“Sarah! Mr. Doyle!”
They both turned toward the dovecote and waved at the brown head above the wall. “David or Rueben?” William whispered.
“David,” Sarah whispered back. She could tell them apart, for Rueben’s souvenir of their recent winter in Spain was a scar across his forehead from a topple from a horse. The twins were now eleven years old, their brother Ben, thirteen, and Mordie, accompanying his father on a trip to conduct banking business in Egypt, fourteen. “How do you do?” she called to the boy.
“Very well, thank you. But we need a fourth for tennis. I don’t suppose you . . .”
“You know I can’t on Sundays.” Which limited their play time, for the Rothschilds were not allowed sports on Saturdays.
“Mr. Doyle?” the boy said hopefully.
“Same here,” William replied. “But I thank you for the invitation.”
David frowned. “That leaves Nanny. She has to be begged, and then she’s as slow as an old—”
“And if you don’t come down from that wall, you’ll be put to bed pitifully early tonight, Master David,” came a female voice from behind. “Finally I can tell you apart, and you want to go gettin’ a scar like your brother’s.”
The brown head disappeared, leaving Sarah and William smothering laughter. Presently William said, “Aunt Naomi and I are going to take a turn around the square once she has the soup in the kettle. Will you join us?”
“It sounds lovely, but I promised to read to Grandmother when she wakes.”
“The newspaper?”
“We read that this morning. This time it’s part of my homework assignment . . . Vision Three of Piers Plowman. Have you heard of it?”
William nodded, his eyes safely on the knife in his hand. “It was required reading during my first term at Lincoln. Your Mr. Rayborn is certainly earning his wages, isn’t he?”
Sarah picked a bit of twine from William’s upper coat sleeve. “I forget he’s being paid. He seems to enjoy teaching just as much as I enjoy learning.”
“I’m sure he realizes that positive motivation is more effective than negative. The carrot as opposed to the stick.”
“Yes.” Mentally she searched for words to explain. “But it’s not as if he’s using some teaching technique by design. He seems genuinely proud of me whenever I put my mind to something difficult. Sometimes all that pushes me through Latin homework is the thought of how pleased he’ll be that I persisted.”
“I’m glad.” He sent her another smile. “You deserve the best.”
“Thank you,” she said, smiling back. She was glad conversation had turned to her tutor, for her seed of an idea had bloomed fully in her mind over the past fortnight. “William . . .” Sarah looked over her shoulder to make certain of no advancing soft footsteps. “Does Naomi ever speak of Mr. Rayborn to you?”
“No,” he said, cutting another length. “Well, she might have mentioned him when he first arrived here. But why should she?”
Before she could answer, he said, “Is that why you asked if I thought she was lonely?”
“I think he is too.” Afraid that he would disagree before hearing her out, she rushed her words. “Think about it, William. Wouldn’t it be lovely if they fell in love and married?”
He smiled and cut another length. “You’ve read too many novels, Sarah.”
“I knew you would say as much,” she said, clipping her words and tossing the bit of twine to the ground. “You just mentioned fearing you were too selfish. Well, isn’t it selfish not to help two decent, lonely people find happiness when it’s within your power to do so?”
“Now, now.” He put aside the roll and knife. “I shouldn’t have teased. And I was even tempted to introduce her to someone just a few weeks ago.”
“You were? Who?”
“Someone who wasn’t as eligible as I first assumed. But regarding Mr. Rayborn . . . they see each other at lunch every day. Don’t you think if a romance is meant to be, it will blossom there?”
“You’ve eaten how many meals in the hall, William? With Stanley and Mr. Duffy at the same table?”
He chuckled and folded his arms. “Very well. What is your plan?”
“Plan?”
“Well, you brought this up. You must have a plan.”
Sarah thought for a minute. “Remember what you said when we toured Parliament? About his joining us on Saturdays?”
“Vaguely. Shall we do that?”
“Yes, let’s do. But I’m not sure if it’s ethical to ask Grandmother to pay his way, when we’re only interested in matchmaking.”
