The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (19 page)

“Very well, Nora. I take your meaning. No use in hurt feelings if they can be avoided. But should Miss Upchurch decide to make the situation of your helping her more . . . official . . . some hurt feelings will be inevitable.”

“I am not hoping or pushing for anything official . . . or permanent, Mrs. Budgeon. I only want to help where I am able.”

One brow quirked. “Well. We shall see.”

A few minutes later, reticule over her wrist and bonnet tied beneath her chin, Margaret let herself from the servants' door, up the recessed stairs, and across the drive. She relished the rare bit of freedom, of solitude, of sunshine and fresh air. Of not having her hands in lye or polish or turpentine. Crunching along the gravel path between gardens and lawn, she inhaled deeply of roses and freshly scythed grass and strolled happily up the road. She didn't see Jester and wondered where the dog was.

She had just reached the boardwalk fronting the row of Weavering Street shops when Nathaniel Upchurch stepped from the blacksmith's stall across the road, Jester at his heel. Her stomach gave a little lurch. Nathaniel glanced over and frowned. He looked perplexed, perhaps even disapproving, at seeing one of his housemaids strolling through the hamlet. She ducked her head.

If they met on the street, would he greet her? She doubted it. She was only a servant, after all. He kept his distance from the servants, except for Mr. Hudson. He seemed to treat Mr. Hudson more like a friend than a steward.

Jester had no such reservations. The dog bounded across the road, tail wagging, tongue lolling. She patted his head in greeting and kept walking. As she approached the chandler's, she saw, from the corner of her eye, Mr. Upchurch crossing the road in her direction. Her pulse pounded. She turned away, feigning interest in the display window. For a moment, in her self-conscious awareness of being watched, the contents of the display window remained a blur, but then she blinked them into focus. She scanned the items in the window yet again, heart sinking.

The chatelaine was gone.

Dread filling her, Margaret hurried into the shop, Nathaniel Upchurch and his dog forgotten. The thin shopkeeper looked up from his counter as she approached.

“The chatelaine, sir. Is it gone?”

“No, it's right here. Brought it up front to display it proper.”

“Oh.” She exhaled a sigh of relief. “Good.” She hesitated. “May I see what buttons you have?”

“Buttons?” He seemed disappointed but quickly recovered. “Of course.” He pulled out a long shallow drawer filled with buttons of every variety and laid it on the counter before her.

She selected two buttons of varying shades of bluish-green. As she held them up to compare them, the image of Betty's grieving blue eyes appeared before her. She blinked the image away. Lying on the counter nearby, the chatelaine beckoned her attention, but Margaret resisted, spending the next quarter hour looking not only at buttons, but ribbon trim, lace, and fabric.

In the end she selected four new buttons, a few yards of ribbon, and a length of sheer lawn from which to fashion a fichu. Again the chatelaine drew her eye. For a fleeting moment, she thought about forgoing the falderals and purchasing the chatelaine with Miss Upchurch's money instead. Would Helen even notice mismatched buttons? But Margaret quickly scolded herself for even considering the idea. She was a vicar's daughter. A lady. A trusted servant. The irony of considering herself both lady and servant in a single thought struck her, and she bit her lip.

She handed over one of Miss Upchurch's guineas and then carefully slid the smaller coins the shopkeeper proffered as change into her reticule. As she did she spied her cameo necklace nestled inside. The gift from her father. Irreplaceable. Dear. She pressed her eyes closed.

What would you have me do, Papa?
She silently asked.
What would you have me do, almighty God?
She bit the inside of her cheek, but still tears pricked her eyes.

Heart thudding, Margaret reached in and grasped the cameo necklace by its gold clasp and slowly, reverently extracted it. The hawk-eyed shopkeeper watched every move, his gaze riveted on the gold chain, the fine if modest-sized cameo. She laid the cameo on the counter, its chain spiraling down beside it, her stiff fingers holding firmly to its clasp.

Two mornings later, Helen Upchurch inspected the made-over walking dress in astonishment. “Why, you did more than sew on new buttons, Nora. This is lovely.”

“I'm glad you like it, miss.”

Margaret was very glad, because she had spent far too much time working on it, staying up into the wee hours the last two nights to finish the stitching. She had added a border of trefoils around its hem, contrasting cuffs, and a wide band of the same material at the waist.

Helen looked up at her. “You did all this with only the few coins I gave you?”

“And odds and ends I found in Miss Nash's old room.”

Helen chuckled. “How strange to hear you say her name when you have never met her.”

“That's what the others call the room.”

“I suppose they think it odd that I have not engaged another maid?”

Margaret shrugged. “A little.” She hesitated. “May I ask why you have not?”

Helen sat on the dressing room chair and faced her. “You see, Miss Nash was my mother's maid. Mamma was very fond of her. I was happy to keep her on after Mamma died. But when Miss Nash reached a certain age, she began to slip a little. Mentally and physically. She began doing my hair in little girl ringlets and sewing a great many youthful frills and flounces to my gowns. So I convinced her to retire. She will live out her life in a snug cottage on our estate. She was loath to go, but I assured her she had done her duty by me and I no longer needed a maid dedicated solely to my appearance. I had, after all, given up my social life. My days of balls and routs and flirtations were over. Betty could help me dress and pin my hair when needed. If I hired a new lady's maid, Miss Nash would take it as a slight, I fear. She might come to think it was not that I no longer
needed
her, but that I no longer
wanted
her.”

“And did you?”

Helen sighed. “You saw the condition of my frocks? They were not so much better while Miss Nash was still here. She even once scolded me for no longer fitting into my little-girl stays, as though she had only just noticed I had developed a bosom.”

