The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  Catherine looked up from spearing a piece of rump steak to wrinkle her nose.

  “You have something to say about that, daughter?” James asked, but with an affectionate light in his eyes.

  She wrinkled her nose again. “Boys.”

  “Boys,” little Jewel echoed, attempting to copy her sister’s expression.

  Daniel shared in the family laughter. He was relieved that neither James nor Virginia inquired about Sarah, clearly sharing his view that the girls were too young to know the unsettling details of the story. When Virginia excused herself to ready them for bed, Daniel and James took fresh cups of tea into the library, its bare shelves waiting for the uncrating of several boxes stacked in a corner.

  “What’s it like . . . seeing your daughter every day?” James asked.

  Daniel smiled. “Sometimes I can scarcely believe how this came about. And you know, as much as it pained me to hold off telling her the truth, I believe this is for the best. It’s nice, becoming acquainted without the awkwardness of trying to reestablish the family relationship straightway. And soon I’ll be spending even more time with her.”

  “Yes?”

  “On Saturday afternoons.” It was as he gave the account of Mrs. Blake’s invitation that Daniel realized he had been so surprised that he allowed one bit of information to enter his ears without taking firm root in his mind. Miss Doyle would be along on the Saturday outings as well. He had never seen her out in the sunlight. Would her eyes be even more startlingly blue?

  ****

  With Vicar Sharp still confined to his hearth, all the responsibility for paying calls fell upon Ethan. He actually didn’t mind shouldering the whole load. “You’ll forgive me for staying such a short while,” he said regretfully in house after house, finishing up Tuesday’s calls in less than three hours. “But I do feel compelled to stay close to the vicar, should he happen to need me.”

  And he was delighted at having to put forth so little effort at conversation, for at almost every stop there was someone to praise him for such an insightful message on Sunday past. Thank Grandfather, he thought on his way to New Bond Street. But then, he felt himself due some credit for memorizing the sermon with so little notice. He would have to write his parents and tell them how he had proved himself his first time behind the pulpit. He didn’t mind being in the ministry so much anymore. A fellow could find himself doing worse—such as the army or engineering.

  “Good day t’you, Mr. Knight!” A coachman waiting outside a Bruton Street mansion tipped his top hat. “Fine sermon on Sunday!”

  “Thank you!” Ethan replied, smiling. “And a good day to you as well.”

  It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God. He had not succumbed to Darwinism at Cambridge, as was fashionable, nor had he ever joined any of the discussions around tables in smoke-filled pubs. Only a fool would look around himself and not realize such an intricately designed world would have to be the work of a Creator.

  But he found the devoutness of his parents boring. That they did not find it so was proof that piety was more appropriate for those in their later years. He fully intended to take spiritual matters seriously when he emerged from youth to maturity, when he no longer felt such a pull toward life’s sensory delights. Until then, it was enough that he showed respect to his parents and had never killed or stolen. That surely meant something to God, along with the fact that he could deliver a sermon with such conviction that even a servant would call out to him from the street.

  Today, five female patrons were in the parasol shop, so he walked past GARLAND’S LTD., THE MODERN PHARMACY to a bookseller’s and spent a half hour browsing the shelves for want of any other way to pass the time. He came across a small volume titled The Autobiography of an Actress and brought it over to the counter.

  “Anna Cora Mowatt,” said the shop’s owner, an academic type who peered over square spectacles. “She was from the States but made quite a mark on the stage here as well. You know she’s buried here in London.”

  “She died, then?” Ethan asked before thinking, then grinned. “But then, one would hope that was the case.”

  The shop owner smiled as well. “Five years or so ago.”

  Ethan had discovered while just a boy that people were more agreeable when in good humor, so he decided to take advantage of the situation. “Say, you wouldn’t mind knocking a shilling or two off the price, would you? A curate’s wages allow for few luxuries.”

  The man didn’t look as impressed as Ethan would have hoped, but he did say, “Twobob and it’s yours.”

