Mrs. Blake says I may visit if you are agreeable. I shall be most anxiously awaiting your reply, dearest Mother. . . .
****
Two days later Jules Swann was seated again in the Hogarth parlor, which now boasted furniture with purple velvet upholstery, landscapes in gilt frames, and a colorful Oriental rug on the floor. A pianoforte sat against one wall. “For our Lucy,” the former Mary Tomkin offered when she saw him glance in that direction. “She has a ear for music, her piano tutor says.”
“Very good.” Jules smiled at the girl, who ducked her head timidly. To his relief she did not offer to demonstrate her ability. And to his greater relief, little Georgie was in good humor, content to sit on his bare haunches and chortle while his brother teased a calico kitten with a flue brush. In two hours the last London train would be leaving Crewe, and Jules hoped to spend the night in his own bed instead of the railway inn. To Mrs. Hogarth he asked, as he had in April, “May we speak privately?”
She obliged without hesitation this time, ordering Lucy to take the middle brother and even Georgie and the kitten out to the tiny garden. Jules watched them leave the room and wondered at the lack of any family resemblance between them and Sarah Matthews. But then, they were half-siblings.
“You found my little girl?” Mrs. Hogarth asked when the door closed.
“In a Methodist orphanage and well cared for. She was given the name ‘Sarah.’”
“Sarah,” she echoed, her mouth pulling into a frown that seemed more from habit than negative thought.
“She lives in the Blake mansion now,” he said carefully.
“What does she look like?”
“Wide green eyes. Her hair is blond and curly. She was on the thin side when I delivered her to Berkeley Square, but I’m told she’s filling out.”
Mary Hogarth smiled dreamily. “She was such a perfect little thing, just like a China doll.”
“Yes?” Jules fought the temptation to ask about the hand. What would it prove? If she were to insist that there was no deformity, he would have to bear in mind that she had just given birth and had barely had opportunity to hold the infant. Far more plausible than the brief notion that flitted across his mind, that Mrs. Forsyth would have misled him or was mistaken. Impossible. Reaching into his coat pocket, he said, “I’ve a letter from your daughter.”
The frown reappeared. “Why? I thought we wasn’t supposed to know each other.”
“The situation has changed, Mrs. Hogarth. Mrs. Blake has given her permission to contact you.” He took the folded page from his coat pocket and started to get up from his chair, but she held a palm out in front of herself. But of course, he thought, embarrassed at his lack of sensitivity. He had had to read to her the document she signed in April before she could affix a barely legible scrawl. He cleared his throat. “Shall I read it for you?”
“No.”
Looking past the page he had already started to unfold, Jules said, “I beg your pardon?”
Sadness washed across the square face. Still, she shook her head adamantly. “Beggin’ your pardon for saying this, Mr. Swann, but don’t come back here again.”
“But I assumed—”
“I’m glad to hear that the girl’s being cared for, even if it’s by that witch Mrs. Blake. But like I said before . . . my pa kept me hidden away till she was born. I don’t want my Bob finding out. He’s got high morals and might hold it against me.”
“I could take the letter back with me after I’ve read it to you, Mrs. Hogarth.”
Again she shook her head. “I don’t want you readin’ something that’s going to make me long for her. We ain’t fancy like the Blakes, Mr. Swann, but we’ve a good little life here, and I want to keep it just the way it is.”
Jules did not argue. He was certain Mrs. Blake would be relieved not to have Mary Hogarth included in Sarah’s life. But having not been able to resist peeking at Sarah’s poignant words on the train, he felt compelled to ask if there was any message she would care to send the girl.
“Just tell her I’m glad she weren’t ate by a dog or froze to death in that pail,” Mrs. Hogarth replied after a long moment’s thought. “But that we can’t have nothing to do with each other. See that she understands that, will you, so she won’t be knockin’ at this door when she’s grown?”
“Very well.” Jules got to his feet. But at the door, as she took down his hat from a gleaming brass rack, he swept another glance through the refurbished room. “May I ask how you explained all of this to your husband?”
