“Papa!” one of the girls cried, breaking from the game and advancing with dark curls flying. The other children were at her heels. The nursemaid folded her arms and smiled indulgently. Beset by all three, Sir Ronald lifted each child up one at a time and submitted to kisses upon his smiling bearded face.
****
“What do you think of children?” Sidney asked Roseline Dell late that evening at Palermo’s. She ate heartily after a performance at the Strand Theatre, her knife sawing through one slice of steak as her painted mouth chewed another.
“Children?” she said, her little pearl teeth barely pausing from their work on the steak. “I like Eric, the stage manager’s brat. He runs errands for me, and sees that I’ve always a filled tumbler offstage. But should I ever have children, I would want girls. Boys are too plain. You can dress girls up in velvet and fine lace, curl their hair, and teach them to dance.”
Sidney slanted a bemused look at her. “Everything’s for show, isn’t it?”
Her blond ringlets bounced with her shrug. “And you’re one to speak of showing off?”
It was so, he reckoned, so he picked up his fork and resumed his Cannelloni della Casa. While Roseline filled the void Leona had left, he would never have been interested in her if she did not turn the heads of other men while hanging on to his arm.
And it mattered little what she thought of children, for as much as she amused him, she was not suitable wife material. He would not sully his father’s name by giving it to a burlesque actress. Besides, he would never be sure if she were faithful to him, therefore he would never be certain if the children were really his. And she was too self-absorbed to devote herself to children, the way mothers were supposed to do.
Beauty without grace is a hook without bait, someone had written. Emerson, he thought. It certainly applied to Roseline. But as he didn’t think himself ready yet to be caught, he didn’t mind so much the absence of bait.
And yet on the heels of that thought came the memory of Sir Ronald’s pleased expression. What must it be like, to return home every day like a prince to one’s own cozy little kingdom? To know that one’s own bloodline would be carried forth in the veins of another generation? Legitimately carried forth, he reminded himself with a thought for the infant Leona must have delivered by now.
Roseline’s throaty voice broke into his reverie.
“Are you listening at all, Sidney?”
“I beg your pardon?”
With an aggrieved sigh, she said, “I asked what’s got your mind so busy.”
He smiled across at her. “I was just telling myself how beautiful you are.”
“Liar,” she growled, but grinning so that some of the little pearl teeth were exposed. “Do order me another steak, will you, love?”
****
On the following morning, workers from the London Telephone Exchange made the final line connections on Cannonhall Road. The first call Sarah Doyle placed was to Blake Shipping.
“I can hear you very clearly, Mr. Mitchell,” Sarah said into the telephone mouthpiece. “Can you hear me?”
“As if you were just up the street,” came the voice through the receiver. “Welcome back to the nineteenth century, Mrs. Doyle.”
Sarah nodded at Naomi, seated at the other end of the parlor sofa. On the floor near Mrs. Blake’s piano, Danny stacked blocks to form a haphazard tower. At three, he had figured out that the marble floor made a more secure surface than carpets for his building projects. Hector the cat, stretched out across the keyboard lid, watched lazily through narrow slits, not a muscle flinching when the blocks crashed to the floor.
“It’s good to be back, Mr. Mitchell,” Sarah said. “And do please tell young Mr. Mitchell I look forward to hearing his report tomorrow.”
“I assume the Servia didn’t sink,” Naomi said, looking up from the winter cap she was knitting for Bethia.
“And reached speeds of over seventeen knots,” Sarah said. “Can you imagine?”
Avis, collecting teacups and saucers from the tea table, shook her head. “Beggin’ your pardon, Missus, but I don’t see how a steel ship stays afloat.”
“It’s the principle of displacement, Avis. The ship is lighter than the amount of water it takes the place of.”
“Um-hmm,” Avis said with a blank look in her owlish eyes. Sarah smiled and scanned the room for something with which to illustrate. The dull clinks of wood against marble got her attention.
“I’m going to build a big castle,” Danny said aloud to himself.
