The last was a cream-colored organdy trimmed with brown satin ribbons, which also needed some taking up in the seams, but Sarah was told to wear it for the rest of the day, as there would be no sense in changing for supper so late.
“I’ll send Hester to put your things away,” Mrs. Bacon said and patted her head. Marie merely gave her a nod before following the housekeeper out of the room.
Sarah looked around her. She would have started putting things away herself but wasn’t quite certain what went where. Even with fine clothes scattered about, the room did not seem any more hers than when she first walked through the doorway. She thought about what Mrs. Forsyth had said about the little maid in Naaman’s household and tried to push aside all thought of Saint Matthew’s. Reading had helped earlier, and so she sat on the edge of the gown-draped chair and opened Barnaby Rudge. She had only turned another two pages when a high-pitched voice exclaimed, “Well, ain’t you a sight prettier than before!”
“Thank you.” Sarah smiled up at Hester.
“Fond of readin’, are you? I never had the notion to learn letters and such, which were good, because we didn’t have the money to spare for schoolin’. Anyhows, Stanley says that fellows don’t like women to be brighter than they are, and with him barely able to read his name, it would be silly for me to try to learn now.”
Unsure if all that information required her to express condolence or congratulations, Sarah put the book aside and rose. “May I help?”
“If you like,” Hester replied with a doubtful glance at her left side. But minutes later the maid was marveling that Sarah could fold her new underclothing and stockings so quickly and neatly.
“Folding laundry was one of my duties at Saint Matthew’s,” Sarah explained. “But I wasn’t allowed kitchen work, in case I might drop something.”
Hester winced. “Does it pain you?”
Knowing she was referring to her hand, and not the something she might drop, Sarah pressed it into a fold of her gown out of habit. “Not unless I injure it . . . just like the other one.”
“I’m glad to hear that.” The maid talked on, telling Sarah she was nineteen and had been employed at the household for three years. “My folk live up to Letchworth, and there ain’t much work to be found there, so Trudy and I came down to London at the same time. We’re cousins.”
“Do you like working here?” Sarah asked.
“I’ve heard of worse places. With only Mrs. Blake, there ain’t as much to do as if there was little ones runnin’ about and makin’—” She stopped herself, her eyes wide. “Not that I’m callin’ you a little one, mind you. Why, you ain’t much younger than me.”
Six years seemed a huge gap to Sarah, but she smiled her appreciation.
“William will be glad you’re here,” the maid went on as she shook the wrinkles from the striped dress. “He’s been the pup for years.”
“William?”
“He helps Stanley and Mr. Duffy when he ain’t away at University. You’ll not see much of him though, for he’s off again soon.”
“Too soon to suit me,” said a voice from the doorway, where Naomi Doyle stood smiling at both of them. She had a lovely face, with unblemished cheeks, a pert little nose, and eyes as blue as Mrs. Kettner’s cobalt trinket box. “William is my nephew.”
“I didn’t think to mention that.” Hester held up the dove gray gown. “Why don’t you come have a look at Sarah’s new clothes, Naomi?”
She came on into the room. After expressing her admiration for all five dresses and the nightgowns, she turned to Sarah. “I’ve come to invite you for supper in the servants’ hall at half past seven. It’s just off the kitchen. You’ll be taking all your meals there for a while.”
Sarah was not fooled by the casualness in Naomi’s tone nor her reassuring smile. She had made a poor impression on Mrs. Blake. In spite of the relief that she would not have to repeat the awkwardness of lunch, she felt a stab of sadness. How disappointed Mrs. Forsyth would be if she found out, which could be very soon, if Mrs. Blake were displeased enough to send her back. That would have delighted Sarah, if only the reason could be anything but her own failure. Her spirits lifted a bit when Naomi suggested she play in the garden until supper. She had noticed greenery through the library window.
“Be sure to take an apple with you,” the cook added. “You’ll see them on the hall table by the French doors.”
