Catherine's Heart

by Lawana Blackwell

  Today Hugh’s father had allowed another day off, with the warning that he expected his duty to Sedgwick Tea to remain his primary focus once the school was up and running smoothly. That would not be a problem, Hugh had assured him. But for now, his thoughts were miles away from the stack of work waiting on his desk.

  “I’ve made tea, Mr. Sedgwick,” Mrs. Garrett said from the front doorway. Of medium height and frame, she was plain of face but with a wealth of light brown waves swept loosely into a topknot. She and Mr. Garrett had no children. “It’s still early. Won’t you come in for a bit?”

  Hugh turned to her. Saint Jude’s bells chiming out a quarter of eight was to be the signal for all interested children to set out for school. That was twenty minutes from now, but what if some were to arrive early? “Thank you, but I should stay out here.”

  “Then I’ll fetch you a cup. One lump and a slice of lemon, yes?”

  “Why, yes,” he said, smiling. “Thank you.”

  After she disappeared through the doorway, he stared up at the second-storey windows and wondered if a classroom could be squeezed in there at some future date. The thought of having to expand was immensely exciting. In the future, would some doctor or banker or even schoolmaster say that the knowledge he gleaned from this school gave him a glimpse of what could be?

  “Big dreams,” he muttered, and did not realize he had spoken aloud until the words fell upon his ears. He chuckled at himself. Perhaps Father’s right—you’ve taken leave of your senses. Senses were a bore anyway, he thought.

  He was halfway through the cup when he spotted two children approaching in the distance from Berner Street. A boy and girl with the same fair coloring, appearing to be about the ages of ten and eleven. They carried treacle tins for lunch pails and darted uncertain glances toward him and the facade of the school.

  Hugh poured the rest of his tea into the gutter and darted inside to set his cup on the window ledge. “Two on the way!” he called. He could hear Mrs. Garrett giving word to the schoolmasters, who would stay inside. Dr. Barnado had advised that the students’ first glances of their teachers should be in the schoolrooms, with study commencing precisely at eight. Order is essential to maintaining discipline was Dr. Barnado’s proven philosophy, but he expressed no advice against Hugh standing outside with kindly Mrs. Garrett on the first day.

  As they drew close he noticed the girl’s scuffed, creased shoes, and that the boy’s boots were coming apart at the toes. But their worn clothing looked clean. They stared shyly at the cobbled stones ahead.

  “Good morning, Harold . . . good morning, Helen,” Mrs. Garrett said, stepping forward.

  Both pinched faces relaxed somewhat. They mumbled, “Good morning, Mrs. Garrett.”

  Hugh stared at the woman with wonder as she wrapped a maternal arm around each shoulder. With a glint in her eyes she told Hugh, “We met when I made calls with Mr. Garrett.”

  You need to pay this woman wages, was Hugh’s first thought as Mrs. Garrett introduced him to the children. In the distance he could see a group of three coming from Grove Street, two more a few feet behind them. His second thought was, How will you bear going back to work tomorrow?

  ****

  “You’re just a little angel,” Catherine cooed to the baby in her lap on Sunday afternoon of the eighteenth of June. “Yes . . . an angel.”

  Ten-week-old John wrapped both wee hands around Catherine’s index fingers, opened his mouth in concentration and pulled slightly, so that his little head barely raised a scant fraction of an inch above her knees.

  “He likes to stretch like that,” Bethia said, seated on the right between Catherine and Naomi. The girl leaned toward her nephew to singsong, “Don’t you, John?”

  Uncle Daniel tinkered with his camera on the tripod, ducking behind the cloth, then coming out to move the legs to the side a bit. Danny watched with hands obediently clasped behind his back.

  “Your Uncle James and Aunt Virginia would love to see you,” Catherine said softly to the baby. “Wouldn’t you like to come with me to Bombay?”

