The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (17 page)

“What are you doing?” Helen breathed.

Margaret's heart pounded. She stared back, then feigned interest in an imaginary stray lock of hair. Had Helen recognized her, or was she merely offended at the liberties a new maid had taken with her hair? Perhaps Margaret was reading too much into the question.

Swallowing, Margaret chose to respond to the latter meaning and exaggerated her accent. “Just tryin' to give your hair a bit of height, miss. But I can do it over if ya like.”

She held her breath, feeling Miss Upchurch's scrutinizing stare on her bowed head. The silence was thick. Margaret's palms grew damp. Her voice breathy, she asked, “Which earbobs would ya like to wear, miss?”

Helen swiveled on her dressing stool, and Margaret backed up several steps. The woman's direct gaze was even more intimidating than it had been in reflection. Margaret forced herself to meet that gaze.

Helen asked warily, “Why are you here?”

Margaret was sure Helen must hear her heart
ta-tomb
ing in her ears. “As I say, miss. I'm only helpin' Betty today. I meant no harm.”

Helen's eyes narrowed. “I don't know what you are about. But I shall be watching you.”

“Yes, miss,” Margaret murmured. “Will there be anythin' else, miss?”

Helen slowly shook her head.

Margaret curtsied, turned, and strode to the door, feeling Helen Upchurch's suspicious eyes follow her every step of the way.

———

In the corridor, she nearly collided with Fiona. The thin Irishwoman was out of breath and grim-faced. She glanced from Margaret to the door she had just exited.

“What were ya about in there?”

“Just helping out. Since Betty's not able.”

“I was just going in. Is she angry?”

She thought of Helen's suspicious face. “Not angry, no.”

“Did ya tell her Betty was . . . ?”

“I only said we were a bit behind after yesterday and I was filling in this morning. That's all.”

“A bit behind? Sure and that's a fine way of sayin' foxed and sick as a dog. Castin' up her accounts was she?”

“Well . . .” Margaret gestured helplessly.

“Are ya sayin'
you
helped the mistress dress?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps I should go in and check . . .”

Margaret touched Fiona's arm. “The mistress is fine. Washed, clothed, hair dressed.”

Fiona breathed a sigh of relief, then murmured, “Which is more'n I can say for Betty.”

“Have you seen her?”

Fiona nodded. “I was just up lookin' for her and found her sleepin'. Y'ought to have told me.”

“You had your own work.” Margaret's stomach growled, and she turned away. It was time for morning prayers.

Fortunately for Betty, no one seemed to notice her absence. Afterward, Margaret and Fiona went back upstairs to clean the family bedchambers. When Fiona later rejoined her to help remake the beds, there had still been no sign of Betty.

“Poor lamb,” Fiona said, shaking out the aired bedclothes. “She was low indeed last night. Worried about her ma.”

“Her ma? I thought she had passed on.”

Fiona frowned. “What put that notion into yar head?”

Margaret inhaled. “She showed me her mother's chatelaine. I assumed . . .” Margaret let her words drift away on a shrug.

“She isn't dead, only retired. Ailing.” Fiona went to the other side of the bed and helped her spread the sheets. “Mrs. Tidy was a fine housekeeper, until her health failed and she could work no more. Had an apoplexy, poor soul, and needs constant care now. She lives with a widow in Maidstone, and Betty's wages support them both.”

“Is that why she sold her chatelaine . . .” Margaret breathed, stricken at the thought.

Fiona's head snapped toward her. “Did she now? And how might you be knowing that?”

“I saw it in the chandler's window.”

“Is that where she went off to? Never said a word to me. I wondered where she come by all that money for drink. Must have fetched enough for her ma with plenty left over to drown her sorrows.”

“But surely she might have explained . . .”

“Tell her mother, the sainted housekeeper, what never made a mistake in her life, to hear her tell it. Let on her wages was being garnished? Not Betty. She has her pride, hasn't she?”

Margaret winced. “But not her prized possession.”

