Katherine, When She Smiled Page 2

  Whatever it had been, Papa’s clever investment had saved Rosebourne. There was never again so much as a hint of leaving. But the episode had changed Katherine. She alone among her siblings realized now that safe and happy homes could be lost. Yes, Papa’s brilliance had somehow saved the day, but what if he were less brilliant? Might the Roses now be living in one of those cramped cottages along the High Street, with only a cook and a man of all work?

  And over and over again, what was Papa’s Clever Investment?

  Now Katherine could only assume that the mysterious income source must be the same thing as Papa’s Clever Investment, but what precisely that was remained as baffling as ever. She could only hope that when the next payment arrived (Mister Perkins had promised to send her word when that happened), there would be some indication of its source, a name or an address, some place for her to start.

  That evening after dinner, the ladies retired to the sewing room, which was their sitting room of choice when without company. Working candles were sent for and Katherine and Aunt Alice plied their needles while Helen read aloud. Aunt Alice set dainty stitches in her ambitious project, a new altar cloth for the church, while Katherine fashioned a more prosaic article, a sock for Jack. Keeping Jack in socks was a never-ending challenge, school boys being notoriously hard on the humble items. “Do they eat them?” Aunt Alice had been heard to wonder.

  The reading selection that evening was Walter Scott’s The Lady of the Lake. It was a familiar story, which they had all heard before, but it was sentimental Helen’s favorite. Piddledean was too small to boast a lending library, so books were enjoyed more than once and passed around among the women of the gentry.

  Katherine wasn’t really listening. Needles clicking busily, she was again running over the possibilities for Papa’s Clever Investment. Nothing seemed to fit what she knew of the matter. Sometimes when in a pessimistic mood, she feared that the investment might be a part ownership in something scandalous, a gaming hell or a slave ship. But she knew that couldn’t be it. Even if Papa would be willing to associate with such an enterprise, Mama would never have allowed it; the notion was simply inconceivable.

  Perhaps Papa had invested in one of these new manufactories, such as a woolen mill? Katherine considered it, but then once again ruled it out. She retained one indelible impression from that long-ago feast-party-dinner celebration, and that was that Mama was not merely relieved that their home had been saved, Mama had been amused. Something about Papa’s investment struck Mama as exquisitely funny. Katherine knew that Mama would find nothing amusing about a woolen mill, where the lives of the workers, many of them women and children, were grim and drab to the extreme.

  Oh, it was all so frustrating – what could it be?

  TWO

  Napoleon advanced through France as spring advanced through Dorset. The daffodils at Fordice Place and the pansies at Rosebourne were acclaimed just as the former Emperor was being acclaimed at the Tuileries.

  Katherine resolutely instructed herself to stop puzzling over the issue of Papa’s money. Surely all would be revealed in time, and it was pointless to continue to ponder without new information. Life in the Rose household went on.

  One morning, the mail included a letter from Jack at school. Such communications were not unexpected, writing home being one of the school’s mandatory activities. Jack’s letters usually consisted primarily of rather incoherent accounts of sporting triumphs, but today’s missive contained an item of actual news.

  “How provoking!” exclaimed Katherine, reading the letter at the breakfast table.

  “What is it, dear?” Aunt Alice asked, looking up from her own correspondence. “Has Jack gotten himself into trouble?”

  “Not trouble, no,” Katherine said. “But he tells me the socks we sent him are now too small for his feet.”

  “Oh, drat the boy!” Alice said. “He must have noticed them getting snugger. Could he not have mentioned it before we sent him six pairs?”

  “I should have checked his feet when he was home after Hilary Term,” Katherine said. “You can’t expect a boy to notice such things; their minds just don’t work that way.”

  “Tell him to send the new ones back to us,” Alice advised. “We can reuse the yarn.”

  Katherine read further and then gave a rueful chuckle. “Too late,” she said. “It seems he traded the socks to a smaller boy in exchange for some cakes. He seems to consider that he got the better of the deal. Only now he is out of socks entirely.”

