His expression grew even warmer. “Thank you, Miss Doyle.”
It was a curious thing for him to say, with his having been employed only three weeks. And he had to have noticed puzzlement in her expression, for he shrugged a little self-consciously. “I’m thankful to be in the company of people who love children, Miss Doyle. Not everyone does.”
“Well, it’s their loss then, isn’t it?”
“Yes, certainly.”
Stanley’s little prank in the servants’ hall popped into Naomi’s mind. “Did you notice nothing unusual about the mullet, Mr. Rayborn?”
“Are you wondering why I didn’t salt it?”
It was the first time Naomi had detected mischievousness in his green eyes, and she was struck with how they looked somehow familiar, as if she had seen him sometime in the past. “Why, yes,” she replied. “You didn’t even seem to notice it was bland.”
“I heard Mr. Russell outside the door when I stopped to make sure I wasn’t barging in during prayer.”
“So you were just pretending not to notice!”
“Well, not quite. On my way past the dumbwaiter, I had noticed a tray of used dishes inside and wondered if there might be a saltcellar. There was, and I poured a bit into my hand to add to my mullet at the sideboard.”
Naomi pressed fingertips against her smile and imagined what fun it would be to tell Stanley how he had been outwitted. “I’m glad you weren’t offended.”
“Offended?” He shook his head, sentiment touching his smile. “God has blessed me, Miss Doyle. It would be an affront to Him to allow myself to go about looking for petty little grudges. Besides, I grew up with a brother who was quite a prankster himself.”
Later, as Naomi minced parsley, sweet marjoram, and basil for mock turtle soup, she thought about his statement about being blessed. Marie had told her about his wife’s suicide and how he now lived alone. How good that he still finds things for which to be thankful.
“It’s tender now,” Trudy said from the stove, probing down into the pot with a long fork. “Should I turn off the fire?”
“Yes,” Naomi agreed. “I’ll tend to it when I’ve finished here. Go ahead and start a bread pudding for tomorrow.”
Stanley’s words came back to her. She shook her head as if the coachman were still murmuring them in her ear. Mr. Rayborn and she had never even shared a private conversation, save a little while ago on the stairs.
Yet she could not totally dismiss Stanley’s speculation. Sometimes her eyes connected with the tutor’s at the lunch table. Never was he forward, flirtatious, or bold; nor did he leer at her, yet there seemed in those green eyes an appreciation of her as a woman and not just a servant.
Perhaps she was only imagining it. You’re thirty-seven years old, Naomi, she reminded herself on her way to the stove. Too old for such thoughts. And besides, picking the meat from a boiled calf’s head for mock turtle soup did not lend itself to romantic daydreams.
****
“It’s amazing that an artist can capture so much emotion with just a brush and paints.”
William spoke in the hushed tone one uses in church, but he, Sarah, and Naomi were touring Parliament instead. The walls of the Peers’ Corridor of the House of Lords displayed eight frescoes, the first depicting the parting of Lord and Lady William Russell just before Lord Russell’s execution for treason.
“Amazing,” Sarah echoed. Just last week she and Mr. Rayborn had discussed the attempted assassination of King Charles II when it came up in her history text. After exhausting all efforts at court on her husband’s behalf, Lady Russell took their children to her husband for a blessing, then stayed with him to the last minute, never shedding a tear lest he should become unnerved. “Mr. Rayborn says there was very little evidence he was involved in the plot.”
“I wasn’t aware of that, Sarah,” Naomi said. “But then, our little country school was doing well to teach us long division.”
“He said that most of the evidence points to the Duke of Monmouth, the king’s illegitimate son.” She felt no discomfort using the hated word illegitimate to Naomi and William, for they would be the last people to equate it with her own situation. “Even though he was pardoned, he was excluded from the royal court for the rest of his life.”
“We should ask Mr. Rayborn along now and then,” William said with hands clasped behind his back as he moved on to the second painting, The Departure of the Pilgrim Fathers. “He could give us a lot more historical insight.”
