The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Thank you.” Gathering her nerve, Sarah asked, “Will you stay with me?”

  “But of course.” They went into the room. The housekeeper pulled the piano stool to the center and twisted the round seat to its highest setting, boosting Sarah up onto it. They filled the waiting gap with Mrs. Bacon telling about a hot-air balloon that had lifted from Hyde Park on Easter Sunday. “We’ll take you to see it if they do it again next year.”

  A year, Sarah thought with a wooden smile. A bell sounded from downstairs. Soon afterward Claire ushered a portly man carrying a black bag into the room and then left. Doctor Raine had thick horn spectacles, hair and mustache a stark shade of black, and extraordinarily white teeth.

  “Why, you did not inform me she was such a fetching young lady, Mrs. Bacon,” he admonished while making a little bow.

  The examination was nothing equal to Sarah’s fears. He looked into her mouth and ears while keeping a running monologue about the antics of his beagle, Ishmael, who could paw doors open and enjoyed having his teeth cleaned. “I use salt on his brush, just as I do mine. He has the whitest teeth of any dog in England.”

  “Salt, Doctor Raine?” Mrs. Bacon asked.

  “Since my youth. Only, you must first grind it down with a mortar and pestle, or it will wear away the enamel. Now let’s listen to your heart, shall we?”

  Under his direction, Mrs. Bacon unfastened just enough of Sarah’s buttons to loosen her collar so that the doctor could use a tubing device he referred to as a stethoscope against her chest and upper back. He examined her left hand last, holding it gently and manipulating her wrists. “Does it ever pain you, Miss Matthews?”

  She shook her head. “No, sir.”

  “That is very good.” Offering his arm, he said, “Now, will you stand for me? We must see if you have rickets.” Having the bones of both stockinged calves probed was embarrassing but completed within less than a minute. Marie came into the room as he was replacing his stethoscope into his bag.

  “Madame would like to speak with you in the sitting room, monsieur.”

  Doctor Raine bade Sarah and Mrs. Bacon good-day, made another little bow, and left with Marie. “Mrs. Blake will send for you as soon as he leaves,” Mrs. Bacon said when the door closed behind the two. “Naomi and I have a meeting to attend. Will you be all right in here alone, or shall I ring for someone?”

  Sarah glanced around the gilt and crimson finery. Being in the company of Doctor Raine and Mrs. Bacon had distracted her from the discomfort she felt in this room when she had first stood under Mrs. Blake’s and Marie’s scrutiny. As if she were a rusted tin cup on a silver tray. Still, she nodded. “I will.”

  “That’s a good Miss.”

  Alone, Sarah lowered the stool again and carried it over to the piano. Its cabinet glowed with rich wood, and though she dared not raise the lid, she was certain there were no missing ivories, as in the piano at Saint Matthew’s. She moved to the stuffed peacock. Its glass eyes gave the bird a look of deep introspection. Carefully she touched the soft feathers of its breast. She jerked back her hand at the sound of the door being opened.

  “Madame will see you now,” Marie said.

  She accompanied the maid downstairs and into the sitting room. Mrs. Blake set her teacup and saucer on a table and invited her to join her at the divan, while Marie slipped into a chair.

  “Did you sleep well last night, Sarah?” the elderly woman asked.

  “Yes, Madam.” A prick of conscience reminded Sarah that was not the case. But she was too in awe of Mrs. Blake to correct herself.

  “And your breakfast?”

  This time she could be honest. “It was delicious. Especially the bacon.”

  “Very good.” Mrs. Blake folded her long hands. “Doctor Raine insists you put on some weight, but with Naomi’s cooking that should be easily accomplished. Another concern is your paleness. Fair coloring is to be desired for a lady, but not so much that one resembles a ghost. So you are to spend a couple of hours every afternoon in the garden.”

  So far, the news had been good. “Yes, Madam,” Sarah told her. “Thank you.”

  “The reason I stress ‘afternoons’ is that Doctor Raine has recommended a tutor of sterling reputation, and as soon as my solicitor verifies his qualifications, you will be spending mornings at lessons.”