  William, seated in the chair Uncle Daniel had pushed aside, smiled. “Sorry, Catherine . . . they’ll have to settle for a photograph. We can’t do without our little man.”

  But little John gave Catherine a sloppy grin as if delighted with the idea. Catherine laughed. She was surprised at how good it felt to do so.

  “Yes, what would Mummy and Daddy do without our John?” Sarah said from Catherine’s left, in the soothing voice everyone used when addressing the baby.

  John blinked at his mother, released Catherine’s fingers, and relaxed, shoving a fist into his mouth.

  “Let’s take our places, shall we?” Uncle Daniel said. Sarah helped prop the baby up in Catherine’s lap while Naomi arranged the children at their feet so there would be room for William on the sofa.

  “Will the light hurt John’s eyes?” Bethia asked.

  “No, Bethia.” Uncle Daniel stepped forward to raise Danny up on his knees. “It’ll only make spots for just a few seconds. Now, be very still, and let’s have a smile.”

  He ducked under the cloth again. Two seconds later there was a flash. Everyone blinked at each other until the black spots faded. The baby let out a little squeak and started pumping his fists and kicking his feet. Smoothing the silken blond hair over his velvety scalp, Catherine realized that for the past half hour or so she had felt a measure of happiness. Thinking about the gaping ache in her chest made it return, but it was encouraging to know that even small doses of happiness could be found. A half hour today—perhaps a whole hour one day soon. The photograph would be a reminder, lest she start to doubt that it could happen.

  Thank you for that nice time with my family, Father, she prayed as she rearranged some belongings in her trunk that evening. And thank you that baby John is so healthy and sweet. And that my parents will be pleased over my marks. Some days she had to strain to find things for which to be thankful, but she knew it was good for her. It forced her to look outside her own despondency at the things going on about her. And she was discovering that the gratitude that naturally grew from those thanksgivings opened up a new pathway of communication between God and herself, a closeness she had never felt before.

  ****

  Peggy accompanied her, along with Uncle Daniel and Bethia, to Tilbury two days later. Peggy would not be staying at Girton all summer as last year, for William had gained permission for her to work for the Commission for the month of July. It was not a paying position, she said in the train’s coach, but the experience would be so valuable that she would be willing to pay them. And she would still be able to study the months of August and September at Girton.

  “Mr. Doyle said I may even accompany him to make an investigative call or two,” Peggy was saying.

  “The East Side deaths?” Catherine said.

  “I hope so.”

  From her long acquaintance with William, Catherine understood that the glow in Peggy’s eyes was not in anticipation of exploiting tragedy for excitement, but an eagerness to solve the puzzle and prevent more deaths. Yesterday evening William had mentioned the lack of progress in solving five mysterious deaths of the past three months. Because they had occurred in the slums—Spitafields, Wapping, Whitechapel—and with no common element yet to link them, they did not even receive newspaper space.

  “Who died?” Bethia asked.

  Catherine gave Uncle Daniel an apologetic look. She recalled now that William had waited until the children were in bed to discuss that particular investigation. The train to Tilbury was obviously her place to blurt out the wrong thing. It was just that Bethia conducted herself like a sober little lady in the company of adults, making it easy to forget about her tender ears.

  “Some poor people,” Uncle Daniel replied gently, his little smile signaling to Catherine that no apology was necessary. “We don’t know their names.”

  “Did they take bad medicine?”

  “That’s what William is try
ing to find out.”

  “Will you tell me when he does?” she asked.

  “We’ll tell you.”

  The S.S. Heron waited at dockside with stevedores loading barrels and crates of supplies and passengers’ trunks. Outside the Bursar’s office, while Uncle Daniel was making arrangements for Catherine’s trunk, Peggy said, “Do you still plan to come up to Girton early?”

  “Late August,” Catherine replied, and gave Bethia’s hand a gentle squeeze. “After a couple of days in Hampstead. My walking partner and I will have some catching up to do.”

