“Day lu-wah?” Stanley asked, extending an arm to assist Marie. “What’s that mean?”
Marie gave Sarah a little smile. “I was thinking of the geese on my father’s farm.”
Hester did not appear at lunch. “She’s taking reading lessons at the Baptist chapel,” Mrs. Bacon explained when Stanley commented on the empty place at the table.
“Oh dear,” Claire said, wincing at the rumble that rattled the casement windows. “She had her umbrella with her, didn’t she?”
“She did,” Trudy replied.
Sarah could not help but send a covert glance toward Stanley, who could not have appeared more stunned had he just heard that Hester had run off to join the army. He wore a forced smile as the meal progressed and even while telling Mr. Duffy of his plans to go out on the Thames on a cousin’s fishing boat on Wednesday.
As Sarah helped clear the table afterward, Trudy had more to say about Hester’s action. “It was what you call one o’ them spur-o’-the-moment notions. After church we overheard a chambermaid from Brook Street goin’ on about the lessons. They’re free, the lessons are, and they even serve sandwiches, since most servants can fairly well get Sunday noon off. Mrs. Bacon told her to go ahead and give it a try.”
“Weren’t you interested?” Sarah asked.
The scullery maid placed another dish on her tray. “I’ve already had a bit o’schoolin’. There weren’t so many of us crawlin’ about in our cottage as in Hester’s folks’. I can read recipes and write home for the both of us, so why would I need to learn any more?”
Naomi, smiling with arms folded, said from the kitchen doorway, “Wouldn’t you enjoy a novel now and again, Trudy?”
“Made-up stories?” Trudy snorted. “When you find one about a scullery maid who becomes Queen of England, I’ll give it a try. Or mayhap I’ll just wait and let Hester read it to me.” She sent a wink at Naomi. “I would have given my last shilling for one o’ them cameras when Stanley heard what she was up to.”
Sarah had to agree with Trudy, though with some guilt on account of having just come from church. And she recalled Hester’s declaring that she had no interest in reading. Was this just to make Stanley jealous? That would mean the chambermaid still cared desperately about him. She couldn’t help but hope that wasn’t the case, at least not until he mended his ways.
She was delighted to learn that night as Hester helped her prepare for retiring that the maid had enjoyed her first lesson.
“Never were an hour and half so short, Miss Matthews!” her girlish voice declared as she plumped up pillows while Sarah laboriously buttoned up her nightgown. “There was seven of us there—five girls and two fellows. I’ve a card of alphabet to copy on paper for practice. After the third lesson, I’m to be lent a storybook!”
“I could help you study during the week,” Sarah offered.
“That’s so very nice of you. I would ask Trudy, but she grumbles as it is about writin’ home so much for me.” She paused, pillow in hand, and said with wonder, “Why, I’ll be writing my own letters home one day.”
Sarah could stifle the question no longer. “What made you change your mind?”
“About readin’?” The maid rolled her eyes sheepishly. “I only went there to show Stanley that he’s no right to be tellin’ me what I should or shouldn’t do if he ain’t willin’ to marry me. But when Mr. Smith said he never seen anybody learn vowels so quick, I was so proud I wanted to learn more right away.”
“Mr. Smith?”
“He’s the vicar, only they don’t call ’em vicars. Got himself soaked to the gills even with a umbrella going out to flag a couple o’ hackneys. Said he didn’t like the sound of that thunder and that we should be inside as soon as able. Wouldn’t think of us repaying him either. It were so nice to be in the company of a gentleman!”
****
“Did Madame not rest well?” Marie asked in the sitting room the next morning.
“As well as ever,” Dorothea muttered, her mind wandering again from the blue stitches on her needlepoint canvas, which were to form the blooms of delphiniums in the garden of a thatched-roof cob cottage. Why can’t you just call her in here and say the words? She has a forgiving nature.
“Perhaps in the mornings you should try some coffee instead of tea.”
