The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  Though etiquette did not demand it, Ethan removed his hat. “I’m shopping for ideas for my mother’s birthday,” he said. After all, there were very few excuses for stepping inside a parasol shop, and this one served double-duty as another weapon in his arsenal. Most women adored men who were sentimental about their mothers—as long as they didn’t overdo it.

  “And when is her birthday?”

  The voice, he noticed, was more polished than he would have expected from a shopgirl. While she maintained a posture of professional courtesy, there was some skepticism in her brown eyes, which suggested she knew exactly why he stood there with hat in hand. She’s older than you, he told himself. He guessed twenty-six, twenty-seven. That only served to deepen his interest.

  “Oh . . . November,” he decided it prudent to confess, now that he realized she wasn’t quite so young and naive. He allowed a touch of sheepish guilt into his smile, as if he had just toppled a vase by running through his mother’s parlor. “I was actually curious about what you’re reading.”

  Professional courtesy abandoned, she leaned elbows on the counter and leveled a bored stare at him. “Don’t you mean . . . what I was reading?”

  “Ouch!” He made an exaggerated wince. “Now I can see why this place isn’t overrun with patrons.”

  “Most patrons are thinking about taking lunch now, if you please. I’ll be closing up shop myself in half an—” She stopped, eyes widening. “Your eyes aren’t the same color!”

  “And you’re the first to notice,” he said with friendly sarcasm. He actually enjoyed his unique eye coloring for the attention it attracted, especially from women.

  “I wasn’t making sport.”

  The apology in her tone gave Ethan encouragement. He pressed on. “I took no offense. Now, what would a beautiful woman such as yourself be reading?”

  She stared for a second or two longer, then shrugged and pushed an open book across the counter. On Actors and the Art of Acting by George H. Lewes.

  “It’s borrowed, so don’t damage it,” she warned when he picked it up.

  “Wouldn’t think of it. You know, that’s incredible.”

  “What?”

  “My very first thought when I looked at you through the glass was, ‘She should be playing Ophelia instead of selling parasols.’”

  Now she actually smirked at him, reaching for the book. “And you should be selling hair tonic on a street corner.”

  This time Ethan’s wince was genuine. “All right, perhaps that didn’t come to me straightaway . . . but I’m convinced you’d make a perfect Ophelia, or even Juliet. Why are you here instead of onstage?”

  She made a little shrug, her expression softening to the point it almost seemed she would cry. “I’ve tried . . . studying plays, noticing how patrons speak, even writing their words down sometimes. I’ve been to at least a dozen casting readings. But I don’t dare close up shop every time there’s a reading or I’ll get sacked.”

  “Hmm. I see what you mean.” He was pleased to discover some stirrings of pity in his heart, proof that he was indeed cut out to be a man of the cloth. The bell jingled into his thoughts. Street noises accompanied a pair of well-dressed women through the doorway. When Ethan turned back to make a little farewell gesture, the shopgirl was already moving around the counter as if they had never spoken. He forced himself to nod politely at the two on his way out—after all, they could be parishioners at Saint George’s.

  Irritation burned in his chest all the way back to the vicarage, not so much at the patrons but that he had so little control over his time. Like the cuckoo in Mrs. Grundke’s clock, he was forced to perform on the hour with others doing the winding.

  It won’t always be this way, he had to remind himself. As long as he stayed on Vicar Sharp’s good side he would eventually be a vicar, with some poor desperate-to-please curate to pay calls for him. He would need only minimal time at study, for his parting gift from his parents was his sainted grandfather’s hand-scripted notebooks containing over forty years of sermons. Ethan felt no guilt about it. Who was he to attempt to improve upon what a better man than himself had labored so hard over?

  “Did Mr. Fisher tell you about his first ride on a train?”

  Vicar Sharp asked over a lunch of boiled salmon, dressed cucumber, and mashed potatoes.

  Ethan smiled at his table companions, which included, besides the vicar, Mrs. Sharp, wearing her comically ill-fitting wig, and her wigless sister Mrs. Greenoak, visiting for the day. “Fascinating story, wasn’t it!”

