by Jody Hedlund
As he ascended out of the river valley, the breeze grew stronger, bringing with it the familiar scent of salt and sea. Many believed that breathing deeply of the sea air could cure consumption. It was one of the reasons his mother had given him for leaving London.
If only it had worked…
After a short distance, he paused in front of a double-gabled brick home. It was set off the road behind a tall wrought-iron fence with decorative points that resembled the tips of pikes. The arched windows hadn’t been shuttered for the night, and the amber glow of oil light spilled out of several of them, illuminating the front door with a semicircular fanlight that, like everything about the house, attested to the growing affluence of the middling class.
Several other homes stood in close vicinity, detached unlike the narrow terraced house he’d lived in for much of his life in Wapping on the north bank of the River Thames. Instead, these houses of modest size likely belonged to professionals who oversaw and profited from the Royal Dockyard.
The slate roof and the classical-style parapet were just as his mother’s cousin had described. So he dismounted and rattled the front gate, which swung open easily. He tied his horse just inside and bounded up the short walkway. Without another moment’s hesitation, lest he change his mind in the face of ghosts from his past, he rapped on the door.
He was fully prepared for a servant to answer, knowing a household of this size would have at least two, if not more. So when the door cracked open mere inches and the angel-faced young woman from earlier peeked out at him, he took a rapid step back before catching himself. “Smite my timbers,” he said. “It’s you.”
Her eyes widened and flashed with fear before she backed away and began to close the door.
Thankfully he was quicker than she and wedged his foot into the crack, preventing her from locking him out. She pushed against the door, but the wide brass buckle on his black leather shoe prohibited her efforts.
“Go away.” She spoke in a low urgent voice. “We weren’t doing any of the things you said.” She cast a worried glance to the hallway behind her.
“I only want to ask you a few more questions,” he said, unable to resist the urge to tease her.
“No.”
“One more?”
“No. None.” Her whisper was rushed, and she again shoved the door against his foot.
“Then you must at least sing another song for me.”
She eyed him warily, and her pressure against the door lessened. If he’d wanted, he could have easily flung the door wide and forced his way inside. If there was one positive thing that had come from his years at sea, it was his strength. He hadn’t struggled to hold the tiller or man the pump or lift half hogsheads without gaining plenty of muscles.
“Please,” he said in a gentle whisper. In the dim lighting of the hallway, her features were obscured. But there was no hiding her beauty, the delicate curve of her chin that led to high arched cheekbones that only served to make her wide eyes more pronounced. “To be honest, I didn’t come to ask you any questions. I came to hear you sing again.”
She shook her head, swishing long golden ringlets. “Of course I can’t sing for you—”
“Why not?” He knew his tone was coaxing, the tone he used to ply maidens for stolen kisses. “One song. That’s all I want. Then I’ll leave you alone forever.”
Her fair eyebrows came together in a crease at the bridge of her elegant nose as though she was considering his request.
“I fear that I may never again hear a voice like yours on this side of heaven. Surely you wouldn’t torture me with waiting until I reach the celestial gates, not when I can have the pleasure right now.”
She hesitated again and this time her lips twitched with a smile she was holding back. “If I sing one song,” she said, “then you’ll not speak another word about what you may or may not have seen tonight?”
He leaned against the doorframe. “My lips will be locked.” He pressed his lips together and pretended to turn a key.
This time she couldn’t contain her smile. “You are quite persuasive, sir.”
He gave a mock bow, sweeping his hat from his head. “If you must know, I’m also easily persuaded.”
“Polly, darling,” came a woman’s voice from down the hallway. “With whom are you speaking?”
The young woman gasped then tried to shut the door on him again. “Go,” she hissed, turning her back and covering the crack in the door with the full length of her body as though to hide his presence.
“It’s nothing, Mother,” said the young woman. “There’s no need to trouble yourself.”
“Did you answer the door?” There was sudden alarm in the mother’s voice. “You know how dangerous that can be at this time of the evening.” Footsteps came closer and before he could straighten and present himself at his best, the door was yanked wide revealing a lovely woman. From the maturity in her expression as well as the lines next to her eyes and in her forehead, he could see that she was about the age his own mother would have been if she’d lived. She had the same fair Saxon complexion as her daughter, although paler.
“Mrs. Catlett.” He inclined his head, presenting her with what he hoped was his most dashing grin.
The older woman had already pushed her daughter behind her and now stood facing him, her shoulders stiff, her posture regal in a striking green bodice and matching overskirt. The daughter wore garments of a similar style, although slightly plainer but no less comely. Since he’d spent the majority of time at sea in recent years, he was admittedly far from knowledgeable about women’s fashions. But even a simpleton could see that they were well attired, quite the contrary to his own humble garb.
Of course, he’d cleaned himself up, put aside his work clothes, and donned his going-ashore rig before he left his ship. Nevertheless, his striped yellow waistcoat was faded, and his blue wool coat was patched at the elbows and several of the cloth-covered buttons were frayed. As Mrs. Catlett took in his apparel, he was tempted to adjust his neckerchief as though that would make him more presentable.