  “Gracious, what must his housemaster think of us?” Aunt Alice said.

  “I suppose he knows what boys are like by now,” Katherine said without concern. “Well, there’s nothing for it but to start again. I’ll go into the village for some yarn later. Do you need anything from the shops?”

  Aunt Alice and Cook between them found a number of errands for Katherine to perform in the village, and she soon set out, carrying her market basket and accompanied by her sister.

  The day was fine, almost warm, and Katherine reflected ruefully that they would soon come to regret their black garments. In fact, Helen appeared to be regretting them already; at the haberdashery, she wistfully sorted through the brightly colored ribbons while Katherine listened patiently to Mrs. Hinson’s soliloquy on the topic of boys and their ever-larger feet.

  Then as Katherine sorted through the needles looking for the exact type Aunt Alice wanted, Helen exclaimed, “There’s Evelyn!” and darted out of the shop. Katherine looked out and saw that it was all the Fordice girls, come to the village on their own errands, and now chattering with Helen in the street.

  Yarn and needles purchased, Katherine joined the group and was chagrined to discover that the Fordice girls were prattling merrily about the spring assemblies in Dorchester. Evelyn, some months older than Helen, would be attending her first assembly soon, and was full of hopeful speculation about the number of beaux she would soon acquire. Helen listened bravely, but of course the Rose sisters would not be attending any such assemblies for some time. Julia seemed to realize this soon, and turned the subject to the popular topic of Lord Charles; where was he, how was he getting on, how long the wretched war would last this time.

  The Fordices soon parted to perform their own assignments, and Katherine and Helen continued on to the butcher and the fishmonger. Fortunately, these purchases were to be delivered. Then they retraced their steps through the village, stopping briefly to exchange greetings with sour Mrs. Worth and sweet Mrs. Shelby. Soon they were walking again through the countryside toward home.

  “You know,” Katherine said carefully, “when we discussed last year the notion of you attending the assemblies this year, the thought then was to wait till the fall assemblies. And I see no reason why we still cannot hold to that plan.”

  Helen gave her an eager look, and then cast her eyes down. “I would hate to be considered shallow and frivolous, with Papa just dead,” she said in a muffled voice. “But wearing these clothes and not going to parties seems to make it worse, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s certainly a constant reminder,” Katherine agreed.

  “I remember Papa calling mourning a barbarous custom,” Helen said unexpectedly.

  Katherine chuckled. “So do I,” she admitted. “But it isn’t Papa whose opinion must concern us at the moment, but the opinions of our neighbors, who are still living and still able to form good or bad impressions of us based on our behavior.”

  “Very true,” Helen agreed.

  “Anyway,” Katherine added, “I also recall what prompted Papa to offer that opinion, and it was the Fordices going into black gloves for a great-aunt that none of them had ever met, because she had left them a little money. He said that whatever emotion they were displaying, it certainly wasn’t grief.”

  Helen giggled. “Papa was so droll.” Then she sighed. “I do miss him.”

  “So do I,” Katherine said quietly.

  Life at Rosebourne continued on an even tenor, as great armies muste
red on the continent. The Rose ladies spent their evenings practicing their music and doing their needlework and sharing books. The Lady of the Lake was followed by a Mrs. Wilson Gothic Castle Sinister (Aunt Alice’s selection), and then Katherine’s selection of Sense and Sensibility. The family had read Pride and Prejudice last year but only recently discovered this earlier work by the same author, known only as ‘A Lady’.

  After Mrs. Wilson’s exquisite horrors, Helen castigated the new volume as simply dowdy, but Katherine disagreed. “It’s more frightening to me because it’s more plausible,” she argued. “Here in Piddledean, we are unlikely to be menaced by sinister foreign noblemen, but you might find a Willoughby or a Wickham anywhere.” (She left unmentioned her personal dread; the Dashwood sisters and their mother losing their elegant home and moving to a small cottage struck her as horribly plausible, remembering her childhood terror.)

