“I’m not—” But another urge to sniff could not be ignored. Dorothea scooped the crumpled handkerchief from the piano ledge and turned her face so that Marie would not see her use it.
“Aha!” came from behind and footsteps approached.
“You forget your place, Marie, and that I could sack you this moment.”
“Yes? Madame forgets how much in demand are French servants. My sisters and I will warn all French people we know that Missus is too bad tempered to work for.”
“If they’re all as overbearing as you, I want them nowhere near me.” She blew her nose again, swiveled on the bench to face the maid, and arranged a pleasant expression on her face. “I’m much better now.”
“Yes?”
“Yes. My hands were starting to ache anyway. Now go!” Dorothea watched her hurry to the door like a bird being released from its cage and felt a twinge of envy over Marie being so close with her sisters. Stretching and closing her hands, she rose from the piano and went to the window to look out over the square. By cruel coincidence Florence Gill happened to be walking toward GUNTER’S, accompanied by a brood of grandchildren.
* * *
“Mrs. Bacon says I’m to take your place, Naomi,” Avis said in the kitchen with all the enthusiasm of a soldier approaching the hottest part of the battle. “The Missus wants you in the parlor.”
“Very well.” Ignoring Trudy’s martyred expression, Naomi replaced her apron with a fresh one from the cupboard drawer. By the time she left the kitchen, Avis was telling Trudy about the time her fiancé, Edwin, broke out into hives from eating cinnamon biscuits.
Mrs. Blake sat at one end of the sofa with arms folded as if to comfort herself. The pale blue eyes looked beseechingly up at her, and her first words were, “I’m so tired.”
“Then you should take a nap, Madam. Why don’t I help you up—”
“I’m tired of being afraid, Naomi.”
Naomi sat down next to her. “What are you afraid of?” she asked softly, though certain she already knew. Sometime during her three decades she had learned that voicing one’s fears often helped sort the rational from the irrational ones.
“Everything. Of being poor . . . my husband preferring his business to home . . . of people discovering I was reared in a hovel with a privy and pigsty . . . of my son not loving me if I didn’t give enough.” She made an audible swallow. “Of dying with no one to grieve me. Of God punishing me for what I did to Jeremy and Sarah . . . and Mary Tomkin.”
Naomi allowed a space before replying, to make sure that her mistress had emptied herself. “We would grieve for you, Mrs. Blake. The girl as well.”
Tears trembled on the lower lashes. “I don’t see why.”
You’ve promised wisdom to those who ask for it, Father, Naomi prayed. Could you send perhaps a double portion right now? It was only when the assurance came that she was not stepping out in front of divine guidance that she said, “Have you asked forgiveness for those things you mention, Madam?”
“Of course,” she replied peevishly. “Many times.”
“Well, with the Scriptures saying God is faithful and just to forgive the sins we confess . . . it seems a little rude to me not accepting what He’s offering you.”
“You sound just like the vicar, Naomi,” Mrs. Blake said, rubbing her forehead.
“Yes? I wonder if he can cook.”
Her attempt at mild humor brought only a wary look from her mistress, but Naomi was undeterred. “What about victories in your life, Mrs. Blake? Good things? Such as being able to provide a livelihood for nine servants, not to mention what you give to charity.” She thought it best not to mention Miss Matthews just at the moment for fear of bringing on another wave of remorse.
“Those have been . . . nice,” the woman finally conceded. She glanced about her. “I have loved this house. My piano. Seeing the trees from the window.” After a silence she added, “Were it not for my husband’s success, I would have probably had to work at a factory all my life, Naomi. That would have been far worse than being a servant.”
Naomi smiled to herself, taking no offense.
“Then why am I so constantly haunted by fears?”
“It’s a simple matter of faith, Madam. Don’t you believe that the God who caused the good things in your life is capable of carrying on to the end?”
“I obviously don’t. Why should He?”
