“Cotton,” was Marie’s only explanation. “Give me your hand.”
Sarah tucked the letter into the sash around her waist and complied, too timid to argue that she would prefer keeping her hand down at her side. Hester leaned close to watch, but Naomi’s face was expressionless as she excused herself and left the room. The glove slipped easily over Sarah’s hand. Marie fastened the pearl wrist button, then took a step back and folded her arms under her generous bosom.
“What a clever idea!” Hester said.
Sarah held up her hand in wonder. The hand did indeed look whole, except the fingers were too fat for her thin wrist. And they stood out from the palm like the spikes of a garden rake, even when she lowered it to her side.
“Hmm.” Marie’s forehead dented. “Too much.”
“Too much,” Hester agreed.
“Well, no matter.” Taking the glove from Sarah’s hand, Marie began pulling cotton from the fingers. “We will try again.”
But this time the fingers were too limp, dangling with Sarah’s every movement.
“I know what’s wrong.” Hester held up a hand. “We curve our fingers in when we ain’t using them—like so.”
“That is so.” With an absorbed frown Marie removed the glove. She bent a stuffed finger. “That could be done with a running stitch at the tips, I believe.”
Though grateful for this effort to make her less conspicuous, Sarah felt compelled to offer feeble protest. “Actually, I could just keep my hand in my skirt like—”
“It will take me but a moment,” Marie cut in before bustling out of the door again.
Hester shrugged and picked up the towel from the bench. “You might as well read your letter. I’ll tidy up.”
“Thank you.” Sarah went over to the bed and propped herself against the mattress for fear of wrinkling her gown by sitting. Slowly she unfolded the paper, wishing to savor the moment. She may have been raised in an orphanage, but the nation of England deemed her important enough to commission a postman to carry a letter to her all the way from Oxford! It struck her with no less awe to remember that hers was included with Naomi’s—had hers been the only one, she would still be holding it. William’s words were printed in hurried block letters.
Dear Miss Matthews,
Thank you for your interesting letter and for helping Aunt Naomi make the shortbread. Like a greedy Achan I have hidden the tin under my bed so that I am not compelled to share. Were it anything but shortbread with almonds, perhaps I might be more generous . . . perhaps!
In case you are curious, I print because of poor penmanship at scripting. It is not as tedious as you may think, for I have grown accustomed to it over the years.
Sarah smiled at the thought of what Mrs. Forsyth would say to giving up like that. No one left Saint Matthew’s with anything less than perfect penmanship. But she reckoned that the headmistress, knowing how limited the opportunities were, wanted to give her girls at least one advantage.
I shall be very interested in meeting your Mister Colby. It speaks well of his ability that he should assign work so that your mind will not grow idle. Do not be intimidated at the thought of studying Latin. Because you are fond of reading, you will be intrigued to discover how many of our good English words have roots in the language. Take, for example, the Latin word for hand, manus, from which is derived manual, manipulate, manage, manacle, manuscript, manufacture, and at least a dozen more.
The weather here is cool in the mornings and most pleasant. From my window I often hear the laughter of people poling boats (it is called punting) on the River Cherwell. Lectures are vastly interesting, though I confess my mind often wanders during “Anglo-Saxon Folklore.” I remind myself that an Oxford man should be well-rounded in all subjects. What a sad state I should be in if I were to be able to analyze the properties of table salt and yet be unable to recognize a fairy should I happen to stumble upon one. Do not think me cynical, Miss Matthews. I am deeply grateful for this opportunity for a fine education, just as you are looking forward to yours.
The last short paragraph expressed his gladness that she seemed to feel at home in Berkeley Square, and he closed with Very truly yours, William Doyle.
“Well, how’s our William?” Hester asked, folding Sarah’s wrapper over the chair.
“Very well.” And because that was such a vague reply, Sarah added, “He said he hides the shortbread under his bed.”
Hester smiled and fortunately did not ask her to read it aloud. It was not that the printed lines were intensely personal, but Sarah felt something of it would be lost if she were to share it. There is a bit of Achan in me too, William, she thought, tucking the folded sheet under her pillow so she could read it again later.
