“We thank you each for helping to make our day joyful,” a glowing Marie said on her husband’s arm before leaving with her new family. “You must please come to visit us soon.”
After the last guest had left and the children were tucked into beds, the adults of the family ended up in the parlor to savor the occasion a little longer.
“Mistress of her own home, after serving in others’ for so many years,” said Aunt Naomi, the one person in the room who knew exactly how that felt. “She deserves this happiness.”
“Who’ll take her place?” Catherine asked. As able as her cousin was in many ways, the deformed hand made getting dressed difficult without the help of a lady’s maid.
“Avis,” Sarah replied. “She’s thrilled over the promotion.”
“She’ll do a good job.” Aunt Naomi sighed. “But I’ll miss having Marie about.”
William chuckled, stockinged feet propped upon an ottoman, and Hector dozing in his lap. “You’ll miss sparring with her, you mean.”
“Yes, that too,” she admitted readily.
High spirits from the enchantment of the occasion kept the adults awake for another hour. Inertia caused by comfortable chairs and a warm fire accounted for a second hour. As conversation eddied about her ears, Catherine’s thoughts returned again to Hugh. She had not been so geographically near him since their correspondence began last June.
How she now wished that she had informed him that she would be here! A simple line in one of her letters would have done it. Yes, there was an element of risk—as there had been in leaving her family in India to set out for college at eighteen. Could anything worthwhile be accomplished without incurring some risks? Would she prefer a life of bland, safe, lonely mediocrity?
“You young people may sit up all night if you wish . . .” Uncle Daniel’s voice broke into her haze of thought. He was on his feet, assisting Aunt Naomi to hers, “ . . . but we old folks require sleep.” That stirred everyone into sluggish motion, and good-nights were traded about between yawns.
A soft knock sounded at Catherine’s door minutes after she had extinguished her lamp and slid under the covers. “Come in?”
Sarah opened the door in an aura of corridor light. “You’re still awake?”
“Yes,” Catherine said, pushing aside the covers. “Come in.”
“Do stay in bed.” The glowing coals in the grate illuminated Sarah’s nightgown-clad form like an apparition as she padded across the carpet. At the bedside she took Catherine’s hand and said, “Marie was so pleased that you would take time from school to come.”
“I was touched that she would invite me.”
Semidarkness did not conceal the worry in Sarah’s expression. “You seemed a little melancholy in the parlor. The wedding didn’t bring on some sad memories, did it?”
“Sad?” When the meaning of the question sank in, Catherine shook her head. “I hardly even think of those days any more. It’s as if they happened to another person.”
“Then you’ve forgiven me for sending you away that time?”
Catherine wrapped her other hand about their clasped hands. “You should have locked me in the attic until I came to my senses.”
Sarah smiled. “Will Mr. Sedgwick come by before you leave?”
“No. He isn’t aware I’m here.”
“But why?”
“Because Peggy’s right.” Catherine sighed. “I’m the silly one.”
“Beg pardon?”
She confessed her cowardice and regret. “But I’m going to invite him up to Sheffield for Easter. You’ll hardly believe this, but it was Father’s idea.”
“Will wonders ever cease?” Sarah leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “Now go to sleep.”
Forty-Two
Sunday afternoon Catherine planted farewell kisses upon the foreheads of her three cousins settling down for naps, and then changed from her church dress into a traveling ensemble of navy-blue cashmere. Once Stanley had collected her portmanteau, she folded her cloak over her arm, took up her reticule, and walked down the corridor to the staircase. Her feet had just touched the landing above the ground floor when Sarah’s hushed voice drifted up to her.
“Surely another ten minutes won’t matter.”
“Only if traffic is light.” Uncle Daniel’s voice this time.
And from William, “That’s the trouble, Sarah. You can never predict—”
“William . . .” Aunt Naomi interrupted.
As Catherine descended, all four faces stared up at her. But her curiosity had no time to ripen, for she was caught up in farewell embraces, admonished to take care, and helped into her cloak.
