“Yes, what was that like?” Peggy said, eyes wide as if the fate of the world depended upon the answer.
“I had nothing else with which to compare it,” was the crisp reply.
Back at school Catherine followed Peggy into her sitting room, dragging Milly by the elbow.
“Well?” she said after closing the door.
Peggy started pulling pins from her hat. “Well what?”
Catherine gave an exaggerated sigh. “What did you think of him?”
“He’s very handsome,” Milly said.
“Yes, handsome,” Peggy said.
Milly nodded. “And agreeable.”
“Much improved over the last time we met,” Peggy said, and held up a hand as Catherine was opening her mouth. “I know . . . he had that headache, and so that was understandable.”
Still, their reservations hovered in the air and pressed against every corner of the room. Peggy set her hat upon the study table and drew a deep breath. “I can’t speak for Milly, but I resented getting caught up in your assignations when your aunt and uncle were here. And I was uncomfortable today, allowing Miss Scott to think I was visiting a friend of your family. I’m sure Lord Holt meant well by including us, but please discourage him from inviting me again.”
Milly nodded. “She does speak for me. I felt the same.”
Catherine pulled out a chair from the study table and sank into it, torn between relief—at least over Milly’s comment—and the desire for the two to see Sidney in the same light that she did. “You’re simply never going to understand until you fall in love.”
“I hope I’m never so much in love that I rationalize falsehoods.” Peggy set her hat on the window ledge and shrugged out of her coat. “I can’t reconcile myself with his encouraging you to lie, even arranging the situations for you.”
“And on a Sunday,” Milly said, unbuttoning her cloak. “With you fresh out of church!”
“But it’s my only free afternoon,” Catherine protested. Without Sidney’s supporting presence, she felt besieged by the people who should be the most understanding.
Peggy pulled out the chair next to her and started pulling off her gloves. “Catherine, Milly brings up a good point. His arriving here every Sunday afternoon means he does not attend church. What are his feelings about God?”
“God?” It had never occurred to Catherine to ask.
“Does he even believe in God?” Milly said.
“Obviously he’s not hostile to religion,” Catherine reasoned. “Or he would have ridiculed me for attending—”
“He ridicules you?” Peggy cut in.
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
How frustrating it was, to have the two jump to a conclusion before she could even finish a sentence. She could tell by the glance Peggy sent Milly that she was working up to another question.
“What I meant was,” Catherine hastened to say, “Sidney is a Christian.” She felt no guilt over the statement, for her heart was in tune enough with his that she would know this. And wasn’t his desire to live a moral life proof that God was working in his heart?
“And he’s told you this?” Milly asked. “With his own words?”
Not in so many words, rose to Catherine’s lips, but both sets of eyes regarded her with such infuriating skepticism that she swallowed that reply and said, instead, “Yes. With his own words.”
After all, what was one more lie?
Thirty-One
“Would you care to see my report?” Hugh asked his father late in the morning of the twenty-fourth of January.
Fuller Sedgwick stretched back in his chair, locking both hands behind his head with a cracking of knuckles. A stranger could have looked at the thick brown eyebrows and lashes and straight wheat-colored hair—Fuller’s darkened a bit by time—and identified the two as father and son. Their eye colors differed, though, Hugh’s brown and Fuller’s green. And at that moment the latter’s were crinkling at the corners over his smile.
“Finished already, eh? When your brothers get here, I may learn to play golf.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice?” Hugh said, smiling, even though they both knew the idea of his father staying away from the business for any length of time was inconceivable. As for the brothers, the place would practically be swarming with Sedgwicks once Brian graduated from Harrow this summer, and Lane the following year.
He pulled a chair around the desk and spent the next two hours showing his father the figures he had accumulated and the conclusions he had gleaned from them. “I believe the market would be extremely profitable. With the United States still so young as a nation, there is clearly a desire to maintain some of the old-country reminders.”
Turning a page in his dossier, he went on. “As you can see, other food exporters to the States—Cadbury’s Chocolates, Brand’s A-1 Steak Sauce, Lea and Perrins’ Worcestershire Sauce—have enjoyed a rise in profits every year over the past decade.”
