“And were it not for my money, I daresay they would not grant me a nod in the park! Besides, they prattle on incessantly about their children and grandchildren.”
Not to mention Mrs. Fowler trying to hire away your cook, Naomi added silently. And for almost a third again over her present wages. The woman had even offered a position to William. Naomi felt there was nothing wrong with taking advantage of such opportunities and might have been interested were she not aware of the long procession of cooks through the Fowler kitchen over the years.
“Now, now, Madam. It’s the day that has made you sad. Why don’t you sit in the garden? It’s quite pleasant in the shade. And I’ll bring you a cup of tea.”
For a second Mrs. Blake seemed to consider this. But then her shoulders rose and fell with another sigh. “No. Leave me.”
“Very well, Madam.” Naomi stood. She was halfway across the room when an unsettling thought gave her pause just long enough to alter the rhythm of her steps. Just as quickly she dismissed it and continued. But her hand was no sooner on the doorknob when the thought returned, more insistently. Is this from you, Father?
“Naomi?” The voice from behind had an irritated tone.
Releasing the knob, Naomi turned. The subject had been a forbidden one for over thirteen years. By bringing it up she could be sacked on the spot. Even though positions in other households—besides the Fowlers’—were out there, she rather liked working for Mrs. Blake, who never interfered with the way she ran the kitchen and generously allowed William time off for schooling.
If you don’t speak about it, who will? asked the voice inside her, becoming impossible to ignore. She crossed the carpet again.
“What is it, Naomi?” Mrs. Blake asked, frowning. “I thought I made it clear that I’ve changed my mind about that dinner party.”
“May I sit again?”
Mrs. Blake gestured with her hand, and Naomi perched herself in the same spot. “Forgive me for speaking bluntly, but it is very possible that you do have family.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’m referring to Mary Tomkin, Madam.”
The lined cheeks turned ashen. “What has she to do with me?”
More than you care to admit, Naomi thought. True, Master Jeremy had been the one to take advantage of the scullery maid, but it was Mrs. Blake who dismissed her when it became obvious she was carrying a child.
“She was a strumpet,” Mrs. Blake said. “I’ll not have women like that in my employ.”
“She was barely fifteen.” Mary Tomkin might have been silly and flirtatious around Master Jeremy, but in Naomi’s opinion he bore the greater responsibility, being five years older at the time. “And if her child is still living, it would be your grandchild.”
“That’s simply not true. Jeremy promised me he had nothing to do with her.”
In for a penny, in for a pound, Naomi thought. She might very well find herself packing her trunk tonight, but the pump had been primed. She would speak her piece now after so many years. “Begging your pardon, Madam, but would you expect him to say anything else? Don’t forget, Mary and I shared a room.”
Naomi was a brand-new kitchen maid back then. When her warnings to the girl about Master Jeremy’s flatteries and little gifts had no effect, she even dared to approach Mrs. Blake with her worries.
“My son was reared to be courteous to the servants” had been the woman’s frosty reply. “And he’s certainly above amorous entanglements with scullery maids.”
It had been difficult enough to speak on Mary’s behalf in those days. What Naomi had not been able to tell Mrs. Blake, because she so desperately needed her position, was that she, too, had been the object of her son’s attempted “amorous entanglements” to the point that she would not walk out in the garden alone at night for fear of meeting up with him.
“Fifteen years old,” Naomi pressed. “Still a child herself.”
This time Mrs. Blake did not deny her probable relationship to Mary Tomkin’s offspring. “Don’t forget. Mr. Blake was just as adamant as I was about it,” she said defensively. “Besides, I only did what would have been done in any other home.”
True, Naomi thought. The surest way an unmarried female servant could be dismissed would be to turn up in a family way. Only God knew how many of those situations involved the sons of the household. “It was a difficult situation,” she admitted.
“Then why do you bring it up? It’s very cruel of you, Naomi, to torment an old woman so.”
“Cruel?” Naomi shook her head. At least I’ve a bit of money saved to tide William and me over. “Foolhardy, perhaps, considering you can sack me on the spot. It just seemed the right thing to say, with your sitting here grieving.”