She gave him a sheepish smile. “I told ’im a uncle passed on and left me some money. Bob’s morals are high, but he ain’t real bright.”
With his duty concluded in far less time than he had allowed, Jules ended up waiting on a bench in Crewe Station for over an hour. Evening had descended upon London by the time he stepped out onto King’s Cross Platform. He flagged down a hackney with the intention of going on home to his family and waiting to conclude his business tomorrow after church. But he told the driver, “14 Berkeley Square.” He had not seen Sarah Matthews yesterday when summoned by Mrs. Blake, but he knew instinctively that she was anxious for a reply. It was just a pity that he could not deliver a good one.
The red-headed maid who took his card left him standing inside the hall and knocked softly on the sitting room door before going inside. Presently Mrs. Blake came out alone and approached him. With voice lowered she said, simply, “Well?”
Jules shook his head. “She didn’t even want to see the letter.”
“I see.” The elderly woman sighed. “I don’t know whether to be disappointed or overjoyed.”
“I understand.” He meant it. The terror in the girl’s face upon their first parting had haunted him for weeks. He was pleased to discover yesterday that she was regarded with affection by the whole household, for not only had she not been sent off to school, but she had been informed of her kinship with Mrs. Blake.
Mrs. Blake glanced back at the sitting room door. “You must be the one to tell her, Mr. Swann. I wouldn’t want her to think . . .”
She didn’t have to explain. As much as Jules would have wished to avoid this part of his duty, he nodded and accompanied her up the corridor. Sarah Matthews smiled at him from a small checkered game table upon which were arranged about a dozen round draughts pieces. The red-headed maid and the dark-haired French one, who did not scowl at him this time, left the room while the girl pushed out her chair.
“Good evening, Miss Matthews,” Jules said, returning her smile. He was glad now that he had come inside. His wife would be happy to hear of the color in her cheeks and the flesh softening the angles of her face. “Draughts?” he said in an inane attempt to postpone the inevitable.
“Mrs. Blake is teaching me.”
“I was surprised I could still recall the rules,” the older woman confessed with a wan smile toward the girl. Worry still lurked in the pale blue eyes. Worse yet was the anticipation shining from Sarah’s green ones.
Get on with it, Jules thought, and as gently as possible, he said, “I’m afraid it’s not good.”
* * *
Dorothea was surprised at how well Sarah took the news, that she even had the presence of mind to inquire about Mr. Swann’s daughters before he left. It had never occurred to Dorothea to wonder if the solicitor even had children. Whether because being raised in an orphanage taught one not to raise one’s expectations too high, or if Sarah did not wish to cause her discomfort by showing her unhappiness, the girl had simply blinked away a few tears and assured her that she wanted to finish the draughts match.
Later upstairs, when outside sounds of carriage wheels and hoof beats had ceased, Dorothea took up her candle and padded down the dark corridor to the bathroom. She paused at Sarah’s door on the way back, leaned her cheek faintly against the smooth wood, and held her breath. The silence was not reassuring, for if the girl were weeping, she would do so quietly.
Should I knock, Father? Would the girl resent her grief being int
ruded upon by the person who had sent her mother away? She had spent so many years blaming God that she had no right to ask for direction, but in her circle of candlelight she felt a presence, an answer. Not now.
She went to Jeremy’s room, instead, and held up the candle to peer at his bed, not slept in since her son’s last night in it, the gloves on his chest of drawers, and his silk dressing gown across the chair. Was the pleasure worth it, Jeremy? Did you ever consider who would have to clean up the rubbish you left behind?
Not that Sarah was rubbish. Far from it. She was a reason to get up in the mornings again. What a joy to discover that the heart in her aged chest was capable of producing something besides pain!
* * *
“I shouldn’t have wakened you,” Sarah said again to Naomi. For the past half hour they had sat on the top step of the garret landing, the candle behind them throwing grotesque shadows against the slanted ceiling.
