Music became her companion and comfort later during the nights that her husband poured over ledgers in his study and Jeremy was who-knows-where with his friends. But she could no longer summon up such solace after Jeremy died, and so the piano sat idle. Even the most beautiful music could not take the place of a beloved son. Lately she had taken up playing again to drown out the accusatory thoughts that had begun to plague her, thoughts of how she might have failed Jeremy by overlooking his faults.
The tear that clung to her chin until it grew cold finally dripped to the bodice of her gown as her fingers explored the overlapping melody of Bach’s “Little Fugue in G Minor.” Though meant for the organ, the notes adapted well enough to the piano and to her memories. To her left the tall torchère lamp shed just enough light to illuminate the keys and sheet music. The ache in her chest had spread itself to her joints and even constricted her throat until swallowing was painful. How could Marie understand, strong woman that she was? It was a relief when the maid gave up trying to bully her into going to bed and left the room in a huff.
The fingers of her left hand moved down an octave to introduce a more somber layer of the melody when she heard the door open. Just go away! she wanted to plead, asking herself for the hundredth time why she allowed such an overbearing servant to stay in her employ. But Marie’s sharp voice did not come. And a moment later a much smaller presence stood at her right, just as she had stood at the side of the girl in the mansion so many Christmases ago. Dorothea glanced at her through weary eyes. She looked like a pixie with her short flaxen curls, delicate features, and huge waifish eyes filled with fear. Turning back to her music, Dorothea said, “Turn the page whenever I nod.”
She played on, the girl obediently turning pages. When Dorothea eventually paused to wipe her nose with the sodden handkerchief in her lap, Sarah asked, “Shall I get you a fresh one?”
“Yes. On the arm of my chair.” She was not finished with the composition, but the desire to continue was gone, and she closed the lid. “Marie sent you down here, didn’t she?” Dorothea asked when the girl returned.
“Yes, Madam.”
What had she expected? Some affection and concern? From the girl whom she could hardly bear to look at for the guilt she felt and the disappointment that she was not more like her son? And if she only knew the rest . . .
Yet there was pity in the voice that said, “Shouldn’t you go to sleep now?”
Arms that had resigned themselves ages ago never to hold a grandchild fairly ached to embrace the girl. But the moment passed, and the impulse died with it. She would have to reveal their relationship if she were to do that. And the thought still terrified her. So instead she motioned toward the small teakwood chest of drawers by the door. “Take a candlestick from the top drawer and walk me upstairs.”
Later, after Marie had helped her into her nightgown and tucked the covers around her, Dorothea lay with darkness pressing against her eyes and thought about the pale little face beside her at the piano. Even though she wasn’t ready to claim the girl as family, she was glad that Naomi had talked her out of sending her away.
* * *
The lamp, Sarah thought, just as her limbs were beginning to melt into their nest of clean sheets, soft mattress, and pillow. The longer she put off getting up, the more difficult it would be, so she swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed her feet into her slippers. Enough light seeped in through the window for striking a match to light the candle on her bedside table. She pulled her wrapper over her nightdress, took up the candleholder, and padded across the room and down the quiet corridor in a trail of beeswax scent.
Downstairs, she opened the parlor door to darkness. Marie, she thought. Just as she reached the staircase again, she heard soft footsteps on the steps below. The hairs upon the back of her neck rose. She would have taken flight had her legs not rooted themselves to the floor, so she held her breath and watched the faint amber circle rise upon the wall of the half landing. And then Naomi appeared, bathed in candlelight.
“Naomi,” Sarah breathed as her heart still pounded.
The cook took three more steps before looking up and smiling at her. At the top of the landing, she said softly, “Miss Matthews? Are you having trouble sleeping?”
Sarah explained about the lamp. Noticing the lace of a nightdress above the collar of the wrapper Naomi wore and the reddish-blond hair hanging thickly to her waist, she asked if there was anything wrong.