“Well, you’ve only made matters worse.”
Stifling a sigh, Naomi rose to her feet. “Then I do beg your pardon.”
“I’ll have that tea now,” Mrs. Blake said in a peevish tone.
“Very well, Madam.”
When Naomi reached the door this time, Mrs. Blake added, “And you might as well have Marie go down with you for it. She has nothing better to do.”
Any small satisfaction Naomi would have gotten from that order was overshadowed by a wearying sense of failure. She was so certain that God had directed her to speak. But she wondered now if she had been guided instead by her own guilt over not informing Mrs. Blake of her son’s advances toward her back when that information could have possibly helped Mary.
By the time she had reached the kitchen and dispatched a sulking Marie with a tray and teapot, she was feeling a measure of comfort. God’s ways are not our ways, she reminded herself. And, knowing how people generally balked at anything that threatened to lure them from the routine of their lives, what had she expected? Mrs. Blake to clasp her heart and gush with gratitude over the reminder that she could have a grandchild somewhere in the slums of London?
A seed had been planted. Whether Mrs. Blake chose to nurture it or allow it to die for lack of interest was in her own hands. God was the One who planted the seeds, but He generally left the tending of them to people.
Chapter Two
“As you can see, Miss Doyle . . .” Cookware peddler Mr. Sutton said almost two months later, the curled ends of his mustache quivering with every accolade, “Perkins Patented Stock Pot’s unique strained tap allows you to collect the broth after the fat has settled at the top of your gravies, thus saving the tedium and inefficiency of skimming with a spoon.”
“A clever idea,” Naomi agreed, her slender fingers turning the handle above the tap of the cast-iron pot on the kitchen worktable.
“Solid brass that is, Miss Doyle.” His hazel eyes glinted with anticipated victory, just as his oiled hair glinted in the lamplight above. “And you have the famous Perkins Patented Cookware guarantee. Full replacement up to five years and free mending for life.”
“That sounds like something we could use, Naomi,” Trudy said from the other end of the table, where she sat peeling beetroot. The scullery maid was a medium-framed young woman of twenty-three with coarse blond hair, several moles dotting otherwise clear cheeks, and round brown eyes as moist looking as a spaniel’s.
“Hmm.” Naomi lifted the lid and peered inside. “And whose life would you be referring to, Mr. Sutton? Mrs. Blake’s, mine, or the pot’s?”
He chuckled. “Why, the life of the pot.”
I like the handles on the sides, she thought, replacing the lid. “And how long would that be?”
“Until it’s no longer usable, of course.”
“But then you would mend it and make it usable again, yes?”
Mr. Sutton stroked his chin contemplatively. “Well . . . yes.”
“So that means the guarantee should never expire?” Naomi asked.
Making a gesture of surrender with his hands, he said, “I’ve forgotten what an astute customer you are, Miss Doyle. The Perkins Patented Cookware guarantee will apply for as long as you wish it to. I shall personally make
note of our agreement on the certificate in the event that the question arises in the future.”
“That would be very good of you, Mr. Sutton.”
“Does that mean you’re ready to put this remarkable innovation to use at once?”
Naomi gave him an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid Mrs. Bacon is away for the morning.”
His face fell. “Away?”
“She’s seeing one o’ them oculists about a new pair of spectacles,” Trudy offered unnecessarily, for no matter where the housekeeper happened to be, “away” was still “away.”
“So you’ll have to bring it back on your next rounds,” Naomi told him. “With the signed certificate, please.”
“A whole month without the convenience of the patented tap and strainer.” Mr. Sutton blew out his cheeks. “And I cannot promise I’ll have it in stock next time. No doubt you’re familiar with the saying, ‘He who hesitates is lost’?”
“There is a saying here, too, Mr. Sutton, that household expenditures over the costs of food and small utensils must be approved by Mrs. Bacon.”
