How could that have happened if she came here as an infant? Had Mrs. Forsyth confused her with another girl? That didn’t seem possible. More likely, the older girl had made the mistake. Or you dreamed the whole conversation, Sarah told herself.
“Come with me, Sarah.”
They walked down the row of beds. Mrs. Forsyth’s familiar black-bound Bible lay open upon Sarah’s mattress. The headmistress picked it up and then sat, motioning her to sit beside her. “Do you remember the story of Naaman’s servant girl?”
“Yes, Mrs. Forsyth.” Thanks to daily chapel before the start of school, the girls of Saint Matthew’s were well grounded in Scripture.
The headmistress smiled. “Very good. Allow me to read it to you again. ‘Now Naaman, captain of the host of the king of Syria, was a great man with his master, and honourable, because by him the Lord had given deliverance unto Syria: he was also a mighty man in valour, but he was a leper. And the Syrians had gone out by companies, and had brought away captive out of the land of Israel a little maid; and she waited on Naaman’s wife. And she said unto her mistress, “Would God my lord were with the prophet that is in Samaria! For he would recover him of his leprosy.” ’”
“What happened next, Sarah?” she asked.
“Naaman went to Elisha,” Sarah began, noticing that her voice was beginning to sound squeaky, like the privy door. “He sent a message for him to wash in the River Jordan seven times.”
“And Naaman was healed.” Mrs. Forsyth smiled again, though the hazel eyes were sad. “The little maid was torn from her family, having every right to sulk and despise the people in that household, and yet she became a blessing to them.”
Sarah’s skin began to prickle.
“We don’t know what ever happened to the girl. But it’s written here that Naaman attempted, unsuccessfully, to reward Elisha with silver and fine clothing. So we can be certain he rewarded the little servant girl in some way as well.”
She paused as if expecting some comment, but Sarah could only nod.
Mrs. Forsyth closed the Bible in her lap. “When we seek to become blessings to others, Sarah, we find ourselves blessed. Perhaps not right away, and not always in material things, but just the same we reap what we sow eventually. Even though we don’t know the little maid’s name, she teaches us to find a way to make the best of any situation in which we find ourselves.”
Thirteen is too young to be sent away, Sarah reminded herself. She realized that Mrs. Forsyth had started speaking again and guiltily focused her attention on her.
“ . . . by an attorney yesterday, who represents a Mrs. Arthur Blake. She would like you to come and live with her.”
The prickles in her skin made her shudder. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“In a house?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Forsyth smiled. “A very nice one, actually.”
“But why? She’s never even met me.”
“She’s without family and lonely, according to her solicitor, and has asked for a girl to be a companion to her.”
It was against the rules to argue, but Sarah couldn’t help but feel this was a mistake. There were plenty of girls who spoke of their longings to live in a real house. “But wouldn’t it be better to send someone else?” She thought of Helen, who slept two beds over and played piano in chapel. Anyone would be charmed to have such a girl for a companion. “Helen would be—”
“This is something you must do, Sarah,” Mrs. Forsyth cut in with a little edge to her voice, yet she did not seem angry. “One day you’ll understand. I want you to gather your things and come down to the parlor.”
“Yes, Mrs. Forsyth.” Sarah’s eyes clouded. “May I tell everyone good-bye?”
“Yes, of course.” But then she reconsidered and shook her head. “Wait until after Mrs. Blake’s attorney comes for you.”
Mrs. Forsyth did not explain, but Sarah understood and pressed her hand in closer to her left side. For once she was glad for her deformity. Surely the attorney would take one look at her and change his mind. Or this Mrs. Blake would.
“I’ll see you downstairs.”
“Yes, Mrs. Forsyth.”
The headmistress rose, and Sarah did so as well. Before she could step aside to allow Mrs. Forsyth into the aisle, Sarah felt the touch of her hand upon her shoulder.
