****
“It’s not right, his asking you to lie like that,” Peggy said four days later. “Exhale now.”
Catherine held on to the bedpost and emptied her lungs.
“Done,” Peggy said.
“Can’t you make it tighter?” Catherine rasped.
Milly, rifling through the top drawer of Catherine’s chest for a ribbon to borrow, said, “Yes, Peggy, make it tighter. Blue is such an attractive color for the complexion.”
Catherine ignored her and turned to Peggy. “Can’t you?”
“It’s tight enough.” Peggy took a step back, then repeated, “He shouldn’t encourage you to lie.”
“You just don’t understand,” Catherine said tersely. Ordinarily she could stand up to their lectures, but her nerves had been on edge since Wednesday.
“That’s right, no one understands,” Milly said while tying a bow at the nape of her neck. Her hair flowed in waves from the purple ribbon, almost meeting the bustle of her light brown serge gown. “Your cousin . . . Peggy . . . me. Shouldn’t that tell you something?”
“It’s easy to judge someone you haven’t met.” Catherine looked into her open wardrobe. Yesterday she had finally decided upon the grey tailored suit. The lines were somewhat plain, yes, but when she tied the fringed ends of her cobalt blue shawl over the bodice, it drew attention away from the tightness of her blouse at the waist and looked quite feminine. But would the forest green velvet, definitely dressier, and with a sash that hid the tightness, be more attractive? You’ve got to stop eating so much, she told herself.
“You forget that I’ve met him,” Peggy said.
“He wasn’t on his best day,” Catherine replied. “And you didn’t think he was so terrible when he saved your necklace.”
She turned to the two. They reminded her of severe schoolmistresses, both with arms folded, Peggy leaning sideways against the bedpost. “Please,” Catherine begged. “Don’t do this to me. I’m nervous enough as it is.”
“Shouldn’t that tell you something too?” Peggy asked.
“Peggy . . .”
Peggy gave Milly a helpless look. Milly sighed and took a step forward. “I’ll just say one more thing, Catherine. Love can blind a person to faults, you know. My father still thinks Evelyn Singers is a saint.”
“I don’t think Sidney is a saint,” Catherine told her. “He warned me that he had a past.”
But the difference between Sidney and Milly’s stepmother was that Sidney regretted that past and desired to live a decent life. As his letter said, it was shame that prevented him from contacting her for weeks. He had correctly deduced from her tersely worded telegram that she had been told everything.
“Just be careful, please,” Peggy warned for the second time.
“I will. And you’re both dear to worry over me, but do please stop.” She gave her wardrobe another look and decided it was too late to change her plans. To Peggy she said, “Will you help me into this skirt?”
While the two helped her finish dressing—Milly even putting the curling rod to the ends of her hair—they did not offer to accompany her to church in the Village, but set out with the majority of the school in the opposite direction. Catherine was actually relieved. Sidney had not mentioned a time Mrs. Fry would call, hence Catherine’s decision to attend where she could be back in the shortest amount of time. She hoped Milly and Peggy would still be in Cambridge, not there to gawk and send each other messages with their eyes.
In the church of Saint Andrew, Catherine joined the five other Girton students, Miss Scott, and the rest of the congregation in responses to the Morning Prayers, the Anthems, the Apostles’ Creed, and the Collect for the day. She did so absently, for her mind strained against its time constraint, willing the afternoon to come.
“We humbly beseech thee, O Father, mercifully to look upon our infirmities; and, for the glory of thy Name, turn from us all those evils that we most justly have deserved; and grant, that in all our troubles we may put our whole trust and confidence in Thy mercy, and evermore serve Thee in holiness and pureness of living, to Thy honour and glory; through our only Mediator and Advocate, Jesus Christ our Lord.”
Her thoughts strayed even more once Reverend Murray began his sermon, for no verbal responses, no kneeling or standing, were expected from the congregation. Also, his soft voice and unremarkable appearance—receding hairline, spectacles, and slanting narrow shoulders—did not command attention. But her mind was captured halfway through his reading from the book of Saint Matthew, Christ’s words from the Sermon on the Mount.
