“Mary came from a poor family, Madam,” Naomi said. “Perhaps the child has needs?”
And that was the conclusion Mrs. Blake had required her assistance in reaching, for she pursed her lips only for a brief moment before replying, “I contribute to several charities. It would be no different, would it?”
“Not if you don’t wish it to be.”
Another space of silence passed. “And if I’m going to provide some financial assistance, I suppose I should see the child. Only once, mind you. Just to be certain that my money is being used properly.”
Reserving her smile for later, Naomi replied, “You’ll always wonder if you don’t.”
Chapter Three
On the eleventh of April of the following year, solicitor Jules Swann held his hat clamped to his head against a bullying wind and approached a little red-brick terrace house. But for the number eight on the door, it was identical to its neighbors on both sides of the lane, built for the workers of the Grand Junction Locomotive Works.
His search had taken him one hundred fifty miles to Crewe in the county of Cheshire, but at least it no longer involved London’s notorious Saint Giles slum known as The Rookery. For six months he had walked those filthy lanes, knocking upon doors of decaying tenements, fearing he would be murdered for the shillings in his pocket and hoping that the Bob Hogarth family had not relocated still another time.
As he knocked, his ears caught the sound of distress above the wind’s howl. The door opened, and he stood facing a woman carrying a wailing tot astride one hip. Jules began to doubt the information he had paid half-a-crown for in the Rookery. This woman seemed far older than Mary Tomkin was supposed to be. Combed rows of oily brown hair flowed from her square face into a topknot so much off-center that it appeared in danger of sliding down past her right ear. Creases curved from the corners of her lips to her jawline, as if she had packed eighty years’ worth of frowns into her twenty-nine years.
She’s had a difficult life, he reminded himself. He removed his hat, aware that he presented just as sorry a sight, with hair whipped to disorder like a madman’s. “Good morning, Madam. Please permit me to introduce my—”
“Beg yer pardon?” she yelled, frowning as she jiggled the tot on her hip. The child wore only a little linen shirt and napkin and had apparently been in such a state for some time, judging by the sheen glistening on the lower part of his face.
“My name is Jules—”
The child wailed still louder, this time stretching both arms toward Jules.
“Stop all that squallin’, Georgie!” the woman ordered, which only caused an increase in volume. She turned again to Jules and shouted, “He wants his papa! He’s been workin’ up to Goostrey for days and days!”
A rosy-cheeked girl of possibly seven or eight years appeared at the woman’s other side. With relief Jules assumed the weeping tot would be handed to the care of the older sister. But the woman thrust the infant out toward him. “You’re gonter have to hold ’im if you want ’im to stop!”
“Yes, of course!” Jules grimaced inside as the small face pressed into the lapel of his coat. The napkin covering Georgie’s bottom was more than a little damp. But at least the weeping ceased after a series of convulsive liquid-sounding inhalations.
“Now, you see?” the woman said, the frown lines fading with her smile. “He thinks every man’s his pa. It’s a good thing you happened by when you did, Mister.”
“Swann,” Jules supplied.
“Eh?”
“Jules Swann!” He looked past her shoulder at what he could see of a surprisingly tidy parlor. “May I . . .”
Soon he was seated in a brown horsehair chair, his hat hanging from the rack at the door. The woman and girl sat on a green sofa across a table from him. Wind whistled through the chimney and caused the coal flame to dance and sputter in the brick fireplace. On the hearth a small boy turned from the tower of wooden blocks he was building only long enough to send Jules a curious glance. If only Georgie had paid him so little interest, Jules told himself. A wide doorway led into the rest of the house. He wondered if Mrs. Blake’s grandchild was inside. But surely he or she would have peeked into the parlor by now to see what was going on.
“May I assume that you’re Mrs. Hogarth?” he asked, smoothing his hair with his free hand.
“He took to you right away, didn’t he?”
Jules patted the little fellow’s back. “Would your maiden name happen to be Tomkin?”