  This time his casual glance into W & J SANGSTER’S window happily revealed no patrons, just the shopgirl leaning idly against the counter.

  “Shopping for your mother again?” she asked when Ethan entered.

  “No, I wanted to see you.” He walked up to the counter. “And I’ve brought you a gift.”

  “For me?” Wary eyes stared at the book in his hands. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because I admire that you dare to have a dream for yourself,” he replied, and it was at least partially true. He wasn’t sure if she would appreciate hearing that he admired her buxom figure even more.

  She took the book from him and turned it over in her hands. “I’ve heard of her.” Looking up at him, she said, “I don’t get many gifts.”

  “Indeed? Now, that surprises me.” He found out her name was Myra Rose and that her family lived in the slums of Bedfordbury.

  “I was lucky to get out. I’ve a flat up above the shop now. Barely room to turn around, but there’s running water and a decent stove.”

  “All that will change when you’re the toast of London’s stage.”

  “Yes.” But she sighed doubtfully.

  Ethan tapped the book in her hand. “You mustn’t give up. I’d wager Miss Mowatt didn’t have an easy go of it in the beginning.”

  A smile curved her lips. “It’s nice to have some encouragement.”

  She asked about him, and so he told her about his profession. There was no use deceiving her—he couldn’t very well pretend to be wealthy and have her expecting him to bring a gift every time he came around. “But I don’t intend to stay poor forever,” he said. “Vicars do nicely for themselves. And judging by the reaction my first sermon received, that may be sooner than I had expected.”

  Before long she was revealing to him her real name, Alice Sewell. “But I changed it two years ago because it’s so ordinary. Myra Rose is more romantic, don’t you think?”

  Ethan picked up her left hand from where it rested upon the counter and merely brushed his lips against it, so as not to appear too presumptuous. When she did not pull her hand away, he smiled at her. “Myra Rose is very romantic.”

  ****

  Saturday’s weather turned out lovely enough for light wool wraps over Naomi’s and Sarah’s gowns. Colorful blooms in the flower beds at the upper end of Regent Park’s Broad Walk gave evidence that April had firmly established itself. Roses also bloomed in the faces of youngsters reveling at the sight of forest creatures outside the pages of their picture books. Seated upon a bench facing the clock tower, Naomi sent up a silent prayer that Miss Matthews would keep her balance on the back of the camel that gave her two pennyworth of jolting ride around the tower.

  “With the cord about her waist she’s perfectly safe,” Mr. Rayborn said, reading her thoughts.

  Naomi turned to the man sharing the bench. “You’re right, of course. We come here every summer, so this isn’t her first time. She’s even ridden the elephant. But perhaps you should reassure my nephew.” William, who had decided himself too old to ride zoo animals a couple of years ago, stood just to the side of the queue and watched with his hands in his pockets.

  Mr. Rayborn smiled. “He seems a very decent young man. You must be proud.”

  “Thank you. But he came to me that way when he was nine, so I can take little credit.” She told him about bringing him home from Leicester. “I believe that’s one reason he and
Miss Matthews became so close, their both being orphans.”

  “That must be why he’s so protective of her,” Mr. Rayborn said with a look toward the two young people advancing arm in arm with faces flush with laughter.

  “Yes,” Naomi replied. “Like an older brother.” She was also aware that William had feelings that went deeper. She prayed for both daily but could not go so far as to request that they marry sometime in the future, as much as she desired it. She had lived long enough to understand that God wanted what was best for William and Sarah even more than did she. In His infinite wisdom, He could have other, even better, plans. So she prayed with genuine sincerity, “Your will be done.” And was human enough to add, “Just please don’t let either of them get hurt.”

  “I thought my teeth would shake loose!” Sarah exclaimed when the two reached the bench.

  Naomi stood to repin some of the flaxen locks shaken from under the girl’s straw hat. “And as always, we won’t mention this to your grandmother, will we?”

  “I’ll not even think about it while I’m in the same room, or Marie will figure it out.” She turned her head as far as Naomi would allow while still working on her hair. “Why don’t you take a turn, Mr. Rayborn? We don’t mind waiting.”