“Do I know you?” Mrs. Catlett asked. Behind her, the angel was shaking her head, her eyes pleading with him not to reveal their earlier encounter. Now in the light of a simple pendant oil lamp, he could see that the young woman’s eyes were blue, the same shade as the sky he often saw on a clear day on the Mediterranean.
For a moment he was tempted to set himself adrift in that blue. But in the presence of her mother, he had the sudden urge to make a good first impression. “Madam, I am your most obedient servant. I’m heartily glad to see you, Cousin.”
As he spoke the word, his pulse gave a strange lurch at the realization that if Mrs. Catlett was his cousin, then her lovely daughter was also his cousin, though thrice removed.
The matron’s eyes widened, and she fluttered one hand with its ruffled sleeve above her heart. “John?”
With a flourish, he removed the crumpled letter from his pocket, unfolded it, and held it out. “Aye, madam.” He bowed. “It is I, John Newton, and none other.”
She took in her own letterhead and handwriting before lifting a gentle but curious gaze to his face. She studied him a moment before responding. “You have a little of your mother in your eyes. But you strongly resemble your father in your carriage.”
“So I’ve been told.” He tried to keep his tone congenial although he wasn’t keen on the comparison with his father. He might share the same brawny build and swarthy complexion, but that was as far as the similarities went.
“Please come in.” She stepped aside and waved at the front hallway where more of her children had gathered and were now watching him with curiosity.
Mrs. Catlett took his coat and hat and hung them on a corner coat tree. Then she proceeded to make introductions of her six children, starting with a boy of about seven ranging to a young girl named Eliza, who appeared to be about thirteen. Then Mrs. Catlett turned to the angel. “And this is my oldest daughter, Polly.”
&n
bsp; Polly stepped forward hesitantly, the same petition still afloat in her eyes. As tempting as it was to tease her further, he gave a slight bow and what he hoped was a sincere smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Catlett.”
He knew he’d done the right thing when she rewarded him with a dazzling smile, one that contained not only her relief but also her appreciation. The smile transformed her delicate features from pretty into stunning.
“You must call me Polly.” She glanced at her mother for approval of the informality.
“Of course,” Mrs. Catlett responded, nodding her head in approval of Polly’s kind welcome. “We are family after all.”
Amid the flurry of the children, he was ushered into the drawing room and given a wing chair at the center of the semicircle of settees and chairs. The room was modestly decorated and colorfully painted with an Oriental patterned carpet at the center. The long tapestries in the windows and the several small paintings on the walls gave the room an elegance that matched the lady of the house.
He sensed a kindness in Mrs. Catlett’s manner that reminded him of his mother and brought a pang to his chest. The last time he’d seen his mother was when she’d poked her head out the carriage window and waved a weak good-bye as she left for Chatham, where she hoped to recover from her lingering illness. She’d arranged for him to stay with a neighbor, Dr. Jennings, the minister of their church. Only a few weeks later, Dr. Jennings pulled him aside after a service and informed him that his mother was dead.
With the loss of the one person who’d loved him more than life itself, he’d been lost. His body was so numb that he wasn’t able to cry. All he was able to do was go through the motions of living, like a carved toy figure. He didn’t realize that he’d been waiting for his father to return from his sea voyage, until the broad-shouldered captain stalked into Dr. Jenning’s house months later to retrieve him. When Newton glimpsed the strong, bronzed features, he wanted his father to wrap his arms around him, hold him, let him cry, and share his sorrows over the woman they’d both adored. He wanted his father to tell him that everything would be all right, that he’d stay home and take care of him, that he’d love him the way his mother had.
But his father didn’t hug him, didn’t cry with him, didn’t speak a word about the death. Instead, he drowned himself in rum for two weeks. It was the first time he’d ever seen his father drunk. On the third week his father dragged himself out of his stupor, dressed in his best, and went away. When he returned, he brought home a new wife.
All the many years hitherto, Newton had tried not to think about his mother, had done his best to push the haunted longings for her out of his mind. But here in this inviting and bright home, the wistful memories of her came rushing back to the front of his mind.
“When your mother last brought you for a visit, you were but a lad of five,” Mrs. Catlett said from her spot on the settee next to Polly. “Polly was just a waif of three and Eliza a newborn.”
“I wondered why you looked so familiar, Polly,” Newton said, feigning seriousness. “Now I know it’s because we’ve met before.”
Polly’s brows rose as though she wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or amused by the double meaning of his statement. “Your powers of recognition are remarkable.”
He couldn’t contain a grin. “Aye.” He wanted to tell her that he’d never forget a face like hers but restrained himself in Mrs. Catlett’s presence. He vowed he’d find a way to tell her later.
Before he had the chance to tease Polly further, Mrs. Catlett asked him to tell how he’d occupied himself in recent years. He skipped over the years at a boarding school in Stratford, Essex, where his father sent him. Those years were a blur of pain and heartache, missing his mother and secretly hoping his father would get rid of his new wife and call him home so they could make a life together, just the two of them.
