Catherine's Heart

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Thank you. But my physician says walking is good for me. If you will be so kind to carry my bag, we’ll toddle along and have a chat.”

  A chat?

  A brow cocked over the aged eyes. “Unless you were not yet planning to return?”

  A way out was being offered upon a platter, but Hugh could not bring himself to seize it. Besides, if he were to be given another lecture over his marks, it would be best to get it over with now, while he could at least ingratiate himself with Dr. Billingford by carrying his bag. “I’m finished shopping, Sir.”

  Foot traffic on the pavement was light, and they ambled along at half of Hugh’s usual speed. Yet Dr. Billingford seemed in no hurry to converse. After traveling thusly for some forty feet, Hugh could bear it no longer. He shifted the parcels to his left arm and turned to the man on his right.

  “Sir, I would like you to know that I’m studying diligently these days. I intend to pass the Tripos and graduate.”

  “I’ve no doubt you will,” Dr. Billingford replied.

  Hugh gaped at him. This, from the man who had called him into his office every midterm to scold him for not applying himself?

  “Why, thank you, Sir,” he said. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

  The old man did not reply, his attention devoted upon finding the appropriate spots to strike his cane. But after ten steps or so, he said, “You will pass the Tripos because you have made it your goal to do so, Mr. Sedgwick.”

  Hugh opened his mouth to thank him again, when it struck him that, while the words were complimentary, something sounding very much like resignation colored the gravely voice. But why? Respectfully, he said, “Is there something wrong with that, Sir? That’s every student’s goal, after all.”

  “Not every student’s, Mr. Sedgwick. I can assure you it was not mine, fifty years ago.”

  A trap was being baited, Hugh began to suspect, and he had stumbled into it all because of a hankering for gum. There was nothing to do now but wade his way through it.

  “What was your goal, Sir?” he asked, only because it was expected of him. Like any actor worth his salt, he could recognize a prompt line.

  “My goal was to become educated. It was my passion, young man.” Faded green eyes studied Hugh’s face. “And what is your passion, Mr. Sedgwick?”

  No one had ever asked Hugh that in his twenty-one years, thus he had never thought to ask himself. His passion? “I enjoy acting and rowing,” he replied, then hastened to add, “But only as hobbies. Having my degree is far more important to me.”

  “Why, may I ask? Your place in this world is secure, degree or not.”

  Hugh did not have to ask him to explain. Since early childhood, it was naturally taken for granted that he would help his father run Sedgwick Tea one day. But why single him out? There were others in his position, such as Neville, who stood to inherit his father’s horse-breeding business, and whose marks were so poor that he was sent down for the term and would have to return in the fall.

  “With all due respect, Sir,” he said, shifting the packages again. “I’m not the only person here from a successful family trade.”

  “Indeed you are not,” the old man agreed, then sighed heavily. “And it is not a crime to inherit another man’s dream.”

  “Another man’s . . .”

  “But when that dream insulates a promising young man from discovering his own dream, it saddens me. I have watched you for almost four years now, drifting with the current, content to settle for mediocrity. Why did you even enroll here, Mr. Sedgwick? Is it because your father demanded it?”

  “No, Sir,” Hugh replied defensively. “I wanted to come. My father wanted me to start working right after Harrow.” His father would have no difficulty convincing Lane and Brian, students there now, for they were champing at the bit to get started in the business. That Hugh’s younger brothers had inherited the Sedgwick entrepreneurism was in evidence by the time they were ages four and five and collected their old toys into a cart to sell, until a housekeeper five doors down informed Mother of what they were doing.

  “Then, could it be that you resented having your future mapped out before you were even born?”

  “No, Sir. Not at all.” But resentment was creeping in all right. For the man beside him. His range of influence in Hugh’s life was supposed to be limited to academic matters. What business had he meddling in his life beyond Saint John’s? Other than accepting the occasional foolish wager—which he had vowed never again to do since the handkerchief prank—he had striven to live a moral life.