“And whose fault is that? All yar fine words won't get it back neither, so don't be lookin' down yar nose at her.”

“I wasn't.”

Fiona gave her a sidelong glance. “So ya came into Weavering Street yesterday, but couldn't be bothered to join us?”

“I meant to, but—”

Mrs. Budgeon popped her head in the door. “Here you are. I have just come from the green bedroom. Why is that bed not yet made? It is nearly eleven.”

Margaret glanced at Fiona, but Fiona trained her stony gaze on the pillow in her arms.

“It's my fault, ma'am,” Margaret said. “I fell behind today, but I'll soon catch up.”

“You had better.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Thank you for helping out, Fiona.”

Fiona nodded.

Mrs. Budgeon asked, “Have you seen Betty?”

Fiona looked at Margaret.

Margaret faltered, “Um . . . yes. Last I saw her she was in one of the other bedchambers.” Well, that was true to a point, though the bedchamber had been her own.

“When you see her, tell her I need to speak with her.”

At that moment, Betty appeared in the doorway, looking sheepish. “Here I am, Mrs. Budgeon. I am terribly sorry . . .”

The housekeeper said, “You are responsible for overseeing the duties of the under maids, but Nora is not new any longer and must learn to complete her duties on time herself. You and Fiona cannot continue to cover for her.”

Betty's mouth dropped open. “But . . . I—”

Margaret said quickly, “That's what Betty is always telling me, Mrs. Budgeon. I shall do better in future. I promise.”

Mrs. Budgeon studied her. “Very well. We shall let it pass this once. I knew yesterday's idleness would exact its price.”

“Right you were,” Margaret agreed.

In the doorway, Betty nodded, her pale countenance and red-rimmed eyes hinting at just how high a price it was.

Chamber maid wanted who can dress hair,
clear starch, read & write, bear moderate confinement,
work well at her needle, dress a young lady, is sober &
honest & well behaved. Apply Mrs. Lambe, Stall St.

—
Bath Chronicle
,
1793

Chapter 13

M
argaret stood waiting in her room in her wig, shift, and undone stays when Fiona knocked on her door the next morning. She had been expecting Betty.

“Betty's already hard at work. Makin' up for yesterday, no doubt. She asked me to help ya with yar stays this mornin'.”

“Thank you, Fiona.”

“It's a favor to Betty, mind, not you.”

Margaret turned her back to Fiona. But Fiona circled her, surveying the long stays of ivory linen which came down to her hip. The shoulder straps and satiny gusseted cups supported, while pretty stitching decorated the front.

“Well, well. Such finery for a housemaid. A castoff from yar last mistress?”

“Um . . . it belonged to one of the daughters, yes.”

Fiona nodded and stepped behind her, pulling the single lace through the many holes with more force than necessary.

“Thank you,” Margaret said through gritted teeth, and waited for Fiona to step from the room.

“Let's have the rest, then,” Fiona said.

Margaret preferred no audience when she pulled her petticoat and day dress over her head, in case her wig should slip. “Thank you, but I can manage the rest on my own.”

Fiona stuck out her lip, as though impressed. “That's somethin,' I suppose.”

———

Two hours later, her first round of duties completed, Margaret went downstairs for breakfast. On her way to the servants' hall, she passed the housekeeper's parlor. From within, Mrs. Budgeon hailed her.

“Nora?”

Margaret veered into her doorway. “Yes, Mrs. Budgeon?”

The housekeeper looked up from the tea she was measuring. “It seems you made quite an impression on Miss Upchurch yesterday when you took it upon yourself to help her dress and arrange her hair.” Her tone was not complimentary.

“Betty was busy elsewhere, ma'am. I only meant to help the one time.”

“In future, you are to see me before promoting yourself.”

“I had no intention of promoting my—”

“Do not interrupt me.”

Margaret swallowed.

“Nor will you make any further changes in your assigned duties. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Budgeon avoided her eyes and took a deep breath. “It seems Miss Upchurch would like you to dress her hair once again. You will attend her immediately after your breakfast.”

