The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Yes, thank you.” Because she was so amiable, Sarah said after a second’s hesitation, “But you don’t have to address me as ‘Miss Matthews.’ No one ever did at the Home.”

  In the mirror, Hester’s reflection wore an understanding smile. “And you ain’t used to it, are you?”

  “I’m just a child. It doesn’t seem right.”

  “But Mrs. Blake wishes it so.”

  “But why? Is a ward so important?”

  A guarded expression crossed the maid’s comely face. Just as quickly the smile returned. “Yes, very important. And now let’s have that look about, shall we?”

  She still did not understand but rose to her feet and pushed the bench beneath the table. It was at the doorway that she balked. Hester’s good-natured attentions had changed the tone of the room a bit, to where it seemed less intimidating than what was on the other side. Marie no longer terrified her, but there was someone who did. She looked up at the maid. Dare she confess her fear?

  “What’s wrong, love?” Hester asked. “You ain’t still afeared of Marie, are you?”

  Sarah glanced out into the corridor and decided to take the chance. “Mrs. Blake,” she whispered. “What should I say if I see her?”

  “Just wait and see if she speaks first. She’s had a hard lot, the Missus, with her husband and son dead and rheumatism in her joints. But you’ve no cause to fear—she’s kind enough in her own way.”

  Sarah felt a tug of sympathy for the elderly woman. Mrs. Forsyth had said she had no family, but she had not had time to consider, even when Marie pointed out the doors to the two unoccupied rooms, that it meant loved ones would have had to die for that to be so. She was about to ask how it had happened when Hester said, “Now, we’d best show you around before someone puts me back to work.”

  * * *

  After the trunk was delivered to the cellar, it took Naomi and her nephew some minutes to go through it for the few articles of clothing that should not be washed, such as belts, hats, and shoes, along with the small items they had bought—she, a figurine of a shepherdess, and he, a folding pocket knife. Fortunately no one was about, so Naomi was able to have her private chat with William.

  “Mrs. Blake has brought a girl here to live. . . .”

  “You mean she found her granddaughter,” William said, shifting his belongings in his arms. “I didn’t leave my toothbrush, did I?”

  Naomi blinked at him. “Who told you that?” He couldn’t have figured it out for himself, for he did not even live in the household when Mary Tomkin was dismissed. Besides, she had rather hoped he had no knowledge of the depravation of which humans were capable. He’s only sixteen!

  He simply gave her a maddening smile. “Aunt Naomi, I hear talk.”

  She had taken it for granted that the servants would eventually figure out the identity of the girl. But before she even arrived? “You haven’t been spreading talk yourself, have you?”

  “Why would I do that? It’s none of my affair.”

  “Well, do keep it that way. And when you see her, try not to look at her hand. Claire says she has a birth deformity.”

  “What a shame,” he said with a grim nod. “But I doubt if I’ll even see her. Mr. Duffy says he intends to get as much work as he can out of me before I leave.”

  Naomi patted his cheek and was stricken to feel faint bristles against her fingers. “When did you start shaving?”

  There was amusement in his dark eyes. “Over a year ago, Aunt Naomi. But we left so early this morning I hadn’t the time.”

  Why did you have to grow up so fast? Naomi asked silently, but then asked herself, Would you have him stay a child forever?

  “Your toothbrush is there in your hand,” she said. “And Mr. Duffy will wait till you have some lunch in your belly.”

  She gathered up her own belongings and went down the corridor into the kitchen, from which wafted the familiar smell of roast beef with garlic cloves—many, many garlic cloves. Trudy turned from stirring a pot on the gas stove. Her face lit.

  “Here, take this!” she said to Avis.

  The parlormaid took over the stirring with twice as much relief in her expression as there was in Trudy’s. In her late twenties, Avis had auburn hair and owlish gray eyes. Her figure was spindly thin in spite of a healthy appetite at the table, and she interjected little laughs into even the most serious of discussions. Naomi believed her skittishness was due to the eleven years she spent in the employ of a shrewish woman in Chelsea before Mrs. Bacon hired her last year.

  Trudy hurried over to throw her arms around Naomi, belongings and all. “It’s so good to have you back! They’ve done naught but complain about the cooking!”

