The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  But best of all was the entire wall filled with shelves of books. Most were bound in leather, with titles etched in gilt—not shoddy and worn like Saint Matthew’s small donated collection. Sarah felt as if she were in a confectioner’s shop, something one of the girls at the Home had described to her, and with penny enough to only choose one sweet. Which book first?

  After some time she chose Barnaby Rudge by Dickens, and after ten minutes of sitting stiffly upright in one of the leather chairs, yielded to the temptation to sink back into it. Surely a young lady wasn’t constrained to perch herself uncomfortably when no one was present to witness her doing so.

  * * *

  “You should have seen how kindly Marie was,” Hester said at the table in the servants’ hall. All were present except for the subject of her observation, who was at her usual solitary tray in her room.

  Claire Duffy shook her head while passing the saltcellar to her husband, Roger. “Forgive me for saying so, but I just can’t imagine it.”

  “Neither can I,” Stanley Russell drawled. The groomsman was short but muscular, built as compactly as a bulldog. His dark brown hair was wavy, his mustache trim and neat, and his sapphire blue eyes fringed with thick lashes. One front tooth overlapped the other but did not detract from his handsome looks, of which he was well aware. Yet he wore his vanity so good-naturedly that it was impossible to dislike him. “Do you mean kindly as most folk mean it, or kindly for Marie?”

  “Stanley . . .” Mrs. Bacon gave him a warning look from the head of the table. Yet even she was vulnerable to his boyish charms, for she did so with an indulgent little smile.

  He grinned back at her. “I meant no disrespect, Mrs. Bacon. I’m just saying that kindness ain’t the same for all folk.”

  “Now, how can you say that, Stanley?” Naomi asked as her knife sawed at her roast beef. It was a bit tough, but with her having arrived so recently, no one would say anything, for they wouldn’t be quite sure whose fault it was. No one complained about Naomi’s cooking to her face, for she indulged everyone their little likes and dislikes, such as Mr. Duffy his fried eggs with crispy edges, and Avis the end slices of plum pudding, and even Marie with her antisocial trays. “Kindness is kindness.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, our fair Naomi, but it depends on who’s payin’ the kindness.” Stanley’s words worked their way around a mouthful of roast beef.

  Naomi couldn’t help noticing the adoring look that did not fade from Hester’s face, for the chambermaid loved him to distraction. Which was a pity, Naomi thought, because so did half the female servants in Mayfair.

  “That’s right, on who’s paying it,” Mr. Duffy agreed.

  “Would either of you care to explain?” Claire asked.

  But Stanley had deposited more beef into his mouth and sent Mr. Duffy a helpless look. The gardener cocked his head, his macaroni-laden fork poised above his plate. “Well, a highwayman might think he’s payin’ you an act of kindness by merely robbing you instead of slitting your throat.”

  “Mr. Duffy . . .” Naomi and Mrs. Bacon said in unison.

  He was no more cowed than Stanley, but he winked at both women and moved his fork on up to its target.

  “I think the highwaymen days are over, anyway,” Avis said. “Here, at least. But they’re still a problem in Nigeria where Edwin is serving duty.”

  “They’re still here too,” Stanley argued after an audible swallow. “I know of a fellow from Tottenham who met up with a pack of highwaymen on the Cambridge Road. They took everything he had—his horse, coat, hat, even the meat pie he’d packed for his lunch.” He cut his eyes toward Hester. “They took the whole kit and caboodle, they did.”

  “I haven’t heard that since I was a girl,” Mrs. Bacon said. “My, Stanley, you do come out with some words, don’t you?”

  He shrugged modestly, while down the table William wore a pleased little smile as if the compliment had been directed toward himself.

  You’ll have to talk with him, Naomi told herself, though it was tempting to let it pass, since he would be leaving again so soon.

  The lighthearted atmosphere caused Trudy to become reckless with her words. “Well, I know why Marie was kind to the girl,” she said while swathing butter upon a roll. “It’s because she knows who she is.”