She thanked her and made her way to the ground floor, hesitating at the blue china bowl filled with golden apples until she convinced herself that Naomi would not have offered if she wasn’t welcome to one. Few were the times she had had a whole apple to herself and never one so large. She waited to bite into it until she stepped through the doors beside the staircase.
The aromas of damp earth and greenery mingled with the aroma of the apple on the bricked terrace, where white lace cast-iron benches and chairs, round little tables, and plants in carved stone pots were set about. In the wall-enclosed garden a huge man clad in a white smock and dark blue trousers was bent over a patch of flowers. He turned his face toward her as she tentatively set foot onto the stone path. His fierce look suggested he resented this intrusion into his outdoors. Just as Sarah was considering retreating, he smiled and the spell was broken.
“You’re Miss Matthews, ain’t you?”
She wondered if she would ever get used to being addressed so formally. “Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Duffy?”
“Aye, that I am,” he replied, both hands moving toward his back as he straightened.
“Are you hurt, sir?” Sarah asked because she was certain her ears had caught a low groan.
“Old age, ’tis all. Would you care to have a look about?”
“Yes, please.” She was self-conscious about eating in front of him, just as she was about drinking the lemonade with Claire. She wasn’t certain if she had the authority, but felt compelled to ask, “May I get you an apple?”
He chuckled. “You need them more than I do, little Miss, but thank you.” He walked with her, telling her the names of cupped orange crocus blooms, purple anemones, sunny-centered daisies, hyacinth blooms that looked like bunches of blue grapes, and primroses in all shades of glorious color. In the center of the garden loomed a crab apple tree overtaken with fragrant white blossoms. A gardening shed and the high stone walls surrounding the garden were covered with green vines. “Clematis,” he told her. “It’ll bloom in another month or so. It’s a mite early for flowers yet.”
“I can’t imagine more,” Sarah breathed, her eyes drinking in the abundance of color all about her. The space in Saint Matthew’s garden not devoted to privy and clothesline had been long trampled to bare earth by small feet. There was even a vegetable patch here with small green leaves emerging atop tidy rows of hills. Just past a brass sundial they came upon a young man painting an ornate wire arch a dark green color. She wondered if he was the nephew of whom Naomi spoke, for though he seemed ages older than she, he was still the youngest person she had seen so far.
“William,” the gardener said. “Naomi’s nephew.”
The boy held his brush still and smiled at her. “Good afternoon, Miss Matthews.”
“Good afternoon,” she said, but by then he had returned to his painting. The action reminded her that while she had the liberty to amble in the garden, others had duties. Bashfully she said to Mr. Duffy, “May I show myself the rest?”
“Any time, little Miss,” he replied with a smile, then pointed off to the far left. Against the stone wall a post rose some fifteen feet into the air, supporting a barrel circled with three ledges and topped with a peaked round roof. “You might sit and watch the dovecote. There’s a bench nearby—but not too near by if you understand my meanin’. Just toss your apple core at the base and they’ll finish it off.”
Sarah thanked him and walked over to a bench woven from boughs, set about ten feet from the post. Three birds with ash-colored plumage walked about on the barrel’s ledge, occasionally disappearing through o
ne of the openings, then popping out another and singing a persistent coo-coo-cuh. A fourth flew from the direction of the back of the garden with a long piece of straw in its beak.
If only they could see this, she thought, resting her head on the bench’s high back and chewing another bite of apple. Her friends at the Home would be at work now, some helping to prepare supper, others tending to younger children. And, of course, taking in wash, for with such limited clothesline space, Sundays were the only days on which laundry wasn’t done.
“Nanny! Make Rueben throw the ball!”
