“Thank you, Uncle Daniel.” She tucked the book under her arm. The affection in his green eyes was as soothing as the air upon her face earlier. It was almost as if her father were there with her. Loathe just yet to leave the room, she asked, “What are you researching?”
“It’s not a cheerful subject, but it is one that has always interested me. The Black Death.”
“Thirteenth century?” she guessed, trying to recall her British history lessons with Miss Purtley.
“Close,” he said. “Thirteen forty-eight, and it killed almost half of England. But are you aware that the plague struck approximately every decade for over three hundred years afterward?”
“Three hundred years?”
“Until the flea-bearing black rat was exterminated.”
“And those books you have are about that?”
Touching the top of the stack, he replied, “They merely contain references to it. I’ll be spending a lot of time at the British Museum Library when I’ve gleaned all I can from these. And now that the children are old enough to travel, Naomi and I will spend most of the summer researching the effects of the plague upon smaller communities.”
“Bethia mentioned the trip.”
He smiled. “And I’m sure she also mentioned not having Guy along.”
“I believe she did,” Catherine said, returning his smile. And she was keeping him from his work, however much she wished to stay. She thanked him again and turned for the door. As she crossed the room she heard the dull scrape of chair legs against the rug, the creak of his settling into the seat, the scratchings of pencil against paper. When she touched the doorknob her reluctance to leave this harbor of compassion—without judgment—was overwhelming. So she stood, and eventually pressed her forehead to the doorframe.
“Catherine?”
She heard the chair moving again and shortly afterward felt hands upon her shoulders. “Come sit with me,” her uncle said.
She allowed herself to be guided back to the table. After he helped her into a chair he went around to the other side and closed his notebook. He regarded her with kind eyes while she dug into the pocket of her skirt, past a half dozen whole and broken cinnamon biscuits, withdrew her handkerchief, and blew her nose. The loose bits of cinnamon made her sneeze, but eventually she said, “I’m sorry, Uncle Daniel.”
“There’s no need to be sorry,” her uncle said. “It’s only natural to cry when we’re hurt.”
“Thank you.”
He did not ask why she had thanked him. Perhaps he understood what a relief it was to be simply granted permission to weep, no matter that the person for whom she shed tears was not worthy of them.
But of course he understands, she thought. She had been so wrapped in her own misery that she had forgotten the story Mother had once told her, how Uncle Daniel’s first wife had jumped off Waterloo Bridge. Uncle Daniel had even suffered the added grief over his infant daughter, Sarah, presumed to have drowned in her mother’s arms. Surely, through it all, he had learned the secret of coping with loss.
“Would it help to talk about it?” he asked.
Catherine nodded, unsure of where to begin. She blew her nose again, while he waited patiently. At length she said, “Does it hurt to speak of your first wife, Uncle Daniel?”
“It doesn’t hurt,” he replied.
“Did you love her very much?”
The green eyes briefly closed, opened. “Very much.”
“As much as Aunt Naomi?”
After a pause, he said, “Yes and no. I loved Deborah with my whole heart—as I do Naomi. But then, the quality of love I was able to feel as a young man was different from the kind I have now for Naomi.”
“Still, you were very . . .” Her mind tried to supply tactful words.
“I was crushed when she died,” Uncle Daniel said.
Catherine gave him a grateful look for making this easier for her. “Then, when did you reach the point where the hurt went away? When you married Aunt Naomi?”
He shook his head. “If that had happened, Catherine, then my love would have been an interchangeable, needy thing. As though with one recipient gone, I could merely attach it to another person and continue on my way. As if my heart were one large leech.”
While she was absorbing that, he said gently, “You’re wondering how you’ll ever get over the young man.”
“Yes,” she replied, trying to control the trembling of her bottom lip.
“Before I tell you how you’ll do it, I’ll tell you first what not to do. I turned to gin, and for some years it took control of my life.”
“I’ve never been tempted to drink, Uncle Daniel,” she reassured him.