“I’m glad you did.” The cook’s voice was as soothing as the hand resting upon Sarah’s shoulder. “It’s a terrible disappointment.”
Sarah wiped her eyes with the sash of her wrapper and wondered if it were possible to run out of tears. “But if it would make her husband angry to know about me . . . well, she shouldn’t risk her marriage to tell him.”
“That may be so, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.”
“But I really do understand.” She wiped her eyes again. “She has to think about the other children too.” A sister and brothers I’ll never see?
Naomi smiled sadly. “I admire your capacity for understanding, Miss Matthews. But soothing away your grief with understanding is the same as . . . well, tying a bandage over a splinter. The problem won’t go away until it’s given proper attention.”
“Proper attention?”
“By allowing yourself to cry it out whenever you feel the need. I never shamed William for his tears those years ago, and once he was able to put his grief behind him, he was able to thrive in his new life.”
It was such a relief not to be reminded that she had never really expected to know her mother anyway. That she was still far better off than when she lived at Saint Matthew’s. That she should be grateful for a grandmother and a household of people who were good to her. She wiped her eyes again and mustered up a smile for the woman beside her. “I feel better, Naomi. Thank you. And I’ll go on to bed now.”
Concern was still evident in the shadows of Naomi’s face as she reached back for the candle. “Shall I come downstairs and sit with you for a while?”
“Oh no. Please get some sleep yourself.”
Sarah hurried down the staircase a little calmer than when she had climbed it. Now that she had permission to weep, she no longer felt such an overwhelming need to do so. She had just stepped into the dim corridor and noticed faint light coming through Jeremy’s open doorway.
Didn’t you ever wonder about me . . . Father? she thought, approaching the room. How I looked, or even if I were a boy or girl? If I had food or shelter? She reached the doorway expecting to see Marie. Instead, there stood a much smaller figure in white. Mrs. Blake turned, squinting at Sarah’s candle. Her wrinkled cheeks glistened.
“In spite of all he did, I can’t make myself stop loving him,” she said apologetically.
“I understand,” Sarah said for the second time that night. She meant it, even though her understanding was tinged with envy that her mother could not afford to have such fierce love for her.
“But if I could start all over again, I would do everything in my power to keep him from heading down that road.” She studied Sarah’s face. “You’re still the same good person you were before, you know. You shouldn’t feel shame for anything he did.”
“Thank you,” Sarah said, only to ease the worry in Mrs. Blake’s expression. It was one thing to suspect her parents had never married, but another to know the whole sordid story.
“Are you terribly upset about your mother?”
“Not so much anymore. I just had a talk with Naomi.”
“Oh, well, that’s good.” A sad smile came and passed. “She’s a comfort.”
Sarah nodded but wondered at the sadness. Could it be because she chose to pour out her disappointment to someone else and not her? It struck her, incredibly, that though Mrs. Blake may have brought her here out of some charitable obligation or even guilt, she had somehow grown to love her. She could see it in the aged eyes, even in the dimness of candlelight. For the first time since arriving at Berkeley Square, Sarah felt a great sense of belonging to someone.
She blinked a tear away and set the candle on the chest of drawers so she could hold out her arms. Smiling, she said, “Grandmother.”
Part Two
January 28, 1875
London
Chapter Twenty-Five
“And just what are we doing, pray tell?”
Sarah jumped and turned. “I wasn’t going to peek, Mrs. Bacon!” Raising her arm so that the housekeeper could see the lap quilt folded over it, she said, “But Grandmother asked me to fetch this from the sitting room, and . . .”
Her excuse was met with a knowing nod. “And someone foolishly left the door open?”
“Yes . . . open.” She could not help but turn her face again toward the gap in the doorway. It was just wide enough to reveal the white cake on the center of the dining room table, decorated with iced pink honeysuckles.
