The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  Because she so desperately wanted to prove that she could be a young lady, Sarah did not allow herself to gawk at the Corinthian columns leading up to a gilded ceiling, the stained-glass windows, massive organ, or candelabra. But she did venture a glance above her left shoulder during the space when she and the rest of the congregation were getting to their knees. Those in the gallery not looking at their prayer books had their eyes closed, but she was comforted just by the sight of Naomi and Mrs. Bacon and the rest, except for Marie, who was seated somewhere else with her sisters. Mrs. Blake did not kneel on account of her age but bowed her head and held her Book of Common Prayer open so that Sarah could read along with the others.

  “‘Almighty and most merciful Father; we have erred, and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep. We have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts. . . .’”

  As the service progressed, she was overjoyed to realize that she would not be asked to abandon her faith after all. She even had to send up a quick prayer of repentance for the disloyal thought that she was grateful Vicar Sharp did not glare and roar as did Reverend Howe on his Sundays at Saint Matthew’s, invariably causing some of the youngest girls to weep and have to be hurried from the room.

  After the closing hymn was sung, worshipers filed out of the pews and strolled down the aisles in small groups, filling the church with the hum of quiet conversation while the organist played “Oh My Soul, Bless God the Father.” “I know that one,” she whispered.

  “Very good,” Mrs. Blake returned with a little smile, then leaned closer. “I will introduce you to the vicar. But you must linger only long enough for politeness’ sake, as others will be waiting.”

  Sarah had not reckoned on that. In the pew she had been one face among many. What if he asked her about herself? How did he feel about Methodists?

  “Vicar Sharp, this is my ward, Sarah Matthews,” Mrs. Blake said at the door. The vicar seemed older at the door than he had in the pulpit, with a few lonely strands of steel-colored hair resting atop a head otherwise as bald as a stone. His side-whiskers were magnificent, sprouting from his wrinkled cheeks like weeds.

  “Indeed?” He scooped up her gloved hand and smiled warmly. “Welcome, Miss Matthews.”

  “Thank you.” She dipped into a bob with her hand still in his, almost weak with relief that the word Methodist had not passed between them. On the pavement Marie caught up with them but then lagged behind a bit when Mrs. Blake steered Sarah by the elbow toward two women in huddled conversation. The pair stepped apart and smiled.

  “Mrs. Gill and Mrs. Stafford, may I present my ward, Sarah Matthews?” she said after greetings were exchanged and with her hand upon Sarah’s shoulder.

  Like Mrs. Blake, Mmes. Gill and Stafford had softly lined faces and gray hair peeking from bonnets. But only Mrs. Gill, short and buxom, was dressed in black. Mrs. Stafford’s taller, though no less buxom, frame was swathed in a gown the color of marigolds.

  “Welcome to Berkeley Square, Miss Matthews.” Mrs. Gill had a curious habit of blinking her eyes often, as if not even aware that she was doing so.

  Focusing her own eyes upon the lower part of the woman’s face so as not to be rude, Sarah thanked her and curtseyed. She kept her left hand in a fold of her dress.

  “Have you been ill, dear?” Mrs. Stafford said.

  Her voice was so nasal that Sarah wondered if she were ill herself.

  “Not since the ague last winter,” she answered before it dawned upon her that the woman was referring to her thinness and pale skin. The sympathy in the woman’s expression compelled Sarah to assure her, “I’ve had much more to eat since I came here, so I’m growing stouter every day, and there is so much more sunlight in the garden than there was in—”

  There was a spasmodic tightening of Mrs. Blake’s fingers on her shoulder. “You may wait in the coach with Marie now, Sarah.”

  Even though Sarah’s eyes did not stray from the hands in her lap, she could feel Marie’s seething stare as they sat in the facing seats. Only five days ago she was inspected for lice, her clothes even burned. Was it a shameful thing living in an orphanage? She couldn’t imagine why. It wasn’t as if children had any say-so about whether or not they should have parents.

  “Do not despair yourself,” Marie said eventually.

  Sarah looked up.

