The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  Naomi sent him a composed smile. “He used snuff.”

  Twenty minutes later the coach turned down Drury Lane. There were still no streetlamps in that north section, and loiterers huddled in darkened doorways in spite of the cold. But Sarah could barely sit still for the excitement. When the coach finally halted in front of Saint Matthew’s, she reached for the door handle. But William put his hand over hers.

  “I should go first. Just in case.”

  There was nothing to do but allow him to be the gentleman, and by the time Sarah stepped onto the pavement, Stanley was at William’s side. The coachman eyed the trio seated on the pavement in front of the public house, slurring out the song, “John Barleycorn.”

  Then they sent men with scythes so sharp,

  To cut him off at knee;

  And then poor Johnny Barleycorn,

  They served him barb’rously. . . .

  “I’ll stay with the horses,” Stanley said to William as he assisted Naomi from the coach.

  Sarah thought it was a good idea, although she could have told him it was the ones who didn’t sing who were far more dangerous. She stared at the orphanage’s sooty facade, so familiar and yet no longer home.

  “You know, I was near this spot just a fortnight ago,” William was saying. “We received a complaint about a greengrocer adding ground chalk to flour. Gave him a hefty fine and threatened him with prison if it happens again. But I had no idea this was Saint Matthew’s.”

  “They always had trouble keeping signboards,” Sarah said. Will they even remember me?

  A hand rested lightly upon her shoulder. “We should hurry, dear,” Naomi told her.

  Some minutes after William’s knock, Lily Jacobs squinted out at them from the open doorway. Other than the yellow cast of her skin from the lamp in her hand, she appeared the same as when Sarah bid her farewell almost five years ago.

  “Lily?” Sarah said, smiling.

  “Yes, Miss?”

  “It’s Sarah. I lived here once.”

  “Yes? Well, do come in.”

  As they stepped into the room that was no less frigid than the outdoors, the lack of recognition stung until Sarah reminded herself that hundreds of girls had left Saint Matthew’s over the years, and that her name was a common one. But even in the lamplight, with the door closed again behind them, Lily only smiled politely, causing Sarah to wonder, Have I changed that much?

  “We should ask to see Mrs. Forsyth,” Naomi suggested from her side.

  “Yes . . . Mrs. Forsyth. May we see her?”

  Lily nodded, but before she could turn to limp for the inner door, Sarah said, “Wait, please,” and withdrew her left hand from her cloak pocket. Even before she completely pulled off the short wool stocking that kept it warm, recognition flooded the worker’s face.

  “My word! It’s you!”

  Sarah was seized into an embrace and kissed upon both cheeks—which were by now wet with tears. She heard Naomi sniff beside her.

  “The girls are just about to go to supper,” Lily said, still gripping Sarah’s shoulders. “Of course those your age are gone, but most of the younger ones will remember you. Do come!”

  Sarah didn’t think Mrs. Forsyth would approve of anything so disruptive before a meal, but in her excitement she followed and beckoned Naomi and William to do the same. The youngest, or at least those old enough to walk, were just forming a queue outside the dining room, along with nine older girls who would help with feeding. All nine left their younger charges to gather around Sarah, peppering her with questions such as “Do you really live in a mansion?” and “Is he your husband?” which caused William to blush and Naomi to smile.

  “Young ladies—return to your places at once,” came a recognizable voice. The girls scurried away, and Sarah turned to face Mrs. Forsyth. Her face showed signs of aging, the hazel eyes were a little more careworn, but she smiled and said, “You can’t imagine how many times I’ve thought of you over the years.”

  After introductions, Mrs. Forsyth led the trio to the schoolroom, still fairly warm from lessons, where they sat on aged benches and talked. The headmistress expressed relief that Sarah was treated so well, and sympathy for the ill health which confined her grandmother to home. “What a comfort you must be to her,” she said in a tone that was almost questioning, as if she wished to be reassured that this was indeed so.

  “Sarah is the light of her eyes,” Naomi was quick to say.