He turned to smile at Sarah. “That didn’t sound the way I intended. You’re doing a fine job of it.”
“Thank you.” Sarah moved with William toward Speaker Lenthall Asserting the Privileges of the Commons. Presently she wondered at the silence from behind and turned. Naomi still stared up at the tragic couple in the first fresco, her face wearing the same wistfulness that occasionally crept into Mr. Rayborn’s expression.
“Naomi?”
“Such fierce devotion to each other,” the cook murmured.
Naomi . . . lonely? It had never occurred to Sarah, at least not since William’s return from Oxford. Contentment always had seemed such a part of her nature. But when she looked into the future, did she see herself spending most of her days in Mrs. Blake’s kitchen? Did she long for courtship and a husband? Some women, like Marie and Trudy, did not seem to mind not courting, but then, they had no interest in novels. Surely someone who had spent so much time with the likes of the fictitious Messrs. Knightley, Darcy, and Rochester had some romantic yearnings.
Shame on you! Sarah told herself. So wrapped up in yourself and your studies that you take one of the best people on earth for granted.
Naomi snapped out of her reverie and turned to smile as if to negate Sarah’s self-accusation. “Forgive me—I’m holding you back.”
“Not at all, Aunt Naomi,” William replied while yet ambling toward the fourth scene. Naomi and Sarah caught up with him, but when they reached the doorway leading into the Central Hall, Naomi paused.
“You know, I would like to look at the paintings a little longer.”
“Let me stay with you,” Sarah offered, but Naomi shook her head.
“I’ll catch up. Now run along.”
The vast octagonal hall contained statues of kings, stained-glass windows, and lofty arched doorways giving access to all parts of the building. Visitors with hushed voices stepped over beautiful encaustic tiles spelling out an appropriate Except the Lord build the House, they labour in vain that build it. “We may as well plan on staying until closing,” William sighed, for ahead in the Commons’ Corridor they could see still more frescoes.
“You shouldn’t be so impatient with her,” Sarah whispered.
He looked surprised. “I didn’t intend to be. It’s just that if we don’t move quickly, we won’t see it all before closing.”
“Naomi would rather study a few things extensively than rush through a lot of them. When you were away it sometimes took us two or three trips to see all of the same place.”
Pausing in front of the statue of George the First, he said, “Are you sorry I came back, Sarah?”
“Sorry?” The injury in his smoke-colored eyes made her feel oddly awkward, so she lightened the moment by plucking at his coat sleeve so that his arm shook. “You know better than that, silly.”
His slow smile brought back the old William. “Very well. Let’s go back and walk with her. And I’ll try to notice more details.”
“Just remember . . . quality is usually superior to quantity.”
“Now you sound like a chemist.”
“Heaven forbid!” She slowed her steps so that they would not reach Naomi too soon. When he had paced his steps accordingly, Sarah dropped her voice again almost to a whisper. “Do you think she’s lonely?”
“Lonely?” He glanced toward the entrance to the Peers’ Corridor. “We weren’t away that long.”
“I meant for a husband and children and all that.”
“I do.” Hi
s expression said that he had already given this a lot of thought. “But I can’t see that changing any time in the near future. Not when she sees practically the same people every day.”
Sarah happened to look ahead again. Naomi, just entering the Central Hall, smiled and lifted a hand. They would have to continue their conversation later. And perhaps it was best, Sarah thought, for the very embryo of an idea was forming in her mind.
Chapter Thirty-Three
“You won’t mind waitin’ if I’m not back here before you?” Stanley asked two weeks later on the Sunday following Easter.
“We do not mind.” Marie stood with her back to the coach while she discreetly flounced the bustle of her maroon silk gown.
“Where’s he going?” Sarah asked, watching him stride toward Saint George’s.
Sending a smile in the same direction, Marie replied, “To the gallery.”
“Stanley? In church?”
“As one ages, often there is more thought given to the condition of the soul. Stanley has been thinking of his for a while.”
“I can’t wait to tell Hester.” Sarah linked her right arm through Marie’s. “She’ll be delighted.”
