The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “Here? In this wretched place?”

  Her critical tone did nothing to assure Sarah that moving would be wise. At her grandmother’s age, the cords of memory were not so easily broken—which was why Jeremy’s room still was kept up as if he would return any day. And there was the familiarity of one’s longtime home. Surely the strain of a new place would be too much upon her declining health.

  “I’ve been happy here for over four and a half years, Grandmother. So how can it be wretched?”

  “But friends . . .”

  “This house is brimming with them.” And there were the Rothschild brothers—in Spain for the winter—who taught her how to play lawn tennis. The tidy parsonage Hester now shared with her husband and infant son was only six blocks away. And William was back in London to stay, having been awarded his Master of Studies in Chemistry in early December. His position kept him busy, but he still found time to join her outings with Naomi almost every Saturday afternoon and to come for Sunday lunch in the hall.

  But she had to admit it did pain her, catching the occasional knowing glance sent her way. Hearing a hush come over the group of chattering young women at an outside table at GUNTER’S as she passed. If she were to discover cures for every known disease, people in Mayfair would likely remember her as “the illegitimate daughter of the late Jeremy Blake.”

  “Sarah?” Grandmother said, uncertainty filling her expression.

  Sarah pressed the hand she held against her own cheek. “Forgive me for spoiling your surprise. But is it possible to resell the house?”

  “I’ve not actually signed the final papers yet. But you’re not asking this because you think I’m not strong enough for the move, are you?”

  Father, forgive me. “Not at all.”

  After a space of silence, Grandmother straightened in her chair. “The surprise is not spoiled. In honor of your birthday, we will give the house to Saint Matthew’s.”

  Sarah’s breath caught. “You would do that?”

  “The fresh air and room to romp would be good for the children.”

  “I can’t imagine a gift that would please me more, Grandmother!”

  “Very good.” Her lined face grew thoughtful. “But I doubt if there are many orphans running about Hampstead. How would they replace the ones who grow up and leave?”

  The disappointment that struck Sarah was fortunately short-lived. “Most girls were brought in by ministers and policemen who found them in the streets. Surely they wouldn’t mind delivering them up there, knowing they’ll have a better place.”

  “I’ll send word to Mr. Mitchell to conclude the transaction right away and to hire someone to begin repairs.” Even though Mr. Mitchell ran Blake Shipping, he continued to handle Grandmother’s personal legal affairs. “Perhaps you would like to be the one to tell them at Saint Matthew’s?”

  If Sarah was happy a minute ago, she was now euphoric. She had seen the home’s facade only once since moving to Berkeley Square, and only after coaxing Stanley to drive her past during the course of another errand. But she had caught not even a glimpse of Mrs. Forsyth or any of the staff or girls. What a joy it would be to visit and with such good news! “May I go there now? There’s time if I—”

  “Not today, I’m afraid. The servants are too busy with party preparations.”

  “Stanley isn’t. Couldn’t he drive me?”

  “Unescorted? Down Drury Lane?”

  “Well . . .”

  “A coachman is not the same as an escort, Sarah,” Grandmother replied with a firm shake of the head. “Some miscreant could break down the door and make away with you before Stanley could climb down from the box. You will wait until Saturday afternoon and have William and Naomi accompany you.”

  “Yes, Grandmother.” Sarah leaned forward to kiss her soft cheek. “You’re still a dear.”

  The old woman looked pleased. “And you haven’t played draughts with me in weeks. Come now, Marie is helping Naomi, so it’s up to you to amuse your old grandmother.”

  * * *

  “Killed in a duel?” At the worktable, Marie’s amber eyes lifted from the chain she was making from strips of colored paper and wallpaper paste. “From whom did you hear that?”

  Naomi winced, though her fingers continued to dredge oysters through the seasoned flour to put aside for frying, one of Miss Matthew’s favorite dishes. They would not have been speaking so candidly if Trudy—who never seemed to get in on any good conversations—were not upstairs helping Claire and Avis lay the dining room cloth. “I can’t recall, Marie. Someone must have misinterpreted something you said and . . . well, you know how stories like that tend to spread.”

