The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Other Christians.” He frowned pensively. “You know . . . I’ve waited outside Saint George’s every Sunday for years, Naomi. And my ears have caught some spiteful things at times.”

  “Granted,” she said. “Again, we’re back to what’s in the heart. Attending church doesn’t make anyone a Christian, Stanley, any more than walking into the stable makes one a horse. It’s repenting and asking Jesus Christ to be Lord of your life.”

  “Repenting?”

  “Turning away from your sins.”

  He blew out his cheeks. “That’s a hard one, Naomi. I couldn’t keep that up.”

  “Nor could Saint Paul, one of the greatest preachers who ever lived. Nor can I. But if you truly repent, Stanley, Jesus will help you. He said it’s the sinners who need Him, just like it’s the sick who need a doctor.”

  “Hmm.” After another long silence, he narrowed his eyes and smiled. “You’re a crafty one, Naomi.”

  “Crafty?” She was truly surprised. “Why do you say that?”

  “We were talking about Hester and ended up talking religion.”

  “You’re the one who first brought up the subject, as I recall,” she said, returning his smile. “But seriously, Stanley . . . what could it hurt for you to consider these things?”

  A sheen came over his eyes, and he turned his face a bit as if embarrassed. “I’m going to think hard on all this, Naomi,” he said with voice softening.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Well . . . good night.” He pushed out his chair and rose, but instead of leaving, he stood behind it with hands hooked over the back. “I always thought you weren’t too fond of me.”

  “Not fond of you?” Naomi smiled again. “I’ve always been fond of you, Stanley. Even the times I’ve wanted to box your ears.”

  ****

  It didn’t matter to William that his Farringdon Street flat was tiny because he spent so little time there. What mattered was that it was cheap, enabling him to put as much of his wages aside as possible. He could have saved a little more had he moved back above Mrs. Blake’s stable as she had offered, but with his having no time to do gardening or stable work, and her refusing to accept rent, he could not bring himself to become dependent upon her again.

  He had no such qualms about allowing her to pay his expenses for the Saturday outings, for Aunt Naomi had convinced him that Mrs. Blake felt more than compensated for the companionship they brought to Sarah. It was the thought of these outings that kept him lying awake in his bed that evening. He had come to take them for granted—happily so, as one takes for granted the blackberry scone with Sunday tea. It had never crossed his mind that they would end one day.

  Even though her socializing was limited, surely there were others in Mayfair who were aware of Sarah’s beauty and grace—young men not influenced by the gossip of their mothers and sisters, and, unfortunately, more inclined toward marrying money than earning it. Once suitors began asking permission to call, Mrs. Blake would have to devote her ebbing energies to seeing she made a proper match for Sarah. And Sarah’s time would be taken up with all the activities that went along with courtship. The idea pained him so much that he suspected what he felt for her had grown deeper than brotherly affection.

  He almost wished that were not so. Mrs. Blake demonstrated great broad-mindedness by allowing Aunt Naomi and him to show Sarah all the sights of London. But it had taken thirteen years for her to reconcile to the fact that the Blake bloodline had been tainted with a servant’s. She would not tolerate having it happen again. He knew that she was fond of him, but he also knew that it would not matter that his servant days were behind him nor how many Oxford degrees he earned.

  Just please watch out for her, Father, he prayed under his breath as his eyelids grew heavier. At least give her the decent man she deserves, who’ll treat her well and be faithful. Not a money chaser.

  Rarely was he struck with a sense of divine assurance after praying, and he blamed himself for that. His job absorbed so much of his time that often his prayers were routine or hurried so that he could get some sleep. But his foggy thoughts were invaded just then by a profound knowledge that his prayer would be answered in that fashion. That should have comforted him, but actually it made him feel worse and robbed him of another hour of sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Mr. Mitchell came the next morning while Sarah was at her lessons in the library. The broad-shouldered, graying fifty-three-year-old had barely begun his professional career when Dorothea’s husband hired him. A novice was all Arthur Blake could afford in those days. Now Mr. Mitchell had charge over two additional solicitors, three engineers, and a host of employees from clerks to shipbuilders and ship’s captains. In spite of his vast duties, he had yet to send an underling to conduct business with Dorothea, and she appreciated that. It was he who had amended her will so that Sarah was named legal heir, also setting aside generous amounts for the servants based upon years of service.

