The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Never? But Saint Matthew’s is but a half mile away, if that far.”

  “We should probably have seen it if not for the buildings,” Sarah explained.

  He gave her a sad little smile. “But you might as well have been on the moon, eh? I don’t suppose there were too many outings.”

  “We took turns going with Mrs. Abbot to the greengrocer’s,” Sarah told him lest he should pity her too much.

  Mr. Swann stared at her for a moment, then reached for a cord above his left arm. Presently the coach slowed to a stop, and he opened the door and stuck out his head. “My good man,” he called, “would you mind letting us have a look at London Bridge?”

  “Oh, please don’t,” Sarah said to his back. Already she had inconvenienced him and the coachman by taking time for farewells. And what if their Mrs. Blake didn’t approve?

  “You’d scarce be able to see it for the fog, sir,” reached her ears.

  “We would be happy for any sight of it,” Mr. Swann persisted in a cordial voice.

  “Please, sir . . .” Sarah attempted.

  “As long as you’re willin’ to explain to the Missus,” the coachman called back. “I’ve all the time in the world!”

  “Very good of you!”

  The solicitor settled back into his seat and smiled as the wheels started turning again. “You’ve been more than gracious about being uprooted at such short notice, Miss Matthews. I think if you have a desire to see the bridge, you should see it.”

  “But Mrs. Blake . . .”

  “Was once a girl herself. She’ll understand.”

  She would have been more reassured had there been more confidence in his voice. But then the anticipation of seeing the bridge pierced just a little of the despondency wrapped around her. “Thank you,” she told him shyly.

  His smile widened. “You’re very welcome.”

  Sarah gave him a smile before timidity moved her back to the window on the left. For some three quarters of an hour she read the signboards on the upper storeys of buildings rising out of the mist, such as HILDYARD’S DOG CAKE, GOOD’S PATENT BOTTLES, and several PREMISES TO BE LET ON LEASE. And then the buildings ceased abruptly, leaving nothing but blank gray space.

  “London Bridge,” said Mr. Swann.

  Sarah squinted out at the distance. “But I don’t see it, sir.”

  “That’s because you’re on it,” he said with a little chuckle.

  Sure enough, when she lowered her eyes, she could see stone roadway extending out to a wall about the height of a man’s waist. People, mostly men wearing top hats or bowlers, moved alongside it. Beyond loomed nothing but fog. She turned to the other window. Traffic moved in the opposite direction, then pedestrians and another wall. They could have been crossing the Sahara for all she could see of the Thames. But it was still London Bridge.

  “I wish you could see the river,” Mr. Swann said. He moved closer and motioned her aside. “But it might be possible to open this window at least.” He pushed the glass up easily, then moved a little hook on each side to keep it in place. The street noises intensified, and she could hear bits of pedestrian conversations. When he raised the window on the opposite side, cool damp air breezed through the coach.

  Sarah stuck her head out the left window and drew in a deep breath. The fog-shrouded river smelled of Drury Lane after a rain, though not quite as foul, and with the faint odor of fish. She was pulling in another breath when from somewhere came an unsettling memory. Tight arms held her close, that same odor all about her. Quickly she sat back in the seat and tried to shake the thought from her head. But it persisted, bringing with it the recollection of water all around her and through her, clogging her nose and mouth. And most terrifying of all, the arms letting go.

  “Are you all right?”

  Mr. Swann’s voice. She had forgotten he was even there, but he stared across at her with concern in his eyes. She pulled her wrap closer. “I’m fine, sir.”

  “You know the bridge is perfectly safe,” he reassured with a smile. “No danger of falling down. Some of those old nursery rhymes aren’t fit for children’s ears.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.” Because he had gone to all the trouble of asking the coachman to bring her here, Sarah told herself she should resume looking out the window. But first she asked, “Would you mind lowering the glass again?”