  Sarah smiled at her, then turned again to Mrs. Forsyth. “My grandmother would like to give you a house.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Warming to the subject, she said, “She’s buying a fine old mansion in Hampstead. You should see the garden, and it even has water closets.”

  “And six fireplaces,” William said with a glance at the few dying chunks of coal in the grate.

  Sarah had never known the headmistress to be demonstrative, so she did not expect her to leap to her feet and dance with joy. But neither did she expect the anguish that washed across her face.

  “That’s not too far away, is it?” Sarah asked.

  “Far away?” Mrs. Forsyth was staring absently at the faded portrait of John Wesley next to the chalkboard.

  “The air is much more healthful,” Naomi offered. “There are six fireplaces,” William repeated.

  Cognizance returned to Mrs. Forsyth’s face. She gave Sarah a sad smile. “Please thank Mrs. Blake for such a generous offer. But I’m afraid we cannot accept it.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah.”

  She did not offer a reason why, and her voice was firm. Sarah had known her long enough to realize that she would not be swayed. With a heavy heart she rose from the bench and nodded at William’s suggestion that they return to Berkeley Square as soon as feasible.

  The dining room was filled with older girls, save the nine who had dined earlier. Those who resided in the home when Sarah left in 1870 still remembered her, despite the age difference. Her spirits lightened as she exchanged swift greetings from table to table. Mrs. Kettner and Mrs. Abbot caught her up in fierce embraces, as did Miss Woodward in the nursery. She left promising to return one day and turned from the coach to wave at Mrs. Forsyth in the glow of the doorway.

  Her mood became as dark as the lane that Gypsy and Dudley traveled, more swiftly now that most Londoners were at their supper tables. William and Naomi gave her sympathetic looks, but she was grateful that they did not attempt to cheer her. The surprise she had so looked forward to presenting was spoiled. Girls would not play games in that beautiful garden and take baths in a real porcelain tub, and there was nothing anyone could say to make any of that better.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Morning mist dampened the gray stones of Drury Lane on Sunday morning. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?” Lily Jacobs asked from the doorway.

  “I’ll be careful,” Olivia Forsyth looked back to reply. In her twenty-five years at Saint Matthew’s, Olivia had only missed three chapel services and then only when illness confined her to bed. As she walked toward the omnibus stop, four blocks south in the much safer theatre section of the Lane, the only affliction she suffered was the heaviness of soul that came from almost five years of self-recrimination. And added now to that mixture was guilt over how this would affect Sarah.

  She won’t be tossed out into the streets, Olivia reminded herself, stepping around the scatterings of a broken bottle and clutching tighter the frayed wool cloak that was part of her trousseau. If Sarah were indeed the “apple of her eye,” surely Mrs. Blake would have the decency not to blame the girl and would offer to help establish her in a position somewhere, perhaps as a governess. If not, there would always be a place for her at Saint Matthew’s. But both were far cries from her present lifestyle. Why, the salmon-colored cashmere gown she wore yesterday evening was probably of French design, not sewn together by some factory seamstress.

  Will she hate you? Olivia asked herself. Unless the trappings o
f wealth had changed the girl’s character dramatically, Sarah would forgive her with time. That would be worse. Olivia needed rage directed at her just as a fakir needed a hair shirt. How could she have ever talked herself into such grave deception? That her purposes were noble was of no comfort in the wee hours of each morning when guilt pricked at her heart.

  At the corner of Berkeley and Piccadilly Streets she stepped down from the omnibus to the chiming of “Gloria Patri” by not-too-distant bells. Mentally she added the words to the tune: Glory be to the Father . . . But the Scriptures said to lift holy hands to God. How she longed for the time when she could do so again.

  Oh, Father, if this is not from you, please strike me dead before I get there.

  She started walking north, her gloveless hand occasionally moving from the warmth of its pocket to draw tighter the hood of her cloak. Surely by the time she reached her destination, Sarah would have left for church. Ten minutes or so later she looked to her left at Berkeley Square, majestic in spite of its bare trees, and felt a pang of regret for the garden in Hampstead that her girls would never see. And so you must put it out of your mind, she thought, hastening her steps. It wasn’t meant to be.

