You should be a detective, Sidney told himself, walking in the same direction. He had rightly supposed that a surprise visit home meant relying upon a hired carriage. He only wished he had taken some more time to think out what he would say to her. She was but five feet away, and he was beginning to lose his nerve.
Just as he was wondering if he should take that same train back to Cambridge and try to meet with Catherine this afternoon, Miss Turner glanced back over her shoulder.
“Lord Holt?” she said, turning.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Sidney told himself. He closed the distance between them and smiled. “Miss Turner.”
“But what are you doing here?” She looked past him. “Is there anything wrong?”
“No. I thought you might need help hailing a carriage.” He only wished she had worn her hair loose, rippling over her shoulders. He would give a guinea for permission to reach back and pull away the comb.
“Hailing . . .” The magnificent indigo eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“I think you do, Miss Turner.”
She stared at him for several seconds. He stared back.
“I’m going to my father’s,” she said at length.
Sidney nodded. “As you made mention last Sunday.”
“You’re not invited.”
“I wouldn’t dream of imposing myself. But a beautiful woman such as yourself shouldn’t be forced to find her own transportation.”
“And so you came to help,” she said flatly.
He swept his hand toward the brick road in front of the station. “My motives are nothing but noble. Shall we?”
She shrugged and turned again toward Station Road. Two carriages waited for hire. “Here, this one should do,” he said, taking her by the elbow. He could feel her arm go rigid, even under the heavy cloak, but she did not pull it away. Motioning for the driver to keep his place, he helped her up into the seat.
“Thank you,” she said primly, the cold pinking her cheeks and nose in a charming way.
“My pleasure.” Sidney touched the brim of his bowler hat. “And may I ask what time you’ll be returning?”
The eyes narrowed again. “Why?”
“I thought you could use some company on the train. I’ll go back to the inn and wait.”
“Wait all day? To accompany me for a ten-mile ride?”
“I’ve newspapers,” Sidney said, lifting his satchel.
She stared at him, her face reflecting an inner battle of emotions. “What about Catherine?”
What about Catherine? He gave Miss Turner—and himself—the only answer he had. “I honestly don’t know.”
Their eyes locked again. At length she glanced away and said, “Half-past four.”
Thirty-Two
“You wish to found a school?” Fuller Sedgwick asked from behind his desk on the twenty-third of February. “Have you taken leave of your senses, son?”
It’s possible, Hugh thought, smiling in spite of his nervousness. He sobered up quickly at the look his father was giving him.
“You should see the children of Whitechapel, Father. There’s so little hope in their faces. They learn just enough at primary school to realize there’s a better world out there, and that they have little hope of ever being part of it.”
“Tragic, yes, but you’ll find that in any slum in London. The poor will be with us always.”
“That doesn’t mean we haven’t a responsibility to help them.”
His father set his pencil down with a loud snap. “I do hope you’re not lecturing me. I give quite liberally to charities.”
“I know that, Father.” Finally Hugh sat, and leaned forward. “I’m sure it’s that very part of you inside of me that makes me feel such overwhelming pity every time I walk those streets. But I feel strongly that God is leading me to do more than send money away somewhere, when these children are practically in our shadow.”
“And so what precisely do you propose to do?”
“There’s a Wesleyan minister—Mr. Holland—who’s directed me to an old meat tinning factory available to let on North Street. It has two large rooms on the ground floor, and a scullery of sorts that can be converted into a water closet. Just needs a few boards here and there, some patching on the roof.” He wrinkled his nose. “A good scrubbing down and airing out. By spring, I’d like to hire a couple of schoolmasters.”
“With what?”
Hugh cleared his throat. “My legacy from Grandfather.” The five hundred pounds per annum, collecting interest since he was eighteen, was more than adequate, even for future growth.
“And what does Miss Henslow think of this?”
“I’ve . . . not told her yet.” But he was certain that he could do right by Lillian, even if he spent every penny of the legacy. There was still his salary here. Lillian’s father’s position as vicar of Saint Mark’s provided for middle-class comforts but not vast wealth, therefore she would not have to make an adjustment to a lower standard of living. And he would make it up to her when he and his siblings inherited Sedgwick Tea in the distant future—very distant, he hoped, looking across at his father.
Some of the tension left his father’s face. “Then you’re not planning to give up your position.”
“Why, no, Sir. It never entered my mind.” He was a tradesman, not a schoolmaster.
“I’m relieved. But I must ask, how do you propose to make certain this school is run according to your desires? That your teachers even appear on time? And sober? Sedgwick Tea wouldn’t be all it is today if we didn’t stay involved.”
“I plan to nip over there every day at lunch. That’s all I can do, besides try to hire staff who give evidence of dedication.”
His father hesitated. “You’re only twenty-three years old, Hugh. What happens if you grow bored with the whole project?”
That had not occurred to Hugh. He could not conceive of it happening, for this had almost consumed his thoughts since that first walk in the slum a month ago. The same energy he had applied to figuring out the best way to market Sedgwick Tea in the States burned even brighter when working out a plan for the school.
