The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (14 page)

Nathaniel pressed his lips tight.
I will not lose my temper. I will not . . .

Lewis went on, “It is not as though the Macys are closely connected to our family. I am acquainted with the girl, of course—as are we all.” Lewis turned to him. “
Do
you still harbor feelings for her?”

“Of course not, but—”

Saxby laid a hand over his heart. “Pray forgive me, Nate. I should not have been so cavalier in breaking the news.”

“You did not err in telling us,” Nathaniel insisted. “We are acquainted with both the Macy family and the Bentons. Of course we would be interested. And disturbed to think that any lady of our acquaintance might be . . . might have met with some foul fate.”

“Oh, I don't imagine it is anything as dramatic as all that,” Lewis said.

“Not that the girl doesn't have a flair for theatrics,” Helen added. “She does, as I recall.”

Lewis shrugged. “More likely she's gone off in a pet over a spat with a new suitor. Or her mamma refused her a trinket or something of that sort. She'll return as soon as her purse is empty, and that shall be that.”

“No doubt you are correct,” Nathaniel said, wishing to end this conversation. He was surprised at how much he hoped Miss Macy was all right. For all the resentment he had felt toward her—even wishing she might have her own heart broken one day—he would never wish bodily harm to befall her. The very thought of it made him want to charge off to London, sword blazing, and rescue her. What a fool he was. Even now.

———

Finally, Margaret's heart slowed to a rate approaching normal. What a start she had been given. Several, actually. First hearing her name called, fearing Sterling had come, then the vase shattering, and Nathaniel Upchurch charging out to see what had happened. He had not recognized her, she assured herself and took another deep breath.

She wiped her hands on her apron and swallowed. She had seen the look on Betty's face. Felt the silent terror at the thought of losing her place—for something that wasn't even her fault. Margaret had no intention of making service her life's work, but Betty did, and for her, being dismissed would be catastrophic.

But nor was Margaret ready to lose
her
position—she had barely gotten there, and hated the thought of being put out with barely a shilling to her name. And so she stood there, mute, while Betty picked up the pieces and followed Mrs. Budgeon down to her parlor to discuss the matter.

Twenty minutes or so later, Margaret had just finished dusting the remaining shelves when Betty returned, white faced.

“What did she say?” Margaret whispered.

“She said we was to talk to Mr. Hudson about it, but Mr. Hudson is gone calling on tenants. So I am to see him tomorrow after dinner.”

Again the words
I am sorry
stuck in Margaret's throat. Instead she said, “It was an accident. Surely they won't put you out for that.”

Betty's brow creased in incredulity. “Maids is put out for a few coins gone missing or a piece of china broke. That was a family heirloom. Worth a great deal of money.”

“I . . . I didn't mean to startle you. I—”

Betty's face puckered. “Why
did
you cry out? Did you see a mouse or some-like?”

“No.” Margaret slowly shook her head. “Not a mouse. A ghost.”

At five thirty the next morning, Margaret slipped her hands through the armholes of her stays and stepped into her frock, expecting any moment to hear Betty's sharp single knock, ready to pragmatically lace up her stays and hurry her along with her brisk “The shutters await, my girl.”

No knock came.

When a clock struck six somewhere in the house and Betty still had not come, Margaret left the stays unlaced beneath her frock and hurried down the passage, around the corner, and along the main attic corridor to Betty's room. She knocked softly and the door swung open on its hinges. Glancing in, she saw Betty sitting on her small, neatly made bed, staring down at her hands resting in her lap.

“Betty? Are you all right?”

“Hmm?”

Margaret quipped, “The shutters await, my girl.”

No answering grin lifted Betty's mouth. She was no doubt still upset about the vase.

Margaret stepped into the room. When Betty made no move to rise, Margaret sat gingerly on the bed beside her. She noticed then that Betty held something in her hands. A large gilt brooch ornamented with a stag's head and several long chains dangling from it. A chatelaine.

“That's pretty,” Margaret said.

