“Were we ever that young and naive?”
“You know the answer to that,” her friend replied. “Let’s see to your trunk—I’ve a carriage waiting.”
“Really? How did you know I would be here?”
“Mrs. Doyle wrote to me at Girton after your father wired that your ship had left. I simply added the days and figured you’d be here yesterday or today.”
“Very astute of—” Catherine left the last word hanging and looked at her. “You weren’t here yesterday too, were you?”
The sentiment in Peggy’s smile canceled out the casualness of her shrug. “I happen to have missed you. We have so much catching up to do.”
Twenty minutes later as the cab carried them up Regent Street, Peggy told her of the month spent at the Commission, particularly the “lead in snuff” case. “My name was even in the Times!”
“How exciting,” Catherine said, smiling. She had read the article about the arrest, and William had already given her all the details. But then, Peggy had listened to her go on and on about Sidney, so a little quid pro quo was in order. “I’m very proud of you.”
“Oh, Catherine . . .” Peggy’s cheeks were ruddy with happiness. “I’m so sure this is what God wants me to do with my life. You can’t imagine how good it felt to apply what I’ve learned toward helping people.”
“Really?” Unable to resist the urge to tease, Catherine said, “And where did you learn bribery?”
“Bri—?” Her friend winced. “The postmortem. Mr. Doyle told you.”
“The story will be chuckled over in the Rayborn-Doyle family for years to come. I wrote of it to my parents and Jewel last night.”
“Oh dear,” Peggy said, pressing hand to cheek. “And I’ve not even asked about your family, your summer, anything. And after all you’ve been through. Will you forgive me?”
“There’s nothing to forgive. And I’ve really not been through anything other than having to spend an extra six weeks with my family. But it may be my last time, as my parents are seriously considering leaving Bombay after this school year.”
“The trouble in Egypt?”
“Jewel and I think they miss England too, but they’ll never admit it.”
Peggy studied her face. “And how are you . . . ?”
“With regard to Sidney?” Catherine finished for her.
She looked relieved not to have to say it herself. “Yes.”
“To be honest, there were some dark times. But I can see a light at the end of the tunnel now.”
“I’m glad, Catherine.”
A narrow boat of eight rowers with a coxswain in front to steer and shout Pull! Pull! Pull! shot by on the Cam beneath the Great Bridge, followed by two more boats abreast and one trailing behind them. Sunlight sparkled in their wakes.
“And . . . I translated the first six books of The Aeneid,” Catherine told her when the River was behind them.
“Six?”
The incredulity upon Peggy’s face was gratifying, as if Catherine also had accomplished a great feat—which, perhaps she had, considering how difficult it was to make her mind stay attached to anything written pre-nineteenth century. “I had all that unexpected extra time . . .”
After they stopped at Girton College, Catherine insisted on paying the driver. “You had to pay for a wasted trip yesterday,” she told Peggy. She gave him an extra half crown to help Mr. Willingham carry in the trunk, then linked arms with Peggy and started toward the terra-cotta brick building that was beginning to feel like a second home. Third home, Catherine amended.
“I’ve two surprises for you,” Peggy said as they passed through the main entrance.
“What are they?”
Peggy led her to the reading room, unlinked her arm, and took a step backwards. “Look around and you’ll see the first one.”
Catherine’s eyes scanned the room, stopping at the Gower Bell telephone on the wall.
“A telephone!” she breathed.
“They moved the Queen over there,” Peggy said with a nod toward the portrait hanging on the east wall. “We’re only connected to Cambridge now, but Miss Welsh says the lines will extend to London by summer. Can you imagine?”
“Remarkable!”
Taking her arm again, Peggy said, “And now on to the second surprise.”
“What is it?” Catherine asked.
The hazel eyes had a mysterious glint. “You’ll have to stop by my apartment.”