  The last statement was delivered in the tone of one who will quarter no argument. But to Sarah, it had the same effect as demanding she have chocolate cake every day. Lessons! She had assumed her education had ended. Suddenly the thought of staying here wasn’t quite so distressing. “Oh, thank you!” she gushed.

  Mrs. Blake leaned her head thoughtfully to the side. “I was of the opinion that young ladies these days do not care for schooling.”

  “I’ve always liked to learn things,” Sarah confessed. But so had many of her friends at the home. She thought that perhaps Mrs. Blake did not know too many girls.

  “I’m glad to see that you’re appreciative of this opportunity. Had Jeremy a tutor who inspired him to live up to his potential, he surely would have been a brilliant scholar and excelled at University. But it was as if a curse hung over us, for one after another failed him.”

  The tragedy of this touched Sarah. What a difficult life her son must have had! Which made her realize that wealth could not solve every problem. “I’m sorry.” The woman closed her eyes, her lined face filling with grief. In a panic Sarah turned toward Marie, who shook her head.

  Presently Mrs. Blake looked at her again. “You had schooling at Saint Matthew’s?”

  “Yes, Madam. Mrs. Kettner was a good teacher, but we had few texts and they were very old.”

  “Well, we shall see that this gentleman has the most current texts. If you wish to learn, you should have the proper tools.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blake!” Sarah exclaimed, heart racing for joy. The thought struck her that she was being selfish. “But you’ve already spent so much money on me.”

  “That is the one thing I have in abundance. You may go now, Sarah.”

  “Yes, Madam.” Sarah got to her feet, though she would have liked to have lingered to soak up more of the unexpected warmth the woman was showing her. Suddenly she remembered the boys and asked respectfully if she might play with them later this afternoon.

  Mrs. Blake shook her head. “You may not.”

  The immediacy of the reply caught Sarah off guard. It’s because they’re boys, she thought. She hoped she wasn’t being too forward by explaining, “We were just going to play catch. I would keep my dress tidy.”

  “You may not play with them ever, Sarah. They are Jews.”

  “Jews?” Of course she knew about Jews. They were Abraham’s descendants and left Egypt with Moses. She even was aware that dozens, perhaps even hundreds, resided in London. But forbidding them as playmates seemed as irrational a reason as if they had freckles. “But they were very well-mannered,” she said meekly.

  “Manners has nothing to do with it.” Mrs. Blake wore a weary frown, as if explaining was sapping her strength. “How many Jews were in your orphanage, Sarah?”

  “Well . . . it was a Methodist home.”

  “Exactly. Because Jews have their own orphanages. Even they’re aware that we’re not to keep society with each other. Do you understand?”

  “No, Madam,” truth compelled her to say, albeit just above a whisper.

  “Then you may not play with them because I order it so.”

  That, Sarah had no choice but to understand.

  ****

  Mayfair boasted several ladies’ charity societies, most centered around Saint George’s Church and the smaller chapels. The Dorcas society, which met on every first and third Wednesday morning in the vestry of Berkeley Chapel, was one whose memberships were comprised exclusively of servants.

  Naomi had been a member for three years, Mrs. Bacon even longer. Donated funds—a good bit from servants but most from employers simply because they had more available to give—purchas
ed lengths of sturdy wool that were stored in the chapel cellar. Either the workhouse population was sadly expanding, or London’s winters were growing colder, for the blankets the society hemmed were always in demand.

  “I just hope the bee has left Mrs. McBride’s bonnet,” Naomi murmured after a glance over her shoulder as she and Mrs. Bacon turned from Hill onto shadowy John Street. It was their turn to provide refreshments, and she held a large tin of crisp arrowroot biscuits and the housekeeper a basket containing tea leaves, sugar, and milk. The chapel’s rounded dome peeked through the branches of a budding oak ahead.

  Mrs. Bacon pushed her eyeglasses up the bridge of her nose. “You’re just going to have to be blunt, Naomi.”

  “I’ve not wanted to embarrass her.”

  “Alice McBride? Why, her skin is as thick as yesterday’s cream.”