“I didn’t want to disturb Trudy, so I sat in the kitchen.” Naomi lifted her other hand to show her a book. “Phineas Finn.”
“You like to read?”
“Almost as much as cooking. You should be getting some sleep or you’ll be a zombie tomorrow.”
“A zombie?”
“Why, the living dead.”
They walked up the flight of stairs, the cook continuing with Sarah to her room. “I shouldn’t have said that about the zombies,” she said as if to explain why she was there. She eased the door closed behind her. “There is no such thing, you know.”
“Don’t worry, I never have nightmares,” Sarah assured her, then corrected herself. “But I did have one in the library my first day here.”
“I should imagine. That was a difficult day for you, wasn’t it?”
“Some parts were nice,” Sarah had to admit. And partly out of curiosity, but mostly because she was loathe to part with the cook’s company just yet, she asked, “Do you ever have nightmares?”
“Mine have more to do with falling soufflés,” Naomi said, taking her candle and then motioning her toward the bed.
Sarah untied the sash to her wrapper and hung it over the chair. “Mrs. Blake was crying at the piano. That’s why I was down there earlier. Marie said I should comfort her.”
“Yes? Why, that’s very good.”
“I don’t see how. We barely spoke.”
“Trust me. You were just the person she needed to see.” After climbing into bed, Sarah settled herself upon her pillow. Naomi set both candles upon the night table and tucked the covers over her shoulders. “Have you said your prayers?”
“Yes. Earlier.”
“Very good. Well—”
“Could you stay just a little longer?” Sarah said impulsively.
“But of course,” Naomi replied. “It takes some time to get used to a new place, doesn’t it?”
“I’m used to the room. But some things happened today that I can’t stop thinking about.”
“Then move over a bit and let’s talk about them.”
Sarah pushed her pillow toward the middle of the bed so that Naomi could sit upon the side. Because Stanley and the young woman were the foremost thing on her mind Sarah mentioned it first. “He wasn’t even embarrassed that I saw him.”
There was no surprise on Naomi’s face. “Hester and Stanley aren’t betrothed, so he feels he has the freedom to see whomever he pleases.”
“But he acts as if he loves her. And I believe she’s in love with him.”
“So do I. But Hester wouldn’t want you to worry yourself over this. She knows how he is.”
“She doesn’t mind?”
“She minds.” Naomi shrugged helplessly. “Hester is young, Sarah, with stars in her eyes. We’ve tried to reason with her—Mrs. Bacon, Trudy, me—about Stanley so many times that I don’t even think she hears us anymore.”
“Stars in her eyes?”
“It’s just a saying that means she’s not quite seeing clearly. She tells herself that she can make Stanley love her enough so that he’ll change one day.”
“Do you think he will?” Sarah asked.
“I doubt he feels the need to,” the cook replied frankly. “Not if she’s going to love him anyway.”
“Would it be interfering to pray that God removes the stars from her eyes?”
Cool fingers lightly brushed back Sarah’s curls. “We’ll both do that. I confess I’ve given up on Hester, but we’re supposed to continue in faith, aren’t we? And
what else is troubling you, dear girl?”
Sarah wished they could stay like that forever. It must be like this to have a mother. But it was inconsiderate to keep Naomi away from her own bed for much longer, so she quickly told her about the conversation in the shop. This time she did not leave out the parts about meeting the other housekeeper earlier and that she was Mrs. Bacon’s friend, for she knew instinctively it would go no further. “She gave me such an odd look. And I don’t believe she was talking about royals.”
“Royals?”
“Hester said it was against the law to say bad things about them.”
It seemed for a second that Naomi would smile, but then her expression sobered. “I wish people wouldn’t gossip like that.”
“Do you know what she meant?”
After a pause, she nodded. “But it’s something I haven’t the liberty to discuss.”
Sarah could not help but sigh. “You haven’t?”
“Will you do something for me?” Naomi asked abruptly. “Yes. Anything.”
