The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  ****

  Sarah was becoming a little more at ease in Mrs. Blake’s presence. Eventually it had dawned upon her that the elderly woman felt just as awkward in her company, though there were moments when there seemed to be a tenuous bond between them. Such as during the ride to church that morning. Sarah sat with gloved right hand resting upon the kidskin-bound Book of Common Prayer and Hymns for the Church, listening to Mrs. Blake and Marie speculate over the theme of today’s sermon. Suddenly Mrs. Blake pointed out her window to the left.

  “See the little lad behind the lamppost?” Sarah leaned forward, as did Marie from the other side. Indeed, a small boy stood as still as the post itself and waited for the small group walking in his direction.

  “He ran ahead, and his family is pretending not to notice so he can pop out and frighten them. But I do hope he’ll mind that puddle behind him.”

  “Does Madame wish me to call out warning?” Marie asked in a droll tone.

  “Why, of course not. That would spoil the surprise.” Mrs. Blake turned again to them. “Jeremy used to crouch behind a lamp table when he was small. He thought if he kept perfectly still, no one could see him.”

  The smile faded and her pale eyes glistened. Marie gave her mistress a weary look. Impulsively Sarah said, “There is a girl at Saint Matthew’s who would hide whenever it was her turn to bathe.”

  Now under the scrutiny of both sets of eyes, Sarah wondered if she had blundered. But then Mrs. Blake blinked. “Indeed?”

  “Hannah. She’s one of the younger girls—about six years, so she must have been four in those days.”

  “Naughty child!” Marie said, but with a little smile.

  “Not necessarily, Marie.” Mrs. Blake’s face was serious. “She could have been afraid of water. Was that the reason, Sarah?”

  “It was the soap,” Sarah replied. “She said it made her skin itch. Mrs. Forsyth bought a cake of Star soap just for Hannah after the time it took us two hours to find her.”

  “A prudent move. But where was she hiding?”

  “In Mrs. Forsyth’s wardrobe.”

  To Sarah’s relief, Mrs. Blake smiled. “The cheek of the girl, hiding in the headmistress’s room! We had a hideous pink sofa when I was a girl, mended in several places. I was hiding behind it when my sister Edith’s beau asked for her hand. Thought I was quite clever, I did, until my parents came into the room, and I had to sit perfectly still for what seemed like hours. To make matters worse, all I could think about after a while was how desperately I needed to use the privy.”

  Marie chuckled, but Sarah was too stunned to do anything but gape at this same woman who had lectured her about the proper conduct and conversation of a lady!

  “What is it, Sarah?” Mrs. Blake said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Madame has shocked the child,” Marie admonished.

  “No . . . I merely . . .” Heat rushed into Sarah’s cheeks; however, nothing rushed into her mind to rescue her. But when the two women laughed, she joined in.

  Mrs. Blake’s lighthearted mood lasted all through the worship service, and afterward it was probably the impetus for inviting to Thursday tea Mmes. Gill and Stafford, and a Mrs. Fowler, to whom Sarah had been introduced three weeks ago. Mrs. Fowler was the eldest of the circle of friends, for the hair visible beneath her black bonnet was snow-white, and her face as wrinkled as a walnut shell. Graciously the three accepted. Mrs. Gill, blinking, clasped gloved hands together and chirped, “It’s been too long since we’ve had a good chat!”

  “And what do you think we’re doing now?” Mrs. Fowler asked. Sarah could not tell if the irritation in the throaty voice was genuine or in jest, as Mr. Duffy and Stanley were wont to do.

  “It’s not the same when the vicar is just a few feet away,” Mrs. Stafford said, dropping her voice to a nasal stage whisper. “I certainly don’t wish to hear a sermon about gossip next Sunday.”

  In the midst of the schoolgirlish giggles that followed, Mrs. Blake seemed pleased, even a little relieved. She said to Mrs. Stafford. “And, Augusta, do bring little Becky so the girls may play.”