“There are few things that do not delight Hester,” Marie said, but with gruff affection.
They were halfway to the entrance when two young ladies approached. Sarah recognized Madeline Fowler from passing the family pew every Sunday, though they had never been introduced.
“May we have a word with you, Miss Matthews?”
“Yes, of course,” Sarah replied, covering her astonishment with a smile.
Miss Fowler’s smile dimpled the freckled cheeks beneath a set of wide brown eyes, dark curls, and pansy-colored satin bonnet. Her auburn-haired companion was not quite so attractive, for her slack jaw caused her lips to gap, something Mrs. Forsyth would have corrected had the girl spent but one day at Saint Matthew’s.
“Oh . . . do forgive me.” Miss Fowler rolled her eyes prettily. “May I introduce Miss Welsh, who has been my dearest friend ever since the most horrid year in finishing school that you can imagine!”
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance,” Sarah said but could not offer her hand for Marie’s tightening grip upon her arm. “And this is Miss Prewitt.”
The two murmured “how do you do’s” and did not seem offended when Marie only nodded in reply. “Oh dear . . . we should hurry,” Miss Fowler said after a glance at the worshipers filing through the church doors. “Miss Welsh and I are newly sworn members of the WCOS—”
“The Women’s Charitable Organization Society,” interrupted Miss Welsh, who allowed her jaw to resume its relaxed state afterward.
Miss Fowler nodded. “We’re selling tickets for a benefit luncheon at the Grand Hotel on next Thursday. Whoever sells the most wins a pair of pearl earrings, and my papa agreed . . .” Her hands clasped together at her bosom for enraptured emphasis. “ . . . finally, that if I so happen to win, I may have my ears pierced!”
“Mine were pierced last summer, so I’m giving my sales over to Miss Fowler,” Miss Welsh said, as if assuming Sarah and Marie were wondering.
“They’re a half-sovereign each,” Miss Fowler said, then giggled. “The tickets, not the earrings.”
Sarah realized that her smile had become stiff, and her head was bobbing like a wind-up toy. She stopped and relaxed her face. “I’m sorry, but I’ve only my tithe with me,” she said, a little sickened at herself for being so grateful for the attention. The grip on her arm tightened even more, as if Marie feared she would end up offering the tithe from her reticule anyway. “But if you’ll stop by the house, I’ll purchase . . . four?”
It’s for charity, she told herself to try to take out some of the sting of being used. At least charity would claim what was left after meals and pearl earrings were purchased.
“Thank you ever so much!” Miss Fowler said, beaming. “I’ll send our footman, Taylor, over with the tickets tomorrow morning, if I may. Do tell Mrs. Blake I asked about her health.” She did not wait for a reply but took her friend by the hand and pulled her toward a trio of older women walking nearby.
“But she did not ask about Madame’s health,” Marie grumbled as they continued walking. “Why did you do that? Surely you will not attend their horrid luncheon.”
“No, of course not,” Sarah said. “But I didn’t have the heart to refuse.”
“It takes no heart to refuse such people . . . just common sense.”
“Would you like to have them? You and your sisters could—”
“Servants are not invited, Miss Matthews. You notice they did not ask me to purchase a ticket. And that does not break my heart. They should not be peddling anything at church.”
A familiar presence was absent from the door. “I do hope the vicar is not sick,” Marie said.
As much as Sarah shared that concern, she was relieved to have Marie’s attention diverted from what had transpired outside. She felt sick enough about it. Once they had seated themselves, she twisted to smile up at the familiar faces in the gallery, who made her feel better just by being there. William and Mrs. Bacon waved, Naomi smiled, and Stanley continued to look sheepish.
Shortly afterward the worship service began. The very faintest murmurs rippled through the pews when Mr. Knight stepped up to the pulpit, only six weeks since his arrival in London. Marie leaned close to whisper, “Vicar must surely be ill. He would not allow a new curate to preach so soon.”
