The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  The girl nodded.

  “Why, it depends on which Jew . . . just like anyone else.”

  “Do you know why Mrs. Blake doesn’t like Jews?”

  “Why do you ask that?”

  The girl told her. The irony of it was that Mrs. Blake was only too willing to trust the Rothschild children’s banker father with her money. “There are many people of the same opinion, I’m afraid,” Naomi said.

  “But why? What have they done?”

  Naomi set down the measuring tin she was using for the white sauce. How could she explain to a child what she didn’t understand herself? “It makes no sense to me, Miss Matthews. They’re accused of killing Christ, yet our Lord himself was a Jew. And it’s held against them that they prosper in business, but why shouldn’t someone prosper who is diligent at his work?”

  Disappointment pinched the girl’s pale face. “Will she never change her mind?”

  “I’m afraid people get set into their ways as they grow older. They’re less likely to question their own beliefs or how they even came to have them.”

  “I see.”

  “But you mustn’t allow this to blind you to her good qualities. She did allow Trudy to keep the pearl, when by all rights it was hers.”

  Miss Matthews nodded after a second. “I’m grateful that she gave me a home and so many nice things.”

  The words did not quite match the glistening in the green eyes. Naomi decided it was time to change to a more cheerful subject. “I hear you’re to have a tutor.”

  It worked, for the pinched expression eased a bit. “With the latest texts.”

  “Yes? Before long you’ll be walking about the place speaking in Latin, and we won’t know what to make of you.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” the girl said, smiling. She tipped the bowl. “Is this thick enough?”

  Naomi returned her smile. “Perfect.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Madame Gauthier was an attractive older woman who wore her dark brown hair piled high into ringlets. Trying not to steal too many glances at the two symmetrical spots of rouge on her cheeks, Sarah submitted to another measuring, even though Marie informed the seamstress that she and Mrs. Bacon had already performed that task. Madame Gauthier had replied something in French and continued, pausing to scribble into a little notebook, but Marie clearly did not take offense, for the words between them flew back and forth in an affable manner.

  When the measuring was finished, the seamstress took from her satchel a book of sketches of young women wearing various articles of clothing and a pouch containing several small squares of fabric. “You would like to choose?” she asked Sarah while Marie refastened the buttons to the pearl gray gown behind her back.

  Choose? She had worn plain linsey-woolsey for almost all of her fourteen years. Thirteen, she reminded herself. What did she know about such things? The only suggestion that came to mind was, “Could you put the buttons in front of all of them?”

  “If you wish. And the styles?”

  Thankfully, Marie took the sketchbook. “Doctor Raine has ordered Miss Matthews to spend every afternoon in the garden. I will help you choose.”

  This seemed more than acceptable to Madame Gauthier, for by the time Sarah had slipped on her shoes and collected the copy of Barnaby Rudge from the top of her chest of drawers, the two were chattering happily in French again. Outside she traded greetings with Mr. Duffy in the vegetable patch. He was tying a row of fragile-looking plants to tall wooden stakes with strips of cloth. “For the beans to climb,” he explained. “Else they’ll get top-heavy and droop to the ground. Makes for easier picking too.”

  She set the novel on clean grass and bent to touch a tiny leaf. “How long before they’re ready?”

  “The beans? Oh, six weeks or so.” To her inquiry about the hill absent of any plant growth, he replied, “I’ll be planting cauliflower there in a bit.”

  “But I thought this was a vegetable patch.”

  “Why, they are vegetables.” He handed her a packet from a pocket of his smock. Webb’s Early London Whites was printed in fancy lettering above the picture of something looking like handfuls of snow set into a green garland.

  “What do they taste like?” she asked.

  “Taste? Hmm.” He scratched his forehead. “You ever have broccoli?”

  She shook her head.

  “Cabbage?”

  “Yes, sir. Many times.”

  “Sort o’ like cabbage, then.”