He leaned forward to brush a crumb from the tip of her nose. “I’ve lived long enough to see people do the same with food, Catherine.”
They’ve noticed, she thought as warmth spread through her cheeks.
“But like gin,” he went on, “it won’t fill that hollow space in your heart.”
“Fill that hollow space . . .” Catherine echoed, knowing what he meant. But she had assumed the hollow space to be unique to her own suffering.
“Neither will another romance,” he added.
How does he know? she thought, recalling the letter she had finished just this morning to Lieutenant Elham, and her thoughts only minutes ago of Eric Kirkpatrick. “It hurts so badly, Uncle Daniel. I can hardly bear it.”
“You poor child.” He reached out to take her hand. “I’m afraid time is the only remedy for that sort of pain.”
“Time,” she murmured, disappointed. How many times had she heard that?
Uncle Daniel gave her an understanding smile. “But it’s an effective remedy. Trust me. And you can help it along by keeping busy.” Letting go of her hand, he nodded toward the book on the table in front of her. “It’s good that you’ve something with which to occupy your mind.”
“Yes.” Absently Catherine ran her thumb along the gilt lettering. “Why is it so much harder to fall out of love than it is to fall in, Uncle Daniel?”
“I don’t know the answer to that, Catherine. But that should warn us to be more judicious about deciding whom to love.”
“No one decides to love,” she told him. “It just happens.”
He shook his head seriously. “Cupid with his arrows is a myth, Catherine. We have a great deal of choice in the matter. And again, it’s essential to our future happiness that we choose the right person, taking time to learn all about his character before allowing our hearts to become so besotted that we can’t see his or her shortcomings.”
She braced herself, waiting for him to point out Sidney’s character shortcomings and tell her how fortunate she was that he was out of her life.
Instead Uncle Daniel said, “May I suggest that you work on mending that hollow space, becoming a complete person, so that we aren’t having this talk over some other young man six months from now?”
She had assumed herself to be a complete person, at least until Sidney walked out of her life. For the first time, she now questioned how she could have fallen in love with him so completely, so rapidly, if not for some lacking on her part. “How does one do that, Uncle Daniel?”
“By first understanding why that hollowness is there, Catherine. Have you heard of Blaise Pascal?”
“The mathematician,” she replied.
“Also one of the most respected scientists of the seventeenth century. And a poet. He was researching the nature of the vacuum when he wrote that everyone is created with a ‘God-shaped vacuum,’ which we try in vain to fill with other things. But Pascal wrote that the infinite abyss could only be filled by an infinite, immutable Object, God Himself.”
Infinite abyss, Catherine thought. An appropriate description. She wondered if Pascal had learned this from personal observation. Surely he did, she thought, for how did one explain to another how forcefully an emptiness inside could scream out to be filled?
“I learned that gin would not fill it,” Un
cle Daniel went on. “And I’ve seen others try it with money, fine things, and yes, romance. Saint Augustine understood that centuries before Pascal was born, when he wrote Our hearts were made for you, O God, and they shall not rest until they find their rest in you.”
“I’ve been a Christian since I was a girl, Uncle Daniel,” she told him. Even though God seemed so far away lately.
Gently her uncle said, “The Scriptures say that God created us for His pleasure, Catherine. That means He desires to be a vital part of our lives. Not just for a couple of hours on Sundays, but in our daily walk.”
She was about to tell him that she had said nightly prayers since a little girl, but on second thought did not think that was what was meant by a “daily walk.”
When she asked exactly what it did mean, her uncle replied, “The key for me was thanksgiving, Catherine. When I began thanking God for every good thing that happened, I began to feel an incredible closeness over time—a friendship, if you will—that extended into all areas of my life.”
“And God took away your emptiness?”
His lips formed a tender smile. “I won’t deceive you into thinking that my grief vanished over losing Deborah—and Sarah, presumably. And that I was not terribly lonely for the companionship of family. But as I grew closer to God, more complete, the frantic daily need to fill that hollow space faded away.”
