“How could I ever compete with someone like Mr. Knight? You’ve heard how she talks about him.”
“I don’t know that you have to compete, Will.” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “This isn’t a cricket match, with the trophy of her affection going to the one more skilled at wooing. Surely if she feels the same for you, and it’s God’s will . . .”
“It’s the ‘if’s’ that frighten me,” he confessed.
“Could you be happy winning her heart by default? You wouldn’t want to find yourself wondering one day if she chose you simply because no other suitors came calling. Worse yet, you wouldn’t want to have her wondering it.”
“No, I wouldn’t care for that,” he had to admit, though it would not be difficult to convince himself he would wish to marry Sarah under any circumstance. But hadn’t he meant it when he prayed on the night of her birthday that God would send her a decent husband? He had even felt an uncanny assurance that the request would be granted. If Mr. Knight is your choice for her, Father, please show me that clearly. And if it’s so . . . please help me to be man enough to accept it.
“But does that mean I shouldn’t tell her how I feel about her?” he asked.
“I think you should, William. And then give her some time. That way, if she ultimately chooses you, you’ll know it’s purely from love and not from pressure or the fear of hurting her dearest friend’s feelings.”
“I can do that,” he said at length.
“Very good. In the meantime, shall we walk on to the park?”
“But what if we pass them in the square?”
“Yes, that’s possible.” She glanced toward a cupboard. “I’ve some flour sacks to cover our heads . . .”
“Flour sacks.” In spite of the pain in his heart, William had to smile. “I don’t suppose that’ll be necessary.”
* * *
“What an incredible turn of events!” Mr. Knight enthused as they turned southward in the square. A sweet little breeze ruffled the feathery limbs of the plane trees, and a number of crocuses and daffodils had pushed up their heads to flower. “From an orphanage to a mansion at age thirteen.”
“I’m grateful there were people in both locations who cared about me.” Sarah was also grateful that he did not ask how she happened to be in the orphanage in the first place. He likely knew anyway, but unpleasant stories did not become less so with the telling. Her right hand rested in the crook of his arm, which he had offered before they crossed the street. At first she wasn’t certain if it was proper for her to take it, as they were not chaperoned and she hardly knew him, but then she reminded herself that Mr. Knight was not the sort of man to engage in any impropriety.
“You know, Miss Matthews,” he continued after sending a smile toward the couple and two small children sharing a picnic lunch on a quilt, “it’s quite remarkable that I should make your acquaintance. I’ve never felt the liberty to mention this to anyone before now . . . but one of my burning passions has been to institute a home for orphaned boys one day.”
Sarah’s stopped walking, causing Mr. Knight to do the same.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. Before she could reply, he hastened to say, “Please understand . . . it’s not that I haven’t compassion for girls in that situation. But in Birmingham there seemed to be so many more boys out on the streets.”
“I think it’s wonderful,” Sarah replied. She had almost said you’re wonderful but caught herself.
“Thank you for understanding, Miss Matthews. There’s always that drive to do more, but . . .”
“You have to follow what God puts in your heart, Mr. Knight.” She was humbled that he would confide such a lofty aspiration to her and amazed that she could speak with him so forthrightly. “Mrs. Forsyth and her husband were led to care for girls. I’m sure they had to trust that there were others led to do the same for boys.”
“Yes, indeed.”
He smiled with such warmth that Sarah pretended a sudden interest in a painted-lady butterfly flitting past. They strolled a bit farther in silence, nearing tables that GUNTER’S CONFECTIONERY had set up on the square. A number of the young upper-class fashionable set sent curious and even indignant looks in their direction. Sarah attempted to veer away from them but could not, for Mr. Knight’s steps remained constant.
“Would you care for an ice, Miss Matthews?”
“No, thank you.”
“They’re only jealous of your beauty,” he said in a low voice.
She couldn’t help but give him a bitter little smile. “I don’t think that’s what they’re whispering about.”
“Then you haven’t looked in the mirror lately, Miss Matthews.”
Again she had to look away from embarrassment, though it was nice having him say it. When they had passed the tables and she could breathe easily again, he asked about her studies, and she found herself confiding how frustrated she had been at the thought of missing college before her grandmother hired Mr. Rayborn.
“You’re happy with that arrangement?” he asked.
“Oh, quite! I’m learning so much more than I ever thought I could.”
Mr. Knight said in a wistful voice, “I do envy you, Miss Matthews. As much fulfillment as my vocation brings, I do wish I could attend the occasional Cambridge lecture again. But I have made a habit of reading thought-provoking material before retiring, no matter how weary I am from visiting the sick and studying Scripture.”
“How admirable. What are you reading now?”
“Now?” Turning his face to her again, he raised an eyebrow. “Why, nothing. I’m walking with you.”
Sarah smiled. “No, at night.”
He patted the hand resting in the crook of his elbow. “Forgive me, I couldn’t resist. I’m actually digging into Essay Concerning Human Understanding by George Camden.”
Don’t you mean John Locke? Sarah thought but had not the heart to correct him on that nor the fact that Camden’s given name was William and not George. A mind so filled with responsibility toward others would, of course, experience memory lapses now and then. Why, it was a wonder that he had the time to walk with her now.