Sarah walked over to her half brother and got down to her knees, propping herself against the heels of her slippers. “May I borrow two, Danny?”
He looked uncertain, but placed two in the palm of her right hand. She turned to face Avis. “Let’s imagine one of these is made of water, and the other of steel. Which would be the heaviest?”
“Why, the steel one, Missus,” Avis replied warily. “Yes?”
“Very good. And so it would naturally sink in water. But . . . if you were to hammer this steel block into a thin sheet, and then turn up the sides to form a boat, the whole thing would take up a whole lot more room. Agreed?”
Avis looked at Naomi, who nodded back.
“Of course, Missus,” the maid said.
“And if you could somehow construct a boat of water the same size, the water boat would weigh far more. Can you imagine why?”
The long-case clock ticked twelve silent seconds, thirteen, while Avis stood with tray in hands and lips pursed. Even Danny ceased stacking blocks, as if anxious to hear her reply.
At the fourteenth tick the maid smiled. “Because the insides of the steel boat would just be air. But as you can’t go hammerin’ water into a sheet, the water boat would have to be all water.”
“And air is less dense than water,” Sarah said, smiling. “You have it!”
“Who has what?” came from just inside the doorway as Sarah’s father entered the room. Under his arm were his Tourograph Field Camera and stand, his fiftieth birthday present from Sarah and William two years ago.
“Avis understands the principle of displacement,” Sarah told him.
“Good for you, Avis,” Father said.
“Thank you, Sir,” she said with a pleased flush and carried the tray from the room.
“Time to go to the zoo?” Danny asked.
“Yes, dear, we’re going to the zoo,” Naomi replied, tucking her knitting back into its basket. To Sarah’s father she said, “Bethia asked if Guy could come along, so I gave her permission to invite him. Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” Father turned to Sarah. “Are you sure you won’t join us?”
“Thank you,” she told him. “But I’m going to be lazy today.”
And there were too many mothers with children at the zoo. Sarah did not begrudge any woman her maternal joys, but there were days when the longing to join their ranks was too much.
While her father carried the camera equipment, Sarah took Danny’s other small hand and helped Naomi guide him toward the landing. He was at the age where he balked at being carried, but did not mind assistance on the staircase. Just outside the stables and carriage house, Bethia and Guy stood with a picnic basket on the gravel between them, watching Stanley check the traces connecting Comet and Daisy to the six-seater open phaeton. Shocks of brown hair were beginning to loose themselves from the wetting-down Guy’s mother had given them.
Presently the five were seated, with camera equipment and picnic basket at their feet. Sarah returned their waves until the carriage turned from the drive onto Cannonhall Road. Hoofbeats and wheel rumblings were fading as she started again for the house.
The garden was like an impressionist’s painting of light and shadow and texture—a half-acre profusion of flower beds and trellises, shrubberies, vegetable patch, and shade trees. A cobblestone path bordered with jonquils, bluebells, and forget-me-nots meandered out to a set of benches under an ancient apple tree, then out to a sunken stone pool�
��where a stone angel stared pensively down at a half dozen goldfish huddled on the shady side. Framing this natural work of art was a stone wall draped in the vines of a clematis.
Paradise, she thought, and immediately felt a pang of guilt.
Why isn’t it enough? Thousands in the world would trade places with her. Through the labor and dreams of someone she had never met, Mr. Blake, she had inherited beautiful surroundings, financial security, a worthy occupation. She was loved by her husband and the people in her life. Saint Paul wrote of contentment from a prison cell. Why couldn’t she be more like Saint Paul and less like Eve, who, when given everything, still wanted more?
Penny Russell, pegging out the wash on the line by the west wall, waved. “Good of them to take Guy along!”
Sarah called back, “He’s good company!”
Baby Lottie’s wide eyes peeked above the rim of the basket near her mother’s feet. By paying a call to Saint Matthew’s Foundling Home, she and William could have a child just as adorable within a fortnight. If that’s what is in your plan for our lives, Father, please take away this longing to bear a child in my own womb.
