The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

“It’s nothing that will harm her,” Naomi said. “Have you finished packing?”

  “Just now.” He walked over to the oven and drew in an appreciative whiff. “Chocolate?”

  “If you don’t go slamming the door and making it fall,” Trudy warned.

  “Then I had best get away from the temptation.” To Sarah, he said, “Do you still wish to come along?”

  “Yes, please,” she said, relieved that he had not forgotten the invitation.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hyde Park was dotted with nursemaids airing children as fresh as the daisies nodding in the flower beds. William smiled when Miss Matthews looked about her and confessed, “I didn’t realize it would be so vast. How nice to look about and not see buildings everywhere!”

  They stood between one of the paths and the waters of the Serpentine, and he drew up the courage to ask her about Saint Matthew’s. He had hesitated because he wasn’t certain what he would do if she were to break into sobs. “Was it like Oliver Twist?”

  “It wasn’t at all like that,” she replied, holding Gypsy’s lead rope as if she expected her to bolt any second, while the docile creature pulled at grass with little snorting sounds.

  “But it’s obvious that you didn’t get enough food,” he pressed carefully.

  She pulled her wrap closer about her, and he wondered if it was because of the cool of the April morning or in an effort to hide her thinness. Bits of conversation floated their way from strolling nursemaids with their charges, family groups, and sometimes courting couples. “But there was no Mr. Bumble begrudging us every morsel. Mrs. Forsyth—she was the headmistress—would have gladly fed us more. And she did so when it was available.”

  “You were never mistreated?”

  “Never. But I was fortunate enough to have been there since infancy.”

  The lead rope tugged as Dudley strained his neck toward a patch of clover. William took a couple of steps in that direction and looked back. “You consider that fortunate?”

  Her green eyes widened with sincerity. “Some of the girls have lived in alleys and had to dig potato peelings and rotten vegetables from garbage piles. We’ve had little ones brought there with bruises and broken bones for having been beaten. Even a baby like that once, but she died.”

  So bleak a picture from real life and not from the pages of a novel saddened William. And yet he could not help but admire that she was so grateful to have been spared that. What she did not understand was that the alleys and orphanage were not the only two paths set before her when she was an infant. There was another, one of tutors and clean clothes, a fine home, and plenty of food. But she had not been allowed in that direction. Until now. Even so, it was as if she had been slipped through the back door, not quite belonging. Why wasn’t she allowed to know that Mrs. Blake was her grandmother?

  And he was certain that it was so, even though it was the one thing his aunt Naomi would not discuss, except to caution him not to listen to rumors. In order not to do that, he would have had to walk about with his fingers in his ears. Even Stanley had told him that a parlormaid from a house on the west side of the square had speculated that the arrival of an orphan girl could have something to do with the notorious Jeremy Blake.

  “Do you miss your friends?” he asked.

  “Everyone is so good to me here,” she said quickly.

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  After a hesitation, she nodded.

  “Why don’t you ask if you may visit them?” There were many days that Stanley took the coach out just to give the horses exercise, so a trip to Saint Matthew’s would be no inconvenience to anyone. Mrs. Blake wasn’t a completely unsympathetic person—she had proved that by allowing him to come to live with Aunt Naomi when his parents died.

  Her face clouded a little. “Mrs. Forsyth said I shouldn’t write. I don’t think she would want me to visit either.”

  “I’m sorry.” Impulsively he opened his mouth to invite her to write to him, only to dismiss the thought just as quickly. She had Aunt Naomi, Hester, Trudy, and the others for company. And there were more than enough demands upon his time at University without corresponding with a little girl, no matter how much he pitied her.

  “What about you?” she asked when calm once again overtook her features. “Have you any memory of your parents and brother?”

  “I can vaguely remember little Stephen,” he replied. “And I don’t know if I should remember my parents so well if not for their portrait.” He could see their somber faces every morning as they stood in wedding clothes with shoulders not even touching. It was Aunt Naomi who kept the silver frame on his chest of drawers polished.