Betty nodded. “My mum gave it to me. She was housekeeper at Mote Park for many years. The mistress gave this to her to mark her twentieth year in service. How proud she was, wearing this pinned to her waist, Mote Park keys hangin' from it, and these other usefuls as well.” Betty lifted the small pair of candle scissors and ran a finger over three small gilt boxes hanging like appendages from the chatelaine. “This one holds a toothpick, this one a needle and thread, and this one an ear scoop.”

“It's very nice,” Margaret agreed. She guessed it was made of brass and not gold, though the gilt still shone after all these years. It had obviously been well cared for.

Still Betty stared down at the chatelaine in her lap, tears filling her eyes. “I shall never see twenty years now. . . .”

“Don't say that,” Margaret soothed, patting Betty's arm.

The tears settled it—Margaret knew she must say something, do something, before Mrs. Budgeon and the steward reached their verdict about Betty. She hoped kind Mr. Hudson would be lenient.

Finally, Betty laid the chatelaine back in a velvet-lined box on her bedside table and rose with a sigh. “Well. Turn around and let's have a tug on those fancy stays of yours. Then we'd best be on our way. Like I always say—”

“The shutters await,” Margaret supplied.

Betty raised one brow. “And the chamber pots besides.”

———

Margaret hurried through her duties, nerves giving her the energy her lack of sleep would normally have drained. There was nothing like the pressure of knowing one had done wrong, and that every minute of putting off doing right might bring more trouble to oneself or another to distract one's focus. Margaret finished her duties quickly. How well, she could not say.

Palms damp, Margaret knocked on the door of Mr. Hudson's office on the ground floor, tucked behind the main stairway.

“Enter,” she heard from within and pushed open the door, wiping her palms on her apron.

She hesitated. Mrs. Budgeon was there as well, seated before the man's desk.

“What is it, Nora?” Mr. Hudson asked.

“I . . . never mind, sir. I shall come back when you're not busy.”

“You are here now. What is it?”

“I wanted to . . . that is, I needed to tell you that it wasn't Betty's fault about the vase. It was my fault. I startled her and . . .” She felt Mrs. Budgeon's gaze and ducked her head. “Please don't dismiss her for my mistake.”

“Why say something now and not at the time?” Mrs. Budgeon asked.

Margaret felt her cheeks heat and kept her head low. “I was afraid, ma'am. That was wrong of me too.”

How self-conscious she felt with those two pairs of eyes on her bowed head. She risked a glance and found Mr. Hudson studying her. “Very well, Nora. We had already decided not to dismiss Betty, but thank you for telling us.”

Relief filled her. “Thank you, sir.”

———

When Betty emerged from Mr. Hudson's office half an hour later, Margaret expected her to be cheerful and relieved, but Betty's head was bowed and her mouth tight.

“Betty, what is it?” She followed her to the back stairs. “You are not to be dismissed, I understand?”

She shook her head. “No. Not dismissed. But my wages garnished for the quarter.”

“Oh no. But I thought—”

“'Twas Mrs. Budgeon's decision, I gather. To remind me to be more careful in future.”

“But I told them it was my fault.”

“I know you did. Mr. Hudson said as much, and I do appreciate it. But I am the upper housemaid, so it was my responsibility.”

Margaret winced. “Will you be all right?”

Betty sighed. “I shall manage. But my . . .” Her sentence trailed away unfinished.

“Your what?” Margaret prompted.

Betty lifted her quivering chin. “Never you mind; I'll sort it somehow.”

I am as yet ‘wanting a situation,' like a
housemaid out of place. I have lately discovered I
have quite a talent for cleaning, sweeping up hearths,
dusting rooms, making beds, etc.; so, if everything
else fails, I can turn my hand to that.

—Charlotte Brontë, in a letter to her sister Emily

Chapter 11

T
he next day, Margaret backed from the drawing room, pulling the double doors closed as she went. Thomas, the first footman, appeared out of nowhere and gave her arm a playful pinch.

“Fetch me up some German polish, there's a love.”

Margaret hesitated. Was that one of her duties as well?

Thomas smiled at her. He had very good teeth, though quite large. And something about those gleaming teeth, hard blue eyes, and dark hair reminded her of a wolf.

He gave her a gentle nudge. “You do know where the stillroom is, I trust?”

“Of course.” Chin high, Margaret turned on her heel and padded through the servery and down the basement stairs.