  The lady’s maid threw a contemptuous look out of the window. “They are sharp old hens. And you have not even met Mrs. Fowler, who is the worst of the lot.” She did not appear concerned about possibly being overheard when seconds later Mrs. Blake was assisted through the open door by Stanley.

  “I’m sorry,” Sarah told her, still not sure why she should be.

  Mrs. Blake nodded, a tight smile at her lips. “From now on you will simply reply to questions with as little embellishment as possible. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Madam.”

  They rode in silence, Sarah with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. She had done it again! She supposed Mrs. Blake regretted having her here more now than ever. Just when she was beginning to feel more at home at Berkeley Square, she had put herself at risk of being sent back to Saint Matthew’s. And she realized she didn’t want to go.

  Please don’t let that happen, Father, she prayed.

  ****

  By noon the next day she breathed a little easier, for there had been enough time for Mrs. Blake to pack her off if she had thought Sarah’s behavior at church unforgivable. The matter of her origin still troubled her, however, so she broached the subject to Naomi after a lunch of chicken cutlets with gravy and vegetables. The cook stood at the worktable carving bits of ham for supper’s yellow split-pea soup while Trudy washed dishes at the sink. Sarah sat on the ledge of one of the cupboards, polishing jars of spices and dried herbs and then replacing them on the freshly dusted shelf.

  “Shameful to come from an orphanage?” Naomi sent her a curious look. “Why would you ask that?”

  “I’m just wondering.” Sarah did not want to relive yesterday’s embarrassment by giving details.

  She was prepared to have the whole notion dismissed, perhaps be told that she was too young to worry about such things. Instead Naomi said, after a brief silence, “Miss Matthews, there is nothing shameful about a person who lives a decent life. God is no respecter of persons, as the Scripture says. But you will occasionally happen upon people who take issue with anyone born into circumstances different than their own.”

  “But no one can determine how he’s to be born.”

  “It’s just the way society ranks people. A duke is seated higher than an earl at dinner parties, no matter if the earl is a doctor who has saved thousands of lives. And the gentility look down upon those in trade, no matter how educated or cultured those in trade might happen to be.”

  “But wasn’t Mr. Blake in trade?” Sarah asked hesitantly.

  The cook gave her a wry smile. “My tongue set a trap for me, Miss Matthews. But no matter what your social standing, there are others perched upon the same rung of the ladder. Mr. and Mrs. Blake were never wanting for friends.”

  “And I had friends at Saint Matthew’s,” Sarah reminded her.

  “There, you see?”

  Sarah nodded. Orphans surely clung to the bottom rung of the ladder or perhaps to the rung just above beggars and thieves. She had no idea what rung she occupied now, being not quite a servant yet not the same as well-bred people. But she didn’t think she would like to be in society. The five minutes in front of the church had been more than enough. She held up the jar she had just dusted that was filled with interesting-looking rolled brown sticks. “May I ask what this is?”

  “Cinnamon bark. We’ll put a bit in your tea today if you like.” Turning the ham to the other side, Naomi began chiseling off more bits. “Unfortunately, it’s not just the upper crust, Miss Matthews. Even among servants, there is pride over rank.”

  “And a scullery maid is the lowest of them all!” Trudy snapped as she shoved anoth
er dripping dish into the rack above her.

  Sarah marveled at the sharpness in her tone, but Naomi smiled and said in her soothing tone, “Trudy will be a cook in a fine house like this one day, you may mark my words.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three more pages, William told himself on the evening of May 21, four weeks after moving back into the garret room of Staircase Sixteen. He lifted his eyes from Dmitry Mendeleyev’s Principles of Chemistry to steal a glance at the pasteboard box upon his chest of drawers. It had sat there since the afternoon post and had become his motivation not to waste a minute of the day.

  Unfortunately, young Lord Holt had chosen that particular day to go punting in an inebriated state and took a topple into the River Cherwell. To prevent the underclassman’s fine Wellington boots from hardening, William had had to remove them from the fireplace fender every hour and give them another rubbing with saddle soap. That, along with his other duties, such as collecting Mr. Kendrick’s laundry from a washerwoman on Brasenose Lane and delivering a supper tray to Lord Holt, whose clothes would dry out before he did.