They were nearing the area across from her grandmother’s house again. Sarah happened to glance off to her left and noticed Naomi and William on the pavement across the street, heading in the direction of the park. The longing to accompany them lasted only until she reminded herself of how honored she was to be escorted by someone as wise and esteemed and compassionate as Mr. Knight. But she did wave with her free left hand.
“Who are they?” Mr. Knight asked as the two returned the wave.
“Our cook, Naomi, and her nephew, William. My two dearest—”
Sarah noticed he was looking at the hand she still held out in front of her. There was no mistaking the pain in his eyes, though he was quick to shift his attention back toward Naomi and William.
“It doesn’t hurt,” she assured him as she lowered it to her side.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My hand. I hardly even think about it. And it seldom hinders me from doing anything . . . though I’d be a poor juggler.”
He smiled and patted her other hand again. “I’m so glad, Miss Matthews. Not only for the absence of pain, but that you have such a healthy outlook about it. It would grieve me to think of your having to suffer.”
“Thank you for saying that.” She didn’t know how else to reply to such compliments, which she would have almost considered flattery coming from the lips of someone less sincere than Mr. Knight.
She sent a fleeting glance over her shoulder at Naomi and William. Their heads were together, their attention upon whatever it was they were discussing. She wondered what it was, but then Mr. Knight gave her that warm smile again and began telling her how much he enjoyed chatting over sermons with “dear Mrs. Blake,” and how fortunate she was to have such a loving grandmother who reminded him so much of his own.
And she thought how incredible it was that she, Sarah Matthews, c
onceived in the most wretched of circumstances, born out of wedlock and put out in a pail like refuse, should happen to be walking in Berkeley Square on the arm of an esteemed man of God.
Chapter Forty
On Tuesday, the eighteenth of May, Daniel watched his daughter stare reverently at the flyleaf of Voyage au centre de la terre, or “Journey to the Center of the Earth.”
“However did you get Mr. Verne to sign it?” she asked at the library table.
“William Blackwood and Sons—my publishers—are distributing this English version.” He glanced at a set of shelves to his right. “I’ve noticed three of his other books . . .”
“I adore them! And William’s been haunting booksellers waiting for this one. I can’t wait to show him.” Hesitancy entered the green eyes above her smile. “But you don’t want to give it away, do you?”
“Working for a publisher means I’ve more books than time to read,” he replied with a little smile. “Shall we move on to Latin?”
He had to downplay the gesture, as well as the pains he had taken to obtain the autographed book, because propriety did not allow a tutor to present a gift to a young female student. But he could not allow the day to pass without some sort of acknowledgment, even though Naomi had informed him that Sarah believed herself to be born in January of 1857 instead of nineteen years ago today. Neither could Naomi ignore the occasion, he discovered, for the main dish at lunch was chestnut-stuffed pullets.
“It’s her favorite dish next to oysters, but those aren’t in season,” she explained as they sat on a wooden bench between two trees in a shady spot carpeted with patches of wild violets. They had established the habit of visiting in the garden after lessons were over for the day and before Naomi had to complete supper preparations and Daniel’s walk over to the omnibus stop at Piccadilly. Ofttimes Mr. Duffy, Stanley, or even Mrs. Blake and Marie would join them. Which was why today Daniel suggested the square.
“It was very thoughtful of you, Naomi,” he said, their clasped hands resting on the bench between them. “One day we’ll tell Sarah the significance of both gestures.”
And then Daniel hoped to make the day even more meaningful. “Do you remember my saying in the tower we would have something to tell our grandchildren?”
“I remember,” she said softly while staring out toward the passing carriage.
“It would be nice if they were the same children, don’t you think?”
She turned her face to him. “Are you asking me to marry you, Daniel?”
“I love you, Naomi. I can’t imagine life without you.”
“Doesn’t it concern you that we’re not equals?”
“Not equals?” That such a thing would even enter her mind pained him. But with a little smile he teased, “Don’t be cruel, Naomi. I would try my best to be worthy of you.”
His effort to coax away her misgivings failed, for she frowned and said softly, “Do be serious, Daniel. Could you bear what your family and friends might think?”
“I would be a most wretched man if I allowed the opinions of others to guide my life.” Daniel lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Besides, I can’t imagine anyone in my acquaintance not loving you as I do. Please say yes, Naomi.”
When her frank stare did not alter, he winced. “Or even ‘perhaps’?”
This finally brought a smile to her lips, and there seemed no lessening of affection in her bottle-blue eyes. But when she did speak, her tone was quietly solemn. “I’m thirty-seven years old, Daniel. And this is my first proposal.”
Fearing blurting out the wrong thing at such a crucial time, he could only give her a puzzled stare. And then understanding happened upon him from nowhere, or perhaps from God growing impatient with his thickheadedness. Pushing aside the satchel at his feet, Daniel slipped down on one knee and took up both her hands. They smiled at each other.
“Naomi Doyle . . . will you make me the happiest man in England by consenting to be my wife?”
“I will, Daniel,” she replied and leaned slightly forward. He kissed her, long and tenderly, and thought his heart would burst from happiness.