  As she handed back the packet, a whinnying sound came from the direction of the stable. She turned her head to look at the back gate. She had paid little attention to the horses that brought her here yesterday.

  “Why don’t you pay them a call?” Mr. Duffy asked. “May I?”

  “William’s curryin’ them now—he’ll be proud to show them to you.”

  Though she was tempted, Sarah decided to head for the bench instead of the gate. I’ll wait till he goes back to University. Even in the orphanage she had been quick to blame any aloofness from another person on her deformed hand. It was only during the past few months she began to suspect she was not giving people credit for kindness, as some could be afflicted with the same shyness that came over her at times. But whatever reason the boy had for practically ignoring her, she would not force her company upon him.

  She was relieved to hear no sounds from over the wall. Perhaps they’re inside. They were so much younger than she was and may have even lost interest in her. She could accept that better than having to tell them she couldn’t play.

  A greenfinch perched upon the back of the bench with a piece of straw in its mouth and angled its head curiously at her. Sarah stopped and took shallow breaths. Another finch joined the first, and then both flew off into a high branch of the crab apple tree. Sarah wondered if some silent communication had passed between the two. Had the second warned the first that the unfamiliar girl watching them could be up to mischief?

  Or maybe they think I’m a boy, she thought. She was just opening the novel when she heard over her left shoulder, “When are you coming to play?”

  Oh no. Turning, she spotted the oldest Rothschild boy peering a couple of feet down from the spot where she had looked at them. She rose and walked toward the wall. “Good afternoon,” she said, forcing a smile. She could hear the voices of the other three at play on the ground.

  “Nanny has mixed us up some bubbles,” Mordie told her.

  “For washing?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No, for hoops. Have you never blown bubbles?”

  “I’ve never even heard of such a thing.”

  Mordie turned his head and looked below. “Rueben—send up some.”

  A second later at least a dozen bubbles as big as eggs floated past his right shoulder, sparkling in the sunlight. One even drifted over the wall toward Sarah. It had a faint bluish sheen and popped before reaching her. Awestruck, Sarah said, “Do send some more, please.”

  “More, Rueben!”

  “If you’ll come over, you can make all you want,” the boy said while another batch of bubbles floated upward.

  Sarah shook her head. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”

  “But why?”

  “Master Mor-die?” His nurse’s voice came from several feet behind him. “You shouldn’t be climbing that.”

  “She thinks I’m still five years old,” the boy grumbled before turning to call, “I’m not climbing—I’m chatting with the girl next door!”

  In that space of time Sarah discovered a tactful way to refuse the invitation. She could only hope that God would forgive her for not being completely forthright. Moving her left hand from the folds of her gown, she held it up for him to see. “I’m not as good at games as other children.”

  The boy gaped at her. “What happened to you?”

  “I was born this way.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  Why must people always ask that? She shook her head. “It’s not injured. It’s just made differe
ntly.”

  “May Ben have a look?”

  Sarah sighed. She had had virtually no contact with children of the male gender, but she was a little surprised at their morbid curiosity. “Very well.”

  Mordie’s head disappeared and presently Ben’s took its place. His face filled with delighted horror. “Did you do that last night?”

  “It would be bandaged, wouldn’t you think?”

  “I want to see it!” came a younger voice over the wall.

  But Sarah had displayed herself for long enough. “I’ll be returning to my book now,” she said. “Have a pleasant afternoon.”

  * * *

  “Now you’re good and tidy, old girl,” William Doyle said to Gypsy, the yellow cob horse, as he hung the currycomb back upon a post of the stall. He slipped a head-collar on her and led her out of the stall, pausing at the open door of the coachroom. Stanley, clad in his Wednesday-afternoon-off coat and trousers, was uncapping a pot of black varnish and squinting at the underside of the footboard in search of scratches.

  “Wouldn’t you like me to do that?” William asked.

  The coachman looked at him. “I’m just markin’ time till Hester gets back from the shops. Only one fellow showed up for cards, so we didn’t fancy stealin’ from each other.”

