The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Oh, but I offered,” Sarah told him and smiled at his wink. Avis, first at the sideboard, brought over two filled dishes and put one in front of her before pulling out the chair to her left. While the plate was not as translucent and fine as the one Sarah had been served at lunch with Mrs. Blake, it was still lovely, all white with blue vines and flower buds.

  “The Missus’ old Blue Willow,” Avis whispered, pointing to a tiny chip in the side of her own plate. Hester pulled out the chair on Sarah’s other side, the rest of the places filled quickly, and Mr. Duffy said grace. Having learned about life outside the orphanage mostly from novels, Sarah had always assumed there was no enjoyment to be found in a life of servitude. She was glad to find the atmosphere quite jovial, for she was already beginning to develop an affection for the people surrounding her. They were kind and solicitous, and beyond some polite questions regarding the comfort of her room and if she had enjoyed the garden, they did not pressure her into conversation. The combination of their camaraderie and warm lentil soup helped to soothe away the ache in her chest a little more.

  After supper she bade them all a shy good-night and read for a little while before changing into her nightgown and wrapper. She did not see Mrs. Blake on her way to or from the bathroom. Perhaps a “ward” is someone from whom you hide, Sarah thought as she opened her door again. Guilt struck her, for she had been given a home and so many nice dresses. Surely if Mrs. Blake was planning to send her back, she would not allow her to spend the night. Back in her room, she found Hester tossing the bolster pillow into the armchair.

  “I’m supposed to help you dress, but I’m too late, ain’t I?”

  Sarah went to the other side. Together they pulled down the covers. “I don’t need help preparing for bed,” she told the maid, hastening to add, “but thank you.”

  “Oh, but Mrs. Bacon wouldn’t have that. Besides, it’s just a stop on my way upstairs. If you’re ready to hop in, I’ll catch the lamp.”

  “Thank you.” She felt like a small girl again, being tucked in. Hester patted her shoulder.

  “Good night, love. Shall I leave open the drapes?”

  “Yes, please. Good night.”

  When the door closed, Sarah slipped out of bed and knelt on the carpet.

  “Father, please forgive me for still wanting to go home.”

  Just whispering the beloved word caused her vision to blur. For several seconds she blinked her eyes and willed the tears away.

  I will try to love it here and make you and Mrs. Forsyth proud of me.

  She prayed for her loved ones at Saint Matthew’s, for Mrs. Blake and her servants, and even for Mr. Swann.

  “If I forgot to thank him for showing me the bridge, please let him know somehow that I am grateful for his kindness.”

  * * *

  “Are you very tired?” Aunt Naomi asked William. The two sat out in the garden in the woven bench, as was their custom two or three times weekly when he was home. It was a pleasant opportunity for catching each other up on the events of their days or for relating something either had read in the newspaper or even in a novel. Other times they pointed out constellations and listened to the crickets in the grass. Tonight a milky haze obscured only the brightest of stars and a three-quarter moon. But the crickets were in concert, sounding like so many rusty hinges.

  “My eyes were drooping after lunch,” he told her while covering a yawn. “But Mr. Duffy put me to painting, and my second wind came along. And you?”

  “I wasn’t until just now,” she said, then covered a yawn herself.

  Which caused William to yawn again.

  “Stop,” she ordered.

  “Stop what?”

  “You’re doing that on purpose.”

  William shook his head. “I wasn’t, Aunt Naomi.”

  “Then I beg your pardon,” she said, though slanting a suspicious look at him.

  “You have it.” And as mindful as he was that being an underclassman at Oxford made him too dignified for such silliness, he could not resist feigning a yawn this time, and loudly. “Sorry,” he said with a teasing little smile.

  She only smiled back. “You should go on in to bed. But first we need to talk about Stanley.”