“When I realized I could bear no children,” Mrs. Forsyth said with hazel eyes somber, “I thought the disappointment would kill me. But out of that pain came a life so fulfilling that I thank God for every day of it. You must build a faith so strong that it will see beyond the pain.”
“I’ll try,” Sarah whispered. But she couldn’t imagine never hearing from her friends again—if this Mrs. Blake did not send her back. “May I write?”
Sadly, the woman shook her head. “I don’t think that would be wise, Sarah. Again, it’s very important that you direct your energies toward making the most of your new situation.” She drew Sarah into her arms. As Mrs. Forsyth’s embraces were usually reserved for the smaller girls, Sarah choked back tears and wished they could stay like that forever.
“But remember you have someone who is a Father to the fatherless, Sarah,” the headmistress said over her head.
“Yes. Thank you.”
After watching the woman’s blurred image walk down the corridor of beds, Sarah pulled the apple crate from beneath her bed and began spreading her treasures upon her mattress. Most were gifts from the charity ladies from Christmases past. A wooden-handled toothbrush. A worn copy of Jane Austen’s Emma. A slightly chipped china mug with a serene young Queen Victoria on the side. A stone from the tiny garden, imprinted with what appeared to be the backbone of a fossilized little animal. From the nails over her headboard she took her extra clothing—a pair of wool stockings, linens, her nightgown, extra gown, and green crochet wrap, fuzzy from years of being handed down.
Mrs. Forsyth had not told her how to pack, so she spread the spare gown and arranged everything else to be rolled inside. The wrap she folded in case she should need it outside. Straightening again, she tucked the bundle and wrap under her left arm.
She looked longingly at her feather pillow. The other girls teased her, telling her she could rest her head just as comfortably on a handkerchief. Since no one else seemed to appreciate a thin pillow, she considered bringing it downstairs and asking Mrs. Forsyth if she might take it with her. But the impulse passed. She had seen beds emptied and filled on the same day. Someone from downstairs would move up to take her place, making room for the inevitable younger one. She leaned down to give the patched, yellowed case a loving pat, saying to the empty room, “You’ll like the pillow once you’re used to it.”
Chapter Six
“I thought you might be here early,” Mrs. Forsyth told Jules Swann from the parlor chair facing his.
She had served him a cup of tea that was comfortingly hot on such a brisk April morning but weaker than even his frugal wife, Anne, brewed. Still, it was better than no tea at all, which was what he had had at home, for he had just been sitting down to breakfast when Mrs. Blake’s coachman, a good-natured fellow by the name of Stanley Russell, had knocked at his door.
“Not too early, I trust?” Jules replied.
“She’s gathering her belongings now.”
“Very good.” After another sip from his cup, he said, “I do thank you for deciding in Mrs. Blake’s favor.” And she had announced such before he could point out that his client had doubled the amount of the bank check lying upon her chair arm. He was almost glad she had given him such a fright yesterday, for now the good woman would be able to buy even more provisions for the orphans. And hopefully some fresh tea.
“Please thank her for her generosity,” Mrs. Forsyth said. There was a click as she leaned forward to replace her cup and saucer on the tray. “And while Sarah is still upstairs, there is something I should tell you.”
The gravity in her voice made him a little anxious. “Yes?”
“She has a
deformed hand.”
“A deformed . . .” Jules found himself echoing stupidly.
“A defect of birth. Did Miss Tomkin not tell you?”
He shook his head and wondered if he should take leave to inform Mrs. Blake. Putting himself in her place, he would not be deterred from taking the girl in. Family was family. But his client’s frame of mind was still a mystery to him. She had paid a small fortune to find and take custody of her grandchild, yes, but did that mean she expected perfection for that money?
“Is this a problem, Mr. Swann?”
He sighed and set his own half-finished cup on the tray. “I’m just uncertain of what she’ll think. Mrs. Blake, that is.”
“Then perhaps you should go and tell her. I wouldn’t want Sarah to suffer the humiliation of being rejected and sent back.”
