The Maiden of Mayfair

by Lawana Blackwell

  “I’m on my way, Mr. Rayborn,” William said, putting out the lamp. On the bottom landing he took the sandwich wrapped in brown paper from his pocket and fed it to the landlord’s yellow tabby. “Now, don’t be telling Mr. Ruebenstein I fed you ham,” he warned in a low voice. He walked to Ludgate Circus and entered Webley’s, a café amply filled with patrons because the food was cheap and generously portioned to make up for the limited menu choices. William stopped there only once a week or so, preferring to bring sandwiches or meat pies home for his supper. If one had to dine alone, it was better to do so in the privacy of one’s flat with a newspaper or book for company rather than surrounded by others wrapped up in socializing. He spotted the tutor at a table for two at the window.

  “Mr. Doyle,” Mr. Rayborn said, pushing out his chair. “I’m glad you could make it.”

  “This is a pleasant surprise,” William said as they shook hands. He nodded toward the window, through which busy street traffic on the dimming Circus was still visible. “You must have been waiting a while to get the best spot.”

  Mr. Rayborn began clearing notebook and papers from the table. “You know, I didn’t even notice the place had filled. You know how absorbing work can be.”

  “I do indeed.” When they were settled in facing chairs, William asked, “Will you finish by year’s end?”

  “I plan to finish well before then, God willing.”

  The proprietor’s daughter, a dark-haired girl of perhaps fourteen, brought William a cup of tea and refilled Mr. Rayborn’s empty one. William ordered beef-barley soup, and when Mr. Rayborn, who ordered fried sole, suggested he might care for something a little more substantial, William shook his head. “All those years at Berkeley Square—my stomach still craves soup most evenings.”

  “I understand.”

  As he unfolded his linen napkin, William could no longer contain his curiosity. He hoped they were well enough acquainted by now for him to be honest. “I do appreciate your invitation, Mr. Rayborn, for the company as well as the supper. But with your being willing to wait here so long, I can’t help but wonder if there’s a special occasion.”

  Gaslights outside the window were beginning to hiss, but the light in Mr. Rayborn’s eyes came from another source. “You’re very astute, Mr. Doyle.”

  By the time the meal was finished, they were addressing each other as Daniel and William.

  “You aren’t going to insist I address you as ‘Uncle Daniel,’ are you?” William said as they walked out onto the pavement and toward a hansom stand. He was delighted with the news and had told the tutor so several times over supper.

  Daniel feigned disappointment. “Why not? It has a nice ring to it.”

  Smiling, they clasped hands and wished each other good-night.

  Thank you, Father, William prayed while washing his face an hour later. Aunt Naomi deserved someone who would appreciate her and treat her accordingly. He had no doubt that Daniel would do so. And Sarah deserved a real mother for the first time in her life.

  We’ll be cousins . . . sort of, he realized. What had Aunt Naomi said so many years ago? Queen Victoria married her cousin and they were very happy.

  “I wonder if he tormented himself over her too,” he muttered to the dripping reflection in his washstand mirror.

  ****

  It was not often that William saw the inside of Dr. Arthur Hassall’s office in the building on Whitehall that housed the Commission. Dr. Hassall was something of a legend in those halls, having written the series of exposé articles that led Parliament to pass the Adulteration of Food, Drink, and Drugs Act of 1872. But it was with an unassuming smile that the man pushed out his chair to shake William’s hand on Friday morning.

  “I wish to commend you for your diligence in that dairy investigation, Mr. Doyle,” the doctor, bearded and mildly stoop-shouldered, said when they were seated on either side of a desk cluttered with papers and books. “My youngest grandson is very fond of cheese, so I take personal offense when someone has the cheek to color it with chromate of lead.”

  “Thank you, sir,” William replied, and because having Dr. Hassall notice his work filled him with so much awe that there was no room left for thought faculties, he added, “I’m fond of cheese myself.”

  Kindly, Dr. Hassall nodded. “I wonder if you would consider being assigned to Manchester for six months, Mr. Doyle? The Commission is founding a branch there and requires someone to assist in interviewing chemists and providing training for investigative work.”