  “Do you miss them?” she asked with surely the same cautious expression he had worn while asking about the orphanage.

  “I did when Naomi first brought me here. She was virtually a stranger, however kind she was. I have an uncle in Leicester, you see, but his wife didn’t want another child to tend. I can remember weeping here every night for a little while. But I think it’s easier to bounce back when you’re young. I was only nine.”

  “I’m glad you have her and even your uncle and aunt. It would be terrible not to have any family, like Mrs. Blake.” Her comment held no hint of irony, as if she had forgotten this was her own situation, or at least what she assumed it to be.

  “Yes,” he agreed. A welcome thought came to him. “I’m glad you spend time in the kitchen. Perhaps Naomi won’t miss me quite as much this time.”

  “I should never replace you in her affection. But I do like to chat with her and Trudy. You don’t think I’m in their way?”

  “Quite the contrary. I know for a fact they enjoy your visits.”

  She smiled and William smiled back. Remembering the horses still chomping happily, William said they would need to return. “They’re not used to fresh grass—it’s just a treat we allow every now and again.”

  In companionable silence they walked back up Charles Street, the horses following. They had just reached the square when she asked why he had chosen to study chemistry. “I like understanding the order there is to the universe,” he explained, though he was certain a thirteen-year-old girl would not understand. And sure enough, she gave him a blank look.

  “You do know what elements are, don’t you?” he asked.

  This time she nodded. “They’re what everything is made of.”

  The next part was what had fascinated him for the past two years, ever since reading his schoolmaster’s copies of Chemical News. “But they haven’t all been discovered yet.”

  “Which ones?”

  “We don’t know yet. But they’re out there, waiting to be found.”

  She cocked her head and raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “If they’ve not yet been discovered, how can you possibly know they exist? Isn’t that like saying there are animals out there we’ve not yet discovered?”

  “Well, that’s entirely possible, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But we can’t declare that for certain until they’re actually found.”

  William nodded, impressed that someone of thirteen could think of such an analogy. They were entering the mews, and he returned the wave of the groomsman harnessing a team to a carriage behind GUNTER’S. Patiently he said, “We know for certain because of the gaps in the atomic table.”

  “Gaps in a table?”

  That led to an explanation of atomic weights. She listened attentively, with no silly questions, and he found himself saying, as he opened the gate to the stable yard behind Mrs. Blake’s garden, “You may write to me if you wish.”

  “I may?” she asked in a hopeful tone, as if she feared he would change his mind.

  “Just not too often. I shall be very busy, you know.”

  * * *

  So she’s returned. From the window of her late husband’s office, Dorothea watched Sarah walk through the stable gate and up the garden path. The girl had accompanied William to Hyde Par
k, according to Mrs. Bacon. Dorothea doubted Sarah realized just how closely she kept informed of her whereabouts. It would probably frighten her to know, she thought.

  She realized it was up to her to bridge the gulf between them. But how could she bring herself to do so when every sight of her brought such guilt? Telling the girl of their kinship would increase the distance, for how could she explain driving her mother away, and that it was loneliness, not compassion, which prompted her to search for her? And that had Jeremy married and produced legitimate heirs, she would not have bothered to look at all?

  The girl stopped to chat with Mr. Duffy. Dorothea touched the glass and murmured, “If I had only known you were in an orphanage . . . and so pitiful with your crippled little hand. I would have sent for you sooner.”

  She had to believe that about herself.

  ****

  The mood for the farewell party was festive in the hall that evening, with chocolate cake after supper and little gifts for William from the servants. Marie even came downstairs long enough to present him with an aluminum pencil case from herself and a shiny gold guinea from Mrs. Blake. Naomi, who gave him a new coat for the occasion, kept her tears in check during the celebration and again the next morning on Paddington Station’s platform as she waved until she could no longer see the train. Then the acrid smoke that still lingered from the London-Northwestern locomotive’s stack gave them excuse to flow freely.

