The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  * * *

  “Thank you, Sarah,” Dorothea said, and when she appeared tempted to linger just inside the sitting room door, added, “Now off to your lessons. And do have a seat, Mr. Knight. You remember Marie, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” Mr. Knight made a little bow to both before taking a chair.

  That he did not mind extending such a courtesy to a servant was even more proof to Dorothea that Vicar Sharp had been assigned an outstanding young man.

  If only Jeremy . . . tore painfully through her mind. She shook away the thought. Entertaining so much regret would only put her in her grave sooner. Doctor Raine had even said so. Every day she stayed alive was another day she could provide guidance for Sarah.

  “May I send for tea, Mr. Knight?”

  He gave a regretful shake of the head. “I can stay but a minute. I don’t feel I should leave Vicar Sharp for too long.”

  Compassion and loyalty, Dorothea thought. “Marie and Sarah tell me that your sermons have been perfectly inspiring. How I wish I could have been there to hear them!”

  “Perfectly inspiring.” Marie’s agreement came out muffled, for she was sawing at a needlepoint thread with her teeth. She finally let it loose to say, “They are the talk of Mayfair.”

  “You are too kind,” he said modestly. “But I didn’t come here to soak up compliments, dear lady. Do tell me how you’re faring.”

  Dorothea had kept so much to herself, not wishing to worry Sarah. But the young man’s distinctive mismatched eyes regarded her with such compassion that she began telling him of the humiliation of having to turn so much of her life over to others, and of how hard it was having to watch the library moved to the former breakfast room so that her bed and Marie’s could be moved downstairs. “I had to get stern with my granddaughter, or her bed would have been in there as well.”

  Mr. Knight nodded. “I’m sure it’s very difficult. But I’m sure you realize they only want what’s best for you.”

  “That is what we tell her,” Marie said. “Over and over . . .”

  Dorothea sighed. “Yes, of course you’re right, Mr. Knight. I thought I had finally reconciled myself to growing old, yet here I am complaining.”

  “There, there now. Sometimes it does us good to talk about our troubles.” The young man twisted to glance at the chimneypiece clock, then gave her another regretful look as he got to his feet. “And I do wish I could stay longer, but with the vicar ailing . . .”

  “But of course.” She smiled up at him as he gently took her hand. “I do feel better now.”

  “I’m glad,” he said. “I’ll pray for you.”

  After the door closed behind him, Dorothea turned to Marie. “You know . . . he would make someone a lovely husband.”

  Marie, closing an eye to rethread her needle, said, “You are too old for him, Madame.”

  Dorothea laughed and was glad that she could still do so. She grew contemplative again. “I should have had Sarah stay in here with us.”

  “And Miss Matthews is too young. Eighteen is still a child.”

  “I married at sixteen, Marie.” And Sarah is probably closer to nineteen, Dorothea thought. Add to that a year for a proper courtship and betrothal, and she would be starting marriage at a mature twenty.

  “Besides,” Marie said at length, “Miss Matthews will marry William one day. You know they are fond of each other.”

  “Well, of course they are. They practically grew up together.” And she was grateful to Naomi’s nephew for being the brother that Sarah never had. He was as fine a young man as she had ever met, and certainly handsome enough to find a good wife, if he wouldn’t divide every bit of his time between his work and time with Sarah and Naomi. But Sarah had suffered enough socially for being the out-of-wedlock daughter of a servant. Were she to marry a servant’s nephew, a former servant himself, the stigma would follow their children for the rest of their lives. London was a city, but with small-town ways.

  It was a pity she could not mention this to Sarah, for being reared with servants as practically her only friends, she would not fully understand. Dorothea had given up on any of Mayfair society providing a decent husband for Sarah while she still lived. It would be after she passed on and it became known that the girl had inherited her entire estate that younger sons without inheritances were sure to come around in droves.

  Unless she were already betrothed. What better choice of a husband for an heiress than a man to whom wealth meant little? After all, if Mr. Knight were interested in money, he certainly wouldn’t have chosen the ministry. The young man was earning respect throughout the parish too. Wouldn’t those who turn their noses up at her have to think twice?