  Stanley and Hester often spent their shared half-Wednesdays together, strolling in Hyde Park, boating on the Serpentine, or taking an omnibus to other parts of London. It had not dawned upon William until last night how Stanley seemed to find time to spend with Hester only when other plans had fallen through. He rather wished Hester would take her time shopping—but he had a feeling she usually rushed through her errands in the hopes that Stanley would be waiting. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Then I’ll see what Mr. Duffy has for me to do.”

  “Tell the old codger not to work you too hard.”

  “I’ll do that,” William replied, his stock reply to Stanley’s oft-made bit of advice. He led Gypsy out to join Dudley, a bay cob, in the stable yard. On his way through the garden gate, he brushed horsehair from his fustian work shirt. Miss Matthews was seated on the bench near the dovecote. It occurred to him that they shared something in common. Only he was not reared by strangers, but by an aunt who had made him feel cherished from the first day he was put into her care. What would it be like to live in an orphanage? Did she miss the other children, or had they been cruel and was she happy to get away?

  She doesn’t look very happy right now. But it was none of his business. And little girls had an annoying tendency to mistake common courtesy for affection when it came from a male even remotely their age. He closed the gate and hooked the latch.

  As his boots clumped the brick path, he glanced at her again and wondered if she had ever been near a horse. It’s none of your affair, he thought. And so it was with annoyance at his own softness that he veered his steps toward the bench. She lowered the book to look at him.

  “I don’t suppose you would care to look at the horses, would you?” Say no, he coached silently. That way, his being considerate enough to ask would be enough of a good deed.

  He felt a little guilty at the hope in her expression. “I shouldn’t wish to be a bother.”

  “You’ll not be. As long as you don’t do anything foolish. They’re not accustomed to children.”

  She set her book upon the bench. “I’ll be careful.”

  He wasn’t sure if she was following until he unlatched the gate and turned to find her stepping back out of the way, her face flush with excitement. “Have you ever petted a horse?” he asked.

  “I touched one once.”

  William had to smile. “How so?”

  “I was fetching the mail for Mrs. Forsyth when the landlord of the building next door left his rig outside. I had never seen a horse that was completely white, so when the coachman ducked into the public house, I went closer.”

  They stopped at the stable yard, where William rested his folded arms upon the top railing and turned to her. “Where did you touch him?”

  “On Drury Lane.”

  “No, I mean on his body.”

  “Oh. The side of his neck.”

  Dudley and Gypsy, having ignored them just long enough to maintain their dignity, began moving closer. The girl took just a small step backward, which was wise, William thought. Give them time to get used to each other. “And what did the horse do?”

  Eyes wide upon Dudley and Gypsy, she replied, “He shook his head and made that blowing sound with his mouth.”

  William willed himself not to smile again. She would stop if she thought he was mocking her. He didn’t know why he was interested, but the thought of this timid-looking slip of a girl daring to seek out a new experience was strangely touching.

  “You mean like this?” He blew out a fluttering stream of air between his lips.

  She covered a smile with her hand. “Yes.”

  “Horses do that all the time.” William turned to nuzzle Dudley’s velvety nose. Gypsy pressed close for attention, as if he hadn’t just spent a half hour brushing her. “Now, Gypsy, don’t be selfish.”

  “What is the other one’s name?”

  “Dudley.”

  “Gypsy and Dudley. Will they have a colt one day?”

  “Never. Dudley’s a gel—” William began but then stopped himself, remembering her age and gender. “They’re Welsh cobs.”

  She seemed to accept that as a logical reason and stepped up next to him, holding out a hand in a tentative manner as if she might snatch it back. Gypsy moved over to take a sniff. “Just hold still,” William told her, catching the noseband to Dudley’s head-collar so that he would not attempt to join the other horse.