  The silence dropped like a curtain. Naomi held her breath as all eyes went to the scullery maid. Trudy, on the other hand, continued to butter her bread before looking up and realizing she was the center of attention. Spaniel-like eyes blinking, she said in a feeble voice, “Well, why else?”

  Mrs. Bacon dabbed her lips with her napkin and set it beside her plate. She was opening her mouth to speak when Trudy squeaked, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bacon!”

  The housekeeper shook her head. “No, I’m glad this subject came about.” Pushing her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose, she moved her eyes from Trudy and glanced at every face. “I understand there has been some speculation going around about a subject which I need not name. We’re entitled to our private thoughts, but if I hear of anyone voicing one, you will be sacked on the spot.”

  It was like being scolded by a loving parent, for everyone knew it would distress Mrs. Bacon to have to dismiss anyone. Yet there was no mistaking the gravity of her words, especially when she added while picking up her fork again, “Do not try me on this.”

  Later, when everyone resumed their duties and a still pink-faced Trudy was clearing the table, Mrs. Bacon drew Naomi aside. “Do you think that did any good?”

  “You made yourself very clear,” Naomi assured her.

  “What about Marie? Should I give her the same speech?”

  “I doubt that is necessary.” She believed Trudy to be wrong about Marie guessing Sarah’s identity, simply because Marie did not indulge in chit-chat with anyone in the house. And it wasn’t likely that Mrs. Blake had told her, because the last time they discussed the subject, her mistress was still adamant that the secrecy be maintained.

  Mrs. Bacon gave a fretful sigh. “I’m only surprised that someone hinted at it so soon. But I suppose we couldn’t expect to keep a lid on this forever.”

  “No, sometimes you have to open the lid and stir the pot so it won’t boil over.” Naomi smiled and patted the housekeeper’s arm. “It’s going to work out, Mrs. Bacon. God brought the girl here. I’m as sure of that as the day I was born.”

  Mrs. Bacon’s pleasant face creased with a smile. “It will be good to have a child about, won’t it? And she seems a sweet-natured girl.”

  “She’ll be good for Mrs. Blake.”

  ****

  Unfortunately, Mrs. Blake was not of the same opinion and sent for Naomi later that afternoon. “It was a mistake to bring her here,” the elderly woman said as soon as the sitting room door clicked closed. Marie was not about, causing Naomi to wonder if she was upstairs assisting Mrs. Bacon with showing Sarah her new clothing. It would be nice for the girl’s sake if indeed Hester had not exaggerated about Marie’s uncharacteristic kindness.

  She took a chair without being invited to do so. As long as she was called upon to shoulder her mistress’s burdens, it was easier to do so seated. With respectful frankness Naomi looked into the pale-blue eyes. “Mrs. Blake, you can’t possibly be thinking of sending her back.” I’ll resign if you do. She could think of no greater cruelty than to snatch away the hope for a better life that had been offered the girl.

  Mrs. Blake’s face wore the indignation of someone misjudged. “You think me capable of such an act, Naomi?”

  You sent her mother away, crossed Naomi’s mind and then she was ashamed, for she could tell by the sadness in the aged eyes that Mrs. Blake could read her thoughts. That was fourteen years ago, she reminded herself. People change.

  “Why do you say you’ve made a mistake?” Naomi asked gently.

  For some long silent seconds Mrs. Blake pressed her temple with the fingertips of one long blue-veined hand. “I so hoped she would remind me of Jeremy,” she said in a frail
voice. “It would be almost as if he had returned to me.”

  “But she looks nothing like him,” Naomi conceded.

  “I kept watching, hoping to catch a tiny glimpse of one of his mannerisms. Nothing.”

  “She never had the chance to spend time with him, Madam.”

  “I realize that.” Again a space of silence, and then a mixture of hope and guilt came to Mrs. Blake’s face. “You do recall suggesting I send her away to school if her company doesn’t please me?”

  “I do not, Madam.” Naomi would not sit there and have her own words twisted. “What I suggested was that you do so if she turns out to be a brat. Which isn’t the case now, is it?”

  “Well . . . no.”