The stillroom. What memories of Lime Tree Lodge it evoked. The snug room with a cheery fire and sunlight from its high windows gleaming off copper kettles and colorful glass bottles. With its own stove, brick baking oven, worktable, basin, shelves displaying pots and jelly moulds, and cupboards containing tea, coffee, and more. Filled with the aromas of spices sweet and savory—ginger and coriander, cloves and rosemary. Where pastries and biscuits were prepared one moment, distilled beverages the next. Vinegars, pickles, and preserves on some days. Soaps, cosmetics, and medicinals on others.

Oh, the hours Margaret had spent perched on a stool in the stillroom at Lime Tree Lodge with Mrs. Haines, cutting ginger biscuits with copper cutters or making toffee.

Belowstairs, she passed the butler's pantry, kitchen, and the housekeeper's parlor. The stillroom was next door, the domain of both Mrs. Budgeon and the stillroom maid who carried out her many orders and receipts.

“Hello, Hester.” Margaret smiled at the round, sweet-faced maid as she entered.

“Hello, Nora.” Hester returned her smile and added a wink. “What brings you down to the dungeons this time of day?”

“The footman needs something called German polish.”

“Does he now? And why is that your problem?”

“I don't know. He asked, so I thought it was something I was meant to do.”

“Thomas was it?”

Margaret nodded.

“Craig is a lamb, but mind you watch that Thomas. Charmer he may be, but lazy in the bargain. Gettin' the new girl to fetch and carry for him.” She shook her head. “Maybe in your last place housemaids was responsible for furniture polish, but here that's the footman's duty. Ah well. You're here now and I'm glad for an excuse to chat.”

Hester continued on with her work, crushing rose petals into a jar of salt.

“Um . . . have you any of this polish?” Margaret asked.

Hester looked up. “You've got to make it, love. Have you never?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Nothin' to it.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Hester led her to the long, low stewing hearth, where several pots were bubbling and simmering already. She picked up an earthen pot with tripod feet and handle.

“First off, you melt a pound of yellow wax and an ounce of black resin in this pipkin.” Hester gathered the ingredients from various drawers and shelves in the room. She added the wax and the resin to the pot and handed Margaret a wooden spoon. “Once it's melted, pour in two ounces of spirit of turpentine. Give or take. Now give 'er a good stir.”

Margaret stirred, and once the concoction was fully melted, added the spirit of turpentine.

“All there is to it. I believe that's the first thing Mrs. Budgeon taught me to make when I come here. So I could make sure the footmen made it correct-like.”

Hester took the covered jar to the stillroom basin, washed it out, then returned to the hearth. “Let's pour it in here. Careful now. Don't want to burn yourself. Tell Thomas he needs to wait until it cools before he uses it. He knows, of course, but he's not above skippin' a step if he can get away with it.”

Margaret picked up the jar, but the heat singed her hand and she quickly plunked it back on the worktable.

Hester shook her head, bemused. “Your apron, love. Your apron.”

Margaret nodded and took up the jar once more, protected by a corner of her apron. She felt oddly pleased with herself at her small accomplishment, even though she had done little more than stir.

Thomas was waiting in the drawing room when she returned, staring idly out the window. He whirled when she came in, then smiled, relieved not to be caught by a senior servant. Striding over, he gave her nose a cheeky tweak. “There's a love.”

He took the pot from her, cursed, and bent to quickly set it down. “Dashed thing's hot!”

She bit back a smile and returned to her own duties.

As arranged, Nathaniel met Hudson outside in the arcade—a long, covered walkway from the house through the rose gardens. It had been a later addition to the original manor. The arcade's open-air walls consisted of a series of arches supported by ornate pillars. It was there the men met for their morning fencing bout with practice swords.

Fencing was Nathaniel's favorite way of taking exercise, with riding second, and rambling with the dog third. He was in far better physical condition now than he had been before sailing to the West Indies. When he met Hudson soon after arriving there, the two men had formed the habit of taking regular exercise together, whether fencing, hunting, riding, or even boxing, though the latter had proved a failure never to be repeated.