Again Jules sighed, pulling himself to his feet. “It wouldn’t matter to me, you understand.”
“I understand.”
“Thank you.” Unnecessarily, for she had not risen from her chair, he said, “I’ll show myself out.” He took his hat from the stand and opened the door. Through the fog he could see Stanley leaning against Mrs. Blake’s handsome brougham coach, hands hooked under armpits while he chatted with a young woman wearing the garb of a factory worker.
He’ll be disappointed to leave, Jules thought wryly. But that wasn’t what compelled him to glance back over his shoulder. It was an odd feeling that the situation had somehow changed. And sure enough, a very thin girl stood in the arched doorway.
He turned the rest of his body around. Large green eyes—which locked with his for just a fraction of a second before lowering—were set in a face almost transparent for its paleness. Her nose was straight, her features delicate beneath a cap of hair the color of corn silk. Compared to his daughters, who loved the out-of-doors and had to be reminded constantly by their mother to shield their faces from the sun, the girl looked sickly.
Mrs. Forsyth was staring up at him from her chair. Suddenly Jules felt very silly and more than a little ashamed. What had Mrs. Blake hired him to do, find her a purebred pup? He replaced his hat on the stand. “Yes, I see the coach is still there.”
The headmistress gave him a knowing smile and motioned the girl to come into the room. She carried a bundle of gray cloth the same color as the dress she wore and a folded bit of hideous green wool. “Mr. Swann, this is Sarah,” Mrs. Forsyth said.
Jules gave a little bow. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Sarah.”
“Thank you, sir,” the girl said in a strained voice as she dipped into a bob.
He tried not to stare at the misshapen hand at the end of the arm curled around the bundle. Yet he could not help but dart another glance. Surely Mrs. Blake would feel the same pity that touched his heart. It occurred to him to wonder why Mrs. Hogarth had not mentioned her daughter’s deformity, but then, why would she feel it necessary?
“Are you ready to leave?” he asked gently and caught sight of the panic in her eyes before she turned again to the headmistress.
“Sarah would like to say her farewells to everyone,” Mrs. Forsyth told him. “Would you mind waiting a bit longer?”
“But of course not. Take all the time you need.”
“Thank you,” the girl murmured with a feeble attempt at a smile.
“You may leave your things here,” Mrs. Forsyth said. She turned again to Jules after Sarah had put her belongings in the second empty chair and left the room. “It’s very kind of you to wait.”
“I don’t mind.” Jules sat down and picked up his cup again. “It will give me time to finish this excellent tea.”
Reaching for the teapot, she gave him an amused little smile. “You are quite the diplomat, aren’t you, Mr. Swann?”
She had seen right through him, and he laughed appreciatively. “One learns to be when he lives in a household of women.”
* * *
If Sarah did not want to leave before, her reluctance intensified when she stood at the center of a circle of weeping girls in the schoolroom. Even Mrs. Kettner sobbed profusely into a handkerchief.
“But didn’t he see your hand?” Becky, who shared a desk with her, asked as tears streamed down her freckled face.
“I made sure of that,” Sarah replied. She wouldn’t allow herself to weep for fear that she would not be able to stop, but the lump in her throat had welled to a raw ache. After embracing and trading endearments with everyone in the room, she went to the nursery to bid farewell to Miss Woodward and the babies, and then down to the kitchen, where Miss Jacobs wept and planted kisses upon her forehead, and Mrs. Abbot stopped kneading bread to catch her up in a floury squeeze.
She had not even left yet, and the homesickness lay so heavy upon her heart she considered finding a place to hide until Mr. Swann grew weary of waiting and chose a more willing girl. But that would anger and embarrass Mrs. Forsyth. You’ll have to make the best of this, she told herself as her leaden feet carried her back to the parlor.
“I’m ready, sir,” she told Mr. Swann.