“Why do you want to know?” she asked with a resumed frown. Clearly reconsidering having trusted her child to Jules’ tending, she moved to the edge of her seat as if she might spring any minute. “You ain’t police, are you? Because we paid up our arrears before we left London. My husband makes decent—”
“I assure you I’m not from the police. I’m a solicitor in private practice.” He glanced at the girl, whose wide eyes were fastened upon him. “And I wonder if it would be possible for us to speak privately?”
“You’re a what?”
“A lawyer.” More detective than lawyer, lately.
After a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Hogarth ordered the girl to take her brother and play in the kitchen. When she eyed the tot in Jules’ arms, he gave her a benign smile. “Why don’t we let him sleep? I’m not here to cause you any trouble, Mrs. Hogarth. I intend to be out of your way as soon as possible.”
“Well, what is it you want?” she asked, easing back from the springing position.
“You are the former Mary Tomkin?”
She shrugged. “Aye.”
“Very good.” This would be the most difficult part, Jules thought, because the woman would justifiably have bitter feelings about the way she was abused and dismissed. With as gentle a manner as possible, he said, “I represent Mrs. Arthur Blake. You were once in her employ in a residence on Berkeley Square, were you not?” He was not surprised when her cheeks flushed crimson and eyes narrowed.
“Aye,” she fairly spat. “So the old witch ain’t dead yet?”
“Mrs. Blake is still very much alive. But her son has passed away.” He thought it important that she know that. Perhaps it would dilute some of her bitterness enough so that she would be agreeable to what he would request of her.
“I hope it was painful.”
“It was.” And it was time to move on. “Mrs. Blake regrets her part in the injustice you suffered.”
“She does, eh?” Mrs. Hogarth said with a scornful little laugh. “Well, don’t my heart bleed for her!”
“She commissioned me to inquire about the child you bore, Mrs. Hogarth.”
“The baby?” Several seconds lapsed. “My pa took it away the night it was born. Made me stay inside for weeks beforehand and wouldn’t even fetch a doctor. He said he didn’t want folks lookin’ down on us. I weren’t even allowed to give her a name.”
It was the first he had heard the child was a girl. Mrs. Blake would be disappointed, for Jules assumed she was hoping for a boy, and one who would be the image of her revered son. “What do you mean . . . away?”
“He left her in a lard pail on the porch of some church. In January! I fretted that a dog or rat would get her even if the cold didn’t, but he said it would serve the little brat right if one did.”
“I’m sorry.” He meant it.
She shrugged but gave him an appreciative look.
When an appropriate half minute had passed, Jules said, “Would you happen to know the name of this particular church?” There were hundreds in London, of all denominations.
“He wouldn’t tell me or even my mum on account of bein’ afraid we would try to get her back.”
“I see.” This was not good news, but Jules was still hopeful. Just because the man would not tell his daughter those thirteen years ago didn’t mean he couldn’t be tempted by money—courtesy of Mrs. Blake. “Does your father still reside in London?”
Bitterness again drew up the square face. “You might say that.”
Jules ease
d himself up a bit to fish in his coat pocket for his notebook and pencil. “May I trouble you for his address?”
He’s over to Kensal Green.”
Kensal Green, he scribbled, then looked up again. “You mean he’s a gravedigger?”
She made a mirthless chuckle. “No . . .”
****
Late that same evening Naomi and William, who shared half-Mondays off, hired a hansom cab from the dozens queued with private carriages along the Strand to collect theatregoers from the Adelphi. Naomi had Wednesday mornings off as well, which she spent sewing blankets for the Dorcas Society and visiting the lending library, but Mondays were for William. To make up for the boy having no other family in London, she always managed to find activities that amused them both. That wasn’t so difficult, as the park, museums, and galleries were free or inexpensive, and theatre seats could be had for sixpence if one didn’t mind staring down from their lofty heights for three hours.
Their outings were even more meaningful to her now that he had started Oxford. Having completed Michaelmas term last fall and the Hilary term earlier this year, he would be leaving again in less than two weeks to begin the Trinity term.