  “And she’s apt to be made sport of. Children can be cruel, you know.”

  The hand went up to Mrs. Blake’s temple again. “You pushed me into this, Naomi. What do you suggest?”

  Naomi thought for a second. “This house is big enough to keep half of Parliament out of your way. Why not let her stay awhile, at least until you’re sure of what should be done? She could even take meals in the servants’ hall.”

  “Impossible.” The woman looked as shocked as if Naomi had suggested the girl muck out the stables with a shovel. “She is still my grandchild.”

  “Then you’re willing to continue having meals with her?”

  “Well, no . . .”

  “Please, Madam. She’s used to having people about.”

  “Oh, very well,” Mrs. Blake said at length. She looked somewhat relieved, as if she had hoped to be talked into doing that very thing. “Though she’s not apt to learn table etiquette that way.”

  We don’t exactly lick our plates, Madam, Naomi thought but then winced inwardly at the remembrance of Mr. Duffy eating peas with a butter knife and Stanley talking around mouthfuls of food. “We’ll try our best to teach her.”

  The older woman, staring at her son’s portrait, nodded absently. When several long moments had passed, Naomi decided her company was no longer required and rose to her feet. “If you’ll excuse me . . .”

  Mrs. Blake turned her face to look up at her again. “I suppose I should hire a tutor.”

  “Why, that would be nice.”

  “I shouldn’t wish her to be backward academically, especially if I do send her away to school later. She couldn’t have been taught much in that orphanage.”

  Naomi smiled. “I don’t know about that. But they’ve certainly managed to teach her something just as important as the academics.”

  A gray eyebrow raised. “Yes?”

  “Gratitude, Madam. She’s thanked everyone who crossed her path today for the least little kindness. Perhaps you’ve noticed?”

  Chapter Eleven

  As soon as Naomi left the room, Dorothea Blake pushed herself to her feet. Her melancholy deepened with every aching step she took across the carpet. She stopped in front of Jeremy’s portrait. While his features were arranged into a serious expression, the artist had captured so capably the waggish glint in his dark eyes.

  Gratitude.

  Was it true that it was something that could be taught, as Naomi had mentioned? Why else would a child who had had so little be so quick to express her thanks? She didn’t inherit that from her father.

  It stung her that she could have such a disloyal, unmaternal thought. But she could not stop herself from pressing further, as one probes an aching tooth with the tongue. To the beloved figure on canvas she said under her breath, “I thought the more I gave you, the more you would love me.” But how many times had he ever thanked her? Few that she could recall, and those were followed immediately by requests for more.

  Even in her early years living near the East End docks, she had not wanted the same near poverty for the children she would someday bear. Fortunately Arthur Blake, a ship’s carpenter who worked alongside her father, set his cap for her when she was sixteen. He was five years older, brash, and unafraid of taking risks, with an ambition that infected everyone around him.

  The world he had promised her did not come all at once. She even had to take in sewing for a while so that Arthur could save most of his salary for a small percentage in a shipment of cotton from the southern part of the States. The weaving of cotton flourished all over Britain, as did his fortunes later.

  They were not so fortunate in building the large family Dorothea desired, for she miscarried four times. And then a healthy baby boy arrived! Jeremy was a miracle, not just because Dorothea had long given up on bearing even one child, but because by this time Arthur was so seldom at home. The pain of taking second place to her husband’s financial dealings lessened as her son’s laughter and antics filled the house. She delighted in Jeremy’s high-spiritedness, even though it meant paying dearly for a nursery maid to stay any decent length of time.

  You had so much more than I ever dreamed of having. Shelves and cupboards of toys from ports all over the world. Had he merely considered them his birthright? Should she have explained to him that they were the fruits of his father’s long hours of labor and those earlier years she spent sewing into the wee hours by candlelight?

  Dorothea touched lightly the carved gilt frame before wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Then she turned away. It was too painful to stand there wrapped in misgivings. And had he been the most grateful young man in Britain, his body would still be lying in Saint George’s churchyard.

  ****

  “Miss Matthews?”