He sighed heavily and closed his eyes as if hearing of the loss of a dear friend. But when they shot open again, hope had replaced the despair. “What if I left it here for her inspection? If Mrs. Bacon approves, I’ll collect the money next month. If not, you can just set the pot aside in a cupboard until then.”
Naomi considered that. As she did not often pressure the housekeeper for extra expenditures, she was almost positive she would agree.
“It would save us a lot o’ work, Naomi.” Trudy’s tone was hopeful.
“Write out your certificate, Mr. Sutton,” Naomi said.
The peddler smiled and produced a pen and tablet from his coat pocket with a flourish. As he wrote, Naomi went to her spice cupboard and measured out a few cloves into a square of brown paper. When she had inspected the certificate to her satisfaction, she accompanied him to the tradesmen’s door, leading to a flight of steps up to Berkeley Street.
“It is always a pleasure doing business with you, Miss Doyle,” he said as she handed him his felt bowler hat from the wall rack.
“For me as well, Mr. Sutton.” First sending a glance back over her shoulder, Naomi took a half-step closer and raised herself on her toes to whisper. “Have you many more calls to make today?”
He looked surprised. Then a smile spread under his waxed mustache. “Not any that can’t wait, Miss Doyle,” he whispered. “And I must say, I’ve always admired your fine blue eyes and trim little figure.”
Heat rushed through Naomi’s cheeks. She considered striking him or at least abandoning the courtesy she had intended to pay him. But rather than have him leave with an incorrect assumption, she pulled the folded paper from her apron pocket and handed it over. “I thought you might care to have some cloves, Mr. Sutton.” His expression went blank, so she was compelled to explain as succinctly as possible. “Your breath.”
“Oh!” Now it was his cheeks that flushed. “Yes, th-thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she said while reaching beyond him to open the door.
“I . . . I had pickled tongue for lunch,” he stammered. “With onions.”
“That will do it every time, Mr. Sutton. Do pay my regards to Mrs. Sutton.”
She was just guessing about the wife, but his expression told all. “Yes . . . well . . .” He put on his hat and started through the doorway, only to turn again. “That was what I assumed you meant all along, Miss Doyle,” he said, not quite meeting her eyes. “The breath, I mean.”
“Just chew on a clove now and again, Mr. Sutton.”
When the door closed, she walked back toward the table from which Trudy gave her a knowing little smile. “I heard you whispering up there.”
“Peel your beetroot, Trudy,” Naomi told her.
The bell from the parlor tinkled just as chambermaid Hester Campbell stepped inside the room. Trudy’s cousin was a pretty girl of nineteen, with holly green eyes and corkscrews of carrot-red hair escaping here and there from her lace cap. Her teeth were small and white, and her gums showed whenever she laughed. But laughter did not appear imminent. “It’s you the Missus wants to see,” she said to Naomi in her high-pitched girlish voice. “And she’s in a foul mood. I thought she would snap my head off.”
“Yes?” Naomi sighed under her breath. An amorous peddler and a disgruntled employer were a lot to bear in the same morning. “Very well.”
She started across the flagstone floor toward the corridor door. Hester pulled out a chair to steal a chat with Trudy. Naomi ignored their whispering until she caught the sound of her own name. Swiveling around to face them, she declared, “The man is married! And I was simply advising him he had foul breath.”
The two gaped at her for a fraction of a second before bursting into guilty laughter. Naomi narrowed her eyes but could not stay angry and sent them a wry smile. “Don’t visit for too long—you both have work to do.”
The Georgian four-storey town house, No. 14 Berkeley Square, was built to a formula almost standard in upper-class Mayfair. A staircase rose from the back of the hall with bathrooms off the landings. The kitchen, servants’ hall, and coal bin were in the cellar, as well as the bedroom shared by the gardener, Mr. Duffy, and his wife, Claire, a parlormaid. There were smaller rooms, such as the pantry and larder, and a closet where laundry was collected to be sent out every Monday. The entrance hall, dining room, sitting room, and library occupied the ground floor. Above that were the late Mr. Blake’s study, a never-used breakfast room, and the parlor where Mrs. Blake entertained callers. On the third story were the principal bedrooms, with small bedrooms for the servants in the attic or garret.