The childish voice came from her left. Finishing her apple, Sarah tossed the core as instructed, rose, and walked over to the wall a bit away from the dovecote, looking through the vines for any gaps. She found none but discovered a spot with a decent-sized jutting stone several inches from the ground. Her deformed hand was no obstacle—she had climbed Saint Matthew’s wall hundreds of times to take a peek into a window of the pen grinding factory behind the garden. Mindful not to crush any vines, she stretched to get a grasp at the top with her right hand, then placed the toe of her left slipper on the stone and hefted herself up. To keep her balance she hooked both arms over the top, automatically covering her left hand with the sleeve of her right.
“Nanny!”
Sarah smiled at the activity taking place before her. A servant dressed in the same black and white as Mrs. Blake’s maids rose from a bench and walked over to a brown-haired boy of about six as he clasped a red ball to his chest and shook his head adamantly to three boys who were railing at him.
“Master Rueben, we must share,” the nanny admonished.
But he stood his ground. “It’s my ball! And David won’t stop throwing it at my head.”
“Master David . . .”
“You’re not even trying to catch it!” said a boy who looked just like Rueben.
“Twins,” Sarah murmured with wonder. She had read of identical twins, but the only two to reside at Saint Matthew’s had been before her time. The boys were dressed alike in brown knickers with black stockings and loosely fitted coats with patch pockets. But then, so were the other two, who looked older, though not the same age.
The nanny turned again to Rueben, but it was the tallest boy who convinced him to give up the ball. Speaking with authority he said, “If he hits your head again, I’ll send him inside.”
There was a protest this time from David, but presently the game of “toss and catch” resumed. Sarah’s arms were beginning to ache, so she lowered herself to the ground, still listening. Three minutes later she was at her perch again, and that was when one of the twins spotted her. She wasn’t sure whether it was Rueben or David.
“Who is there?” the boy said, pointing.
All faces turned toward her. Even the nanny lifted her eyes from her knitting. Sarah gaped back at them and thought about dropping to the ground. But the oldest boy took a step in her direction.
“Do you live there?” he asked in a friendly voice.
“I think so,” Sarah replied.
All four boys, who were moving toward the wall, traded smirks. “How can you not know for certain?” the oldest asked.
“I do live here . . . I mean. I just arrived today.”
“You’ve been away? We just returned from Spain last week.
Our grandmother rents a villa every winter. Father only stays a fortnight because the bank can’t manage without him.”
“No, I lived at Saint Matthew’s.”
“Oh,” he said, his knowing tone suggesting he was unwilling to admit that he had no idea where that was. “We’ve never been there, but I’ll wager it’s not as warm as Spain. How old are you?”
Fourteen, Sarah began to reply, but remembered what Mrs. Forsyth had told her. Reluctantly she admitted, “Thirteen. And you?”
“Nine,” he replied, then added straight away, “But I’ll be ten in December.”
Only seven months from now, Sarah thought with a little smile. Younger children were so amusing. And being used to having so many of them about, she felt more at ease than she had since her arrival.
The other non-twin boy took a step closer and squinted up at her. “I’m eight. My name is Ben Rothschild.” He pointed at the twins, then his older brother. “That’s David and Rueben and Mordie.”
“Short for Mordecai,” said the oldest. “After my father. But no one calls me that. We have an infant sister too. What’s your name?”
Four sets of eyes widened at her reply.
“You’re a girl?” asked the twin holding the ball. Sarah frowned. “Can’t you tell?”
“I thought you were dressed odd,” Ben said.
“Oddly,” his older brother corrected. To Sarah he said, “Why is your hair like that?”
“It’s comfortable,” she replied evasively. She certainly wasn’t going to tell them about the lice.
“You may come play with us if you like,” Ben told her.
Her heart jumped. She was good at “pitch and catch,” in spite of her hand. And the thought of the boys seeing her deformity wasn’t painful now that she had met them and found that they were friendly. It was from adults she felt compelled to shield it.
“I’ll have to ask.”
“Well, ask,” Mordie said.
“Very well.” But a glance to her left showed streaks of orange in the darkening sky above the roof, a reminder that supper was not too far away. “I’m supposed to keep my dress neat,” she told the boys. “Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Just don’t bring any dolls,” one of the twins said, causing snickers from his brothers.