“But . . . I . . .”

“It was not a suggestion, Nora.”

“No, ma'am. Yes, ma'am.”

———

Heart pounding, Margaret scratched on Miss Helen's door. A proper lady's maid had no need to knock before entering her mistress's bedchamber. But there was nothing proper about the maid trembling at Helen Upchurch's door. She wondered if Helen really wanted “Nora” to dress her hair, or if she had another reason for summoning her.

“Come.”

Whispering a prayer, Margaret pushed open the door and stepped inside. Helen was seated at her dressing table, fully clothed. Betty had obviously been there before her.

Helen glanced up at her in the mirror. “Nora, was it?”

Mouth dry, Margaret nodded.

“Kindly dress my hair, please.”

Please.
Had Margaret ever said the word to Joan?

Margaret walked forward, glad Helen's back was to her but wishing she might throw a shawl over that mirror.

She picked up the brush and again began stroking through Helen's hair. Glancing down, she noticed that the high neck of Miss Upchurch's gown was frayed—the decorative buttons sagging on their threads. The dress was not only worn but outmoded. Helen Upchurch had always dressed quite fashionably when Margaret had seen her during the London seasons. But that was before her heart had been broken and she put herself on the shelf.

As she pinned Helen's hair, she felt the woman's eyes watching her in the mirror. Margaret swallowed and, nervous, stuck the final pin too deep.

Helen winced. “What are you doing?”

Margaret did not like the odd light in Helen's eyes. The light of suspicion . . . or recognition? She said in her acquired accent, “Beg pardon, miss.”

Helen blinked. She asked slowly, “Why are you here at Fairbourne Hall?”

That question again. Margaret licked dry lips. She wondered once more if Helen knew. Had she seen through her disguise when her brothers had not? She was probably reading too much into Helen's questions. After all, the woman had not tossed her out on her ear after their last meeting.

Margaret summoned her courage. “I needed the work, miss,” she began. “Glad I was when Mr. Hudson offered me a place.”

Helen's eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to work
here
?”

“I . . . There was no work in London.”

Helen's expression hardened. “There is always work in London.”

“I couldn't stay there, miss. I had to get away.”

“But
why
?” Helen repeated, her expression perplexed, frustrated.

Margaret swallowed. “Because my . . .” She hated to use the word
father
related to Sterling Benton but didn't want to name the man. “My stepfather was pressurin' me to marry his nephew—a man I can't abide.” Margaret shuddered anew at the thought of marrying Marcus Benton.

Helen seemed to consider this, then said slowly, “You cannot be forced to marry against your will, you know. The law prohibits it. You can marry or not as you choose.”

“Did
you
?” Margaret's tongue jabbed the words before she could stop them.

A flush of pain and of indignation marred Helen Upchurch's face.

Remorse swamped Margaret. “I am sorry, miss. I shouldn'ta said it. But you know men has their ways of gettin' what they want and there is little women can do to stop 'em.”

For a moment, a faraway look misted Helen's hazel eyes. “Yes, I do know.” Then she looked up sharply again in the mirror. “What are you playing at in coming
here
? If you have some scheme in mind, I warn you—”

Margaret lifted both hands in her defense. “No scheme, miss. I woulda gone farther than Maidstone, but I hadn't the money. When Mr. Hudson found me at the hiring fair, I didn't even know which family he worked for. Honest I didn't.”

For several ticks of the clock, the two women stared at each other in the looking glass.

Then Helen seemed to reach some decision. She rose and turned, saying officiously, “Well then . . . Nora. You had better go about your duties, had you not?”

Knees weak, Margaret bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.” She backed from the room, not fully certain what had just transpired. Had Helen Upchurch just agreed to allow her to continue her ruse? Or had she imagined all those telling looks and suspicious questions? She would need to tread carefully and follow Helen's lead.

———

In the corridor, Fiona grasped her arm none too gently. “In there again? What are you about? Waiting on the mistress is Betty's job. And if it wasn't, it'd be mine.”

“I only went because she asked for me.”