Outside Stanley was adjusting the horses’ traces in the damp chill air. He gave Comet a sociable slap on the flank on his way to the coach’s door. That was when the meaning of the conversation struck Catherine. She glanced back at the house. “Sarah rang Mr. Sedgwick, didn’t she?”
Uncle Daniel gave her a regretful look. “He wasn’t certain if he could come. She shouldn’t ha—”
But he paused, cocked his head at the sound of approaching hooves, and stepped around to the back of the coach. Catherine moved beside him. A coach pulled by two horses turned from Cannonhall Road into the carriage drive. Her uncle smiled. “But then again . . .”
The ruddy-cheeked driver reined the team to a stop and tipped his hat at Catherine and Uncle Daniel. Hugh, clad in topcoat, scarf, and bowler hat, emerged from the coach and advanced with hand outstretched.
“Good afternoon, Miss Rayborn, Mr. Rayborn. I wonder if I might have permission to escort Miss Rayborn to King’s Cross?” His brown eyes met Catherine’s. “That is, if you have no objection, Miss Rayborn.”
Catherine nodded dumbfounded assent to her uncle’s questioning look.
“Very well, Mr. Sedgwick,” Uncle Daniel said as the two shook hands. Stanley, grinning from either sentiment or relief over not having to make the trip—or both—handed her portmanteau up to the other coachman. A minute later Catherine was seated on Hugh’s right while gravel snapped beneath them.
“My father’s coach,” Hugh explained.
“Oh. Very nice.”
“How are you keeping?”
“Very well, thank you,” Catherine said. “And you?”
“Well. Thank you.”
When he did not fill in the awkward silence that followed, Catherine said, “Has your mother recovered from her cold?”
“Yes, thank you,” he replied.
“I’m glad.”
Another silence hung between them. Catherine stared blankly at the facing seat, realizing with sinking heart that her fears had been well founded. The ease and intimacy of their correspondence could not carry over into face-to-face conversation.
“Catherine?”
When she turned toward him, his brown eyes were filled with sadness. “You weren’t going to inform me you were here?”
“I couldn’t ring your house,” she said feebly.
“May I ask why you didn’t write of it beforehand? Did you not wish to see me? Have I been laboring under a false assumption?”
“I wanted to see you. But I was afraid.”
A hand went to his chest. “Afraid of me?”
She shook her head. “That something would change.”
“Change . . .” Another tense second or two passed. His eyes narrowed, but a hint of a smile quirked beneath them. “Does this mean you’re fond of me, Catherine?”
She shifted her gaze down to her hands folded in her lap. “Hugh . . .”
“Well, does it?”
“Surely you can tell from my letters.”
Her arm felt the light nudge of his elbow. “Then, how about you saying it?”
“Saying what?” she asked.
Another nudge. “You know . . .”
She still stared downward, but had to smile. “The man’s supposed to say it first.”
“Where is that written?”
“I don’t know. Somewhere.”
<
br /> “Ah, but you’re a modern woman of the eighties.”
Finally Catherine looked up at him. “I’m also my father’s daughter.”
Hugh chuckled appreciatively, eyes shining. “I’m very fond of you, Catherine.”
“And I you,” she said softly.
“You can’t imagine how I’ve treasured your letters.” He scooped up her gloved left hand. “How overjoyed . . . and distressed I was when Mrs. Doyle rang that you were here.”
“I’m glad she did,” Catherine said.
“Truthfully? Then you’re not sorry I came?”
Just the thought of how close she had come to not seeing him caused her breath to catch in her throat. “I’m glad you came.”
They chatted with the ease their correspondence had established. She told him of the wedding, and he of the piano a Presbyterian chapel had donated to the school. When she mentioned Easter vacation, he said he would be happy to come.
“Can you spare the time away from Whitechapel?” she asked.
“I’ll make the time,” he said, squeezing her hand. Too soon the coach halted at King’s Cross Station. As the boarding whistle sounded on the locomotive of the Great Northern Railway, Hugh stashed the portmanteau beneath the padded seat of an empty first-class coach. Settling into the seat by the far window, Catherine held out her hand. “Good-bye, Hugh.”