  Chapter Seven

  “It’ll be good to stretch our limbs again,” William said to Naomi as the Great Northern Railway engine slowed for the approach into King’s Cross Station. They had spent Easter in Leicester, visiting extended family members William had not seen since he was nine. Naomi had thought it important that he do so before setting out again for Oxford on Saturday to begin the two-month Trinity term.

  But they might have been approaching Paris, Naomi told herself, for all they could see from the windows of their second-class coach. “Yes, it will be good,” she replied.

  Still, she would have had the train turn around and start them on the trip all over again if it were possible. She loved the boy as if he were her own and missed him sorely when he was at University. Yet she wouldn’t take any of it away from him. He had worked hard since first arriving at Mrs. Blake’s, balancing duties in the stables and garden with classes at a Wesleyan grammar school on Charing Cross Road. And though he never complained, his duties at Oxford were taxing.

  “What are you thinking?” William asked her.

  She could not tell him without sounding clinging and overly sentimental, so she ignored the question and said, “I suppose the young ladies of Leicester will be inconsolable.”

  “Inconsolable?” he asked, then narrowed his smoke-colored eyes. “They were little girls, Aunt Naomi. And annoying ones at that. I couldn’t even take a stroll without them following.”

  Casually she smoothed a fold from the serge skirt of her peacock-blue-and-black-checked gown. She felt no guilt for teasing him, for he was not above a little teasing himself. “What about Arietta? She’s your age.”

  “You refer to my first cousin Arietta?”

  “Queen Victoria married her first cousin. They were very happy.” In fact, the Queen still wore widow’s weeds, though nine years had passed since the Prince Consort’s death.

  “No, thank you.” He feigned a shudder. “I can appreciate what the fox feels like at the hunt.”

  Finally Naomi allowed herself to smile. “She did seem a little aggressive.”

  The tall gentleman seated in the bench in front of them groaned, causing the wife and small daughter at his right to turn to him. The wife asked, “Have you a headache, Huntley?”

  “Try saying that three times quickly,” William leaned close to whisper, and Naomi gave him a warning look.

  “No, it’s my legs,” the gentleman replied, groaning again as he swayed from side to side like the needle in a metronome. “They’ve gone numb.”

  His wife’s sympathy evaporated. “Well, it’s no wonder, with the scant padding on these seats. I shall be black and blue for weeks!” She went on to upbraid him for his cheapness, her voice becoming more and more nasal in tone, while the little girl resumed staring out the window.

  That explains it, Naomi thought, for she had wondered why a family so finely dressed—his well cut Chesterfield coat, her traveling outfit of rich buff-colored silk trimmed in velvet, and the child’s red poplin dress with matching coat and little cap—would travel second class. Perhaps he was a miser like Ebenezer Scrooge.

  “And what if the Penningtons catch sight of us leaving this coach?” the wife went on. “He won’t be so willing to sell if he thinks you can’t afford—”

  “Would that he give the whole kit and caboodle away to someone else!” her husband cut in, ceasing his swaying. “You’re the one who wants to live in the country, not me!”

  Before Naomi knew what was happening, William was tapping the man’s shoulder. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  She touched his arm. “William . . .”

  But i
t was too late, for the gentleman twisted in his seat and snapped, “Well, what is it?”

  “That expression, sir,” William said in an apologetic tone. “‘Kit and caboodle.’ Would you be so kind as to explain its meaning?”

  “What?”

  “Our coachman collects unusual words and expressions. And I’ll wager he’s never heard that one. Has it to do with a country estate?”

  “You have a coachman?” Disbelief dripped from his tone.

  Curling her fingers around the reticule in her lap, Naomi thought, Gentleman or not, if you hurt that boy, I’ll tell you what I think of your arrogance.

  William only grinned. “Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Blake’s coachman. I clean the stables for him when I’m not helping Mr. Duffy the gardener.”

  The man’s eyes bulged, and Naomi braced herself for the sounding out that would surely follow. But then his face relaxed. “I’m not quite certain, to be honest,” he said, pursing his lips. “But one hears it all the time in that context.”

  “Pray tell . . . what context?”