The something Peggy produced, after rustling papers in a drawer, turned out to be a square of paper. Catherine set her reticule upon the study table and took it from her. It was a photograph of an old brick building with a pair of windows on each side of an entryway, and four windows above. She squinted at the lettering on the signboard above the door. “Nord Streed Fhoot?”
“North Street School,” Peggy corrected, folding her arms. “It’s in Whitechapel.”
Catherine lowered the photograph, looked at her friend. “And . . . ?”
“Hugh Sedgwick gave it to me. He mails them out with solicitation letters. He founded the school himself. Mr. Doyle and I happened upon him when I was working for the Commission.”
“William never told me.”
“Perhaps he didn’t realize you two were acquainted.” Peggy pointed to one of the top windows. “A grandmotherly sort of woman makes soup in the little kitchen for those who can’t afford to bring lunches. Mrs. Garrett is her name.”
Catherine looked at the photograph again and thought of Hugh Sedgwick’s prank on the train almost two years ago. You can never really know what’s in a person’s heart. Or perhaps Mr. Sedgwick had not known himself at that time. Wasn’t she just beginning to learn what was in hers? A little wave of regret washed over her, and she handed the photograph back. “That’s very generous of him.”
Peggy bit her lip, seeming to have something more to say.
“What is it?” Catherine asked, and realized after she spoke, They’re seeing each other. It was perfectly within Peggy’s rights, she reminded herself, for she had no claim to Mr. Sedgwick, especially after her engagement to Sidney.
She smiled at her friend. “I’m very happy for you, Peggy.”
“Happy for me?” Peggy gave her a blank look. “Why?”
“Well, you and Mr. Sedgwick.”
“You think I still—?” A smile flickered across Peggy’s lips. “I’m not interested in him, Catherine. What I’m trying to tell you is that I confessed to him about burning the letter.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s haunted me for months.” Her hazel eyes reddened. “If I hadn’t burned the letter, perhaps you and Lord Holt never would have . . .”
Catherine set the photograph upon the study table and stepped up to wrap her arms around her friend. “I would have been trading one idol for another,” she said. For she had worshipped Sidney, she could see now, placing him in the space in her heart reserved for God. She had no doubt that she would have done the same with Hugh Sedgwick, had there not been barriers in the way, or even Lieutenant Elham, had she stayed longer in Bombay last summer.
“There’s still hope,” Peggy said as if she had not heard. She took a step back, wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “When we’re in London between terms, I’ll ring him and ask for another tour, tell him I want to show you . . .”
The faint hope that rose in Catherine’s mind alarmed her. Had she come so far, learned so much, only to slide back into neediness again? She shook her head for her own as well as Peggy’s benefit. “I can’t do that, Peggy.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know how you feel that God’s leading you to help others with your knowledge of chemistry?”
“Yes.” Peggy gave her a wary look. “You’re not thinking of changing to Chemistry . . .”
Catherine had to smile. “I believe He’s telling me to concentrate on my studies and grow closer to Him for the time being.”
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t—”
“That’s exactly what it means.” If romance was to be allowed into her life again, it would be after she had become a whole person, her mind not ruled by her heart.
At length Peggy shrugged. “Whatever you say, Catherine. But I had some marvelous daydreams of the both of you gushing thanks to me for bringing you together.”
“You can bring me together with some lunch instead,” Catherine told her, taking her arm. “I’m famished.”
They ambled down the corridor, pausing to welcome freshers and to return the greetings of old friends. A tray of sandwiches—egg mayonnaise and roast beef—and a bowl of pears were set out in the dining hall. They took their plates to their usual table, now empty. Catherine pulled a bit of gristle from her roast beef. “I suppose you could tell me a little more about North Street School.”
At Peggy’s knowing little smile, Catherine rolled her eyes and said, “I wouldn’t be studying to be a schoolmistress if I weren’t interested in schools.”