One of his ideas led him to obtain a list from the British Museum Library of addresses of philanthropists and business leaders. In the evenings he had started writing letters, asking in each for the sponsorship of one child. If the child could help out his family with the same pittance he had earned—or would earn at the factory—then the child would be free to pursue an education, and hence, some hope for a brighter future.
That was only one of his ideas. Still, it had taken only months for his interest in his studies at St. John’s College to wane.
But when did you ever feel this strongly about your studies? he asked himself. Had he indeed found his passion, of which Mr. Billingford had spoken back in Cambridge? Or was he being delusional?
“I can’t promise that I won’t, Sir,” he admitted. “But I hope with all my heart that I’ve gained enough maturity to keep my commitment, no matter what my mood.”
“I hope so as well.” His father stared across at him for a moment, then picked up his pencil again. Hugh took the hint and got to his feet.
“Thank you, Sir,” he paused at the door to say.
“For what?”
Hugh smiled. “For not trying to talk me out of it.”
“Fat lot of good that would do me,” the man said gruffly. “I tried to talk you out of University.”
An hour later his father appeared at his office door, looking almost sheepish. “Your school will need desks and chairs. If you’re still determined to do this, come spring, I’ll buy them.”
****
“Please don’t take offense,” Peggy said to Catherine with arms linked as they trailed behind others on their way to Cambridge on the Sunday of the twenty-sixth of February. “I’m sorry that you miss Lord Holt. But it’s nice—having you here on Sundays again. If Milly were here it would be perfect.”
Catherine smiled. “Y
es, perfect.”
That said, if she could change circumstances with the snap of her fingers, she would be pulling off a glove to do so in a heartbeat. But what could she do? According to Sidney’s letter of three weeks past—which she had practically committed to memory—it would be wise if he settled the affairs with his tenant farmers in Northamptonshire now, so that he would not have to send and receive wires at every stop of their honeymoon. She understood about as much of these affairs as she did the stock market, but appreciated that he wanted to devote his attention exclusively to her after their wedding. It was worth a little sacrifice.
As much as she sympathized with Mr. Turner for the mysterious ailment that baffled his doctors, she wished Milly did not have to spend every Sunday in St. Ives. Only four weeks remained of Lent Term, four more weeks to be with her two best friends before her life would change forever.
“If you had to be an animal, which one would you be?” Peggy asked as they neared the Great Bridge.
Catherine had to think about that one. “Cows seem to have pretty serene lives.”
“Must you two dillydally?” Elizabeth Macleod called from the group some thirty paces ahead.
“Just enjoying the stroll!” Peggy called back.
Miss Bernard turned to send Elizabeth, and then Peggy, a warning look. The headmistress had lectured her students often about setting good examples, with so many of the University hierarchy still cold to the notion of women’s higher education.
Peggy winced and then resumed the conversation with lowered voice. “Until they end up in someone’s steak-and-kidney pie.”
“Hmm. A house cat, then.”
“You would eat mice? Raw?”
“No, I would have a little stove,” Catherine said, elbowing her in the side. “What would you be?”
“A sea lion.”
Catherine recalled the sea-lion exhibit at London’s Zoological Gardens and nodded. The animals did appear to have a jolly time. “Then I would be one with you,” she said.
It was nonsense chatter, but it felt as good to her soul as the chill breeze upon her cheeks. With Peggy she could relax. She did not have to watch her words for fear of being perceived as ignorant or uncultured. He just wants what’s best for me, Catherine reminded herself.
She had yet to inform her friend that she would not be returning for Easter Term. In Peggy’s eyes, quitting school would be almost as bad as excommunicating oneself from the Church. She could already hear the argument between them in her head. And clearly Peggy still had not accepted that Sidney was good enough for her.
She had not confided in Milly either, for Milly had enough troubles on her shoulders. She went about the corridors with a haunted expression, as if tormenting herself over every uncharitable word she had ever said about her father.
“You know what we should do?” Catherine said. “Meet Milly’s train.”
Peggy agreed. “But you’ll have to be the one to ask Miss Bernard. I may not be in her good graces today.”
After the service in the University Church, while they were having lunch in Mrs. Golden’s Reading Room for Ladies, Catherine approached the headmistress and gained permission to accompany Mr. Willingham to the station. They did not have to be prodded into hurrying back to Girton after the choral service at King’s College, and at half-past four were seated on the bench in the bed of the wagon behind the driver’s seat.
“I just wait here, as she’s got no luggage,” Mr. Willingham turned to say after reining the team to a halt on Station Road in Histon.
“We’d like to meet the train,” Peggy told him.
“Very well,” he shrugged, and climbed down to unlatch the wagon bed and help them to Station Road. They were on the platform less than three minutes when a whistle sounded from the north, and less than a minute later the locomotive for the Midland Railway chugged in with belches of steam.