But his father had called for him only after the schoolmaster complained about his wild behavior and impudence. He knew his father had sent him to school because it was what his mother had wanted. Her own father had been intelligent, a maker of mathematical instruments. She was well educated, and he remembered fondly the hours she spent teaching him at home, having him memorize long passages from the Westminster Catechism, Scripture, hymns, and poems. His mother had always told him he had a bright mind, that he was made to do great things.
Apparently his father didn’t share his mother’s optimism. Even though at ten Newton was at the top of his Latin class, his father deemed his time in school over and decided to take him to sea.
Newton had spent the past seven years on one voyage or another, most in the Mediterranean area. As he shared about his travels, the Catletts listened to him, spellbound. He’d become proficient over the years at embellishing his tales and making a seafaring life sound more exciting and adventurous than it really was. In truth, most days were dull and monotonous with very little to do.
“By Jupiter,” came a voice from the parlor door, interrupting his sharing of his time in Venice. Staring at him with flashing dark eyes was the other young woman from the escapade earlier in the evening. Now in the light of the glowing sconces with mirrors behind them to reflect their brightness, he could see that she was young and lovely too, very much like Polly.
“Susanna, my dear,” Mrs. Catlett chided softly. “Mind your tongue, please.”
“What is this stranger doing here?” Susanna asked, taking in his comfortable position at the center of the family.
“He’s no stranger.” Mrs. Catlett offered Newton an apologetic smile. “He’s our cousin Elizabeth Newton’s son, John.”
Susanna scrutinized him with narrowed eyes before the lines of tension in her face eased. As she moved forward, Newton rose. She crossed to the fireplace, which was graced on either side by Greek columns that upheld a mantel with flowers carved across the front. Susanna stretched out her hands to the cast-iron basket grate that contained smoldering coals, and Newton could see that her hands were red and chapped, likely from overexposure to the cold.
“John,” Mrs. Catlett continued with introductions, “this is Susanna Smith, my youngest sister. She’s from London and visiting us for the month.”
“More accurately, Mother and Father have banished me.”
“You make it sound like you’re in a dungeon here. We’re not so bad as that, are we?” Mrs. Catlett rose from the settee and held out a hand.
Susanna reached for her sister’s hand and squeezed it. The age difference between the two was such that Mrs. Catlett could have been Susanna’s mother. If their parents were getting older, it would be easy to see why they were having a difficult time with a child as spirited as Susanna seemed to be.
“You certainly enjoyed tonight’s wassailing, did you not?” Polly cut in, rising from her chair.
“Of course I enjoyed it.” Susanna glared first at him and then at Polly, who gave an impish smile in return. “I always love the opportunity to sing.”
“Then perhaps you can give us the pleasure of singing right now,” Newton suggested. “One of the songs you sang earlier?”
Amid the clamoring from the younger children, Susanna laughingly agreed. “But only if Polly sings with me.”
Polly protested, but he could see from her slight smile that she wouldn’t need much convincing.
“How can you say no?” Newton asked. “If you do, then I’ll be obliged to sing in your stead. And then I’m afraid Mrs. Catlett will boot me from her home without delay.”
To the tune of laughter, Newton sank into his chair strangely stirred. When was the last time he’d participated in wholesome company and listened to laughter that wasn’t bawdy or harsh? His thoughts returned once more to his mother. She hadn’t laughed much. She’d been a devout and serious woman.
But whenever his father returned from one of his voyages, he’d walk through the door of their cramped home, pick her up, and kiss her on the mouth long and hard. And when he would set her back down, her cheeks had always been flushed a
nd her laughter breathless.
After several songs—not quite enough to satisfy Newton—Mr. Catlett arrived home. As Mrs. Catlett served her husband a meal and offered a plate to Newton as well, he learned that the quiet but kindly man was a customs officer and often worked past dark, depending upon the coming and going of merchant vessels in Chatham.
When Mr. Catlett finished his meal, he, too, was interested to hear all that John had been doing over the years. Finally, when the hour was growing late, Mrs. Catlett ushered her children toward the stairway that led to the second floor.
“You can bed down with the boys,” Mrs. Catlett instructed, nodding toward her oldest son, Jack, a gangly lad Newton guessed to be about twelve years.
“Think you can abide my snoring?” he asked the boy.
Jack had his father’s thin build. He’d likely had a fair complexion when he was younger, but the maturing into an adult was darkening his hair to a plain brown. Jack mumbled a shy response before bounding up the stairway.
Newton set to follow him, but Mrs. Catlett’s touch on his elbow halted him. “I’m glad you came, John.” Her expression was tender and motherly. For a moment he even got the feeling that she would hug him if he let her.
“I’m glad I came also.” He was surprised at his own sincerity.
“I’m only sorry that it had to take so long,” she said wistfully, the regret in her eyes palpable. “I wrote your father several times over the years…I hoped he might consider letting you come stay with us from time to time.”
Of course his father had never mentioned anything to him about the possibility. “You were kind to inquire, but I’m sure you must remember that my father isn’t easily swayed.”
She nodded, her face pale in the dim lighting of the hallway. “Only your mother had the power to influence him.”
Newton murmured his agreement.
“Whatever the case may be,” she continued, “I’m glad you’re old enough to make up your own mind on the matter and have come.”