  The wife and daughter had turned in their seats by then, the wife giving Naomi a curious glance before settling her gaze upon William. “It doesn’t necessarily have to refer to an estate,” she explained. “But if you used it in that context, it would mean everything to do with the estate—the houses, lands, and such.”

  “Everything to do with the estate . . .” William echoed doubtfully.

  The gentleman nodded and, above the squealing of brakes, said, “For example, suppose your trunk were to turn up missing at King’s Cross. You might say to the stationmaster in a fit of pique, ‘You’ve misplaced the whole kit and caboodle,’ meaning not only the trunk but its contents as well.”

  Awareness flooded William’s expression. “Yes, I understand perfectly!”

  “Very good!” the gentleman said with a chuckle, though ignoring the hand William thrust out at him, for they were not of the same social ranking. But he did wish them a subdued good-day before exiting the coach with his family five minutes later.

  “I don’t see Stanley,” William said above the hum of the crowd on the platform as they stepped to the side to make way for other departing passengers.

  “Why don’t you let him find his own words?” Naomi asked him, still smarting from the tone of the man’s “coachman” remark. “And you should have mentioned you’re at Oxford.”

  He gave her a puzzled look. “Why?”

  “So he would know you’re more than just a servant.”

  William’s dark eyes were affectionate upon her. “I failed to mention it because a very wise person once taught me that maintaining one’s integrity is more important than trying to impress others.”

  Tears stung her eyes and she looked away, pretending to search the crowd. He was right, of course. And she could have easily borne the man’s judgment of herself. But she felt so vulnerable when it came to William.

  “Aunt Naomi?”

  At the touch of his hand upon her shoulder, she blinked and turned to smile at him. You can’t shield him from all pain, she had to remind herself. That was how Jeremy Blakes were created. “Well, I still don’t understand Stanley’s fascination with words,” she said with lingering irritation. “It’s not as if he reads.”

  “He says they impress women,” he said before waving into the distance. “It’s Mr. Duffy.”

  Stunned speechless, Naomi followed as he threaded his way around groups of people. She was at first disappointed but then relieved that it was indeed Roger Duffy moving toward them, for she would have had to fight a strong impulse to show Stanley Russell the rough side of her tongue. What is he telling that boy?

  “It’s good to have you both back!” the gardener’s deep voice boomed while his great paw pumped William’s hand. From under the bill of his felt cap, thick joining brows made him appear angry and fierce. The gray-flecked beard sprouting wildly from his face, and that he was built as big as a draught horse added to that illusion. But he was quite pleasant and his smile all the more endearing because of its unlikely source.

  “My uncle sent some gladioli bulbs,” the boy told him.

  “Very fine.” After exchanging greetings with Naomi, he lifted his dark brows meaningfully. “Stanley took the coach on a errand. So Mrs. Bacon said I should hire a hackney so’s you won’t be lookin’ for him to come for you all day.”

  There was clearly more to the story, which prompted Naomi to send William to find a porter. When he was out of earshot, the gardener glanced at the faces in the immediate vicinity and said in an undertone, “That lawyer found the girl yesterday.”

  “Yes?” Naomi breathed.

  He nodded. “But the woman over to the orphanage said he should come back today. So mayhap she’ll be there, mayhap she won’t.”

  “Oh, I do hope so.”

  “Aye.”

  “But has Mrs. Blake said anything to the others?”

  “Last night after supper Mrs. Bacon called us together in the sitting room. The Missus said she was considerin’ taking in an orphan girl in the morning.” His eyes, brown as the soil he tended, were bitter. “Made it sound like she was bein’ charitable, after all this time.”

  Naomi put a hand upon his sleeve. “She is, Mr. Duffy. Better late than not at all.”

  ****

  Jules did not attempt to engage the girl in conversation as the coach moved down Piccadilly. She seemed content to sit and stare out the window, though for a minute on the bridge he had wondered if she was taking ill. And he had his own thoughts to mull over, such as how good it would be to spend more time at his desk, even though his clientele would be decidedly less well-heeled than Mrs. Blake.