  On London Bridge a woman was speaking, her blazing eyes turned toward the coach. Sarah backed away from the window. She opened her mouth to ask Mr. Swann to raise the glass, but the words would not rise above her throat.

  “Miss Matthews . . .”

  Sarah jumped at the touch upon her sleeve and opened her eyes. She gaped at the figure standing over her until she recognized Claire Duffy, the parlormaid.

  “Mrs. Bacon says you mightn’t sleep tonight,” the maid said. “You’ve been in here a good three hours since Marie first spotted you.”

  “I’m sorry . . .” Straightening in the chair, Sarah felt the book sliding and lurched for it.

  “Did I give you a fright?”

  “Oh no,” Sarah told her, then added, “I had a nightmare,” as if by saying it aloud the unsettling memory of the woman’s face in her dream would leave her.

  “Yes? Then I don’t feel so bad about waking you.”

  It was then that Sarah noticed the tray and glass in her hands. Claire smiled, dimpling pleasantly.

  “Naomi thought you should have some lemonade.”

  Lemonade! And it wasn’t even Christmas! Setting the book on the chair arm and standing, Sarah thanked her and took the glass from the proffered tray. The crystal was cool to the touch, just how she imagined diamonds would feel, with bits of pulp tantalizingly clinging to the inside rim. “Would you care for some?” she asked.

  “I’ve already had some. Drink up, and then Mrs. Bacon wants you to try on your new dresses. You can find your way back to your room, can’t you?”

  “I can, thank you.” The lemonade was sweetened liberally so that her eyes did not even water. She resisted the temptation to hold the empty glass aloft and allow the bit of sugar collected at the bottom to trail down into her mouth. After handing Claire the glass she picked up Barnaby Rudge, intent upon replacing it on its shelf.

  “Why don’t you take it with you?” the maid asked.

  “Will Mrs. Blake mind?”

  “Not if you take care of it. I expect you know how to do that.”

  With the book tucked under her arm, she left the library and went up the staircase. Stopping at the open doorway to her room, she gaped at the assortment of garments spread over the bed and draped over her chair. A long oval mirror had been moved to the center of the room. Marie was brushing the folds from a gown of pearl gray. Mrs. Bacon held up one of muted green with a white ruffled collar and beckoned her over.

  “Come in, dear.”

  Two gowns later, Sarah st
ood in front of the long mirror in a lace-trimmed silk of narrow purple and white stripes, while at her shoulder Mrs. Bacon said to Marie, “This will need taking in at the waist as well. ’Tis a pity SWAN AND EDGARS had only five gowns that were close enough to fitting her.”

  Marie clucked her tongue. “Only the English would think of such a thing—buying clothes off the peg. They cannot possibly be of good quality.”

  Sarah brushed her right hand against the folds of her skirt and wondered if the royal princesses had such finery. “But they’re beautiful,” she offered timidly. “And five is much more than enough.” After all, she had never owned more than two at the Home. And had never thought herself deprived for it, for a body could only wear one gown at a time.

  “But here you’ll change for dinner,” Mrs. Bacon told her with an understanding smile. “And so you have here only three days’ worth of clothing—four or five if you do your best to keep them clean. Laundry goes out only on Mondays, you see.”

  Raising her arms to be helped out of the striped silk and into a blue crepe de chine, Sarah was told by the housekeeper that Mrs. Blake’s seamstress would be commissioned to make up for what her incredible wardrobe was lacking. Besides dresses there were two nightdresses of embroidered lawn, a rose-colored linen wrapper to wear over her nightgown should she have to visit the bathroom at night, seven pairs each of silk knee-length drawers and wool stockings, seven chemises of white cambric, six embroidered handkerchiefs, two pairs of white gloves, a straw bonnet lined with white satin, a silk nightcap, and a soft knitted shawl of robin’s egg blue. The three pairs of white gloves mystified her, until Marie informed her that she should at least wear one on the right hand whenever she went anywhere. There was a pair of soft leather slippers, and she was told by Mrs. Bacon that she would be measured at a cobbler’s soon for a pair of shoes and ankle boots.