The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Yes. Her name is Sarah Matthews.”

  Mrs. Blake closed her eyes briefly and seemed to sigh with relief. When she opened them it was to give him a puzzled look. “Matthews?”

  “The name given to all the children without known surnames, according to the headmistress.”

  “It certainly took you long enough to get here.”

  With a nod, Jules explained about the bridge. “I didn’t know when she would have another opportunity to see it.”

  He was relieved when she allowed that to pass without complaint. “And you’re positive she’s my granddaughter.”

  “Positive,” Jules replied. “Mrs. Forsyth—the headmistress—is of sterling character and assures me it is so.”

  “I see.”

  He shifted upon his feet. “Wouldn’t you care to meet her now?”

  “Soon. Do have a seat. Shall I ring for tea?”

  While her words were sociable, Jules had the strong impression that she was willing to be rid of him as soon as possible. He took a chair, or at least perched himself on the end of it, but declined the tea.

  “I will have delivered to you this afternoon a draft for the remainder of your fee,” she told him, “with the addition of a bonus of twenty-five pounds.”

  “That’s very generous of you, Mrs. Blake.”

  She nodded in the manner of an aristocrat bestowing favor upon a peasant. “In return, I expect you to continue with your discretion, even though our acquaintance will be severed shortly.”

  That chafed him more than a little, for she had reminded him of his responsibility to keep the matter secret every time they met. Did she assume that now that the assignment was over he would take out an advertisement in The Times? Politely though, he replied, “But of course.”

  “Very good. Then you may take your leave now and send the girl in.”

  He rose, made a little bow, and went to the door. Miss Prewitt, the lady’s maid, was standing just to the left when he walked out into the corridor. She did not raise her hands from studying her fingernails to speak to him, and Jules wondered if she had even given a word of welcome to the newcomer downstairs. When he reached the ground floor, the girl stood and watched him approach. “Mrs. Blake is eager to meet you,” Jules told her.

  “Thank you, Mr. Swann,” she said in a weak voice.

  “I’ll take her on in, sir,” Mrs. Bacon said, handing him his hat. She shook her head at Sarah, who was picking up her bundle. “You may leave that out here, dear.”

  “Thank you,” Jules told the housekeeper, more for the “dear” than for the hat.

  He met the girl’s eyes, wanting to say something in the order of, “I wish you a good life here,” but as she appeared to be teetering on the edge of control, he feared any expression of sentiment might cause her distress. Besides, whether or not she had a good life was beyond his hopes now and in the hands of the people who resided under this roof.

  “I’ll let myself out,” he said to Mrs. Bacon.

  “Very good, sir. Good morning to you.”

  Watching Sarah follow the housekeeper, Jules noticed that she held her left arm rigidly to her side, the hand tucked between the folds of her skirt. You thickwit! he chided himself. In his pique at Mrs. Blake, he had forgotten all about it. And surely it would have been better if she had had some time to get used to the idea before summoning her granddaughter.

  The temptation came and went—to pass the two on the staircase and dash back into the parlor. It’s none of your affair now, he reminded himself. But he could not make himself step outside. What can she do . . . dismiss you? He replaced his hat and folded his limbs next to her humble little bundle on the settle. If the girl was to be rejected, he should be the one to escort her back to the orphanage, not someone who was even more of a stranger to her than he was. He owed Sarah that much.

  Chapter Eight

  The parlor was a mixture of Arabian Nights and Christmas, all crimson and gilt, with more bric-a-brac and ornament than Sarah’s eyes could take in at once. A low fire snapped in a marble fireplace veined with gold. There was even a stuffed peacock with his plumage cascading down over a wall shelf. The carpet was so intricately woven, the colors so rich, that she feared soiling it with her scuffed leather slippers. But she was nudged gently forward by Mrs. Bacon toward a woman seated on a velvet sofa and dressed all in black. She looked older than Mrs. Kettner, with gray hair pulled back into netting and fine lines webbing cheeks the color of whey. In a chair to the woman’s right sat a younger woman with dark braids and curls.

  No one spoke for what seemed like hours. The woman’s pale blue eyes studied her face intently, as if she were trying to recollect where she had seen her before. But of course that couldn’t be.