* * *
Naomi stopped at the girl’s open doorway and spotted Hester pinning on Miss Matthews’ hat. There was no sign of Marie, which was an answer to the silent prayer she had sent up from the staircase. She turned and crossed the corridor.
“You may enter,” came Marie’s voice to her soft knock. Naomi opened the door. The lady’s maid sat at her dressing table, stabbing the tips of the white glove furiously with a threaded needle. “Yes, what is it?” she asked with only a glance up at Naomi.
Before replying, Naomi stepped inside and closed the door behind her. “A moment of your time, please. I must take issue with what you’re doing.”
“And did you take issue with Mr. Duffy’s tray?”
“The tray is functional. You’re going to make her feel she should be ashamed of her hand.”
Marie lifted her eyes only long enough to scowl. “Have you not noticed that already she is ashamed of it?”
“Then we should be teaching her that she shouldn’t be.”
“And will you run ahead of her everywhere she goes and ask people not to stare or make comment? Or ask Madame’s snooty friends not to give her pitying little smiles so that they can tell themselves how compassionate they are?”
Opening her mouth to snap a reply, Naomi realized she had none available. She had learned only too painfully from her own family how cruel people could be. With a sigh she said, “I don’t know, Marie. It seems she should be learning to stand up against that kind of treatment.”
“I agree.” This time when Marie looked up, her expression had softened a little. “But not yet, Naomi. Mr. Duffy protects his young plants in little pots until they are strong enough to bear the weather and weeds and the insects of the garden. What is so wrong about doing the same for a child?”
There was nothing wrong with that, Naomi realized after one by one the arguments that rose in her mind proved themselves weak. At least not when there was something that could be done about the situation. “You’re right.”
“Of course.” Frowning, Marie pulled the needle through another glove tip. “I am in a hurry, and you have distracted me long enough. Close the door after yourself.”
Naomi’s smile lasted all the way down the staircase. At least she makes life more interesting around here.
* * *
Sarah turned the glove to study every angle after Marie fastened the button at her wrist. The stitches were barely visible at the tips of the cupped fingers. Surely no one who wasn’t aware of her deformity would look twice at her.
“It’s a miracle. . . .” Hester breathed.
“Look at yourself,” Marie commanded.
The two accompanied her to the long mirror and peered over her shoulders. Allowing both hands to fall slightly to her sides, Sarah was amazed at how normal she looked. She had felt like an oddity for as long as she could remember. Light slanting in from the window gilded her curls, and the green gown brought out the roses in her cheeks.
Why, I’m . . . pretty?
Guilt came on the heels of that thought, for Mrs. Forsyth had always stressed inner instead of outer beauty. A fair woman without discretion is like a jewel in the snout of a pig was a verse copied countless times in the girls’ penmanship tablets. But she wondered, while basking in the
compliments of the two maids, if the words were not a condemnation of outer beauty, but a reminder of which was the most important.
Father, thank you for making me look nice, she prayed while tears stung her eyes. I’ll try very hard never to become vain.
In the glass, Marie was wiping her eyes. Sarah turned to embrace her. “Thank you!”
“You are welcome.” Marie endured the embrace stiffly and then stepped back. “You must not weep or your face will splotch.” To Hester, who was blowing her nose into a handkerchief, she ordered, “Give one to Miss Matthews.”
“Yes, Marie,” Hester said and went to the chest of drawers. “That were a kind thing you—”
“Was, Hester,” Marie corrected on her way to the door. “Not were. It is a pity that the English cannot speak their own language.” She turned in the doorway to admonish, “Miss Matthews, you must conduct yourself with sang-froid this afternoon. They are no better than you are.”
She was gone before Sarah could thank her, or even ask the meaning of sang-froid. Grinning, Hester handed over a handkerchief. “Didn’t I tell you she were a odd duck?”
But a split second later she corrected herself. “Was a odd duck.”