“But you were still lonely.”
“Not like before, Catherine. It’s difficult to explain, but God gave me an assurance, a feeling deep down that one day things would be better. Friends remind each other of such things. By the time I met Naomi, I was able to love her as a whole person, caring for her needs ahead of my own.”
She thanked him and left shortly afterward, promising to consider all he had said. That evening at bedtime, she stuck a ribbon between pages twenty-four and twenty-five of Republic and went to the window seat, parting the curtains. A light rain fell, blurring the outline of the three-quarter moon against the dark sky.
Thanksgiving.
Of course even she knew that there were so many things for which she could be thankful. The pain had overshadowed them, pressing them into small corners where she could not see them, even when every night from her pillow her lips murmured the routine thanks for home, family, and provision. She thought for a minute, then prayed, Thank you that my Uncle Daniel was so generous with his time and counsel.
She determined that, before turning in, she would think of other things for which she had never thanked God. They came easily . . . Peggy’s loyal friendship, Sarah and William’s forgiveness for her lies, that she was able to stay up all day today without having to nap, even that she was put on probation instead of being required to sit out a term.
The only one that did not come easily was the thanks she offered for discovering Sidney’s true nature outside of marriage. Afterward she waited for the change that would follow, mindful that it would come in small doses. But the hollow ache inside was just as acute, and she crawled beneath the covers sorely disappointed.
The house quieted, the muffled footsteps of servants settling in above ceased, with just the ticking of the clock and soft patter of rain against the glass magnified in the darkness. Sleep would not visit for hours, she knew, for bittersweet memories of Sidney would taunt her.
Unless she refused to allow them access to her mind. Had she the strength to do that? She thought again of Uncle Daniel’s assurance that healing would come with time. How much time? Instead of thinking of Sidney, she pictured herself on a dark road. Wholeness waited at the end, too far away for her eyes to see it, for her skin to feel its warmth, but as long as her feet kept moving, she would reach it eventually.
Thank you, Father, she prayed under her breath. Surely one could wait out anything if there was a glimmer of hope for the future.
Thirty-Five
“I am thinking of dyeing my hair,” Marie said as she braided Sarah’s long hair on the eighth of April, the day before Easter.
Sarah looked up the mirror at the grey strands cropping up at Marie’s temples, stark among the glossy black hairs. Marie was too proud to ask for advice, but obviously hoped some be offered.
“You still have beautiful hair,” Sarah said. “So thick.”
The lady’s maid nodded, picked up a section of Sarah’s to comb gingerly through a snarl. “Coarse too. But that is good. It hardly knots—not like your fine hair. The only bother is that it takes long to dry. I live with sniffles each winter. And now the grey.”
Smiling to herself, Sarah wondered if a certain widowed Frenchman had something to do with this discussion. Every Sunday for the past month Marie had accepted the lunch invitation of Mr. Pierpont, master chef at Hampstead’s Corinthian Hotel, and his three daughters, ages ten, thirteen, and fourteen.
“I wouldn’t dye your hair if I were you,” Sarah told her. She had heard enough horror stories from William regarding cosmetics of earlier centuries—lead in face powder and red sulfide of mercury in rouge. Even as recently as last century, women were swallowing complexion wafers made with arsenic to achieve a white pallor, lethally effective because they poisoned the blood so that fewer red hemoglobin cells and less oxygen were transported to the organs. “At least not until you ask William to analyze what’s in it. You don’t want to ruin your health for vanity’s sake.”
As soon as the last words slipped out, Sarah grimaced and wished she could snatch them back again.
“I am never vain, Madame,” Marie informed her, twisting her hair into a coil.
Sarah sent her a benign look in the mirror. “But of course not.”
A light rapping sounded. “You may come in,” Marie said before Sarah could speak.
Naomi entered and said to Sarah, “Your father rang from the Museum library. He says Catherine made her train on time.”
