The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “That’s why you borrowed the book, isn’t it?” Naomi said in a low voice when Sarah brought the butter crock into the kitchen.

  “I was going to tell you later. The part about courting seemed so perfect.”

  “And she obviously listened. It just bears out the Scripture . . . and a little child shall lead them.”

  As much as she loved being complimented by Naomi, Sarah could not help but wince. “Thirteen isn’t so much a little child, is it?”

  The cook smiled. “Thirteen is a young lady. And a very wise young lady at that.”

  ****

  It was on Mondays that Naomi missed William the most. She could not bring herself to go to any of the old places without him. But on impulse after breakfast the following day, she knocked at the sitting room door.

  “You may enter,” came Marie’s voice.

  Naomi walked inside. Mrs. Blake, seated on the divan, and Marie, in a nearby chair, worked needlepoint from hooped canvases. Marie gave Naomi a bored look and resumed sewing, while Mrs. Blake rested the hand holding the threaded needle in her lap. “Yes, Naomi?”

  The voice was flat, her expression tight. Naomi wondered if yesterday’s conversation outside the church was still lingering in her thoughts. That was another reason she was here. If the girl wasn’t allowed to play with the Rothschild boys and was to be shunned ever so cordially by polite society, she should be given opportunity for experiences not confined to the bounds of 14 Berkeley Square.

  “I’ll be taking my half-day after lunch, Madam.”

  “Very well, Naomi,” Mrs. Blake said with a slight lift of brows, for it wasn’t Naomi’s usual custom to remind her. Even Marie looked up again.

  “May I ask your permission to invite Miss Matthews to accompany me to the theatre this evening?”

  “The theatre?” She spoke the word as if having never heard it.

  “The Enchanted Wood is at the Adelphi. I’ve read the reviews, and it seems perfect for a young—”

  “That is very kind of you, Naomi. Please do not take offense, but it would not be appropriate for Sarah to be out socially with a servant.”

  “I see.” Naomi raised her chin a bit. She had worked hard all of her life and had never allowed herself to feel ashamed of her station. “Then if you’ll excuse me . . .”

  “You may leave us,” Mrs. Blake interrupted again, only the order was directed toward the chair. Marie stabbed her canvas with her needle, set it aside on the armchair, and pushed herself to her feet with exaggerated motion.

  “I shall be upstairs.”

  In spite of the recent injury to her own dignity, Naomi felt sympathy for the lady’s maid. Surely even Marie had figured out Sarah Matthews’ identity, so how long did Mrs. Blake intend to keep pretending? As it was, the secret had almost become an entity among the servants, a presence that lurked in corners and shadow, and growing larger every day that they pretended not to see it.

  “Do have a seat, Naomi.”

  “With all due respect, Madam,” Naomi said, lowering herself into a chair adjacent to the divan, “Marie doesn’t engage in gossip. Surely it’s wearisome to have to watch what you say every minute you’re together. May I ask why you’ve not told her?”

  Mrs. Blake looked even more weary. “Too many already know.”

  An understatement if there ever was one, Naomi thought.

  “And she would try to prod me into telling Sarah. She’s grown very fond of the girl.”

  “Then why not tell Sarah? She’s very bright, and it’s just a matter of time before she figures—”

  “No!” A frown tugged at the creased lips. “She’ll despise me.”

  “I don’t believe that, Mrs. Blake. She’ll be confused at first, of course, but she’ll grow to love you. You’re her grandmother.”

  Such longing came into the woman’s face that Naomi thought she was on the verge of agreeing. But her expression hardened. “The proper time is for me to decide. And she may not accompany you to the theatre, Naomi. Even though her father did not give her his name, she is still a Blake.”

  The inflection upon the Blake seemed a little pretentious to Naomi, who was aware of their less-than-aristocratic roots. “I attend theatre in Sunday dress. No one would know that she’s in the company of a servant.”