  It was an honor to be asked, considering his youth. And the premise of helping to start a new work was exciting. But all William could think about was how good it had felt to step onto the platform of Paddington Station just five months ago, finished with five years of semiexistence between Oxford and London.

  “I realize this allows very little time for preparations,” Dr. Hassall said, misinterpreting William’s inability to reply. “But the Commission will pay the rent on your flat while you’re gone, so it’s basically a matter of packing clothing and personal necessities.” Smiling, he added, “I’m leaving out the best part. While the fact that you haven’t a family to consider—children to uproot from schools and such—helped to sway us in your direction, we would not select someone with any less dedication and expertise. I say ‘offer’ because this is considered a promotion, with an appropriate raise in wages. We really need you there.”

  “I’m flattered, sir,” William told him. Overwhelmed was more appropriate. But six months? Yet he could understand the difficulty such an assignment would pose to those with wives and children.

  “You have some questions, Mr. Doyle?”

  “I just wonder if I can expect six-day work weeks there as well.” He hastened to add, “I’ve never been afraid of hard work, Dr. Hassall. But even though I’ve no wife or children, I’ve loved ones here, and Manchester is too far for Sunday visits. I’ve also an important wedding to attend in October.”

  The older man shook his head regretfully. “I won’t deceive you. The workload would be even more intense than here. But as for the wedding, I can guarantee you two or three days off.”

  William asked for time to think about it, which was granted. As they shook hands again, Dr. Hassall said, “Why don’t we meet again Monday morning?”

  The remainder of the day was devoted to conducting laboratory tests and recording the results, so he had sparse time to attempt to gaze mentally down both forks in the road. It was in the evening as he tidied his flat that he had opportunity to wonder how such an absence would affect his relationship with Sarah.

  Aunt Naomi had advised professing his love and then allowing her some time, he reminded himself while sweeping the rug that had surely been old even when the tenement building was constructed. His thoughts strayed in an unwelcome direction toward the curate who had walked so confidently with her in the square on Sunday. Sarah was obviously enjoying Mr. Knight’s company.

  But she enjoyed his company as well. They had had that bond for years now. Did that mean she loved him? Or was he like a pair of old slippers to her; worn and comfortable and a trifle taken for granted? Was Dr. Hassall’s offer an answer to his prayer for direction, an opportunity to give Sarah time and distance to study what was in her own heart? Could it be simple coincidence that Aunt Naomi became engaged just two days ago, thereby freeing him of the worry that she would be lonely? He scarcely knew how to pray that night except to ask for a wisdom greater than his twenty-two years.

  It was as he stood at his washstand mirror the next morning pressing a towel against a razor nick in his chin that he realized what he had to do. He would tell Sarah how he felt for her, as Aunt Naomi advised. If she confessed the same for him and asked him not to go, he would stay. If he sensed any uncertainty, he would accept the assignment. He quashed the worrisome thought that by leaving he would give Mr. Knight more room for courting. As Aunt Naomi had said, he was not engaged in a cricket match.

  ****

  “Did Mad
ame enjoy the visit?” Marie asked on Friday afternoon, spreading her needlepoint canvas on her lap while Vicar Sharp’s retreating steps still drifted through the open window.

  “Very much,” Dorothea replied. “You didn’t mind my sending you away, did you? There are some things best kept between one’s clergy and one’s self.”

  The maid waved a hand. “Not at all, Madame. I was telling Naomi the places in Paris she must visit on her honeymoon.”

  Dorothea smiled and thought how nice is was to be warmed by the glow of even someone else’s love. And she smiled at her own cleverness in making her case to the vicar. “The young man labored like a Trojan when you were ill . . . sermons, visits, morning readings. Don’t you think he deserves a bit of gaiety now and again, so he doesn’t become discouraged?”

  She was certain that Sarah and Naomi and the men wouldn’t object. It wasn’t as though it would be every Saturday, for the vicar declared he could not usually spare him in the hours preceding Sunday’s services. Mr. Knight was as personable as a man could be, almost a saint, and everyone certainly adored him. And to silence that little nagging doubt over her actions, Dorothea reminded herself that as the one financing the excursions, she had the authority to make a decision without calling for a referendum.

