The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  William shot a panicked glance toward the wall clock.

  “You’re not late,” the man reassured him, then lowered his voice. “Until I locate the Burnet file, he has nothing to do but twiddle his thumbs.”

  Still, William opened the inner office door with apologetic carefulness. Behind a massive oak desk, Mr. Howitt looked up from a stack of papers. “Come in and have a seat, Mr. Doyle.” And before William could close the door behind himself, the man called out, “And I would have Mr. Allen know that I do not twiddle my thumbs!”

  William smiled and took the armchair facing the desk. He opened the worn satchel he had carried off to Oxford—which today had miraculously stayed shut through all the jostling—and thought how grateful he was that his first exposure to the legal side of his profession was with someone so down-to-earth.

  “Will the rain ever let up?” the attorney asked, throwing a glance at the bespattered window behind his shoulder.

  “I don’t know, sir.” His calves flinched against soaked wool as he rose to hand the file containing his laboratory findings across the desk. “I believe I found every puddle from our office to the Inn.”

  Mr. Howitt chuckled affably. He was young for someone in his position, probably not yet forty, with thick facial features and blue eyes quick to fill with gaiety at his own witticisms or with indignation at the cases William brought before him. Cases such as today’s evidence against Webber’s Pills, guaranteed to cure gout and rheumatism “in thirty days,” which were discovered to be nothing more than a mixture of morphine and opium.

  “And so the unfortunate user is addicted before the thirty days are over,” Mr. Howitt muttered. “And obviously the fine did no good.”

  “They’re making too much money. They simply waited six months, moved from Holborn Viaduct to Lambeth Road, and changed the name from ‘Webb’s.’”

  “Webb’s to Webber’s? At least they could have used a little more imagination. Well, I’ll be meeting with Mr. Bailey this afternoon.”

  Mr. Bailey was the sergeant who presented the cases in court, but as the Commission could not engage the services of a barrister or sergeant directly, Mr. Howitt took care of that, as well as the required paper work. William watched him pen notes and thought about how nice it would be if Aunt Naomi would meet someone like him. He was probably not married, as he lodged here at the Inn. He showed no sign of being fond of snuff. That he was not particularly handsome would be the last thing to concern Aunt Naomi.

  And he doesn’t seem the type who would look down his nose at a servant. Especially if he were to meet one such as Aunt Naomi. But how did a person go about introducing people from two totally different walks of life? Especially when one was his aunt, certain to balk at any attempt of his to matchmake.

  He realized he was rudely staring and that Mr. Howitt was staring back with an odd look. Before William could explain himself, the attorney said, “Before I forget to ask, Mr. Doyle, was that you I spotted in a box at the Prince of Wales on Saturday past?”

  Thank you, God, William prayed under his breath. A discussion about the production of Prayer in the Storm would surely lead to Mr. Howitt inquiring about the two lovely women in the same box. “Did you enjoy the play?” William asked.

  “Very much. But then, I’ve loved theatre since I was a small boy.”

  “Really?” Aunt Naomi, you’re going to meet this man if it’s the last thing I do!

  “Oh yes. I would have gone into acting had my father allowed it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, but don’t be. The law’s a good living.” He gave William a chummy wink. “But you don’t get to rub elbows with beautiful actresses. I would give my last guinea for a tumble with the likes of Genevieve Ward.”

  William was unable to hide the shock on his face, and Mr. Howitt’s smile vanished. “I’ve embarrassed you.”

  “No, it’s just, well . . .” William stammered for wont of anything else to say.

  “Forgive me—I forgot how young you are.”

  “I’m fine, really.” He smiled just to prove it, then nodded toward the file on the desk. “May we return to the case now, sir? I shouldn’t take up too much of your time.”

  His vexation when he left the Inn thirty minutes later was not at Mr. Howitt but himself. What mattered most to Aunt Naomi was not wit, nor theatre, nor a sociable personality, but Christian morality. And that had not even entered his mind.