“Good-bye, Catherine.”
He still held her hand, brown eyes warm upon her. A woman’s voice came from the platform behind him. “Here is one, Alice.”
With obvious reluctance he released Catherine’s hand. “Do watch out for the men students,” he said just before stepping out to make way for two women. “Some are notorious pranksters.”
She smiled. “So I’ve heard.”
****
On the seventh of April, Catherine, accompanied by her father and Jewel, saw Miss Purtley off at Sheffield Station on her way to visit her family in Devonshire, browsed in a bookshop, then took lunch at Royal Victoria Hotel. They walked back out on Victoria Station Road with over an hour to spare before Hugh’s half-past-three train was due.
“We could visit Aunt Phyllis,” Jewel suggested.
“Not without your mother,” Father replied.
Catherine smiled to herself. He spent most of his time in the company of children, but could not bear the commotion of the Pearce clan without Mother to act as a buffer. Unable to resist a wicked impulse, she said, “What will you do if Aunt Phyllis decides to enroll the twins at Sutton, Father?”
“It would probably improve their behavior.” He touched the parcel under his arm. “We’ll sit and read while we wait.”
They found a secluded bench at the station; Father seating himself in the middle with Roderick Hudson by Henry James, Jewel to his left with Anna Sewell’s Black Beauty, and on his right, Catherine divided her attention between Robert Louis Stevenson’s Treasure Island and the station clock. When the hands pointed to twenty-past three, she knew she could no longer delay voicing the concern which had occupied her mind for days.
She tore a bit of brown paper for a book marker and closed her novel.
“Father?”
“Mmm?”
“You do recall that you were the one who suggested inviting Hugh here?”
He moved his eyes from the page to her. “Why would I forget?”
“I just would appreciate your remembering—and not making any sort of negative hints.”
“She doesn’t want to be embarrassed, Father,” Jewel explained from his other side.
“Or for Mr. Sedgwick to be embarrassed,” Catherine added.
Father let out an injured sigh. “I’ll be the soul of hospitality.”
He not only lived up to his promise, but went the second and third miles. He practically monopolized Hugh’s company, leading him about every square foot of the school. And Hugh seemed more than willing to be led about.
“Well, they’re both headmasters,” Mother reminded her on Thursday. “Mr. Sedgwick can learn much from your father. And your father enjoys having someone ask his advice.”
They had taken advantage of a rare fifty-five-degree early spring afternoon by carrying wicker chairs to the far side of the hedge to watch the croquet game between Jewel, Florence, and three boys remaining at school over the Easter vacation. Until Mr. Rumboll, the grounds keeper, came to inform Father that a crate of newly published geometry texts had just arrived.
Even though the texts would not be used until fall, Father had to go give them a look. Naturally he invited Hugh, who had popped up from his chair like a cork in water. At least he had had the courtesy to ask if she and Mother minded.
“You had your chance then,” Mother reminded her above the youthful banter and clicks of wood against wood.
“I couldn’t very well ask him not to leave.”
“Another peg point!” a boy crowed, raising a mallet over his blond head in a self-congratulatory salute. “You may as well concede defeat.”
“Pride comes before a fall, Andrew!” Florence shot back.
Catherine and her mother traded smiles. And beyond the field the men were approaching, Father speaking with his hands making motions for emphasis, and Hugh listening intently.
Mother nodded in their direction. “Would you rather they be at odds, Catherine?”
“No, I’m happy Father likes him.” It was just that in the three days since Hugh’s arrival, they had not spent one minute alone together. But that was something even a woman of twenty-one could not admit to her mother, no matter that she desired nothing less innocuous than having her beau’s sole attention for just a little while.
“ . . . discovered that if mathematics is the first subject of the day, the students fare better in grammar,” Father was saying as they came within earshot.
“Why is that, Sir?”