“Mr. Doyle on the telephone for you, Missus,” parlormaid Claire said from the back door, just as Catherine stepped onto the terrace. The hazel eyes studied her face as she held open the door. “Are you unwell?”
“I’m fine,” Sarah said, smiling to prove it, for any sympathy at all would send her spiraling back into self-pity.
She had once asked Claire how she could reconcile herself to having borne no children. Helping rear fourteen sisters and brothers took the longing for them out of me, was her frank reply. I was ready for some peace. And Mr. Duffy, well, he’s always had his garden.
“So, we’re back in the nineteenth century,” William said over the receiver.
“Mr. Mitchell said the same thing when I called him earlier,” Sarah told him and added silently, How did you know how much I needed to hear your voice right now?
“Did everyone get off to the zoo?”
“Just minutes ago.”
“Well, I’ve a call to make at noon on Highgate—a chemist has suspicions over a case of liver tonic he bought. If you can bear a late lunch, I’ll come for you at about one and we’ll nip over to Spaniard’s.”
Sarah smiled. “I was going to ask Trudy just to send me up a sandwich. The Spaniard’s and your company sound much better.”
She replaced the receiver in a much better frame of mind. She read the Times in the chair near the window, then went upstairs to ask Marie to arrange the blond hair hanging limp past her shoulders. The lady’s maid crafted a long braid, then twisted it into a coil anchored with pins.
“You should wear your sea-green silk,” Marie suggested, walking over to the wardrobe. “How often do you meet your husband for lunch?”
A soft knock sounded. “Come in,” Sarah said.
Mrs. Bacon entered, calling-card tray in hand. “I’m afraid Mrs. Pearce is in the sitting room.”
“Mrs. Pearce, you said?” Sarah asked, clinging to a thread of hope that she had misheard.
Thick spectacle lenses magnified the regret in Mrs. Bacon’s eyes. “And the children are with her.”
“Oh dear.” Mentally Sarah raced from room to room. “The nursery—”
Mrs. Bacon jangled the chain of keys clasped to her apron. “Locked.”
Sarah blew out a breath. At least Bethia’s and Danny’s toys were safe.
“And we must lock the parlor,” Marie advised.
The housekeeper blinked. “The parlor?”
“The telephone. A boy in the house where Nicolette works was caught ringing people and barking like a dog.”
“The chess board is set up in there too,” Sarah remembered aloud. “William and Father didn’t finish their game Saturday.”
“I’ll see to the parlor,” Mrs. Bacon said.
“What about Hector? Should we put him away somewhere?”
“The cat will protect itself,” Marie said. “It would be more simple to lock the children up, I think. You have only to send word that you are not able to receive guests.”
The thought was tempting. And Sarah would certainly have no qualms over doing so if the guests waiting in the parlor were not Aunt Virginia’s sister, and Catherine and Jewel’s cousins. One had to be mindful of family feelings, even when not related by blood. And if she entertained them now, it would probably be months before they called again. Receiving them now would spare Naomi, who was so nervous in the Pearce children’s company that she kept Bethia and Danny close at hand. “I can’t do that. But surely they won’t stay long, with Father and Naomi away.”
Marie blew out a breath. “Then you must at least put on a bonnet in the hopes she will take the hint.”
“Good idea,” Sarah said, waiting for Marie to pin on the straw hat with a simple maroon velvet ribbon about the crown. Were it not August, she would have worn a cloak to convey a stronger hint. Outside the sitting room she paused to pray under her breath, Father, help me to be gracious.
“Mrs. Rayborn!” Mrs. Pearce exclaimed, rising from the settee. “I’m simply green with envy! This house is more beautiful than I imagined!”
“Thank you, Mrs. Pearce,” Sarah said, moving across the carpet to offer her hand. “How do you do?”
Eleven-year-old twins Bernard and Douglas, clad in identical blue sailor suits, did not turn from the window overlooking the heath to acknowledge her entrance. Eight-year-old Muriel stood facing the locked case holding Grandmother’s collection of Oriental dolls.