“. . . Neither shalt thou swear by thy head, because thou canst not make one hair white or black. But let your communication be, Yea, yea; Nay, nay: for whatsoever is more than these cometh of evil.”
As he expounded on the theme of Truthfulness, a passion burned behind the vicar’s spectacles, which Catherine had been either too sleep deprived or prejudiced to notice during the one occasion she had attended here last year.
“You may live in the meanest hovel,” he went on, “too poor to buy a decent coat, but dear brethren, you may still possess something that all the riches in the world cannot buy; that is, an integrity so pure and true that it is never necessary for you to embellish your words with ‘I swear.’ In fact, it would be redundant to do so. What peace of mind! What untroubled sleep! What a legacy to leave to your children!”
Catherine pressed her palms together as the vicar looked directly at her. Peggy and Milly!
“ . . . as written in the epistle to the Ephesians, Wherefore putting away lying, speak every man truth with his neighbor.”
But no, she reasoned with herself, arranging her face for the vicar’s benefit into the same benign expression she had worn for Miss Bernard four days ago. Neither friend would do such a thing behind her back, and besides, she had not informed them that she would be attending Saint Andrew’s until yesterday afternoon.
“We cannot fool God, dear brethren and sisters! Hear Christ’s words as recorded in the eighth chapter of the Gospel of Luke: For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad.”
That brought a mental picture of the hurt and disappointment upon her mother’s and father’s faces as if they had learned somehow of her plans for the afternoon. Her heart pounded so violently in her chest that she glanced at Violet Newman, next to her, from the corner of her eye. Surely she had heard. But no, the fresher’s attention was absorbed by the vicar and his sermon, her countenance so untroubled that Catherine felt a pang of envy.
And that was when she stopped listening. Not out of any spitefulness, but because she simply could not bear to have her conscience pricked any longer. As an accomplished daydreamer it was easy to do. She simply pictured Sidney, the relief that would be in his expression when she informed him that his past did not matter, that she believed he was a good person.
Still, she was glad when the sermon was concluded. There was a shuffling of feet and ruffling of pages as people rose from the pews to sing.
“Purer in heart, O God, Help me to be;
Until thy holy face one day I see:
Keep me from secret sin, Reign thou my soul within;
Purer in heart, help me to be.”
Secret sin. She thought that the hymn would be the final stab at her conscience, at least at church. But another came when Reverend Murray clasped her hand at the door and said kindly, “Go with God, child.”
She walked back toward the college, silent amidst the banter of the others, allowing the chill October air to bathe the heat from her face. If only it could bathe the guilt from her mind! She prayed again. Forgive my lies and slipping about, Father. But again, she could not bring herself to put a halt to them.
Indeed, she was able to feel great relief that it would be Miss Scott who would be in charge of the guest book, with Misses Bernard and Welsh in Cambridge with the larger group. While Miss Scott was amiable, she was a little shy and woul
d be less likely to strike up a conversation with Mrs. Fry. After lunch the assistant lecturer settled in a chair in the entrance hall with a copy of Dr. Johnson’s Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland, while Catherine sat in another chair and stared at the door, assuring herself over and over that Sidney would not have changed his mind, and would have wired her if circumstances prevented his coming to Cambridge.
The entrance door opened and a young woman stepped into the hall. Catherine met her eyes. Too young to be Sidney’s aunt, Catherine thought as she and the visitor exchanged polite nods.
“Good day, Miss Ingle,” Miss Scott said, getting to her feet to offer her hand. She turned to Catherine. “Would you please run upstairs and tell Maude Ingle her sister’s here?”
Why can’t Maude wait for her guests like everyone else? Catherine grumbled to herself on the staircase. On the way back, she suffered through Maude’s chirpy detailing of the birthday tea she and her sister would be attending for one of their cousins in Barrington. She paused just inside the entrance hall, where an elderly woman stood with Miss Scott and Maude’s sister.
