The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (10 page)

Around her, Margaret felt bodies stiffen, and a snotty footman muttered something she was probably better spared.

Fiona huffed. “That's convenient.”

Margaret shushed the disrespectful maid without thinking, earning herself a glare from the Irishwoman.

Mr. Upchurch tucked the book back under his good arm and bowed his head. “Lord, help us each to serve you well this day, in whatever place you have seen fit to place us. Amen.” He nodded to the group in dismissal and turned away.

His sister offered them what seemed an apologetic smile, perhaps hoping to soften his benediction. The others began to grumble or to stonily make their way back to their posts. But Margaret stood where she was.

Had God seen fit to place her in the service of the Upchurch family? Or had she simply made a muddle of her life?

After breakfast, Nathaniel carried a cup of coffee with him from the dining room into the library. Hudson was already inside, ready for their morning meeting, but he said nothing for several moments. Nathaniel surveyed Hudson over his coffee, sipped, then lowered the cup. “What?”

Hudson winced. “Far be it from me to interfere, sir. But that might not have been the best choice of Scriptures for your first shot at morning prayers.”

“Oh?”

“Consider, sir. How that Scripture might seem an . . . arrow, more than the gentle admonition you no doubt intended.”

Nathaniel opened the book on his desk and reread the passage. “Is that why I received surly looks? It was simply the next verse in my own daily reading. I knew it had not gone well and assumed it my delivery. I shall choose more carefully in future.”

“Ah.” Hudson nodded his understanding. “Well. I am certain it shall go better next time.”

Nathaniel regarded his steward. Robert Hudson was a few years his senior. Although originally from England, he had spent many years living and working aboard ships before settling in Barbados. There, Nathaniel had hired him away from Abel Preston, the neighboring planter neither man could stand. As a clerk, Hudson was forthright and completely trustworthy. The two men had become fast friends, their relationship more partnership than master-servant. Though Hudson never failed to show him respect, neither did he fail to speak his mind.

When Nathaniel's father commissioned him to return and put Fairbourne Hall to rights, he had lost no time in convincing Hudson to return with him as steward. If Mrs. Budgeon and that coxcomb of an under butler did not like it, he did not care. Hudson would lead them with humility and competence. A rare combination of traits, which Nathaniel hoped to learn to emulate.

Nathaniel finished his coffee and set down his cup. “And far be it from me to interfere with the servants, Hudson, but I am curious. Mrs. Budgeon lodged a complaint with my sister about your hiring a housemaid without consulting her.” He raised a hand before Hudson could protest. “I trust you to hire whom you like, but not two days ago you avowed your intention to leave the female staff entirely to the housekeeper.”

“I know, sir. But I found quite an unexpected gem at market yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“Remember the girl I mentioned to you? The one who warned me when I stopped to check on you near the docks?”

Nathaniel frowned at the memory. “Your wild driving knocked me from the seat.”

“Be that as it may, I saw that very girl at the hiring fair in Maidstone. Woebegone she looked too, standing there alone after everyone else had gone home.”

“You hired her because she shouted at you to move along?” Incredulity and amusement tinged Nathaniel's words.

“You don't remember that night, sir. Laid low with the surgeon's laudanum as you were. You did not see the cutthroats descending to do us a violence and no doubt steal us blind in the bargain. She not only brought them to my attention, but she shoved a door in the leader's face when he would have overtaken us. The last thing I saw before we turned the corner was those three brutes trying to break down the lodging house door. Until I saw her again yesterday, I feared she might have come to harm on our account.”

“Is that why she left London?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Hmm . . . Strange that she should come here, do you not think?”

Hudson shrugged. “Not so strange. Maidstone has a regular hiring fair and is not terribly distant from London.”

“I suppose.”

Hudson grimaced and screwed his lips to one side. “Do you think I have made Mrs. Budgeon
very
angry?”

It was Nathaniel's turn to shrug. “The woman is a professional. She will get over it no doubt. Assuming, that is, your girl is a good worker and knows the difference between a hairbrush and a chimney brush.”

Standing in the basement passageway, Margaret watched Betty's stubby fingers and rough, heavily veined hands as she laid out brush after brush on the narrow worktable.

Betty turned to her. “Now, name each brush and describe its proper use, if you please.”

Margaret's mouth went dry. Before her were brushes of every imaginable description. Long-haired, short and wiry, feather, miniature brooms, and more. She had little idea what they might be called or how each was to be used.

She began, “Well, this is a feather duster of course, and, um . . .” She licked her lips. “You know, Mrs. Budgeon made it quite clear that I was not to try to do things as I did in my former place. Therefore, perhaps you had better teach me how each of these brushes is to be used here at Fairbourne Hall.”

Betty studied her a moment, then sighed. “Very well.” She picked up one bristled handle after another. “Picture brush, shoe brush, hearth brush, plate brush, flue brush, library brush, velvet brush, banister brush, carpet brush, wall broom, bed broom . . .”

Very soon, Margaret's head was spinning. She hoped there would be no examination. Miss Hightower's Seminary for Girls had not prepared her for this.

