Meanwhile Naomi and Mr. Rayborn pretended to study etchings on the wall again—or at least Naomi pretended and suspected Mr. Rayborn was doing the same. The trio did not linger but moved on when the girl whined, “The cells are too gloomy. And you said we could see the jewel room first.”
When Mr. Rayborn turned to Naomi again, he wore a look of desperation. “I’m not attempting to defraud Mrs. Blake, Miss Doyle.”
“Mr. Mitchell explained all of that to William, Mr. Rayborn.”
“I owe her a debt for the kindness she’s shown Sarah.”
“Which you’re paying, and then some,” Naomi assured him. “It’s remarkably selfless of you.”
He stared at her in silence for a moment. “It’s not so selfless. There have been some unexpected rewards.”
“Well, yes. You still get to spend time with her.”
“I treasure that time, Miss Doyle.” The creases at his eyes deepened. “As well as the time I spend with you. Though it’s not nearly enough to suit me.”
As much as Naomi believed coyness more suited to the young, she understood that there were certain rituals to courtship that must be observed. And it was incumbent upon her at that moment to affect a degree of surprise. With a lift of brows she asked in a soft voice, “What are you saying, Mr. Rayborn?”
He gave her a little smile, as if he knew exactly what she was doing. “I’m saying that there is no place I would rather be this very moment than here with you.”
Naomi returned his smile. “In prison?”
He moved closer to take both of her hands and lifted them to his chest. She could not recall any man, even the beau of her youth, regarding her with such warmth and affection. “It’s somehow appropriate. You’ve totally captured my heart, Naomi Doyle.”
Looking up at him, Naomi breathed a quiet, contented sigh. “I like hearing that, Mr. Rayborn.”
“Daniel?” he prompted in a hopeful tone.
“Daniel,” she said, lifting her chin. His kiss was slow, thoughtful, and rendered her too lightheaded to be aware of anything but the two of them. Until they drew apart and the smattering of applause met her ears. She dropped his hands and turned to face a half-dozen smiles and exclamations of congratulazioni! and benissimo!
While Naomi covered her face with a hand, prompting laughter from the Italians, Daniel replied grazie! and took her by the arm to hurry them both through the opposite passageway. “We’ll have something to tell our grandchildren!” he said, chuckling.
As they rejoined his daughter and her nephew on the Green and she could finally smile about it, she told herself that perhaps an appreciative audience was appropriate for a woman who waited thirty-seven years to be kissed and that indeed it would make a fine story to tell grandchildren. It would take that long for her cheeks to stop burning.
****
Vicar Sharp was back in the pulpit the next morning, looking a bit worn for the wear, but unwavering in his deliver of a sermon titled “The Three Spiritual Perfumes.”
“It’s so good to have you back, Vicar,” Sarah told him at the door, feeling the hypocrite for her disappointment that Mr. Knight had not conducted the service.
But the curate appeared at her right elbow when she and Marie were halfway to the coach. “Miss Matthews . . . Miss Prewitt,” he said, his mismatched eyes as affectionate as if he had bumped into two old friends. “You’re both looking especially lovely today.”
“Thank you,” Sarah told him while Marie nodded and took the compliment as her due.
“How is dear Mrs. Blake?” he asked.
Sarah’s smile faded. “About the same. I fear we’ll not see any improvement at her age.”
“She does miss coming to church,” Marie said.
“Hmm.” The curate grasped his clean-shaven chin between his thumb and forefinger. “You know, that gives me an idea. I don’t know what you would think about this . . .”
“What is it?” Sarah asked.
“Well, the last time I stopped by, you mentioned repeating as much as you can recall of the sermons to her—and I’m sure you do a fine job, but truthfully, there is something comforting about having a representative of the Church perform that service.”
Sarah wasn’t quite certain what he was suggesting. “Are you offering to do that?”
“I haven’t family responsibilities on Sunday afternoons like the vicar. I would come after you’ve had lunch, of course. And only if Mrs. Blake is willing.”
“Yes, please do,” Sarah said, clasping her left hand happily with her gloved right one. “Your last visit did her so much good.”