  “There are no such gentlemen here!” Helen protested.

  “How would we know? Katherine replied. “The point of plausible scoundrels is that they disguise their true character. Consider how pleasant we thought Wickham when we first read of him. And Willoughby? I know you were sighing along with Marianne over him, so don’t deny it.”

  “He seemed so perfect,” Helen mourned. Then she grinned at Katherine. “So if you might find them anywhere, who is Piddledean’s scoundrel?” she asked. “Mister Downey?”

  “Poor Mister Downey!” said Katherine. “What cause has he given you to suspect him?”

  “He’s far too good natured and even tempered,” Helen said darkly. “It isn’t natural.”

  “My dear, he’s the vicar! He must be good natured and even tempered!”

  “A vicar must try, of course,” Helen argued. “But Mister Downey has never even lost patience with Mrs. Worth! That’s simply inhuman, you must admit.”

  “Saintly, I would say,” Katherine replied.

  A sterner chaperone might turn the conversation into more serious channels, but this was precisely the sort of sportive nonsense that Aunt Alice relished. “Mister Spively is my candidate for scoundrel,” she contributed. “If that last delivery of coals was not short-weighted, I’ll eat my reticule!”

  The Rose ladies considered a number of suggestions for local scoundrel, ending with Jeremy Fordice. Sir Robert’s eldest, Jeremy was a worthy young man, but so shy that he couldn’t speak with a young lady without stammering. The Roses laughed heartily at the notion of poor Jeremy as the plausible scoundrel.

  Katherine concluded, “I think there’s a reason these books make the scoundrel a newly arrived character. They fool their new associates for a time, but eventually their true nature is revealed. One cannot hide such a thing forever, I am sure.”

  “We must not forget that women can be scoundrels, too,” Helen pointed out, and the conversation returned, via the perfidy of Lucy Steele, to the plot of Sense and Sensibility.

  Later that week, a letter arrived addressed to The Sidney Rose Family. Katherine turned it over beside her breakfast plate, feeling a moment of excitement. Might this be evidence of “Papa’s Clever Investment”? She hastily opened the letter, but in a moment gave a disappointed, “Oh.”

  “What is it, dear?” asked Aunt Alice, looking up from her own gossipy correspondence.

  “It’s a condolence letter,” Katherine said. “From the Dean of Balliol.”

  “That’s nice,” Alice said absently.

  It was long for a condolence note. Katherine read on. After the usual sentiments about what a great loss, both to his family and to the world of letters, the Dean made so bold as to make a suggestion. If the family retained the manuscripts to Papa’s monographs (Papa had written a number of these over the years, touching on everything from the plays of Aristophanes to the inventions of Aristotle), Balliol would be delighted to receive these manuscripts and house them in a handsome display case to commemorate their illustrious graduate.

  Katherine relayed the suggestion to Aunt Alice. “What a sweet idea!” she exclaimed.

  Further, the Dean begged to be advised about the status of Papa’s massive work on Homer, the writing of which he had frequently characterized as his life’s work. Might it be possible that what the Dean described as ‘this great work’ might be, if not completed, at least far enough along that a little judicious editing might bring the thing into shape for publication?

  Katherine had no idea. She read this last bit to Aunt Alice and to a yawning Helen, just now joining the breakfast table, and said, “I’d been meaning to sort through Papa’s desk, and I see that I should put it off no longer. I’ll start this afternoon.”

  Helen made a face. “I don’t envy you the task,” she admitted. “I think I will be better occupied in the garden. Shall you be able to make heads or tails of Papa’s work?”

  “I can find the monograph manuscripts at least,” Katherine said optimistically. “And while I have no notion how far along Papa was with his Homer, I can look at it and see how many manuscript pages he has. Perhaps he at least said all he intended to say on the Iliad and that would make a nice posthumous publication.”