  “And if one of my acquaintances happened to be there?” She shook her head. “I admit I have allowed the girl to overstep the bounds of propriety by digging in the dirt with Mr. Duffy and loitering in the kitchen, simply because she lacks playmates. But it will be difficult enough for her to be accepted without flouting social convention.”

  “Very well, Madam.” As there was nothing else to discuss, Naomi rose from the chair. “If I may take my leave now . . .”

  “Wait, Naomi.” Her mistress’s expression softened. “This is no reflection upon you personally, you must understand. I have always admired your straightforwardness and the character you’ve instilled in William. Had I been so mindful of Jeremy’s . . . well, perhaps things would have been different.”

  It was impossible to bear a grudge against such transparency. “Thank you, Madam,” Naomi said. “And if I may be so bold . . . there is a point when we choose our own way. You can’t blame yourself forever.”

  “Very kind of you to say so, Naomi. Do ring for Marie on your way out.”

  Naomi did as instructed. And decided she would spend her half-day in legendary Exmoor in the company of Lorna Doone.

  * * *

  When the door closed, Dorothea rested her head against the pillows between the divan and the wall behind it and stared up at the beloved portrait. But I will, Naomi. And why not blame herself?

  How many sermons had she heard on The Prodigal Son? It was a picture of forgiveness, a lesson on how God longs to restore fellowship with His straying children. But another key lesson had escaped her.

  The son did not mend his ways until he was sick of the pigpen.

  Oh, she was familiar with pigpens—enough to make her friends recoil in horror if they only knew. For almost every year of her upbringing her father had penned a sow in their tiny garden to be sent to the butcher’s in the fall. When one sister died and the other married, the task of carrying out the pail of slops became Dorothea’s. There was little space for the poor creature to do anything but wallow in its own filth, so she would hurry with mouth closed tight while taking shallow breaths. Not a place that a person would choose to stay.

  You never allowed Jeremy to reach that place, she told herself. Instead, she softened the sharp edges of life for him, paying off gaming debts and having Mr. Duffy wait up to put him to bed when he stumbled in reeking of debauchery, if he came home at all. She even unfairly dismissed a girl who had been ill-used by him—as much as it pained her to admit it to herself.

  There was no comfort in reminding herself that his father’s nurturing was directed chiefly toward the business. That she loved the boy more gave her the greater responsibility to see that he turned out right. She was David weeping over Absalom, wishing in vain that she could have died instead.

  ****

  “Mrs. Blake wishes to see you after breakfast,” Sarah was told by Mrs. Bacon three days later just as she was removing the plate of broiled whiting, poached egg, and buttered bread from her tray in the servants’ hall.

  “Very well,” Sarah replied. “I’ll hurry.”

  “Bad for the digestion, Miss Matthews,” the housekeeper said. “She said you were to have a proper meal.”

  Avis whispered to Trudy in Sarah’s hearing, “It wouldn’t do to have a stomach rumblin’ when those hoity-toity ladies are to tea.”

  It’s Thursday, Sarah thought with spirits sinking.

  “In other words, Miss Matthews,” Stanley said, his thickly lashed eyes sending a glance Hester’s way, “you shouldn’t leave until you’ve eaten the whole kit and caboodle.”

  Mr. Duffy guffawed and slapped his knee, but Sarah reckoned the dear soul would do so if Stanley recited the alphabet. Others
made polite laughter. Sarah smiled at the groomsman because she had been the one addressed. Stanley was capable of greater wit than that, but his efforts at humor had a desperate quality to them lately.

  And the red-headed reason for this simply spooned quince jelly onto her bread and said in her childlike voice, “You know, I saw a cloud yesterday that looked just like a fox.”

  After breakfast, Mrs. Blake’s instructions to Sarah concerned the afternoon tea. “You will have to study your texts this morning.” She looked anxious, as if one loud handclap would give her a fright. “But don’t linger for too long in the garden. Your cheeks are pink enough—we can’t have you looking like a plow girl.”

  “Madame should remind Miss Matthews to eat a proper lunch,” Marie said, not lifting her eyes from her needlepoint, which would eventually become a likeness of Jesus Christ praying in the Garden of Gethsemane.