  ****

  Having decided that the presence of a certain physical basis or peculiar form of matter is essential to the manifestation of vital phenomena, we may next pass on to consider whether organization, or the presence of a certain definite structure, is one of the essential conditions of vitality.

  After stabbing the full-stop key to the Remington typewriter, Daniel Rayborn cracked the knuckles of both hands, then stretched back in his chair to work away the catch between his shoulder blades. You need some tea, old man, he told himself. In his stockinged feet he carried his empty cup from the parlor to his kitchen, picked up the teapot from the stove, and gave it a gentle swish. Lukewarm tea filled his cup—he decided it was less troublesome to drink it that way than to make a fresh pot, most of which would grow stale anyway. He returned to his parlor desk and looked out the wide sash window. Sunlight glistened off Surrey Street’s wet cobblestones. Hooves and wheels splashed through puddles while pedestrians skirted them on the pavement.

  There was a former nursery atop the narrow three-storey terrace house that would have made a roomier study, but the windows were too high to peer out of from a deskchair. Just because his chosen occupation required solitude did not mean he had to cloister himself away like a monk in a bell tower. At least he could feel a small part of the stream of humanity by simply lifting his eyes from his work.

  An hour later he was reading a stack of mail that included some requested notes from Mr. Lewins, a don at the University of Edinburgh, on the alternation of generations in Hydroid Zoophytes. A knock sounded at his door. It was a rare but welcome sound. This time Daniel fished his shoes from beneath his desk and pulled them on.

  “Good afternoon, Daniel!” greeted the man on the porch. “James!” Daniel stepped out to embrace his younger brother. “Wonderful to see you!”

  “And you as well.”

  “But where is Virginia? And the girls?”

  “Oh, still in Malta, packing up the house. I’ve been here only three days—”

  Daniel folded his arms. “Three days?”

  His brother looked sheepish. “I wanted to wait for the time for a good long visit. Between interviews and house hunting, it’s been hectic. I despise the frantic pace of this town, but Virginia wants the children to know their grandparents.”

  Daniel raised an eyebrow. “And their uncle?”

  “Especially their uncle,” James said, smiling again.

  “Well, where are you staying? Because you’re more than welcome . . .”

  “Thank you, but Virginia’s parents insisted I stay with them.” He glanced over his shoulder at a waiting coach. “Fetch your hat and coat and take a ride with me, will you?”

  “A ride? Where?”

  “Oh, I’d rather not say just yet. But trust me, you’ll not be disappointed.”

  Only the shine in the gray-green eyes prevented Daniel from protesting that after four years apart he would rather have a quiet talk than inspect some potential homes for his brother’s family. With a stifled sigh he lifted his bowler hat from a stack of books and undraped his overcoat from the back of a chair.

  “You still writing that zoology text?” James asked as they sat side by side in the coach, moving along with the light traffic of Surrey Street.

  “Finished last year. I’m slogging along on another biology—this time college level.”

  “Slogging?”

  Daniel pulled a gloveless hand from his pocket to show him the calluses on his fingertips. “My publisher wants everything typed now. Horrid instrument with ribbons that tangl
e incessantly, but he says it makes editing easier. And you? How went your position in Malta?”

  “Young Mr. Laurier passed his locals with flying colors and is at Oxford, where he is likely spending his days in riotous living, if he hasn’t already been invited to leave by the administration.”

  “How sad.”

  The regret that washed across James’s face belied his shrug. “You can lead a horse to water and so forth. I did my best, but the die was cast long before I happened along.”

  Daniel shook his head. He had spent nine years lecturing at nearby King’s College, University of London, and it saddened him to hear of any young person throwing away his life. “Well, then you mustn’t fault yourself. And I’ve been pleasantly surprised more than once to witness maturity creep up on such hopeless cases.”

  James paused, narrowing his eyes in mock suspicion. “You’re including me in that category, aren’t you?”

  “You were never hopeless, James.”

  “Oh, but Mother and Father would have argued that one, God rest their souls.”