Dorothea made a face. “I tried coffee once. It was hours before the taste left my mouth.” Forgive that you sent away a girl not much older than herself, on the word of a son you knew was lying? That you lived in comfort while she suffered lice and near starvation in the slums? That she will spend the rest of her life the subject of gossip because you cannot bear to move from this house?
And then her mouth worked independently of her thoughts, for she looked at Marie and said, “How long have you known about Sarah?”
More forthright than Mmes. Gill, Fowler, and Stafford, Marie replied calmly while continuing to stitch, “Almost from the beginning, Madame.”
“It’s true, then. Everyone knows.”
“Everyone but her.”
Dorothea pushed her needle into an unworked section of canvas and set her hoop on the chair arm. “I’m considering asking Naomi to tell her. They’ve grown very close.”
Marie looked up at her. “Madame would do such a thing?”
After a minute of being stared down by the Frenchwoman, Dorothea glanced away. “No. Of course not.”
“The words will come to Madame when it is the proper time,” Marie said with softened tone.
“But if she overhears before then?”
“She would have heard by now if the servants did not take pains to be careful. And as she has no relationships outside . . .”
“Relationships outside,” Dorothea echoed bitterly. “No, my friends have seen to that.”
Marie set her canvas in her lap. “May I offer a suggestion, Madame?”
****
“Breakfast was excellent, Naomi,” Mrs. Blake said.
“Thank you, Madam.” Standing in the sitting room, Naomi could not think of anything she and Trudy had done differently to alter the usual Monday morning fare.
“And you’ll be taking your afternoon off today?”
“Yes, Madam. But I’m willing to take another day if—”
“Oh no, today is quite fine.”
Another dance, Naomi realized, taking in Mrs. Blake’s self-conscious expression and Marie’s impatient one. And so she waited, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to be standing there upon the carpet with hands clasped.
At the time Marie looked ready to burst, Mrs. Blake cleared her throat. “We were just discussing what you mentioned last week.”
“Last week, Madam?”
“About Sarah seeing some of London. It’s quite a shame to be surrounded by so much history and culture and never experience any of it.”
“There is nothing like firsthand experience, to be sure.”
“I would accompany her on excursions myself had I a stronger constitution. I’m not inclined to hire a governess who’ll be sitting idle most of the time when Sarah begins her lessons on Thursday. And it would not be appropriate for Mr. Colby to escort her about town, even as his pupil.”
“I reminded Madame that you are well-acquainted with the city,” Marie said with a self-important tone and critical squint at her canvas.
Bless you, Marie, Naomi thought. You’re full of surprises lately, aren’t you?
“ . . . and as for Miss Matthews being out socially in the company of a servant,” Marie want on, “there is little difference between a cook and a governess anyway. Yes?”
“Yes.” Unless you would care to have a meal at some point. The dance was taking so much longer than necessary. She was delighted Mrs. Blake had changed her mind, but there was much to do in the kitchen to prepare lunch and supper’s soup so that Trudy would not be overwhelmed this afternoon.
Mrs. Blake inclined her head musingly. “I wonder if your offer still stands to have Sarah along?”
&nb
sp; In keeping with the tempo of the dance, Naomi did not answer right away.
“You would have the use of the coach, of course,” Mrs. Blake jumped into the silence to add, as if fearful that refusal was imminent.
“We would enjoy ourselves more if we didn’t have to concern ourselves over Stanley having to wait, Madam,” Naomi said forthrightly. Better to have all matters understood at the beginning than misgivings later.
“Then he could deliver you to places, and I would pay return cabfare. As well as admissions . . . the best theatre seats, naturally.” Warming up to the subject, she added, “And that would include William between terms. I wouldn’t want to hinder your times together.”
Naomi smiled. “That’s very generous of you, Mrs. Blake.”
“Compensation for your sharing your Monday afternoons. Then your offer still stands, may I presume?”
“Of course, Madam.” She glanced at the clock. “But . . . if we’re to have time to go anywhere today, I must ask to be excused now.”
“Very well.” With a relieved smile, Mrs. Blake added, “And thank you, Naomi.”