  “Goodness, yes!” Mrs. Blake agreed. “A young lady does not come to the table with an empty stomach and gorge herself in the presence of guests.”

  “Yes, Madam,” Sarah replied, though quite certain her stomach would be so twisted in knots at tea that she would have to force herself to eat for the sake of courtesy.

  “Mrs. Bacon will see that you have a bath after lunch and change into your nicest gown.”

  “She has not worn the green silk yet,” Marie offered.

  Mrs. Blake gave the maid an approving nod. “Very good. And, Sarah . . .”

  “Yes?”

  She pressed her lips together, as if weighing her words carefully. “You’re not too young to understand how important it is to cultivate the favor of people of quality. It is not an overstatement to say that your future happiness depends upon it.”

  It seemed very much an overstatement to Sarah, even as she nodded. Wasn’t her future happiness more secure in God’s hands than in Mrs. Stafford’s lace-gloved ones?

  “You must be vigilant at all times of the impression you are making,” Mrs. Blake continued and went on to a half-dozen other admonitions concerning how to socialize with one’s elders. Sarah’s apprehension had developed into full-blown terror by the time she was dismissed to study in the garden.

  After lunch Avis attended to her bath. “My fiancé, Edwin, bathes in the River Niger,” the maid said as her fingers briskly soaped Sarah’s scalp. “He says he would give a month’s wages to soak in a proper English bath. Only the officers are allowed them, you know. It ain’t fair, if you ask me.”

  “I think it would be fun to bathe in a river,” Sarah offered.

  “Mayhap in some nice little English river. But not when you have to hire native boys to beat pots with sticks to frighten off the crocodiles.”

  “Oh.” The afternoon tea suddenly seemed a little less fearful by comparison. But only a little. After she was dried, turbaned, and helped into her wrapper, Sarah walked with Avis down the corridor to her room. Hester, lying out Sarah’s gown on the bed, looked up and frowned.

  “But you’ve washed her hair,” she said to Avis.

  The parlormaid touched her forehead. “Oh dear! And the Missus already snappin’ at everybody like a badger!” She took in a gulp of air and looked at Sarah with owlish eyes. “Do forgive me, Miss Matthews. It’s just that—”

  “Well, it can’t be helped now,” Hester cut in with a stern tone. “Just lay a fire. And leave the door open so’s it don’t get too stuffy.” As Avis hastened to the fireplace, Hester motioned Sarah to the dressing table and began unwinding the towel from her head. “It’s a good thing your hair dries so quickly.”

  “Yes.” But Sarah’s mind was still on the anxiety in Avis’s face. When the parlormaid was gone and Hester had used the towel so briskly that her hair stood in all directions like a madwoman’s, she asked, “Why did she apologize?”

  “Avis? Why, it ain’t good form to speak against the Missus.”

  “But why did she apologize only to me?”

  “Hmm.” In the mirror, Hester’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Well, Avis’s head is filled with thoughts about that fiancé, so she don’t think too clear about anything else. Look how she forgot she weren’t supposed to wash your hair.”

  “She did talk about him,” Sarah conceded.

  “There, you see?” Hester’s gums and small teeth appeared with her smile. “Now, up with you and I’ll scoot that bench over to the hearth.”

  Sarah’s fine hair was prone to tangles now that the very tips were long enough to curl up around her earlobes. As the comb worked at a nest of snarls, Hester said, “I turned down Stanley’s invitation to the Park yesterday. We both have Wednesday afternoons off, you know. Do tell me if I hurt you.”

  “You did?” Sarah asked, making an unsuccessful attempt to turn her head.

  “Hurt you?”

  “No . . . turn him down?”

  “I told him I was going to shop for paper and a sweet little frame so Avis could paint a picture for my mum’s birthday.”

  All thought of the afternoon tea emptied itself from Sarah’s head. This was better than any intrigue in any novel. “What did Stanley say?”