  “And so you pleasantly surprised them.”

  The street noises faded into the background as the two indulged in memories of their shared childhoods and of the years that James occupied Daniel’s guestroom and studied at King’s College. They had spent many evenings at the table pouring over subjects that his brother was unable to grasp in a lecture setting. How gratifying to now see him devote his life to bringing education to other seemingly hopeless cases.

  As the conversation continued, there was one topic they avoided discussing so studiously that it seemed to occupy a place between them in the coach. And even after seventeen years, it was a bruise upon Daniel’s heart.

  It was only when they came to their final stop that Daniel looked out the windows and took notice of his surroundings. To his left stretched a square that must surely be magnificent when the tall trees were in full leaf. To his right, a fine stone mansion joined with others on either side.

  “Berkeley Street,” his brother said.

  “Very impressive,” Daniel replied with sinking spirits. James had never been one to pinch pennies, but this was surely more house than he could afford even with the assistance of wealthy in-laws. He angled his head in a vain effort to see all the way up to the roof. “But expensive, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Expensive? Oh, frightfully so, one would imagine.”

  Then why are we here? The coachman had not come around to the door yet, so Daniel automatically started to reach for it. He felt a touch upon his shoulder and turned again to his brother, who grinned as if he would burst from having to hold a secret for so long.

  “I instructed him to give us time to talk.”

  Daniel sighed audibly this time. “James, what is this about?”

  Still grinning, James glanced past him toward the house. “Something incredible happened today, Daniel. It still gives me the shivers.”

  “Yes?”

  “Two days ago a note from a Mr. Mitchell, a solicitor, was delivered to my in-laws’ house, asking that I call at his Cannon Street office as soon as possible. The old fellow and I got along famously—turns out he’s Virginia’s father’s cousin, three or four times removed. He asked me to call on a Mrs. Arthur Blake, who is seeking a tutor for her granddaughter. Is the name familiar to you?”

  “Sorry.” One of the ironic results of spending most of one’s time in academia was an ignorance of practical matters of the world. Daniel had not even heard of the typewriter until his publisher, William Blackwood and Sons, had one delivered to his home. And then there were the five years he spent besotted by drink—it was only God’s grace and the small stipend from King’s College that saved him from losing his house. “Were you offered the position?”

  James nodded. “I asked for time to consider it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because of what I discovered. Your daughter lives here, Daniel.”

  Daniel could only stare at his brother.

  It’s her, Daniel! Sarah!” James exclaimed. “Alive and well just beyond that door!”

  “But how?” Daniel asked, scarcely able to draw breath. “I don’t quite know that.”

  “And it’s been almost seventeen years. How would you even recognize her?”

  “The evidence is overwhelming,” James replied. “First, she’s almost the mirror image of her mother. I almost fell backward when I first saw her. She has your green eyes, though.”

  “But you said she was Mrs. Blake’s granddaughter.”

  “Adopted, Daniel. And Mr. Mitchell had already informed me that she spent most of her life in an orphanage.”

  “An orphanage . . .”

  James’s voice softened. “She has a crippled hand. Her left hand, Daniel.”

  “Her left hand?”

  “The same, Daniel.”

  “Then she didn’t drown?”

  “She didn’t drown.”

  Fear replaced the doubt in Daniel’s mind. He had prayed for years for such a miracle. But the hollow spot in his heart was for the two-year-old who sat on his knee and tugged at his beard and addressed him as “Father.” How weak was his faith! Had he believed God could save Sarah from the waters that claimed his tormented wife, his mind would have allowed her to age accordingly.

  “What should I do?” he asked after a long look through his window at the door.

  James rested a hand upon his shoulder. “First, you take some deep breaths. Your hands are shaking.”

  “They are?” Daniel held them up as if seeing them for the first time. Indeed they trembled, as well as his knees. He drew in some equally shaky breaths that had no effect upon his hands and knees. “Now what?”