  Even though their relationship had evolved into something between a truce and friendship over the past four years, Naomi was surprised when Marie showed no sign of anger.

  “It was my sister Patrice’s fiancé,” Marie replied calmly.

  “The eldest?”

  “Yes. As you can imagine, her heart was broken. The man who killed her fiancé was from a wealthy family who owned most of the land in Bernay, even our father’s farm. She would have had a life of privilege had she given in and married the other man, but she sold the wedding dress our grandmother made for passage to England. We adored her—Leona, Nicolette, and me—and so as Patrice saved for our passages and found positions in Mayfair, we joined her one by one and then helped her save for the others.

  “Your parents gave consent?”

  She pasted another loop onto the chain. “We were mouths to feed, could not work as hard on the farm as our five brothers, and were too homely to find husbands—except for Patrice. Our papa complained we would be a burden to him for the rest of his life. And our mamma was too cowed to take our side.”

  “I’m sorry,” Naomi told her. Not only for Marie’s painful past, but for her own critical thoughts over the pains the maid took at her appearance.

  “Sorry? But it was a good thing coming here. We make our own way, my sisters and I. And every week we spend time together.”

  “But you dislike England.” Or we English.

  Marie shifted in her chair and looked a little embarrassed. “I admit I had . . . what is the word . . . prejudice?”

  Before Naomi could confirm that it was, Marie nodded. “Yes, prejudice, as did my sisters.”

  “I see.” Naomi felt no insult—all her life she had heard ridicule of the French, so it stood to reason that they would return that scorn. The last oyster dredged, she went to the sink to wash and dry her hands, then peeked at the pair of chestnut-stuffed pullets in the oven. They were a mild crispy gold, almost ready. She lifted the lid from a back-burner kettle and pushed a spoon against the stewed Rump of Beef a la Jardinière, satisfied that it was almost tender enough. Next she stirred the julienne soup. After a glance at the rolls rising on a cupboard ledge, she pulled out the chair next to Marie’s and reached for some colored strips.

  “If you’ll paste the ends, I’ll loop them,” she offered. “I’m free for the next ten minutes or so.”

  Marie nodded, and the chain lengthened much faster. Presently the lady’s maid said, as if she had mulled it over in her mind the whole time, “It was our oldest brother, Aubrey, who taught us to dislike the English. He served in the army during the Crimean War.”

  “But we fought together on that one.”

  “Yes, but the troops had very little contact. Aubrey delivered messages from General St. Arnaud to the British commander—and the English soldiers he passed talked through their noses to mock him. Aubrey despised them more than he did the Russians. They called him a ‘frog’!”

  “Oh, Marie . . . I’m sorry,” Naomi said for the second time. And she hoped her cheeks weren’t flushed. Had she a farthing for every time she had heard that label while growing up, she supposed she would have quite a nest egg.

  Marie shrugged. “Now that I am older and have read some, I can see they were bitter because they bore the brunt of the fighting at the River Alma and lost so many m
en. One doesn’t think about that when she is young. I was certain that the servants here did not care to have a ‘frog’ in their midst, so I was determined to show that I did not care.”

  And so by her standoffishness she had fulfilled her own prophecy, Naomi thought. Still, she wished she had put forth more of an effort to understand Marie in those early days. She held out one more strip to be pasted, and when it was another loop on the chain, she rose to her feet. “I should see to those hens now.” But she stood there for a few seconds and said, impulsively, “I’m glad you brought that down here. We so seldom get to chat.”

  Marie shrugged again. “There is too much going on in the dining room, and I thought it a waste to heat the library for only one person.”

  “Of course.” God forbid you should admit to wanting anyone’s company.

  But minutes later, when the pullets had been transferred to a covered platter and Naomi had put a kettle of water on to boil for the potatoes, the accented voice said from the table, “But it has been pleasant visiting with you like this.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Under festoons of colored paper chains, the long table practically groaned with Sarah’s favorite dishes—julienne soup, fried oysters, crispy pullets, stewed rump of beef, parsleyed new potatoes, grilled mushrooms, artichoke bottoms, macaroni with parmesan cheese, stewed turnips, fresh rolls, and in the center of it all, GUNTER’S butter cream cake. Her birthday, Christmas, and Easter were the only occasions the servants celebrated in the dining room with other guests. By the time Avis and Claire whisked away the entrée dishes, spread a fresh cloth, and returned to their seats, Stanley was groaning, “I’m full as a tick!”