Thirty-Eight
As Catherine and Peggy began their third year on the second of October, Catherine discovered that the earlier in the day she began her studies, the less prone her mind was to wander, and thus her concentration was improved. And it helped that there was not the distraction of a personal life in turmoil. She was even able to pay the kindness Peggy had shown her toward someone else; she had happened upon fresher Daphne Myton weeping as she left Latin I, and began tutoring the girl in the evenings thrice weekly.
She surprised herself by sailing through Greek I, II, and III, which did not soothe the disappointment over below-average marks in Ancient and Medieval Topography during Lent Term. Still, she thought she did well on her examinations at the close of the school year. Until she was summoned to Miss Bernard’s office, on the twenty-second of June, 1883.
“I would like to ask of your plans after graduation,” Mrs. Bernard said, folding her hands atop her desk. “Will you move to Bombay?”
Tension eased out of Catherine’s neck and shoulders. After graduation had a promising note, and surely meant she would not be starting Michaelmas Term in the fall with another probation. “My family will be moving back to England next month. My father is to become headmaster of a boys’ boarding school outside Sheffield.”
“Do you plan to move there?”
“No, Miss Bernard.” While she was overjoyed to have her family only a four-hour railway journey away, she would be twenty-two years old when she graduated. She feared the maturity she had striven for during the past year would regress under her parents’ protectiveness.
“I’ve recommended you to a personal friend in London. A Mrs. Whitmore, headmistress to the Ryle Day School for Young Ladies in Belgravia. Are you familiar with it?”
Stunned as she was that Miss Bernard would recommend her to anyone, she replied, “My cousin Muriel attended there until two years ago.” When Miss Bernard did not fill in the silence that followed, Catherine realized that she might be wondering why her cousin had left the school, and hastened to add, “But they moved to Sheffield—my cousin’s family.”
“I see.” Miss Bernard seemed satisfied with that. “If you’re interested, Miss Whitmore asks that you ring her when you arrive back in Hampstead to schedule an appointment. It is in regard to a teaching position that will become available next year, when one of her teachers marries.”
“Next year?”
“Female college graduates are, sadly, still in short supply in Britain. Those of you intending to teach will find yourselves in high demand by the better schools.”
Catherine stared across at her. “But why me, Miss Bernard?”
The headmistress smiled. “I’m aware that you must struggle to maintain your marks. Your tenacity is commendable, Miss Rayborn, as is your empathy for others who struggle. You have been tutoring Miss Myton, and it was you who caused the others to accept Miss Turner when you were freshmen—as disappointing as the case turned out. As I said to Mrs. Whitmore, you’ll make a fine schoolmistress.”
****
“I shouldn’t be long,” Catherine told Stanley on the twenty-ninth of June, after stepping out of the coach on leafy Wilton Street in Belgravia, London.
Stanley walked over to open the cast-iron gate, beside a bronze plaque reading Ryle Day School for Young Ladies, est. 1837. “No hurry, Miss.” He patted his pocket. “I’ve a book with me. Ever read Tom Sawyer?”
“Why, yes.”
“If Guy got himself into half the scrapes that boy got into, my hair would turn white. But Tom’s a funny little mite.”
Catherine agreed that he was and walked the brick path toward the white three-storey building. A faint melancholy had come over her since the coach entered Belgravia, for Sidney’s house would be but two blocks northwest, and Green Park just a stroll to the northeast. You can’t hide from him all your life, she told herself. But she wondered if considering a position in an area so awash with memories was wise.
A maid answered and led her to the headmistress’s office. Miss Bernard had obviously pressed Catherine’s case strongly, for Mrs. Whitmore, a widow with hair and eyes the color of tea, offered her the position after asking a few questions about her interests and classes, and even family. “Contingent upon your graduation, please understand, but Miss Bernard assures me that you’re committed to reaching that goal.”
“I am, Mrs. Whitmore.”
“Very good. You’ll see that our wages cannot be matched in any school in London.” The woman handed a sheet of paper across the desk. “That is one reason openings such as this rarely come about.”
The figures on the paper were indeed impressive, though her legacy from Grandfather spared Catherine of having to make wages her main consideration. She asked, “May I see the classrooms?”