  It was Mrs. Bacon who finally broke the ice. “Mrs. Blake, this is Sarah.”

  “Good morning, Sarah,” the woman said, then added curiously, “I didn’t expect your coloring to be so fair.”

  The light pressure of Mrs. Bacon’s hand upon Sarah’s shoulder gave her just enough fortitude to dip into a curtsey and reply, “Good morning, Madam.” She found herself too intimidated to follow the plan to display her hand. Surely Mr. Swann or Mrs. Forsyth would have told her about it anyway. That she was still wanted here was a mystery she could not fathom.

  The woman smiled, the blue eyes still appraising. “I’m pleased to see that you’re well-mannered. But tell me, were you not fed at Saint Matthew’s?”

  “Yes, Madam. I’ve just been thin since I can remember.” Sarah could not bring herself to add that she was almost always hungry after rising from her breakfast porridge or her supper of tea and toast. Mrs. Forsyth did what she could. And lunch was almost always filling enough, usually brown bread and a hearty soup.

  “And why is your hair so short?”

  Because it’s short, jumped into Sarah’s mind, though she kept her expression ironed of any insubordination. She felt like a bug under a looking glass, and even she knew that it was rude to find fault with a person’s looks. But then, she was only a child, and perhaps outside the walls of Saint Matthew’s it was the accepted thing to do.

  “It’s in case we get lice, Madam,” she replied.

  Horror flooded both women’s faces. “And have you them now?” Mrs. Blake asked.

  “Oh no, Madam. I’m quite sure I haven’t. You can usually tell.”

  There had been lice infestations over the years, which Mrs. Forsyth and the workers got rid of by applying kerosene to heads and boiling all the clothing and linens. The implication that she might have some of the creatures crawling about caused Sarah’s head to itch in a dozen spots. She didn’t dare scratch.

  “Do you know who I am?” the woman asked.

  “You’re Mrs. Blake, Madam.”

  “Indeed.” She motioned with a long slender hand toward her left. “And this is Marie, my lady’s maid.”

  The maid merely favored her with an almost imperceptible nod, as if she begrudged her even that much activity of her face.

  “And do you know why you’re here?”

  Sarah thought about what Mrs. Forsyth had told her. “To be your companion?”

  “You’re to be my ward,” Mrs. Blake corrected.

  “Yes, Madam.”

  An eyebrow raised in the regal face. “You wish to ask a question, Sarah?”

  “I just . . .” She dipped into another curtsey, since it had pleased the woman so much the first time. “I beg your pardon, Madam, but what does a ward do?”

  Mrs. Blake smiled again, and it seemed a little more warmly. “We will decide that in the days to come. In the meantime, you are to conduct yourself with the manners with which I see you are capable.”

  “Yes, Madam.” She thought she was about to be dismissed, and even Mrs. Bacon shifted her weight beside her as if preparing to turn. But then the lady’s maid rose to her feet, walked over to the sofa, and whispered into Mrs. Blake’s ear. As the maid moved back to her chair, the older woman fixed Sarah with an odd look.
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  “Are you hiding something, Sarah?”

  Sarah’s toes curled in her slippers. “H-hiding?”

  “In your hand. Surely you wouldn’t take advantage of my hospitality by stealing from me?”

  “No, Madam. Never.” She realized she was scratching her head and dropped her right hand to her side. Even though Mrs. Blake and her maid were essentially strangers to her, it stung that anyone would accuse her of theft. She had only stolen once in her life, a rose-shaped button from the jar in Mrs. Kettner’s room. She was but seven then and had confessed the crime and returned the button days later when her conscience would allow her no peace.

  She had no choice but to raise her left hand from the folds of her skirt. The lady’s maid let out a gasp, and Mrs. Blake’s face paled even more so. For a second the grip of the hand upon Sarah’s shoulder tightened.

  “How did that happen, child?” Mrs. Bacon asked in a kindly tone.

  “I was born this way.”

  And because the sight disturbed them, she hid her hand again. She was surprised to see Mrs. Blake’s pale eyes glistening. “I had no idea,” the woman said in a voice barely above a whisper. Even the maid’s expression had softened somewhat.