“And why is that? Because ya pushed yar way in, didn't ya? Took advantage of Betty bein' indisposed to wheedle yar way into her place. The mistress would barely know you existed otherwise.”

If only Margaret had foreseen that. “I only meant to help.”

“Help yarself, ya mean. You know Betty hopes Miss Helen will bring her up as lady's maid, official-like. A step toward becoming housekeeper one day.”

Margaret had not thought of that. She was tempted to point out that Betty had no talent for either hairdressing or making over old gowns, nor any of the other beauty tricks a lady's maid was supposed to know. But it would be unkind to say so. And—seeing the anger in Fiona's expression—unwise as well.

“I know you won't believe me, but I have no wish to be Miss Upchurch's personal maid.”

Fiona snorted. “And why not? Prefer blacking grates, I suppose?”

“No. It isn't that. In fact I like dressing her hair, but . . .” How could she verbalize her real objections?
I don't like the way Helen Upchurch stares at me. I think she recognizes me but is toying with me.
Besides, Margaret knew many gentlewomen took their personal maids with them on calls, and to house parties, and shopping . . . Margaret had no wish to be out and about and increase her chances of being seen. Recognized. Considering her situation, being an invisible housemaid was better by far.

“But?” Fiona prompted.

“You'll just have to trust me when I tell you that you have nothing to fear from me. I don't want Betty's job—yours either.”

After morning prayers, while the family ate their later breakfast, Margaret went upstairs to clean the brothers' bedchambers. She hurried, as usual, dreading being caught in the room should Nathaniel come upstairs. Knowing Lewis had returned to London, Margaret had skipped his room yesterday in her hurry to complete her other duties as well as Betty's. The amiable Connor had left the room in a mess when he'd packed up while the others were off enjoying their half day, and it took her longer than it should have to clean it this morning. She was behind schedule when she hurried into Nathaniel Upchurch's bedchamber and began her work there.

Margaret paused in her dusting to inspect a model ship on the dressing chest. This was no child's toy, but a detailed scale model. A wooden hull, polished and veneered, rigging made of horsehair and silk, masts and spars carved of ivory. How did one dust a ship? She picked up the model in her hands, tipping it back to see the word
Ecclesia
painted on its side.

Snap.

Margaret froze at the sound. The main mast had broken off in her hands, taking a small section of decking with it. She sucked in a breath. “No . . .”

The door opened behind her, and she whirled around. In her panic, she hid the pieces behind her back like a child caught in yet another misdemeanor.

Nathaniel Upchurch strode across the room with barely a glance her way. Did he think servants unworthy of his notice?

He went to his desk, retrieved a book, and turned to go.

Relief—she was not to be caught after all. Once he had gone, she would sneak the ship up to her room and try to repair it herself. But then might she, or Betty or Fiona, be accused of stealing it? A ship such as this would bring a high price in town. No. She could not do it. Besides, she told herself, she was a woman of four and twenty, not a sneaky seven-year-old.

“Sir?” she blurted.

He hesitated at the door, frowning. She supposed he didn't approve of maids speaking first. “Yes?”

“I'm afeared I broke yer ship,” she said, laying the accent on thick.

His gaze swiftly flew to the pieces she now held forth in her hands.

“I was dustin' it, sir. I'm dreadful sorry. I shoulda been more careful-like.”

He strode swiftly across the room, eyes riveted on the ship, lips pulled tight. He did not look at her, yet she saw irritation or something worse sparking in his eyes.

He tossed the book back onto the desk with such force that it slid off onto the floor. He paid it no heed. He took first the ship from her hand, then the broken mast, assessing the damage and trying to fit the pieces together.

He murmured to himself, “First the real thing, now this.”

Guilt pricked and coated her innards with remorse. “I shall have it repaired, shall I? Perhaps someone in town might—”

“Leave it,” he snapped. Setting the ship on his desk, he turned on his heel and left the room.

The door slammed behind him, reverberating through her heart. She remembered that look. This feeling. She hated disappointing him yet again.