* * *
I should have found her a sack. Olivia stood in the doorway and watched Mr. Swann carry Sarah’s little bundle out to a waiting coach. In the cellar were several tin trunks provided by the Methodist Ladies’ Home Mission Society for those girls going into domestic service, with enough storage room for two alpaca uniforms, some undergarments, and a nightgown. But a tin trunk was the customary baggage of a servant, which Sarah was not to be.
At the door to the coach, which a handsome man in full livery held open, the girl turned to wave. Olivia returned the wave and watched her step inside. The sight of the fine brougham and team of two horses had been a little reassuring, for she recalled Mr. Swann had arrived in a hired hansom yesterday. Hopefully it meant that Mrs. Blake was willing to go to some pains to make Sarah feel important.
She has no knowledge of what I’ve done, Father, Olivia prayed. So please don’t lay any of my punishment to her account.
Olivia nodded at Mr. Swann, who also looked back at her before climbing inside. The coachman was climbing up to his box and taking up the reins. A white face stared at her from the window. Olivia waved again, smiling reassuringly. She watched them move down Drury Lane and disappear into the fog, then she closed the door. There were sixty-one other girls who needed her.
* * *
Sarah’s heart ached as if a fist held it in an iron grip. She pulled her green wrap around herself and stared out the window. All that was visible through the morning fog were ghostly facades of buildings and houses.
“You can see more on this side,” Mr. Swann said from the rear-facing seat with a nod toward her right.
“Thank you.” She turned her face to look simply out of politeness. In the opposite direction headed an endless parade of dray wagons and carriages, riders on horseback, and coaches. She was surrounded by sounds—wheels humming, hoofbeats against cobbled stones, and human voices. A hackney cab driver peered down at the window and tipped his hat. Sarah turned her face away. Mr. Swann gave her an uneven-toothed smile.
“It’s a big city, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied, lowering her eyes to stare at the worn felt hat balanced upon his knees so she wouldn’t have to look at his face. Not because she blamed him, because as Mrs. Forsyth had said, he had been employed by the woman whose companion she was to become, whatever that entailed. But she hardly knew the man, and the farther they traveled, the less secure she felt. What Mrs. Forsyth had said about Naaman’s servant girl returned to her mind. At least you aren’t in chains, she told herself.
“I have daughters too.”
He said this after clearing his throat, which led Sarah to wonder if he felt as awkward as she did. Surely not, with his being an adult.
“Four of them, actually.”
She glanced at his face and then down at the hat again. “How old are they?”
“Let’s see,” he said, folding his arms. “Margaret is fifteen, Kathy, fourteen,
Elaine, nine, and Lucy, six—no, she’s seven now. She asked for a set of watercolors for her birthday, and now all she cares to do is paint.”
With effort Sarah mustered a polite smile. Actually, the warmth in his voice put her a little more at ease. Surely a father who loved his children would not bring another child to a situation that would be intolerable.
“Flowers, birds, houses . . .” The man went on. “She even attempted my portrait. I didn’t say this to Lucy, mind you, but if only there would have been a hoop in my ear, I would have made a fearsome pirate.”
This time the smile wasn’t such an effort. Sarah had never given much thought to what it would be like to have a flesh-and-blood father, but she found herself wondering if Mr. Swann’s daughters knew how fortunate they were.
“We’re on Piccadilly, by the way,” he said with a nod toward a window. “Berkeley Square is to the west.”
“Will we cross London Bridge?” she asked impulsively.
“The London Bridge?”
“Yes, sir.” There were others she had learned about in school such as Blackfrier’s and Waterloo, but their names were not attached to the game she had played in the tiny courtyard with her friends at least a thousand times.
“I’m afraid not. It’s in the opposite direction.”
They had traveled for some time and through fog as thick as treacle. But she could not resist turning to peek out of the small oblong back window, just in case. All she could see were the pair of draft horses and the wagon moving behind them.
“Have you never seen the bridge?” Mr. Swann asked.
She turned back around in her seat. “No, sir. I’ve not even seen the Thames.”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 6