  “It doesn’t hurt.” Sarah felt compelled to assure them.

  Mrs. Blake didn’t answer but took a handkerchief from her lap and dabbed at her eyes. Presently she looked up. Her voice became formal again. “Mrs. Bacon, we must make some plans. Sarah, Marie will give you a bath now.”

  “Me, Madame?” the lady’s maid asked with stunned voice.

  “You have excellent eyesight, so you can inspect her for lice. And I suppose we should burn those clothes for the sake of caution.”

  If being suspected of thievery and having to display her hand shamed Sarah, this was doubly humiliating. It was all too obvious that she didn’t belong here. Couldn’t Mrs. Forsyth have seen this? Why, someone like Helen would be at the piano now, charming Mrs. Blake and even her vinegar-faced lady’s maid with beautiful songs.

  You have to tell her now, she urged herself. Once they burned her clothes—and heaven only knew what they would expect her to wear after that—she had a feeling it would be impossible to leave. She drew in a deep breath just as the maid was getting to her feet and Mrs. Bacon had moved the hand from her shoulder. “I beg your pardon, Madam?”

  The woman raised a pale eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Please . . . may I go back to Saint Matthew’s?”

  “Why? Do you not find my house to your liking?”

  “Oh no, Madam. Your house is beautiful.” She swallowed and lowered her eyes to the black lace collar. “But there are other girls there you would like much more.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, Madam.” Fearing interruption, she spoke faster. “I’m not very quick with chores, and I can’t play the piano like Helen—she plays in chapel and lost her mother when she was ten and would very much like to live in a—”

  “That is enough nonsense talk,” Mrs. Blake cut in with a frown and wave of a long hand. “Now, on to your bath.”

  Sarah looked up at Mrs. Bacon, who patted her shoulder. “Marie will tend to you, Miss Matthews.”

  Chin raised, the lady’s maid led her through the doorway and to the staircase. Sarah looked longingly at the stairs leading to the ground floor. She had traveled a long way to get here, but mostly because of turning to see the bridge. Perhaps she could find her way back. Surely Mrs. Forsyth could be made to understand that she had made a mistake.

  As the maid took hold of the balcony and began climbing, Sarah took a deep breath, then veered off to the left. Her foot touched the first step tentatively—she fairly flew down the others with heart racing. Incredibly, Mr. Swan was in the corridor, rising from the settle. They looked at each other across the distance, and every apprehension Sarah had suffered since breakfast fell upon her. Eyes brimming, she called out, “Mr. Swann?”

  He frowned, but it seemed not out of anger. “Sarah . . .”

  Sarah hastened down the corridor, stopping just in front of him. Were she bolder, she would have thrown her arms around him. “Please, Mr. Swann . . . will you take me back to the Home?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Sarah,” he told her, his face filled with sadness.

  “Come, Miss Matthews!” an out-of-breath and peevish voice said from behind her. “A lady does not make a scene.”

  She sniffed hard, ignoring the maid. “But I don’t belong here, sir. Mrs. Forsyth—she’ll understand. There are other girls—”

  “Mrs. Forsyth would have no choice but to send you back.

  But you’ll have greater opportunities for your future here.”

  “I don’t care about my future.”

  “Miss Matthews! Your bath!”

  First sending a quick pleading look over her head, Mr.

  Swann patted her shoulder lightly. “It will be better with time, Sarah. You must remind yourself of that every day.” He turned away from her, but in the doorway turned again. “Every day. You’ll see.”

  The click of the door behind him had a sad note of finality to it.

  Woodenly Sarah followed the lady’s maid up two flights of stairs. The bathroom was just as elegantly appointed as Mrs. Blake’s parlor, with wallpapering of green, gold, and pink stripes, framed mirrors and pictures, thick Oriental rugs, and a potted fern curving gracefully from one corner. She had only known the wooden hip bath in front of the kitchen fire at Saint Matthew’s that held only a scant six inches of water without overflowing whenever someone eased down into it. This bathing tub was huge, gleaming richly like piano ivories and resting upon magnificent claw feet. At one end a copper tank gurgled and sent up wisps of steam like a teapot. But her surroundings were all just reminders that she was not home, their unfamiliarity making her almost queasy.

