After a lunch of fricasseed chicken and vegetables, Catherine asked if Sarah minded if she accepted Peggy’s invitation to spend the night on Saville Row. “We would first make a side trip over to Ryle Day School,” she added. Guilt no longer goaded her into listing her exact whereabouts, but she was simply motivated by the rules of courtesy befitting a houseguest. Sarah insisted they have Stanley drive them, and forty minutes later the carriage was carrying them down Belgravia’s old elegant lanes.
“Austere, isn’t it?” Peggy said hesitantly as they sat outside the gates.
“But Mrs. Whitmore was very pleasant,” Catherine assured her. Still, she did not have the courage to proceed past the gates without the excuse of an interview.
The carriage was moving back up Grosvenor Place when Peggy’s hand gripped Catherine’s arm.
“What is it?” Catherine asked.
“Nothing,” Peggy replied, removing her hand and staring straight ahead.
Catherine leaned forward to look past her. Sidney and Milly stood waiting to cross the intersection. They looked like elegant statues: Sidney in bowler hat and grey suit; Milly in a peach-colored gown and straw hat. As the carriage proceeded, Catherine twisted in her seat. It was then that her eyes met Milly’s.
“Turn around, Catherine,” Peggy said.
The distress that washed across Milly’s face was obvious, even from the growing distance. Her lips were moving as Sidney leaned his head closer to listen.
“Turn around!”
This time Catherine obeyed, staring ahead while two sets of eyes burned into her back.
Peggy touched her arm again. “Are you all right?”
“I’m not sure.” They rode in silence up Picadilly. To the right was Green Park, and Catherine could see the bench where she and Sidney had sat sharing a pear almost two years ago. Had he and Milly sat there just minutes ago?
“You knew it would happen eventually,” Peggy said.
“Yes.” After a moment’s thought, Catherine realized something. She turned to Peggy. “I looked at Milly more than Sidney.”
“I see.” But Peggy’s eyes glazed a bit as if she were trying to establish some point to that statement.
“It just struck me. It’s the loss of Milly I feel more deeply now.”
“More than Lord Holt?” Peggy said skeptically.
Catherine nodded. “Don’t you see? Our friendships—yours, mine, Milly’s—grew into a love for each other. What I felt for Sidney was infatuation. It overshadowed everything else, but proves to have lasted the shortest time.”
She had to laugh at the look Peggy gave her.
“The shortest time . . . relatively speaking,” Catherine explained. Her heart felt lighter than it had in over a year. Sidney would probably lurk in the back of it for a while longer, but his presence was beginning to shrink. As for Milly, while Catherine could not yet bring herself to forgive her, she felt a tug of pity for the torment she must be going through, as evidenced by the look upon her face.
Catherine fought against that feeling. She hurt me, Father, she prayed.
Just as you hurt those who have now forgiven you, said a calm voice in her mind.
****
She had spent the night in the Somerset flat before, so the street noises coming through Peggy’s open bedroom window did not surprise her. Patterns clicking upon the pavement, wheels and hooves on cobbled stones, and almost constant voices, some even discernible.
“ . . . said it’ll be ready in short order . . .”
“ . . . chambermaid found it behind the armoire just when I feared . . .”
“. . . stitched me ’ead up like mendin’ a shirt . . .”
It was quite a change from Hampstead’s and even Girton’s after-dark calm. But she found it interesting. Every scrap of conversation represented a whole sphere of experience not connected with her own. It made her feel excluded from the flow of life, in a mild sort of way, yet she wondered if some of those passing by outside looked up at the windows and felt the same about the people above the shops.
Two sets of footsteps, belonging to male and female voices too low for any words to be discerned, passed across her field of hearing and faded. She pictured Milly and Sidney walking arm in arm. She had always assumed that one could not possibly forgive a person until the bitterness over that person’s actions naturally dissipated with time. But if that were so, why would God be prompting her to forgive now? Could it be that forgiveness was an act of making the will perform contrary to its own desires and conform to what God desires?