  Now that she had made her peace with God, Dorothea could only believe that Ethan Knight had been divinely appointed to Mayfair so that she would have assurance that Sarah would be well looked after when she was gone.

  The girl came through the doorway with a book under her arm. She wore her corn silk hair tied with a blue ribbon to match her frock, and for a second Dorothea was reminded of the waif who stood in her parlor and insisted in a wavering little voice that she did not have lice.

  “I was about to start the book Mr. Rayborn gave me and wondered if you’d care for me to read it aloud,” Sarah said, patting the top of Dorothea’s head as if she were but a small child. “What do you think?”

  Dorothea told her it would be nice, but then, the girl could offer to read the dictionary to her and she would agree just to hear her voice. Marie crimped her nose and began putting her needlework back into its basket. “I will take this upstairs. Just ring for—”

  “Mr. Verne is a Frenchman, Marie,” the girl said, and Dorothea caught the wink she sent her way.

  “Well . . . I suppose I could sit for a little while,” the maid said with affected gruffness.

  As Sarah took her place beside her on the divan and almost reverently turned past the first few blank pages, Dorothea considered giving her the news. But then, Marie would probably voice something negative about her not consulting the others before issuing the invitation, and Sarah could become confused. Why tell her at all? Dorothea asked herself. If there was one thing Sarah enjoyed, it was a surprise.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The thermometer on the gardening shed read an unseasonably high fifty-five degrees on Saturday morning, the blue sky cloudless. “Wouldn’t the park be lovely this afternoon?” Sarah hinted to Naomi after helping Trudy clear breakfast dishes from the hall. “I’ve yet to sail William’s boat.”

  Naomi, rubbing potatoes with lard for baking, nodded. “It would be nice just to sit out in the sun.”

  “Then it’s only a matter of talking the men into it.”

  “What did you just say, Miss?” Trudy said above the sound of running water.

  Sarah smiled at Naomi and repeated herself a little more loudly. “I said it’s only a matter of talking the men into it.”

  “I expect you could talk them into visitin’ the dustyard.”

  “No good. We tried,” Naomi quipped.

  As Trudy’s laughter mingled with the sound of sloshing dishes, Sarah watched Naomi, who seemed to have blossomed almost overnight. Or perhaps it was that her own perception had changed. In addition to seeing her as a friend and her grandmother’s cook, she could see a woman serenely aware that she is adored by a man. How simple their love seemed, with none of the befuddlement that plagued her own mind over exactly which feelings were supposed to be in her heart and for whom.

  “You’re staying on because of Grandmother, aren’t you?” Sarah said low enough for only one set of ears.

  “Yes,” Naomi replied just as softly. “And because of you.”

  That confirmed Sarah’s suspicions that the cook knew what she had known for a while. “Thank you, Naomi.” She swallowed. “For how long?”

  She meant for how long afterward but couldn’t bring herself to add that part.

  “Until you no longer need me.”

  Sarah had to smile. “Then you’ll be here forever.”

  “You won’t need me for that long.” Naomi returned her smile as a slender hand reached for another potato. “But I’ll always be nearby.”

  “Always?”

  “Yes.”

  The simple word reassured Sarah as much as if someone else had taken an oath. Remembering her promise to read to Grandmother and Marie before lunch, she got to her feet, touched Naomi’s shoulder, and was at the door when the scullery maid’s voice stopped her.

  “Miss Matthews?”

  “Yes, Trudy?” Sarah said, turning.

  Elbows deep in suds, Trudy gave her a sweet sidelong smile. “I’ll be here too.”

  * * *

  After lunch Sarah changed into a shell-pink organdy gown with cuffed Marie Antoinette sleeves and a straw hat lined with pink faille. She walked downstairs to wait, for Naomi had just gone up to change, and neither of the men had arrived. Under her arm she held the box containing William’s boat and thought about how pleased he would be that she hadn’t forgotten about it.

  When she entered the sitting room, Grandmother sent her a smile and nodded toward the chair from which Mr. Knight was rising.