“I can hardly wait until we can tell Sarah she’s gaining a wonderful mother,” he said when they sat side by side again. Realizing then the full meaning of that statement, he added, “Not that I wish Mrs. Blake would hurry and . . .”
It wasn’t necessary to finish, for Naomi squeezed his hand. “I understand, Daniel. And I’ll be so pleased to call her ‘daughter.’”
Daniel leaned to kiss the tip of her pert little nose. “That’ll soften the blow of learning who her father is.”
“As if!” she said lightly. “She may need a little time to sort out everything she believes about herself, but she’ll be pleased. And so will William to have you for an uncle. He’s been reminding me of your good qualities ever since you and he had that talk.”
“Intelligent man.” With a contented smile, Daniel wondered if Job had felt half so blessed upon learning he was to have a family again. And realizing that Naomi would need to return to the kitchen soon, he hastened on to practicalities.
“Is early October too soon for you?” The Biology text would be completed by mid-September, meaning a substantial advance royalty. There was also the money set aside from his tutoring wages, after paying Mr. Garrett. She deserved the very nicest honeymoon he could provide. “We could travel to Florence or Paris . . . anywhere you’d care to go.”
“October is fine, Daniel.” A second later uncertainty passed over her face. “But . . . will you be disappointed if we have to delay the trip? If Mrs. Blake is still with us by then, I wouldn’t want her to have to get used to another cook. It’s difficult enough to coax her to eat.”
“Of course.” And he would want to be here for Sarah, should Mrs. Blake pass on during that time. But his pride felt some injury that she would still work in someone else’s kitchen. “I was looking forward to providing for you,” he confessed.
“And you will, in due time,” she reasoned. “Besides, you’ll still be tutoring Sarah. We could come in and leave together, and you’ll still be able to flirt with me over lunch.”
Daniel had to smile. “Have I been that obvious?”
“Just ask Stanley.” The idea was made far more palatable by her assurance that Mrs. Bacon would work out a schedule convenient for them, including having Trudy and one of the others taking over breakfasts and cleaning up after supper.
“Practical as well as beautiful,” Daniel said, raising her hand to his lips. “I like that in a wife.”
“Yes?” She returned his smile, a light in her blue eyes. “She’s not too practical to turn down Paris when the proper time comes.”
* * *
Naomi was not surprised at Mrs. Blake’s reaction to the news. “Marvelous!” she exclaimed, crooked hands clasped together against her chest.
But she was stunned by Marie’s. The maid rose from her sitting room chair, caught her up in a suffocating embrace, and wept upon her shoulder. “I am so happy for you!”
When she was finished with Naomi, who was beginning to shed tears herself, Marie caught Daniel up in a quicker, though no less emotional, embrace. “She will make you a wonderful wife!”
Miss Matthews came forward to embrace her and then Daniel. But even as she smiled and extended best wishes, in her green eyes lurked the lost-look from her first days at Berkeley Square.
Naomi realized why. Turning again to Mrs. Blake, she said, “We would like to continue on here, Madam, if you’ve no objections.”
“I’m grateful for that . . . both of you,” the elderly woman replied.
And Miss Matthews visibly relaxed, relief flooding her expression. “William will be delighted. We rather hoped you two would . . . well, you know.”
“Indeed?” Naomi said dryly, recalling the times she and William had managed to veer off to themselves during their Saturday outings.
Covering another smile with her hand, the girl said, “Were we that obvious?”<
br />
“Oh, not as obvious as others.” Naomi did not look at Mrs. Blake and Marie, but a second later their guilty chuckles told all. Daniel joined in, then his daughter and Naomi were laughing as well.
“Now, that was a tonic,” Mrs. Blake said, wiping her eyes when the laughter was spent.
A more sobered Marie said, “When will you tell William?”
Naomi’s smile faded. She would not see him until Saturday. She didn’t want to send such news by wire or messenger. But she hated the thought of him being the last to know.
“I’m heading over there now,” Daniel replied as if they had already discussed it. After they made the rounds to announce their engagement to every servant, Naomi accompanied him out to the porch.
“What will you do if he hasn’t made it home yet?” she asked.
“Don’t worry.” He hefted his satchel. “I’ll find a café and work on my text.”
“That’s so good of you.”
“Good of me?” The creases came to the corners of his green eyes. “I want to tell the world, Naomi.” After kissing her cheek, he bounded down the steps and turned to wave. “I just may shout it from the street corners!”
Smiling her way down the service steps, Naomi sent up a silent prayer for William. He would be happy for them, of course. But she hoped the fact that she was able to find love would not cause him remorse over his own uncertain situation. She had to remind herself, as did William, of the promise in Scripture that all things work together for good for those who love God. Grace, no less abundant than when it was poured over Noah, would be available for her nephew no matter what lay in store for the future.
****
At half past seven, William closed the door, tossed his satchel to a chair, and lit his parlor lamp. His eye caught the rectangle of white on the floor that had been kicked aside a bit when he entered. He picked up the sheet of paper, torn from a notebook, and read the uniform script:
Dear Mr. Doyle,
Will you join me for supper . . .
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 42