  “I’ll certainly try,” the woman agreed after a lightning-quick glance in Sarah’s direction. “Though it’s quite probable that she’ll have a riding or dancing lesson or something of that sort. I scolded Francis just yesterday for not allowing the children opportunities to amuse themselves, but you know how these University women are—all caught up in modern notions about childrearing. And there is only so much you can say to a daughter-in-law without being accused of interfering.”

  Others began taking issue with their daughters-in-law except for Mrs. Blake, who excused herself and Sarah at the first lull in the discussion. She was pleasant enough while bidding her friends good-day, but wore a tight-lipped expression on the way to the coach and stared out of her window all the way home.

  “Has Madame taken ill?” Marie finally asked as they waited for Stanley to hop from his perch and open the door.

  “I’m quite well, thank you,” Mrs. Blake replied in a tone that suggested otherwise. Sarah wondered if the change in mood was because she too was aware that, lesson or no, Mrs. Stafford’s granddaughter would not be at tea Thursday. She wished she had the mettle to assure her that it didn’t matter, that she had gotten quite used to playing alone.

  Hester appeared for lunch with shadows under her eyes. She picked at her meal and spoke only when addressed. If Stanley noticed the strained atmosphere, he did not let on but was his usual bantering self.

  After the lunch dishes were cleared and Trudy was in the garden collecting basil, Sarah wondered if she should mention the apparent snub at church to Naomi. She had burdened her with so many of her misgivings. What if Naomi grew weary of having her come down to the kitchen for chats? She didn’t think she could bear such a thing.

  “Penny for your thoughts?” The cook’s voice broke into her reverie. They were both seated at the worktable, Sarah mixing cocoa powder, sugar, and a bit of salt to store in a crock for making hot chocolate. Naomi chopped vegetables for the soup that would be the main part of supper—Potage Printanier, Naomi had explained, also known as Spring Soup.

  Putting aside her gloomy thoughts for the moment, Sarah asked, “Why do we have soup every night?” Quickly she added, “I’m not complaining . . . I like it very much.” Especially with the recipes so varied, for it seemed that Naomi had dozens, from pheasant to parsnip, calf’s-head to cabbage.

  Naomi’s knife made little thumping sounds against the board as it minced through a long carrot. She did not look up, which was a relief to Sarah because she would not wish the dear woman to lose a finger.

  “Mrs. Blake believes a light supper is better for sleeping afterward. It makes sense to me, not having our stomachs overtasked with digesting. And it’s pleasant getting out of the kitchen for a little time to ourselves in the evenings instead of having to clean up after a big meal.”

  “I’m glad,” Sarah told her.

  “I do enjoy cooking, mind you. But anything can become tedious if you’re not allowed a break.”

  “How did you come to be a cook?” Sarah wondered why she had never thought to ask before. Obviously Naomi wasn’t born and reared in Mrs. Blake’s kitchen.

  “I was a kitchen maid first and learned as I went along. But I already had some experience with plain cookery, for my family had no servants.” She explained that as the daughter of a tenant farmer, there had been few opportunities for employment in Leicester.

  “Was it very difficult for you? Coming to London by yourself?”

  “Very,” Naomi replied with a nod. “I was eighteen, and it was my first time away from home. But I wanted desperately to make a better life for myself. And I was able to send part of my wages to my parents while they were living.”

  Sarah wondered why Naomi had never married. She was certainly pretty, even more so than Hester, though that had not dawned upon Sarah until several days after her arrival. She was beginning to unders
tand that there was more to beauty than just the arrangement of eyes, nose, and mouth, that one’s character had a way of drawing attention to the attractive or not-so-attractive features, depending on the quality of the character. Mr. Duffy, whose visage had frightened her at their first meeting, she now found endearing because of his kindness and humor. And Naomi’s serenity was just as comely a feature as her cobalt blue eyes and smooth cheeks.

  “What happened at church, dear girl?” Naomi asked.

  Sarah stopped stirring cocoa powder, which by now was as completely mixed as the bread dough rising upon the cupboard ledge. “How did you know?”

  “You were very quiet at lunch.”

  She had to smile. “I’m always quiet during meals.”

  Naomi smiled back at her. “There is happy quiet and sad quiet.”