“Ah, she’s back,” Miss Scott said, turning to smile at Catherine.
Twenty-Six
“How good to see you again, Miss Rayborn.” Mrs. Fry, clad in paramatta mourning clothes, extended a black-gloved hand. Colorless lashes blinked over eyes as hard as pebbles. “I’ve signed the guest book. Shall we?”
“Yes,” Catherine said as they shook hands. She was relieved that she was not compelled to stage artificial small talk for Miss Scott’s benefit, and then relieved again that when she turned just before the entrance door to send a farewell wave, the assistant lecturer was happily chatting with Maude and her sister as if no deception had occurred right under her nose. Past the gates, a coachman in livery dress and top hat waited at the door of a road coach. Mrs. Fry entered first, busied herself with arranging her skirts, and did not look up as Catherine settled into the rear-facing space.
She heard the snap of the reins overhead and braced herself as the pair of horses started moving. The college was a half mile behind them to the west when she could no longer bear the silence inside the coach.
“It’s very kind of you to do this, Mrs. Fry.”
Mrs. Fry gave her a thin, dry smile. “My nephew is a hard man to refuse, Miss Rayborn.”
Catherine had no idea what that meant. But she was certain of one thing—the woman did not like her. Why? Catherine wished she had the courage to ask.
She racked her brain for something to say, something that would lighten the strained atmosphere. When nothing presented itself, she turned her face to stare out of the window.
Chesterton was a long, straggling village of mellow stone cottages and shaded lanes on the north bank of the River Cam. The coachman assisted them out in front of a quaint two-storey cottage of honey-colored stone. Drying ivy vines clung to the lower half, circling windows and porch posts, but left the upper storey bare and shadowed by a deep thatch overhang. There was no sign of Sidney, much to Catherine’s disappointment.
“Good-day to you, Missus,” said the coachman with a tip of his bowler hat. “I’ll go water the horses and be back here waitin’.” The coach was a hired one, Catherine realized. Did that mean Sidney had come from Cambridge in it, and was already inside?
“Miss Rayborn?”
Catherine blinked at Mrs. Fry, holding open the gate for her.
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She hurried through and waited to follow the woman up the short path to the house. “This is a lovely home,” she said, making another effort.
“My husband was born here,” Mrs. Fry replied, with no warmth but at least no hostility.
She opened the door and led Catherine into a hall furnished with hall tree and entrance table. To the left ascended a wooden staircase with worn carpeting. A young woman clad in a brown linen gown and white apron came through an arched doorway to take Mrs. Fry’s black cloak. “No, thank you,” Catherine said when the maid offered to take her shawl.
“Show Miss Rayborn to the parlor, Louisa,” Mrs. Fry told her.
“Yes, Missus.”
“And then bring me some tea upstairs.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Fry,” Catherine said, but the woman had already turned for the staircase. The discourtesy dampered her spirits for only a second, for the maid nodded toward the arched doorway and smiled.
“Come with me, Miss?”
“Yes, thank you.” The maid led her through a dim corridor with wide oak-planked flooring, then opened the first door on the right. As Catherine went through the doorway, Sidney was rising from a sofa.
“Catherine!” he exclaimed, extinguishing a cigarette into an ashtray on a side table. The door clicked shut behind Catherine, and Sidney hastened toward her. He was as handsome as ever in a brown coat and tan trousers, and his auburn hair in waves from his high forehead. “I didn’t even hear you arrive, or I should have come out there.”
“Sidney . . .” was all she could say.
He smiled, taking her hands and holding them clasped against his chest. Footsteps faded in the corridor. “How happy you’ve made me by coming!”
She stared up at him, blinking away tears. “I feared I would never see you again.”
“Never? My dear, what have I put you through? And yet, I am glad to hear it. It means you don’t despise me after all.”
“I could never despise you.”
“Oh, Catherine,” he murmured, moving a hand from hers to touch her cheek. “You’ve such a good heart.”