“And how did you acquire this information?”
“I visited them and asked.” Hugh smiled at the surprise on his father’s face. “A complimentary case of Sedgwick Tea and respectful attitude opens many doors, I have discovered.”
He pulled out another sheet. “I even have some notes on what not to do, things they learned through trial and error. Lea and Perrins was most helpful in that regard.”
“Amazing.” His father scanned the page, absently rubbing his chin. “I wouldn’t have imagined they would share that.”
“Well, we don’t present competition for them. But I knew better than to call on Twinings.”
His father chuckled. Shuffling through the papers again, he said, “I want to read over all of this again, and have Mr. Culiard confirm your tonnage reports. This is a major undertaking, and we want to be certain we’ve dotted every i and crossed every t.”
“I understand, Sir.” In fact, Hugh felt a surprising relief. While success seemed probable, there were no guarantees, and bearing the sole responsibility for a failed venture was a little intimidating. He didn’t mind that it diluted some of the credit due him. Sedgwick Tea was an important part of his life, but unlike his father and late grandfather, Hugh did not carry the business about on his shoulders once the doors closed behind him in the evenings.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off?” his father said.
“You mean that?”
“You’ve worked hard. Go spend some time with Miss Henslow.”
Hugh did not have to be convinced. But by the time he reached Aldgate Station, he had changed his mind. He continued on, leaning into a bracing wind.
He had never ventured past Sedgwick Tea to the east, had never had a reason for it. Saint Jude’s was striking eleven as he entered Whitechapel High Street. Appropriately tagged “Butcher’s Row” by Londoners, it was a long vista of windows boasting mutton and veal, legs, shoulders, loins, ribs, hearts, livers, and kidneys. “Buy, buy, buy!” came shrilly from butchers in stained aprons standing in doorways. The buyers were of all descriptions, from the middle to the very lowest classes, and mostly women, from housewives to servant girls. Beggars of all ages swarmed like locusts.
By the time Hugh turned down Plough Street, he had slipped his purse from coat pocket to waistcoat pocket. The makeup of the neighborhood changed dramatically the farther south he walked. Narrow lanes darted off in all directions, flanked by serried rows of shadowy courts.
He raised his muffler over his nose. An unwholesome vapor filled every inch of atmosphere, and refuse of all sorts was scattered about the cobbles, some of it suspiciously organic. A face peered at him from behind a filth and ice-encrusted windowpane, resembling a fish staring from the murky depths of a bowl. Few people were on the streets because of the cold, but every now and again some ragged person would call out from a doorway, “Got a bob to spare, Guv’nor?”
“Sorry,” he replied to those queries, knowing better than to withdraw his purse. He had not really expected to see the boy, but managed to
feel a keen disappointment when he did not. On Commercial Road he came upon dozens of people ambling toward him. Children outnumbered men and women, and all were bundled in patched and worn coats or simply wrapped into shawls. They spoke little to each other.
Hugh was struck with the expressions on the children’s faces as they plodded past. Resignation mingled with weariness. A few sent dully curious looks his way. Two policemen watched from the corner, identically clad in blue double-breasted outer coats with two rows of brass buttons. “Lost, Mister?” one asked when Hugh drew closer.
Hugh shook his head and lowered the muffler from his nose. “Where is everyone going?”
“Umbrella factory just let for lunch.”
“Children too?” Hugh said, even though he had heard his father say that it was the shame of England that thousands of children over the age of ten, when education was no longer compulsory, labored in factories and brickyards, textile mills and coal mines. They were limited by law to a “merciful” fifty-six hours per week and were paid a fraction of the wages of an adult male. “Is there no school?”
The second policeman pointed south with his nightstick. “Rupert Street.”
“Why aren’t they there?”
He eyed Hugh as if he were the most ignorant fellow whose path he had ever crossed. But the eye moved down to the cut of Hugh’s finely tailored topcoat, and a bit of respect crept into his expression. “Law says the City only has to provide primary schoolin’.”
“And there’s nothing beyond that?”