  “I strongly advise that you wait to sign these after you’ve presented the house to Saint Matthew’s,” he said from the sitting room chair after draining his fourth cup of tea. His protruding brow and thin lips gave his face a shadowy, roughish look, incongruous with the integrity he had demonstrated all these years. “You don’t want it on your hands if they’re not willing to use it.”

  “That’s reasonable,” Dorothea replied, even though the purchase would barely dent her fortune. There was no sense in throwing money about just because she could. “We’ll find that out tomorrow. Sarah is pulling at the harness to tell them, but I won’t allow her to go there unescorted.”

  He reached down for the satchel at his feet and started replacing papers. “Would you like me to escort her today?”

  Dorothea considered his offer but then shook her head. “She’s grown so close to my cook and her nephew that I’m positive she’ll want them along. And the nephew has only half-Saturdays and Sundays off.”

  “Very well, then. Shall I return with these on Monday?”

  “Yes, do.”

  He was getting to his feet when the matter that had hovered in the back of Dorothea’s mind for weeks nudged itself to the forefront. “There is something else.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Blake?” he said, settling back into his chair. His dark brows lifted. “Nothing terribly bad, I trust?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing you should worry yourself over,” she replied, and then grew amused at herself for jumping so quickly to reassure him. The concern lingering in his face made her decide not to disclose the part known only to Doctor Raine and the vicar. It would only make him uncomfortable, and she would have to listen to his regrets and little homilies about not giving up. Mr. Mitchell was bright enough to know that people her age tended to pass on sooner or later. “It’s Sarah. Can you assure me that the will is completely binding?”

  His expression eased a bit. “It is absolutely binding.”

  “Even though she hasn’t the Blake name?” It had been a hard pill to swallow four years ago, Sarah’s request to keep her name. Now Dorothea was glad she had not pressed the girl into it. Jeremy had not bothered to do so, and changing the name would only provoke more ridicule from the community.

  “Even though, Mrs. Blake.”

  Dorothea nodded, though still not quite satisfied. The ache in the hands resting upon her lap quilt was worsening, so she straightened and curled her crooked fingers for relief. Doctor Raine’s edict last week was that she take her meals unsalted, saying she would eventually notice the difference in her joints. But there was nothing he could do about her heart. She had reconciled herself to dying but couldn’t help but wish the process were a little more comfortable physically. “At the moment, I see no possibility of her marrying before I pass on—”

  “Is there something you’re not telling me, Mrs. Blake?” Worry creased his jutting brow again.

  “One should think ahead, Mr. Mitchell. I won’t always be here to guide her. Neither will you.” That was what robbed her of
sleep the most. As bright as her granddaughter was, she was inclined to be too trusting and did not yet have the life experience necessary for taking on an oftentimes cruel world.

  “True, Mrs. Blake. Then do go on.”

  “I pray daily that she will marry wisely. But I have lived long enough to see how infatuation can make even wise hearts foolish. It will be tragic enough if she ends up marrying a fortune hunter, and worse if he squanders away her inheritance at the card table or through sheer incompetence.”

  The solicitor nodded. “Unfortunately, I have known of that happening.”

  “Are there any other measures we can take now to protect her?”

  “Those have been done, Mrs. Blake. Thanks to the Married Women’s Property Act of 1870, Sarah will control all property bequeathed to her, as well as the income generated from the same. A husband will only have access to the money insomuch as she allows it, and she will not be liable for his debts.”