She watched him squint at his pocket watch as the pair of horses carried them beneath a sliver of moon, which was no match for the Strand’s hissing gaslights. He was a handsome lad, with the medium frame, square jaw, and unruly brown hair of his deceased father, Naomi’s brother Preston. The smoked-glass color of his eyes was from his mother, Orabel, whose quiet, withdrawn ways must have at least harbored a calm soul, for William had not the volatile temper of the other Doyle men. Naomi wasn’t sure from where the dimpled cheeks came—perhaps a gift from some long-forgotten ancestor.
“Half past eleven,” he said, repocketing the watch.
She drew her wool wrap closer about her shoulders. “Well, what did you think?” They had seen The Prompter’s Box, of which last week’s Observer had lauded, “Original, has a clearly told story, is amusing, moreover in style and treatment it hits the taste of the present day.”
The shadow of the carriage’s hood could not conceal the hesitancy in William’s expression. She realized his reluctance came from not wishing to disappoint her because she had splurged and purchased three-shilling seats.
“I thought it wore on a bit,” Naomi prompted.
“A bit,” he agreed, then hastened to reassure her, “But our seats were outstanding, weren’t they?”
“Outstanding.”
“It was thoughtful of you to do this. I enjoyed every minute of it.”
“Worth every penny,” she told him. “I enjoyed it as well. Even though it did drag on.”
“Just a bit.” Another hesitancy, and then he turned to her. “Would you care to know what it reminded me of?”
“Yes, of course.”
He gave her an apologetic smile. “An important essay on ‘The Alkali Act’ I was once assigned at the Wesleyan School.”
“The Alkali Act?”
“It imposed limits on noxious emissions in the air from chemical works. But Mr. Duffy and I were painting shutters at the time, and it slipped my mind to go to the library. So I took the only information I could find in one small newspaper article and stretched it into the five required pages.”
“Meaning, the author of the play did some stretching himself,” Naomi said, returning his smile. “Perhaps he was painting shutters as well? But seriously, I can’t recall your making a poor mark.”
“Mr. Stillman called me aside after school and asked me to rewrite it. He said it was obvious my time had been preoccupied.”
“How kind—and perceptive—of him.”
“I was very grateful.” He smiled again. “But I believe it was the paint stains on my hands that gave me away.”
They laughed together, and Naomi said, “Had you but worn gloves when you were painting, you might not be at Oxford today.”
The hansom stopped in front of 14 Berkeley Square, and before Naomi could reach into her reticule for the eight-pence fare, William was handing coins up to the driver. “I have it, Aunt Naomi,” he insisted.
She started to argue, for he needed money now more than ever. But she had to remind herself of a principle that had somehow occurred to her in the earliest years of her guardianship. A child never allowed to give would surely become a self-indulgent adult, his happiness dependent upon whatever was put into his outstretched palm. So she thanked him instead. They bade each other whispered good-nights inside the hall, and he slipped through the house for the stable while she crept up the stairs.
“That you, Naomi?” came Trudy’s sleep-thickened voice as Naomi felt for the nightgown folded upon the foot of her own bed.
“It’s me, dear.”
“Dreaming about boiled carrot pudding . . . may we make some tomorrow?”
Naomi smiled in the darkness. It was not the proper time to remind her that the carrots in Mr. Duffy’s garden had yet another month to go. “Soon, Trudy. Now go back to sleep.”
The room was small but cozy with a colorful woven rug stretched out between the two narrow beds. They each had a chest of drawers and shared a dressing table and wide wardrobe. Upon the wall hung two watercolors in simple wooden frames—gifts from Christmas past painted by parlormaid Avis Seaton. Naomi’s painting was of a stone garden bench overrun with purple clematis, and Trudy’s, a scene of marigolds growing from an iron washtub.
There was also a brick fireplace, rare in servants’ quarters. She had heard tales of attics so frigid that the unfortunate occupants had to sleep with wash flannels over their faces and would awaken later to find them frozen stiff. And a long garret window more than compensated for the lack of space. It looked out through the leafy treetops of Berkeley Square’s thirty-three plane trees.