  William looked out toward the back, where a window could be seen lit above the garden wall. The former groomsman, Jack Umberly, had shared those rooms over the stables with his wife, Nora, a parlormaid, until eighteen months ago. Stanley was hired when the couple returned to Midhurst to tend Jack’s ailing parents, and William moved from his tiny attic room to the stables as well. His aunt protested at first but reconciled herself to it when Mr. Duffy advised her that the boy needed the company of men. It helped when she realized he would continue dropping in at the kitchen to raid the biscuit tin or apple barrel and that they could still sit outside on an occasional evening.

  He enjoyed being out there in the mews, listening to other groomsmen along the gravel road swap stories and jokes. He even didn’t mind the constant horse and hay smells breezing through the open windows. And Stanley’s aversion to being cooped up indoors allowed him plenty of solitude for studying. “What about Stanley?” he asked, though he suspected he knew. “Do you fear he’ll corrupt me after all this time?”

  She shook her head. “No. I fear you might look up to him, to be truthful.”

  “But I do admire how he handles the horses. And you’ve laughed at his jokes.”

  “True. But do you think it’s right . . . using women that way?”

  He had assumed it the other way around, judging from the way women seemed to flock to Stanley. And yet there was something that vaguely disturbed him about it, for it had taken him but days to discard the hope when Stanley first arrived that he would be the one to marry Aunt Naomi.

  William was certain it was his own fault that men did not court her. Over the years he had noticed many an admiring look sent her way on the half-Mondays they spent together and at Saint George’s. Invariably the looks took in himself at her side, and the interest faded. He had hoped his being away would change that, but she was a bit of a loner, and without his company she seldom ventured any farther than the subscription library, her charity meetings, and church.

  When you finish your schooling . . . began the promise he had made to himself long ago. You’ll earn decent wages, and she’ll have her own cook. And with all her new leisure time, he would urge her to get out and meet people by joining book appreciation societies and perhaps even taking riding or painting lessons. Somewhere in London there is a man who will appreciate . . .

  He realized she had started speaking again and put his thoughts away.

  “You saw how he used that kit and caboodle nonsense on Hester,” she said.

  William had to admit he had and still found it amusing. “But he likes Hester. What was wrong with that?”

  Aunt Naomi raised a hand as if it would help her to articulate but then lowered it to her lap again. Moonlight reflected from her blue eyes. “Why do you think he strives so hard to win her affection? Does he love her? Is he planning to ask her to marry?”

  William scratched his head. Hester was pretty, but then he had seen Stanley with other women just as pretty. “I’m not sure,” he replied, then repeated for lack of anything else, “But he’s fond of her.”

  “Enough to give up courting other women?”

  “He doesn’t confide in me about things like that.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  “But I doubt he would give it up,” William had to admit. “He does seem to crave the attention.”

  “And that’s why I say he’s using women. When you purposely cultivate someone’s affection with no intention of loving that person back, it’s wrong. Is breaking every female heart in London the only way Stanley can maintain a lofty opinion of himself?”

  “I don’t—” Frowning, William switched his train of thought. “Why are we discussing this now, Aunt Naomi? Surely you’ve known how he is before this.”

  He felt
the light pressure of her hand upon his arm. “Because I didn’t realize you had a part in it,” she said in an earnest tone.

  “Just by supplying him with an occasional word or phrase?”

  “Thereby handing him ammunition. Will you be here, William, to help comfort Hester when he breaks her heart? I’m aware that most fellows admire and even envy men like Stanley. I just hope you’ll never be tempted to be that way.”

  As she spoke those words William listened with a defensive ear, reminding himself that he was more educated and knew a little more of the world than did she. But such thoughts lasted only long enough for him to realize it was concern for his well-being and not criticism that had prompted this discussion. Besides, what she was saying struck a chord with him. He patted the slender hand resting upon his sleeve. “I wouldn’t want to be like that, Aunt Naomi. It just amused me to see how Stanley carries on. But I’ll not lend him any more help.”

  She gave him a relieved smile. “You’re a dear boy, Will.”

