Very nice, Sarah thought.
****
A letter arrived from Birmingham a fortnight later, addressed to “Miss Blake.”
It grieves me to learn of Mrs. Blake’s passing, Ethan wrote, . . . and that I shall have to wait until heaven to beg her forgiveness. But I do beg yours and will be writing to ask the same of your father.
He wrote that he would soon be leaving for the Rajasthan Desert, one hundred and fifty miles southeast of Delhi. Four years of service in a leper mission as opposed to at least ten years in prison, had the Bishop so minded to press criminal charges. Ethan counted himself fortunate.
. . . as a matter of fact, I am strangely eager to begin this task. I can see that I am a shallow soul, Miss Blake. Without the distraction of temporal pleasures, I have the hope of learning to walk intimately with the God who, wonder of wonders, has forgiven me.
“Do you think he’s sincere?” Sarah asked her father, who had received his own letter that same day.
With a smile he replied, “That he would write at all is a good sign.”
Chapter Forty-Six
JUNE 18, 1876
“My stomach’s growling like a bear, Naomi.”
Naomi closed the oven door and turned to smile at her husband of eight months, who stood in the doorway with a page in hand. “There’s that leftover sandwich.”
“I’ll wait,” he said after a thoughtful hesitation. “My appetite’s demanding quail.” Stepping into the room, he put an arm gently around her shoulders and pulled her close to kiss her forehead. Daniel caught the scent of Pears soap, in spite of the aroma of Les Cailles aux Feuilles de Vignes—the supper she was preparing of quail wrapped in fine leaves and bacon, roasted in a bed of chopped mixed vegetables.
“You’re not overtaxing yourself, are you?” he murmured into her hair.
“I’m not.” Automatically she lifted a hand to the side of her faintly protruding stomach and felt the flutter of movement. Since the first twinges of morning discomfort, not a week had gone by that Daniel didn’t suggest hiring a cook. But Naomi couldn’t see the sense in adding that extra expense as long as she was able to move about easily. And cooking for two—sometimes three or four—was easy, her menu usually plain English fare. This evening, however, was a special occasion. It was time to share with Sarah and William the existence of the secret that had nestled inside her for five months.
“Have you a minute?”
“Yes. Where are you now?” she asked, for often he asked her to listen to freshly written passages of his book. They had arrived home from their three-week honeymoon in Paris back in early November to find three messages slid under the front door, urging Daniel to call upon William Blackwood and Sons at his earliest convenience. The result was a contract and healthy advance royalty for A History of the Tower of London.
“I’m still in the Armory. So much of it is fascinating.”
Their kitchen table, made of fine mellow oak, was only ten paces away. Naomi liked the idea of having meals in the kitchen rather than having to transport the food to another room. She settled into the chair he pulled out, folded her hands on the tabletop, and waited for him to walk around to the other side. For a reason even he wasn’t able to explain, he could not read to her anything he had written without pacing just a little. Brow dented with concentration, he began.
“‘The suits of armor worn by Queen Mary’s warriors invariably remind us of that worn by Don Quixote’s Sancho Panza, in which he could but wag his head and hands like a turtle. They were so massive that sometimes the wearer fainted merely from the weight of his armor, and once down he could not remount until hoisted up by his attendant. We cannot wonder but that the unfortunate knight had only to be unhorsed to be at the mercy of an enemy.’”
He stopped pacing and lowered the page.
“Most interesting, Daniel,” Naomi told him, wondering how the horses felt about all that weight.
“It has nothing to do with the history of the tower per se, but surely the reader will appreciate learning little details having to do with the exhibits.”
“But of course. And so you’re offering a raised pie.”
“A raised pie?” Her husband smiled and took the seat opposite hers, lying the pages of inked script upon the tablecloth. Every fifty pages accumulated were sent to Mr. Garrett to be typed. “And how is that, Naomi?”