  When the coach turned north onto Berkeley Street, Jules cleared his throat. “We’re almost to Berkeley Square.”

  She turned to give him a smile that did not travel up to her somber green eyes.

  “It’s so called because it’s situated around a square—or rather rectangle,” he said. “It’s one of the loveliest spots in London. I brought my daughters there once to have ices at GUNTERS. They set up tables in the square . . .”

  This time she nodded in the middle of his words. Her expression was pinched, as if her mind was so filled with foreboding that she could not concentrate on what he was saying. He decided to spare her the description of the plane trees. She would have years to make their acquaintance.

  They stopped midway up Berkeley Row, a continuation of Berkeley Street on the east side of the square. No. 14 was a four-storey stone Georgian, standing cheek by jowl with other houses just as old and magnificent. Spotless windows shone above boxes filled with early blooming flowers. There were ornate lamp holders and spear-headed iron railings running the length of each side from the arched portico. To the right of the four white entrance steps, another set of steps descended to the tradesman’s entrance.

  “I’ll wait here for you, sir,” the affable Stanley said after opening the coach’s door.

  “Thank you.” Jules allowed Sarah to be assisted to the pavement before he stepped out himself, scooping up her forgotten bundle under his arms. The girl stood staring up at the top floors, her head so inclined that he feared she might lose her balance.

  “Your new home, Miss Matthews.”

  When their eyes met, hers were filled with fright instead of the awe he expected. “This is it?” she asked in a voice between a croak and whisper.

  “Yes, it is. Shall we?”

  She nodded resignedly. “Yes, sir.”

  Mrs. Bacon answered his ring at the arched oak door. Framed by the coolness of the hall, the housekeeper peered at them through wire spectacles perched upon the tip of her nose. “Good morning, Mr. Swann,” she said, stepping back so they could enter. She was perhaps fifty, with graying brown hair drawn up into a topknot. Her status as the highest-ranking female servant allowed her to clothe her tall figure with gowns of her own choosing—in this instance, a rose calico. She wore an apron, however, from which dangled a chain wi
th several keys.

  “Good morning.” Jules handed over his hat and entered, figuring the girl would rather follow than be pushed right away into her new circumstance. He turned and was relieved that she had indeed stepped across the threshold. “This is Sarah Matthews, Mrs. Bacon.”

  Sarah had the look of an animal cornered, but she dipped into a curtsey. The housekeeper’s smile widened. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Matthews. But you mustn’t go bowing to me. Now, may I relieve you of that shawl?”

  “Yes, Madam,” Sarah said, causing the housekeeper to send Jules an amused look.

  The girl clearly had no idea that being a ward meant she did not address servants with courtesy titles. Jules wondered what she would think about being the granddaughter of the owner of the house. It would probably overwhelm her.

  To Jules, Mrs. Bacon said, “Mrs. Blake is expecting you in the parlor, sir.”

  “Shall we?” he asked Sarah for the second time.

  But Mrs. Bacon shook her head. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Swann, but she wishes to see you first. I’ll wait here with Miss Matthews.”

  “Very well.” Jules set her bundle on a brightly polished rosewood settle, and after sending Sarah another smile, he walked down the corridor. He knew his way well, having met with Mrs. Blake several times over the past six months. At the staircase he paused to glance behind him. Sarah sat next to her bundle on the settle while Mrs. Bacon asked her questions about the ride over. As he climbed the stairs, Jules thought it was good that the servants he had met here proved to be sociable. The only exception was a lady’s maid, who glowered at him every time she was sent away so Mrs. Blake could meet with him in private.

  “Come in,” a familiar voice responded to his knock.

  He opened the parlor door and walked inside. Mrs. Blake sat alone on the sofa, long hands folded upon her lap. There was a degree of anxiousness in her expression. He was certain it was because he was not able to assure her yesterday that he would turn up today with her granddaughter.

  That assumption proved correct when she said before inviting him to take a seat, “Is she here?”