“Then why should He have done so in the past? You’re His child.” The almost overlooked verse to a cherished hymn came to Naomi’s mind. She took the liberty of touching Mrs. Blake’s arm and quoted,
“Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.”
Tears again came to the aged eyes. But her expression was more thoughtful than anxious. “Brought me safe thus far,” Mrs. Blake echoed softly.
“It kept you from the factory, Madam. It’ll lead you home, as the song says. Don’t you think it’s time to cast fear to the wind and live a little more recklessly?”
“Recklessly? I’m an old woman, Naomi.”
“Moses and Abraham were old men, Madam.”
“Yes.” Mrs. Blake sighed again. “Thank you, Naomi. You may go now.”
“Yes, Madam.” She rose from the sofa. Why did you have to add that “reckless” part? she asked herself as she moved toward the door. Surely God hadn’t led her in that direction.
“Naomi?”
“Yes, Madam?”
“Do you know where Sarah is now?”
“Why, in the garden.” Naomi’s heartbreak quickened just a bit. “She stopped by the kitchen on her way out.”
Mrs. Blake nodded. “Help me down the stairs, will you? It’s time I had a talk with her.”
* * *
For how long the unfamiliar sound had been going on, Sarah wasn’t certain. But she replaced her marker, set the book aside, and got to her feet.
Weeping?
It came from the Rothschild garden. Were the boys teasing her? If so, she certainly intended to scold them for the chills running down her back. She went to her former perch at the wall and pulled herself up.
All four were gathered around their nanny at the bench. One twin rested his head against her arm while she wiped his face with a handkerchief. The other covered his eyes with the crook of his arm and leaned against Ben’s shoulder, while Ben wiped his own face with the back of his hand. Mordie stood next to him with glistening cheeks.
“What is wrong?” came a whisper from Sarah’s side. She turned her face toward Mr. Duffy.
“I don’t know,” she whispered back. “They’re all crying.”
He eyed the wall and turned for the shed. Meanwhile Mordie looked up at her and spoke to the nanny, who glanced up at Sarah and then nodded. By the time he trudged over to the wall, Mr. Duffy had returned with a step stool and raised himself beside her.
“Ruthie . . .” the boy said between sniffs. His eyes were puffy, his face splotched crimson. “She had the croup.”
“But will she be all right?” Sarah asked.
The boy shook his head and covered his face.
Mr. Duffy gave her a somber look, then told him, “We’re sorry to hear it, lad.”
“We’re so sorry, Mordie,” Sarah echoed, eyes filling.
Mordie turned toward his nanny again, and Mr. Duffy motioned to Sarah that they should get down. In silence they walked toward the house. It was when they reached the terrace that she became aware of Mr. Duffy’s big hand wrapped around her right one. A face appeared through the glass of one of the French doors. Mr. Duffy turned the knob, and Mrs. Blake stepped outside.
“There you are, Sarah. I thought we might—” She stopped. “What is wrong?”
“The baby’s dead,” Mr. Duffy said with a nod toward the wall.
“No!” she gasped.
Little images came to Sarah’s mind, infants who had died at Saint Ma
tthew’s, since she was old enough to remember. She could almost hear Miss Woodward weeping, and see Mrs. Forsyth’s grim expression. Yes, babies were ushered straightway into the arms of Jesus, as Mrs. Kettner always said. But it was still such a sad thing that a person so small and trusting and helpless should suffer, even for a little while.
With a stricken expression and a hand up to her throat, Mrs. Blake stared at the wall. Anger quickened Sarah’s pulse. This pity for people who were not worthy even to be playmates? “You should be happy,” she heard herself say through trembling lips. “There’s one less Jew next door.”
****
“Sarah?”
Sarah turned her cheek against her sodden coverlet. She had expected someone to come eventually, most likely Mrs. Bacon, to tell her the coach was ready. But she had not expected that voice at her bedroom door. She could still see Mrs. Blake’s face, which had frozen in horror when Sarah spat those hateful words before pushing past her and fleeing upstairs.