The fingers smoothed Sarah’s curls again. “Trust me enough to accept that it’s a memory you should put out of your mind?”
Though she had to stifle another sigh, Sarah nodded. “I’ll try.”
“There’s a good girl.”
“Thank you.” Sarah returned her smile. “I shouldn’t have kept you awake so long.”
“Not at all, I enjoyed our chat. You’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be all right.” She watched Naomi collect her book and candle, snuff the candle on the table, and pause at the door to send back another smile. The last thoughts Sarah had before drifting into nothingness were of how pleasant the cool fingers had felt against her forehead.
****
“Good morning, Miss Matthews!” came the voice after the knock.
Sarah raised her head from the pillow and blinked at Mrs. Bacon’s smiling but blurred face. “Morning?” But she was in the parlor just a moment ago, drinking lemonade with Naomi while Mrs. Blake played the piano.
“I heard you had a busy night,” the housekeeper said with a sympathetic look in her eye. “May I help you wash?”
Sarah propped her raised shoulders up with her elbows and smiled. “No, thank you. I’m awake now.”
“Very good! Hester will be here shortly.”
“Thank you.”
When the door clicked shut, Sarah’s head dropped again to the pillow. She would wait just until the cobwebs left her head. But her next awareness was of someone gently shaking her shoulder. She opened her eyes to gape at Hester.
“I see you ain’t picked out a frock yet,” the maid said.
“Oh dear!” Sarah tossed aside the covers and bolted out of bed. “I’ll be back!” She sprinted to the bathroom without taking time for wrapper and slippers. Thankfully, she did not run into Marie or Mrs. Blake on her way back to her room, where the chambermaid pulled the nightgown over her arms and replaced it with the purple-striped dress with two fluid motions. Four passes through her hair with the comb, and then they took the stairs side by side, Hester laughing at Sarah’s frettings.
“Naomi won’t throw out our share,” the maid assured her. “And we’d have to do more than be late for breakfast to raise Mrs. Bacon’s ire.” The usual hum of conversation was going on in the servants’ hall. Instead of reproving looks, Sarah and Hester were met with greetings when they hurried through the doorway. Mr. Duffy got to his feet, and a hush fell over the room.
“I’ve somethin’ for you, little Miss.”
“Yes, sir?” On her way to the head of the table, Sarah could not help but glance at William, who simply raised an eyebrow and smiled. Mr. Duffy held a small square wooden tray with raised one-inch sides, sanded smooth. He turned it over to show her the leather straps upon the back.
Before he could even ask, Sarah offered her hand. He winked at her and, turning down her palm, directed her to ease her hand through the first strap until her arm below her wrist felt snug. The next two straps formed an inverted V—she was able to fit the heel of her bit of thumb into the smaller, while the other slanted across her hand to the other side.
“Now turn it over,” he directed. When she obeyed, he set a plate into the tray. It fit securely into the square, the corners of the tray open for lifting it out again.
Sarah stared at the contraption upon her hand, rocking it a bit. The plate did not move, nor did the tray tip. She looked up at the gardener and said with wonder in her voice, “I can serve myself now.”
“We’ll have to change the straps as you grow, but ’tis no great chore.” At his side, Claire was wiping her eyes with her napkin. Sarah glanced down the row of faces and spotted Naomi doing the same.
“Try it out, Miss Matthews!” Stanley said.
“Yes, do,” said Trudy. “We’ve been on such pins and needles!”
Scraping sounds accompanied her to the sideboard as servants on the back side of the table turned their chairs. Hester hung back from serving herself, and Sarah realized it was to not impede their view. So she stood a bit to the side, lifting a spoon from the rim of a dish of creamy buttered eggs. With a glance back at her audience, she dished a serving onto her plate. There was applause, and more when she forked a piece of cold ham. All the while the tray remained steady above her upturned hand.