  At the head of the table Sarah glanced to her right and saw her grandmother’s and Marie’s tightening lips. Farther down the row, Claire Duffy planted an elbow into the groomsman’s ribs. Though Stanley had become quieter, more thoughtful since Hester’s marriage, he still seemed unable to break the habit of causing at least one woman to scold him during the course of a meal. And why should he, with so appreciative an audience as Mr. Duffy, whose cheeks reddened from the effort of containing the chuckles he would have released in the servants’ hall?

  “But you’ll take just a sliver, won’t you, Stanley?” Mrs. Bacon coaxed as the server in her hand sliced through a cluster of iced honeysuckle.

  “Only out of fondness for our Miss Matthews.”

  “For Miss Matthews?” Trudy asked from his other side. “Or for your sweet tooth?”

  He raised a hand to his chest. “It wounds me that you would have to ask, Trudy.”

  Down the table, Hester exchanged smiles with her husband, Mr. Addison Smith. He was not nearly as handsome as Stanley, with his tall gangly body, protruding Adam’s apple, and beak nose. But he treated his wife with quiet respect and affection, and often when he looked at her, he wore the expression of someone who cannot quite believe his good fortune.

  Mrs. Sharp, seated across from Grandmother, said in a half-teasing tone, “Well, because I am fond of our Miss Matthews and of GUNTER’S, I will have more than a sliver, if you please, Mrs. Bacon.” She was some ten years younger than the vicar and still wore the ill-fitting brown wig that was probably still the subject of discussion in Mayfair’s parlors. Occupying the other chairs on that side were the vicar, Avis, Mrs. Bacon, Hester and her husband, and Sarah’s tutor, Mr. Colby, who was leaving in a fortnight to join an expedition making preliminary plans to scale the Matterhorn.

  On Sarah’s right sat Grandmother, Marie, Mr. Duffy and Claire, Stanley, Trudy, Susan, the brown-haired cockney who took Hester’s place, Naomi, and William. The latter was staring at her a little oddly, as if she had icing on her face. Sarah ran a hand over her mouth and, coming up with nothing, raised an eyebrow at him in silent query. But he simply winked at her and once more became the same dear William she had quietly loved since the day he introduced her to Gypsy and Dudley.

  * * *

  A quarter of an hour later, William eyed the tissue-wrapped box in the collection assembled at the head of the table and kicked himself mentally for giving her yet another toy. He and his aunt Naomi had accompanied Sarah to see Killarney at the Adelphi just Saturday past. On Sunday he sent her a little wave from Saint George’s gallery and chatted with her in the garden after lunch. She couldn’t have matured so much in just four days—why was he just now noticing?

  Though she was still slender, she had developed feminine curves over the years, and her pixyish cap of blond hair had grown into the mass of curls caught up in a comb at the crown of her head. No longer did her cheekbones jut from a pinched little face. William wondered if it was because her green eyes were still large and waifish that he continued to think of her as a little girl. But at the head of the table stood a poised young woman, stylishly adorned in a plum-colored silk trimmed with black embroidering.

  “She’s grown up on us, hasn’t she?” his aunt murmured as Sarah, thanking Trudy warmly, angled a small box for all to see the hair ribbons inside.

  William gave Aunt Naomi a wry smile. “I just wish I would have noticed earlier. What did you get her?”

  “Middlemarch. And yourself?”

  He told her about the eight-inch model of the HMS Victoria that he had altered with a tobacco tin underneath to hold sodium bicarbonate and vinegar to give it motion. He had even tied twine to the stern so that she could sail from the bank of the Serpentine, but now he wasn’t certain. Did eighteen-year-old girls care for that sort of thing?