Why, you know, Sir Thomas's means
will be rather straitened if the Antigua estate
is to make such poor returns.

—Jane Austen,
Mansfield Park

Chapter 8

N
athaniel found Helen ensconced in her favorite chair in the family sitting room—where he suspected she spent the majority of her time. He took in his sister's plain grey frock, her severely pulled-back hair, and the pallor of her cheeks. Helen was only a year his senior, but at the moment she looked older than her thirty years.

She glanced up from her novel. “How are you feeling today?”

Her words struck him as the distant kindness of an acquaintance.

“In body? Better. I cannot claim the same for mind and spirit.” He settled himself on the settee across from her.

“What did the river police say? Any hope of catching the vandal?”

He snorted ruefully. “Catch a man most people believe mere legend? How they laughed behind their hands when I admitted Hudson and I had been overtaken by a lone attacker, a man who calls himself the Poet Pirate no less. Of course I told them the man's real name as well, but I don't think they believed me.”

“I am sorry, Nathaniel.” She shook her head. “At least the ship was not lost. You can make repairs, can you not?”

He had barely returned and didn't want to burden her with the reality of their finances just yet. He exhaled a deep breath. “We shall see. Now, let us talk of something else. How have you been keeping while we have all been away?”

“Well enough. And how was Papa when you left him? In good health, I hope?”

How he abhorred the polite restraint between them. “Yes. The warmer climate seems to agree with him. Says he barely notices his rheumatism anymore.”

Helen studied him. “But . . . does he mind being alone there?”

He hesitated, biting back a sarcastic retort about the charming widow from a nearby plantation with whom their father spent an inordinate amount of time. Considering Helen's solitary state, it seemed unkind to mention it. He said instead, “He has lived there a long time now, Helen. He has many friends.”

“And you? Were you sorry to return?”

Nathaniel considered. Should he tell her about the escalating arguments between him and their father? He said, “In hindsight, the timing of it all seems God-ordained, receiving that letter from Stephens when we did.”

Helen shook her head. “I still cannot believe Stephens wrote to Father. He always insisted servants should know and keep their place. I cannot believe he would say a word against Lewis.”

In his mind's eye, Nathaniel saw the somber face of their dignified old butler. He had written to say he felt it his duty to apprise James Upchurch of the state of affairs at Fairbourne Hall, to make him aware of the decline of the great estate it had been his honor to serve for more than twenty years. Stephens apologized but said that he could not in good conscience remain longer. The butler had given his notice, not to Lewis or Nathaniel but to their father—the real master in his eyes, absent or not.

“His tone was very respectful—quite mournful, really.”

Helen pursed her lips. “Still, I thought him more loyal.”

Nathaniel fought against incredulity. “Helen, the man had not been paid in six months. Stephens paid a quarter's wages to the lower servants out of his own savings. He tried to cover for us to keep the Upchurch reputation from suffering.”

She stared at him. “I had no idea it had come to that. Certainly, had Lewis known he would have done something. Stephens should have told him.”

Nathaniel hesitated. He knew his sister doted on Lewis. Everyone did and always had. She would not thank him for speaking against their elder brother.

Helen asked, “So Father sent you home to take the place in hand, did he?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I own I feared the entire staff would have deserted by the time I reached you.”

“You overreacted, the both of you. Things are not so bleak, as you see. You needn't have come.”

Did she wish he hadn't? Probably. Nathaniel shrugged. “Father and I had come to an impasse, at all events. I refused to manage the plantation as long as slave labor was used, and he refused to transition to paid laborers.”

“Lewis says our profits would suffer greatly.”

“They would indeed. But there is more to life than profits.”

She lifted her chin. “You held no such compunctions before you left for Barbados.”

All too true, and his conscience smote him for it. “I had not seen the institution for myself then, Helen. It was not real to me, merely theoretical. Since then I have seen the cruelty of overseers and masters like Abel Preston. I have heard the cries and seen the scars.”

Helen winced. “I tend to agree with you. But certainly Papa and others have seen what you saw and have not come to the same conclusion. How do you account for it?”

He slowly shook his head. “I don't know. Willful blindness. Apathy. Greed. Misinformation or ignorance. I cannot say. All I know is that I am convinced to the core of my soul it is wrong.”

She picked at the doily on the arm of her chair. “At least Papa and the other planters did not fight Parliament when it abolished the slave trade.”

He nodded. “That was years ago, yet slavery continues. The only reason the planters did not fight the abolishment of the trade itself was because by that time Barbados was no longer dependent on slave importation.” His stomach twisted. “They encouraged slave reproduction instead.”

Helen looked down at her hands, clearly disconcerted.

It was his turn to wince. “Forgive me.”

She cleared her throat and forced her head up. “But do we not live by its profits? Was not your ship purchased by slave-wrought sugar, as well as your Oxford education and the very clothes on your back?”