  “Yes, fascinating.” The vicar raised a friendly eyebrow. “I feel I must warn you that you’ll probably hear it several more times.”

  “Not at all,” Ethan assured him. “If remembering gives him pleasure, who am I to begrudge him a little time? I spent many a boyhood hour sitting at my grandfather’s feet listening to stories of his ministry.” Of truth he was seven when his grandfather passed away after suffering illness for two years, and so his few memories of the man did not go beyond pats on the head and an occasional penny from his vest pocket. Not your fault that he died, he told himself when a little pang of guilt hit him for using a departed family member in a lie. You would have sat at his feet had he lived longer.

  The women exchanged approving smiles, and Vicar Sharp even got a little misty eyed and expressed the wish that he had a grandson to whom he could pass down his own stories.

  “I would love to hear them, sir,” Ethan said, hoping that the vicar was not as prone to ramble at his stories as he had been in the pulpit on the previous Sunday. He realized then that he had forgotten to ask the shop assistant’s name.

  No matter, he thought while basking under the smiles of his lunch companions. You’ll know it soon enough.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Bright green leaves were sprouting on Berkeley Square’s plane trees by mid-March. As Mr. Rayborn explained, the species, P. acerifolia, was perfectly suited to cities because of a high tolerance to atmospheric impurities. “In other words, they’re the only living things in London actually fond of the fog,” he had quipped during a tutoring session.

  Sarah liked him very much. Not only did he present facts but compelled her to think logically about them. In the library on Monday morning of the fifteenth, the first subject was British history and in particular, Queen Anne’s reign.

  “Would you say that the peace of Utrecht 1713 was more beneficial to Britain or Spain?” he asked from his chair across from her at the oak table.

  It took Sarah a full three minutes to compose a reply in her mind. That was another thing she liked about Mr. Rayborn. He had yet to show any sign of impatience, even when she struggled over Latin, which she had never come to appreciate in spite of William’s assurance years ago.

  “To Britain,” she finally said. After three weeks of Mr. Rayborn’s tutelage, she knew the next question would be ‘Why?’ so she went ahead and answered it. “The thirty years of peace allowed us to concentrate on commercial gains overseas, such as Hudson Bay for the fur trade. Also, with Austria taking over Spain’s external dominions, there was no more threat of a French occupation of the southern Netherlands.”

  “And how would that have affected Britain?”

  “We would have surely been drawn into another war . . . wouldn’t we?”

  “Most surely,” he said, green eyes warm above his smile as if she had discovered something remarkable instead of simply answering a history question.

  She wondered at the traces of wistfulness in his expression now and then, in spite of his good humor. Grandmother had told her of the suicide of his young wife, warning her to avoid speaking of any matter that might bring up any painful memories. But as sad as it was, the death had occurred years and years ago. Did he ever consider finding someone to marry again?

  “Miss Matthews?”

  Sarah blinked and hoped her expression had not betrayed her thoughts. “I beg your pardon?”

  He smiled. “Shall we move on to calculus?”


  At half-past eleven they stopped for lunch. They had fallen into a routine—while Sarah joined Grandmother and Marie in the parlor, Mr. Rayborn stayed in the library to pen notes into a notebook for the biology text he was writing. And when her lunch was over, Sarah worked on her daily composition assignment while Mr. Rayborn took his meal in the servants’ hall.

  Only today Grandmother had to be coaxed into finishing even a third of her stewed mullet, one of her favorite dishes, insisting that she would rather nap. “What if we add just a pinch of salt?” Marie asked. “What Doctor Raine does not know will not hurt him.”

  Sarah started to protest but then figured a little salt would be better than her grandmother taking in no nourishment. And of truth, she and Marie had had to sprinkle liberal amounts over their own dishes, for the mullet was uncharacteristically bland.

  “No. I just want to sleep.”

  “I think we’re finished,” Sarah said to Avis when the coaxing proved futile. While Avis cleared the dishes, she and the lady’s maid helped Grandmother upstairs.

  “We should send for Doctor Raine,” Marie said, hovering at Sarah’s elbow while she tucked the covers around the frail shoulders.