“Because the mind is still in the habit of logical, orderly thinking. A student who has spent an hour balancing equations will more easily recognize when a sentence is not balanced . . . for example, the subject and verb are not in agreement.”
“Was the shipment complete?” Mother asked.
“Yes.” Father took to his chair again, smiling out toward the young people. “Who is winning?”
“Andrew, it appears.” Mother turned to Hugh, standing beside the chair he had abandoned. “Do have a seat, Mr. Sedgwick.”
But Hugh smiled and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Rayborn, I wonder if Catherine and I might have permission to take a stroll.”
“A stroll?” Father said.
Catherine wondered if the discomfort in his expression had to do with the notion of their being unchaperoned, or that he would lose his disciple for a little while.
But Father was still Father, and so she was not surprised when he said, “Unchaperoned, Mr. Sedgwick?”
“Just to Hathersage, Mr. Rayborn. We would return well before dark. How far is it . . . two miles?”
Forcing herself not to appear too eager, Catherine said, “It’s a pleasant day for a walk, Father.”
“I could do with a bottle of Glycerole,” Mother said. “The girls’ Easter shoes will need oiling.”
“Very well.” The smile Father gave Hugh did not mask the effect of his pointed words. “You’ll not stray from Sheffield Road, Mr. Sedgwick. Agreed?”
“Yes, Sir,” Hugh said. “Thank you, Mr. Rayborn.”
****
“Are you sure you want to tear yourself away from my father?” Catherine teased when the school and its buildings were behind them. They walked just to the side of the roadway, for new grass was kinder to the soles of their shoes than crushed stone. The moors and hillsides ahead were frosted white with anemone, the first flowers to burst forth after the rigors of winter.
He took her hand. “Would he have allowed us to walk, had he and I not spent so much time together?”
Catherine could not help but feel a dull disappointment. After all, her father was her father, and the idea of even Hugh flattering him was disturbin
g, even for her sake. “You weren’t actually interested?” she asked.
“Not interested?” Hugh gave her sidelong look of surprise. “I’m still a novice and cannot begin to tell you the mistakes my inexperience has caused. The knowledge I’ve gleaned over the past three days is priceless. But yes, to be quite honest, if your father were a bricklayer, I would have developed a genuine interest in laying bricks. Anything to be allowed to court his daughter.”
A picture developed in her mind; Hugh, pausing from slapping mortar on bricks to wipe the sweat from his brow with a shirt sleeve. Like the biblical Jacob laboring for Rachel. She rather liked that.
“But now that we’re alone,” he went on, “you’ll have to teach me how to win your mother’s approval.”
“Oh, but you already have it.”
“Really? She said that?”
“Well, not in so many words.” Catherine smiled at him. “But I happen to know she bought Glycerole last week.”
****
They knew not to ask to walk after Good Friday service at chapel, for the shops would be closed. Besides, it did not seem fitting to engage in courtship on such a significant day. Mother woke Saturday morning claiming a stuffy nose and sent them for peppermints. On Sunday the family joined the procession of carriages and wagons bearing school staff, school and house servants, and the three boys to Hathersage for the Divine Liturgy at Saint Michael and All Angels Church.
Christ being raised from the dead dieth no more: death hath no more dominion over him. For in that he died, he died unto sin once: but in that he liveth, he liveth unto God. Likewise reckon ye also yourselves to be dead indeed unto sin but alive unto God through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Hugh read the Anthem with the familiarity of one who has attended such services for years, and yet the reverence of one who has not lost his awe over the miracle of new birth. During hymns, his clear quiet baritone touched every note on key.
Thank you for new beginnings, Father, Catherine prayed beside him. In our temporal as well as spiritual lives.
Father and Hugh spent all Monday morning compiling next year’s calendar for Sedgwick School. After lunch, when Mother faltered at thinking of something she required from Hathersage, Father just waved a hand and said not to linger. But he gave no such order on Tuesday, Hugh’s last full day, and so they dawdled, sharing a bench outside the sweet shop to share a parcel of sweetmeats, stretching out their time alone.
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