“Did you have a pleasant evening?” Mrs. Bacon asked.
“Yes, thank you. We were invited to supper at the Savilles’, who own the French bakery.” When Sarah started to rise, she said, “I have just looked in on Mrs. Blake. She is sleeping peacefully.”
And then Marie turned to Naomi. “You sing like someone who is in love.”
“Marie . . .” Naomi said with rolled eyes, but no anger in her voice. “Do you French think of nothing else?”
“Why, no,” was the immediate reply. “There is also food.”
Even Naomi joined in the laughter that followed, and Sarah smiled and settled back in her chair to peer at the dark sky, while her ears took in the precious, familiar banter all about her. Wisps of clouds moved across the stars as rapidly as her days seemed to be passing. As much as she looked forward to growing older, she feared the changes that were certain to occur.
Some had already happened, such as Hester’s leaving. Others were even now set in motion—with Grandmother growing weaker and weaker, how much longer would she live? She had long begun to suspect that rheumatism wasn’t the only problem, however often Grandmother and Doctor Raine insisted that it was. Sarah’s eyes filled, blurring the stars. How empty the house would seem without her maternal presence!
Mr. Knight’s words from Sunday past came to her. “Friendships sometimes waver and fail, family members pass on, but the divine Love will continue to flow unwearied and undiminished through our lives, and we may rest peacefully in His promise: I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.”
Her disquiet heart felt some consolation. If anyone should know about resting in God during times of change, it would be Mr. Knight, who had left home and family to come to London. Surely he felt the pangs of loneliness, yet had put serving God above his own comfort.
I will try harder to trust my future to your loving hands, Father, she prayed silently, staring up as if she could catch a glimpse of His face between the stars.
And please comfort Mr. Knight if he’s lonely.
* * *
“Are you all right, dear?” Naomi whispered.
Miss Matthews turned her face toward her and smiled. “I just wish nights like this would never end.”
“Yes, I understand,” Naomi said, smiling back.
But the night did have to end, at least the wakeful part, for duties and schooling would be waiting in the morning. Everyone bade each other good-night and began drifting through the terrace door. Naomi was heading in that direction when she heard softly from behind, “Naomi?”
She turned. “Stanley?”
He stood there with his hands in his pockets and apology in his shadowed face. “Will you stay for a bit?”
“Of course.” She gently closed the door after the last person had entered the house. Then she and the groomsman returned to the circle of chairs and sat side by side. She wasn’t certain if he was choosing his words or wanting her to ask what was the matter, so she decided to wait a bit and see.
He was leaning forward, elbows propped upon knees. Presently he blew out his cheeks. “I haven’t got a proper night’s sleep for weeks, Naomi.”
“I’m sorry. Are you still thinking about Hester?”
“Hester?” He shook his head. “No sense to lettin’ myself do that.”
Naomi suspected she knew the reason for his lack of sleep. Still, she waited for him to speak again.
“It’s those things I’ve done, Naomi,” he said miserably after a little while. “It ain’t even fittin’ to tell you some of them.”
“Stanley, do you remember Sunday’s sermon? Mr. Knight quoted a fitting scripture . . . ‘Where sin abounded, grace did much more abound.’ ”
“I didn’t know what ‘abounded’ meant,” he admitted.
Naomi smiled. “I can see how that would be confusing, in that case. It means something like ‘filled.’ Meaning, the more sin there is in a person, the more forgiveness God is willing to give.”
“It just seems too simple, Naomi. Just sayin’ I’m sorry?”
“You’re right. It’s more than saying you’re sorry. God knows the heart, remember? It was when I saw my sin through His eyes that I began to understand how much it grieved Him.”
He sent her a sidelong smirk. “What did you do wrong, Naomi? Use margarine in the scones?”
“Nothing that evil,” she quipped. “But, Stanley, it doesn’t matter if my sins were fewer or greater than yours. God is holy and cannot allow a smidgen of it into heaven—just as I won’t allow a smidgen of margarine in my kitchen.”