  In the warmth of the kitchen and of Naomi’s companionship, Sarah could almost convince herself that the snub didn’t matter. But the memory still gave her a little stab, so she found herself relating Mrs. Stafford’s overeager assurances that her granddaughter wouldn’t be available.

  Incredibly Naomi’s lips tightened as if in anger, but her expression smoothed into its usual serenity a second later. The carrots pushed aside into a mound of coins, she switched to potatoes. “Tell me, Miss Matthews, the few times you were in Mrs. Stafford’s vicinity, did you do or say anything to offend her . . . even accidentally?”

  Sarah didn’t even have to think about that one. “No, nothing.”

  “Hmm. Then tell me this. In the days when you were ignorant of Mrs. Stafford’s very existence, were you terribly unhappy about it?”

  “But when I didn’t know Mrs.—” Sarah stopped herself and smiled. “I shouldn’t concern myself over this, should I?”

  “I expect your cocoa will taste just as sweet whether she thinks well or ill of you.” Sobriety overtook Naomi’s expression again. “During your lifetime not everyone will be fond of you, Miss Matthews. I wish I could say otherwise, but there are few good people in this world who have no detractors. But why dwell upon the few who may not care for you, when you can spend that time thinking about the many who do?”

  “Who do what?” asked Trudy, coming through the doorway with a handful of greenery.

  “Adore Miss Matthews,” Naomi replied.

  “Oh, but we do, don’t we?” The scullery maid patted the top of Sarah’s head as she dropped the leaves into a heap upon the table. “And I believe your hair has grown an inch since you got here. You’ll look like a proper girl yet, won’t you?”

  Later, while Sarah looked through the pages of The Household Cyclopedia, she ran her fingers through her hair. Perhaps it would grow another inch by the time William returned for summer break. Not that it mattered, she told herself.

  Her eyes lit upon something on the page that reminded her of Hester and her despondency. Respectfully she waited for a pause in Naomi’s and Trudy’s discussion over tomorrow’s lunch menu to ask, “May I borrow this for a little while?” She hoped neither would ask why. As friendly as Trudy was, she was still Hester’s cousin and could possibly take offense.

  Naomi simply smiled. “But of course.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Sarah spotted Hester in Marie’s room from the corridor, red curls bound up with a cloth as she polished the fireplace grate. From the doorway she asked, “May I visit with you?”

  “Come on in, Miss Matthews.” The face turned in Sarah’s direction wore the expression of a person just hoping someone would happen along to relieve the solitude. When Sarah hesitated, Hester grinned and said, “Marie won’t bite.”

  She stepped into the room, decorated in uncharacteristically subdued colors of mauve, cream, and pale green.

  “Just don’t get too close or you’ll muss your frock. And pull up that bench so’s I don’t have to crane my neck.”

  Mindful of scraping the hardwood floor near the hearth, Sarah shoved the book under her elbow and picked up the bench from the dressing table. She settled three feet away from the fireplace and tucked her gown behind her knees.

  Hester smiled at her. “What have you there?”

  “It’s Naomi’s,” Sarah replied, holding up the book. She was aware that Hester would not be able to read the title but hoped the still-shiny gilt lettering would be impressive enough to lend authority to the words.

  The maid gave it a benign glance and went back to polishing with a black-smeared cloth. “You ain’t going to read recipes to me, are you?”

  “It’s a book of advice.” Sarah drew a deep breath. “I thought you might care to hear what it says about courting.”

  The maid’s polishing slowed a pace. “I didn’t know there was things in books about courtin’. Well, what’s it say?”

  Opening the book, Sarah found her place and read: “‘Choice of a husband . . . As few ladies are privileged to initiate proposals in reference to spouses, directions may only be given with respect to the acceptance of offers.’”

  “Now tell me again in Queen’s English,” Hester grumbled good-naturedly.

  Sarah thought for a second. “It means that most women have to wait to be asked, but we have the choice as to which proposal we accept.”

  “Thinkin’ about marriage already, are you, Miss Matthews?”