“Nothing,” affirmed the second policeman.
“They don’t need it anyway,” said the first, with a sage look at his companion. “Education just teaches them to steal the dearer thing.”
The two chortled, and apparently expected Hugh to join in. When he did not, the first policeman sobered enough to shrug and say, “There’s a Wesleyan preacher on Gowers Walk who teaches reading on Sundays. Can’t really call it a school.”
Hugh looked about at the dismal surroundings. All his life he had taken education as simply his due, as he had his warm bed, fine clothing, and meals. He had not had to do one lick of labor until now, at age twenty-two. He thought of the resignation on the young faces, old before their time, and his heart felt a great sadness.
“Will you point me to Gowers Walk?” he said.
With a shrug the first policeman gave him directions, adding, “Watch your pockets, Mister.”
The soot-stained brown brick building, with Whitechapel Wesleyan Chapel on a signboard over the door, had obviously been a shop in Whitechapel’s more respectable days. Voices and bawdy laughter drifted from the gin shop next door. Obviously neither establishment had run the other out of business. There was a flat above, and smoke rose from the chimney. Hugh knocked as hard as his gloves would allow and waited, stamping his feet now and again. He was about to turn away when the door opened and a white-haired man with a face like old parchment looked out at him.
Hugh moved the muffler from his nose. “Good-day, Sir. My name—”
“Tell me where it’s warm,” the man said, beckoning him inside. Hugh followed him past a dozen rows of wooden pews, dimly lit by the sunlight seeping through the shop front window, and then up a flight of narrow stairs. They entered a tidy room with parlor furniture and a table and chairs. Hugh noticed the half-eaten bowl of soup and piece of bread on the cloth. “I’ve interrupted your lunch?”
“Easily enough mended.” The man pulled out a chair. “Go stand by the fire. I would offer you some soup, but I just emptied the pot. Anyway, you don’t look especially hungry.”
“I’m not, thank you.”
The old man picked up his spoon, and Hugh stuffed his gloves into his coat pockets and stood with back to the fire, warming his hands behind his waist. “Are you the minister here?” Just in case he wasn’t talking to the minister’s father. Or grandfather.
“For fifteen years.” The man took a bite of soup. He had a surprisingly refined voice for his surroundings, as if he had been well educated. “Ronald Holland is my name. And you are . . . ?”
“Hugh Sedgwick, Sir. I’d like to find out more about your Sunday school.” Why he wanted to know more, he wasn’t yet sure. Perhaps to reassure himself that something was being done. To make a donation before retreating to his comfortable little world.
Between bites of soup and bread, Mr. Holland told him that from thirty to forty children, above the compulsory schooling age of ten, drifted into his pews after morning worship services. “We have a Bible lesson, and then I teach what I can for three hours or until my legs or eyes give way. Long division, geography, some spelling. They memorize a little Scripture and poetry—I’m partial to the Psalms and Lord Byron. Whatever they didn’t get in primary school. Many come just for the soup, no doubt, but then, some soak it up.”
Mr. Holland chuckled. “Soak up the lesson, that is, though you can say the same for the soup, can’t you?”
Hugh smiled. “With all due respect, why do you only limit your lessons to Sundays?”
“Because I’m the pastor of a church as well, with a needy congregation. You caught me stopping here for a bite of lunch between rounds. Also, many of the children work at the factories, and Sunday is their only day off.” He frowned down at the bit of soup that landed on his coat and dabbed it with his napkin. “And last but not least, I’m a tired old man, if you haven’t noticed.”
“Forgive me.” Hugh took a step toward the table. “I didn’t mean to imply that you don’t do enough. Actually, I’m in awe of you, Sir.”
“In awe of me?” Mr. Holland grinned at him. “Mrs. Holland will get a chuckle out of that one. She’s sitting with a woman who has the ague.”
“Then I’m in awe of her as well,” Hugh said, reaching into his waistcoat pocket. “Please allow me to make a donation.” He gave the man the fiver from his purse, saving the coins for the Underground.
“That’s very generous of you, Sir,” Mr. Holland said.