The knob turned, the door opened, and she heard soft footsteps approaching. Pushing herself up from the mattress, Sarah sat up on the edge and stared into a pair of pale watery eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Sarah told her. Not out of desperation to stay, though she wanted to badly. Sometime during the half hour that she had lain there, reason—or perhaps God’s quiet voice—had convinced her that Mrs. Blake would not have wished harm upon the neighbors. “I’ll understand if you send me back.”
Incredibly, Mrs. Blake scooped Sarah’s left hand from her lap and pressed it against her ashen white cheek. Her eyes closed, and when they opened, fresh tears clung to the lashes.
“Out there . . . you looked as if you hated me.”
“How could I hate you?” Sarah shook her head for emphasis, her own eyes clouding. “You’ve been so good to me, taking me in and giving me—”
“Because I deserve your hatred,” she said just above a whisper. “You have no idea.”
“But I know you wish the baby were still—”
“I’m your grandmother, Sarah.”
Sarah blinked at her. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s true. You’re Jeremy’s daughter.”
“But I was left at a church. Mrs. Forsyth doesn’t even know who my parents were.”
“She knows. I had Mr. Swann request that you not be told.”
Sometime over the course of the next half hour Mrs. Blake moved to the striped chair, while Sarah sat on the ottoman at her knees. And once the initial shock lessened, some things Sarah had puzzled over during the recent past came into focus. Such as the fragment of conversation she overheard in the shop on Old Bond. Why Avis would apologize to her and not Hester for the remark about Mrs. Blake. And especially, why she, flawed as she was, would be the orphan chosen to come here.
“But why didn’t Mr. Jeremy marry my mother?” she asked. She could not bring herself to refer to him as “Father,” nor Mrs. Blake as “Grandmother.” This was all too new.
* * *
Dorothea’s fatigue grew, until every movement was labor. Strong was the temptation to reply that Jeremy had secretly married Mary Tomkin. No one but the girl would believe it, and only until someone like Augusta Stafford took it upon herself to inform her of the whole truth. There had been enough lies. “Because he swore the child was not his,” she replied, glancing away from the green eyes. “And I chose to believe him.”
“Why? Because she was a servant?”
“Yes, Sarah. But then, I would have believed him over anyone.”
The look that had so disturbed Dorothea downstairs passed across the young face again, though the child was quick to iron it out. “He never even wondered what happened to me?”
“I’m sorry.” Dorothea shook her head. “He didn’t like to think about things that caused him any discomfort.”
“Then he was an evil man.”
Yes, Dorothea thought.
“What happened to my mother?”
“She went back to live with her family. It was her father who put you out.”
“Is she still living?”
“Yes.”
“Then she’ll want to see me.” Sarah’s eyes were wide. “Won’t she?”
Tell her about the fifty pounds, Dorothea thought. That would make closing that door simple. But she could not bring herself to be so cruel. “I don’t know, child.”
“Couldn’t we visit her and ask?”
That, she could not allow, even if her mother lived next door instead of in another town. Not without risking greater hurt to Sarah. “You may write to her and ask,” Dorothea said, and when the girl appeared about to protest, she added, “She does not reside in London.”
Sarah nodded, suddenly seeming older than her years. Within the space of less than an hour, the girl had gained and yet lost both parents, perhaps irrevocably, unless Mary Tomkin Hogarth regretted selling her maternal rights. In spite of her intense desire to keep Sarah to herself for as long as possible, Dorothea forced out the words, “But to save time, I’ll hire Mr. Swann to deliver your letter and bring a reply, if he’s available.”
“Thank you!” the child said as if she had been offered gold.
Even though she could understand the hope in the drawn face, Dorothea’s anguish deepened. How could she have been so naive to think that she would be enough for the girl? God forgive me, she prayed, remembering suddenly that nearby others were suffering something more terrible than her own wounded feelings.