“But of course,” Mrs. Whitmore replied, seeming pleased that she would ask. She led Catherine down polished oak floors reflecting the electric bulbs that were starting to illuminate sections of London. “I only wish classes were still in session, so that you could observe. Our students hail from the finest families in Britain. We’ve had a waiting list for the past decade.”
She opened the first door. Empty desks were queued in precise rows, maps and charts adorned the paneled walls. Catherine could picture herself standing at the blackboard while well-scrubbed faces followed her lead in their French recitations.
“Apropos, to the purpose . . . capapie, from head to foot . . . je ne sais quoi, I know not what . . .”
It was all quite impressive, and the fact that she was wanted here added to the attraction. Still, she hoped she had learned her lesson about leaping ahead of God.
“When must you have an answer?” she asked.
Mrs. Whitmore nodded approval, as if Catherine had passed another sort of test by not appearing too eager. “By the end of August will allow me ample time to schedule other interviews, should you turn down the position.”
They smiled at each other, the look in Mrs. Whitmore’s eyes saying that she was aware that no aspiring schoolmistress in her right mind would turn down such an attractive position.
Catherine nodded and thanked her. “By late August.”
That afternoon she sat out in the garden with Sarah and Aunt Naomi, while fourteen-month-old John dozed in his pram near Sarah. Ten feet away from the cast-iron benches, six-year-old Bethia and four-year-old Danny lay on their stomachs, admonishing each other to be quiet as they dangled blades of grass in the goldfish pond in the hope of attracting a curious nibble. Guy, now eight years old, sat cross-legged and picked softly at the three strings remaining on an old violin that Trudy had found in a secondhand shop. Peggy was coming for lunch tomorrow and had promised to restring it for him.
Catherine had her summer planned out. She would return to Girton on Monday, the second of July. The month of August was reserved for helping her parents and Jewel settle in Sheffield, then she planned to return to Girton the first of September for another month of studying ahead. Peggy would be joining her there
only then, for William had gotten permission to hire her for two months this time.
“If you decide to accept, I do hope you’ll plan to stay with us,” Sarah said, after Catherine told her and Aunt Naomi of the Ryle school interview.
“It’s so kind of you to offer,” Catherine replied. “But there is a boarding house for ladies just across the street. Three of the schoolmistresses stay there. It would be most convenient.”
“Bethia’s school may possibly have a staff vacancy next year,” Aunt Naomi said. The six-year-old had just completed her first year at the National School on Christ Church Road, where Guy attended. “Would you like me to ring the headmaster and ask?”
The children had seemed caught in their own little world, but Bethia jumped up from lying on her stomach and hurried over. “Oh, do say yes, Catherine! You could stay here then, and perhaps you would even be my teacher!”
Catherine smiled at her aunt. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to ring him.”
The following morning the headmaster, a Mr. Houghton, informed Aunt Naomi that he was not yet certain if he would have any teaching position available a year from now, but should one occur, he would contact her to arrange for an interview.
Peggy arrived at ten, having walked the short distance from the omnibus stop on Heath Street. The wood to Guy’s violin did not seem warped, she said after looking it over. Along with violin strings and bow, she had brought her first lesson book, The Violin for Small Fingers. “You have the advantage of knowing how to read music from your piano lessons,” Peggy told the boy as the family, minus William, gathered in the parlor. Guy mumbled a timid “Thank you, Miss,” but his keen eyes watched her fingers knot strings and twist pegs.
“You’ll play us something, won’t you?” Sarah asked, after Peggy had tuned the instrument and pronounced it suitable for a beginner.
Peggy smiled and tucked the violin under her chin. “Hey Diddle Diddle” was her first tune, to the delight of the children, followed by “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep.” For the adults—and Guy, who listened, motionless, with head cocked—she played Schubert’s melancholy “Gretchen at the Spinning Wheel,” and then a more mood-lifting “The Hen” by Haydn.
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