  Fortunately, the old man seemed to have said all that was on his mind, and appeared to be concentrating solely upon staying upright. Between defending himself further and having the conversation end, Hugh chose the latter.

  A quarter of an hour later, they stood across the street from the college’s arched main gate, with its blend of early Tudor brickwork and painted heraldry. “I feel humbled every time I pass through the same gate through which the likes of Wordsworth and Wilberforce passed,” the old man murmured just barely over the street traffic.

  If the remark was intended as a barb, it found its mark in Hugh’s chest. “Sir,” he said. “I can’t be another Wordsworth or Wilberforce.”

  The faded eyes blinked at him. “Do you think I would wish that of you, Mr. Sedgwick?”

  “You obviously don’t think highly of the tea business.”

  “Then I have failed to communicate my concern to you. I happen to respect any man with imagination enough to build a profitable trade—provided that trade is ethically sound.” A smile softened the heavy features. “And . . . being particularly fond of tea, I am grateful that there are those who would spare me the task of attempting to dry the leaves myself.”

  “It’s called withering, Sir,” Hugh told him.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “What’s done with the leaves after they’re picked.”

  “Withering, eh? You see, one is never too old to learn something.” Dr. Billingford rested a spotted hand on Hugh’s shoulder as the somber expression resumed itself. “What I am suggesting, Mr. Sedgwick, is that you search your heart. Prayerfully so. Discover whether your feet are treading the path they are on because you are heeding your life’s calling, or because habit and security—and the expectations of others—have blinded you to any other paths.”

  That he should have such concern, whether it was warranted or not, lightened some of Hugh’s resentment. He was even able to honestly say, “I appreciate that, Sir. And I’ll think over what you said.”

  “Indeed you will.” The old man’s voice became almost tender. “I only pray it is while you are still young enough to act upon it.”

  Eleven

  On the evening of the twenty-fourth of June, the doors to the reading, first lecture, and dining rooms were propped open for a party to celebrate the completion of the Easter Term and to herald in the long vacation. Even Miss Emily Davies came up from London. She reminded Catherine more of a nanny than intrepid pioneer, with her small, neat figure, pointed features softened by fifty-one years, and laurel of greying brown braid. She and co-founder Barbara Bodichon had encountered much hostility in their quest to establish a women’s college. Some of that hostility remained in a more subtle degree, for the University refused to confer degrees upon even those female students with exceptional scores on the Tripos examinations.

  “You must taste this,” Peggy told Catherine, handing her a cup of cherry punch. “Pineapple bits.”

  “Very good,” Catherine said after a sip. “Just don’t spill it on your dress.”

  “Oh . . . good idea.” Peggy held her cup farther out in front of her. She looked like a titian-haired princess in her ivory armure gown. Circling her lace collar was the strand of seed pearls her Aunt Mabel had given her.

  Catherine’s eyes strayed in the direction of the piano and settled briefly upon two matronly heads together in conversation. She looked away again when she realized the target
of the two sets of eyes. “Is it just my imagination, or are they talking about us?” Catherine said in low tone.

  “Who?” Peggy said, looking about.

  “Don’t do that!” Catherine whispered. “Miss Bernard and Miss Davies. Over by the piano.”

  Peggy slanted a discreet look in that direction, then said through stiff lips, “Not us. You.”

  “But why?”

  Her friend took a sip from her cup. “Miss Davies probably asked her to point out the greatest woolgatherer in Girton’s history.”

  Catherine laughed. “I doubt that.”

  “We’ll see. They’re on their way over.”

  Sure enough, a sweeping glance leftward took in the two women advancing upon them. Miss Davies smiled and said, “Miss Rayborn! Miss Bernard tells me we have you to thank for influencing Mr. and Mrs. Doyle to donate the microscope.”

  “I’m afraid I had nothing to do with that,” Catherine told her. “I was simply present when they decided to do so. It was Miss Somerset here who influenced them.”

  “Indeed?”

  Both women smiled at Peggy, who smiled back but shook her head. “Miss Rayborn gives me too much credit. She’s the one related to the Doyles.”