  “No,” Grandmother said.

  Sarah leaned down to smile at her, running fingers through the soft white hair. “It would reassure us if he had another look at you.”

  “I don’t care to be prodded with those cold instruments today. I’m an old woman, and old women simply get tired.”

  Unsure of whether to plead with her or accept her wishes, Sarah turned helplessly to Marie. “What do you—?”

  “Please,” came from the pillow. Sarah turned again. Her grandmother gave both of them a weak smile. “I know that you care for me. But there’s so little I can do anymore. At least allow me some say-so over my own person.”

  There was nothing Sarah could reply to that, and Marie nodded agreement—with one stipulation. “I will sit by your window with my needlepoint. You will not even know I am here.”

  “Very well,” Grandmother sighed.

  “I’ll fetch it now,” Sarah told the lady’s maid. After hastening to the parlor and back, she remembered Mr. Rayborn in the library and hoped Avis had thought to tell him that he could go on downstairs. But when she reached the ground storey he was still in there, writing in his notebook.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Rayborn,” she said. “We had to put Grandmother to bed, and I forgot all about your lunch.”

  “Has she taken ill?” he asked with concern on his face.

  “Just tired, she says. Naomi will make sure there’s some food left for you, but you should hurry before it gets cold.”

  * * *

  “It didn’t even cross my mind to tell him.” Avis glanced at the empty space between her and Claire. “Miss Matthews always does, but she and Marie put the missus to bed.”

  “Is Mrs. Blake all right?” Naomi asked.

  “She said she just wanted to nap.”

  Pushing her chair from the foot of the table, Mrs. Bacon said, “I’d best go see about her. Do go ahead and pray, Mr. Duffy. I’ll look in on Mr. Rayborn on the way.”

  Clinks of silver against china followed Mr. Duffy’s “Amen.” Presently Stanley, seated at Naomi’s right, turned to her. “You know how fond I am of your cooking, Naomi, but the mullet’s lacking a little something.”

  As she brought the fork up to her lips, Naomi tried to recall her steps after dishing out Mrs. Blake’s portion. She frowned at the blandness. “Salt.”

  “That’s easily enough mended,” Claire said and reached for the salt-cellar at her husband’s end of the table. Susan took up the one at Mrs. Bacon’s end, and both were put to use and then passed on.

  “Now that’s more like it,” Stanley said, chewing. “Fish without salt just ain’t natural.”

  “A gentleman would have kept his lip and allowed Naomi to discover it,” Trudy teased.

  Avis nodded owlishly. “Mr. Rayborn would have done so.”

  Stanley winked at Naomi and glanced at the door. “Mr. Rayborn would say it was delicious if it was rotten.”

  “Stanley . . .” Claire warned.

  “But he would,” Mr. Duffy said, typically taking Stanley’s side.

  “You shouldn’t be gossiping about the man like that when he’s not here,” Naomi said, though their words were probably true. Mr. Rayborn had yet to rise from the table without complimenting her and Trudy.

  “It ain’t gossip if it’s the truth,” Stanley told her.

  “It’s gossip if you have to look at the door first,” Naomi countered.

  Mr. Duffy slapped his knee. “She’s got you there, Stanley.”

  “I say we try a little experiment,” the groomsman said. “Take away the salt and see what he does.”

  “And what would that prove?” Claire asked.

  “I’ll wager he’ll sit here and eat it without salt rather than call attention to himself by asking for some.”

  “That’s silly,” Avis said. “Besides, Mrs. Bacon will ask about the salt.”

  “Not if we go ahead and sprinkle some on hers,” Trudy said with a conspiratorial light in her eyes.

  Naomi couldn’t believe her ears. Trudy, who could usually be counted on to take her side, encouraging one of Stanley’s little pranks? The scullery maid answered Naomi’s puzzled look with a shrug. “Would be fun to find out. It ain’t like we’d be ruinin’ his food.”