  Even after almost eight years, he still loved the endearments she lavished upon him, something he had not experienced during his first nine. He assumed his parents had loved him, in spite of his father’s explosive temper and his mother’s withdrawn silences. If only he had some tender moments from those days to press into his mind’s memory book. As Aunt Naomi had explained some years later, his parents had not been able to escape the way they themselves were reared. When he asked her how she had managed to do so, she had replied in her calm manner, “A person can do anything if it’s important enough.”

  He meant to return her smile but found himself caught up in a genuine yawn. She laughed and moved her hand from his sleeve to tousle his hair.

  “Off to bed with you, William Doyle.”

  ****

  “I forgot to give you this,” Trudy said up in their room as she reached for a book from atop her chest of drawers.

  Naomi would have surely thought it odd had she noticed it there first, for the scullery maid cared for reading nothing but recipes. “What is—” Naomi began automatically, but then had it in her hand and stared down at Phineas Finn stamped into the leather binding. Dumbstruck, she looked up at Trudy’s grinning face.

  “The notice came in the post yesterday mornin’, so Mrs. Bacon said I could nip over for it. Are you pleased?”

  “Pleased?” Naomi turned the book over in her hands. For four months her name had crept up the roster at the Clarendon Subscription Library for this second of Trollope’s Palliser series. She had read all seventy-eight novels in Mrs. Blake’s personal library at least once. But there were none recently published, as her mistress had lost all interest in reading when her son died. “Very pleased! How thoughtful of you, and with having to take charge of the cooking and all.”

  “It weren’t nothin’. I was glad for the fresh air.”

  Trudy’s delighted tone belied the casual words, and Naomi switched the book to one hand and embraced the scullery maid. “But the fee . . .”

  “The gentleman at the desk said that you could pay next time you stop by, since you’re a regular patron.” She added quickly, “But I had brought along tuppence, just in case.”

  “You’re a dear,” Naomi assured her and hastened to ready herself for bed so that she could have a little reading time.

  Within five minutes she had slipped beneath her covers and stacked two pillows behind her shoulders. She had just reached the part where Geoffery Haredale was being introduced when Trudy, at the dressing table wrapping her coarse blond hair with strips of rags, said, “Promise not to be angry if I ask you something?”

  Naomi looked up from the novel and said pleasantly, “I don’t make promises, Trudy.” To do so seemed contradictory with Jesus’ admonishment to allow one’s yea to be yea and nay to be nay.

  The maid wrinkled her nose. “I forgot. Then just tell me you won’t be—”

  “Of course I won’t be angry. What is it you would like to ask?”

  “Why else would the Missus bring an orphan here, if she weren’t . . . well . . .”

  Quietly Naomi sighed. “Why not bring one here? Don’t the Scriptures instruct us to be kind to widows and orphans?”

  “That’s been in the Scriptures all the Missus’ life, even longer, I expect. Why did she wait so long?”

  “There’s a first time for everything, Trudy.”

  The scullery maid shrugged and combed out another section of hair, which caused Naomi to assume it safe to return to the novel. But when Trudy rose from the bench, she came over to sit on the foot of her bed. Naomi moved her feet to make room.

  “Avis says she wouldn’t choose an orphan with such a flaw . . . not when she could have picked another one. You know how fussy she is.”

  Naomi closed the book and wrapped both arms around her covered knees. “Trudy, do you wish to keep your position here?” she asked bluntly.

  Trudy’s spaniel eyes widened. “I’m just telling you my thoughts, Naomi. I know you ain’t going to go spreading them.”

  “But you’ve already spoken with Avis about the subject and no doubt Hester as well.”

  She opened her mouth as if to protest but closed it again.

  “I don’t care to have to go training someone else, Trudy.” The flush on the young woman’s cheeks caused Naomi to soften her tone. “And I rather like having your company in the kitchen. So it will behoove both of us if you’ll forget any gossip you’ve heard and put your mind to work on things that won’t get you sacked.”

  Trudy gave her a sheepish smile as she rose from the bed. “I’ll try, Naomi.”