She crept down the corridor to the bathroom to sponge bathe and get into her nightgown. No sooner had she settled herself between the sheets when the squeak of the doorknob caused her to sit up in bed. The door opened slowly, and Marie walked into the room, hair wrapped in papers and eyes blinking in the flickering light of the candle she carried.
“Marie?”
She moved closer to the bed and whispered, “Madame wishes to see you.”
“Now?”
“Would I be waking you now if it were any other time?”
“We’ll need currants,” Trudy murmured. “And raisins.”
“Raisins?” Marie said with a perplexed glance toward the other bed.
Naomi threw back her covers and felt for the wrapper hanging from her bedpost. “She has a yearning for carrot pudding.”
The candlelight was all they shared on the staircase, for Marie offered no explanation. “Do you know what this is about?” Naomi finally asked in the bedroom corridor on the next floor.
“All I am allowed to know is that Mr. Swann called this evening.” Marie turned and headed for her own room, leaving Naomi standing in the dark.
Naomi looked at the retreating figure and sighed. There was nothing she could do about Marie’s jealousy, though she understood it. How could she explain, without betraying a confidence, that the only reason Mrs. Blake chose to confide in her was because she had been the one to bring up the subject of a missing grandchild?
Though she had been summoned, she raised her hand to knock softly. A strained voice bade her enter. Lamplight flowed into the corridor as Naomi opened the door. Mrs. Blake sat propped upon pillows, her nightgown-clad figure overwhelmed by the massive proportions of the four-poster bed.
“Forgive me for waking you, Naomi,” the elderly woman said. It was obvious from the anxiety in the lines of her face that she had not slept.
“I wasn’t asleep, Madam. We’ve only just returned from the theatre.”
“And how was the play?”
“It could have been trimmed a bit, but it had its fine moments.”
“I see. Would you care to sit?”
“No, thank you,” Naomi replied after a glance at the nearest chair. With Mrs
. Blake’s mattresses so high from the floor, it would be like trying to chat with someone atop a ladder.
“Mr. Swann paid a call while you were away.”
“Has he come any closer to finding out anything?”
“Yes.” A pause, and then, “Mary Tomkin’s father put the infant on a church porch immediately after she was born.”
Naomi’s breath caught in her throat. “No.”
“According to Mary Tomkin, whom I suppose has no reason to lie about it now.”
“Did she survive?” It dawned upon Naomi that they were speaking of a girl.
“We don’t know.” Mrs. Blake sighed, looking much older and very weary. Her bony fingers worried the lace at the edge of her satin coverlet. “I fear I did something very impulsive and foolish.”
“What is that, Madam?”
“It grieved me so much, the thought of dear Jeremy’s . . . daughter being put out like a pail of rubbish that I ordered Mr. Swann to find her and bring her here to live. If she’s still living.”
“But of course you did. Why would that be foolish?”
“Because I know nothing about her. What if she’s a brat?”
Like her father? Naomi doubted that was so, for surely no child was allowed to rule the roost in an orphanage as Jeremy Blake had been allowed at home. Fearing her mistress on the verge of changing her mind, she suggested, “If you found her company less than agreeable, you could always send her away to school.”
It was what many of the upper class did anyway, for in England it seemed children were an encumbrance to a household. But surely even a boarding school would be preferable to the child’s present situation.
Naomi became aware that her palms were pressed together as if clasping her last penny. She could not help but remember how nine-year-old William had wept on the train journey back from Leicester, his little head buried in his arms in her lap while she helplessly patted his shoulder. Somewhere out there was a girl, if she was still living, who had never had a home and family. Was she suffering? “But it may be that the child will be a comfort to you, Mrs. Blake. Have you ever thought of that?”
Longing came to the aged face, but she shrugged it away. “But what will people say? Vicar Sharp? My friends? I don’t want them to know what Jeremy . . .”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 3
