“Oh. I didn’t realize. Then of course, I understand.”
His acting talent had failed him again, for she could see the disappointment in his brown eyes. The temptation came, urging her to offer to delay her return. Or to give some reason for returning to London in a week or so. But as she had learned through painful experience, impulse was a child who simply wanted what it wanted, with no thought to what was best in the long run.
“But may we have another try at corresponding?” It would even be best, she realized. Through letters, they could learn more of each other without emotions intruding upon reason. She could concentrate on her studies without pining over a pair of brown eyes or crooked smile.
He gave her a wary look. “You’re not just being kind, are you?”
“It wouldn’t be kind to ask, if I really didn’t want to hear from you. But will you have time, with all your responsibilities?”
“You’d be surprised at how a person can squeeze in time for letter writing,” he said, smiling again. “I’d like very much to correspond with you. Just please stay on good terms with Miss Somerset this time.”
****
Their earliest letters touched upon superficial things, descriptions of the events of their days; Catherine’s family’s move to the school near Sheffield, Mr. Sedgwick’s visit by some philanthropists seeking advice for a school they desired to build in the Bethnal Green slums, Catherine’s lecture schedule, a copy of a poem about the River Thames that Mr. Sedgwick’s sister Noelle had written.
Catherine penned in one letter: We have grown used to the constant sounds of hammering while another wing is being built and the dining hall doubled in length.
And from Mr. Sedgwick: Hammering is a very familiar sound to us here, as the September rains revealed to us that our roof is but one wide sieve.
Later letters delved a bit deeper and included consolations for each other’s disappointments, such as Catherine’s low mark on a Judio-Claudian Emperors composition, and Mr. Sedgwick overhearing his father praise his brother Brian’s accomplishments in the office with not a word for Hugh’s school. They also shared each other’s joys over such things as the successful surprise birthday party Catherine arranged for Peggy, and the offer of the Charitable Organizational Society to provide uniforms and shoes for Hugh’s students.
By December, the salutations of Miss Rayborn and Mr. Sedgwick were discarded in favor of “Dear Catherine” and “Dear Hugh.” They were able to be transparent with each other, to pen things they would have had a difficult time voicing.
Catherine wrote: When I finally understood that it was not Lord Holt whom I had loved, but the intoxication of love itself, the very last traces of his presence left my heart. I have no more doubts over having accepted the position at Ryle Day School. The possibility of happening upon Lord Holt again does not worry me. The opposite of love is not hate, I believe. It’s simply no longer caring.
And from Hugh: I realize now that Lillian was wise to call off our engagement. I would have allowed work to consume even the time that should be set apart for family. I have since learned balance from watching the Garretts. While they are dedicated to the school, they do not allow the urgent things to overshadow the important things.
What Catherine appreciated most about their correspondence was that they had become friends. A courtship built upon friendship was far more comfortable, she had discovered, than one built upon flatteries and flirtations and seesawing emotions.
What lay in her future? She could not see beyond that curtain. When she prayed for a peek, the answer she received was In due time.
Forty-One
In 1826 Ralph Bradshaw founded Sutton School in Derbyshire’s beautiful Hope Valley because he did not wish to send his eight sons away for a quality education. Mr. Bradshaw, an illiterate who made his fortune from his needle and pin factory in Sheffield, gave the institution his wife’s maiden name lest those sons expect privileges not extended to the remainder of the student body.
The grey gritstone buildings were arranged about a quadrangle. On the east was the three-storey building housing dormitories and classrooms. On the north stood the kitchen and dining hall. Tennis courts and stables faced the south, and to the west were the chapel and library. Cricket matches took place in the field behind the dining hall, and a gap in a hedge beyond led to the headmaster’s cottage.
Catherine’s father had replaced a Mr. Parry, whose five-year tenure ended after a student’s hand was broken during a caning. James Rayborn’s first act was to abolish corporal punishment. His long-held philosophy was that he had no biblical mandate to strike another man’s child, and he preferred to weed out those few who could not be motivated toward good behavior by a reward and demerit system. He proved the seriousness of his edict nine days into term by expelling a six-former for bullying younger students. His strictness was tempered by a calm, pleasant demeanor, which won him the respect and admiration of students and staff.
The respect was reciprocal. However, Catherine’s father still maintained a distance between school and family—or rather, between school and eleven-year-old Jewel. She sat between her parents during chapel services and took lessons at home from Miss Purtley, along with the grounds keeper’s nine-year-old daughter, Florence. Muriel was her only other playfellow, whom she saw only once or twice monthly when she accompanied Mother the eight miles to Sheffield or when Aunt Phyllis paid a call.
“I’m afraid you’re doing her a grave disservice,” Catherine gathered the nerve to say on the seventeenth of December, two days after arriving from Girton. She had waited until her sister was abed, Father was relaxing in his parlor chair, and she and Mother were wrapping gifts to ship to Hampstead via railway.
“Disservice?” Father turned half-closed eyes toward her. “What do you mean?”
Her mother paused from wrapping Bethia’s jigsaw puzzle. “We raised you the same way, and I daresay you’ve turned out just fine.”