  “Then I may breathe a little easier.” But not quite yet, she realized a fraction of a second later. “What if Sarah allows this husband to control her fortune? What if he takes on the notion to run the company?”

  “If he is capable and will allow us to teach him what we’ve learned over the years, that would be a good thing.” He blew out a long breath. “I’ll not deceive you, dear Mrs. Blake. A wastrel of a husband could still cause Sarah some problems if she were to allow him that control. That is why you should continue to pray that she marries wisely.”

  His footsteps had no sooner faded into the hall than Mrs. Bacon appeared to collect the teacups and tray and ask if she needed anything.

  “Where is Marie?” Dorothea asked her.

  “Down in the kitchen, Madam. Shall I send for her?”

  “Yes.” Now that simply rising from her chair was so painful, she was becoming more and more dependent upon the maid. “And have her bring up more tea. Mr. Mitchell drank the pot dry—he must have given up smoking again.”

  Five minutes later the Frenchwoman appeared with a tray in her hands and Naomi at her side. Both wore expectant looks.

  “Well, what is it?” Dorothea asked.

  The two traded glances. It was Naomi who spoke first as Marie poured tea. “We’re concerned about Miss Matthews’ education, Madam, what with Mr. Colby leaving next week.”

  Dorothea had an idea of what was coming next, for Marie had dropped little hints lately about how good it was that young women were being encouraged to go to college these days as well as young men. “‘The Sandhursts,’ where my sister Leona is employed, send their two daughters to Girton,” she had just so happened to mention last night while helping her prepare for bed.

  “I will not send her away,” Dorothea told the two.

  “But of course not, Madam,” the cook said. “Why, we would be the first to protest.”

  Narrowing her eyes, Dorothea reminded herself to remain stalwart against the soothing voice that had talked her into other radical changes in the past. That the changes had blessed her life made little difference. There would come a time when others would have to make decisions for her. She would surrender to that only when she had no other choice. “Then the matter is settled, is it not?”

  It was obviously not, in their minds, for Marie said, “We have heard of a reputable day college for young ladies, Madame. The North London Collegiate School.”

  “Only six hours of study daily, no boarding,” Naomi hastened to add, as if that fact would fall on glad ears. “And half-Saturdays off.”

  “Six hours.” She might as well be boarding, Dorothea thought, what with time devoted to travel back and forth, sleep, and homework. For thirteen years, her own selfishness had robbed her of the blessing of having Sarah in her life. Now a different kind of selfishness made her want the girl home as much as possible. Even when they weren’t together, such as the time Sarah spent in the library at her lessons, it was a comfort knowing she was under the same roof. “That simply will not do.” Dorothea watched as the two traded glances again, leading her to long for the days when they were enemies.

  “Madame knows how much Miss Matthews enjoys learning,” Marie said. “And she needs the company of young ladies her age.”

  Dorothea had them there. “I’m also aware that Mr. Colby says she has completed every secondary text he has assigned to her, which is why his employment will terminate soon, Matterhorn or not. And I don’t ascribe to this notion of girls going to college. It isn’t as if she’ll have to get out and earn a living.”

  And as for having the company of other young ladies, Sarah had plainly stated that she was not lonely when she turned down the offer of the house. The tea was growing tepid in her cup. Dorothea took a sip. She was weary of the argument, but with needlework and the piano too painful for her hands, arguing with maids seemed the only activity open to her at the moment. “You both may as well sit. I can see that you’ve more to say. I can only hope Trudy’s not burning our lunch.”

  “Lunch is taken care of, Madam,” Naomi said, smiling as the two took seats upon the divan. She smoothed out her apron. “Forgive me, but have you ever asked Miss Matthews how she feels about having her education concluded?”

  “I haven’t seen the need to.” But try as she might, Dorothea was not able to maintain the barricade her will had erected against them. How many times had Sarah enthused over something she had learned, such as the average person being subjected to an atmospheric pressure of 40,000 pounds, or that the literal meaning of the legal term Habeas Corpus is “You may have the body”?

