Maiden of Mayfair (Tales of London Book #1)

Lawana Blackwell

Description

If the Truth is Revealed, Will She Lose All She's Grown to Love?An orphanage in the slums of London is the only home Sarah Matthews has ever known. When she is suddenly whisked away to a wealthy widow's home in the prestigious Mayfair district, Sarah can't fathom what has happened. Why would this elderly woman, a stranger, want her company? But Dorothea Blake has reasons she isn't revealing.As Sarah blossoms into a young woman, the secret Mrs. Blake harbors threatens to make them both outcasts among London's elite. When a visitor unknowingly stumbles upon the truth, he puts Sarah at risk of losing everything she holds dear, including the attentions of a new curate. Will the mystery of her birth remain buried forever?

Sujets

• Historical romance

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 01 janvier 2001
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781585584093
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 2 Mo

Extrait

© 2000 by Lawana Blackwell
Published by Bethany House Publishers 11400 Hampshire Avenue South Bloomington, Minnesota 55438 www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2012
Ebook corrections 12.30.2016
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright owners. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.
ISBN 978-1-5855-8409-3
The lyrics for “The Bonny Lighter-Boy,” “Sweet William,” “John Barleycorn,” “My Man John,” and “O, Sally, My Dear” are from One Hundred English Folksongs , edited by Cecil J. Sharp and published by Dover Publications, Inc. Used by permission.
Cover illustration by Paul Casale Cover design by Sheryl Thornberg/Jen Airhart
This book is lovingly dedicated to my mother-in-law and father-in-law,
Zita and Edwin Blackwell,
whose devotion to each other is a precious thing to witness.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Part One August 4, 1869
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Part Two January 28, 1875
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
About the Author
Other Books by Author
Back Cover
Part One
August 4, 1869
London
Chapter One
The privilege of joining Mrs. Abbot’s weekly forays to the greengrocer’s was granted with the understanding that two rules be obeyed without exception. First, there would be no “sampling” of any fruit or vegetable, no matter how meager the breakfast porridge ration happened to have been.
Secondly, talking to strangers was strictly forbidden. Such a rule would not be necessary were the Saint Matthew Methodist Foundling Home for Girls located in fair Kensington or even bustling Charing Cross. But in the shadowy northern part of Drury Lane, with its crumbling tenements, gin shops, and abandoned factories, more than one girl had been approached by a seedy character offering “good wages” in exchange for her virtue, youth, and health.
Sarah Matthews was sorting out the best potatoes—which, considering the state of Mr. Brody’s merchandise, meant those not quite so soft or covered with gnarly eyes—when a voice interrupted her concentration.
“Got a penny, Miss?”
She looked to her right, her left hand automatically hiding in a fold of her gray linsey-woolsey gown. The boy seemed not much older than herself, though rotted teeth and an accumulation of grime made it impossible to tell. Sarah shook her head and went back to sorting. Thankfully, Mrs. Abbot was still conversing with Mr. Brody over last week’s bill. “Please go away!” she urged under her breath. “You’ll have me in trouble!”
“A farthing?”
With a sigh, she turned to him again and froze. Beggars were as plentiful as coughs in Drury Lane, but what captured her attention was the knot tied at the end of the ragged sleeve. He raised his arm for her closer inspection, obviously in the hopes of gaining her pity and the coin she did not possess.
“Got it caught in a cutter at th’ match factory on Bow,” he said with a shrug.
Tears stung Sarah’s eyes. She tried to follow all rules to the best of her ability but could not stop herself from whispering, “I’m sorry. But I’ve no—”
“Sarah!”
Guiltily she looked up at Mrs. Abbot, who stood with Mr. Brody near the turnip crates. She could hear scurrying footsteps behind her. “I’m sorry, Mrs.—”
“You get outer here!” Mr. Brody shook his fist in the direction of the fleeing boy. “I’ll have the police on you!”
“Oh, please don’t, sir,” Sarah pleaded. “He was just asking for a farthing.”
Ignoring her, the greengrocer turned again to Mrs. Abbot and muttered, “This were a decent place to live when I were a boy. Now the thieves is thick as flies.”
“There is more than one kind of thief, Mr. Brody,” Mrs. Abbot said in a quiet voice.
In the dead silence that followed, Sarah cringed inwardly at the implied accusation. It wasn’t that she feared injury to Mr. Brody’s feelings, for it was well-known even among the girls of Saint Matthew’s that the Irishman overcharged for his stale produce. But he towered over Mrs. Abbot’s middle-aged form, and the rage mottling his beefy face made Sarah fear that he would do her physical harm or, at the very least, refuse their patronage.
“What is that you’re sayin’, Mrs. Abbot?” he demanded.
Sarah hastened to the cook’s side. Not that she had the brawn to defend anyone, but at least she could pull her away if necessary.
Fortunately, Mrs. Abbot backed down. “I meant nothing,” she said, then turned to Sarah while Mr. Brody glowered over her shoulder. “Have you finished with the potatoes?”
“Almost . . .”
“Well, I’ll help you. I’ve got to get back to my kitchen.” Five minutes later Mrs. Abbot was dropping coins into Mr. Brody’s hand and reminding him meekly to place the greens on top in the delivery wagon this time instead of allowing the potatoes to crush them.
“Will you tell Mrs. Forsyth?” Sarah asked, lagging at the cook’s elbow because walking side by side was hindered by the congestion on the narrow pavement.
“That you spoke to the boy?” Mrs. Abbot slowed her steps and turned her face to the side as much as possible. “You know better, Sarah. Why did you do it?”
His hand , Sarah wanted to say, while her own left one stayed burrowed in the coarse folds of her gown.
“Well . . . ?”
Before she could reply she caught sight of the boy, sitting at the base of a broken streetlamp. He raised his head to catch Mrs. Abbot’s eye while lifting his knotted sleeve. “A penny, kind lady?”
Mrs. Abbot’s steps resumed their brisk pace, for a penny in a beggar’s pocket meant one less for the food needed to feed over sixty orphans and workers at Saint Matthew’s. Sarah averted her eyes from the grime-covered face. But a curious thing happened when they were some six feet past him. The cook halted abruptly and turned to Sarah.
“Watch where yer goin’, old woman!” sneered an old man in worn sailor’s garb who had to sidestep to keep from colliding with the two of them.
Mrs. Abbot paid him no mind. Anyone who became unnerved at every angry voice in Drury Lane was a prime candidate for Bedlam. “His hand?”
“An accident at the match factory,” Sarah whispered.
With a sigh Mrs. Abbot withdrew her purse from her apron pocket, both hands holding it protectively close. “You may give him a farthing. It’s all we can spare.”
“Yes, Mrs. Abbot. Thank you.”
It was the first time Sarah had held even so meager a coin, yet she was more than willing to surrender it to the boy, who gave her a smile and tipped the bill of his worn cap. “God’ll bless you fer it!” were the words that accompanied her back to Mrs. Abbot’s side.
He has already , she thought, for she could have easily shared the poor lad’s fate.
****
She had not sailed far on the deep, Before a king’s ship she chanced to meet .