But Marie’s voice stopped her at the door. “I suggest Madame inquire about her shoes.”
“Her shoes?”
With a quiet sigh, Naomi turned to face the two again.
“When you are escorting Miss Matthews,” Marie said primly, “you will not wear those men’s shoes . . . yes?”
Boy’s, actually, Naomi thought, wiggling her toes. “Yes. I mean . . . no, of course not.”
Mrs. Blake’s eyebrows lifted. “Men’s shoes?”
****
“We’re actually here. . . .” Sarah breathed as she walked with Naomi through the western door. Westminster Abbey revealed itself in all its solemnity, from its lofty roof and pointed arches to its range of noble supporting pillars and connecting chapels. She had read of the Abbey in Oliver Goldsmith’s Citizen of the World, one of the worn books in Saint Matthew’s collection. “I never thought I would ever see it myself!”
“And we’ve barely scratched the surface, as you’ll see,” Naomi said, fishing in her reticule. She looked more schoolgirl than cook, her strawberry blond curls clamped with a comb behind her straw hat and trailing down the back of her plaid gown of mauve, blue, and beige. Sarah panicked when she withdrew some coins and handed her sixpence.
“But I didn’t know we were supposed to—”
The cook patted her arm, her blue eyes lively. “Courtesy of Mrs. Blake, who insists that we enjoy ourselves.”
They were shepherded into a group of five adults—three women and two men—by a wiry, stoop-shouldered elderly man who collected sixpence from each of them. He wore the expression of a doting mother when explaining how, for the sake of preservation, one must restrain oneself from touching the sculptures and tombs of royal personages.
But at the base of Shakespeare’s monument in the Poets’ Corner, Sarah was so awestruck that she did not realize she had reached out a hand until she felt cool marble beneath her fingers. The copy of Julius Caesar at Saint Matthew’s was so yellowed and spotted that Sarah had initially believed one of the older girls who told her Shakespeare had printed it himself. Guiltily she withdrew her hand and glanced at the tour guide, who gave her an understanding smile.
“He is not buried here, you know. Stratford has that honor.”
Later, when she gave him a questioning look at Queen Elizabeth’s tomb, he nodded. “She’s here, all right.” The guided tour lasted over an hour, and Sarah and Naomi spent another three ambling about the nine chapels on their own.
“Have you any idea where you’d like to go next week?” Naomi asked as the hired hansom moved northward under a violet-and-orange streaked sky.
Sarah could hardly believe her ears. “Next week?”
“And the next, and so on,” the cook replied. “Mrs. Blake wishes you to have more exposure to London.”
“How kind of her. I’ll be sure to thank her.”
“She would like that. And be thinking during the week of where we should go.”
“I already know,” Sarah said after a hesitation.
“Yes?”
“Marie spoke about a wax museum. . . .”
“Madame Tussaud’s.” Naomi smiled. “Now, that would be fun. I’ve not been there in years.”
Sarah hoped the week would fly. “Then you don’t mind chaperoning me?”
“Perish the thought! I was missing my outings with William. And he’ll be along when he’s home.”
William. Sarah had his letter practically memorized. What fun they would have, the three of them! She breathed in air that smelled of gaslights, coal fires, and evening meals, and thought of the warm bowl of soup awaiting her. “You know, I was convinced the morning I left Saint Matthew’s was the worst day of my life.”
Naomi gave her arm a squeeze. “And it turned out to be the best day, didn’t it?”
“Not the best.”
“No?”
Smiling at her questioning look, Sarah replied, “This is the best day.”
****
Stanley’s befuddlement over the new Hester lasted into the week, for he sulked like a small boy during lunch Wednesday, with her not even seeming to notice. While clearing the table afterward, Trudy said Hester had turned down Stanley’s offer of an afternoon boat ride on the Serpentine. “He’s miffed ’cause he couldn’t get her to change her mind. She wants to practice her reading.”