“Because you’re telling the story in layers. For example, the crust can represent the facts having to do with the Tower’s construction; the forcemeat, the details surrounding the exhibits; and the mushrooms, the stories of those incarcerated through the years.” She angled her head in thought. “Hmmm. I’m not sure I know what the gravy represents.”
“Well, I do.”
“Yes?”
“Definitely that first kiss we shared up there. That’s why I’m so fond of the place.”
Naomi straightened and smoothed her apron. “Well, you’ll not be putting that into print,” she said with feigned primness. “We can’t have folks assuming the author’s wife was once a loose woman.”
“You were pretty loose,” he teased. “Kissing in front of all those Italians.”
****
“Oh, and the lobster bisque is heavenly,” Sarah said, moving to the edge of her seat as Stanley opened the coach door.
“Thank you, Miss Rayborn.” Penny Russell, wide-eyed, had never dined in a restaurant, and supper at Gatti’s tonight was to be Stanley’s birthday gift to her. Claire and Mrs. Bacon were minding little Guy back at Berkeley Square so the couple could enjoy an evening out together.
“What time shall I call again for you, Miss Rayborn?” Stanley asked after assisting her to the pavement. Instead of livery clothes he wore his Sunday black suit.
“I’ll share William’s cab on the way home. You’ll want to stroll the Embankment after your meal.”
She traded farewells with the two and walked the few steps to the door of her father and Naomi’s house, hearing behind her the coach door close and the creak of springs and harness. Her knock was answered right away by William, clad in his gray wool suit with a finely woven burgundy silk cravat at his neck. He ushered her inside and kissed her hand.
“Good evening, Sarah. How lovely you look.”
“Thank you.” Returning his smile, she brushed a fold of her silk gown of sage green and cream-colored stripes. She was still not quite used to seeing herself in colors again. “Father said it was a special occasion, so I thought I should dress up—as did you, I see.”
From the kitchen came the muffled sounds of china and silver being laid upon cloth. It pleased Sarah that her father was consistent about helping Naomi set the table and clean up after meals. She didn’t think men, even the most considerate ones, noticed to do such things as that. Lowering her voice, Sarah said, “But he wouldn’t say what this was about. Have you any idea?”
“I asked Aunt Naomi,” he whispered after a glance back to the doorway. “She only gave me that dreamy look she’s been wearing lately. But yes, I’ve an idea.”
“What is—” Reading his eyes, Sarah raised her fingers to her cheek. Down her glove slid the gold bracelet Father and Naomi had purchased in Paris and saved for her twentieth birthday last month. “You don’t think.”
“What else could it be?”
“Well, hello there, Sarah.” Sarah’s father stood in the kitchen doorway with a water pitcher in one hand. “Have you been here long?”
“I just now arrived.” Avoiding William’s knowing eyes, she moved past him to kiss the bearded cheek Father leaned down toward her. “Good evening, Naomi,” she said when he stood to make room for her to enter the kitchen.
“Sarah.” Her stepmother set a dish of cucumber vinaigrette upon the already lavishly set table and came around to embrace her. “How lovely you are!”
“And you as well, Naomi,” Sarah said, wondering if the roses in her stepmother’s cheeks were from oven heat or if William’s observation was correct. She would have imagined
herself to be ecstatic at such news. So why was melancholy beginning to seep into her chest?
They passed the mealtime with light conversation, Father telling of the progress of the Tower book, William sharing one of the incidents from his job that used to delight Grandmother so. Naomi was her usual serene self, content mostly to listen.
It’s true, Sarah thought, glancing again at her stepmother’s secret little smile. The inexplicable melancholy welled within her, belaboring her breathing. You would adore a sister or a brother, she told herself. Why, the little dear would sleep upstairs in the same nursery that was once hers before the waters of the Thames swept away all there was to that life. William gave her a questioning look from across the table, so she sent him a smile that did not lighten her heart.
“Sarah.” Naomi’s bottle blue eyes were affectionate upon her. “Your father tells me that you’re a natural at Greek.”