“Let’s wash our faces, Sarah,” she said quietly. “We have a call to make.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Naomi and Trudy had left for the greengrocer’s after Claire came into the kitchen with Mrs. Bacon’s request that they prepare something to send next door. Naomi’s acquaintance with the neighbors and their servants was limited to nods and smiles when passing on the pavement or in the square. Still, she was relieved to have something useful to do for them. The Rothschilds were Orthodox and therefore unable to accept anything she would have cooked or baked, but Naomi was almost certain the huge basket of apples, cherries, apricots, and walnuts compromised no Jewish dietary law.
“You’re back,” Mrs. Bacon said, coming through the doorway just as Naomi placed the last washed apricot on top of the heap. “Just in time.”
“Didn’t you see Trudy? I sent her up to tell you.”
“We must have just missed each other.” Stepping up to the worktable, the housekeeper glanced back at the door. “I don’t know if Claire told you, but it was Miss Matthews who first heard about the baby.”
“Oh dear.” In her haste to leave for the greengrocer’s, Naomi had not even wondered if the girl knew. “How is she?”
“She snapped at Mrs. Blake right in front of Mr. Duffy and ran up to her room. I believe that’s what led the Missus to tell her who she really is. So sad, that it took such a tragedy to bring it about.”
“I see.” It seemed to serve no purpose to mention that that was the reason Mrs. Blake went out into the garden in the first place. “How is Miss Matthews now?”
“She’s fine. Apparently the talk went well. They’ll be going next door together.”
When Trudy reappeared, Mrs. Bacon thanked them both and left with the basket. Naomi wished she could see if Sarah was truly all right. But if the girl was with her grandmother, she had no place intruding. So she sent up a prayer placing the situation in far more capable hands, then busied hers with supper preparations.
****
Black crepe already marked the windows of the Rothschild home where callers were received by Mrs. Rothschild’s sister, who assumed duties for the distraught parents. When Sarah and Mrs. Blake returned home from paying their respect, the elderly woman pleaded exhaustion and asked Mrs. Bacon to help her prepare for bed early.
“We’ll start having meals together tomorrow,” she told Sarah, then gave her a worried look. “Unless you would prefer to continue in the servants’ hall.”
That was exactly what Sarah would have p
referred, but she replied otherwise. She was already beginning to feel a certain responsibility for Mrs. Blake that went beyond gratitude. They were family, something she never imagined she would have. And if they were to become close, they would need to spend more time together.
No mention was made of the Rothschild infant during supper in the hall, but the atmosphere was subdued. On her way from the sideboard, while most others were still filling plates, Naomi leaned down to ask if she was all right. Sarah nodded, not sure if the cook was referring to the death or what she had found out about herself this afternoon. Both, she suspected.
What little conversation there was gave over to perplexed silence when a lone church bell started tolling in the distance, soon joined by another, until it seemed every bell in London was ringing. Sarah thought it was a touching, sad tribute to the Rothschild baby. But Hester whispered, “Someone royal must have died.”
The service entry door opened, footsteps came through the kitchen, and Marie entered the hall in her Sunday clothes. “I have already dined, thank you,” she said when a stunned Trudy offered to dish up a tray. After a self-conscious pause, she said, “The bells ring because Charles Dickens has died. I know you English loved him. I am sorry.”
She left then, and an even grayer pall was cast over the meal. Though Sarah had met neither Mr. Dickens nor the Rothschild baby, she grieved the man because of the characters he had penned and the child because of tears she had witnessed on her brothers’ faces.
But a spark of hope within her burned that night as did the candle on her writing table. She feared turning on the lamp in case Marie or Mrs. Bacon should notice light beneath the door and insist she go to bed. She would not be able to sleep until she poured out in ink all the love she had stored up inside for a mother, without even being aware that she had one.
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