“I just think I need to mend some fences first, Naomi. But I’m afraid to go about it.”
“If you’ll repent first and trust Jesus Christ to take control of your life, He’ll help you go about it. I know it’s difficult to believe, Stanley. That’s why faith is such a stumbling block for so many people. It’s based upon what He is willing to do for us if we’ll trust Him. Not what grand things we can do for Him.”
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and was silent for so long that Naomi finally felt compelled to speak. “Stanley?”
When he turned again to her, he said, “I’m tired of feelin’ so dirty inside. I’m going to do that, Naomi.”
“I’m so glad.”
“But I’d like to go on up to my room first. It’s all right if I do this alone, ain’t it?
“Certainly.” She nodded understanding. “But you’ll not be alone, Stanley.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
One week later at breakfast, Vicar Sharp declared himself almost recovered enough to pay calls and said he would certainly be able to resume the pulpit. Ethan was relieved about the pulpit part, for Sunday was two days away, and he had not gotten around to selecting and memorizing a sermon. But he hated the thought of dividing the visits again. Once word got out that the vicar was out and about, Ethan would have no excuse for hurrying out of parlors and sickrooms before the doors had settled back upon their hinges.
His first visit of the day was to Mrs. Stafford, who was not considerate enough to be asleep this time and whose palsy, according to her daughter-in-law, had gotten so bad that she dared not hold a cup of tea. “Mr. Knight . . .” Mrs. Stafford greeted him with a wavering voice. She was propped upon pillows in a high bed with tied-back bed-curtains of gold damask. “How good of you to call.”
He held the trembling hand she extended for an appropriate amount of time—never could he bring himself to brush his lips even lightly against the limb of any ailing person—and then released it to sit in the bedside chair. The daughter-in-law stuck her head through the doorway to offer tea, which Ethan declined. He had figured out that accepting refreshment of any kind meant he must add at least ten minutes to a visit.
“I won’t be there to hear him,” Mrs. Stafford said after Ethan announced that Vicar Sharp was almost fully recovered. “I’m no longer able.”
“God understands, Mrs. Stafford.”
Tears trembled upon her sparse lashes. “I can’t even go downstairs anymore. I suppose I won’t leave this floor until the joiner comes for my body.”
Such talk horrified Ethan because of the macabre images it brought to mind. “Don’t say that, Mrs. Stafford.”
“Well, it’s true.”
An idea occurred to him, and he was rather proud of himself for it. After all, one of a minister’s duties was to encourage. “You know . . . I called upon Mrs. Arthur Blake just last week. Are you acquainted with her?”
The woman gave him an odd look. “Yes.”
“Her bed has been moved down to the ground floor so she can visit her garden occasionally and not have to use the staircase.”
“Indeed?”
“Her granddaughter says it has made her much happier.” Mrs. Stafford’s lips pulled into a spasmodic frown. “You know her mother was a scullery maid.”
“Mrs. Blake?”
“The girl. And her father, Jeremy Blake, never even married the mother.”
Ethan’s mind was b
eginning to stray toward Myra Rose, so he could not have cared less. But he still had to pass five or so minutes before he could leave tactfully. “It’s a shame when these things happen. But it’s good that the girl goes to church.” Blast . . . what was her name again?
“Hmph! Dorothea allows her to promenade all over Mayfair as if she’s royalty.” The wavering of Mrs. Stafford’s voice intensified with the heat of her words. “What kind of moral example does it set for our grandchildren? That it doesn’t matter if a girl is out-of-wedlock, as long as she stands to inherit a fortune? Shameful!”
The half of Ethan’s brain that was idly listening nudged to attention the part that had been thinking about Myra. “My, my,” he said, shaking his head. “I would have assumed some male relative . . .”
“She has none. And in her eyes, the sun rises and sets upon that girl. So what do you think?”
I think her name was Matthews, Ethan told himself. “Still, with her standing to inherit, she must have suitors calling.”