“Good,” Sarah said, smiling at her stepmother’s reflection. There was some worry over that, for Stanley had noticed a wheel wobbling on Heath Street and had to turn the coach and drive it back slowly, then hitch the horses to the phaeton. “It’ll be good for her, staying busy.”
“She did seem a little better last week,” Naomi said. “At least she ate sensibly.”
“I am glad I had no romances when I was young,” Marie said, inserting a comb into Sarah’s coiled braid.
“But you’re making up for lost time, aren’t you?” Naomi said.
Sarah held her breath. Not she or William, nor even Mrs. Bacon was bold enough to speak that way to Marie. But Naomi and Marie’s relationship could only be described as “fondly abrasive,” going back to the years they were both servants in Mrs. Blake’s house.
And indeed, Marie laughed. “As you English say . . . it is better late than never.”
That made Naomi laugh, and Sarah did the same. But only for a second, because her abdomen was seized in a mildly painful grip. She put both hands on the dressing table to wait it out.
“What is the matter, Madame?”
Sarah turned to look at both anxious faces. “I’m not sure.”
Two hours later everyone was sure, for Doctor Lloyd had packed up his satchel and said he would return after having lunch with his wife. “Plenty of time,” he reassured them. Still, he had ordered Sarah to bed, and agreed that it was not too early to ring William and Father.
John William Doyle entered the world at half-past five, red-faced and howling indignation at having to leave his warm cocoon. Once bathed by Mrs. Bacon and swaddled in a blanket, he quieted, his unfocused blue eyes staring up at Sarah as she held him close. When William was allowed into the bedroom he stood at the head of the bed, a hand resting upon Sarah’s shoulder.
“Would you like to hold him?” Sarah asked. Already the memory of the pain was fading, replaced with a feeling of such protectiveness that she knew she would fight to the death for this little life in her arms, were it required of her.
“In a minute,” he said thickly, dark eyes lustering. He wiped a tear from his cheek and smiled at Sar
ah. “I just want to look at you both for a little while.”
****
On the twenty-second of May, Hugh paced the pavement in front of what he simply called North Street Secondary School. The cannery was patched and scrubbed, the water closet installed, coat hooks lined in geometric order on the walls of the entrance hall, and two dozen desks ready to receive occupants in each downstairs classroom. The upstairs flat, where the factory manager must have resided, still needed work, but it had a serviceable kitchen where Hugh’s staff could make tea and even warm up lunch on the iron stove.
He was more than pleased with his staff, even though Oswald Garrett and Kevin Madden were as different as chalk and cheese. Mr. Garrett was in his forties, married, short and thick, and the minister of a Baptist chapel on Leman Street. Mr. Madden, a bachelor, tall and loose limbed, was a recent graduate of the University of London. Having been raised at Saint Luke’s Foundling Home in Spitalfields, he saw himself in every slum child. The two got along quite well, and had spent the past two months visiting tenements in the dark lanes and alleys spidering out from Whitechapel High Street.
They had even accompanied him on three occasions to a ragged school in nearby Limehouse, founded by philanthropist Dr. Thomas Barnado, to observe the routine and ask advice. Gracious that he was, Dr. Barnado was skeptical over Hugh’s success in finding sponsors so that young factory workers could afford to leave their jobs. But by devoting almost every minute of his free time to letter writing and paying calls, Hugh had managed to enlist seventeen sponsors willing to pay the one-pound, twelve shillings monthly, and many more expressed a willingness to do so once the school proved itself.
In addition to former factory workers, there would be other students that Mr. Holland had helped ferret out, some too frail for factory work and some homeless. Hugh wasn’t quite sure of their number yet—Mr. Holland had warned them that the one thing a person could count on in Whitechapel was that one could not count on everyone keeping his word.
More dreams had been added to those already stored away in Hugh’s mind. One day every child, even those unfit for factory work, would receive a stipend. Not only as an incentive to attend faithfully, but as a motivation to study hard, and with a sense of pride for being able to help one’s family.
Catherine's Heart Page 39