  “That makes it worse.” From painful family experience, Naomi understood that most insensitive people were unable to withstand the slings they so freely shot at others. She sighed, almost wishing she had it in her to be dishonest. It would be so much simpler to state that she already had a beau. A soldier, just like Avis’s. She wouldn’t be expected to produce this fictitious fiancé if he were on a tour of duty.

  Seventeen women were assembled by the time tea and biscuits were served. Mrs. Landon, a housekeeper from Upper Brook Street, was tenacious about allowing only twenty minutes for refreshments so that the focus would be on their benevolent labor. Still, there was ample opportunity for socializing as the women sat in a large circle with cloths draped over their laps. Naomi enjoyed the chatter, too, though mentally she managed to draw away from it to send up a prayer for the poor soul who would be warmed by each blanket she completed.

  Unfortunately the bee still occupied Mrs. McBride’s bonnet, just as it had since the day eight months ago that she seized Naomi’s hand and declared, “You must meet my brother!”

  “Dear Miss Doyle!” the woman began after dropping into the nearest unoccupied chair, which happened to be the fourth from Naomi’s right. Her voice was so like her brother’s, loud and allowing no contradiction. “Healy was crushed not to see you at church Sunday.”

  The scattered conversations around the circle faded within a matter of seconds. As uncomfortable as they made her, Naomi could not fault the others for being amused at these attempts to match her with Healy Robbins. And the attention only encouraged Mrs. McBride. Her sharp-featured face heightened in color as her voice increased in volume.

  “He brought hothouse roses for you, he did. Had to hold them the whole time.”

  “William and I went to Leicester,” Naomi mumbled into her sewing. Her ears caught the sound of a smothered giggle.

  “Yes, that’s what your gardener said. If you would ha’ only told me the week before, I wouldha’ warned Healy not to buy them. Cost him a whole florin.”

  “Do you think that church is an appropriate place for presenting flowers?” It was Mrs. Bacon who made this attempt to come to Naomi’s rescue.

  “It is when a certain woman is too uppity to grant him permission to call!”

  Naomi jerked the needle through the wool and tangled the thread. She could feel all faces turned toward her as she began picking at the knot with her fingernails.

  “Of course a florin’s a small matter to Healy, what with him bein’ bailiff at the Doulton factory. I trust I’ve mentioned his fine cottage on Sloan Street? Now, there’s a good living . . . if only that certain woman was bright enough to realize that she ain’t getting any younger.”

  In all her brazenness, Mrs. McBride had never pushed so far. All motion suspended in the hush that dropped over the circle. Naomi’s pulse pounded in her temples as if her blood had turned to treacle.

  “What’s the old saying?” the woman went on, heedless to the tension in the air. “Defer not till tomorrow to be wise, tomorrow’s sun to thee may never rise.”

  Dragging her eyes from the tenacious knot, Naomi said with restrained quiet, “It is very kind of you to be concerned for my welfare, Mrs. McBride. But if you mention your brother’s name to me again, I will box your ears.”

  After a stunned silence Mrs. McBride gasped as if having difficulty catching her breath. “I say there!”

  “And please tell him that if he approaches me at church again, I will do the same to him.”

  Mrs. Landon cleared her throat loudly. “Perhaps we should—”

  “Well!” Mrs. McBride snorted. “You could ha’ told me you weren’t interested a long time ago instead of leadin’ my brother on!”

  “I’ve told you a dozen—” Naomi began but stopped herself, for humiliation was already thick upon the woman’s face. She sent up a quick apologetic prayer for grace. And it was granted, for she was able to say with no effort, “I beg your forgiveness for the threat I just made, Mrs. McBride. I certainly would do no such thing. And now may we return to sewing? You stitch so beautifully that I’m inspired to do my best just from watching you.”

  “And I as well,” Mrs. Bacon agreed hastily.

  “You should see some of her other needlework,” said Miss Jones, a young brown-haired parlormaid from King Street. “I seen some at the May Fair last year. They should be in a museum, they were so fine.”

  Mrs. McBride raised her chin and said with injury still in her voice, “It’s all in the length of the thread.”

  “The thread, Mrs. McBride?” said Mrs. Landon.