  “She’ll adore it,” Aunt Naomi said as if reading his mind. “Trust me, there is still some child in her yet.”

  “Yes.” He patted the hand resting upon his arm and watched Sarah slip her fingerless left hand into the handle straps Mr. Duffy had fashioned and attached to a white parasol. She had stopped hiding her hand in public over a year ago, telling him that reading Thoreau’s Journal convinced her she had consumed herself with worry long enough over how people perceived her. William had complimented her maturity back then but, ironically, never equated it to growing up.

  And while some changes happened too rapidly, others crawled. At twenty-one he was the youngest, most recently hired, and, therefore, most underpaid investigator for the Hassall Commission, formed in 1872 by an act of Parliament to stem the widespread adulteration of food, drinks, and drugs, particularly in poor neighborhoods. He enjoyed his work tremendously, but it pained him that his dream of enabling his aunt Naomi to become a lady of leisure would take much longer than he had anticipated.

  He came out of his reverie to notice Sarah lifting the lid from his gift. She scooped the ship from the box and looked over the decks and smokestacks before turning it to the underside. “For fuel?” she asked.

  “Sodium bicarbonate. It’s in the smaller box. And that’s vinegar in the bottle.”

  “Sodium bi—what?” Mr. Duffy asked.

  “Baking soda,” Sarah answered, sending William a smile. “It’s wonderful, thank you. You’ll help me launch it when the weather turns, won’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.” The knots in his shoulders eased. He felt lighthearted enough to accept the second slice of cake Mrs. Bacon pressed upon him.

  * * *

  “Last one!” Trudy exclaimed, pushing a dripping plate into the wall rack to dry overnight. She turned to hold out her apron to Naomi. “Look at me—I’m soaked to the skin!”

  Naomi stretched to hang the copper pot she had just polished onto a hook over the worktable. “You’ll dream of dishes and soap, won’t you?”

  The scullery maid feigned a shudder. “Not if I have any say-so about it.”

  “Why don’t you go on upstairs? I’ll pass a mop under the sink and be along.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Not at all,” Naomi replied. She worked quickly and hung the mop back on its nail just inside the pantry. When she came out again she sensed a presence and looked toward the doorway leading to the servant’s hall.

  “Stanley!” She put a hand to her h
eart. “I thought you were Trudy.”

  That he would allow that to pass without jesting gave her an indication of his mood. Hester, Naomi thought, giving him a sympathetic smile. “You didn’t enjoy tonight, did you?”

  He shrugged. “My own fault.”

  Naomi could not argue with that. “Would you care to sit for a little while? I’ll make hot chocolate.”

  “None for me, thank you. But you ain’t tired?”

  “It’s a good tired,” she replied as she pulled out a chair from the worktable.

  Dropping into the seat across from hers, he propped his chin upon his stacked fists. “I thought I didn’t care about her anymore.”

  “I’m so sorry, Stanley.”

  “Ah well.”

  “It’s just going to take some time.”

  Again he shrugged. “I’m glad she’s bein’ treated good . . . truly. His bein’ a religious fellow and all.”

  In his current mood, Naomi wasn’t certain if she shouldn’t allow the latter remark to pass. But it wasn’t often that he showed so vulnerable a side. Nor was it often that they had the opportunity to chat privately. She had watched his frantic search for happiness for almost seven years now and thought someone should encourage him to look up. “It’s not his being religious that makes him treat Hester well, Stanley,” she said gently.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Jesus’ harshest words were for people who were so religious that they make Mr. Smith seem like a heathen.”

  He stared at her as if she had announced that she despised cooking. “But if they was religious . . .”

  “Religion is what made them so harsh. They were proud of themselves for keeping the rules so well, yet they did not take care of their elderly parents, nor show charity to widows and orphans. And they hated Jesus for telling them that it was their hearts which mattered most to God.”

  “Then, why do you go to church if religion is bad?”

  She had to grope for words to explain that one without undoing what she had just said. “True religion is loving God and having compassion for your fellow man, Stanley. That’s not bad at all. And part of loving God is gathering with other Christians to worship Him . . . not to show everyone how righteous we are.”