  “There, now. I’m sure your meals were just fine.”

  “You wouldn’t know it by the comments that was made,” Trudy said, with Avis nodding agreement from the stove.

  Disengaging herself gently from Trudy’s arms, for the staff of the porcelain shepherdess was digging into her ribs, Naomi asked, “Were they eaten?”

  “Well . . . yes.”

  “Then they couldn’t have been that awful, could they?”

  She went upstairs to change her clothes, for the kitchen was no place for her serge traveling outfit, which would have to last for years to justify the three pounds she spent for it. Several clean and starched uniforms hung on her side of the wardrobe. After slipping into one, she paused at the mirror over her chest of drawers to anchor some extra hairpins into her chignon. You just can’t stay away from the kitchen, can you? she asked the travel-weary face staring back at her, for neither Mrs. Blake nor Mrs. Bacon would have complained had she waited until supper or even tomorrow to resume her duties.

  Downstairs, she took an apron from the cupboard drawer and flapped out the folds.

  Trudy shook her head. “You should rest, Naomi.”

  “And allow you two to have all the fun?”

  “Will you be needing me?” Avis asked in a tone that invited refusal.

  Naomi smiled understanding. She had learned long ago that not everyone loved pottering about in a kitchen as much as she did. “I’ll help Trudy if you’ll lay the cloth.”

  Avis shot her a grateful look and gave a little laugh. “I’ll never complain about dusting again!”

  When she was gone, Trudy glanced at the door and said, “You came back not a moment too soon, Naomi. All she did was go on and on about that beau of hers!” Avis corresponded with an Army sergeant on duty in Nigeria—they planned to marry in six years, when his enlistment was concluded. “I know more about him than I know about my own brother.”

  “She misses him.” Naomi opened the oven door with a folded dish towel. A blast of hot air met her face, along with the odor of garlic and singed beef flesh. “We should take this out now,” she said, only because saying, “You should have taken this out fifteen minutes ago” would hurt Trudy’s feelings and serve no constructive purpose. She was on her way over to the worktable with the hot roasting pan when Hester walked through the doorway with a girl in tow.

  “This is Miss Sarah Matthews,” Hester said with a hand upon the girl’s shoulder.

  At least Marie didn’t drown her, Naomi thought. She set the pan on the oak table. “Hello, Miss Matthews,” she greeted, with Trudy coming over from the stove to echo the same. “We’re happy to have you here.”

  “Thank you.”

  The girl dipped into a curtsey, then looked a little embarrassed for having done so. Swallowed by a garment that looked oddly familiar, she had large green eyes under a short mop of pale cherubic curls. Naomi could see no resemblance to Mary Tomkin nor to Jeremy Blake. Perhaps when she fills out a bit. She did not have to worry about showing any reaction to the crippled hand, for the girl kept it down at her side.

  “Thank you for lending me your gown,” she said to Trudy. “I’ll try to take good care of it.”

  “Oh, but it’s not mine—it belongs to Avis. But I’m happy it fits you.” Trudy pulled a face as her eyes moved
over the garment. “Well, almost fits you.”

  Hester and Trudy laughed, and Naomi smiled. And the girl smiled for the first time since entering the kitchen. It was a tenuous, fragile little movement, but with enough power to capture Naomi’s heart. Not that that was such a hard battle to win.

  Chapter Ten

  After leaving the warmth of the kitchen and its heavenly aromas, Sarah was led to the sitting room on the ground floor. It resembled the parlor in that there were sofas and chairs and tables, but the colors were more sunny and cheerful. A woman with reddish hair—but not so red as Hester’s—was arranging silver cutlery upon a small cloth-covered table. “This is Avis,” Hester said. “She’s a parlormaid along with Claire, who you ain’t met yet.”

  “Thank you for lending me your gown,” Sarah told her. “I’ll take good care of it.”

  Avis gave a fluttering little laugh. The wrists protruding from her sleeves were almost as thin as Sarah’s as she set a plate upon the table. “You’re welcome, Miss Matthews. My mother made it—she’s a seamstress in Chelsea. I visit her on my half days off. She says green is most flattering to auburn hair. But the color suits you well enough, though you’re dreadfully white. You’ve not been ill, have you?”