  Peggy smiled at the girl, then up again at Catherine. “I just know we’re going to have a wonderful year.”

  Catherine had to laugh. When Peggy gave her an odd look, she explained. “That’s what you said last year.”

  “Oh dear, did I?” Peggy laughed too, and Bethia joined in, though with the uncertain expression of someone who didn’t quite follow the joke. That amused Catherine so much that she laughed again, not intimidated by the frowns sent her way by a couple of dowagers.

  The lightheartedness lasted long after the coastline of England dipped into the water. When the ache pricked Catherine’s chest again, she noticed that it did not hurt quite as much as before.

  “Are you looking forward to seeing your family?” Mrs. Jennings asked, beside her at the deck railing. Having decided that seeing her daughter again was worth a repeat of last year’s seasickness, she had gamely written months ago to see if Catherine would care to travel together again.

  “Very much,” Catherine replied. “And this time, it’s our turn to have you and your family over.”

  “Oh, but you don’t have to—”

  Catherine waved away her protest. “Mother has already planned the menu.”

  “Then that would be lovely, thank you.” But the older woman’s smile seemed a little strained. After a hesitation she said, “Lieutenant Elham probably won’t be accompanying us. He’s . . . engaged to a young woman he was introduced to at Chapel. The new sergeant major’s daughter.”

  “I see.” Catherine had agreed with Uncle Daniel that she should not be thinking of romance until she could face life as a complete person. But until she reached that point, she knew she would be tempted to take shortcuts to fill the emptiness. She had abandoned the idea of writing Lieutenant Elham weeks ago, but lately had struggled with whether she should contact him once she reached Bombay. Now that the temptation was removed from her, she felt a surprising relief, a relaxing of an inner compulsion.

  “Please give him my best wishes,” she said, and meant it.

  Thirty-Six

  Dearest Aunt Phyllis, Catherine penned the tenth of July, one week after arriving in Bombay. She followed the salutations with the usual wishes that the family were all enjoying good health, told how Father and Mother and Jewel were enjoying good health; and once everyone’s health was established, got to her reason for writing.

  I have not seen Lord Holt for months now, neither do I expect or wish to, as he has married someone else.

  The identity of the “someone else” was irrelevant, at least where Aunt Phyllis was concerned. She hoped that her aunt would read between her carefully scripted lines, for courtesy forbade her to put to ink the blunt words moving across her mind:

  Please stop pleading his case to Mother and Father! It’s ancient history, like the Punic Wars, and it only causes tension in the household.

  Instead she added her wishes that the children’s experiences at their new schools this coming fall would be rewarding. According to Mother, the tutor had given notice last spring. She sealed the envelope and went over to her window to peer out between the slats of the chick screen. The rains had paused for an unusual two days in a row, though the sky was darkening with the promise of a torrent. A handful of boys were tossing a ball back and forth in the courtyard, their laughter and good-natured jeers floating along the sultry air.

  What began almost four months ago as forcing herself to look for things for which to be grateful had become a habit, so automatically she thanked God that the schoolchildren were able to make occasions for laughter, even though they could not join their families over the summer for various reasons.

  If I ever have children, I’ll never send them off to school, she thought.

  No matter that Father and the schoolmasters were kindly, they were no substitutes for parents, and she could only imagine the tears shed in cots during the night. She had never given thought to what it would be like to be a mother, but with the milestone of her twentieth birthday only three weeks away, she supposed some sort of reflection was in order.

  She smiled at the memory of little John’s smile, the scant weight of his body in her lap. Sarah and William were equally matched in their dedication to their son, in their determination to be good parents. That was important, she realized. She had seen in Aunt Phyllis’s family how out of balance a household could become when one parent’s devotion overspilled the limits of common sense in an effort to make up for the other parent’s supposed failings.