  The maid pulled a stool from a table filled with bottles of assorted shapes and sizes. “Sit here,” she ordered.

  Sarah was unable to articulate even the most perfunctory response. But she moved to obey, and the woman began parting sections of her hair with her fingers. “I do not know how she expects me to see anything, with hair so fair,” she grumbled.

  “Miss Jacobs brushes our hair over a handkerchief,” Sarah offered meekly.

  “And why would she do that?”

  “They’re gray . . . the lice are.” Right away she added, “But I’m almost sure I haven’t any. My head only itched in the parlor because I thought about them.”

  “Hmph!”

  Sarah wasn’t sure if the low snort of derision was for Miss Jacob’s method or skepticism over her not having any lice. But the maid stepped over to a wooden cupboard and took out a white linen cloth. “A towel will do?”

  “I think so, Madam.”

  “You do not address me as Madam,” she said on her way back. “We put this on your lap, yes?”

  “Yes.” Without the added courtesy title, Sarah felt as guilty as if she had sworn. She smoothed the fabric in her lap while from a drawer beneath the table the maid pulled out a silver-handled brush. Sarah winced. If she actually did have lice, she would feel wretched about sullying something so fine.

  But she lowered her head, and after at least five minutes of brushing, the maid said, “Is that enough to tell?”

  “I’m quite sure.” Lowering her head even farther, Sarah inspected the towel for any signs of life. All that lay there were four or five blonde hairs. “I don’t see any, Miss.”

  “You are not to say ‘Miss’ to me either,” the maid reproved, then took the towel by the four corners and lifted it from her lap. There was relief in her expression, though she had not ceased frowning since Sarah first set eyes upon her. “Your bath now.”

  She went over to the copper tank and twisted a flat handle on the side. Water began gushing out of a spigot extending over the bathing tub. Sarah surveyed the rising steam and wondered if she were to be poached like an egg, but presently the flow stopped, and the woman twisted a round han
dle over another spigot from which more water flowed. Then she turned to Sarah. “The hot first, then the cold.”

  “Thank you,” Sarah said. And as the maid was still staring sullenly at her, she said by way of attempting polite conversation—not that her heart was in it, but in the hopes of the woman not being so angry at her—“You have hot water all the time?”

  “No,” was the unsmiling reply. “Mrs. Blake ordered the water heated earlier so it would be ready. You must undress now.”

  It made Sarah feel a little better that her bath had been planned in advance and not because she looked dirty. But after reaching back to unfasten the button behind her neck, she could not bring herself to pull off her gown. Bathing in Saint Matthew’s bustling kitchen was one thing, but in the presence of this glowering stranger was quite another.

  “Well?”

  Sarah bit her lip. “Would you mind?”

  The maid rolled her eyes and turned her back, muttering something having to do with the English being taught prudishness from the cradle. “Leave your clothes on the floor,” she ordered seconds later, as if she could see Sarah looking for a place to put her folded gown.

  “Yes, Madam.”

  “And you do not say that to me. Do you know nothing?”

  “No, Ma—” Sarah began, then silenced herself. She stepped over to the bathtub and lowered herself inside. The warm water was soothing against her raw nerves.

  Turning toward her again, the maid wore a no-nonsense expression, as if she had made all of the allowances she intended to make for Sarah’s modesty. “I cannot assist you if I cannot see you. Do you know how to use a soap and flannel?”

  Sarah merely nodded so that her speech wouldn’t betray her again. Into her right hand was pressed a honey-colored oval cake with Pears etched into the side. It smelled like lavender, not like the coal tar soap at the home. But she thought she would gladly bathe in coal-tar for the rest of her life if she could only go back there.

  “Well?”

  The irritated voice startled Sarah back into action. Unhooking two fingers from the soap, she took the flannel from the maid, draped it over her left hand, and anchored it with her bit of thumb. She dipped it in the water and rubbed it against the soap before scrubbing at her face.