“It’s the least I can do,” Hugh told him.
****
“Remember, you have to try to be sociable with your stepmother,” Peggy said, coiling Milly’s hair into a loose knot the Sunday morning of the twenty-ninth. “For your father’s sake.”
“Don’t you think I’m aware of that?” Milly said.
“We do wonder,” Catherine told her as she brought a black cloak from the wardrobe to the dressing table. “This one?”
“Yes,” Milly replied with scarcely a glance. Her lack of enthusiasm was clearly the reason she had slept late. If she missed the morning train, there was little sense in going at all. She could not even look forward to the company of her brother and sisters, as they did not have the liberty to take a Sunday train unescorted from their schools.
The clothes laid out, Catherine hurried down to the dining room, slapped together a bacon sandwich, and begged some brown paper of Mrs. Hearn to wrap it in. Then she stopped in the lobby to assure Mr. Willingham, who would be driving Milly to Histon Station in the wagon, that she was almost ready. Having a project kept Catherine’s mind off the disappointment over not seeing Sidney today. He had some business having to do with the Northamptonshire estate, his letter of Thursday had said, and closed with: I will count the hours until I see you again, my beloved Catherine.
He was counting the hours, and she the minutes, or at least she was doing so last night when the ache of missing him forbade her sleep. Over ten thousand of them remained to be filled somehow before his presence would lighten her heart again.
****
“How did you sleep, Mister Holt?” asked the hosteller of the Hound and Bugle, just yards from St. Ives Station, as he set a plate upon the cloth.
“Lord Holt,” Sidney corrected, unfolding his linen napkin. “My bed was lumpy, the mirror was spotted, and I could hear pipes groaning all night.”
He would not be sending for seconds, this early in the morning, and so he had no fear of having his fried eggs, ham, and toast contaminated
if the hosteller was so inclined toward pettiness.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Sir,” the man said. Even with a beard, he had looked only to be about twenty-five. Probably inherited the place, Sidney thought.
The wife hastened over to refill Sidney’s coffee. She stared at him with round worried eyes. “We just had the bathroom put in this summer, Sir. The pipes still ain’t used to th’ cold.”
“We’ll deduct a shilling from your bill,” the man said. “And no charge for your breakfast. Next time we’ll put you in a better room.”
“Very well,” Sidney said. No sense burning his bridges behind him—just in case.
But as far as this time, he still wasn’t quite certain what had possessed him to come here. He loved Catherine with all his heart. Still, he was bewitched by a pair of indigo eyes, which clung to his imagination like shadow to pavement. “What time does the train from Histon arrive?” he asked as the two were turning to leave.
“Nine o’clock, Sir,” the hosteller replied with the eagerness of one who wishes to repair a harsh opinion of himself.
At a quarter before the hour, Sidney put on his topcoat and bowler hat, took up his satchel, and stepped out into the cold. A light blanket of snow lay on the ground and dusted the grey slate roofs of cottages packed in the lee of a hill overlooking the river Great Ouse. Fifteen miles northeast of Cambridge, the town had roots in Saxon history, but was most famous for its international fairs in medieval times. Hence the nursery rhyme, which was painted in slanting letters over a window inside the railway station.
As I was going to St. Ives
I met a man with seven wives.
Each wife had seven sacks,
Each sack had seven cats,
Each cat had seven kits;
Kits, cats, sacks and wives—
How many were going to St. Ives?
“Do ye know the answer?” came a voice from his left.
Sidney, seated upon a ladder-backed chair before the stove, gave the elderly ticket agent a weary look. “One.”
The scant attention encouraged the man to launch into a story about a herd of cattle that broke through their hedgerow some years ago and gathered on the railroad track. Sidney ignored him and was relieved to hear a whistle at three-past nine. He rose and went out to the platform. The train squealed in seconds later, and a guard ran along opening doors. Some thirty-odd passengers exited various coaches. Miss Turner left a first-class coach, wearing a black cloak and the fur hat she had looked so fetching in when he first set eyes upon her. She did not look about, as would someone expecting to be met, but started toward Station Street.
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