But Mrs. Bacon reached past her and pulled the knob until the soft click sounded. Her expression was firm, in spite of the affection in the hazel eyes behind the wire spectacles. In the almost five years since Sarah’s arrival at Berkeley Square, Mrs. Bacon’s brown topknot had grown a little more gray, the spectacle lenses—as well as the aproned waist—a little thicker. “You’ll disappoint everyone if you don’t slip away at once, dear.”
“Yes, of course.” Smiling, Sarah stood on tiptoe to kiss her cheek. She hastened upstairs and eased open the parlor door so as not to interrupt what Vicar Sharp was saying.
“ . . . and so with Mr. Mumford moving on to take a parish in Yorkshire, I’ll be taking on another curate as soon . . .”
But he stopped and smiled up at her as if she had not been sitting in the same room just minutes ago. His appearance had changed little since she had first made his acquaintance at the door of Saint George’s. Only a few less steel-colored strands stretched atop his balding head, and just a bit more gray frosted the thick side-whiskers. “Oh, to be eighteen again, Miss Matthews!”
“Now, now, Vicar.” Sarah’s grandmother raised her cup and saucer so that the quilt could be tucked around her frail figure. She exchanged smiles with Sarah and asked, “Are your golden years so wretched?”
“Why, on the contrary, Mrs. Blake. My life has been such a grand adventure that I would wish to relive it.”
“Heaven forbid! Once is enough. See to the good reverend’s tea, Sarah.”
“Yes, Grandmother.”
The vicar shook his head and handed Sarah his cup and saucer. “I’ve other calls this afternoon.”
“You’ll not forget dinner, will you?” Grandmother asked.
“Mrs. Sharp and I will be here at seven . . . sharp.” He left chuckling at his own joke. After Sarah poured her grandmother some more tea, she was directed toward the nearest empty chair.
“Sit down, Sarah.”
“Are you tired, Grandmother? Perhaps you should nap for a little while?”
Sarah worried so lately about the woman’s health. Doctor Raine came by weekly to listen to her heart with his stethoscope, as if he feared it would stop any day now. Why would he do so if rheumatism were the only affliction? But whenever she caught him aside to ask, he would simply smile and say, “The body requires more care as it ages, just like an old house.”
“I feel well, child.” Deeper were the lines of her face, and her hair had whitened to the color of snow. But a smile curved her lips. “And I wish to give you your gift.”
“Now?” Her grandmother was lavish wit
h gifts but also delighted in presenting them in the midst of fanfare and celebration. And Sarah could see no wrapped parcel, however small, in the vicinity. “Wouldn’t you rather wait until this evening?”
“No, I would not care to do that. Not this time.”
Sarah smiled with affection and even anticipation. It had taken a couple of years to get to the point where she could accept a gift without guilt over causing her grandmother another expense. She was fond of giving them, too, oftentimes spending her allowance on others in the household. A crown weekly was modest for a shipping heiress, but her grandmother feared encouraging any improvident traits that may have been passed down from her father. It was more than enough in Sarah’s view, considering that any material need was provided simply by asking Mrs. Bacon to add it to her shopping list. “Then what is it, Grandmother?”
The old woman hugged herself with her frail limbs. “I’m purchasing a fine old mansion in Hampstead. It will require a new roof and a bit of restoration, but I’m told the garden is two acres and lovely.”
A house? How many times had her beloved matriarch declared she could never move from Berkeley Square? “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“It’s for us, dear girl.” Grandmother pressed fingers to her smiling lips. “Where there will surely be bright young people to befriend you.”
So generous a gesture robbed Sarah of speech so completely that finally disappointment took her grandmother’s smile. “Have you nothing to say?”
Sarah hastened out of her chair to kneel beside her grandmother’s. Carefully she scooped up a spotted hand. “That is the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me.”
“I only regret not plucking up the courage to do this years ago.” Tears lustered the pale eyes. “I know how you enjoy the city, but we’ll only be a bit more to the north. Yet away from Mayfair.”
“Please don’t regret anything. You’ve been so good to me. But please . . . may we stay here?”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 26