  “Come in, Sarah!” she said. “Help me convince Mr. Knight that you’ll be delighted to have him along.”

  The curate, handsome in a camel-colored tweed suit, set his cup and saucer on the tea table and advanced to take her hand. “I was telling Mrs. Blake it was most wicked of her to spring this upon you, Miss Matthews.”

  “Nonsense!” Grandmother declared, while Marie silently concentrated on sewing a button on the gown in her lap.

  Mr. Knight brushed his lips against Sarah’s hand. Smiling as if they shared a secret joke, he lowered his voice and said, “I can always plead a headache and leave. I don’t wish to become a pest, just because I so enjoy your company.”

  “Please don’t.” Sarah returned his smile and dipped into a little curtsey. “You’re most welcome to join us.” She meant it, too, telling herself that her initial stab of disappointment was due to Grandmother’s not giving fair notice. After all, she would have certainly worn one of her newer dresses had she known. Given his disregard for his own reputation by keeping company with her, she owed it to him to look as nice as possible.

  ****

  William whistled “My Man John” all the way from Piccadilly to Berkeley Square, though he disliked the song because an organ-grinder near the omnibus stop in Ludgate Circus played it incessantly. He had awakened with an unexplainable confidence that today was going to be perfect, and the weather helped to carry that notion. Too pleasant for a stuffy museum or art gallery or even the theatre. He wondered if Sarah would mind spending the afternoon at the park, perhaps sailing the toy boat. He was certain Aunt Naomi and Daniel would be happy just to sit on a bench and cast doe eyes at each other.

  I’ll give to you this cushion of pins

  And that’s the way our love begins,

  If you will be my bride, my joy,

  If you will be my joy . . .

  He caught the suspicious looks from two dowagers heading in the opposite direction and realized he was softly singing. On wicked impulse he tipped his hat and was pleasantly surprised when they broke into smiles. Avis answered his ring at number 14, and with her owlish eyes wide, she told him of the rat Mr. Duffy cornered in the gardening shed last night. Then she nodded toward the sitting room.
“Naomi’s still upstairs, and Mr. Rayborn ain’t here yet. But Sarah’s in there, and Mr. Knight.”

  Daniel glanced at the door. “Mr. Knight?”

  “He’s going with you today. I heard Mrs. Blake say it when I brought in tea.” She sighed dreamily. “My fiancé, Edwin, ain’t nearly so handsome, and I expect he couldn’t preach a sermon to save his skin—but he’s a good fellow, mind you. That’s why I set my cap to marry him when my brother—”

  The sitting room door opened. Sarah came out and closed it behind her. Her smile was strained, as if she wasn’t quite certain if she should be wearing one. “William,” she whispered with an apologetic side glance at Avis. “Please come with me.”

  Thankfully, Avis took the hint and did not attempt to continue her story. William followed Sarah into the dining room and stepped aside when she motioned her intent to close the door.

  “I was hoping that was you out there,” she said. “Avis told you about Mr. Knight?”

  “She did,” William answered. Though he would not allow the disappointment in his chest to rise to his face, he could not help but ask, “You invited him?”

  “Grandmother. Only she didn’t warn me.” Her words started tumbling out faster. “You’ve said yourself what a fine person he is. And he’s so lonely without his family. He has a clever wit. Why, with you and Mr. Knight and Mr. Rayborn, we’ll have sore sides from laughing.” Then almost as an afterthought she added, “We’ll sail the boat. It’s in the sitting room.”

  William could not help but smile at her discomfort, but not in a mocking way. She was so young. And clearly confused. His presence only added to that. As much as he longed to pressure her to decide right away whether or not she loved him, he had to consider if she would second-guess herself for years in the future.

  “I checked the vinegar bottle to make sure it hadn’t—” she began, but William raised a finger to her lips.

  “I can’t stay, Sarah.”

  “But—”

  He smiled again, surprised at how easy it was when his heart was so heavy. “I have to pack, make some arrangements to go away for a while. But I need to speak with Aunt Naomi first. So if you see her before I—”