The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I wonder what ever happened to their daughter,” Mrs. Stafford said.

  “You mean their out-of-wedlock daughter?” Mrs. Fowler took another quick sip of tea. “If she’s accepted into gentle company at all, it’s only because of her father’s fame. A statue in the center of London does tend to impress people. But I shouldn’t wish to be her, always wondering what people are saying behind their fans.”

  Instead of feeling relief that the conversation had drifted from physical infirmities, Sarah oddly found herself so ill at ease that the nerves between her shoulders prickled. She fairly jumped at the sharp click from beside her. All eyes went to Mrs. Blake, who had set her cup and saucer down on the tea table and was rubbing her brow.

  Mrs. Gill blinked at her. “Dorothea?”

  Avis stepped closer while Sarah wondered if she should excuse herself to look for Mrs. Bacon.

  “Just a sudden headache,” Mrs. Blake murmured.

  “You poor dear,” Mrs. Fowler said with a sympathetic pursing of lips. “Perhaps we should take our leave.”

  “No, I’m fine now.” But there was something disquiet about her expression when she turned to Sarah to say, “Why don’t you go on out to the garden, Sarah?” She turned to the others. “Doctor Raine has ordered a daily dose of fresh air, and we mustn’t give him cause to scold.”

  “Ah . . . Doctor Raine,” Mrs. Stafford said while the other two nodded.

  Almost limp with relief, Sarah handed her cup, saucer, and dish to Avis, who had hastened over for them. “Good afternoon,” Sarah said, smiled politely at their reciprocal farewells, and left the room. She took her time moving down the hall, just in case the sounds of her shoes against the oak flooring should drift past the door. It would embarrass Mrs. Blake to hear evidence of her eagerness to leave. But on the staircase her speed increased with every step. She pulled off both gloves and set them on a terrace table, then started down the path toward the stables in the hopes that Stanley would allow her to help with feeding or grooming. After the past hour, the company of two horses seemed vastly refreshing.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was a struggle for Dorothea to maintain a pleasant expression while her guests chatted. They know, she thought, staring at Turner’s Crossing the Brook hanging on the wall just beyond Hazel Fowler’s shoulder. How could she have been so naive as to think they wouldn’t? Oh, they were subtle about it, too genteel to humiliate a child except to condescend to her about her infirmity. The message was intended for her.

  By sheer will she kept tears in check. How many servants no longer in her employ had carried gossip to their new situations? Were the people of Mayfair whispering behind gloved hands at this proof of her son’s infidelity? But you were going to admit she’s your granddaughter at the appropriate time, she reminded herself. It was little comfort.

  The subject of conversation drifted from complaints about aches and pains to complaints about the ineptitude of most servants. How shallow we are, for all our years! she thought amid painful remembrances of her own part in such discussions. When empty plates were surrendered to Avis, and Dorothea had refilled cups, she dismissed the maid. This was not her usual custom, so her friends turned questioning looks to her.

  “Is your head better, Dorothea?” Augusta Stafford asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” And because she could think of no roundabout way to approach the subject, Dorothea took a deep breath and said to the three, “Please tell me . . . how did you find out?”

  Florence Gill’s lash batting ceased. “Find out what, Dorothea?”

  Dorothea had to remind herself that if she had misjudged them, then she would be simply making an announcement earlier than she had desired. She cleared her throat. “About Sarah.”

  Their expressions told all, even though Augusta said after a quick glance at Hazel Fowler, “Why, whatever do you mean?”

  “I believe you know.”

  Augusta began worrying the pink ruffle on her collar while Florence ran her bottom teeth against her top lip and resumed blinking. The pendulum in the long-case clock clicked the seconds. It was Hazel’s throaty voice that broke the silence.

  “Everyone knew about the scullery maid, Dorothea. We figured it was just a matter of time before a child appeared on your doorstep.”

  “These things happen, Dorothea,” Augusta Stafford said. “And in the best of families. My sainted mother never got over the scandal surrounding her cousin-twice-removed.”

  Dorothea nodded, pressing lips together.