  “Madame.”

  Dorothea looked at the maid.

  “Mr. Knight delivers a good sermon, yes.” Marie’s hands rested upon the needlework on her lap. “And he seems a kind man. But Miss Matthews hardly knows him. I hope you are not thinking of pushing them together.”

  “Naomi hardly knew Mr. Rayborn, and you were all for pushing them together.”

  “That is different. They are old enough to know their own minds.”

  At length and with a sigh, Dorothea replied, “Yes, of course. You’re very right.”

  Marie seemed satisfied and returned to her needlework. Dorothea stared at the budding plane trees through the window and thought, But if he ever shows interest in her . . .

  * * *

  The only problem with acquiring a degree of fame in Mayfair, Ethan discovered, was that his comings and goings were also open to public scrutiny. There would surely be talk if he was seen too often stopping at a certain parasol shop. And so he made trips to New Bond Street when most of Mayfair was abed. Hours after he had visited Mrs. Blake and others, he shifted the hatbox to his left arm and rang the bell to Myra’s flat. His heart thumped against his ribs while he waited in the hateful glow of the lamplight only six feet away, but seconds later he caught the sound of muffled footsteps. As soon as the door opened, he dashed into her sphere of candlelight.

  In silence they climbed the stairs, for the chemist next door lived above his shop. Ethan closed the door of her flat and watched her replace the candle in its stand. She wore the silk Oriental wrapper he had brought her last week. “You’re late,” she whispered with a feigned look of injury, even while moving forward to fall into his arms. “I thought you’d fallen asleep!”

  “Wait . . .” he said, laughing. “You’ll crush your gift.”

  “Oh, let me see!” She took the box from him and brought it closer to the parlor lamp. Her flat was as tiny as she had described, with only a curtain separating her bed from a parlor crowded with a cast-off sofa the color of mustard, a lamp upon a scratched and nicked table that tottered dangerously when anyone walked past, and a rug worn bare in spots. Her eyes shone as she brought out the hat, white straw bound with scarlet velvet and trimmed with white marabou feathers, a scarlet bird, and an aigrette of spun glass. “Lovely!”

  “I thought you could wear it to church,” he said.

  “Church!” She laughed, carrying the hat past the open curtain to the spotted oval wall mirror. On the chest of drawers beneath the mirror sat the velvet box containing the sterling silver bangle bracelet and earrings he had brought her just three evenings ago. Angling her chin to study her reflection, she said, “Wouldn’t you find me a distraction?”

  “A lovely distraction,” he said, stepping up behind her to nuzzle her neck.

  “It’s beautiful.” She ducked away from him and turned. “Seriously, Ethan, every Bond Street shopkeeper must admire your devotion to your mother. How are you able to afford . . . ?”

  He took the hat from her head and replaced it in the box. “We should never look a gift horse in the mouth, Myra. Not while there are more pleasurable things to do.”

  On his way back to the vicarage some time later, he watched his shadows lengthen and disappear on the wet cobbled stones from gaslight to gaslight. Nagging at his mind was Myra’
s comment about shopkeepers. Vicar Sharp may be too trusting for his own good, but he was not stupid. If word got around that the new curate began a spending spree at the same time he was entrusted with recording the tithes, it would be a simple matter of the vicar asking parishioners if the amounts they gave matched the figures in the ledger.

  His forehead clammed with sweat. Men were sent to prison for less, and ministry vestments were no protection against prosecution. If anything, a man of the cloth would be judged more harshly for taking from a church. He would have to cease for a while and not be so greedy next time. Mentally he brushed away the prick of guilt that accompanied the thought of next time. If he was doing the work of two men, shouldn’t he be rewarded thus? Didn’t the Bible say somewhere not to muzzle the ox who treads the grain?

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Clad in a new Napoleon-blue poplin dress trimmed with black velvet bows, Sarah paced the hall after lunch the following Saturday. When William arrived in a black suit, burgundy silk cravat, and top hat, she presented him right away with a leather satchel.