“I’ve always loved the smell of trains,” Catherine said as the guard scurried from door to door. “Isn’t that odd? All that oil and coal and steam.”
“Probably because you have fond memories connected with traveling so much,” Peggy analyzed, hazel eyes scanning the handful of people exiting the first-class compartments. “Do you see her?”
Catherine shook her head. “Not yet.”
When the flow of exiting passengers ceased, Catherine looked down the line of coaches. “Could she have ridden second-class?”
“Can’t imagine why. First-class had plenty of room.” They walked closer to peer in every door, just in case. Their search fruitless, they left the platform.
“Why, there she is,” Catherine said, returning Milly’s wave. Their friend started walking toward them from the wagon, where she had stood near Mr. Willingham just a moment ago.
“Where were you?” Catherine asked when the gap between them closed.
“Why, aboard the train,” Milly replied. “How good of you to meet me. But you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
Peggy gave her a quick sideways embrace. “But we watched—”
“I didn’t feel up to first-class.”
She didn’t explain, and Catherine wondered if it had to do with Milly’s guilt over her earlier criticisms of her father. Perhaps she didn’t feel she deserved first-class? You’re analyzing like Peggy now, she told herself. But what other reason could there be?
When Peggy moved aside, Catherine stepped over to embrace Milly. Her friend smiled and put an arm around her shoulders, but her posture was stiff.
You poor dear, Catherine thought. Milly and her siblings had been practically exiled from the home they had loved, and still Milly blamed herself for feeling resentment over it. The uncharitable thought that Mr. Turner deserved his illness flitted through Catherine’s mind. She pushed it away, glad that Milly could not read her thoughts.
“How is he?” Peggy asked as the trio walked again toward the wagon.
Milly shook her head. “The same.”
****
Aunt Irene’s parlor door closed with a muffled click the following Sunday. First laying his coat and her cloak over the back of the nearest chair, Sidney took Millicent’s mink hat from her head and gathered her into his arms. Their kiss was long and intoxicating, until a sharp pain pinched his chest.
“Mmph?”
“What is it?” she said as he loosened his hold upon her.
He reached into his waistcoat pocket. “These,” he said, and carefully tossed the smoked-glass spectacles onto his wool coat.
She smiled. “Why do you carry those about if you never wear them?”
“They bring me good luck,” he said, reaching back to pull the comb from her silvery hair so that it tumbled down her shoulders. He did not explain himself—that the spectacles had brought Catherine into his life, thus eventually bringing her. Any mention of Catherine caused a pained look to her beautiful face, often tears, not to mention deepening his own feelings of guilt.
He folded Millicent into his arms again—he refused to address her as Milly, for it was too common a name. Today they would have to discuss Catherine. And he dreaded the thought immensely, for he would be revealing the cowardly side of himself that he despised. Would Millicent think less of him?
That would be unbearable. He pushed the thought from his mind. “Give me a poem,” he murmured, drinking in the lavender scent of her silvery hair.
After a thoughtful silence, she quoted,
“Full well I know what love does mean,
Full well its force and tyranny,
And captive in love’s chains have been
Since first I set my eyes on thee.”
****
In the Henslow parlor in Bloomsbury on the evening of the ninth of March, Hugh stared at the ring box resting on the sofa space between them as his heart was battered in his chest.
“But we’ll still have a comfortable living, Lillian,” he said, looking up at her again. “A nice house, a couple of servants, even a carriage . . .”
She shook her he
ad and wiped beneath her green eyes with a handkerchief. Crimson splotches stained her freckled cheeks and slightly upturned nose. Still, she was a beautiful young woman, with fine features and waves of shiny brown hair. “I’ve lived comfortable all my life, Hugh.”
“And I stand to inherit a share of the business when my father passes on.”
“Your father’s a healthy man, Hugh. He could live another thirty years.”
When he gave her a shocked look, Lillian sighed and shook her head. “I didn’t mean it that way. I hope he lives forever. But I would like to have the things I’ve missed out on, and while I’m young enough to enjoy them.”
The stab into his already bruised heart was almost unbearable. “I thought you didn’t care about money.”
“I thought so too,” she replied, holding herself with her crossed arms. “I turned down Sir Jeffery’s proposal after we met, and he’s—”
“I know, I know,” Hugh cut in bitterly. “Twice as rich as I am. Neville’s already rubbed that in my face.” He dug into his coat pocket for his handkerchief and blew his nose.
She blew her nose as well and turned watery eyes to him again. “I fear I would grow to resent you later, Hugh. But if I talked you into giving up this notion of a school, you would resent me.”
I’ll give it up sprang into Hugh’s mind. He opened his mouth to say the four magic words that would bring everything back to the way it was, but they would not budge from his throat.
Already he had received two letters from people willing to sponsor children. His dream no longer stopped at the small school in an abandoned factory, but traveled on down the future to a vast facility that would accommodate hundreds of slum children. The vision even included two dormitories for those orphans who now slept in alleys and doorways. They’ll need housemasters too, he thought.
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