  “He’d been working on it for years,” Aunt Alice pointed out. “I would certainly hope that he left something to show for it.”

  That afternoon, Katherine donned an apron and kerchief to protect from the dust she knew her exploration would stir and entered Papa’s study. The desk in the center of the room seemed larger somehow. The task was admittedly daunting; the documentary evidence of a lifetime of scholarly pursuit, much of it in a foreign language. Where even to begin?

  Start simply, Katherine told herself. An overview of the contents of the desk would be in order. She circled the desk and for the first time took a seat in Papa’s chair. A large untidy stack of foolscap to the right of the blotter comprised the massive Homer project. She would look at that later. Katherine pulled open drawers and took cursory inventory of the contents. One drawer contained fresh paper, as well as bottles of ink, quills, several ancient penknives, all the impedimenta of a writing endeavor.

  A second drawer contained correspondence. Papa’s secretary held the business correspondence; Katherine was already familiar with that. This must be the correspondence with his fellow scholars. She would sort through that in time. The bottom drawer contained – aha. The manuscripts. The first several she paged through were indeed the original manuscripts to monographs. The rest must be the same. Katherine was surprised at the volume of paper they represented.

  There would be no problem with providing Balliol enough material for a nice display. The remainder would doubtless be archived for references. For a moment, intimidated by the volume of papers and the erudition of their contents, Katherine felt the cowardly urge to just bundle up the lot and send it off to Balliol to be catalogued and archived by qualified academics. But somehow, she just couldn’t.

  Looking around, she realized that here as in no other place was Papa’s home. With the untidy stacks of papers sitting on the desk, he might have just finished work for the day, and the papers awaited his attention on the morrow. Clear off this desk, Katherine thought with a shiver, and Papa is truly gone.

  But he is gone, she sternly reminded herself, and he would greatly dislike the notion of this room being kept as some sort of a shrine. No, send off the papers, but sort them, and remember Papa once again.

  Resolutely, she pulled the large stack of foolscap to the center of the desk. The Homer commentary, Papa’s life’s work. Every afternoon, Papa had shut himself in the study, working on this great stack. Katherine frowned, puzzled. Papa was not to be disturbed when he was working, but on rare occasions she had had to interrupt him for some small crisis or other. Every time she entered here, she had seen Papa, pen in hand, scratching away busily with a slight smile on his face. For a period that spanned years! Yes, this was a large stack of paper, but was it large enough?

  Of course, there were scholars and writers, Katherine knew, who spent almost as much time discarding words as writing th
em. Might Papa have been one of these? Might he have been just as busy and just as happy lining through yesterday’s output because today he’d thought of a more felicitous phrasing? Katherine was shocked to realize that she didn’t know.

  Slowly she began to page through the Homer. These top pages were the older ones, many of them yellowed with age. Katherine turned the pages slowly, not really reading, but admiring Papa’s elegant and precise English script and his yet more elegant and precise Greek. The corrections he had made were few and careful, a few word substitutions here and there. Katherine smiled fondly, imagining Papa hard at work, enjoying himself at his mental exercise. This portion seemed to all be the older section of the manuscript.

  Eventually, Katherine turned a page and gave a tiny gasp of surprise. She’d reached the newer part of the stack, but it was not what she expected to find. Here was a new heading, centered precisely on the page. “The Peculiar Staircase”, she read in wonder, and below that, “by Mrs. Wilson.”

  Mrs. Wilson! What was this doing here? Katherine had heard that sometimes writers experience an inability to continue their work, a sort of mental freezing of the wellsprings of creativity; might this have happened to Papa? Had he resorted to copying out a sensational Gothic novel, trying by the motion of writing to get his own composition moving again?

  Katherine paged though this new section of Papa’s manuscript. She quickly flipped to the back of the pile and realized that this Gothic novel comprised the entire rest of the stack. Had Papa never found himself able to return to his Homer again? How long ago had this happened? Katherine thought back and could not recall Papa showing any sign of mental perturbation. What did this mean?