“Shall I today, then?”
“Today?” It was too good to be true. She couldn’t wait to tell Grandmother.
“Perhaps we should ask Madame first,” Marie cautioned.
“But she’ll be delighted,” Sarah said. “You know how happy she is to have callers. An even better idea occurred to her. “Come early for lunch. It’s the least we can do. Naomi usually has it ready about an hour after we get home.”
She was just about to offer a ride in the coach but happened to glance past his left shoulder and wilted. A gaggle of young women, including Miss Fowler, were leveling scathing looks directly at her. He shouldn’t be speaking with you in public like this, she told herself. She was used to the ostracism, but Mr. Knight had his reputation to consider. “Well, we should go now. . . .”
But he turned to look in the same direction. There was amusement in his face when he turned again to Sarah. “Forgive me for being so presumptuous, but if I rode over with you in your coach, Mrs. Blake and I would have time to chat before lunch. Just in case she’s used to afternoon naps.”
“That . . . would be nice, thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Then the curate did a bold thing. He positioned himself between Sarah and Marie and, crooking his elbows, offered arms to both. As they turned again toward the coach, Sarah could feel eyes burning into the back of her head, but she could not help but admire his lack of concern for local gossip.
Once he had traded greetings with Stanley and assisted her and Marie into the coach, Mr. Knight said from the open door with apology in his tone, “I should tell Mrs. Sharp not to expect me for lunch.”
“That’s very considerate of him, don’t you think?” Sarah said to Marie, who was seated beside her so Mr. Knight could have a seat to himself. She had sensed a bit of aloofness coming from the maid, but then with Marie it was sometimes difficult to tell.
“I just wonder . . .” Marie’s amber eyes peered past Sarah through the window. “There are others in Mayfair who cannot attend church. Why does he only offer this to Madame?”
“Because he’s . . .” Sarah began before understanding what Marie was implying. Or at least she thought she did. Could Mr. Knight be trying to curry favor because of Grandmother’s wealth?
She shamed herself for the thought. If Mr. Knight cared about money so much, he wouldn’t have chosen the ministry. Did every act of kindness have to be viewed with suspicion? Besides, Grandmother wasn’t the only wealthy person in Mayfair.
Mr. Knight stepped back into the coach before Sarah could reason with Marie. “Again, I’m grateful for the lunch invitation. And Vicar Sharp, good soul that he is, will enjoy having a meal with just his family present for a change.”
“You’re most welcome, Mr. Knight,” Sarah said as the wheels lurched into motion.
To her horror, Marie voiced the question again. “Do you offer this to all the ailing who cannot attend church, Mr. Knight?”
He looked at her for several long seconds. “No. I don’t.”
Marie folded her arms and waited for an explanation. Sarah clinched her teeth and lowered her eyes to stare at the toes of his boots.
“Mrs. Blake reminds me of my beloved grandmother, may God rest her soul.”
Sarah’s eyes shifted to his face again.
“She moved in with us when my grandfather died and was the person who most influenced me to become a minister.” Hi
s distinctive mismatched eyes seemed to look into the distance while his lips curved into a smile. “That day the vicar and I first called . . . I was so struck with the resemblance. It seemed very much a sign from God that just because I had left all that was familiar to me, it did not mean He wouldn’t sprinkle little oases of remembrance across my path.”
Sarah’s eyes filled. When Marie spoke this time, her tone had lost its suspicion. “You miss her, Mr. Knight?”
He closed his eyes for a fraction. “More than I can say, Miss Prewitt. And more so now. Sometimes I can almost hear the sound of her piano softly playing.”
“Why, Grandmother plays the piano too,” Sarah said. “At least she did when she could use her hands.”
“She did?” Mr. Knight shook his head with wonder. “Uncanny!”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“What are they doing now, Marie?” Dorothea asked from her chair one week later.
Heaving an aggrieved sigh, Marie pushed herself to her feet and went to the window. “The same thing they were doing five minutes ago, Madame. Walking.”
“Does it appear that they’re getting along well?”