  “It’s perfect!” he exclaimed, holding it out to admire it. “No more files spilling out. But you shouldn’t have spent so much.”

  The subject of money embarrassed her because he worked so hard for his, and all she had to do was ask Grandmother should her allowance fall short. “I’ve been putting aside a little every week,” she said, truthfully, then took his arm after he hung his hat. “And Naomi’s waiting.”

  “Good.” He gave her an apologetic look. “I’ll go on down by myself. I need to talk with her, if I can get her away from Trudy for a second.”

  “Can it wait? Grandmother will be disappointed if we don’t spend a little time with her before we leave.”

  “Of course,” he said after only a second’s hesitation. They paused in the hall before entering the kitchen so that William could admire the chocolate cake on the table. In the kitchen, Trudy was putting away the last of the dry dishes, and Naomi was removing her apron. Both planted kisses upon William’s cheeks.

  “Twenty-two years!” Trudy exclaimed, taking from her apron pocket a small pasteboard box. “It got a little wet.”

  “But the comb is perfectly dry,” William said, taking out a tortoiseshell pocket comb that closed into its own case. He opened and snapped it shut, opened it again, and ran it through his hat-mussed hair. “Thank you, Trudy. I’ll stay well-groomed on the job now.”

  From behind a cupboard Naomi brought out an umbrella with handle of polished wood, and he exclaimed over it, even started to open it until Trudy protested.

  “Don’t you know it’s bad luck?”

  “Of course,” he replied and took it outside the service door. Sarah and Naomi traded smiles. Any other time William wouldn’t have been able to resist teasing Trudy about putting luck above faith, but one tried to restrain from teasing someone who has just presented them with a gift.

  When they stepped back inside the kitchen, Marie stood in the hall doorway, and after wishing William many happy returns, she said to Naomi, “You must come upstairs now if I am to help you with your hair.”

  A half hour later Mrs. Bacon ushered into the hall Mr. Rayborn, suited in black, like William, save the pearl gray cravat around his neck. Trudy pressed a dish of chocolate cake upon him, and Avis put a cup of punch in his free hand. “I would have brought a gift had I known,” he whispered to Sarah, eyeing the unwrapped little gifts from the servants upon the table.

  “He doesn’t expect you to,” Sarah assured him. The only information she had given her tutor yesterday was that he should come dressed for a matinee.

  Naomi walked through the doorway in a bustled violet silk, her strawberry-blond ringlets cascading from behind a narrow brimmed straw hat trimmed with flowers and green leaves. Mr. Rayborn, in conversation with Avis and Mr. Duffy, looked in her direction. As both sets of eyes met, it seemed to Sarah that for a handful of seconds everyone else in the room had faded from their sights.

  “Did you notice the way they looked at each other?” William murmured from her elbow.

  She turned. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  He did not reply.

  “Haven’t we already talked about this? I’ve assured you he’s a decent man.”

  William’s expression did not soften. “I can’t explain.”

  He’s jealous, Sarah realized. As much as he claimed to want Naomi to have a husband, he was beginning to realize he would no longer be the center of her universe. She hated to think of her best friend acting like a small boy but told herself that he would grow used to the idea with time.

  Later, Sarah and Naomi carried slices of cake up to the sitting room, William and Mr. Rayborn following. Under Grandmother’s direction, Marie handed William an envelope. “Box tickets and cab fare and dinner at Gatti’s,” Grandmother said. “Be sure to try the lobster bisque.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blake,” William said, smiling as he stooped to kiss her cheek.

  “You’re welcome. Have you time to tell us what happened this week?”

  “But of course. That’s why we left the party early.”

  Marie leaned forward attentively in her chair, and Grandmother’s eyes widened as William related discovering a quantity of brick dust in Putnam’s Pure Cocoa Powder, and even more shocking, poisonous chromate of lead in the green and yellow icings of a confectionery shop—not GUNTER’S, he assured them.