  “Does Miss Matthews know?” Florence’s voice rose barely above a whisper, as if Sarah might be right outside the door.

  In actuality, Dorothea figured the girl was as far from this room as possible. All that rot about Nelson’s arm. “She does not,” Dorothea admitted. “I needed some time.”

  She was comforted by the three nods and murmurs of understanding.

  But then Augusta leaned forward intently. “We admire that you’re attempting to make up for the past, Dorothea . . . though I must confess I would have done the same as you did in those days. One slatternly servant can destroy the moral composition of even the most decent home.”

  “What we cannot fathom,” Hazel said when Augusta had settled herself upright again, “is why you brought the child here when there are outstanding boarding schools all over England.”

  Florence Gill nodded. “With her gracious little ways, she would certainly be accepted by the other children in spite of her hand. And you could keep her background secret.”

  “I’ll even ask Carl to recommend one,” Augusta offered. Her son had served four years on the Taunton Commission, which studied the English secondary school situation.

  With such counsel from three whose opinions had influenced everything from her choice of wardrobe to choice of house furnishings for over twenty years, Dorothea found her thoughts drifting along those lines. But only until the memory surfaced of how intensely miserable she was before Sarah came. And far more compelling was the thought of how devastated the girl would be to be sent away. Even though they had not yet formed a bond of kinship, she could tell that Sarah was thriving here.

  “I won’t do that,” she said, and when Hazel Fowler opened her mouth to argue, she repeated herself. “I won’t.”

  Her guests exchanged glances again. It was Florence who spoke next. “Think of the girl, Dorothea. Would you have her go through the rest of her life being shunned by decent company?”

  The decent company stung the most, for Dorothea judged Sarah as decent as any of them. For the girl’s sake, however, she allowed that to pass. “But it doesn’t have to be that way, don’t you see? I intend to make her my legal heir one day.”

  “The queen herself could adopt her, and it wouldn’t undo what has already been done,” Hazel Fowler said with the same disapproving expression she wore while tasting the tea. “Out-of-wedlock is out-of-wedlock.”

  “Sarah had no say in that, Hazel.” Dorothea had to think, had to make them see that she wasn’t on some crusade to undermine the respectable morals of Mayfair’s residents. “I’m only asking for some compassion. You’re all respected by everyone in the community. If your families will accept her, others eventually will.”

  “We have the utmost compassion, Dorothea.” The pitch of Augusta’s nasal voice rose, while she held a hand to her chest as if accused. “I’m sure God loves her just as much as any child. And you certainly have the right to invite her to take tea with us in your own home. But what we cannot do is keep society with her beyond that.”

  Those latter words sounded achingly familiar, though Dorothea was too crushed to recall when she had said them herself or why.

  “Nor will we ask our grandchildren to do so,” Florence said, at least having the decency to wear a regretful expression.

  Hazel sealed their collective sentiment with the statement, “Unfortunately, one is judged by the company one keeps.”

  Dorothea felt as if she had been slapped. Not only did her heart ache
for Sarah, who was being politely elbowed out of society, but for herself and even Jeremy. Would they not even bend for old time’s sake or the sake of the son who had charmed them with his witticisms when he was living?

  “Dorothea?”

  At the sound of Florence’s voice, Dorothea opened her eyes, not even aware of when she had closed them. There was nothing more to say, so she put a hand to her temple. “I should rest now.”

  Augusta clucked sympathy. “Your headache is back?”

  “Yes,” she lied.

  Relief washed across all three faces. They gathered wraps and reticules, their gaiety forced after having risen from such a somber discussion. Florence advised her to lie down with her feet elevated, and Augusta insisted they would show themselves out. Hazel stopped to pat her knee and say, “Think about what we said, Dorothea. She would be better off away at school.”

  Their footsteps still carried faintly from the staircase when Mrs. Bacon bustled through the doorway with an anxious face. Mrs. Blake shook her head at her offer to bring some Beecham’s Pills.

  “I’m just fatigued. Help me to my room.”

  In her bed, she stared up at the embroidered underside of her canopy and wondered how she would go about breaking the news to Sarah. The longer she waited, the more likely the chance of the girl overhearing one of the servants discuss it—for if Mmes. Stafford, Fowler, and Gill knew, they surely did.