  And then there were his studies—he had vowed to himself never to fall behind. Mr. Mendeleyev’s words on periodic law sometimes fused into blobs of gibberish, but when he finally slammed shut the text, it was with a sense of accomplishment. Yawning and stretching out his aching shoulders, he rose from his writing table. He cut the twine with his pocket knife and lifted the box’s lid, to be greeted by the buttery aroma of Scotch shortbread. Pressed into the top of each square were toasted almonds, just the way he liked them.

  Aunt Naomi, you’re worth your weight in gold. There were also a half-dozen Dutch pippin apples and a parcel of cracked walnuts. After taking out a square of shortbread, he gave his attention to the envelope tucked into the side. He had received two letters from his aunt since returning to Oxford. This time two pages were folded together. A glance at the signature of the second told him that Sarah Matthews had finally written. He read his aunt’s letter first, settling sideways into his chair with an arm loped over the back. She told of her days in the kitchen since she last wrote, her delight to have borrowed a copy of Lorna Doone from the lending library, and the activities of the other servants.

  This morning Mr. Duffy brought in several of the Crecy carrots you helped him sow. Trudy and I were amazed at their sweetness, and she talked me into another carrot pudding.

  As usual she apologized for having nothing exciting to tell, but it was the routine domesticity of her letters that was soothing upon his print-weary eyes. He could almost smell bread baking and hear his aunt’s singing softly as she did only when she thought no one was listening.

  In her last paragraph she wrote,

  Miss Matthews cut the shortbread for me. It was I who suggested she write. She feared you were only being kind when you offered. It would be like you, dear person that you are, but as there was so much hope in her face, I insisted you would be happy to hear from her.

  William thought again how perfect the timing was, the girl moving into the house. It was as if God had orchestrated it so on his aunt’s behalf. He brushed away crumbs from a fold in the letter before moving it behind the next one.

  Dear William,

  Please put this aside if you are too busy to read it. I hope that your lectures are interesting and that the weather there in Oxford is pleasant and not so foggy as London. Mrs. Blake sat with me in the garden for a little while last Thursday and said that she has found a tutor of excellent repute, a Mr. Colby, but that he will not be available until June tenth. I am to keep my mind occupied until then by reading two books he has assigned, Aids to Reflection by Samuel Taylor Coleridge and History of Civilization in England by Henry Buckle. I hope that Mr. Colby has some knowledge of chemistry, however, I do not think I should wish to be a chemist. Please do not take offense; I know that you will be a great chemist one day and discover at least one of the missing elements.

  William marveled at the painstaking neatness of the lines of script, with only two small blots to mar the conformity of it. He could imagine the gravity in her pale face as she labored over the page. And he realized this was probably the first letter she had ever written.

  Naomi allowed me to cut the dough for your shortbread and press in the almonds. We made macaroons on May Day. Everyone except for Mrs. Blake and Marie walked to Hyde Park. Hester pinned so many flowers to my hat that you could not see the brim. The May Pole was lovely, with garlands and children frolicking about singing sweet little songs.

  I confess to you that I disliked the Punch and Judy show and only pretended to laugh because everyone expected me to do so. When Naomi excused herself to leave, I asked to accompany her. The others assumed I was fatigued on account of my age. Naomi said she had heard enough quarreling when she was a girl and that she did not care to be reminded of those days.

  On Saturday evening past, I read the final chapter of Frankenstein in Naomi’s room while she polished her Sunday boots and Trudy sewed a button onto her pink dress. It is hard to imagine Mrs. Blake ever reading it. Naomi said she had also enjoyed the story as a girl and that it serves as a reminder that even a person of mild nature can be corrupted by ill-treatment. And that if everyone strove to follow Jesus’ commandment “to do unto others as we would have them do unto us—”

  “—all of society would be the better for it,” William murmured, smiling. “Aunt Naomi and I had that same discussion, Miss Matthews.”

  The closing lines were terse.

  Thank you for not minding the time I spend with Naomi. Please do not go to the bother of replying to this letter. It is kind enough that you invited me to write.