  She sat with folded hands in the coach while Stanley maneuvered the horses through the traffic of Bayswater Road. In spite of her tears on the platform, she discovered that her heart was not quite so heavy this time. He always came back, and late June was only two months away.

  How blessed she was to have someone to love! How terrible it would have been to go through the rest of life keeping that love bottled up inside until it grew stale and perhaps even bitter from disuse. Is that how you feel about us, Father? she asked as she stared at the stream of humanity passing on the pavement. Did you have so much love inside that you felt it would overwhelm you if you didn’t create a people to lavish it upon?

  ****

  “Marie is very good at braids,” Hester told Sarah the next morning as she fastened the buttons to the blue crepe de chine for her. “Trudy and I coax her into doin’ our hair when she’s in a good mood. When your hair grows, it’ll be fun to make a fine lady out of you.”

  Sarah looked at herself in the cheval mirror. However they primped her, she could never look so pretty as Hester, whose hair seemed even redder against the yellow of her ruffled gown. The back had a marvelous bustle, which Hester said made one’s silhouette so feminine that it was worth the discomfort of not being able to sit comfortably. Sarah was glad that the servants were not required to wear their uniforms to church and looked forward to seeing how the rest were attired at breakfast. “I’ll be allowed to sit with you, won’t I?”

  “With us? Why, Mrs. Blake wouldn’t hear of that.”

  Her heart made a little lurch. She had seen very little of Mrs. Blake since that night in the parlor, and at those times only received a nod and mild greeting. “But I’m allowed to have meals with you.”

  “That’s different. Other folks don’t know that.”

  Sarah had no idea what that meant and was pondering whether she should ask when the maid said, “You’ll have time to collect your bonnet and wrap after breakfast. Are you excited?”

  “Yes.” And frightened, Sarah did not add. While she was certain that the Church of England worshiped the same God she did, she wasn’t quite sure what would be expected of her. Would she be pressured to give up the Methodist faith she had been taught since an infant? I won’t do that, Father, she promised.

  Breakfast was no sooner over than Saint George’s bells started ringing as if they had planned it so out of consideration for their parishioners’ nourishment. “Why don’t you wait in the sitting room?” Mrs. Bacon said to Sarah while most of the servants left to collect their things.

  Naomi stepped up to the housekeeper’s side. The sapphire blue gown and narrow-brimmed straw bonnet with blue scarf wrapped around the crown brought out the blue of her eyes, gave a flush to her clear cheeks, and made her appear younger. “You’ll like Vicar Sharp,” she said, smiling. “Don’t allow the name to fool you—he’s a gentle soul. And if you’ll look over to your left, you’ll be able to see us in the gallery.”

  That made Sarah feel more at ease. She bade them farewell and hastened to the ground floor, halting just inside the open sitting room doorway. Mrs. Blake was seated on the divan, dressed in her usual black and reading a newspaper. Marie, wearing a gown of camel brown and a hat trimmed with olive green feathers and mauve ribbons, stared out the window from her chair.

  “Forgive me . . . I’ve made you wait?” Sarah asked.

  Both faces turned toward her. Mrs. Blake folded the newspaper and set it upon the lamp table. “Newsprint will stain upholstery,” she explained as if Sarah had asked. “And you are not late.”

  “Yes, Madam,” Sarah replied.

  “You may sit down, Sarah,” she said with a motion to the unoccupied part of the divan. “We have another eight minutes.”

  Sarah obeyed, and in the silence that followed, she stared at her gloved right hand clasped over her bare left one and wondered if she was expected to say something. Mrs. Blake seemed of the same mind, because when their glances met once, she looked away.

  “Did you rest well?” Marie inquired before the silence could completely unnerve Sarah.

  “Yes, thank you. And you?”

  “I sleep like a stone every night.”

  Mrs. Blake finally spoke again. “I trust you do know how to behave in church, Sarah?”

  “Oh yes, Madam.”

  “A young lady does not fidget, nor does she draw attention to herself by singing more loudly than the rest of the congregation,” she went on as if Sarah had not just assured her. “And it will behoove you to pay attention to the sermon.”