  “Life would have been so dull if you had decided to become a doctor or banker,” Grandmother said. Still smiling, she turned to Sarah and said casually, “You children will be sure to give Naomi and Mr. Rayborn the front seats. It is not seemly for young people to take the best places and force their elders to sit behind them.”

  Sarah cringed inside, embarrassed for Naomi and Mr. Rayborn. She sent Marie a mute appeal for help, but the maid was nodding enthusiastic agreement. “Respect for one’s elders is a good thing.”

  ****

  The performance of Nicholas Nickleby at the Adelphi lived up to its praises in London’s newspapers, William thought, though half his mind was on the two seated in front of him. Thankfully, they were more absorbed in the performance than he was, and he discerned no signs of flirting. Mr. Rayborn did offer his arm to Aunt Naomi for the half-block walk to Gatti’s Restaurant, but he couldn’t fault him for that because the pavement was crowded with theatre patrons. He himself had Sarah’s hand in the crook of his arm to keep her from accidentally being bumped into the street. Not that he minded.

  “What’s the matter with you, William?” she said only loud enough to be heard over the street noises. “You’re not still sulking, are you?”

  Realizing the need to be a little less obvious, at least until he got to the truth, he frowned sheepishly. “Sorry. I suppose twenty-two is too old for that.”

  “Yes, it is. And Naomi’s not going to stop spoiling you silly just because she’s fond of someone else.”

  “Spoiling me silly?” He forgot his foul mood for a second and chuckled. “So says the Princess of Berkeley Square.”

  She protested, but laughingly so. Over supper, which included four lobster bisques, William forced himself to take part in discussing the performance. He even answered Mr. Rayborn’s questions concerning his duties for the Commission.

  Perhaps it’s good that we didn’t get to talk, William thought, giving his aunt a glance. The decent thing to do would be to speak with the man privately first. If he had learned anything from his job, it was that everything was not always as it seemed.

  However, he could not imagine any explanation justifying what he had discovered.

  “Please allow me.” Mr. Rayborn withdrew a purse from his waistcoat pocket when the waiter brought the bill.

  “There’s more than enough in here,” William said, riffling through the envelope. He certainly didn’t want to be beholden to a man for whom he harbored misgivings. “Mrs. Blake is generous to a fault.”

  “My grandmother has so few pleasures left to he
r, Mr. Rayborn,” Sarah said, seated adjacent to William’s left. “She’ll have me relate every minute of this evening and will consider it worth every penny.”

  Her face was filled with trust and affection as she spoke with the man. William clinched his teeth. At the touch on his sleeve he turned to Aunt Naomi, who gave him a questioning look. He gave her a blank one in return but forced himself to say, pleasantly, “But thank you for your kind offer, Mr. Rayborn.”

  The foursome strolled along the Victoria Embankment to look at the river afterward, but just for a little while, as fog was beginning to veil the city, and buildings were losing themselves in the dusky sky. This time William stuck to Mr. Rayborn’s side and peppered him with questions about the textbook writing process so that the women had no choice but to walk just ahead of them.

  He was relieved when Sarah and Aunt Naomi took the front-facing seat of the coach he hired, leaving the rear-facing one for Mr. Rayborn and himself. As the wheels began rolling he realized that wasn’t a perfect situation either, for Mr. Rayborn and Aunt Naomi seated facing each other and could not help but stare at each other the whole way home.

  “Has anyone any idea of the time?” Sarah’s voice pierced his gloom.

  William snapped out his watch, beating Mr. Rayborn to his. “Almost ten.”

  Aunt Naomi covered a little yawn with her gloved hand, and William remembered the time in the garden he teased her by provoking more yawns from her. He had wanted so desperately for her to find a husband in those days. A saying popped into his mind. Be careful what you wish for.

  “I do hope Vicar has a stirring message tomorrow,” she said sleepily.

  “And I hope Mr. Knight preaches,” Sarah said, then, “What I mean is, I hope Vicar is fully recovered, but allows . . . not that I don’t care for Vicar Sharp’s . . .”