“I cannot see their faces well enough. But they are not spitting at each other.”
“Marie!”
The maid turned an unrepentant face toward her. “Is it not past time for Madame’s nap?”
“Later.” Dorothea frowned at the light knocking at the sitting room door. “Now, who would that be during my nap time?”
She had only said it to irritate Marie, which was one of the few pleasures left to her. And it worked, for the maid grumbled in French all the way to the door. The only phrase that met Dorothea’s ears distinctly was C’est fou! which she believed meant either “This is crazy!” or “This is cold!”
Stanley stepped meekly through the doorway. He had changed from livery clothes into clean work clothes and clutched his cloth cap in his hands.
“Might I have a word with you, mum?”
It was not like Stanley to present anything less than a jovial face to her. And Mrs. Bacon was the one to whom he brought any requests such as a raise in wages or something needed in the stable. Dorothea nodded. “Very well.”
“Shall I leave?” Marie asked
After a hesitation he shook his head. “Everyone’s going to find out anyway.”
“Then do come over here and have a seat where I can see you without straining my neck,” Dorothea said.
“Oh . . . yes, mum,” he said and scooted over to a chair as if he feared her neck would break off any second. Marie sat as well.
“You’re not thinking of leaving us, are you?” Dorothea asked.
“I don’t want to, mum. But . . .” He twisted the cap in his hands, his fringed blue eyes not quite meeting hers. “I’m goin’ to be gettin’ married very soon and wonder if I might bring my wife to live over the stables. And our son.”
“Your . . . son?”
The twisting of his cap intensified. “He’s seven months old. His name’s Guy, after Penny’s father.”
“Penny is his mother?”
“Oh yes, mum. Penny Wallace. They live in Saint Giles.”
“Saint Giles? The slums?”
He hung his head. “Penny lost her job as shopgirl in the draper’s store on New Bond after she had the baby, so they moved in with her folks.” Meeting her eyes again, his were beseeching. “She’s handy with a needle and could take on mending to make up for the extra food we’d need, as there ain’t a kitchen over the stables, but if mending ain’t enough, you could cut my wages to make up for it. I already spoke with Naomi, and she said there’s usually some leftover anyhow, so she wouldn’t have to cook but a bit extra if you gave permission.”
It was more than Dorothea had ever heard the groomsman speak at one time. She looked to Marie for help.
“I believe Stanley is desiring to put some wrongs to right,” the maid said.
He nodded grimly. “Something I should have done a long time ago.”
“Why are you doing it now?” Dorothea asked.
“It’s what a Christian man’s supposed to do. Take care of his family.”
“And you’re certain the child is yours?”
“Yes, mum.” He blew out a long breath. “I acted shameful, tellin’ Penny he weren’t mine. But I always knew he was.”
It all sounded achingly familiar to Dorothea, even though Jeremy had never gone so far as to own up to his paternity of the baby Mary Tomkin carried. “May I assume you do not love this Penny?”
The corners of his lips tugged downward, yet there was no distress in his voice. “That ain’t the boy’s fault, mum. As for love . . . I’m just now learnin’ that it ain’t the same thing I thought it was for years. But I figure if I act decent and kindly toward her, we can give the boy and each other a good home. And maybe God will put a dose of true love for her in my heart one day.”
Dorothea blinked the clouding from her eyes. She could not go back and undo her act of turning out Mary Tomkin nor force her deceased son to own up to his responsibility. But here in her sitting room she was being offered an opportunity to build something upon past regrets. Stanley was not her natural kin, but as a child of God he was her brother. And his little son, an innocent who could benefit from the lessons she had learned.
“When will you marry, Stanley?”
“As soon as the vicar is willing. I want to get them out of Saint Giles as soon as I can. But if I have to look for another position . . .”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Dorothea ordered. “Go speak with the vicar first thing in the morning. Request a license, not the banns, so you’ll not have to wait three weeks. Ask Mrs. Bacon for a couple of pounds from the household account for the fee if you need it.”