“The better for seeing you,” Mrs. Pearce replied. The ethereal looking brown eyes moved up to her hat. “Oh dear, were you leaving?”
“Not until one o’clock. Mr. Doyle is taking me to lunch.”
Sarah repented mentally when she realized her mistake by giving the exact time. Lunch to most people meant noon, two hours from now instead of three. But there was nothing she could do about that now. “Do please have a seat.”
“And do forgive my popping in unannounced this way,” Mrs. Pearce said, smoothing her skirts as she settled again upon the settee. “But with your not having a telephone . . .”
“We have one now. Just this morning. But I’m afraid Father and Naomi are not here.”
“Yes, your housekeeper informed me they took the children to the zoo.”
Sarah slipped into a chair and looked at Avis, standing to the side of the doorway. “Avis, please bring tea. Or would you children prefer lemonade?”
“Lemonade,” a twin barked from the window. The other grunted something that sounded like agreement.
“Nothing for me, if you please,” Muriel said, turning to give Sarah a dimpled smile. Lace pantaloons peeked from beneath the hem of her ruffled pink dress. “May I hold a doll?”
“No, dear,” Mrs. Pearce said.
The child looked so disappointed that Sarah smiled at her and said, “They belonged to my grandmother, so they’re very special to me.”
“I would be very careful.”
“Of course you would. But some are very old, so they’re best kept where they are. My sister’s not even allowed to play with them.”
“That’s because Bethia’s only four.”
“Muriel . . .”
The violet eyes sent Mrs. Pearce a hard look, but the girl didn’t press. “They eat with sticks, the Chinese,” she murmured to the porcelain faces behind the glass.
The boys migrated to the table, upon which sat a model clipper ship that had once belonged to the Blakes. “It’s very fragile,” Sarah said, easing to the edge of her chair. The ship had already been repaired once at Berkeley Square, after Danny knocked it and its glass case over during his climbing days. A shard had cut his little hand, which was probably why no one had gotten around to purchasing a new case.
“Look, boys, but mustn’t touch,” Mrs. Pearce said, twisting in her seat to speak to them. She turned again to Sarah. “You really should put it under glass, you know, if only for the
dust.”
The twins traded grins behind their mother’s back. Giving Sarah a smirk, one slowly brought his index finger to within an inch of the muslin mainsail. Not to be outdone, the other made a great show of touching the foremast. Heat rose to Sarah’s cheeks. She had known only one other set of twins personally in her life, David and Reuben Rothschild, now at Oxford. They were fine fellows, and so their company was a pleasantry multiplied by two. With the Pearce twins, the opposite was the case.
“Really, boys . . .” she said benignly but firmly. “That ship is an heirloom.”
Mrs. Pearce turned, waving a hand at them. “Get away from it!”
“There’s nothing to do here,” one whined.
“Then go out to the garden.” Mrs. Pearce turned to Sarah again. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” Sarah replied as her nerves unwound a bit. “We’ll send their refreshments out to them. The badminton net is set up too—you’ll see the rackets and shuttlecocks in a basket on the terrace.”
“Muriel?” said one twin from the door.
Muriel turned from the doll case. “May I stay?”
“If you wish,” Mrs. Pearce replied, extending an arm. As her brothers clamored through the door, the girl walked over to the settee, dropped into the cushions, and leaned against her mother.
“Has Virginia written to you that we’re leaving London?” Mrs. Pearce asked.
“Leaving?” Sarah sat a little straighter. “For how long?”
“Sun Insurance Company is founding a branch in Sheffield, and Mr. Pearce has been asked—”
“I want to go outside now,” Muriel cut in, sitting up.
Mrs. Pearce smiled at her daughter and fondled a golden curl. “Very well, dear. Mind you stay with your brothers. And don’t overexert yourself.”
When the girl was gone, Mrs. Pearce said, “She played in the sun too long yesterday and has a tiny bit of fever. But as I was saying . . . it’s quite a move up the career ladder for Mr. Pearce. Not that we’re desperate for increased wages, what with the inheritance from my parents. But you know how men are about their jobs.”
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