Naomi Doyle kept her voice soft and low on the staircase of the Berkeley Square town house. She was fond of singing but only did so when no one was in earshot, for a schoolmistress had told her when she was nine that the only way she could hope to stay on key would be to keep a brass one in her pocket.

Oh all you sailors, come tell me true, Is my sweet William on board with you?

She paused at the ground-floor landing and looked down the corridor. Marie Prewitt had stationed herself outside the sitting room in an armchair. As she drew closer, Naomi realized she was asleep, with needlework lying idle upon her lap. Delicately she cleared her throat. The lady’s maid let out a snort and jerked up her head.
“ Qui est la! ” Marie exclaimed, blinking, then narrowed her eyes. “Why must you slip about so! Like a ghost you pop up from nowhere and startle me!”
Your snoring may have something to do with it , Naomi thought but restrained herself from saying. Not out of intimidation, for skilled cooks were in high demand in Mayfair, London’s most prestigious residential district. But after having been reared in a household where disharmony was as thick and pervasive as London fog, she did all she could to keep her temper in check and avoid confrontation. So instead she lifted the hem of her skirt just high enough to reveal a pair of laced brown leather shoes.
“These are why you didn’t hear me.”
“ Men’s shoes?”
“Actually . . . boy’s.” Naomi’s feet were as small as her body was slender. “They’re for playing cricket, the shop assistant said, but they make the kitchen floor feel like a cloud.”
“They are hideous.”
“No one but Trudy sees them when I’m cooking.”
Marie wrinkled her nose primly. “If I were the last person on earth, even then I would never wear anything so gauche .”
Naomi had no difficulty believing that. They were both in their early thirties, but while her own toilette had shortened over the years to a twisting of her strawberry-blond hair into a comb, Marie still plastered meticulous spit