  Very sincerely

  yours,

  Sarah Matthews

  Guilt pricked his conscience as he folded the letters and put them in the drawer. He had written to his aunt only once since his arrival this term, and though she assured him that she understood about his time limitations, he knew how much she loved to hear from him. Tomorrow after chapel he would make time to compose another. And he supposed as long as he would have to ink his pen anyway, he could scribble a note to the girl.

  As tempting as it was to fall across the bed without even removing his shoes, William crept down the silent corridor to clean his teeth, bathe with a flannel, and change into his nightshirt. He felt as if his brain had been scooped out and replaced with pudding, rendering him incapable of anything but the most rudimentary thought. When he finally pulled the covers up over his shoulders, he mumbled a prayer into his pillow and apologized for the brevity of it. He sank into a sleep so deep that when his eyes opened to a still-dark morning, he could vaguely recall a bit of only one dream, his aunt walking up the street with a pale girl wearing a hat decorated with flowers.

  ****

  By the Sunday morning of May 29, four of Madame Gauthier’s dresses hung in Sarah’s wardrobe alongside the ready-made ones, which were beginning to feel tight around her waist and bodice. Fortunately the seamstress had allowed for growth in the new dresses. Though Sarah was still thin, even after six weeks of Naomi’s cooking, she was delighted that her ribs no longer protruded like the black keys of Mrs. Blake’s piano. And she even seemed a wee bit taller, for she could now stand on tiptoe and brush her fingertips against the top of her doorframe.

  “What will we do with the dresses I outgrow?” Sarah asked while Hester fastened the buttons to her newest gown, a yellow silk with a white eyelet lace pinafore.

  “I suppose the Missus will give them to one of them charities she sends money to,” Hester replied.

  Sarah thought that it was a shame they couldn’t be sent to Saint Matthew’s. But then, Mrs. Forsyth would never allow finery to only a handful of girls. As much as she enjoyed the new clothes, she felt guilty that one person should have so much.

  “Have you picked out a hat?”

  In addition to the new dresses, there were three bonnets as well. But Sarah’s mind was not on choosing, for it was then that she realized Hester
’s voice had not its usual lilt. She turned from the mirror. Hester, in turn, averted her eyes toward the window.

  “Hester, what’s wrong?” Sarah was not nearly so meek anymore, at least not in the company of the servants, in spite of an occasional slipped “yes, Madam” or “sir.” They seemed now like caring aunts and uncles—even Marie and Stanley, though she still disapproved of the way he treated Hester.

  Hester’s lips trembled as if she was straining to keep her emotions inside. “I’m just out of sorts this morning. Nature and all that. You’ll learn when you’re older.”

  Having spent most of her life surrounded by girls—some streetwise beyond their years, Sarah reckoned she had been well-versed in “all that.” Sympathetically she said, “Perhaps you should sit down?”

  But then a sob tore out of Hester’s lips, and she buried her face in her hands. “If only I didn’t love him so!”

  Sending a helpless glance to the door for help that did not materialize, Sarah patted the maid’s heaving shoulder. She had not the courage to voice what she was thinking, that Hester could choose not to love Stanley. That the solution was so simple to her surely meant it was more complicated.

  “If only he would marry me!” Hester whimpered.

  Sarah could bear it no longer. “But why would you want to if he makes you so unhappy?”

  “The heart can’t choose whom it loves, Miss Matthews.”

  “I see,” was all Sarah could reply, though she didn’t see at all.

  The chambermaid did not accompany her downstairs, saying she wasn’t hungry after all. “Stanley gave Vera Mifflin a ride in the wagon yesterday,” Trudy muttered to Avis in Sarah’s hearing. “And it weren’t the first time.” Both sent sharp looks at the groomsman, who went on heaping marmalade onto his toast. Even Naomi seemed put out at him, for she merely made a tepid smile at his declaration that the rain was so heavy last night that he had to dog-paddle out to the stable. But Mrs. Bacon and Claire and Mr. Duffy chuckled with enough enthusiasm that Stanley didn’t seem to notice the four who didn’t.