  “Why, we get out now.” James looked wounded that he should even ask. “You have every right to claim your daughter. And the proof she’s yours, should Mrs. Blake prove obstinate.”

  That was so. In a cigar box in Daniel’s bureau were three yellowed London Times articles. The first, dated August 12, 1858, gave eyewitness accounts from two prostitutes and a bridge sweeper of the unidentified woman who leaped from Waterloo Bridge the night before with a small child in her arms. The article of two days later gave Daniel’s name, told of the discovery of Deborah Rayborn’s body washed ashore in Woolwich, and mentioned the police speculation that the child’s body was presumed to be washed out to sea. The third article told of Deborah’s burial in the section of Brompton Cemetery reserved for Dissenters—suicides were not allowed in consecrated grounds—and quoted his father-in-law, who accused Daniel of being a Blackheart who refused to allow his wife to bring their crippled little daughter to see her grandfather.

  Mercifully that was all, unless there had been other printed accounts of which Daniel was unaware. Parliament’s transfer of the Indian government from the East India Company to the Crown took up most newspaper space during that time.

  Why didn’t I look for help? He would not have dreamed of having Deborah confined to Bedlam, but surely in all of England there were places devoted to healing tormented minds. He had lied to himself, hanging on to the false confidence that it was the strain of childbearing that had altered her behavior so radically.

  “You did not kill your mother,” he must have told Deborah a thousand times, hoping each time reason would take root. “An infant has no control over any complications of birth. It was unspeakably cruel of your father to lay that charge at your feet. And God isn’t going to punish you by taking our baby.”

  It wasn’t enough to his wife that she lived through the delivery of her own infant. She could barely look at their daughter, forcing Daniel to hire a nursemaid. The malformed hand, which stirred such pity and tenderness in his heart, was proof to Deborah that her father’s curse still hovered over her.

  “Daniel?”

  Daniel blinked, refocusing his attention on his brother.

  “This is too much to absorb, Daniel,” James said with an understanding nod. “But Sarah will want to see you.”
/>   “She won’t even remember me.” He glanced again at the magnificent house. What had he for her but a narrow town house, cluttered with stacks of books and papers? Only the twice-weekly efforts of the charwoman kept it from total disaster. Did he have the right to barge into her life and take her from a good situation simply because he would give his right arm to see her and hear her call him “Father” again?

  “She’s yours, Daniel,” James pressed.

  “And that obligates me to put her needs ahead of my own. There has been enough harm done to my family because of a father’s selfishness.”

  “And so you’ll go on as before?”

  “Of course not. But I’ll not act rashly.” He rubbed his eyes, grateful that James allowed him some space for thought. At length he looked again at his brother. “You said she came from an orphanage. Would you know the location?”

  Chapter Thirty

  In Saint Matthew’s schoolroom two hours later, Olivia pressed steepled fingertips against her chin and thought about how much better her life had been over the past several days. Mrs. Blake had forgiven her, guilt no longer cast a pall over her prayers, the girls would soon be in a new spacious home, and she slept like an infant again.

  And with her now, two brothers waited for explanation, their proof in a cigar box on a child’s desk. Newspaper clippings, and even more compelling, the familiar face staring back from a tintype of the Rayborns on their wedding day. The young bride could have been Sarah’s twin.

  Mrs. Blake had asked her not to tell anyone that Sarah wasn’t her granddaughter. But they already know that. In fact, they knew enough to fill in the gaps in Sarah’s history.

  “As you saw by the clippings, it was in the newspaper,” the younger Mr. Rayborn said with faint accusation in his tone.

  Olivia gave him a pained smile. “I’ve not read a newspaper since Coronation, Mr. Rayborn. The fisherman said she lived with them for almost a year, until they could no longer afford to keep her. I did not believe his remark about ‘fishing her out of the Thames’ because he reeked of gin. Instead, I assumed some relative had pressed the child upon them earlier. Even if I had overheard something about a child in the river, I probably wouldn’t have connected two events so many months apart.”