  “But I had nothing to do with our being related,” Catherine argued and looked at the women again. “If Miss Somerset had not been so enthusiastic over the microscope at Pembroke, the idea never would have occurred to them.”

  Miss Davies laid a hand upon Peggy’s sleeve. “Modesty and school loyalty. You’re a credit to Girton, Miss Somerset.”

  “What was that all about?” Milly asked, sidling up to Catherine after the two women moved on to a group of assistant lecturers and older students.

  “The microscope.” And to forestall another friendly argument with Peggy over who should take credit, Catherine looked at the remnant of pavinni cake in Milly’s dish. “How is it?”

  “The carbonate of soda wasn’t mixed well. You taste salty patches now and again. I’ll probably not go back for thirds. But shall I get some for you?”

  “No, thank you,” Catherine told her, and Peggy demurred as well.

  “Miss Turner, will you recite for us?” Miss Welsh came over to ask.

  Milly agreed, but before leaving to stand in the center of the room with the assistant headmistress, she bared her teeth discreetly at Catherine. “Anything there?”

  “No, you’re fine,” Catherine said, taking her dish.

  Miss Welsh asked for silence. Milly delivered an excellent rendition of Felica Hemans’ “Casabianca”:

  “The boy stood on the burning deck

  Whence all but he had fled;

  The flame that lit the battle’s wreck

  Shone round him o’er the dead . . .”

  After the applause, a senior sat at the piano and struck the C chord. “Gather ’round, ladies,” Miss Welsh said, the ruffles at the ends of her sleeves fluttering with her beckonings. A couple of low groans mingled with the dull thuds of punch cups and dishes being set upon tablecloths, but minutes later a gentle brook of layered voices flowed through the room carrying strains of “The Girton Pioneers,” “Gaudeamus Igitur,” and “Forty Years On.”

  “Forty years on when afar and asunder

  Parted are those who are singing today

  When you look back and forgetfully wonder

  What you were like in your work and your play,

  Then it may be there will often come o’er you

  Glimpses of notes like the catch of a song,

  Visions of girlhood shall float them before you,

  Echoes of dreamland shall bear them along.”

  “What’s the matter with Peggy?” Ann Purdy whispered under the strains of “Girton, My Friend.”

  Catherine automatically glanced beside her to the left, at the vacant spot that had contained Peggy just a moment ago. She whispered the same question to Milly, who looked about the room from her superior height and shrugged.

  “I’ll see about her,” Catherine said, and eased her way back to the nearest door.

  Peggy, already in her nightgown, answered her knock. “I’m fine,” she said with a weary smile. “I should have told you I was leaving. But I’ve not caught up with sleep since exams, and my mind’s in a fog.”

  “Then sleep well.” Catherine stepped up to kiss a freckled cheek. “I’ll wake you in time to dress.” They would be riding back to London together, as usual. Milly, however, would be catching the Midland Railway for Saint Ives from the Histon Station, northeast of Girton.

  “Thank you,” Peggy said, then gave her an odd little look as if she would say more.

  When she did not, Catherine studied her friend’s face and said, “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes.” Peggy nodded. “Go join the others.”

  Back at the gathering Catherine explained Peggy’s fatigue to those who inquired. All about the room embraces and promises to write were exchanged, though almost half of the students, including Peggy, would return after short visits with family. Study went on at Girton even during the weeks the lecterns were vacant.

  “I don’t think we can consider ourselves second-year students until next term,” Milly said in Catherine’s apartment an hour later, while Catherine was folding a blouse for her trunk. Milly sat on the bedroom rug in nightgown and wrapper, slippers pushed aside from her long bare feet so that she could trim her toenails with a pair of grooming scissors.

  “But we’re no longer freshmen,” Catherine argued, then gave her a worried look. “I hope you’re not getting any—”

  “Got them.” Milly grinned at her and held up a closed hand. Resuming trimming, she said, “I’d wager Evelyn will have to take a sleeping powder tonight. She’ll be as eager to see me as I am her.”