  But she felt so drained from the confrontation with her friends. And from the pain of realizing that had this situation occurred in someone else’s family, she would have been just as quick to cast stones. God forgive me, she murmured, closing her eyes. How long since she had really prayed? And don’t let this girl hate me when I tell her.

  ****

  Leftover dainties from tea accompanied the turnip soup in the servants’ hall that evening. Sarah’s appetite returned twofold in that companionable atmosphere. Stanley praised her horse-currying skills, and Avis made an imitation of Mrs. Fowler’s pinched-face way of sipping tea that caused Mr. Duffy to chuckle, Claire to choke in her napkin, and Mrs. Bacon to give warning.

  “I didn’t care for the glove,” Sarah confessed in the kitchen while Trudy washed dishes and Naomi put away the few leftovers. “I couldn’t use my hand at all, and besides, I’m sure they already knew about it.”

  Naomi paused from ladling the soup tureen into a smaller bowl. “Were they unkind?”

  “Oh, not at all.” At least Sarah didn’t think they were. But the suspicion still lurked in her mind that the discussion of others with infirmities was not coincidental with her being present. As self-conscious as she was about her hand, she would have felt less ill at ease if the women would have mentioned it directly rather than hinted about it.

  The three faces in her mind faded, to be replaced by one with dark ringlets. “Will Marie be angry if I don’t wear it again?” she asked Naomi.

  “I’ll lay odds on that!” Trudy muttered from the sink.

  Naomi glanced her way and then smiled at Sarah. “Just be honest with her, Miss Matthews. I have a feeling she’ll understand.”

  Hester came into the kitchen to say that Mrs. Blake wished to see Sarah.

  The woman was seated alone on the divan in the sitting room when Sarah entered. Both long hands clutched the frame of a small picture. “Sit here with me, Sarah,” she said.

  As she obeyed, Sarah asked, “Does your head hurt again?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Sarah glanced curiously at the picture. With a wan smile, Mrs. Blake held the frame sideways for her inspection. Captured in oils were the blue bowl and apples from the hall table. “Did Avis do that?”

  Mrs. Blake shook her head. “Jeremy. He was twelve years old. It’s the only thing he ever painted. I keep it on a table in my bedchamber.”

  “It’s very nice.” She thought what a pity it was that he didn’t go on to paint other things. Perhaps he would have been a great artist, and Mrs. Blake would have walls filled with his work to comfort her.

  “His tutor at the time . . .” The woman’s brow furrowed. “I can’t recall his name, but he was artistically talented. Anyway, he desired to teach Jeremy to paint and play the violin. Jeremy showed promise in both, but he complained to me that the lessons were boring. His father had no use for art, and I didn’t want my son unhappy, so I instructed the tutor not to pressure Jeremy until he was ready. Which never happened.”

  It was the first time Mrs. Blake had suggested that her son had been anything but perfect and failed by other people. Sarah nodded, not sure what she was expected to say.

  Mrs. Blake laid the picture down in her lap. “Even a person who commits some wrong acts can possess some good traits and talents, Sarah. And because he chooses to ignore those good traits doesn’t mean they can’t be passed down to his children.”

  “Yes, Madam.” She hoped Mrs. Blake wasn’t about to cry, especially without Marie there. They sat for three minutes without speaking, Sarah clasping her hands and watching the pendulum of the chimneypiece clock. The corner of her eye caught two glances sent her way from Mrs. Blake. Tendrils of fear began wrapping themselves around her heart, like Mr. Duffy’s rambler roses upon their arch. Surely she hadn’t been summoned just to be told about the painting. Had Mrs. Blake been so humiliated at tea that she could no longer bear having her here? Was that what brought on the headache?

  “I was proud of how you conducted yourself today,” Mrs. Blake said at length.

  Sarah eased out a cautious breath. “Thank you.”

  “And I apologize for the discomfort my guests caused you.”

  “But they were just trying to encourage me,” Sarah hastened to assure her.