  “Not recently,” Sarah assured her after a glance at Hester, who winked.

  “That’s good. My fiancé came near to dying from malaria when he was eighteen, and he says his coloring has never been the same. Edwin Price is his name. He used to be ruddy faced, like his father and brothers, though I suspect it’s gin that keeps the glow in his brother Ralph’s cheeks. Why, his nose shines like a new penny.”

  “The Missus has her meals in here most days,” Hester said when the parlormaid took a breath. “The dining room table’s too big for one person—or two. You’ll be joining her.”

  Sarah’s pulse jumped. “Me?”

  “You’ll do just fine, love.” To Avis she said, “Ain’t the soup spoons supposed to be on the other side?”

  Avis touched her own forehead and made the little laugh again. “Silly me.”

  “Look about if you like, Miss Matthews. I should see to my work now.”

  You can’t ask her to stay, Sarah ordered herself. She couldn’t expect Hester to neglect her duties from now on just to nursemaid her. She glanced around the room. A peek through the doorway was all she had seen during the hurried tour. It would take hours, she imagined, to inspect every figurine, vase, statue, and painting. One glass-fronted cupboard was devoted to serene-faced Oriental dolls, exquisite down to their fingernails and the embroidery on their silk garments.

  “Lovely, aren’t they?” Avis said.

  “I’ve never seen anything like them,” Sarah replied.

  “They’re from Japan,” came a voice from the doorway. Again her pulse jumped. She turned to find Mrs. Blake entering the room, oddly smaller than she had seemed in the parlor, while Marie hovered at her side. Sarah curtseyed.

  “You curtsey very nicely, Sarah, but I shall grow weary of you bobbing like that every time you set eyes upon me.”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “Very well. Come to the table.”

  There were only two place settings, which surprised Sarah because if she was allowed to dine at the table, surely Marie would. But it seemed the lady’s maid’s only reason for being there was to pull out her mistress’s chair. Sarah waited behind hers, just as she had been taught to do at Saint Matthew’s—never mind that there were long benches instead of chairs. The courtesy seemed to please both women, for once Mrs. Blake was seated she nodded up at her, and the lady’s maid gave her a faint smile before her face reassumed its stern expression.

  Sarah had read of people using linen napkins at meals, and after watching Mrs. Blake unfold hers and place it in her lap, she did likewise. But the arrangement of so much cutlery was mystifying. And the plate, almost transparent in its fineness and rimmed in gold, was too beautiful to sully with her food. She became so intimidated by it all that her appetite left her in spite of the rumblings in her stomach. The two maids left the room when another came through the doorway, pushing a trolley clattering with dishes.

  “How did she get that up the stairs?” Sarah wondered aloud.

  “We have a dumbwaiter,” Mrs. Blake replied.

  Though she had no idea what that meant, Sarah nodded. “I see. Thank you.”

  Her expression must have mirrored her confusion, for Mrs. Blake added as the maid, whom she addressed as “Claire,” ladled reddish brown soup into bowls, “A dumbwaiter is a contraption that carries things from the kitchen. Do sit up straight, Sarah. A lady’s back should not touch the back of her chair at mealtimes.”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon.” Sarah straightened but thought, Then how does a lady relax? They might as well have been seated on Saint Matthew’s benches. Would that she were.

  Claire moved to stand watchfully next to a fireplace of white marble. She was older than Hester and Avis, pleasantly rounded, with light brown hair and a serene smile. Mrs. Blake picked up a spoon from the outside of her place setting, and Sarah followed her lead. Her appetite returned with the first spoonful. She had never known soup could be so thick, with chunks of cabbage, potatoes, celery, and carrots. She had to pace herself so as not to get ahead of Mrs. Blake, who ate so slowly that Sarah thought she would never survive in an orphanage.

  After Claire whisked the soup bowls smoothly away, there were pickled beets, sprouts in a white sauce, something Mrs. Blake explained as macaroni pudding with bits of ham, and a thick slice of roast beef. Sarah could recall having had roast beef only on a couple of special occasions, and then only the tiniest sliver. But as the elderly woman picked up her knife and fork, Sarah could only stare at hers. She would rather starve than open herself up to criticism by spearing it with her fork to nibble at the sides, much less pick it up with her fingers.