“I do enjoy it,” Sarah replied, the heaviness easing a little. “Has he told you we’ve begun reading the book of Luke?”
“He has.”
“I was surprised you wanted to study another language,” William said while dishing out another serving of quail so tender that a knife wasn’t necessary.
“I surprised myself,” she admitted. “But there’s something special about learning the words of Jesus and the words the disciples actually spoke.”
The dessert was a delight—a tall-stemmed tazza dish of strawberries accompanied by wedges of Cheshire cheese. When the course was finished, Father dabbed his lips with his napkin and laid it upon the cloth. “What a fine meal, Naomi.”
William and Sarah echoed the compliment, and Naomi thanked them with no false modesty. Then she gave Father a little nod.
“We have something to tell you,” he said, eyes bright about his smile.
Sarah could not help but glance at William, who winked. To her horror, she felt the sting of tears. She blinked them away, but more came spilling onto her cheeks.
It was Naomi who spoke first. “Sarah?”
“Forgive . . . me,” she said through her tightened throat. “I’m so . . . overjoyed.”
There was stunned silence for a fraction of a second, then scraping sounds as chairs were pushed out. Sarah allowed William to put an arm around her and lead her like a child into the parlor, where she was helped to the divan between him and Naomi. Father pulled a chair close. Feeling wretched for having ruined what should have been a joyous moment for everyone, she covered her face with her hands and wept.
“Please tell us what’s wrong, Sarah.” Her father’s voice was anxious.
“Wait, Daniel,” Naomi said.
Sarah’s right hand was nudged away from her face as a handkerchief was pressed into it. She wiped her face and blew her nose. On her left, William patted her arm awkwardly. When she found her voice, Sarah told them, “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Are you feeling ill, dear?” Naomi asked.
“No, not ill.” But understanding struck her like a lightning bolt. It wasn’t resentment of an innocent little baby that was the source of her angst. She was still in mourning. No longer for Grandmother, God rest her soul, but for the loved ones who were gradually building lives apart from hers. Father and Naomi were so leery of taking advantage of her sudden wealth that they could not see past it to her need for them. They declined her invitation to move to Berkeley Square nor would they accept any money from her. Why, Father no longer allowed her to pay for the tutoring sessions when surely he and Naomi needed the income.
Even William was more formal since his return from Manchester. She had thought it was because she was in mourning, but nine months had gone by since Grandmother’s passing, and still some invisible wall stood between them. Were there not occasional unguarded sparks of adoration in his smoke-colored eyes, she would wonder if she had dreamed his profession of love in Grandmother’s dining room almost a year ago.
“Sarah?” Softly Father spoke, leaning closer.
“Please forgive me, Father . . . Naomi,” Sarah said, clutching the wadded handkerchief. “I’m truly happy for you. I loved visiting the babies at Saint Matthew’s—and Stanley and Penny’s little Guy has been so much fun.”
A maternal hand rested upon her shoulder. “How did you know?” Naomi asked.
“Aren’t you?”
“Why, yes.”
“Wonderful!” William declared in a subdued tone, as if not wishing to cause another eruption of tears.
“Why did that make you sad?” Father’s green eyes were gentle. “Were you afraid we would love you less?”
Sarah shook her head. She was very well aware of their love for her. How could she articulate that there still lived the penniless waif beneath the trappings of her wealth?
She was searching for words when William said, “I believe Sarah fears she lost you both when she inherited Mrs. Blake’s money.” He gave her an uncertain look. “Is that it, Sarah?”
“But that’s simply not so,” Naomi said. “We love you more than ever.”
“I realize that, Naomi.” Sarah swallowed, the back of her throat aching. “But I haven’t felt so alone since those first days at Berkeley Square. I had hoped so much that we would all be together when Grandmother . . .”
“Daughter, we can’t allow you to support us,” her father said, firmly but gently.
“But there are rooms just sitting empty. And you could continue writing your books for spending money, if you wished.”
