33 
Heathersleigh

Jocelyn, Catharine, and Maggie were all standing at the Milverscombe train platform saying their final good-byes. To one side Mr. and Mrs. Sherborne were speaking with the conductor about some last-minute arrangements concerning the luggage. In a few minutes Catharine would be leaving with her former tutor and his wife for Oxford, where they had agreed to take her to visit the women’s colleges.

“I wish you were going, Mother,” said Catharine. “Maybe it’s still not too late.”

“Now that the prospect of your actually leaving is here,” returned Jocelyn, “I am beginning to wonder if I made the right decision about staying home. But I am afraid it is too late to change my mind now.”

“Grandma Maggie,” said Catharine, turning to Maggie and embracing her, “you will have to visit Mother every day to keep her from being lonely.”

“It will be a pleasure,” said Maggie, “—oh, but look . . . here comes Mrs. Blakeley.”

The three women turned to see Rune Blakeley’s wife hurrying along the platform toward them.

“Agatha!” laughed Jocelyn. “You look like you’re running to catch the train!”

“Not the train but Miss Catharine before she leaves,” replied Mrs. Blakeley. Out of breath, she stopped and walked the last few steps. As she reached them, she held a box tied with string out toward Catharine.

“Catharine dear,” she said, “would you mind giving this to Stirling when you see him?”

She smiled and her face colored slightly. “You know how mothers are,” she added. “It is the first time he has been away from home. I had to send him some fresh bread and a meat pie.”

“Of course, Mrs. Blakeley,” replied Catharine. “We shall be having dinner together tomorrow afternoon.”

Mr. Sherborne now approached, showing an interest in the box. “Perhaps we can encourage Stirling to share his good fortune with us,” he said.

“You mind your own business,” laughed his wife. “A university student is not meant to share his gifts from home.”

“Charles and I both appreciate your taking Catharine to Oxford,” said Jocelyn in a more serious tone to Mr. Sherborne.

“I am looking forward to seeing the university myself,” replied Mrs. Sherborne. “Just think what opportunities young ladies have now to dedicate themselves to learning. What times we live in!”

A whistle sounded behind them.

“All aboard!” boomed the conductor’s voice.

Another flurry of hugs and farewells and handshakes followed. Then the three travelers boarded the coach. In another minute Catharine’s head popped out an open window above where the others stood on the platform.

“I’m back!” she said brightly.

“Have a good time, Catharine,” said Jocelyn. ‘Don’t worry about me—you just enjoy yourself.”

“I will, Mother . . . although I may worry about you just a little—oops! I feel the train starting to move!”

Inch by inch, Catharine’s face, still leaning out the window, began to move away from them. Jocelyn, Maggie, and Agatha Blakeley slowly walked along in the direction of the train’s movement. The engine quickly began to pick up speed, and after another few moments they stopped, satisfying themselves with a last lingering round of waving hands as Catharine gradually receded from view.

“I love you, Mother,” Catharine called out.

“I love you, Catharine,” replied Jocelyn.

And then she was gone.

Jocelyn turned away, dabbed once or twice at her eyes, then drew in a deep breath, turned, and looked up at her two friends with a bright smile.

“Well,” she said, trying to buoy up her own spirits as she spoke, “my little baby girl is off to see the university! Who would have thought it!”

The three turned and left the platform together.

“You know, Jocelyn,” said Agatha softly, “Rune and I have more to thank you and Sir Charles for than we will ever be able to tell you. We will never forget all you have done for our family.”

Jocelyn glanced over at Stirling’s mother with a smile. She nodded, as if to say, I know . . . I understand. Both knew that no words were capable of expressing the many thoughts and feelings they shared together.

Later that afternoon, Jocelyn moved about in the kitchen gathering a tray of tea things to take into the sitting room. Behind her, she heard Sarah Minsterly enter.

“I can do that for you, Lady Jocelyn,” said the housekeeper.

“I can manage, Sarah,” replied Jocelyn. “You may go back to whatever you were doing.”

“I haven’t much to do, Lady Jocelyn. There’s no one but yourself to cook for, and Hector is off to Totnes, and you gave the others the week away.”

“Yes, and aren’t you going to take the time to visit your sister?”

“I plan to, ma’am. I will take the train into London tomorrow.”

Sarah paused and stood silently.

“What is it, Sarah?” asked Jocelyn.

“Well, that is . . . will you be . . . that is, here all alone and all—”

“I will be just fine, Sarah,” smiled Jocelyn. “I want you to go to London and enjoy yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am—thank you.”

The following day, after taking Sarah to the train and seeing her off, Jocelyn returned once again to Heathersleigh Hall. She parked the car in front, got out, and went inside. As if by force of habit, she went to the kitchen and began making a pot of tea. When it was ready, she carried the tray of tea things, cup, saucer, and a few crackers, up to the bedroom and private sitting room. As she went the sound of her own footsteps seemed to echo off the walls with desolation. The whole huge house which had once rung with life and activity and laughter and children’s voices . . . now stood empty and deserted.

Her step slowed as she reached the top of the stairs, then stopped. For several long seconds she stood.

The house was so quiet and dark. She glanced down the stairway, then along the empty corridors. Silence. Emptiness.

Suddenly Jocelyn felt very much alone. A great wave of sadness swept over her. Never had she felt so alone.

Would this house ever know laughter again? she wondered. Would the happy shouts of many voices ever fill its corridors and ring out across the lawn and garden?

Trying to shake off the doldrums, at length Jocelyn continued on to her rooms. She set the tray down on one of the small tables, then turned to her dressing table. She caught her eye in the mirror. The sight of her own face somehow increased all the more her sense of isolation.

She tried to take a breath, but the effort caught in her throat. Suddenly the floodgates gushed open. She turned, sought her bed, and before she had even managed to lie down, was sobbing from the depths of her being, stomach and throat aching as she wept.

She cried for Charles. If ever she needed his strong arms around her and soothing words in her ears, it was now. But he was gone.

She cried for George, thrust so young into the cruel ravages of war. Whenever she thought of him, she was afraid. Many mothers sent sons off to war and never saw them again, and she did not think she could bear it.

She cried for Catharine, knowing that another daughter might be leaving for a time.

And then great sobs shook her body as she wept for Amanda.

It took many long minutes, but gradually the tempest began to pass. As the heaves and tears slowly subsided, Jocelyn tried to pray for each one of her family. She prayed that she would trust God for the care of them all. But the effort was not particularly successful. She was sad, she was afraid, and she was alone. And no words of prayer—as hard as she tried to be thankful for her present circumstances—could alleviate how she felt.

At last she fell into a peaceful sleep.

When she awoke several hours later, dusk had descended over Heathersleigh Hall. Jocelyn rose, dressed for bed, crawled under the blankets this time, and was soon once again fast asleep.