost. “You know how much I care for you, Catherine. You became as a sister to me when I was reunited with my family.”
“You’ve always been special to me,” Catherine told her.
Her cousin gave her an appreciative, if uneasy, smile. “I would never interfere with your life unless I was concerned you were involved in something that could harm you or your reputation.”
For a fraction of a second, Catherine was back at Girton, hearing those same sentiments from Peggy. Her nerves prickled under her skin. “I appreciate that, Sarah,” she said, trying to keep her voice composed.
“As unfair as it may be, society overlooks some things men do, but can be very harsh with their opinions when a young woman . . .”
She can’t possibly know, Catherine told herself again. And you’re not acquainted with anyone in Hampstead who could have recognized you.
“ . . . even at nineteen, you’re still so very young . . .”
But what if it was someone with whom she was not acquainted, who had casually mentioned to Sarah of seeing her with a tall, auburn-haired man? She was introduced to at least a dozen people when she accompanied the family to Christ Church, people whose names had floated on through her Lord Holt-occupied mind.
“ . . . and once your reputation is damaged, it’s almost impossible to repair.”
Sweat chilled the back of Catherine’s neck.
“I’m just going to have to come out and say this, Catherine.” Sarah sighed. “I know why you go off over the Heath in the afternoons.”
“To study,” Catherine said in a small voice.
Her cousin shook her head. “That’s not all, Catherine.”
The nerves prickling Catherine’s skin threatened to crawl through her pores. She and Sarah stared at each other for several long seconds, until Catherine could no longer hide the guilt in her eyes and lowered them to the coverlet pulled over her raised knees.
“How did you find out?” she asked.
“I’m not at liberty to say,” Sarah answered. “But that’s not important.”
A weight pressed against Catherine’s chest so that drawing in breath became a labor. She raised her eyes again. “I wanted so badly to tell you, but Sidney said you and William would never allow us to see each other if I did. He regrets mistreating William at Oxford, Sarah, and he really wants to have a decent life now, and I’m so terribly in love with him!”
It was almost a relief to get it all out. She held her breath and waited for whatever was to follow. But Sarah just stared at her with an unreadable expression.
“Sarah?” Catherine said when she could bear the silence no longer.
“Who is this Sidney, Catherine?”
Did you say too much? Catherine asked herself. But she had plunged in with both feet, and did not have the wits about her to make up a name. Besides, she had already mentioned that William was acquainted with him. “Lord Holt.”
Her cousin’s face went as white as the bedsheets. “Lord . . . Holt?”
“He even confessed to me how insufferable he was at Oxford, and doesn’t fault William one whit for his low opinion of him,” Catherine said, unable to stem the gush of words. “And we were going to tell you eventually, as soon as we figured out—”
“How did you meet him?” Sarah said evenly.
There was nothing to do but tell her, while hoping that the description of Aunt Phyllis’s garden party and the most-proper circumstances of their being introduced would soothe some of the discomfort in her cousin’s expression.
“He saved Muriel’s life. I met his mother, and Aunt Phyllis says she’s a fine woman. Mrs. Godfrey. She writes those children’s books that Bethia and Jewel adore, and serves diligently on the Saint Peter’s Flower Committee.”
But Sarah was holding her hand up to her throat as if she would choke. “Lord Holt, Catherine!” she said in a forceful whisper. “How could you?”
Did you not hear everything I just said? Catherine asked under her breath. “He’s changed, Sarah. You don’t know him as I do—”
“I don’t want to hear that, Catherine,” Sarah said with a shake of the head. “And isn’t it just like him to go after someone as naive as you?”
“I’m nineteen years old!”
“As far as men are concerned, you’re still a child.” The green eyes widened as if Sarah were struck with a terrible thought. “Has he attempted to force himself upon you?”
“No! He’s been nothing but a gentleman.” Which was true, for the kisses were acceptable to both participants.
“Oh, Catherine, you don’t even know whom you’re up against!”