Music met Naomi’s ears as she neared the second-storey landing. Mrs. Blake had not played the piano since her son’s death. Were it a more cheerful arrangement, she would have taken it to mean her mistress’s melancholia had lifted. But the notes drifting from the parlor were as somber as a funeral dirge. Schubert, Naomi guessed. Even though she could not sing well, she did know a little about music, for there were often concerts in Hyde Park just five short blocks to the west. She reached the door and knocked. The music stopped and her mistress’s voice bade her enter.
If the sitting room was spring with its pastel walls and floral upholstery, the parlor was autumn. An Oriental rug of burgundy, gold, peacock blue, and olive dominated the oak floor, and the serpentine-backed furniture was upholstered with plush mauve velvet. Covering almost every inch of the muted green walls were portraits—mostly of Master Jeremy, a huge gilt-framed mirror, a tapestry of King Arthur and his knights, framed landscapes and still-life, and shelves of bric-a-brac collected from all over the world. From each side of the massive black marble fireplace, two carved lions held up a mantel crowded with more bric-a-brac. Marble-topped tables displayed still more bric-a-brac, which took parlormaid Claire Duffy all of every Tuesday just to dust.
If I ever have my own cottage, it won’t be filled with clutter crossed her mind as she approached the piano. There was scant chance of that, but even a thirty-two-year-old spinster cook could dream.
Mrs. Blake looked up at her and the piano fell silent. “Naomi.”
“Yes, Madam?”
The torchère lamp painted Mrs. Blake’s skin a jaundiced hue, with shadows lurking in the hollows of her face. Yet her voice was pleasant enough. “I instructed Marie to ring for you on her way out.”
“And here I am.”
“So you are.” Her long hands dropped to her sides to rest upon the bench. Self-consciously she nodded toward the open score.
Naomi was gratified to see Gretchen am Spinnrade by Franz Schubert written at the top of the page.
“I wasn’t sure if I would remember how to play.”
“You’ve always played beautifully.”
She acknowledged the compliment with a shrug. “Has William begun packing?”
“Days ago.” Naomi had to smile at his eagerness to set out for University, though she w
ould miss him terribly. “He’s a bright young man. You should be proud.”
“Thank you. I am.”
“I’ve instructed Mrs. Bacon to give him five pounds from the household account before he leaves.”
“Why, that’s very generous of you, Madam.” Even though William would earn his way as a servitor—making beds, polishing shoes, and waiting tables for sons of rank and privilege, a young man needed spare pocket money.
“Just warn him not to stray into bad company.” Mrs. Blake moved a hand to her high black lace collar. “If only I had warned Jeremy!”
“Please don’t torment yourself, Madam,” Naomi pleaded, aware that it was just as futile as asking the River Thames not to flow.
The elderly woman made an abrupt change of subject again. “I spoke with Doctor Raine yesterday about my sleeplessness. He left a bottle of laudanum. Only I dislike the way it makes me feel during the day. As if I’m walking about in a fog.”
“Then please don’t take it. I’ve heard it can be just as habit-forming as opium.”
The pale blue eyes clouded. “What does it matter at my age?”
But it did matter, Naomi thought, or she wouldn’t have mentioned it. Mrs. Blake clearly wished to dance around the subject upon both of their minds instead of approaching it directly. Well, Naomi knew how to dance. “Could it be that something is troubling you, Madam? Robbing you of sleep?”
“Such as?”
“What we spoke about in the sitting room some weeks ago?”
“Sitting room . . .” Mrs. Blake murmured unconvincingly.
“Mary Tomkin’s child?”
Discomfort flickered across the older woman’s shadowed face. “I just don’t see what you expect me to do, Naomi. Invite the girl and her child to live here? Treat them like respectable family? After she seduced my Jeremy?”
She was fifteen rose to Naomi’s lips, but she did not give it voice. Mrs. Blake would lie to herself about her son’s true nature until her dying day. But at least she seemed to have accepted that the child was related to her.
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 2