With great effort, because she had to align her thoughts so that she meant it, she prayed under her breath, I forgive her, Father. She swallowed. Sidney too. Please help me to squelch any bitterness that may arise in the future.
She was surprised at how that simple prayer released a ton of weight from her conscience. So much so that she was tempted to wake Peggy to tell her. But her friend’s steady, peaceful breathing changed her mind.
The toast, which Mrs. Somerset served with eggs and bacon at the breakfast table, had a thick, buttery, flaky crust and a smoky flavor from being held over the fireplace. Catherine had three pieces and talked herself out of a fourth. No longer was she compelled to fill her stomach to aching; it was her taste buds that begged to be pampered this morning.
After breakfast they went up to Peggy’s room and braided each other’s hair. “What would you like to do today?” Peggy asked as she pushed the final hairpin into Catherine’s chignon.
“Aunt Naomi and Sarah plan to take me shopping for school clothes tomorrow,” Catherine replied. “But I wouldn’t mind walking over to Collins’.” Collins’ Booksellers was just six or seven shops down. The recently-published Treasure Island would make for refreshing breaks between classics.
Peggy combed her fingers through the fringe above Catherine’s eyebrows. “I’m glad you’re wearing your hair fringed again. Much prettier. After Collins’, let’s go have a look at Mr. Sedgwick’s school.”
The last part was slipped in with the same casual tone Catherine could imagine Augustus Caesar using while saying to Cleopatra, “You’ve lovely eyes . . . by the way, Egypt belongs to Rome now.” She swiveled around on the bench. “Absolutely not.”
“But—”
“I know what you’re trying to do . . .”
“I’m trying to do nothing,” Peggy protested, her hazel eyes wide with injured sincerity. “Honest. Besides, it’s summer. He won’t even be there.”
“How can you be so certain?” Not that Catherine intended to go, but she could not help a little curiosity.
“He spends most days at the tea company—that’s what he said last year. We wouldn’t even have to go in. Aren’t you even remotely interested in seeing the school?”
Catherine was more than remotely interested. She told herself it was simply because she had never known anyone to have founded a charity school, and would be just as interested if the founder were anyone else in her acquaintance. Grudgingly, she said, “But is it safe?”
Peggy pursed her lips in thought. “I didn’t feel threatened, but then, I was either in the company of Mr. Doyle or Mr. Sedgwick. But I suppose it would be wise to take a hansom instead of the omnibus.”
“We’ll hire a coach,” Catherine insisted. She realized she was committing herself only after the words left her mouth. But she did not take them back.
****
“Whitechapel?” said the driver at the coach stand. His nose was as red as a fall apple. “Why, I were born and reared there!”
Even standing two feet away, Catherine caught a whiff of his breath. “Will you excuse us for a minute?”
He gave her a hazy grin and began whistling “When You and I Were Young, Maggie,” as he adjusted the bridle on one of his horses.
“He’s potted,” Catherine whispered when she had drawn Peggy a few paces apart. “Should we walk down to another stand?”
Peggy sent an unenthusiastic look down the street, then toward the team
in the harness. “As long as the horses are sober . . .”
They returned to the driver, and Catherine asked, “You’re quite certain you’re familiar with Whitechapel?”
“Like the back of me hand, Miss.”
“What about the old meat tinning factory on North Street?” Peggy asked doubtfully.
“There’s a school there now,” he said, and grinned at Catherine’s and Peggy’s surprised looks. “Me brother lives two streets down.”
He started climbing up in his box, so Peggy opened the door herself. Catherine stepped toward the front and looked up. “We don’t want to stop directly in front of the school, mind you. Just close enough to be able to see it from the window. Do you understand?”
He waved a hand and started whistling again.
Whitechapel did not shock Catherine as much as she supposed it would, for she had seen far worse in many areas of Bombay. Still, it was a place of intense depravation. Signs of the inner lives in the closely packed nests oozed out into the pavements and gutters, for the primary school children were out for summer. They darted about the roads with naked, muddy feet below their rags, playing in little groups with oyster shells and pieces of broken china, or using a stick and frayed ball to play something resembling rounders.