****
There is nothing so attractive as silver against a white cloth, Dorothea thought, looking over the parlor table. On silver trays and gold-rimmed dishes perched an assortment of delicacies: petite crustless sandwiches of cucumber slices with butter, cream cheese with walnuts, smoked chicken with raspberry mayonnaise, as well as the almost mandatory Victoria sandwiches—actually finger-sized cake slices layered with gooseberry jam. Lemon curd, gingerbread, and a bowl of plump strawberries completed the menu.
The tea, which she would serve herself, would be its usual crowning touch. The orange pekoe leaves, delicately scented with jasmine flowers, were imported from a small Yangtze Valley plantation and only available to Emperor Manchu and provincial Chinese leaders. And to Arthur Blake and later, his widow, in exchange for occasional shipments of Wedgwood Jasperware to Governor Tseng Kuo-fan for his number-one wife. One of the many advantages of owning a shipping line. Oh, Hazel Fowler would make prim little faces as if sipping vinegar, but that would not stop her from holding out her cup for refills a half-dozen times.
Why do you even invite them over if you don’t enjoy their company? Dorothea asked herself, already knowing the answer. Friends—or at least friendly acquaintances—were a necessary part of life. When she and Arthur moved up in the world, she had desired for Jeremy the advantages that only well-situated people could provide. What good was money if you weren’t invited to the best parties of the season or to fox hunts in Rutland? Where was he to find a suitable wife—had he lived so long—if not through the introductions of those whose places in society were well-established?
And just when she had decided that she no longer required their connections and that their company was too fatiguing, there was Sarah to consider. If her friends would attend social occasions where Sarah was present now and then, observe how courteous and humble she was, and see her so attentive at church, surely they would be understanding and accepting when the time came to reveal that she was Jeremy’s child out of wedlock.
“Good afternoon, Madam.”
Dorothea’s eyes moved from the lavish table to where Sarah stood in the doorway, a mixture of waif and young woman in her silk dress. Your granddaughter, Dorothea told herself while Marie nudged the girl forward.
“Does Madame notice anything different?” Marie asked when the two stood side by side in the room.
“Different?”
Sarah gave an uncertain look to Marie, who nodded. When the girl held out her hands, Dorothea’s breath caught. “What did you do?”
Marie smiled. “Cotton. Does it not look real?”
Tears dimmed Dorothea’s eyes over what could have been and her part in the reality of what was. Who knew what kind of living Mary Tomkin had made for herself in the slums? Could a lack of proper meals have adversely affected the child she was carrying? If only . . .
“It looks real,” she said finally. And a little ray of hope entered. It was possible that her friends were not aware of Sarah’s deformity. After all, the girl kept her hand hidden in public. It would certainly be easier if one less obstacle barred the path to social acceptance. “Quite real.”
“Very good,” Marie said and glanced at the long-case clock. “Now I must fly to meet my sisters.”
As the maid’s shoes clicked upon the oak flooring, Dorothea knew she should say something about the rest of Sarah’s appearance. There was such hopefulness in the girl’s expression. Why? What did the approval of an embittered old woman matter, when she had won the hearts of the whole household?
“You look very nice, Sarah,” Dorothea murmured, and pained by the gratitude that flooded the young face, she added brusquely, “Do remember to ask Mrs. Stafford about her lilies.”
****
“They will not flower until late in August, you understand,” Mrs. Stafford replied nasally, seeming pleased that Sarah had asked. The woman wore a pink print gown with ruffles that seemed intended for someone far younger. “The Auratum, or Golden-rayed Lily, if you will, requires a warmer climate. That is because it is indigenous to Japan.”
The party of five sat in three upholstered chairs and the sofa, casually arranged about the tea table and its polished silver tea service. Avis stood unobtrusively at the larger table behind the sofa when she was not passing around a tray. Dishes laden with dainties were perched upon linen-draped knees, teacups and saucers held in gloved hands. As proud as Sarah was of her glove, to her dismay it turned out to be a nuisance, for the stuffed fingers got in the way of using the hand to help balance her portion. She constantly had to make sure that she was not bending it back unnaturally. All this while keeping her back an inch from the back of her chair. Mrs. Blake seemed to sense her discomfort, for with a meaningful look she poured only a manageable one-third of the usual amount of tea into Sarah’s cup.
