Catherine's Heart (Tales of London Book #2)

Lawana Blackwell

Description

Book 2 of Tales of London. Eighteen-year-old Catherine Rayborn is thrilled with her first taste of independence when she begins Girton College in Cambridge in 1880. Amid all the excitement, however, comes the painful realization of the vast difference between true love and shallow infatuation. Lawana Blackwell skillfully endears a cast of loveable characters to readers in a story that will linger long after the last page is turned.

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 octobre 2002
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781441270962
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

© 2002 by Lawana Blackwell
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-7096-2
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
Cover illustration by Paul Casale Cover design by Becky Noyes/Dan Thornberg
This book is dedicated to my brother,
Robert Chandler,
who is loved by so many for his tender heart and gentle soul.
One
On the fourth of October, 1880, something besides coal smoke tinged the morning air under the arched iron-and-glass train shed at King’s Cross Station. It was an atmosphere of anticipation, evident in the flushed cheeks of the “freshers” going off to University for the first time.
Students heading up for a second year could be identified by their bored, almost scornful expressions, maintained so as not to be confused with the newcomers. Third-year and fourth-year students, along with those returning for advanced degrees, wore the look of someone simply waiting for a train.
Those differences were pointed out to eighteen-year-old Catherine Rayborn by her Uncle Daniel as she waited to board the Great Northern Railway Express between London and Cambridge. “It’ll be the same at Paddington with the Oxford lot,” her father’s brother said, humor creasing the corners of his green eyes.
For the fourth time since leaving the house on Berkeley Square, Catherine felt for loose pins in the chignon beneath the brim of her claret-colored felt hat. Her fawn gloves were spotless and black boots polished to a luster. Beneath her grey wool outer coat she wore a black Eton jacket and bustled skirt of soft brown serge. Eight other outfits were folded in tissue in her trunk, along with a tennis costume, nightgowns and wrapper, underclothing, stockings, and shoes. She had helped the chambermaids pack, and slept only fitfully last night from the excitement of it all.
“Do I look like a fresher?” she asked.
Aunt Naomi’s bottle-blue eyes appraised her. “I’m afraid you do, dear.”
Sarah Doyle, Catherine’s cousin, nodded. “One would think you just stepped off the farm.”
“Now stop that, you two,” Uncle Daniel ordered his wife and daughter. “You’ll have her too intimidated to leave.”
“Not at all, Uncle Daniel,” Catherine said, returning the women’s smiles. Their light banter was intended to put her at ease, and she appreciated it.
Even more, she appreciated their not insisting on accompanying her for the ninety-minute journey. The two women had already visited Girton College with her in August to help order linens and draperies, lamps and carpets for her rooms. Addressing Sarah, Catherine said, “I can never thank you and William enough for inviting me to stay with you.”
William Doyle was Sarah’s husband, who had wished her a pleasant journey this morning with a peck on the cheek before heading off to work.
“It has been our pleasure, Catherine,” Sarah replied. She possessed a quiet strength that belied her waifish green eyes, delicate features, and hair the color of cornsilk. The fingerless left hand did not detract from her beauty. Better a diamond with a flaw than a pebble without, Catherine’s mother, Virginia, had once said of her.
“Yoo-hoo! Catherine?”
Catherine turned. About ten feet away, a woman was weaving through the crowd with a young girl in tow.
“Why, Aunt Phyllis . . . Muriel,” Catherine said, closing the gap between them. “How good of you to come.”
“I feared we were too late!”
Catherine was caught up in a Jardin de Coeur -scented embrace. Then her mother’s younger sister seized her shoulders and stepped back. “How smart you look!”
“Thank you, Aunt Phyllis. So do you.”
And it was so. Time had only slightly eroded the beauty that shone from the portrait that had hung in Catherine’s late grandparents’ parlor, of a slender young woman with alabaster cheeks and ethereal-looking brown eyes, under an enormous chignon of auburn hair.
“And Muriel,” Catherine said to the girl, who hung back timidly, “I thought you would be in school.”
“She begged to see you off, so I’ll drop her by afterward,” her aunt said, taking the girl’s hand again. She blew out a breath. “We had a little difficulty.”
“Difficulty, Mrs. Pearce?” Uncle Daniel said as he and Sarah and Aunt Naomi approached. “Are you all ri ”