  “Asking her would serve no purpose anyway.” Marie rolled her amber eyes. “She would only tell Madame what she wishes to hear.”

  “Then we seem to be at an impasse,” Dorothea said. “Unless you have any other suggestions.”

  “I have,” Naomi said after a moment. “If you don’t wish to send her to college, why not bring the college here?”

  Even Marie turned a puzzled look to her. “Here? To this house?”

  The cook smiled and shook her head. “Someone qualified to teach on the University level.”

  Dorothea protested that that was impractical simply because she had never heard of it being done. But wisely, the two gave her opportunity to think instead of taxing her patience with more persuasion. In the end, she shrugged. “I suppose if we don’t give her something to do, she’ll idle away her time with novels and lawn tennis. Mr. Mitchell is stopping by Monday. I’ll ask him to look for someone. That is, if Sarah is willing.”

  “Oh, she will be willing,” replied a smiling Marie. “I can assure Madame of that.”

  “I’ll thank you both not to presume yourselves more knowledgeable about my granddaughter’s likes and dislikes than I am,” Dorothea chided, even while admitting to herself that the maid was probably correct. But it was a wise mistress who reminded her servants of their places now and again.

  However, Marie’s and Naomi’s celebratory smiles suggested that they were well aware of their places.

  ****

  When Sarah’s grandmother had mentioned purchasing a “mansion,” the picture that attached itself to Sarah’s mind was something identical to their own home, tall and relatively narrow. But the next afternoon she marveled that three Berkeley Square town houses could have fit easily into the great stone mansion on Albion Grove in Hampstead.

  “Six chimneys.” William’s awestruck voice came out in smoky vapor, while a bracing end-of-January wind whipped his hair around the brim of his bowler hat. The four stood just inside a walled garden large enough to bear the frolic of hundreds of small feet without danger of trampling the dormant flower beds and vegetable patch.

  “I would love to see the kitchen,” Naomi breathed, her pert nose pinked.

  “The stables,” Stanley said with the same reverence.

  Sarah returned the wave of the man, presumably the groundskeeper, who had unlocked the front door. Burrowing again into her wool cloak, she said, “A fireplace would suit me.” Actually, she was far more
eager to pay the call upon Mrs. Forsyth than to tour the house. Judging from the outside, it would more than suit the needs of the orphanage. But she had to consider her companions’ wishes. And so she nudged them toward the door. “We’ll stay warmer if we walk quickly.”

  Some two hours later Sarah was staring out the coach window as it labored down Oxford Street, clogged with vehicles and horses. “Why can’t people stay home this time of day?” she muttered, for window lights were beginning to show through the fog.

  “The ones behind us may be asking the same thing,” William told her.

  She turned. “I’m sure they aren’t on so great a mission as we are.”

  “We’ll accomplish our noble mission, Sarah. Why don’t you relax?” When he had officially left the ranks of servanthood, Sarah had asked him to cease from addressing her as “Miss Matthews.” It seemed silly for friends to be so formal. She wished she could ask the same of Naomi, but there were some rules that Grandmother would never bend.

  “Perhaps we should save this for tomorrow after church?” Naomi suggested. “Mrs. Blake will fret if it turns dark on us.”

  “But we’ve been to theatre much later than this.” Sarah realized even as she spoke that she was rationalizing.

  Grandmother feared the slums, probably because she was raised in them and was aware of their dangers. She touched the cook’s gloved hand and said, reluctantly, “If we haven’t reached Drury Lane in a half hour, we’ll ask Stanley to turn back. What time is it, William?”

  He took out his watch. “Exactly five o’clock.”

  “I think that’s wise,” Naomi said.

  William, clearly attempting to tease his aunt out of her uneasiness, said, “I believe Mr. Turner took a liking to you, Aunt Naomi. I noticed he took extra pains to show you every cupboard and rack in the kitchen.”