“Then don’t. If he can’t afford to go with us now and then, he has the option of turning us down. And it would surely indicate if he wished to share Aunt Naomi’s company.”
“He’ll want to. Who wouldn’t?”
William raised an eyebrow. “Unless the fact that she’s a servant is a concern.”
“I’m sure that won’t matter to him in the least,” Sarah insisted. “Mr. Rayborn’s not a snob.” Pressing her palms together, she found herself wishing tomorrow were Saturday. But then a practical matter occurred to her. “We should ask Naomi how she feels about it, William. Without giving away what we’re up to. Just in case . . .”
“Just in case she doesn’t like him.” He finished what she was unable to say. “Good idea. You should do that, since he’s your tutor. It would seem less suspicious for you to want him along.”
She agreed, and standing, said she should go upstairs to see if her grandmother was awake. “The Zoological Gardens would be nice if weather allows, don’t you think? And not too expensive.”
“Fine.” William got to his feet. But before Sarah could turn for the house, he gently touched her elbow. “Wait, Sarah.”
“Yes?”
There was a degree of uncertainty in his expression. “You’re positive Mr. Rayborn is a decent Christian man? You’ve known him less than two months.”
I feel as if I’ve known him all my life, Sarah thought but knew it would not help her case to mention that. She was beginning to realize that men did not put so much stock into “feelings” as women did. So she said instead, “Mr. Mitchell investigated his background. And you know how protective he is of Grandmother.”
A smile eased William’s expression. “Very well, then. We’ll see what happens.”
Sarah spent the rest of the afternoon in the sitting room. After reading aloud from Piers Plowman, she played draughts with her grandmother. Halfway through the match she broached the subject of Mr. Rayborn.
“William and I were wondering . . . have you any objection to our inviting him along on Saturdays?” she asked. “That is, if Naomi doesn’t mind. He’s knowledgeable about so many things that we thought we could learn more about the places we visit.”
“If you wish,” Grandmother said, then shook her head and nodded to the draughts piece Sarah had picked up to move into the square she had indicated. “Not that one . . . move to your right.”
Marie, turning the pages of a family photograph album passed from sister to sister, said, “Why do you not have Avis paint little numbers in the squares? It would make your game simpler.”
Sarah and her grandmother looked at each other. “Why, that’s a fine idea, Marie,” Grandmother said but then made a pensive frown. “But then again, what if it damaged the wood? This table came from Egypt, you know. It’s at least two hundred years old.”
The maid shrugged over her album. “Then you must ask yourself if you receive more enjoyment from looking at it or playing with it.”
After a thoughtful moment, Grandmother said, “I’ll speak with Avis.”
“Mr. Rayborn would pay his own way,” Sarah said at length, almost disappointed that approval had been granted so easily.
“Nonsense. If it will enhance your education, that’s for me to do. I’ll tell him so tomorrow.”
Sarah’s pulse jumped. As wealthy as her grandmother was, she could not cause her to spend her money under fal
se pretense. “Really, Grandmother . . . but we could just go to inexpensive places when Mr. Rayborn is—”
“Sarah, are we going to play draughts or talk about Mr. Rayborn?” Grandmother snapped, but without rancor. “Why shouldn’t he wish to be paid?”
“What Madame should be asking is why Miss Matthews and William would plan this without yet consulting Naomi,” Marie said casually while turning a page in her album. “One would think they are playing Cupid.”
“Cupid?” Grandmother leveled a shrewd look at her. “Are you and William matchmaking, Sarah?”
Protest rose at once to Sarah’s lips but died, for it would not be the truth. She dropped her eyes to the fingers toying with the scroll design on her corner of the table. “They share a lot of the same interests,” she said meekly. When she looked up again, there was a smile upon the aged face.
“Our own little Emma, Marie! What do you think about that?”
“This isn’t the same,” Sarah said in her own defense.