“Perhaps he’s only going to lead the Litany,” Sarah whispered back, but later, after Morning Prayer and Litany, the curate gripped the sides of the pulpit, as if bracing himself for courage.
“Do pray for Reverend Sharp,” he said, looking out over the congregation. “He is abed with a severe chest cold this morning, but I trust he will return to us next Sunday.” An apologetic smile made his handsome face seem boyish. “I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with me this morning. I feel like the knot one ties in a broken bootlace until he can get home to change it.”
His manner was shockingly casual compared to Vicar Sharp’s sober reverence, and another ripple passed through the nave. Yet when Sarah glanced about her, she saw several approving smiles, even chuckles smothered with hands. There were very few tight-lipped frowns—Marie’s included.
“This morning I ask you to consider with me the words from the book of First Samuel . . . ‘For man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart.’”
In his rich resonating voice, he went on to tell the story of the beggar Lazarus from the book of Saint Luke who ate crumbs from the rich man’s table and dying went on to Abraham’s bosom.
“When we consider Lazarus, we should not be saddened by the account of the sores covering his body, but should instead rejoice at the treasure found beneath them. Treasure not of gold and silver and precious stones, but of wisdom and faith, of patience and endurance. For just as the surface of the ground may show only thorns and briars, yet, let a person dig deep enough, and abundant wealth is discovered. . . .”
Sarah became aware that Saint George’s was as still as a tomb. No clearing of throats, no prayer books rustling, or even whispered maternal warnings to wiggling children. Even Marie’s face had eased from disapproval to something akin to awe. Mr. Knight’s eyes roved the congregation, never looking down, his fine voice sweeping through the nave with such emotion that Sarah’s pounding heart seemed to match the rhythm of his words.
“ . . . are like that rich man, I fear, in that we do not see how great an evil sin is, and flatter ourselves, in particular, because we profess a better doctrine concerning God. We resign ourselves to a careless slumber, pamper each one his own desires. We are not filled with pain at the necessity of our brothers; devotion is without fire and fervor, zeal for doctrine and discipline languishes. . . .”
During the closing prayer when Sarah could breathe deeply again, she added her own silent appeal, Forgive me for being like the rich man, Father, and caring more about e
arthly things than those heavenly. I will spend more time in prayer and try to help my fellow man more.
“Thank you for making me see how comfortable I was becoming,” she gushed as Mr. Knight took her hand at the door.
He smiled and replied. “It was not I, but God who stirred your heart, my dear young lady.”
She could still feel the warmth of his hand clasping hers as she walked back to the coach with Marie. They happened to cross paths with Miss Fowler, who looked the other way, as if their eyes had not met. Sarah told herself it didn’t matter, that Lazarus would not have concerned himself over a personal snub, and took a sideways step to touch her arm.
“Have you any more tickets not committed?”
Now Miss Fowler became attentive. “Why, yes. Several.”
“Send ten tomorrow, please.”
“Why, thank you!” Miss Fowler exclaimed, and before moving on, she chirped, “Do have a pleasant day!”
Sarah was so intent upon pleasing God that she was able to withstand Marie’s severe look when she returned to her side, telling her, “If only a shilling of each ticket helps someone in need, then it’s money well spent.”
Even Stanley seemed to have been moved. His eyes were reddened when he advanced toward the coach, and he made no jokes while assisting Sarah and Marie inside. During lunch Grandmother had Sarah repeat as much of the sermon as she could remember, which was quite a lot, since it made such an impact upon her.
“It was a remarkable sermon,” William agreed later as Sarah sat with him in the garden while Grandmother napped. He had brought a tangled mass of twine from unpacking some laboratory equipment and was using his pocket knife to cut it into six-inch lengths to leave out for nest-building birds. In the branches of the crab apple tree, a small flock of rooks cawed raucously, as if chiding him to work faster. “Even more so when you consider it was probably his first ever.”
“And I’d never thought about the Lazarus story that way,” Sarah said. “Mr. Knight must study Scripture constantly. And such a dynamic voice . . . well, I scarcely dared breathe.”
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