“Only if I may borrow one of yours,” she replied, then dropped to the ground, smiling at the hoots of laughter from the other side. She walked toward the house through the cool of early evening and wondered if she lived there long enough if the strangeness of the place would fade away just as the daylight was fading now. And if the ache in her chest would eventually lessen, she might actually be glad to have been sent here. What did she expect? To take up much-needed space at Saint Matthew’s for the rest of her life? I’m trying to be grateful, Mrs. Forsyth, she thought.
William only glanced up from his brush and paint long enough to send her a preoccupied smile when she passed by, and Mr. Duffy asked, “Like the birds, Miss?”
“They’re lovely, thank you.”
She was nearing the terrace when movement in the second-storey window caught her attention. Mrs. Blake was looking down at her from her late husband’s study, the black widow’s weeds standing out against the gold draperies. After a quick mental battle over whether it would be best to wave or look away and pretend she had not noticed her, Sarah lifted her hand. Mrs. Blake nodded back and then stepped away from the glass. She did not see the woman when she went to wash her hands.
Chapter Twelve
Back in her room Sarah sat in the armchair and read, keeping a look at the chimneypiece clock. Its works were set into a brass-mounted painted plate, upon which an elegantly dressed man and woman strolled beside a fountain. At a quarter past seven she went down to the servants’ hall, which was empty, though the cloth was neatly laid. The only decorations were two watercolor landscapes on the wall framed simply in wood, but the room seemed far more welcoming than the dining room upstairs.
Faint sounds came from the kitchen. She went to the doorway. Naomi was at the stove, ladling steaming soup into a tureen and singing softly,
Fairer still the woodlands,
robed in the blooming garb of spring;
Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer,
Who makes the woeful heart to—
The cook stopped and turned her face toward the door. “Why, Miss Matthews. I didn’t realize you were there.”
“You sing very nice.”
The cook took up the tureen by both handles and turned to walk toward her. “You wouldn’t be teasing me now, would you?”
“Why, no.” Sarah moved out of the doorway, then watched helplessly as she made her way over to
the sideboard. “Can you carry that?”
“Oh, quite.” Her burden relieved, Naomi turned and smiled. “Don’t allow my size to fool you, dear girl. I’ve carried heavy pots for so long that I’m strong as an ant.”
The dear girl warmed Sarah’s heart. “May I help?”
“That would be nice. I insisted Trudy take a well-deserved rest. But supper is always light, so it’ll take us no time.”
“Thank you.”
“I can’t recall anyone ever thanking me for putting them to work. If you’ll set out the rest of the food, I’ll finish the tea. Can you manage that?”
“Oh yes.” The kitchen was a pleasant place, warm and fragrant with fresh bread and cinnamon. Sarah was directed toward the worktable, where there sat a basket of dark rolls, plates of yellow cheese slices, and a crock of butter. She was making her third trip when Trudy appeared and started at the sight of her.
“You don’t have to be doin’ that, Miss Matthews.”
“But I asked to,” Sarah assured her.
The scullery maid smiled doubtfully but went on into the kitchen, and Sarah heard her say, “I’ll get Marie’s.”
Is Marie ill? Sarah wondered.
Trudy hurried out again with a tray and began serving it at the sideboard. “Marie likes to eat alone,” she said with a quick glance in her direction. “We send her meals up the dumbwaiter.”
Others began drifting into the hall, Claire the last after having served Mrs. Blake. “Come, Miss Matthews, you can be first,” Stanley the groomsman said, motioning her over to the sideboard while others expressed agreement. Sarah shot Naomi a helpless look. While she could carry things fairly well, she could not hold and serve a plate at the same time.
The cook pulled out a chair. “We’ll give her a rest, Stanley. She’s been helping me.”
“You put her to work?” Mr. Duffy said. “You’ll have the little miss afeared of coming down here again, Naomi.”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 12