She was so wrong, and Catherine so helpless for words to try to convince her. She burst into tears instead, pressing her forehead against the knees raised under the covers. The mattress moved; she heard Sarah’s feet lightly on the carpet and then felt a hand upon her shoulder.
“You don’t understand him,” Catherine rasped through a raw throat.
“I understand him all right,” Sarah replied flatly.
“What has he done that would make you hate him so?”
“I don’t hate him. Neither does Will, though yes, we share a low opinion of him. He conducted himself most shamefully during his Oxford years. I’m speaking of frequenting brothels, Catherine.”
Catherine swallowed thickly. “Brothels?”
“Surely you know what they are.”
While the news was distressing, Catherine discovered she was not overwhelmingly stunned. Her thoughts raced in the direction she had forbidden them to travel ever since he mentioned his dark past. Murder and robbery she had eliminated, for he would be in prison or the grave if he had committed either. That only left one immorality she could think of. And yes, she knew about brothels, for as inexperienced as she and her friends were, there had been the occasional whispered conversations at Girton about subjects not having to do with Classics or Mathematics.
She should hate him, she thought, but pity overshadowed the discomfort the news brought. I was young and full of myself, he had said. With no moral guidance. All that time he was a lost soul, searching for elusive happiness in one pair of strange arms after another and despising himself afterward, not even realizing that it was decency he longed for, that it was someone like her who could make him happy.
“And we have it on good authority that he had an affair with a woman who once lived here.” Her cousin went on, unrelenting. “The woman had children, Catherine. Her husband had to move the family to the States to get her away from him.”
That part was more disturbing than the news about the brothels. That’s how he’s so familiar with Hampstead, Catherine realized. The woman was the friend of whom he had spoken.
Just before he said that the future looks brighter than it has for a long time, she reminded herself. Proof that he regretted the affair, if indeed it did happen.
“Catherine, you do realize that adultery is a grave sin, yes?”
Catherine raised her stinging eyes from her knees. “Of course. But you’ve no idea how much he regrets his past, Sarah.”
Her cousin groaned. “Have you not heard anything I’ve said?”
“Yes, of course.” She grasped hopef
ully for something that Sarah, of all people, surely couldn’t refute. “But aren’t Christians supposed to forgive?”
“We are. But that doesn’t give us permission to have romances with scoundrels.”
He’s no scoundrel. She knew Sidney’s heart. And she desperately needed to speak with him. He would explain everything. Reassure her. Tomorrow he’ll make it all better.
A horrid thought followed, more horrid than anything Sarah had told her. What if they won’t allow you to see him? Cautiously, she asked, “Are you going to tell the others?”
Sarah appeared to wrestle with that. The chimneypiece clock ticked several times before she replied, “I’m not sure.”
“Please don’t, Sarah,” Catherine begged. “Uncle Daniel will tell Father, and he’ll make me go back to Bombay.” While the worry was a valid one, she hoped it would distract Sarah from considering what should be done about tomorrow. She could not think beyond seeing Sidney.
But her hopes crumbled when Sarah said, “Then you’re going to have to go back to Girton, Catherine. Tomorrow morning. We’ll send whatever laundry you have.”
“Tomorrow?” Catherine seized Sarah’s right hand from her shoulder. “Please, please let me see him one more time. I’ll ask him about everything you—”
“Impossible.” Sarah shook her head. “You leave and forget you ever met him. You must give me your word, or I’ll have to inform William and Father.”
“You mean, you won’t tell?”
“Not if you’ll make that promise. I don’t want my husband going fisticuffs with that man. But I’ll do it if I must, and you can be sure Father will wire Uncle James.”
“But what will everyone think if I up and leave so quickly?”
“You can say you’re worried over your studies—which you should be, if your attention has been consumed with Lord Holt. Will you promise me, Catherine?”
Feeling as though the life had been drained from her, Catherine let go of Sarah’s hand and wrapped her arms around her knees again. “I promise.”
“I’m sorry it had to come to this, Catherine,” Sarah said, stroking her hair. “And I know you don’t believe this, but you’ll thank me for this one day.”
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