There was not one unsmiling face in the room as she approached the table. Avis started rising as if to help, but Sarah shook her head respectfully. It was a simple matter to take hold of the plate from an open corner, set it down, then pull the tray from her arm. Simple but profound, in that it represented a lessening of her dependence upon others.
“Thank you, Mr. Duffy!” Noticing tears in the creases of his rugged face, Sarah moved to the head of the table, hesitated a moment, then embraced him. His great arms wrapped around her, his hand pounding her back enough to rattle her breath.
“I were afeared it might not work,” he said thickly. “Them straps . . .”
Eventually she was back in her place and Hester in hers. Mr. Duffy prayed between sniffs, and Stanley then lifted his teacup and proposed a toast. “To our Miss Matthews!” While cups were raised she forgot to be angry at him and was in danger of weeping herself. More toasts followed in the jovial atmosphere. One was made to Mr. Duffy for his inventive mind, and then two to William, who would be leaving tomorrow and turn seventeen the following day.
William came over to Sarah’s side after finishing his meal. “I’ll be leading Gypsy and Dudley out to graze in a bit. You may come along if you like.”
She replied that she would enjoy that. “Should I wait in the garden?”
He shook his head. “I’ve packing to finish, so I’m not sure how long it’ll take.”
“Then I’ll stay down here and help Naomi.”
When the last chair had been pushed out, Avis began dusting them with a cloth, while Trudy and Sarah cleared the table. “What kind of cake is Naomi making?” Avis asked.
Trudy did not look up from scraping scraps from a plate into a pail. “Chocolate iced.”
“What a good omen—that’s Edwin’s favorite. It must mean I’m to get a letter today.”
“Omen!” Trudy snorted. “So you would expect no letter if William’s favorite was plum cake?”
Avis looked crestfallen but then brightened again. “Not at all, Trudy. Edwin is almost as fond of plum cake!”
Smiling at their banter, Sarah balanced a butter crock upon her tray and brought it into the kitchen. Naomi looked up from mixing batter in a large bowl. “I see you’ve found another use for it.”
“It doesn’t even slide as long as I keep my palm flat,” Sarah told her, holding it out to demonstrate. “I wish I had something to give to Mr. Duffy. I don’t expect he would care for a fossil.”
“Oh, but you’ve given him more than you can imagine.”
She recalled the emotion upon his face and realized not all gifts were able to be held in the hand. Such as the one Stanley had given by declaring her Our
Miss Matthews.
When the table was cleared, Sarah asked permission to look through the half-dozen cookery books on another cupboard shelf. Most fascinating was a new-looking brown, cloth-bound book titled The Household Cyclopedia of Practical Receipts and Daily Wants. Not only were there recipes but also advice on how to seat according to rank at dinner parties, how to raise domestic pets, apply for a patent, crochet, play parlor games, lease a home, and dress minor wounds. There was even advice on the etiquette of courtship and how to choose a husband or wife. The latter intrigued her more than anything, for she had been in the company of so few married people in her lifetime.
“What does it mean, please, to be a thorn in someone’s pillow?” she asked Naomi, who was rubbing the skin of a plucked goose with lard.
“I beg your pardon?”
Sarah read aloud: “‘No extent of accomplishments will compensate for the lack of amiability. A lady who answers her mother petulantly will prove a thorn in her husband’s pillow.’”
After trading glances with Trudy, who was kneading dough at the worktable, Naomi replied, “I assume it means he’ll never rest well because of all the grief she will give him.”
Trudy nodded. “You can be sure that if she answers her mother petulantly—whatever that means—she’ll do the same to him.”
“It means ‘ill-temperedly,’” came a voice from the doorway, and William walked into the kitchen. “What are you allowing that child to read?”
“It’s a book of recipes and the like,” Sarah replied but closed and replaced it lest he come over to look. She was sure there was nothing shameful in reading advice concerning courtship, but the amusement on his face suggested he would make sport of her for doing so.
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 17