Nathaniel was the quicker of the two, and his skills finer, which was no surprise considering the classical training he'd received, while Hudson was primarily self-taught. Still, what the man lacked in finesse, he more than made up for in endurance and sheer determination. And how the man perspired! Nathaniel nearly felt sorry for the laundry maids.

After exchanging good mornings and comments about the fine weather, the bout began. Advance, lunge, retreat, retreat. Strike, parry-riposte. Feint, attack, parry-riposte . . . On and on it went in a rhythmic cycle. Now and again a balestra was thrown in, or a rare flèche, until one man slipped up or tired and gave his opponent an opening to score a hit.

Half an hour into the bout, Hudson struck with impressive speed, but Nathaniel parried. Nathaniel lunged and Hudson countered . . . but too late.

“Touché,” Hudson acknowledged.

“Bravo,” Lewis drawled.

Nathaniel glanced up and saw his brother leaning against one of the columns. He had not noticed him come out of the house.

Hudson wiped his forehead with a pocket handkerchief, preparing to continue. He addressed Lewis, “Would you like to give it a go, sir? I don't mind bowing out.”

Lewis waved away the offer. “Heavens no. Too much dashed work. You two go on.”

Nathaniel panted to catch his breath. “Was there something you wanted, Lewis?”

“Just to let you know I return to London tomorrow.”

Irritation surged. Lewis had yet to help him prioritize the repairs needed at Fairbourne, nor had he agreed to expense-reducing measures for the London house. “Already? But—”

Lewis held up a hand. “Don't start. I have several things to attend to in town, but I will return soon, I promise.”

That afternoon, Margaret stepped from the servants' hall just as the under gardener appeared in the basement passage, carrying a basket of long-stemmed cut flowers.

“Hello there, love. New, are you?”

“Yes. I'm Nora Garret.”

“Well, Nora. I would be much obliged if you'd deliver these to Mrs. Budgeon for me. Mr. Sackett's nippin' at my heels to get back to work.”

“Of course. They're lovely. For Miss Upchurch's apartment?”

He nodded. “And the hall.”

Margaret lifted the basket to her face, inhaling deeply of the sweet aromas of late-summer roses and white clematis, amid other beautiful, though less fragrant varieties.

Betty, she knew, was repairing a torn seam for Miss Upchurch, while Fiona and Mrs. Budgeon were busy taking an inventory of the linen cupboard.

Margaret had already realized no one at Fairbourne Hall had an eye for flower arrangements. What a pleasure it would be after the drudgery of polishing summer-bright grates, sweeping stairs, and emptying chamber pots.

Margaret carried the flowers to the stillroom, knowing Hester would have the containers and implements she would need.

Hester greeted her warmly and welcomed her back into her sunny, warm domain.

For Helen's dressing table, Margaret chose a blue porcelain vase and filled it with a low arrangement of pale roses, pink asters, blue cornflowers, and dainty white clematis with lovely trailing vines. For the hall she used a gilded bowl and made a taller arrangement of golden chrysanthemums, garden phlox, purple coneflowers, verbena, and greenery. She enjoyed every minute of the task.

“You've a gift, Nora!” Hester praised, which pleased her inordinately.

Margaret carried the first vase up to Helen Upchurch's apartment, a bright chamber of white and blues. Placing the flowers on the dressing table, Margaret rearranged the pretty vanity set, Helen's collection of porcelain birds, and a framed miniature on either side of the vase. Stepping back, she admired her work. A great improvement.

Then her attention was drawn to the miniature portrait itself. She picked it up once more and studied the face. Was this the man Helen had hoped to marry? An exceedingly handsome man, if the artist's brush was accurate. How she would like to pick up a brush once again. It had been too long.

Helen's voice startled her. “Beautiful, was he not?”

Margaret quickly set the portrait down, stunned and chagrined not only to be caught poking about, but to be alone with Nathaniel's sister.

Risking a look over her shoulder, she was relieved to find Helen's eyes trained on the portrait.

“Yes, miss,” she replied, accent warbling. “I'm sorry, miss. I . . .”

Helen waved away her apology. She walked over and reverently picked up the miniature, staring down at the face with an expression both dreamy and pained.

Margaret bobbed a curtsy and quickly slipped from the room.