  She nodded, her expression and voice softening a little. “Too many of you cut it too long so’s you’ll not have to thread the needle so often. But it’s easier to manage a shorter thread and worth the trouble.”

  “That turned out rather well,” Mrs. Bacon said as the two walked back together with tin and basket much lighter. They returned the wave of a Hill Street gardener who was perched upon a ladder and weeding a flower box in a second-storey window.

  “I had to pray my way through it,” Naomi told her. “I assumed the Doyle temper had left me long ago, but I can see it’s only been hiding.”

  “There are some of us who would have paid to watch you box her ears.”

  In spite of her repentance, Naomi couldn’t help but smile. “Do you think she’s finally given up?”

  “I believe so. She left arm in arm with Miss Jones.”

  “Oh dear.”

  They shared a chuckle, and Mrs. Bacon gave her a sideways look. “Any regrets?”

  “About Mr. Robbins?”

  “He has that fine cottage on Sloan Street.”

  “But unfortunately he’s part of the parcel.” Linking her arm through the housekeeper’s, Naomi said, “I don’t expect at thirty-two to find the love you and Mr. Bacon enjoyed. That is reserved for the young, I think.” Mrs. Bacon’s husband had passed away when he was twenty-four from blood poisoning brought upon by a ruptured boil. “But I would want a husband I at least liked.”

  “I understand that. But don’t despair of love quite yet, Naomi. Perhaps it will find you.”

  Naomi smiled wistfully. “If that be so, it’s going to have to look in the kitchen.”

  And it was in the kitchen that afternoon that she flipped through the pages of Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management. “As I recall,” she said to Trudy, “the recipe calls for three quarts of white stock. If that’s so, we won’t have to make more.”

  Trudy, seated in a chair near a tin tub, reached down into the water for another oyster and pried its shell with a shucking knife. “I would rather have them fried than in soup, myself.”

  “Of course,” Naomi agreed. “There is no comparison.”

  “But you would have to have lots more than this.”

  “Quite so. But that was all that was delivered. The season’s almost over.” She ran her finger down a page. “Three quarts it is.”

  “Naomi?” said a small voice.

  Naomi straightened and looked over at the slight figure in the doorway. “Do come in, Miss Matthews.”

  “Will I be underfoot?”

 
“But of course not.”

  The assurance was echoed by Trudy, who just before plunging her hand into the water again, said, “If you’ll come and stand close, we might spot a pearl.”

  “A pearl?” The girl’s eyes grew even wider as she walked toward the scullery maid. “You have oysters there?”

  “Aye. For soup. You’ve tasted them?”

  “I’ve only read about them.”

  Naomi folded her arms, leaned against the worktable, and smiled as the girl stepped close to Trudy to stare at the opened shell in her hand. “You eat those?”

  “And beg for more. You’ll see why once you’ve had a taste.”

  She looked politely doubtful. “Have you found a pearl?”

  “Once last year,” Trudy replied. “Which is why I don’t complain about shucking them. I sold it to a jeweler and bought a right fine winter cloak. Red, it is, just like Riding Hood’s.”

  Good soul that she was, Trudy had offered to share the profit, but as the scullery maid’s wages were less than half of hers, Naomi had insisted she keep it herself. She busied herself in gathering eggs, vinegar, oil, and cream while the girl watched Trudy. But there was no pearl. Miss Matthews thanked Trudy for allowing her to watch and then came over to the table. “Would you like to mix the mayonnaise?” Naomi asked.

  “May I?”

  She handed over the spoon. “Don’t stir too swiftly now.”

  “Like this?” the girl asked as she made smooth circles around the inside of the bowl.

  “Very good.” Naomi was aware that she could be called upon the carpet one day for assigning work to Mrs. Blake’s granddaughter. But it made sense that one remedy for homesickness was being allowed to take part in the routine of a household. And the girl was clearly homesick. Something else seemed to be troubling her as well, for she glanced up a couple of times as if weighing whether or not to speak.

  It was only after Mr. Duffy had come and helped Trudy carry the tub outside to clean it and dispose of the shells that Miss Matthews looked up from the mayonnaise and said, “Do you like Jews?”

  “Jews?” Naomi echoed, not certain if she had heard correctly.