  Gypsy moved closer and the girl backward, until the long neck hung over the rail and could advance no farther. Eventually Miss Matthews moved her hand up to rub the side of the animal’s head. After a little while, as her strokes grew bolder, she said, “I believe she likes this.”

  William nodded. “Imagine not being able to rub your own face.”

  They spent another quarter of an hour like that, hardly speaking except to the horses, then he told her he would need to help Mr. Duffy. “You shouldn’t be out here without one of us until they’re used to you,” he warned. “Dudley tries to nip fingers when he’s in a mean mood.”

  Thankfully she did not whine or beg him to allow her to stay longer. As he held open the gate again, she said, “It was very kind of you to show them to me.”

  “You’re welcome,” William told her, and found himself adding, “Perhaps if I’ve time tomorrow you can visit them again.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a shy smile.

  “But of course if Stanley is out there, you may visit then as well,” he felt compelled to add to make it clear that their acquaintance was no more special than anyone else’s.

  “Are you quite certain he won’t mind?” the girl asked.

  “I’m certain,” William replied, relieved that there was no crushing disappointment in her expression as there had been upon the faces of the little girls who tearfully bade him farewell in Leicester.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sarah woke much more refreshed on Thursday morning, due in part to a growing familiarity with her room, but mostly because Hester had presented her with a more comfortable pillow. She helped Trudy clear breakfast dishes from the table, and Naomi suggested she take a turn about the square.

  “By myself?” Sarah asked.

  “You can hardly get lost,” the cook said. “You should let Mrs. Bacon know your whereabouts, though.”

  Mrs. Bacon, writing in her account book in her tiny cellar office, raised her head to affirm that it was a good idea. “Just be sure to wear your bonnet.”

  That was something Sarah didn’t have to be told. She had not realized before how odd a sight her short hair was. Traffic was light on Berkeley Street, composed chiefly of fine carriages and coaches. The square was cool and earthy with flowers growing in scattered patches of s
unlight. Nursemaids pushing prams or holding the hands of small tots visited in one corner. An elderly gentleman with a book sat upon a bench. Farther south, two elegant-looking ladies and a young gentlemen chatted at one of the lacy black cast-iron tables across the street from GUNTER’S CONFECTIONERY, which Mr. Swann had mentioned.

  At the sight of the Rothschild boys and their nursemaid, Sarah crossed the street again for fear they would spot her. She had just reached number 14 when below to her right the tradesmen’s door opened. Mrs. Bacon had exchanged her apron for a straw bonnet trimmed with cherries and maroon ribbons that matched her calico gown.

  “I was going to look for you,” the housekeeper said, climbing the steps. “You may as well come along with me to market, and we can make a stop at the cobbler’s.”

  Sarah took the housekeeper’s offered arm and hid her left hand in a fold of her gown. Mrs. Bacon seemed in no hurry, and they ambled north with the square to their left. Pedestrians from the opposite direction traded greetings with the two, except for those who were attired very finely—they simply nodded or ignored them completely. They turned to the east upon Bruton Street, which was graced with more mansions, then Old Bond, narrow and lined with shops.

  Their first stop was a greengrocer’s, not in the open air like Mr. Brody’s, but enclosed with a large bow window displaying short crates of carrots, turnips, parsnips, onions, and cabbages. “Why do you buy vegetables when Mr. Duffy grows them?” Sarah asked.

  “Because he can’t possibly grow enough to feed all of us,” the housekeeper explained. “And between the two of us, it’s more of a hobby that Mrs. Blake allows. Mr. Duffy was reared in the country and can’t bear not having some sort of vegetable crop in the ground.”

  The owner’s son followed Mrs. Bacon with a large basket while she inspected and chose heads of broccoli, celery stalks, lettuces, spring onions, apples, and rhubarb, in addition to ordering four dozen eggs. “Brown, if you please,” she reminded the boy, who looked to be Mordie’s age. He nodded absently as if he had heard this many times before and sent Sarah a shy smile.