  “Shall I cut that up for you, Miss Matthews?” Claire asked.

  Sarah could have wept for relief. “Yes, please.”

  Mrs. Blake busied herself with cutting up her own beef. Accustomed to silence at mealtimes, and intimidated by her lunch companion, Sarah was grateful that the elderly woman did not attempt conversation or look at her. Sarah kept her eyes upon her own food unless glancing up to see that she was using the proper utensil or eating too fast. She would have been a total wreck were it not for Claire, who smiled at her every time she whisked away one dish to replace it with another.

  The sweet was a rhubarb tart covered with cream, heavenly to taste. Sarah was so unaccustomed to having so much to eat at once that she felt relieved when Mrs. Blake put her spoon down beside her half-finished dish.

  “But you don’t have to stop just because I am,” Mrs. Blake said after Sarah put hers down as well.

  “It was delicious,” Sarah said apologetically. “But I should pop if I ate another bite.”

  “Dear me. We can’t have that.” The smile was as ill-fitting to her face as Avis’s wrapper to Sarah’s frame, but the sight of it emboldened Sarah enough to speak.

  “I’m sorry about your husband and son.”

  Mrs. Blake stared as if she had not quite heard, eventually saying, “Thank you.” She turned toward a large portrait on the wall of a man wearing a scarlet coat with a dog lounging at his feet. There were smaller portraits of this same man on other walls and staring back at her from tabletops. Sarah wasn’t sure if he was Mrs. Blake’s husband or son. The woman did not make it any clearer when she murmured with pale eyes brimming, “My heart died with him that day.”

  “I’m sorry,” was all Sarah could think to say.

  Mrs. Blake turned to Claire. “You may go now.”

  “Yes, mum,” Claire said and obeyed with the squeak of trolley wheels upon carpeting. As the door closed, Mrs. Blake looked at Sarah again. “Help me to my feet, child.”

  Sarah was on her feet at once and pulled out the woman’s chair. They walked together to the portrait. Mrs. Blake stared up at it with so much longing and sadness in he
r expression that pity welled up in Sarah’s heart.

  “We wake up thinking we will spend our day in the usual way,” Mrs. Blake murmured. “Occupied with so many little unimportant things, blindly unaware that by nightfall our lives will never be the same.”

  That was something Sarah would not have understood only a day ago. Her throat thickened.

  “I would give the rest of my life to have him here with me again for just one hour. He was a joy to me from the minute he was born.”

  The son, Sarah realized. With a respectful tone she asked, “How did he die?”

  “He was murdered. Savagely.” Mrs. Blake turned watery blue eyes toward her. “I’m going to nap now, Sarah. You may help me up the stairs.”

  In silence they walked up two flights of stairs, the elderly woman holding the banister with one hand and linking her other arm through Sarah’s. At the landing Mrs. Blake said, “I can manage from here.”

  Unsure of what she was supposed to do with herself, Sarah looked down the corridor. Without Hester, her room seemed no more of a refuge than any other in the house. Besides, she was certain her thoughts would not settle down enough to allow her to nap.

  “What is the matter?” Mrs. Blake asked.

  “Oh, nothing, Madam.” With effort she stretched her lips into a smile. “Thank you for taking me in.”

  “Are you fond of reading?”

  “Oh, very much.”

  “Then feel free to acquaint yourself with the library until your clothing arrives. It’s next to the room where we lunched.”

  Immediately her spirits lifted. She dared to ask, “May I read one of the books?”

  There seemed to be a flicker of amusement in the elderly eyes. “Read as many as you like. You would find my late husband’s shipbuilding journals tedious, but there are some novels that will be to your liking.”

  Sarah gushed her thanks and, when the door was closed, hurried downstairs. The library was more masculine than the parlor and sitting room, with heavy dark furniture and paneled walls. She imagined that the late Mr. Blake and his son spent much time there reading together or perhaps playing chess at the magnificent chess table with tall ivory pieces carved into Roman and Hessian soldiers. A huge map of twelfth-century Britain was framed upon one wall, alongside a portrait of Admiral Nelson. Upon another table sat a toy clipper ship large enough to sail a litter of puppies.