  “It is time to leave, Madame,” Marie said, rising to her feet.

  Sarah followed the two down the corridor. Stanley waited at the front door, handsome in top hat, black coat with brass buttons, white breeches, and shiny black boots that reached to his knees. Touching the hat’s brim, he said, “Good morning, ladies . . . lovely day out there.” He seemed nonplused when Mrs. Blake and Marie only nodded in reply and even had the good nature to wink at Sarah as he held open the door to the coach. She smiled back before remembering she was supposed to be angry at him.

  On the pavement, groups of people walked up Berkeley Street carrying hymnals and prayer books, reticules, and folded umbrellas. Servants, she supposed, even though they wore Sunday dress, for the owners of the mansions surely took coaches, as did Mrs. Blake. Some familiar figures came into her sight. Waving furiously as if she had not breakfasted with them less than an hour ago, she cried from the window, “Naomi! Hester! Mrs.—”

  They were sending smiles and waves back to her, and she would have named them all had she not heard Mrs. Blake’s voice. “Sarah!”

  She had forgotten she was not alone. She sat back in her seat. Mrs. Blake had a look of one whose patience was being sorely tried. “I allow you to take meals with the servants so you’ll not be lonesome. But a lady does not act so familiar with them in public if she wishes to gain the respect of her peers. Goodness knows you’ll have a difficult enough time of that.”

  Sarah nodded, pushing her left hand into the small of her back as tears stung her eyes. Last night’s feeling of belonging evaporated. She turned her face again toward the window and willed herself not to cry.

  * * *

  Dorothea’s words hung in the air like hateful things. Even Marie sent her accusing looks. She wished she could snatch her words back, explain that she wasn’t referring to the misshapen hand. But the explanation would be far worse. The girl was too young to understand that it was her circumstances of birth that posed a far greater hindrance to her being accepted by polite society. Even i
f her parentage could successfully be kept a secret, the fact that she had lived in an orphanage since infancy was proof enough for most that she was born out of wedlock.

  She cleared her throat. The girl beside her did not turn from the window.

  “We will share my prayer book and hymnal,” were the only words Dorothea could think of to fill the thick silence. When Sarah glanced at her, she said, “I will have Mrs. Bacon purchase a set of your own for you this week.”

  “But I don’t mind sharing,” Sarah murmured.

  But of course you wouldn’t, Dorothea thought. If only the girl had been a brat, loud, and ill-kempt as her mother had been. Then with a clear conscience she could have sent her away to a fine school, there to reside until some fortune hunter discovered the connection between her and the Blake shipping fortune. And Dorothea would have gladly contributed a fine dowry, a final penance on Jeremy’s behalf.

  But she was far from a brat. And she’s the only family you have, Dorothea reminded herself. If only she could summon up again the fragile bond they had shared in the parlor that night. Again she cleared her throat as the coach began slowing to a halt in Hanover Square in front of Saint George’s. “We will get you a matching set.”

  “Madam?” the girl asked.

  “Prayer book and hymnal. I have even seen young ladies carrying lovely white ones, with gilded pages.”

  Concern filled the young face instead of the pleasure she had expected. “They must be frightfully expensive. You’ve spent so much money on me already.”

  “I have more money than sense, child. And very few years left to use both.”

  The girl’s eyes widened in shock, which strangely amused Dorothea. But she restrained herself from smiling and, as Stanley opened the door, said, “Remember . . . a well-bred young lady does not fidget.”

  ****

  The vicar’s voice rang out strong and dramatic, as if he were Nehemiah encouraging the people of Jerusalem to rebuild the city’s walls.

  “Beloved brethren, the Scripture moveth us, in sundry places, to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness; and that we should not dissemble nor cloak them before the face of Almighty God, our heavenly Father; but confess them with a humble, lowly, penitent, and obedient heart; to the end that we may obtain forgiveness of the same, by His infinite goodness and mercy. . . .”