  “Hmph! I’ll allow that might have been their intent. But one would have thought they were just hoping someone would lop off one of their limbs so they could be so blessed. The fact that you hide your hand should have made it clear to them it was something you wouldn’t care to discuss.”

  The fear of being sent away began to ebb, being replaced by the fear of being at the center of discord between long-standing friends. And the fear mingled with confusion, for who was she but a ward from an orphanage? “Please don’t be angry at them,” Sarah nerved herself to say. “I wasn’t offended.”

  “Ah, but you wouldn’t, would you?” Mrs. Blake’s pale eyes studied her face sadly. “You’ve a good heart, Sarah. You didn’t deserve the lot that was handed to you.”

  Again Sarah felt confusion, for she thought the lot handed to her was very nice, especially recently. She did not receive an explanation, for the door opened and Marie burst into the room, complaining that London omnibus drivers were all lunatics and that the meat pie she had purchased from a vendor was cold. Her praises were reserved for Madame Tussaud’s likeness of Napoleon Bonaparte, which looked “so lifelike I would not have jumped if he had sneezed.”

  Mrs. Blake, who seemed oddly relieved at the interruption, asked Marie to sit and tell them about other exhibits at the wax museum. Presently she turned to Sarah. “I’ve kept you long enough, Sarah. You should prepare for bed now.”

  Later, Sarah had just finished her prayers when soft footsteps sounded from the corridor. She held her breath. When she heard the soft click of Marie’s door, she slid out of bed. The opposite door opened to her light knocking, and the lady’s maid stood in an aureole of lamp light.

  “Why are you still awake? And in your bare feet!”

  “May we speak?” Sarah whispered after a helpless glance toward Mrs. Blake’s door.

  “Come in, then,” Marie said, lowering her voice as well. Sarah remembered her manners after the door closed behind her. “I’m glad you had a good time with your sisters.”

  “Yes. You got out of bed to tell me that?”

  “No . . . I . . .” She took a quick breath and started over. “It was so good of you to make the glove for me. But I would rather not wear it anymore. It wasn’t comfortable, and I shouldn’t wish to be considered vain, like the vicar’s w
ife is for wearing her brown wig.”

  “Then do not wear the glove.”

  There seemed no injury in Marie’s voice, but just to be certain Sarah said, “But it was good of you to make it for me.”

  “You are welcome,” Marie replied. “And the longer you stand there in your bare feet, the greater your chance of catching a chill.” She went to her dressing table and pulled two pins from her hat, sticking them into a red velvet pincushion. “At least stand upon the carpet.”

  “I think they already knew about my hand,” Sarah told her after moving closer.

  “Ah . . . servant talk. I should have known.”

  “Servant talk?” She had not even considered that distressing notion. Would Mrs. Blake’s servants, the closest to a real family she had ever known, gossip about her?

  Marie had removed her hat and was pulling a brush through her dark hair, crouching just a bit so she could see the mirror. “You must not feel betrayed. Some of Madame’s servants may be silly, but we are not malicious. And we have great affection for you.”

  “But if someone told . . .”

  “We have great affection for you now, Miss Matthews. But when you arrived, you were a stranger to us. Is it too difficult to believe that one or two might have said to a friend that Madame has taken in an orphan with a crippled hand? Not in a critical way, but as a statement of fact.”

  With it put that way, Sarah could understand.

  Marie put down the brush and turned. Her amber gold eyes were apologetic, even sad. “I told my sisters at that time. I do beg your pardon.”

  “You have it,” Sarah replied, moved almost to tears that her forgiveness would matter so much to the woman who could still intimidate her.

  “Thank you.” The maid smiled and nodded toward the door. “Now go to bed, Miss Matthews, and allow me to do the same.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Under a darkening sky, Mrs. Blake only exchanged tepid greetings with her friends after church Sunday. Sarah kept her gloveless hand buried in a fold of her skirt amidst mingled feelings of relief over passing them by and angst over having caused this disharmony. After Stanley had helped Mrs. Blake into the coach, Marie looked back toward the huddled trio and muttered something—the only discernible sounds reaching Sarah’s ears were day lwah.