After they had turned down yet another dismal lane Peggy, who had insisted on taking the rear-facing seat, looked again through the window on Catherine’s right. She tapped the glass and sat back so Catherine could see. “The brown brick building up ahead. But I wonder why those people are moving about.”
Catherine looked. The people, older boys, were carrying bundles and stacking them on the pavement. As they drew closer she recognized the bundles as desks. And when they drew still closer, she gave Peggy a panicked look. “Isn’t he going to stop here?”
“Oh dear,” Peggy said. But she did not seem terribly disappointed.
The carriage halted directly in front of the school. Catherine turned to her window again and flinched. Hugh Sedgwick’s face was on the other side of the glass, only inches away. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he peered at her curiously. She was about to ask Peggy to have the driver move on, when recognition flooded his brown eyes. He gave her the crooked smile she had forgotten.
Thirty-Nine
Catherine had to squelch the temptation to say, We just happened to be passing by as she took his proffered hand and exited the coach.
“How good to see you again, Miss Rayborn,” he said, pushing back the wheat-colored hair from his forehead. He was hatless, his collar unfastened and shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows.
“Thank you,” she said, still mortified. What must he be thinking? “We assumed your classes would be out for summer.”
He smiled at her again. “Actually, your assumption was correct.”
He offered a hand to Peggy, who came out saying breezily, “My fault that we’re in your way, Mr. Sedgwick. I was so impressed with your school that I pressured Catherine to come have a look.”
Bless you, Peggy! Catherine thought.
“I’m glad you did.” Mr. Sedgwick motioned to indicate the half dozen boys carrying out desks and assorted items. “You’ve caught us on an exciting day. We’re moving to larger quarters two blocks down. Our wagon should return any minute.”
“Should we have our driver move?” Peggy said.
Catherine seized the legitimate excuse. “We really should leave them to their work.”
“Better yet,” Mr. Sedgwick said, “let’s take your coach to the new place. I’ll pay the fare. Have you time?”
“We have,” Peggy said without looking at Catherine.
“Splendid!” He turned to one of the older boys. “Tom, please tell Mr. Garrett I’m going to the new building.”
“Yes, Mr. Sedgwick.”
“There’s a good fellow.” He walked over to look up at the driver. “Can you find Thomas Street?”
“Aye.”
“Well, there’s a big yellow stone building. It was once—”
“A cotton warehouse.” The driver belched and scratched his stomach. “Well, are ye goin’ to get in, or shall I drive meself there?”
“We’ll triple our classroom space,” Mr. Sedgwick said from the rear-facing seat as the coach began moving. His face was as animated as William’s would become when speaking about his son—or about some recent chemistry discovery. “It was just one vast interior when we bought it six months ago. We’ve had to cut windows and add walls, a second storey with kitchen, dining hall, and bathrooms, and two more classrooms for future growth. But some sponsors kindly donated toward the mortgage, so we’ll be paying less than our former rents.”
To Peggy he said, “I had no idea, when I happened upon you and Mr. Doyle last summer, that he was connected with Blake Shipping. They transport shipments to the States for my father, and sponsor four of our students.”
“Lovely.” Peggy nodded at Catherine. “Are you aware that Miss Rayborn is related to the Doyles? She stays with them in Hampstead.”
“What a small world,” Hugh said. “Tell me, Miss Rayborn, will you be leaving soon for Bombay?”
She was surprised that he knew this about her. “Not any more. My family is moving to Sheffield in August.”
He asked if last summer’s situation in Egypt had anything to do with that, and she told him that it was a contributing factor. And Catherine had a question for him, one that genuinely interested her. “How did you come to begin a school?”
Settling back into his seat, he replied, “Back in January of last year, I was searching for a boy who had picked my pocket and fled into Whitechapel some days earlier. I happened upon a factory dismissing for lunch and was distressed to see so many children among the workers.”
“Did you ever find the boy?” Peggy asked.