For a fraction of a second she was back in the church pew. “No, not good.”
That made him smile. “I beg to differ. Come, let’s sit.”
He led her to a faded medallion-back tufted sofa, centered over an equally faded carpet. Genteel shabbiness was the tone of the room, the furniture mostly mahogany and ebony from a half-century ago, with its heavy lines and scrolls. Faded green velvet curtains were drawn, and three kerosene lamps glowed from tables set about. Tea was spread before them on a rosewood table with legs curving into lion paws, but for a while they ignored the refreshment, sitting facing each other, Sidney holding both her hands between his own.
“I wonder how you can even bear to look at me?” he asked, blue eyes suddenly sad.
I would rather look at you than anyone in the world, she thought. “I know that you’re not like that anymore. I tried to tell Sarah—”
“Mrs. Doyle? She’s the one who told you about me?”
“Yes. I tried to explain how much you regretted your past, but it made no difference.”
“I did warn you,” he reminded her gently.
Catherine nodded. “She promised not to tell William or Uncle Daniel if I would return to school. I tried to ring you, but the man who answered wouldn’t allow me to speak with you.”
“Hmm. I’ll have to speak with Rumfellow about that. Now, let’s have some tea, shall we?”
“Yes.” She poured steaming tea from a Wedgwood teapot with a hairline crack on the spout into Royal Worcester cups faintly stained inside. She liked performing the domestic little chore, for it reminded her of the countless times her mother had poured tea for her father when he returned from work. Her finger touched an odd spot in her saucer. A tiny chip had been ground away at one time, leaving a smooth shallow groove almost unnoticeable to the eye.
“My aunt Irene has seen better times,” Sidney told her, sitting back with cup and saucer and crossing one knee over the other.
“What happened?”
“Her late husband ran up gambling debts for years, until he took mercy on everyone and put a bullet in his head last summer.”
That saddened Catherine, no matter how cold the woman was to her in the coach. “Does anyone help her?” By anyone she meant Sidney and his family, though she did not wish to step too far over the limits of etiquette by asking directly.
“She receives a portion of the rents from the family estate in Northamptonshire. It was something my fathe
r set up when it was left to him. Even though he had two sisters, he was the only male, and the law of that time made him sole heir. The other sister is dead now, so there is only Irene to support.”
“That was very decent of him. To share like that.” Catherine wished that Sarah and William could be seated in the same room, listening. “And it’s very kind of you to continue.”
He nodded thanks and took a sip from his cup. “I promised my father. Mind you, it’s just enough for necessities. And I don’t consider modern furniture and unchipped china necessities, so don’t pin a medal on me quite yet.”
Catherine smiled and thought his modesty charming. They drank tea and chatted. He told her his mother and stepfather were in Bath, collecting research for a future manuscript. She told of Aunt Phyllis’s recent letter saying she was adjusting to Sheffield better than she had expected, that one of her new neighbors was fast becoming a close friend. He said that his stock in East India Securities had jumped a half-pence per share, and laughed when she said, “Is that all?” She described her favorite and least favorite lecturers.
“Everyone whispers about Dr. Besant,” she said. “He stares at my friend Milly. It makes her very uncomfortable.”
“I can imagine,” he said, followed by a thoughtful frown. “Actually, I cannot. We never had that problem at Lincoln.”
She obliged his humor with a smile, but the subject of the lecturer’s attention to Milly brought to memory something Sarah had told her. Do you realize adultery is a sin?
All in the past, she reminded herself, trying to keep down that pill she had swallowed whole back in September. You’ve no right to ask for an explanation.
The woman had children, Sarah had said.
Perhaps Sidney had not realized that fact, until he was so smitten that he could not help himself. Did he end the affair because he realized it was wrong? Or would it have continued had the husband not brought his wife to the States? While he had vaguely explained his college debaucheries—before she even knew what they were—as being the result of no moral guidance from a mother and stepfather preoccupied with their young son, he had not explained this one.
Catherine's Heart Page 29