“You begin to sound like Father,” Nathaniel said dryly. “And you are right, of course. To my shame. But we need not go on as we have in the past. Sugar is not our only source of income, Helen. We had a good crop this past season, yes. But the market is not what it once was, and overall profits are declining, slavery or no. I believe we should sell out. If we retrench, invest wisely, and live modestly, we can live off the income from the estate here.” He realized he was going on like an excited boy. Or an evangelist. He sighed. “But Father is not ready to give it up.”

She asked gently, “Is he very angry with you?”

Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “He is disappointed—there is no denying it. He says he respects my convictions but finds them too inconvenient.” His father was honest at least; Nathaniel gave him that. He drew himself up. “All this to say, it was time for me to come home. I can be useful here. Look after things.”

“But please don't blame Lewis,” Helen said. “If there wasn't any money, what did you expect him to do?”

Nathaniel rubbed a hand over his eyes. Again, he bit his lip to stop himself from saying what he wished to say:
“I expected him to stop spending money we didn't have on new clothes, a new barouche, new horses, lavish dinner parties, improvements to the London house, and I know not what.”
His stomach churned anew at the thought of the stacks of bills he'd discovered when he spent a few days there.

When he was silent, Helen continued, “Perhaps we ought to have been more careful, but how was Lewis to raise money to pay the servants? Surely you did not expect him to
work
.”

Nathaniel said, “The rents from our tenants have not been collected for the last two quarters. He might have done that. For now, Hudson and I will endeavor to bring the accounts to order. If that dashed Preston had not stolen half our profits we would be closer to bringing finances up to snuff. I am only glad I did not leave the whole in that chest.”

“Does
he
know that?” Helen asked.

Nathaniel had wondered the same thing. “I don't know. He said he'd heard Father had boasted about our profits. Hopefully not the specific amount.” He sighed. “I pray we've seen the last of him.” But somehow Nathaniel doubted it.

Helen regarded him earnestly with hazel eyes very like their mother's, gone these many years. “I am glad you were not injured more seriously.”

“Thank you.”

How long since he'd heard a kind word spoken by one of his family. The kind words of a woman were salve, even if spoken by his sister. Still, he wished he could rekindle the camaraderie he had shared with Helen in their youth, even if she preferred Lewis.

For a moment, he wondered how Helen could idealize Lewis—as did every other female of their acquaintance, who saw only the handsome exterior and charming, carefree ways. But then Nathaniel realized Helen did not know their elder brother as well as he did. Lewis had gone away to school as a boy, then on to Oxford and his grand tour, then had spent much of his time in London or at this or that friend's country estate.

In his boyhood, Nathaniel had been taught at home by a tutor but then had followed Lewis to Oxford. His first year had overlapped with Lewis's last, and he had spent more time in his brother's company, witnessing his antics away from the restraints and duties of home. But beyond term breaks and holidays, how much time had Helen and Lewis really spent together? Nathaniel didn't like to disparage his brother. He loved him and always would, though he did not always like or respect him. Lewis seemed to save his charm for the fair sex, their sister included, and who could blame him? Many was the time Nathaniel would have traded his higher marks and accomplishments for an ounce of that charm where women—or at least a certain woman—were concerned.

That night, Margaret trudged along after Betty, through the house and down the back stairs once more. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room and sleep. Instead she followed Betty like a weary duckling trailing its parent.

“You're in for a treat tonight, Nora. Monsieur Fournier has prepared quite a feast to welcome Mr. Upchurch home. And we're to have the leavings for our supper.”

And feast it was, though Margaret was not accustomed to being served from dishes with portions missing, partial jelly moulds, and congealing sauces. But the other servants beamed at the dishes in anticipation, not minding the secondhand nature of the feast.

Monsieur Fournier waved his long arm and pointed a hairy-knuckled finger as he named each dish: vermicelli soup, trout en Matelote, stewed pigeon, French beans, and vegetable marrows in white sauce. And later, the finale—gooseberry tarts and fresh pineapple.

Everyone
ooh
ed and
ahh
ed over the dessert, for pineapple was a rare luxury.

Mr. Hudson gave thanks, and they began the supper, passing things politely when asked and eating quietly. How unexpectedly formal the meal was. Margaret felt transported back to an uncomfortable evening when her great-aunt had invited her to dine with a crusty dowager countess. This was not how she had imagined servant suppers to be.

Abruptly, a few people began to rise, Betty among them, and Margaret made to follow. But this time, Fiona grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. She hissed in her ear, “What are ya doin'? Only the uppers go.”

The upper servants—Mr. Hudson, Mrs. Budgeon, Mr. Arnold, and Betty, as first housemaid—rose and quietly left the room in somber procession.

“Where are they going?” Margaret whispered.

“To the moon—what do ya think? Pug's parlor, o' course.”

Mr. Arnold paused in the threshold and looked back. “Fred, I trust you will remember to walk the dog after your supper?”

“I will, sir.”

The under butler, Margaret noticed, carried a bottle of port beneath his arm, while the servants were left with small beer.

Margaret had heard of the custom of the “upper ten” partaking of their pudding and of finer dishes and wines separately from the under servants in the housekeeper's parlor. Still, she felt a strange stab at finding herself at the lower end of the social hierarchy. Left out.