“And I’m very grateful for all you’ve taught me.” Catherine wanted to qualify that right away. “To be generous to those less fortunate . . . to set goals . . . and to have no prejudices. I always knew I was loved.” Her fingers worried the ends of the ribbon around the box containing Aunt Naomi’s bracelet of Blue John stones from the Castleton caverns nearby. Why was it so much easier to bare one’s heart to friends than to parents?
“But even with your best intentions,” she went on after a quick prayer for just the right words, “there were two things lacking in my childhood. I didn’t realize this until I left home and suffered some pains for the lack of them.”
At the phrase “suffered some pains,” a dent had appeared between her mother’s brows, and her father’s eyes widened a fraction.
“Two things,” he said when she was finished. “Well, what were they?”
Catherine gave him a look that begged understanding. “The most important was a close relationship with God. Because we never discussed our Christianity, I assumed God’s part in my life was consigned to bedtime prayers and church.”
During the silence that followed, snowflakes pelted the windowpanes with muffled little pings, and the fire snapped and sputtered in the gate. At length Mother set Bethia’s wrapped gift aside and said, “I wasn’t brought up in households where such personal matters were discussed, Catherine. But you knew you could come to us with any question.”
Her father nodded. “Any.”
“And I’m grateful for that,” Catherine said. “Only, even with both of you there for me, I didn’t even realize there was a void in my life. It was when I went away to school that I started trying to fill it with other things.”
“What other things?” Mother asked, paling a bit.
Father looked uneasy. “You didn’t take up smoking cigarettes, did you?”
Were the moment not so serious, Catherine would have laughed. God help her if she were inclined to smoke, with the family she had!
“No, Father. I’m speaking of romance. My happiness beca
me determined solely by whether or not I had a suitor. And I came very close to marrying a terrible man.”
The dent in Mother’s forehead deepened, and a frown tugged at Father’s lips. Catherine had confessed her slipping about to see Lord Holt, but not why she had been so consumed with him. She, like her mother, was brought up in a household where such matters were not easily discussed.
But she forced herself to press on. “Had I the security of a close relationship with God, I don’t believe I would have fallen in love with Lord Holt . . . and practically every other young man who crossed my path. You don’t want that to happen to Jewel, do you?”
The latter was effective strategy, for Jewel was the light of their lives. Catherine’s parents looked at each other. Eventually Father blew out his cheeks. “The blame must be laid at my feet. I was brought up in that sort of home and have forgotten what a comfort it was. I fear I’ve devoted more attention to my work than my children’s spiritual growth.”
“You’re a good father,” Catherine reminded him. “And it’s not too late. She’s only eleven.”
His eyes glistened, but he gave her a little smile. “I’ll try, Catherine.”
“You said two things, Catherine,” Mother said quietly. “What else was lacking?”
Catherine drew in a breath. “Boys.”
She had to smile at how quickly both sets of parental eyebrows raised. “It’s not what you think,” she said. “Because I was so shielded from their association, they were a mystery, and I assumed the only relationship possible between males and females was one of romance. I’m only now learning how to form friendships with them.”
“Boys,” Father muttered.
“Are they such horrible beasts, Father?”
“No, of course not. But around my little girl?”
“You have to prepare her for when she’s no longer your little girl.”
“That’s something to consider, James,” Mother said. “And I have fond memories of playing with the three Douton boys next door.”
“Really, Mother?” Dear as she was, Catherine could not imagine her participating in something as unproductive as frolic, even as a girl. “What did you play?”
Her mother waved a casual hand. “Pretend games for the most part, because your Aunt Phyllis and I couldn’t bully them into playing with dolls, even though two were younger. Robin Hood was the favorite.”
“Robin Hood?”
Sentiment softened her grey eyes. “Phyllis and I took turns as Maid Marian. Whoever lost out had to be one of the merry men. Neither one of us ever got to be Robin Hood, though. The Douton boys could ignore our gender for Little John or Friar Tuck, but not their leader.”
“I would have allowed you to be Robin Hood,” Father said.
She inclined her head toward him. “Thank you, James.”
Father wove his fingers together upon his chest, pressing the tips of his thumbs into his chin. “While what you’re saying is reasonable, Catherine, I certainly can’t send Jewel out to the playgrounds with a hundred and forty male students. What would you suggest?”
Having invested considerable energy in determining how to approach them with the problem, she had not thought to save some for the solution. But Mother surprised her again.
“How many students are staying over Christmas, James?”
“Five,” Father replied. As in India, there were families either unable by circumstances beyond their control, or more sadly, unwilling to be inconvenienced by children too old to be pawned off on nursemaids. Father maintained daily contact with the students, but it was the housekeeping staff who looked after them.
“They could come here for lunch,” Mother said. “Mrs. Chapman cooks such huge quantities anyway. I should have thought of that days ago. The poor boys—set aside from their families.”
Father looked doubtful. “Five? With Jewel?”
“Under our supervision, of course.”
When he stared musingly into the fireplace, Mother gave Catherine a victorious little smile and handed her the spinning-top intended for John to wrap.