  Yet she had not given parenthood a thought when she fell so completely in love with Sidney. What sort of father would he have made, with his cowardice and cheapness? The way he treated those people he considered his social inferiors? Or how he paid lip service to integrity, but did not practice it? And the way his generosity only seemed to extend to occasions from which he could benefit?

  Only now was she able to see those flaws, now that she was forced to step away from him. It sobered her to think she had come within weeks of joining her life with his. Would he have taken time to nurture their future children, to love them as much as she would love them? Or would the anxiety of constantly having to make up for their father’s shortcomings turn her into someone like Aunt Phyllis, and their children into unhappy social misfits?

  Birds did not lay eggs until their nests were complete and sturdy, yet she was so charmed by a pair of blue eyes and sharp wit that she had been willing to build a family upon such an unstable foundation.

  “You stupid girl!” she muttered, tears clouding her eyes. For she still loved him—not as much as when they were courting, not even as much as last week, but enough still to hurt. How long will this take, Father? she asked. Won’t you just remove those feelings from me?

  An answer came from that part of her mind that heard God speak, not with words, but with impressions that stirred her emotions or helped her to see reason. Look at what the pain has taught you.

  If the wounds from loving Sidney were so easily healed, she would never have learned what a fragile and precious thing the heart was, and how it must be guarded. Not locked away from all experiences, but protected, as best able, from those who would treat it callously.

  And she never would have learned the folly of allowing sentiment to cloud her mind. She had a good mind, albeit a scattered one at times. Her mind would have noticed Sidney’s character faults and served warning, especially if she had asked God’s guidance in the matter.

  Next time I’ll be more circumspect, she promised God. If a next time ever came. For at twenty, most unmarried women were considered poised upon the brink of spinsterhood.

  Better to be a spinster than in an unhappy marriage, she thought with all sincerity. And Sidney had occupied enough of her thoughts today. She rose and took book one of Virgil’s The Aeneid from atop her chest of drawers. She had determined to finish translating books I through IV from Latin before the end of summer, so that she would have a head start on Michaelmas Term. The desire to teach had taken root within her again, increasing in the same minuscule degrees that her longing for Sidney decreased. Inverse proportion, she thought, smiling and settling into her chair. Peggy was not the only one with a talent for putting situations into mathematical formulas.

  Two days later the Times of India reported that fifty Europeans were killed in Alexandria riots the previous day, leading to bombardments of the city’s fortifications by British naval vessels. Tensions had been brewing in Egypt for s
even years over the increasing European influence, particularly that of Britain and France and their support of the Turkish viceroyal government.

  “This means war,” her father told her. “You’ll not be traveling back until we’re sure the Canal is safe.”

  ****

  Whitechapel was not the worst of the many districts that William had visited in the course of his investigations. But it was dismal enough. “Are you sure you’re up to this?” he asked Miss Somerset on the morning of the seventeenth of July. They stood halfway down an obscure passage leading off Batty Street. It was just one of the dozens of narrow avenues of closely packed nests, too narrow for a carriage and filled to overflowing with dirt and misery and rags. William carried his purse in his waistcoat packet to discourage pickpockets. The girl had followed his advice and dressed in a plain blue gown, carrying no reticule and wearing no jewelry.

  “I’m up to this, Mr. Doyle,” she said with shoulders squared.

  He took a small notebook from his coat pocket, checked the address, and they continued down the lane. Groups of people idled about gin shops and squabbled in doorways, and every post and corner seemed to support an occupant leaning against it. “A Miss Arber died at an umbrella factory on Commercial Road three days ago,” William explained when they stopped outside the minuscule, gateless courtyard of a crumbling ground-floor tenement.

  “She complained to co-workers of headaches, hearing loss, and blurred vision for several days, but she wouldn’t stay home for fear of losing her position. We suspect lead poisoning. Her sister, a Mrs. Smith, allowed our investigator, Mr. Hinks, to collect the few open tins of food from the cupboard and the contents of the ash bin, but our tests have been negative. And she refuses to grant permission for a postmortem.”