  A thin woman in servant’s black-and-white answered her ring at number 14, panting slightly as if she had just run up or down a staircase. Olivia had no social life beyond Saint Matthew’s and therefore no card to present, so she simply identified herself.

  “Will you wait here?” the maid asked with a motion toward a settle in the hall. Olivia sat without removing the cloak. It would serve no purpose to do so if Mrs. Blake refused to grant her audience. It could be that she was insulted that the offer of the house was turned down. The maid came again down the staircase and up the corridor, giving her a nervous smile. “Mrs. Blake will see you. May I take your cloak?”

  “Thank you.” She took it off and handed it over, and even in her troubled state of mind, she managed to be amused at the maid’s attempts not to stare at her short hair. She was led to a parlor dressed out in rich colors and presented to the white-haired woman seated in a velvet-upholstered chair. “Mrs. Blake,” Olivia said with a respectful incline of the head. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “I’ve little else to do, as you see,” the woman said. She nodded toward the chair facing her. “Will you have some tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Truth was, she had left Saint Matthew’s in such haste that she had not taken her morning cup, and her mouth fairly watered at the offer. But she had taken enough from Mrs. Blake, and under false pretenses. It made no difference that a cup of tea cost pittance.

  “Then what may I do for you? You’ve reconsidered the house?”

  “No, Mrs. Blake. But your kind offer prompted me to come today.” Olivia glanced at the maid, who stood a few feet to the side of her mistress’s chair. “May we speak privately?”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Blake turned to the maid. “You may leave us, Avis.”

  When the door closed, the woman’s pale eyes rested questioningly on Olivia. There was no way to soften the blow, so she had no choice but to confess her crime. She could only pray that Mrs. Blake had the stamina to bear it. “I can no longer live with the iniquity I have borne in my heart for almost five years, Mrs. Blake.”

  * * *

  In the silence that followed Mrs. Forsyth’s terrible story, Dorothea could only sit with hands clinched. The pain in her joints was nothing to the ache in her chest. Sarah, not Jeremy’s daughter? And to learn that she had contributed to her infant granddaughter’s death by sending Mary Tomkin away was far worse than the guilt that had plagued her over Sarah’s thirteen years in the orphanage.

  Eleven years, she thought, recalling the confession she had just heard. Brought in at the apparent age of three by a drunken fisherman, which made the girl actually closer to nineteen years instead of the eighteen they had just celebrated. No wonder she’s so mature for her age.

  “Mrs. Blake?”

  “Why did you do it?” Dorothea blinked at her through tears. “For the money?”

  “That was part of it. I wish I had it to return to you. But mostly I wanted Sarah to have a better future. I didn’t have enough faith to trust God to do that.”

  “Are you aware that I’ve established legal guardianship? That she’s the primary benefactress of my will?”

  Mrs. Forsyth’s hazel eyes lowered, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry. But surely that can be remedied.”

  “It can. My solicitor is stopping by tomorrow, in fact.”

  “I just ask . . . please . . . that you not hold Sarah accountable for my misdeeds.” The headmistress’ hand lifted from the faded blue reticule in her lap. “If I could only go back and undo—”

  “But you can’t, can you?”

  “No. I can’t.”

  Dorothea stared at her visitor. The agony in her face was familiar—she had seen it in the mirror countless times while grieving over her own failures. What had Naomi said years ago? “Regret is a hard burden to bear.”

  She had every right to be furious with the woman for her willful deception, even to bring this matter to the police. Fraud was still a crime in England, and Saint Matthew’s had accepted two hundred pounds from her under false pretense.

  But she came here today. And she could have accepted the house and no one would have been the wiser.

  A remnant of another conversation with Naomi came to her mind, easily, for Dorothea often reminded herself of it whenever pain or fear struck. Grace will lead me home.

  Mrs. Forsyth had given her Sarah, who demonstrated more love to her than Jeremy ever had. The act was dishonest, but it had saved a bitter old woman’s life. And there was nothing anyone could do to bring her real granddaughter back to life, God keep her tiny soul.