“I have never cared for gardening.” Mrs. Fowler held out her cup for yet another refill. It was not the wrinkles that made her appearance so forbidding, for Mrs. Kettner had just as many in a pleasant, comforting face. “What is the sense in paying a gardener if one intends to soil one’s own hands?”
“Lots of people take up gardening as a hobby, Hazel,” Mrs. Blake said in Mrs. Stafford’s defense.
Mrs. Gill, her short, buxom frame swathed in widow’s garb, delicately pushed the remains of a sandwich past her teeth and batted her eyes at Mrs. Fowler. “It’s no different from working needlepoint when one has a seamstress, is it?”
“I suppose not,” Mrs. Fowler conceded and then raised her white brows impishly. “Then you may consider my hobby doing all I can to keep my money out of the hands of relatives who despair that I’ve managed to live so long.”
Amid the giggles Sarah set her empty cup upon the saucer in her lap, grateful that the conversation had taken off on its own and no longer required her participation. Much less chance of embarrassing Mrs. Blake this way. But it was not to last, for during a lull in discussion over how ludicrous it was of the rector’s wife to wear a brown wig over her gray hair, Mrs. Gill turned to Sarah and asked, “How do you find Berkeley Square, Miss Matthews?”
“It’s very nice, thank you.” It occurred to Sarah that such a benign question could lead to one about the orphanage. To steer the subject away tactfully, she added, “I like to look in the shops on Bond Street too.”
“Ah, shopping,” Mrs. Gill said with a nod. “And what female doesn’t?”
That brought smiles from the aged faces, even after Mrs. Fowler snapped, “I don’t!”
“Admiral Nelson lived on New Bond for a time,” Mrs. Stafford said to Sarah. “You’ve studied him, I presume?”
“Yes, Madam.”
“But of course, bright girl that you are.” Her approving smile made Sarah forget all about the snub at church. Perhaps young Becky had made other plans for
today. “My grandfather served under him at Toulon. He was such a fearless commander . . . even after losing an arm.”
“And an eye as well?” Mrs. Gill offered in a hesitant manner.
Mrs. Stafford nodded. “It goes to show us that physical infirmities can be overcome where there is courage.”
“When I was a girl in Camden,” Mrs. Fowler said, “the postman made his rounds faithfully in spite of a lame foot.”
“And Beethoven still composed after he went deaf,” Mrs. Gill said, blinking.
Sarah’s padded hand slid down between her side and the chair arm, while the smile froze upon her face. Was she imagining that the casualness of the discussion seemed forced? How do they know? But then, any discussion of Admiral Nelson must surely include his injuries, which would remind the women of other examples.
When Mrs. Fowler said, frowning, “It’s a pity Lord Nelson couldn’t overcome certain character infirmities,” Sarah could not help but glance from the corner of her eye toward Mrs. Blake. She wore a tight little smile and held her cup poised above the saucer.
“What do you mean, Hazel?” Mrs. Gill asked.
“Why, taking Lady Hamilton as mistress. And while already married.”
Mrs. Stafford arched a knowing eyebrow. “Well, she certainly came to no good end, even with sizable annuities from the old lord and Admiral Nelson. I have it on good authority that she threw money about shamefully between shopping and gambling.”
“Money doesn’t always equal common sense,” Mrs. Blake said in a tone that suggested she was still not at ease with the conversation, yet did not quite know how to steer it in another direction.
“Any grammar school child can tell you that water seeks its own level.” Mrs. Fowler’s lips puckered like a drawstring purse. “She started out as a servant—why would she be expected to end up any better?”
Mrs. Gill sighed. “I suppose it’s true . . . you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear.”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 22