  “At least she didn’t talk your father into making you spend the summer at school,” Catherine said, resuming her packing.

  “Actually, I wouldn’t mind staying, were the situation different. It would certainly be easier to study. But I have to protect my sisters and brother.”

  “Surely she wouldn’t harm them.”

  “Hmph! Did I tell you she was a witch?”

  At least a dozen times, Catherine thought wryly.

  “She’s probably reading her book of spells as we speak. If I don’t return, you’ll know she’s turned us all into toads.”

  Catherine smiled and rolled up a pair of stockings. She was leaving her coats, some dresses, and winter woolens in the wardrobe and dresser, with smooth bits of cedarwood tucked in sleeves or pockets to repel moths. She would be away for a little over two months. The voyage to and from Bombay requiring thirteen days each way, she would spend a month with her family, then a week with the Hampstead kin. That would give her the month of September back at Girton to study ahead before Michaelmas Term would begin on the fourth of October. And for those two months away, she was bringing along Pope’s 1200-page translation of Homer’s The Iliad.

  You’ll be a walking authority on Homer by summer’s end, she promised herself.

  “ . . . sends a servant to meet my train,” Milly was saying. “How welcome do you think that makes me feel?”

  Realizing her thoughts had drowned out the first part of Milly’s sentence, Catherine turned from her trunk. “I wish you and your sisters and brother could come to Bombay with me.”

  Milly smiled up at her. “Wouldn’t that be—”

  Three low urgent knocks sounded. The door opened when Catherine was four steps away. Peggy entered, cheeks splotched and eyes red and puffy.

  “I saw your light . . .”

  “I’m glad you could join us.” Catherine was about to ask what was the matter but changed her mind. Better give her a minute.

  “Peggy, what’s the matter?” Milly asked.

  Peggy blinked, and the eyes reddened even more. “It was so typical of you, Catherine. The way you praised me to Miss Davies, when I don’t deserve it.”

  “But you do deserve it,” Catheri
ne protested, relieved that was all that was the matter. “But if it’s going to upset you, then we’ll share the credit. Now, why don’t you help me latch my trunk and we’ll all have a nice chat?”

  But Peggy just batted her watery eyes.

  “Peggy?”

  “I don’t deserve your friendship,” she sniffed.

  Catherine sent a curious glance Milly’s way, but Milly was studying her toenails as if trying to be as inconspicuous as possible. She turned to Peggy again. “Why would you say that?”

  Her friend swallowed, then whispered, “I did a terrible thing.”

  “Well, I believe I’ll turn in now,” Milly said, getting to her feet.

  “No. Please stay.” Peggy leaned against the bedpost as if in need of support and looked at Catherine again. “You received another letter from Hugh Sedgwick. About two months ago.”

  “I did?” Catherine looked at Peggy’s empty hands. “Where is it?”

  “I burned it.”

  “Burned—?”

  “Oh, Peggy . . .” Milly said.

  A tear slid down Peggy’s freckled cheek and clung to her jawline. “You had come back here for a pencil when I checked the reading room. I regretted it the minute I did it, but . . .”

  “Why did you do it?” Catherine asked.

  She closed her eyes, sending a tear down the other cheek. “I had thought I’d gotten over the jealousy,” she said when her eyes opened again. “And you’d said he didn’t mean anything to you, so I told myself the letter wouldn’t matter to you anyway.”

  All Catherine could do was stare at her. What must he think of me?

  “That was a hateful thing to do,” Milly said.

  Peggy burst into sobs, buried her face in her hands. “I know, I know!”

  Catherine exchanged somber looks with Milly, while her mind pictured a letter blackening and crumbling in the fireplace. How could you? she wanted to scream.

  At length Peggy wiped her face with her sleeve and peered miserably at her. “I’ll go to Saint John’s in the morning, Catherine. Perhaps he’ll still be there. I’ll tell him what I did.”

  “You can’t go there alone, Peggy,” Milly reminded her. “And I can’t imagine anyone agreeing to chaperone you for such an errand.”