  “Oh, not me . . .” She intercepted Hester’s wink and realized she was being teased. Smiling, she looked to the page again. “‘Do not encourage the advances of a gentleman who is believed to have jilted a lady; you owe this to your sex and to society.’”

  When Sarah looked up, Hester was sitting back upon her heels, cloth idle in her hand. “Explain that part again about owing to my sex and all that.”

  “I believe it means that if all women wouldn’t have anything to do with men who treat them less than decently, the men who aren’t decent would have to become so.”

  She was about to apologize for her muddled tangle of words and make another attempt, but Hester nodded thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose they would go to all that trouble of putting it in that book if it weren’t true. Is there more?”

  “A little.” Sarah read on. “‘Never believe any one whose protestations of love are intense at first sight; you may better judge the sentiments of the man who loves you by his manner than by his words.’”

  “And what’s intense mean?” Hester asked.

  “With his whole heart. As if he would die for you if you asked him.” She grasped for an example. “Like William Dobbin’s love for Amelia Sedley.”

  “Who?”

  “Forgive me—they’re from Vanity Fair.” And when the maid still wore a blank look, Sarah added, “It’s a storybook.” Literary characters were discussed so often on Saint Matthew’s third storey that Sarah sometimes forgot they were not real people.

  “You might know he wouldn’t be a real fellow.” Hester frowned. “Stanley says that very thing . . . that he would die for me and all that. But his actions don’t say that at all. And when I say the courtship is over, he promises—intensely—that he’ll change his ways.”

  “But he doesn’t?” Sarah asked in spite of knowing the answer.

  “For maybe a day or so. You know . . .” she said with green eyes narrowing, “it’s just like having a dog lick your hand whilst it piddles on your foot.”

  Sarah bit her lip and forced herself not to smile.

  “But does it say in there how a girl is to make herself stop loving a man like that?” Hester asked with eyes wide.

  “No . . . I haven’t read all of it, but I don’t think so.”

  “Well, ain’t that just jolly keen! They row you to the middle of the pond and then take away your oars.”

  “Perhaps if you prayed about it?” Sarah suggested timidly. “I asked God to take away my homesickness for Saint Matthew’s and He did.”

  “You was that sad?”

  Her eyes clouded a bit at the memory. “I even thought about running away.”

  “Poor lamb,” Hester said. “And He took it away,
like that?”

  Well, not all at once. But it’s gone now.”

  “Hmm.” She rubbed the tip of her nose, leaving a smear. “I’m a Christian girl, mind you, but I never seen as how God had time to concern himself with the goings-on of a chambermaid, what with the wars and such in the world.”

  “Mrs. Kettner would remind you that God even knows when a sparrow falls.”

  “Who?”

  “My teacher at Saint Matthew’s.”

  “Oh.” Hester picked up her cloth again. “It were good of you to tell me all this, Miss Matthews. You’d best run along now and leave me to do some thinking.”

  “Have I made you angry?”

  “Angry?” She smiled and held her blackened thumb and forefinger slightly apart. “Not even this much. But Mrs. Bacon will be if I don’t tidy up this grate.”

  Sarah took Aids of Reflection out into the garden for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring the sounds of play from over the wall. The text was written for someone above her years, but she studied each paragraph meticulously until she could absorb the gist of it. She was mulling over Coleridge’s distinction between Reason and Understanding when Mordie’s head appeared at the wall.

  “Is your hand better?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she replied with an apologetic smile.

  “You could play croquet one-handed. We would do the same to make it fair.”

  Sarah could no longer meet his eyes directly. “That’s very kind of you. But I have to study.”

  Hester came to the supper table in a fresh uniform, the soot scrubbed from her nose. As at lunch, she abstained from the usual banter and answered any question put to her with an economy of words. But Sarah detected a subtle difference. Whereas before she had seemed despondent, now there was a preoccupied air about her. Even Stanley seemed to notice, for Sarah caught him sending more than one curious look in her direction. And his attempt at humor—telling of a stableman down the mews who tended a horse that would whinny if he hit a high note while whistling—elicited from her no more than an absent smile.