The boys, ranging in ages from eight to thirteen, sat with watered-down hair and somber faces at their table the following day. Catherine could appreciate their abashment, for even now she could not imagine herself dining comfortably with Miss Bernard’s family.
She wrote the gist of the table conversation to Hugh.
Father: “Mr. Robyns here constructed the papier-maché model of the solar system that hangs from the science classroom ceiling.”
Mother (giving the boy her brightest smile): “Indeed? I shall have to go and have a look at it very soon.”
Mr. Robyns (blushing and staring down at his mulligatawny soup): “Thank you, Mrs. Rayborn.”
Catherine was happy to report in her next letter that the awkwardness lessened considerably when Father and some of the school staff took sleds out to the hill beyond the stables, and the five boys were naturally included with the rest of the children. And Father read aloud from Saint Luke in the parlor this evening, she wrote on Christmas night. It’s a good start, don’t you think?
On the fourth of January, Catherine’s last evening home, Father had the stable master hitch a team of Clydesdales to the school sleigh and drove the family to nearby Hathersage. Savory aromas met them outside The Millstone Inn, famous locally for their fish and chips. For a little while Catherine’s family devoted more attention to the plates of perch, fried potatoes, and stewed carrots than to conversation. But when the edges of appetite were satisfied, Father turned to Catherine and said, “This young man with whom you’ve been corresponding . . .”
Catherine swallowed a half-chewed bit of potato with a gulp that thundered in her ears. Mother and Jewel seemed to be holding their breath. Father held fork poised between plate and mouth, a carrot segment impaled upon the tines, and regarded Catherine expectantly.
“Mr. Sedgwick?” she supplied uneasily.
Propelling the carrot into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed. “Why don’t you invite him up for Easter vacation so we may meet him?”
She looked at her mother, intercepted her nod, and turned again to her father. “Are you quite sure, Father?”
“Quite.” He doused the fish remaining on his plate with vinegar, as if unaware of the quiet stir he had caused. “We should come here more often, Virginia. It’s very good.”
****
“You didn’t even inform him you’ll be in town?” Peggy asked on the morning of Saturday, the sixteenth of February.
Catherine threaded the leather strap through the clasp of the portmanteau upon her bed. She had just finished saying that Dr. Precor had excused her in advance from this afternoon’s lecture on Advanced Mythology, but she knew that it was not Dr. Precor of whom Peggy spoke.
“It’s Marie’s wedding day. I couldn’t presume upon her to invite someone she hasn’t even met.”
“But he could at least see you off at the station Sunday. Why don’t you ring him when you arrive?”
“I couldn’t possibly.” Catherine tugged at the second strap. “He lives with his family. What would they think?”
“Granted,” Peggy said at length. “But you’ve not even invited him for Easter yet . . . have you?”
With no more straps to fasten, Catherine looked up at her friend standing at the foot of the bed. “Easter’s still two months away.”
“Why are you afraid to see him?”
It was no use denying it, when Peggy could read her as easily as a chemistry text. She sighed. “I’ve had one failed romance already.”
“And so the letters are safer.”
“Yes.” How could she explain? She could so easily pour out her thoughts to Hugh in her letters, as he obviously could to her. However much she desired to see him again, what if they discovered that the bond forged by ink and paper just could not be maintained in person? She was so fond of him. Could she bear the disappointment?
When she had not elaborated, Peggy shrugged and said, �
��If he ever proposes, perhaps you should look into marriage via post. The vicar—no, the postmaster general—could hold up your two envelopes and proclaim you husband and wife.”
Catherine picked up her portmanteau by the handle. “Now you’re being silly.”
“You’re the silly one,” Peggy shot back with an affectionate smirk. “But who can tell? People are busy. Perhaps you’ll set a trend. Though how you’ll manage the children part of it is beyond me.”
“Peggy!” Shocked as she was, Catherine could not restrain a smile. “I’ll mention Easter in my next letter.”
When her friend folded her arms and gave her a skeptical look, Catherine rolled her eyes. “As soon as I return.”
****
Mr. Pierpont’s three dark-haired daughters fluttered about Marie, fussing with her satin train, arranging the folds of her long tulle veil, as if she had become Mother in their minds long ago. The wedding was an intimate affair, conducted by Rev. Troughton of Christ Church and held in the parlor of 5 Cannonhall Road. Guests besides the Doyles and Rayborns and their servants were Marie’s sisters and brother-in-law and the elder Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell. Marie would be introduced to the remainder of her husband’s family in Reims this summer, when the girls could accompany them, Aunt Naomi had informed Catherine.
Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God and in the face of this company, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honorable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency, signifying unto us the mystical union that is betwixt Christ and His church . . .
After the ceremony and vicar’s blessing, wedding party and guests left the sitting room for the hall downstairs, where chairs and tables with white linens were arranged. Caterers from the Corinthian Hotel served a supper of mock turtle soup and roast guinea-fowls, crimped cod and fried oysters, and vegetables in various sauces. The wedding cake was Trudy’s loving handiwork, a two-tiered concoction of flour, butter, currants, candied citron, and spices under almond icing.
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