“I think it would be amusing to watch, Madame,” Marie replied, as if Sarah had not spoken. “Mr. Rayborn seems a very decent man.”
“Do ask Naomi today, Sarah,” Grandmother urged.
William won’t like this. Not that Sarah intended to tell him. It dawned upon her, why the two women seemed so eager to participate in the scheme. They were housebound, except for Marie’s outings with her sisters and to church. A romantic drama occurring within their limited spheres would mean respite from the monotony of their routines. She could not fault them for that . . . especially knowing that their affection for Naomi would prevent them from approving of someone not worthy of her.
“I’ll ask her,” Sarah replied, then felt compelled to warn, “But she may not agree.”
“She will agree,” Marie said smugly. “She may cook English, but I believe she has a touch of French in her soul.”
****
At the sideboard after supper, Naomi was pleased to see the bottom of the tureen when she lifted the lid, for prawn soup did not store well overnight, and she hated to toss out good food. When she returned from carrying the tureen into the kitchen and putting on a kettle of water to boil, Miss Matthews was helping Trudy collect dishes from the table.
“How is Mrs. Blake?” Naomi asked.
“She’s having a good day,” Miss Matthews replied, returning her smile as she took up a saltcellar. “She asks if you’ll make prawn soup again sometime this week.”
“But of course. Anything to encourage her appetite.”
They chatted of other things during trips back and forth to the kitchen: of how well Mr. Knight preached in church, and of Trudy’s trip to Letchworth next week for a sister’s wedding. “Hester’s bringing Baby Milton along,” the scullery maid said with flushed excitement in her face.
Naomi knew that Trudy missed having her cousin under the same roof. It was too bad that Hester and her husband could not afford servants, except for a charwoman twice a week, so that Trudy could at least be hired as their cook.
In the kitchen Trudy washed dishes while Naomi mixed dough for tomorrow morning’s rolls. Miss Matthews, idly folding and refolding a dish towel into various triangles, asked how she felt about the Zoological Gardens for Saturday.
“That would be lovely,” Naomi answered. “Providing this pleasant weather holds.”
“What did you say, Naomi?” Trudy asked over the sound of running water.
Naomi could not blame her, excluded as she was from so many conversations, for listening in. Trading smiles with Miss Matthews, she said a little more loudly, “I said it would be lovely, but we’ll have to watch the weather.”
“Very nice. I like the monkeys.”
Miss Matthews started folding the towel again. “Would you mind if we invited Mr. Rayborn along? With his writing a biology text, I thought he might give us some interesting information.”
“That’s for you to decide, dear.” Naomi stirred the dough a little faster, ignoring a faint quickening of her heartbeat.
“But I wouldn’t want to do this if you don’t care for his company.”
“Why wouldn’t she care for his company?” Trudy said over the sound of sloshing water. “He’s a nice fellow. Even ate unsalted mullet without complaining.”
There was nothing Naomi could add to this, so she simply replied, “His company is agreeable.”
“Very good!” Miss Matthews said with more enthusiasm than even someone so fond of learning would show for something educational.
She’s not trying to arrange something, is she? Naomi asked herself. She had become adept at discerning the girl’s moods, but the green eyes over her smile were guileless.
Pushing out her chair, Miss Matthews hung the towel back on its hook and said she needed to finish some reading in her history text. “I’ll ask Mr. Rayborn in the morning.”
And he’ll agree to it. The assurance surprised Naomi, even though its source was her own mind.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“In other words,” Daniel said to his daughter in the library the following morning, “the organs or parts in different animals are homologous when they agree with one another morphologically in their fundamental structure. But that may have nothing to do with what functions they discharge. Do you understand?”
“I think so,” she replied, brows drawn in concentration. “Such as a man’s arm and the foreleg of a dog?”
“Very good. Would you add a bird’s wing to those examples?”
“Ah . . . yes I would.”
“Correct again. And are the three analogous?” He smiled to himself as she chewed her lip in thought. Daniel . . . you are a happy man. How remarkable, after so many years!