  “Try very hard. And put out the light, will you?”

  * * *

  The feather mattress lapped around Sarah’s limbs like the water around a boat. Yet she had napped too long in the library, and too many pictures of the events of the day played themselves across her mind. And each of the three pillows was too plump. So she lay awake in the darkness and wondered who was sleeping in her bed. Was she someone newly rescued from the London streets or one of the younger girls from downstairs? Did she also feel alone and strange, and was she staring at the same three-quarter moon through the window?

  From somewhere she could hear soft music. Sarah eased her head up from the pillow and held her breath. There was a piano in the parlor. Mrs. Blake would surely be the one playing, for what servant would risk waking the household? The melancholy tune seemed to have been written just for her in her homesickness, but that could not be so.

  A picture of Mrs. Blake standing before the portrait came to her mind. Their situations were completely different, but she began to feel a tenuous bond with the woman who had brought her here. In the dark of night while the whole of London slept, they were both kept awake by longings for something forever lost to them.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The next morning Sarah awoke to a light knocking sound. She sat up in bed and looked around the room until recognition pierced her groggy mind.

  “Good morning, Miss Matthews.” The door opened and Mrs. Bacon entered, clothed in a gown of blue and green plaid. The ring of keys upon her apron string jingled faintly as she came over to the bed. “Did you sleep well?”

  Sarah was torn between lying and offending her. Honesty won out. She rubbed her aching neck. “The bed is very comfortable, thank you. But the pillow . . .”

  “Hmm.” Mrs. Bacon pushed her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose and studied the pillow Sarah had pushed aside sometime in the night. “Too plump?”

  “Yes, Madam,” she replied without thinking, but Mrs. Bacon did not seem to notice the slip. It was still so unnatural, to speak to adults as if they were her own age. And being addressed by them as Miss Matthews was completely unnerving. She envied the servants, who knew their places in the household. What purpose did a ward serve?

  “I’ll see to it. It’s time to dress for breakfast. And Mrs. Blake’s doctor will be here later to examine you.”

  “But I’m not ill.”

 
“But of course you’re not,” she said with a smile. “Mrs. Blake would just like to be certain you’re as healthy as you should be. And her dressmaker is to call at two, so please don’t fall asleep somewhere where we can’t find you.”

  “I won’t.” Sarah moved her knees to the side and dropped to the carpet. As was her habit, she turned right away to made the bed, but the housekeeper touched her shoulder.

  “That’s not for you to do, dear.”

  It seemed futile to protest. Hester came shortly afterward and helped her into the muted green gown. They made the bed together. As they walked down the corridor, Sarah realized she had forgotten to ask Mrs. Bacon about the boys next door. Out of habit her appetite was prepared for porridge, but the aromas that greeted her on the staircase suggested something even better.

  The servants had already formed a queue at the sideboard. Timidly Sarah returned their greetings, relieved they had not waited. Naomi directed her to the same place where she had sat last night and put before her a plate of fried eggs, smoked fish, and toast. And bacon, which Sarah had tasted only twice in her recollection. After Mr. Duffy prayed, she picked up a strip and bit into its savory crispness. It was only as she chewed the second bite that she became aware that her eyes were closed in rapture. She opened them to discover smiles directed her way.

  Stanley winked. “That pig did not die in vain, did he, Miss Matthews?”

  Gladly Sarah would have slid under the table. She looked at Naomi, whose smile was affectionate and not mocking. A glance around the table told her it was the same with the others. Struck with what a picture she must have made, she was able to smile back.

  “It’s very good bacon,” she said in a small voice that caused Mr. Duffy to chuckle. His laughter was contagious. Even William, who hardly even looked at her, joined in. And as Sarah laughed, the fist in her chest loosened its grip upon her heart a little.

  After breakfast Mrs. Bacon escorted her upstairs. Sarah’s knees grew weaker with every climbing step. “Doctor Raine is a kind man,” the housekeeper assured her at the parlor door as if reading her thoughts.