“No, Miss Somerset . . . or rather, not to my knowledge. It was dark. But I’ve prayed God would lead the boy to us, if he’s not already one of our students.” A smile quirked beneath the brown eyes. “My faculty know to keep their purses light. While we strive to teach morals as well as academics, it’s best not to leave temptation about.”
They stopped behind a wagon hitched to two horses. Two boys were unloading the last few desks, while others carried desks and chairs inside.
“The adults are working too,” Mr. Sedgwick said as if he just realized Catherine and Peggy could have the wrong idea. “We didn’t hire laborers for the actual move because we want the children to understand that they’re very much a part of the school. And we’re taking them on a train down to the beach at Hastings as a reward next Wednesday.”
“I think what you’re doing is marvelous,” Catherine told him. She felt no self-consciousness in saying so, for it was true.
“Why, thank you, Miss Rayborn.”
“You must keep terribly busy,” Peggy said as he reached for the door handle. “How do you manage running a school and working for your father? And have you a wife or fiancée also requiring some of your time?”
All Catherine could do was pretend an intense interest in the unloading going on outside her window, while she willed her cheeks not to betray her.
“I no longer work for my father,” she heard him reply. “And there is no wife or fiancée. Shall we?”
The boys carrying desks and chairs paused to allow them entrance through the wide doorway. Once inside, Catherine was so caught up in the beehive of activity going on about her that she forgot her irritation at Peggy. The oak paneled walls smelled of fresh varnish. Classroom doors stood open. Boys and girls wielding brooms and mops and cleaning rags ceased chattering to send them curious looks or shy smiles.
“If we continue growing, we’ll hire two or three more teachers next summer,” Mr. Sedgwick said as they stepped inside a Mr. Madden’s classroom. “We have an incredibly gifted and dedicated staff. They make this school what it is.”
Mr. Madden, a young man, leaned on his mop handle and smiled. “Mr. Sedgwick gives himself far too little credit.”
> The sheer energy of the place was impressive, as if everyone was embarking upon a monumental project. The students are out for vacation, Catherine reminded herself when she unfairly compared the school to the staid academy in Belgravia.
Out in the corridor, a boy approached to tell Mr. Sedgwick that the driver of the wagon desired to have a word with him. Mr. Sedgwick introduced the boy as Harold Tanner and said, “Show Misses Rayborn and Somerset about until I return, will you?”
The boy blushed to the roots of his blond hair, but escorted them to another classroom where newly hired teacher Mrs. Thorn, who appeared to be about twenty-five years of age, asked Catherine and Peggy if the map of Britain she had just hung on her classroom wall was level from a distance. In another classroom her husband, Mr. Thorn, was arranging books onto a shelf.
“Are you fond of school, Harold?” Catherine asked when they were back in the corridor.
“Oh, yes, Miss.” Timidly, but proudly, he raised the collar of his patched blue shirt to show a bronze badge the size of a penny. “I won the mathematics medal for second form last year.”
“Good for you!” Peggy said as Catherine leaned closer to admire it. When they were reunited with Mr. Sedgwick and the boy was gone, Peggy gave Catherine a pointed look and then opened her mouth.
Please . . . no more, Catherine thought.
“Miss Rayborn has been offered a teaching position at the Ryle Day School in Belgravia.”
“Indeed?” Mr. Sedgwick seemed impressed. “I’ve a cousin once removed who taught there some years ago, before she married.”
“She hasn’t decided yet, though,” Peggy said. “She has until late August to—”
“May we see upstairs?” Catherine cut in.
At a table in the dining hall, a Mrs. Garrett and Mrs. Beeby, mother of a student, were slapping together bread slices, mayonnaise, and ham and adding them to a mountain of sandwiches upon a tray. Mrs. Garrett said, “You’ll stay for lunch, won’t you?”
“Yes,” Mr. Sedgwick said. “Do stay.”
Catherine found herself wanting to do that very thing, and it alarmed her. Had she only deceived herself into believing she had grown past an infatuation with every eligible male who looked her way? Would she soon be scribbling Hugh Sedgwick’s name in the margin of her notebooks?
Catherine's Heart Page 43