  “Actually, I did the last time I was here,” he replied, returning her smile.

  “Really? When was that?”

  “Well, over twenty years ago. But once was quite enough.”

  “Unless you’re Arabian,” William said. “They’ll be feeding the hippopotami soon. Shall we?”

  Antony, the first hippopotamus to tread English soil, his mate, Adhela, and their daughter, Cleopatra, went about their business at the hippopotami house as if unaware of the press of people, some noisily expressing wonder or disgust when Antony opened his great mouth for a quartern loaf tossed from above.

  “Antony was brought here as a calf in 1849,” Naomi read on the bronze sign fastened to the wall. “So you must have seen him when you were last here, Mr. Rayborn.”

  “And Adhela as well,” he replied. “In fact, we came here specifically to have a look at her. There was quite a stir about it in the newspapers, you know, Antony having a companion.”

  “I wonder what he thought when he first saw her?” Sarah said, standing next to Naomi with elbows resting upon the top of the wall.

  “Well, he was captured in the Nile when only three days old, so he’d spent four years without even seeing another of his own species.”

  “No creature should have to be alone,” Naomi murmured and, realizing what she had said, wished she could take back her words. She surely hoped Mr. Rayborn did not think her the type of woman to drop hints as a means of flirting.

  But the smile he gave her showed no sign of having taken her words for anything more than what they were. “God knew best when He made them in pairs. He could have made all living creatures like amoebas.”

  “I wouldn’t care to be here when old Antony decided to split in half,” William said with a grimace.

  As they moved on, Naomi could see why Miss Matthews wanted Mr. Rayborn along. His combined expertise in biology and history made for a much more interesting tour, such as his account in front of the sloth cage of how a South American explorer named Waterton was jeered in 1825 for describing an odd creature that slept upside down suspended from its limbs.

  Two hours later they sipped lemonades at a table under a refreshment canopy several paces from the monkey house. Above simian and human background chatter, William leaned closer to Mr. Rayborn and said, “Forgive me if this is too personal a question, but how is it that someone with your interest in biology would only visit here once?”

  Mr. Rayborn shook his head. “I gave that impression, didn’t I? Actually, I’ve been here many, many times, since I was a boy.”

  “Hmm.” William looked at him oddly. “Then why would you stop suddenly those twenty years ago?”

  That’s too personal a question, William! Naomi thought, willing him to turn her way and read the message her eyes were straining to send.

  Mr. Rayborn did not seem to mind. Absently etching lines in the condensation outside his half-empty glass, he replied, “When I last came here it was with someone who passed on just a few years later. I suppose I’ve just been a coward about it.”

  “Your wife,” Sarah murmured, her green eyes filled with sympathy. And Naomi managed to capture the attention of those same eyes with the “look” she had unsuccessfully attempted to send to William.

  “Oh—I’m sorry,” the girl stammered. “It’s just that Grandmother told me . . .” As if realizing she was heading in an even more inappropriate direction, she clamped her mouth and just looked miserable.

  “Please don’t be,” Mr. Rayborn said. He smiled at her. “Yes, I was here with my wife. I even coaxed her into riding the camel.”

  “Then she was happy.”

  “For a while . . . yes.”

  Then why did she kill herself? was the unspoken question hanging in the air, and Naomi feared Miss Matthews or William would speak it. She was opening her mouth to insist they continue their tour, when he spoke first.

  “You’re wondering why a happily married woman would do such a thing.”

  “I am,” William admitted.

  Mr. Rayborn nodded. “After our first year of marriage, she began suffering from a form of mental delusion that I see now was with her all along. I was too young to understand how to help her fight it, which I profoundly regret.”

  “What was her name?” Sarah asked.

  “Deborah.”

  In the awkward silence that followed, Naomi spoke up in a tone that invited no contradiction. “We’ve imposed upon Mr. Rayborn’s obliging nature long enough. And we did come to look at animals, did we not?”