“But he was already planning to go fishing on the Thames anyway,” Sarah said, picking up the butter crock. “Don’t you remember his talking about it just a few days ago?”
The scullery maid smirked. “I think Stanley’s been askin’ around . . . found out that Baptist vicar ain’t old and ain’t married.”
Sarah went upstairs to the attic when the kitchen was clean and Naomi and Trudy were preparing supper’s soup. “Help me study?” Hester said after answering the knock. “What a love you are!” They sat on her bed, and Hester held up a pasteboard card just a trifle worn at the edges and sounded out words such as cat and bat in her high-pitched voice. She had come to hat when a rattling sound startled both of them.
“Hailstones?” Hester said, turning toward the window overlooking the garden.
“It sounded like them.”
The chambermaid got up and crossed the floor. The yellow dimity curtains were drawn aside, so she raised the window and leaned out.
“Have you gone daft, throwing rocks like that?” she called.
From behind Sarah could see nothing but the dovecote and top of the crab apple tree. But it was unmistakably Stanley’s voice rising from the ground.
“Come now, Hester! Please don’t be treatin’ me this way!”
“You can find a dozen silly old girls to go boatin’ with!”
“Ah, but they wouldn’t be as lovely as you, now, would they? And I wouldn’t be asking them to marry me!”
“I’ve heard that talk before!”
“This time it comes from my heart, Hester! We’ll call on the vicar today!”
“Just what’s going on here, Stanley?” Mrs. Bacon’s voice was not as loud, but filled with enough ire to lift it three storeys and an attic. Hester drew herself in so quickly that she bumped her crown. Her hand flew up to her head, but her green eyes were shining with triumph.
“Did you hear that? I knew it would work!”
Sarah could only gape as Hester snatched a brush from the top of her chest of drawers and pulled it through her red curls. All he has to do is make another promise? If that was the usual way of courtship, she was glad for her crippled hand and that she had no dowry. Better to be a spinster like Naomi and Marie.
The chambermaid turned at the door. “He just needed to be taught a lesson, Miss Matthews. Thank you for showin’ me that.”
“What about your reading lessons?”
“Why, there’s naught will change about that.” But there was a trace of doubt in her voice. She gave a little wave, and her footsteps sound
ed on the corridor, landing, and top steps. But they stopped. Sarah went out to the corridor just in time to see red curls appear in the staircase, and then Hester. The chambermaid gave Sarah a sheepish smile. “You know that book you was readin’ to me when I was cleanin’ Marie’s grate that day?”
“It’s just downstairs.”
“Would you mind readin’ it to me again?”
Sarah’s heart leaped. “I’ll get it right away. But what are you going to tell Stanley?” Try as she might, she could not help but feel some compassion for the man who praised her horse-grooming abilities and told jokes at mealtimes.
“He’ll find another to dry his tears soon enough,” Hester shrugged, regret passing across her face. “It’s just his pride that’s hurt. Will you fetch the book now, love, before I get weak and change my mind again?”
As Sarah flew toward the landing, she heard behind her, “Mayhap I could even pick out some of the words myself. Just the little ones.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Thursday afternoon was so fair and cool and the garden so awash with scents that Sarah took History of Civilization in England and a ripe pear out to the bench near the dovecote. Mr. Colby would be arriving tomorrow, and she didn’t know how he would feel about studying out-of-doors, so she wished to take advantage of as much of the day as possible. Because privacy was almost nonexistent at Saint Matthew’s, she had learned to keep her mind focused upon what she was reading in spite of what was going on about her. She was easily able to ignore the coos of doves and the tinking of a hammer in the gardening shed. Only when the faint strains of dreary music stopped was she aware that they had been drifting down from the third floor.
* * *
“I’m fine.” Dorothea turned from the open score of Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, fifth movement, to send a dismissing wave toward the parlor door.
But Marie, bedecked in chartreuse silk, hat, and gloves, heaved a sigh. “I will have Stanley send word to my sisters. We were only going window-shopping. Madame cannot sit in here all day feeling sorry for herself playing sad melodies.”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 24