“They are not,” she replied at length.
“Because . . . ?
“They perform wholly different functions. The arm for prehension, the dog’s leg for terrestrial progression, and the wing is for flight.”
The door opened and Miss Prewitt stuck her head inside. “Madame would speak to you in the sitting room, Mr. Rayborn.”
“Of course.” He pushed out his chair, as did his daughter. But the maid said to her, “Mr. Rayborn is to come alone, if you please.”
Noticing the gravity on the face at the door—and now upon the younger one at the table—he prayed silently, Father, please don’t take this away from me. “Why don’t you finish reading that section?” he said, smiling to cover his concern.
Miss Prewitt walked ahead of him the short distance down the corridor and held open the next door. Mrs. Blake looked up from her armchair but did not greet him in the usual way or ask him to have a seat. “Mr. Rayborn, I would be much obliged if you would consider joining my granddaughter and Naomi Doyle and her nephew, William, for outings on Saturday afternoons,” she said without preamble. “Your immense knowledge of history and such would serve to enhance Sarah’s education.”
Having feared something altogether different, Daniel needed a second for realization to sink in that he was being offered a good thing. That he would be spending more time away from his biology text was the only drawback, but he was still well on schedule and could make up the time by waking an hour earlier every morning. And you can afford it, he told himself.
He was opening his mouth to accept and thank her when Miss Prewitt cleared her throat. Mrs. Blake gave her a curious look; the maid lifted her eyebrows meaningfully.
“Oh.” The elderly woman turned to him again. “I would naturally pay any expenses you incur.”
“I would be delighted,” he answered. “But as far as expenses, my wages are more than ad—”
“I do not ask people to pay for the privilege of paying me courtesies, Mr. Rayborn,” she cut in. “Now, if you will resume Sarah’s lesson, we will consider this matter concluded.”
But he could not leave quite yet. “Thank you, Mrs. Blake.” For loving her so much, even while knowing she’s not your son’s daughter.
She lifted a dismissive hand but smiled. “Sarah made a h
uge sacrifice . . . staying here without complaint while her heart longed to go to school. It is I who am grateful, Mr. Rayborn, that you provide the quality education she desires.”
Back in the library, he explained, “I’ve been invited to join you on Saturdays. You don’t mind, do you?” She shook her head and gave him a smile filled with such sweetness that he could have wept had he any less composure.
“I’m glad you’re coming with us.”
He was issued another invitation when he arrived home late that afternoon in the form of a note handed to him by his twice-weekly charwoman, Mrs. Chatham, who was just leaving. “Your brother stopped by a couple o’ hours ago,” she said.
Daniel thanked her and, after she was gone, opened and read: Greetings, Stranger! Virginia and I insist you have supper with us. Take a hansom to 7 Bloomsbury Street.
Only essential furnishings had been unpacked in the three-storey terrace house, situated around a communal garden with similar middle-class houses. “Mother says she’s not sure which crate has our toys,” twelve-year-old Catherine complained once she had warmed up to the uncle she had not seen in four years. “I miss my chess set.” But three-year-old Jewel stood back a bit with polite reserve.
Sarah’s cousins, Daniel thought. Wouldn’t she be surprised when the time came to introduce them! Over supper James startled him by announcing he had accepted a lecturing position at King’s College Junior School, connected closely with University of London’s King’s College.
“How can I explain?” he said. “I was in the Strand last week and on impulse found myself wandering the college grounds. Happened across my former English literature lecturer, Mr. Ripley . . . remember him?”
“Of course. I still see him at chapel.”
“Well, we lunched together, and he urged me to look into an urgent vacancy at the Junior School.” He shrugged. “Monday’s my first day.”
“And don’t let his casualness deceive you—he’s thrilled about it,” said James’s wife, Virginia, a comely gray-eyed woman with a plump figure and seemingly limitless energy.
His brother shrugged again but smiled. “With a classroom filled with boys, there is more possibility that at least some will be inspired to make something of themselves.”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 36