William was studying her thoughtfully. “You know, I never realized the importance of family until mine was suddenly taken away.” He looked past Sarah to give Naomi a grateful smile. “God has blessed Sarah in an incredible way, Aunt Naomi, Daniel. I know your intentions are noble, not wishing to take advantage of her fortune. But isn’t that a bit selfish?”
“It’s selfish that we are trying not to be, William,” Father corrected.
“By robbing her of one of life’s greatest joys? She has always had a giving heart. Didn’t Christ himself say that it is more blessed to give than to receive?” Again William looked at his aunt. “Should I assume that because you contributed a good sum of money toward my livelihood and education that I was a burden whom you begrudged?”
“Never, William.” Emotion filled Naomi’s quiet voice. “Not for one day.”
****
“Incredible!” Sarah hugged herself in the hired coach two hours later, then seized William’s arm and leaned her head upon his shoulder. “I can never thank you enough!”
“It is I who must thank you,” he said. “I’ve always wanted Aunt Naomi to have an easier life.”
“She’ll not have to lift a finger!”
He smiled but shifted away a bit. A fraction of an inch, but just the movement itself was profound in that it represented the gradual distancing of himself from her since his return from Manchester.
“Sorry,” Sarah said, pulling her arm from his and sliding closer to the window. The euphoria that had soared her spirits only seconds ago evaporated, and the plunge back to earth was devastating. She stared at passing gaslights to keep from weeping.
“Sarah.” He touched her sleeve.
“I’m fine, William,” she said, eyes moving from one light to another.
Strained silence filled the coach, sharpening the sounds of hoofbeats and iron-rimmed wheels against cobbled stones. It was after they turned onto Piccadilly that William broke the silence.
“You’ve already had one man court you for your wealth.”
“More than one,” Sarah said dully. Lord Holt of the diving bell incident had attempted to pay two condolence visits—both times she sent his calling card back downstairs with apologies. The same for a young Mr. Wardell, whom she had never met, but whose family name she spotted in The Times having to do with a brokerage firm on the verge of financial ruin.
“You have?”
The surprise in his voice was gratifying to Sarah, balm for the wound he inflicted by shifting away. She turned to face
him and could read his expression in the dim light. Why did you never tell me? he was thinking. We used to tell each other everything.
Because you can’t freely confide in a person who holds part of himself back was her unspoken response.
“They don’t matter” was what she said, and it was just as much truth. “None of those men took time away from their studies to write to an awkward little girl with an uncertain future.”
It was time to say everything she had held in for months. She could not bear the thought of wondering one more day how things stood between them. Memory softening her voice, she asked, “What happened to the young man who declared his love in my grandmother’s dining room?”
Their eyes locked, his dark ones filled with evidence of inner struggle. Sarah held her breath, did not allow herself even to blink.
Then he glanced away. “I was too brash, Sarah. It hadn’t fully sunk in that you would control such a vast fortune. And that my wages would barely pay what you spend on hats.”
She allowed the unfairness of his remark to pass. Protesting that she had not purchased a hat since her mourning bonnets would stray from the point. “Did you listen to anything you said to Father and Naomi tonight?”
“That’s different, Sarah. A man is supposed to provide for his family.”
“And so my father is less of a man for allowing me to help him provide for his wife?”
“No, I didn’t—” He closed his mouth, lifted his hands helplessly, and dropped them.
“I didn’t earn a farthing of that money, William,” she pressed. “It was given to me. It’s something I happen to own, but it doesn’t define who I am.”
Another silence followed, then the cessation of movement. Sarah looked out the window at the illuminated sitting room window of No. 14 Berkeley Square. She could hear William’s unsteady breathing beside her. Any minute the cabby would open the door, and the moment would be gone. And so she gathered courage from wherever she could think to look—heavenward with a quick silent prayer to God and then into her own memory, picturing herself as the nightgown-clad girl standing in the parlor while aged hands played the piano.
The Maiden of Mayfair Page 48