  Naomi was clearly outvoted, with even Claire looking interested. A cellar was passed to Susan, closest to Mrs. Bacon’s end of the table. After the chambermaid carefully sprinkled salt over the housekeeper’s plate, Stanley got up and whisked both cellars from the table. He was just walking back out from the kitchen when Mr. Rayborn came through the corridor doorway.

  “Please pardon my tardiness,” he said.

  Stanley clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ve only started, my good man. But do hurry and dish up a plate. Naomi outdid herself on the stewed mullet.”

  All eyes followed the tutor from the sideboard as he brought his filled plate to the spot across from Naomi. Mr. Duffy, in an obvious attempt to break the suspicious watchful silence, cleared his throat. “And what did you teach our Miss Matthews this morning, Mr. Rayborn?”

  “This morning?” Mr. Rayborn smiled to his left, his mullet-filled fork poised over his plate. “We began with British history, then calculus, Latin, and literature.” He took in the forkful, chewed, and swallowed contentedly with not even the slightest change of expression.

  “What’s calculus?” Trudy asked when another silence threatened.

  He was thoughtful before answering, as if trying to put it in terms that a scullery maid would understand. “It’s a branch of mathematics—that is, numbers—usually having to do with how things change. For example, you would use it to figure out the speed of a falling body.”

  “Why?” Avis gaped at him in horror.

  Mr. Duffy scratched his chin. “And they wouldn’t be bodies until after they hit the ground, would they? Providing they fell from high enough to do a person injury.”

  With a patient smile the tutor replied, “Well, you see—”

  “Even then, you can’t be sure,” Stanley cut in. “I fell out of an oak as a boy, and all it did was bruise me up a bit. Don’t know how fast it was, but it seemed like forever. You know, like one of those dreams where everything moves slow?”

  Claire nodded. “Except for whatever’s chasing you in the dream, yes?”

  “I wonder why it’s always like that?” Susan asked. “It’s as if your feet’s stuck in treacle.”

  “I don’t think Mr. Rayborn meant bodies the way we’re thinking,” Naomi said, resisting the impulse to slip into the kitchen for the saltcellar.

  Mr. Rayborn sent her a smile and addressed Avis again. “I should have explained myself, Miss Seaton. What I meant by ‘body’ is anything solid. A rock or piece of wood, for example.”

  Mrs. Bacon returned to tell them that Mrs. Blake ap
parently was just feeling the effect of age and rheumatism and not in need of Doctor Raine. “Delicious mullet, Naomi,” she said after first taste. “But mine could use a wee bit more salt.” Her bespectacled eyes scanned the table. “Where . . . ?”

  “Allow me,” Stanley said, hopping up from his chair and heading for the kitchen. The housekeeper gave Naomi a curious look but accepted without question the saltcellar when he returned and sprinkled a liberal amount with the tiny spoon.

  “Anyone else?” she asked.

  “Ah, none for me,” Avis said, then moved her owlish eyes toward the tutor, who was chewing contentedly. “What about you, Mr. Rayborn?”

  He shook his head. “It’s perfect as is.”

  Naomi smiled to herself at the exchange of covert glances. While chairs were being pushed out at the end of the meal, he scraped up the last forkful and said after swallowing, “That was a wonderful meal. Thank you.”

  “What did I tell you?” Stanley sidled up to murmur to Naomi as the hall emptied. “I believe he’s fond of you, Naomi.”

  “You’d best stop sampling the horses’ mash, Stanley,” Naomi replied, replacing the lid on the butter crock. “It’s obviously fermented.”

  He chuckled. “We’ll just see, won’t we?”

  That afternoon, she was on her way up to repin the straying curls that were maddeningly tickling her neck when she met Mr. Rayborn on the staircase between the first and second storeys. “Are you leaving now?” she asked, hand on the banister.

  “I am,” he replied, smiling.

  “She’s a good student, isn’t she?”

  “She’s a joy to teach.”

  Naomi was glad he felt that way. While Mr. Colby had seemed conscientious and had surely taught Miss Matthews well, there was an impatience about him that made her wonder if he begrudged the routine and so much time spent indoors. “I can’t tell you enough how this house changed for the better when she came here. We all love her dearly.”