“I said I WANT some lemonade!” Muriel cried, jerking her hand from her mother’s.
The seven-year-old reminded Catherine of those little English girls whose images graced biscuit tins or jars of lemon curd. But a scowl ruined the effect of the violet eyes, rosebud lips, and heart-shaped face bordered by golden waves and ringlets. “All you had to do was stop for a minute!”
“Just a little misunderstanding, Mr. Rayborn.” Aunt Phyllis offered a hand to Naomi. “Mrs. Rayborn, Mrs. Doyle . . . how long has it ”
“Mum-mee, my throat is DRY! I NEED some ”
“EX-press to CAM-bridge,” a guard singsonged over the whistle of the Jenny Lind locomotive. “PLEASE take your SEATS!”
“Oh dear! Not a minute too soon!” Aunt Phyllis turned to her daughter, and in a voice wavering between soothing and shrill said, “Catherine has to go now, dear. We’ll get the drink as soon as the train has left.”
“I like lemonade too,” Catherine said, stepping toward the girl with outstretched arms. She was met with a violet glare and folded arms and had to settle for giving the girl a pat upon the shoulder. But by then, she was not inclined to embrace her anyway.
“She’s just overtired from the rush to get here,” Aunt Phyllis explained. “But she was so excited over seeing you off . . .”
Again she attempted to placate the girl. “Weren’t you, dear?”
“I wish you weren’t my mother!”
Aunt Phyllis gaped at her. “You don’t mean that!”
Feeling a touch upon her shoulder, Catherine turned. Aunt Naomi sent a pointed glance toward the steam hissing from the locomotive’s smokestack. “You really should be finding a seat, dear.”
Uncle Daniel nodded. “And your ticket and trunk tag are ”
“ safely in here,” Catherine finished, raising her hand to show the dark olive brocade reticule hanging from her wrist. She embraced him first, then Sarah, Aunt Phyllis, and Aunt Naomi. Another shoulder pat for the scowling child, with the thought, At least her brothers didn’t come along.
“Thank you all for seeing me off. I’ll write very soon.”
In the nearest first-class coach, a middle-aged man in a black suit sat at the opposite window, across from a woman wearing a taupe grey velvet hat with matching ribbons and ostrich plumes. Catherine exchanged shy good-morning s with the two and settled herself just inside in the front-facing seat. She smiled from the window at her relations, who had stepped back to leave room for boarders and the porters hurrying by with luggage upon handcarts. Another wave of gratitude swept through her as she returned Sarah’s wave. Had the Doyles not offered her a place to stay between terms, her father would never have allowed her to enroll at Girton.
“Pardon me, Miss, but are those seats available?”
Catherine shifted her eyes from the window to the open door. A tall young man stared back, handsome in a continental sort of way with his dark hair and eyes. At his elbow waited a fair-haired young man. Their navy blue coats were embroidered with the crest of Saint John’s, one of the seventeen men’s colleges that made up the University of Cambridge. Girton and Newnham, the two women’s colleges, were not officially connected with the University.
“They are available,” the gentleman at the window replied before Catherine could answer. He picked up his folded newspaper from the middle seat.
“Thank you.” The two took the two remaining rear-facing spaces, stashing gripsacks beneath and hanging their straw boater hats on overhead brass hooks. A shrill whistle rent the air.
“EX-press to Cam-BRIDGE, LAST call for BOARD-ing!”
“Room for three?” a harried woman asked, peeking inside the open doorway, but she frowned and disappeared before anyone could reply.
Then an older gentleman with a growth of coppery mustache and beard eyed the empty space next to Catherine. “Peggy! Here!” He called over his shoulder, then stood aside to assist a young woman into the coach.
“Do mind that someone feeds Pete every day, Father,” she said, turning to brush a kiss against his cheek.
“I’m surprised you haven’t packed that bird in your trunk,” the man said, but affectionately, and handed over a violin case. With a quick pat to her cheek, the man stepped out of the coach. The young woman dropped into the empty seat next to Catherine and let out a stream of breath.
“I still feel like we’re rushing through traffic!” she exclaimed to Catherine, clutching her violin case to her bosom.
“That’s why my father despises London,” Catherine said sympathetically.
“My father’s just the opposite. He’s a tailor, and so more traffic means more customers. It’s just a tribulation when you have to be somewhere in a hurry.”
Freckles besprinkled the girl from collar to widow’s peak, and coppery curls strayed from beneath the brim of a black straw hat. Her lips were thin, yet her mouth appeared to be almost too wide for her face. Her hazel eyes gave Catherine an appraising look. “Girton or Newnham?”
“Girton.” And it was fortuna