  “That he would come along with me. Stood there with his hands in his pockets, grinnin’ like a brewer’s horse because he knew I wouldn’t turn him down. But I did.”

  “Did you give him a reason?”

  “Well, I figgered if I acted cross, he would know it was on account of his courtin’ other women and think I was just trying to get him to pay more attention to me. So’s I just smiled and said maybe some other time, that I fancied a little solitude.” The comb paused. “That is a proper word, ain’t it?”

  “Solitude? Why, yes.” Sarah smiled to herself. “The perfect word for this situation.”

  “Anyhows, when I got back, I spent the rest of the day mending clothes. I had some buttons threatenin’ to come off and just couldn’t take the time to do it, what with saving Wednesdays for Stanley.”

  “Were you lonesome?”

  As the tangles unsnarled, Hester raked her fingers through Sarah’s hair, fluffing it so the heat from the building fire would reach her scalp. “You know . . . I never thought about it until just this minute, but I enjoyed my solitude a lot more than I expected to. It ain’t so much fun being with a man who can’t keep his eyes off other women. I was always a nervous wreck, and we would end up having words about it.”

  Sarah’s heartbeat quickened. She wished she could jump from the bench and race down to the kitchen to tell Naomi. “So you don’t love him anymore?”

  “Why, of course I love him.” A note of uncertainty crept into the childlike voice. “I’m just saying that I used to live for my afternoon off, but I didn’t miss him as much as I thought I would.”

  “That is no wonder,” Marie said from the open doorway. She walked into the room, arms folded and amber gold eyes knowing. “There is more to life than being at the beck and call of a man who will not be faithful. I assumed only Frenchmen were that way, only to find it the same in England.”

  “Not all men, Marie,” Hester said, taking no umbrage. She came around to fluff up the fringe over Sarah’s forehead, curling sections with her fingers. With a wink at Sarah she said, “Look at Mr. Duffy.”

  “The rare exception. And why should it not be so when there are so many silly women willing to accept that behavior?” Marie frowned. “Why did you wash her hair? Madame will be sending for her soon.”

  “It’s almost dry. And why ain’t you off with your sisters?”

  “I told them I would be a little late. It is important to Madame that the child is dressed appropriately.”

  “Well, you could pick out a bonnet and glove if you want to save time.”

  The lady’s maid blew out an aggrieved sigh, but she walked over to the wardrobe and brought out a hat of white straw trimmed with teal green velvet ribbon, white lace, and crystal beads. “This will be appropriate,” she said, setting it on the foot of the bed next to the gown. But she stood at the open glove drawer long enough for Hester t
o send her a curious look.

  “Marie?”

  Marie looked back as if in a trance, then walked out of the room with a pair of white gloves in hand.

  “Perhaps there was a spot?” Sarah speculated.

  “Perhaps,” Hester replied. “But what an odd duck she can be.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Sarah got up to close the door when her hair was dry. The teal green silk floated down over her arms like falling leaves and rustled the lace of her cambric petticoat. Hester was tying the parchment-colored lace sash in back when there was a knock at the door.

  “Marie must have snapped out of her trance,” Hester muttered. “Come in!”

  But it was Naomi who opened the door, paused in the doorway, and smiled. “Why, you’ve become such a beauty!”

  “Ain’t she, just?” Hester said.

  “Thank you,” Sarah replied self-consciously, aware that both would say the same thing if she wore oat sacking. She brushed at a fold in the skirt. “This would make anyone look nice.”

  “I can’t picture it doing quite the same for Mr. Duffy.” Naomi reached into her apron pocket. “I mustn’t stay or Trudy will panic. We’re making dainties downstairs. But I wanted to give you William’s letter.”

  Sarah reached for the folded page. Staring down at the Miss Matthews written on a blank side, she still asked, “To me?”

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?” Naomi asked, smiling again. “It was in the envelope with mine.”

  Marie bustled through the open doorway, advanced upon Sarah, and held out her open palm, upon which lay a pair of white gloves. Only, the fingers and thumb of one were stuffed like little sausages.