Gratefulness flooded his expression. “I’ll never forget this, mum. And I’ve enough. I wouldn’t feel like a proper husband, startin’ off marriage on someone else’s two quid.”
****
“Naomi wanted to try out some new ones, so I planted another row,” Mr. Duffy said that same afternoon, pointing out seedlings of chervil, golden purslane, sweet marjoram, and borage—newcomers to the ever-expanding herbal neighborhood where angelica, sage, mint, fennel, tarragon, savory, burnet, hyssop, lemon thyme, pennyroyal, and sweet basil also resided.
“It all looks very nice, as usual,” William said.
“Aye, very nice.” Mr. Duffy bent to pull a blade of grass from the mound of savory and tossed it. “I don’t mind tending flowers and fruit trees, but I’ve always leaned toward vegetables. Mayhap it’s because Claire and I never had little ones. Nursin’ a seed along until it’s a shiny head of cauliflower or cabbage fills my heart with the same pride a papa must feel when his tot grows to be a decent fellow.”
Were William in his pre-lunch mood, he would have teased good-naturedly that parents did not generally eat their children once they became decent fellows. But his mood had taken a turn for the worse when he discovered that Mr. Knight, who had lunched in the sitting room with Sarah, Mrs. Blake, and Marie for two Sundays in a row, was now escorting Sarah about the square.
“Right next to the radishes will be Egyptian turnips,” Mr. Duffy went on. “Mr. Hammer, the Rothschilds’ new gardener, gave me the seeds. He says they’re the deepest bloodred—have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“I don’t think I have,” William said absently. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Mr. Knight. Who could dislike such a dedicated young man, whose brilliance in the pulpit was the talk of all of St. George’s parishioners? And for a lowly curate to snub his nose at Mayfair’s prudish society like that was nothing short of courageous. That was what made the discovery even worse. Had Sarah been accompanied by a scoundrel, anger could have burned up some of the melancholy within him.
After he had admired Mr. Duffy’s brood of sprouts long enough for politeness’ sake, and then a little longer for the sake of longtime friendship, he excused himself and started downstairs for the kitchen. His au
nt, just putting the lid on a large kettle, turned to smile at him.
“Ah, there you are.”
“Mr. Duffy was showing me the herb garden.” He wondered how much of the flush upon her face had to do with the heat of the stove and how much with whatever happened between her and Mr. Rayborn yesterday. At least one of us is happy, he thought. And Aunt Naomi deserved happiness, if anyone did.
“Trudy will watch the soup,” she said, reaching back to untie her apron. “Why don’t we walk over and hear the bagpipers?” It had been discussed during lunch, the band from Glasgow assembling at Hyde Park at two. The Duffys, Avis, Susan, and Mrs. Bacon were planning to go, with Trudy declining out of dislike for bagpipes, and Stanley because, as he put it, he had some important things to attend. “Miss Matthews might care to come along. Was she out back with you?”
William shook his head. “She’s walking the square with Mr. Knight.”
“Really? I assumed he left after lunch.” She tossed her apron into the soiled linen basket. “I suppose he may enjoy it as well.”
“If you wish. I’m going to head for home.”
“What’s wrong, William?” she asked with fading smile.
“Nothing.” He covered a make-believe yawn. “Just need to rest up a bit before tomorrow morning.”
Her blue eyes studied his face. “It’s Mr. Knight, isn’t it? Surely you don’t think he’s initiating a courtship just because they’re taking a walk?”
“Why wouldn’t he?” William asked and thought, Why wouldn’t any man? Sarah was so unique: pious and yet fun, compassionate without being maudlin, intelligent yet charmingly naive. He had discovered her inner beauty in the painstakingly even lines of her letters to Oxford, back while she was ungainly and as thin as a cat’s elbow. But a person would have to be shortsighted not to notice her outer beauty now. And there was her grandmother’s wealth, although William could at least appreciate that the curate was probably not interested in it.
His aunt stepped up to rest a hand upon his crossed forearm. “You love her, don’t you?”
“I think I always have, Aunt Naomi.”
“So you’re going to go back to your flat and mope?”
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 41