“I doubt that. Reputation is everything here in Mayfair. And then there’s that repulsive hand that she hasn’t the decency to cover.” Another frown tugged at her face. “Of course, when Dorothea passes on and word gets out that all that money was dumped into the girl’s lap . . . no doubt there’ll be callers in droves. But I can assure you they won’t be the well-bred sort, with consideration for their family names.”
Ethan made some commensurable “tsks.” “Shameful, those kind of men.”
“Dorothea was much more amusing company before she brought that girl there to live . . . even though she insisted on showing off her piano playing too much. I could have taken lessons too, but . . .”
The rest was lost to Ethan, who nonetheless nodded attentively while his mind was consumed with other things. As soon as propriety allowed, he bid Mrs. Stafford good-day and left for his next call. He thought about Miss Matthews more and more as the day progressed. You can’t be serious, he chided himself between calls, yet his mind would return to the same subject.
Miss Matthews was not the only heiress in Mayfair, but Ethan was well aware that a curate, even a vicar, was not considered a suitable match for a daughter of the upper classes. No matter how often those daughters flirted with him on the church grounds.
But a girl on the outskirts of society, and flawed as she was, would surely be grateful to gain a husband of fine reputation. And assisting her in managing her estate would be so time-consuming that this husband would generously insist upon giving up his own vocation. What would it be like never to have to labor at anything tedious for the rest of his life? Not to listen to the aches and pains of parishioners or boring parlor chit-chat? Not to have to memorize sermons? To sleep as late as he wished? To have money without having to endure a lecture about thrift from his father or suffer the fear of getting his fingers caught in the tithes?
But the hand . . . he thought with a little shudder.
You would only have to endure the sight of it for a little while. She seemed extremely pliable. Soon after the wedding, he was sure he could charm her into wearing something over it. Myra was only a minor drawback, for he would never consider marrying her anyway. Women such as she did not tend to age well, and he had to think of his life twenty years from now. But it would be amusing to help Myra achieve her dreams—a nice flat in a discreet side street in the theatre district and a living that would allow her to quit selling parasols and start attending auditions. And still leave plenty of time for her dear benefactor.
The vicar was pottering in his garden late that afternoon. “You’re in a jolly mood, aren’t you?” the old man said, smiling as Ethan approached. “I could hear you whistling way back.”
Ethan nodded and smiled back. “Peace of mind, sir.”
“How nice to hear it. So many young men in the church these days don’t seem to be completely certain of their calling.”
“Oh, I’m certain,” Ethan assured him.
****
On the Saturday afternoon of the eighth of May, Daniel suggested touring the Tower of London. Sarah, Miss Doyle, and William Doyle had been there as well, but they were agreeable toward the idea. To Daniel the Tower was not just viewing historical exhibits, but a journey back in time. Helping to perpetuate the illusion were the wardens or Beefeaters ambling the stony Green—each resembling a Knave of Hearts in a wide flat black hat and scarlet coat.
“You catch scraps of every tongue in this place, don’t you?” Miss Doyle said in a soft voice so as not to offend anyone in earshot. Above, city sparrows quarreled and restless gray pigeons cooed as they fluttered from one stony nook to another.
Daniel smiled at her. “And Londoners, who can visit at any time, tend to put it off.” He wondered again if her nephew had decided against revealing to her his identity, because he could see no difference in her expression today, nor had he all week at the lunch table.
Mr. Doyle ran fingers reverently over a shattered cannon. “Do you think someone growing up in the shadow of the Roman coliseum, for example, would think it as commonplace as we consider the stable?”
“You know . . . that may be so,” Sarah said. She bent to pick up a cannonball with her good hand, propping it steady with her left. “People such as Mr. Swann and his daughters come from all over London to picnic at Berkeley Square, and often I pass right by without really seeing it.”
“Here, may I have that?” Mr. Doyle stood and scooped the ball from her hand. “We wouldn’t want it crushing your toes.”