  Amazing grace. Dorothea imagined it pouring over herself like a sunbeam. She realized that in her gnarled hands lay the power to keep things just the way they were before Mrs. Forsyth rang her doorbell. Why did anything have to change? Because Sarah was no blood relation? That would have mattered once, but being on the waning end of life made her more reflective about most of the notions she once took for granted.

  You gave me a second chance, Father, when you sent that girl here. I’ll not fail you . . . or her.

  “How many people have you told about this, Mrs. Forsyth?” Dorothea asked.

  “Only God,” she replied in a flat tone.

  “Then do you see any reason why it cannot stay that way?”

  The headmistress stared, her expression uncomprehending, then incredulous. “Mrs. Blake . . . are you suggesting you wish to keep Sarah here?”

  “I’ve not much longer to live, and—”

  “Oh . . . I’m so sorry . . .”

  Dorothea shook her head. “I have reconciled myself to that, Mrs. Forsyth. But had you not sent Sarah here, that would not have been possible, for I spent my days constantly looking inward. Loving her, caring about someone else’s needs, and being loved in return has been a tonic to my soul. I think you understand how that is.”

  “I do.” Tears brimmed in the hazel eyes.

  “Besides, I feel grandmotherly toward her.”

  “Mrs. Blake, if you could only know—” But Mrs. Forsyth covered her face with her hands and wept silently.

  Dorothea wiped her own eyes and at length cleared her throat. “Do you need a handkerchief?”

  “No . . . thank you.” The woman dug a folded bit of linen from the reticule and swabbed at her face. “Forgive me for becoming so emotional, Mrs. Blake. But you will never know what a burden you’ve lifted from my shoulders.”

  Dorothea smiled. “Actually, I believe I do. And now will you lift one from mine?”

  “Anything,” she replied in the tremulous tone of a soldier taking the oath to defend Crown and country.

  “Will you accept that house in Hampstead and make my granddaughter happy again?”

  Mrs. Forsyth stared at her, seemingly unable to compose a reply.

&nb
sp; “And my solicitor will see that your coal bills go on my account. With six fireplaces, you’ll need it.” Dorothea cocked a wary eyebrow. “You’re not about to burst into another round of tears, are you?”

  For the first time since entering her parlor, Mrs. Forsyth smiled, wiping her face again. “I’m actually quite stoic most of the time. And yes, my dear Mrs. Blake, we will accept that house and the coal.” She rose from the chair and, after a slight hesitation, bent to press a kiss upon Dorothea’s forehead. “What a sweet soul you are.”

  Sweet, Dorothea thought when she was gone. No one had ever accused her of sweetness, even in her best days, but she found she rather liked it. Later she tried to keep from wincing while Avis rubbed her hands with an oil mixture of rosemary and camphor. Saint George’s bells began chiming “The Genevan Psalter,” meaning Sarah would be home soon. She could hardly wait to tell her about Saint Matthew’s and the house. Mentally she followed the notes. “Praise God from whom all blessings flow!”

  ****

  The following Saturday after lunch, Sarah read from the Daily Telegraph to Grandmother and Marie in the sitting room. It had become a routine as her grandmother’s hands could no longer manage the pages, and Marie could speak English far better than she could read it. Sarah perched at the end of the divan because of the bustle to her moss green silk gown and held the newspaper aloft to keep the print from smearing.

  Serbian peasants in Herzegovina, unable to pay taxes due to crop failures, revolted again against the Ottoman Empire in a series of uprisings. . . .

  A faint knock sounded at the door and it eased open. Sarah lowered the newspaper long enough to smile at William, who motioned her to continue. But Grandmother shook her head. “I don’t want to hear any more news about fighting.”

  “I do not like it either,” Marie murmured over her needlepoint.

  Sarah wondered if she was thinking about France’s humiliation by Prussia only four years ago.

  Grandmother turned her head to where William still stood just inside the doorway. “Well, don’t just stand there eavesdropping, William. Come sit here and cheer us.”