  Mr. Rayborn did seem relieved and rose to pull out her chair, while William did the same for Miss Matthews. Later, as Mr. Rayborn and Naomi trailed behind the younger couple—they were always rushing ahead—Naomi apologized for the two. “You know how it is with young people.”

  “Of course,” he replied. “But I do appreciate your coming to my rescue. It doesn’t make for pleasant conversation.”

  But even after scolding her nephew for being so inquisitive, she could not help but ask, “Has this day been painful for you, Mr. Rayborn?”

  He shook his head and regarded her with the warmth she had seen in his eyes at times across the table. “Quite the opposite, Miss Doyle.”

  Now it was incumbent upon her to pretend she was unaware of the silent communication between them. But thirty-seven was a little old for coyness. So when he smiled and offered his arm, she smiled back and rested her gloved hand in the crook. And felt some regret that the aviary wasn’t just a little farther away.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Vicar Sharp’s cold settled in his chest and hung on tenaciously, which meant Ethan stepped up to the pulpit for two more Sundays. On the eleventh he preached “On Bearing Persecution,” and on the eighteenth, “Sermon of the Plow.” Both were more well received by the congregation than even he could have imagined.

  His first call on the drizzling morning of Thursday, the twenty-second of April, was to 14 Berkeley Square. As he took the steps he recalled visiting here with Vicar Sharp during his first few days in London. The door swung open less than a minute after his ring. There stood Mrs. Blake’s granddaughter, who attended St. George’s with a maid. She was pretty, but too young, and her chaste lack of sophistication did not appeal to him.

  “Mr. Knight!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “I’m sorry to have disappointed you,” he teased to cover his blank memory of her name. Something from the Bible? All he could recall was that it wasn’t Blake.

  Her green eyes widened. “Oh, not at all. Grandmother will be so pleased. I’ve been quoting as much of your sermons as I can remember to her. After your Easter sermon, we both committed to spending more time in prayer.”

  “Splendid!” E
than didn’t mind accepting compliments, but he was beginning to wonder if she would have him stand at the entrance all morning. And so he smiled and held out his hat.

  “Forgive me,” she said, taking the hint. “Do come in.”

  When she hung the hat before offering to take his umbrella, he caught sight of the hand at her side. There were no fingers! Over the past weeks he had become an expert at hiding his repulsion at physical abnormalities, and so it took no effort to smile and thank her for offering to show him to Mrs. Blake.

  “We’ve turned the library into a bedchamber,” the young woman explained with a nod toward a door farther down the corridor. He walked on her right side, so he would not accidentally brush against the crippled hand. “The stairs were too much for her, and down here she can still walk out to the garden.”

  “How are her spirits?” he asked. He had heard the vicar ask that question of others, and people seemed to appreciate it.

  Her voice lowered to a whisper. “She has good moments and bad.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  The doorbell rang again, and she excused herself to answer it. A tall bearded man entered, hung his own hat, and put his umbrella in the stand. He was introduced to Ethan as Mr. Rayborn, the tutor. “He worships at King’s College Chapel,” the young woman said, as if she thought he might mistake him for one of his parishioners.

  “I’m sure it’s a fine church,” Ethan said as the two shook hands. “Although you’d be hard pressed to find a finer pastor than our Reverend Sharp.”

  “It speaks well of you that you praise him so highly,” Mr. Rayborn said, then turned again to the young woman. “Shall I go upstairs and arrange the lessons, Miss Matthews?”

  Matthews! Ethan thought, then applying a trick Myra Rose had taught him—among others—for remembering the name of her patrons, said it over in his mind four more times. If only he could remember names as well as he memorized sermons.

  “Yes, please,” Miss Matthews replied. “I’ll only be a minute.”

  While she watched Mr. Rayborn walk to the staircase, Ethan could not help but glance down at her left side again. Why doesn’t she wear some sort of glove? Or at least keep it hidden from sight when visitors with queasy stomachs came to call.