Protective without being overbearing, Daniel thought. What a fine husband he would make for her.
His eye caught a quick movement at his right. Miss Doyle was staring up at the White Tower, a hand raised beyond the brim of her yellow straw bonnet to aid in shielding her eyes from the bright sun. Twenty-one years ago he was drawn to a young woman’s spirited effervescence, not understanding how a candle that burned too brightly could not burn forever. Now that he carried scars from that same flame, he appreciated the healing balm of a serene, unchanging nature. Was it so, William Doyle’s hint that she felt some affection for him? And had she any inkling of how smitten he was with her?
Miss Doyle turned her face to look at him. Warmth sprang to Daniel’s cheeks, something he could not recall happening since his drunken years—and then, for a different reason. “It’s the oldest part of the fortress,” he said lamely. “Built by William the Conqueror in the eleventh century.”
Kindly she nodded, as if every British schoolchild did not already know that. But the quiet mirth in her blue eyes suggested that for all her maturity and poise, she was more than a little pleased to have caught him staring.
* * *
“‘A passage perillus maketh a port Pleasant. Authur Poole 1568,’” Naomi read aloud. It was not difficult to imagine the tedium that led captives to scratch names and estates, quaint aphorisms and despairing sentiments into the hard stone walls of the chief prison room of the Beauchamp Tower.
“It’s good that he could think of heaven,” she said to Mr. Rayborn, leaning a little closer to be heard above the dark-haired man translating some of the etchings into melodic rapid Italian for five others in his group.
“So did his brother, Edmund,” Mr. Rayborn told her, and read: “‘That which is sown by God in tears, is reaped in Joy. E. Poole.’”
“I’m glad that they were together, at least,” Naomi said. The Italian tourists moved on through one of the passageways, leaving her and Mr. Rayborn alone in the prison chamber. She went to the long window facing the White Tower and scanned the shadowy ground for any sign of William and Miss Matthews, who had declared themselves more interested in watching the soldiers’ drills from the Waterloo barracks.
“Can you see them?” Mr. Rayborn stood beside her now.
“I can just make out her bonnet.” She tapped the glass lightly with a gloved finger. “Through the branches there. But I don’t see William.”
“Surely he’s not far away. Just in case of some insurrectionar
y soldier or a rabid pigeon.”
Turning her face toward him, Naomi thought about how she liked the creases at the corners of his eyes, evidence that laughter had been a part of his life as well as tragedy. “A rabid pigeon, Mr. Rayborn?”
“Any warm-blooded creature can contract rabies, though it’s extremely rare in birds.” He gave her a self-effacing smile. “Forgive me.”
“For what?”
“It was a silly thing to say.”
“Silly?” She smiled back at him. “And here I stand grateful to have learned something new.”
“You’re very kind, Miss Doyle.”
“Thank you.” And ignoring the faint warning in her mind that their growing friendship could be irreconcilably damaged, she said, “And you are very noble, Mr. Rayborn.”
“Noble?” The surprise in his expression faded into resignation. “When did he tell you?”
“Only an hour or so before you arrived.” She had had to excuse herself to shed private tears for Mrs. Blake, though she had become aware by the amounts of food sent back to the kitchen that her mistress was losing interest in things that mattered to those with robust health. Like the Poole brothers, her sights were set on another place.
But she could not help but be delighted to learn that Sarah actually had a father, and a decent one who had loved her from the first.
“He said he had warned you,” she explained, “so I assumed you would be wondering.”
“I was,” he admitted.
A fair-haired trio entered the room, two young men with the look of brothers, and a girl of about twelve. The young men exchanged polite nods with Naomi and Mr. Rayborn, while the girl read aloud from a guide book:
“‘The simple name JANE is always inspected with interest, being generally thought to be that of Lady Jane Grey, but if so, it could not possibly have been cut here by her own hand, though it may have been by that of her captive bridegroom.’”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 40