“But Miss Helen . . .”

She waved away Margaret's argument before she could voice it. “The truth is, I really don't care. I have no desire to spend a great deal of time on my appearance, or the family's money on fashion. It simply does not matter to me.”

Margaret was formulating a suitable reply, but Helen cut her off with uncharacteristic defensiveness. “On second thought, I shall wear my old grey gown again. I have no need to dress especially well today.”

“But—”

“That will be all, Nora. You may return to your duties.”

That evening, Margaret stood in her room, gently stretching her weary neck, shoulder, and arm muscles as she waited for Betty to come and unlace her stays. Behind her, the bedchamber door banged open.

“How dare you?”

Margaret spun toward the door, thankful her wig stayed in place.

Fiona stood there, hands on her hips, clearly in high dudgeon.

“Mrs. Budgeon sent me to the chandler's this afternoon. How surprised I was to find Betty's chatelaine gone.” Fiona advanced into the room, expression menacing. “And who bought it, I ask Mr. Johnston. And what does he tell me? A housemaid with spectacles and a great deal of dark hair.”

Fiona's eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Ya know how much it means to her. How dare ya buy Betty's chatelaine for yarself?”

“She didn't.”

Both women turned. Betty stood in the threshold, cradling the chatelaine in both hands.

“She bought it for me.”

Margaret had slipped into Betty's room that morning and left it on her bedside table, wrapped in tissue.

Betty's eyes glistened with tears and fastened on Margaret. “Thank you. I shall pay you back when I can.”

Margaret shook her head. “You needn't. It was the least I could do. I hope it makes up for the trouble I've caused you.”

Betty winked, a tear spilling over her round cheek. “I wouldn't go that far.”

Margaret smiled. The surprise and joy on Betty's face eased her pain over the loss of her cameo. For the moment, at least.

Several mornings later, Fiona knocked on her door. Actually knocked. When Margaret opened the door to her, the maid stepped inside and thrust something into her hands.

“What's this?” Margaret asked, unfolding a stiff white garment.

“Short stays what lace up the front. You can get them on and off yarself.”

Margaret pulled her gaze from material to maid. “You made this for me?”

Fiona grimaced. “It isn't a gift, now is it? Those fancy stays of yars aren't suitable for a working girl. And it isn't fair to Betty, always having to be dressing ya morning and night. This—”

“I agree,” Margaret interrupted. “Is this the sort you and Betty wear?”

“It is. And if it's good enough for the rest of us, it's good enough for you.”

Margaret smiled. “More than good enough, Fiona. Why, I have rarely seen such fine stitching.”

Fiona winced and fidgeted. “Go on, that's going it a bit brown. You'd think I'd given ya silk drawers or somethin'.” She gestured with both hands. “Now, let's see how it fits.”

Over her shift, Margaret slipped her hands through each armhole of the short stays, which were rather like a man's waistcoat, though not as long. The stays were made of sturdy corded cotton with gussets, four or five pair of holes up the front, and even a few embroidered embellishments. Margaret pulled the two sides together over her bosom, effectively lifting and supporting her breasts.

“Now take that string there,” Fiona said, “and go back and forth between those holes, like ya was sewing.”

Margaret did as instructed, then tied the string.

Fiona surveyed her work. “Fits ya rather well, if I do say so myself.”

“It does indeed. Thank you again.”

“Mind you, I only did it so ya might dress yarself from now on.”

Apparently, the Irishwoman would rather die than to be thought doing Nora a favor. Margaret grinned. “Still, I appreciate it. You might simply have told me to make one myself.”

Fiona tilted her head to one side. “Now, why didn't I think of that?”

But Margaret thought she saw the faintest glimmer of humor in Fiona's green eyes.

This hand is surely far too fine,
This foot so dainty and small.
The manner of speaking which I have,
My waist, my bustle,
These would never be found
On a lady's maid!

—André Rieu, “Mein Herr Marquis”

Chapter 15

H
orse hooves. The jingle of harnesses. High in the attic, Margaret heard them only distantly.

On that drizzly mid-September afternoon, Margaret had been assigned to clean out the old schoolroom, now used for storage. Beneath the window, pails caught drips from the leaking ceiling. Along the far wall, several trunks lay in a neat row like coffins. In one of these she had found space to stack the primers, slates, and maps which had been left in a dusty, moldering pile in the chimney corner. In another trunk, she found layer upon layer of old ball gowns a decade out of fashion. From Miss Helen's coming-out days, she guessed.

Mrs. Budgeon had also instructed her to clean out the fireplace and flue after years of disuse. Why now? Margaret had wondered but managed to bite her tongue. Apparently the housekeeper wanted to make sure the new maid didn't begin to think too highly of herself.

Margaret was attempting to clean the flue with, yes, the flue brush. She was foolishly proud of herself for identifying the correct tool. Vaguely she heard the sounds of hurrying feet and the ringing of bells but, concentrating on her task, paid them little heed.

The angle for cleaning the flue was awkward. Kneeling before the grate, Margaret leaned in, her head inside the fireplace. For a fleeting second, she thought it fortunate she wore a dark wig, for if she was not careful her hair would be black soon enough. With that thought, she pulled the white cap from her wig and tossed it out of range, not wanting to spoil it. Margaret scraped the inside of the flue with her brush, dislodging a wad of sooty buildup and a cloud of dust. She coughed and squeezed her eyes shut, wondering what coal dust did to one's lungs and vision. She scraped again.

The door behind her burst open and Margaret started, hitting her head on the lintel.

She lowered her head and saw Betty run in, gesturing frantically. “Here you are!” She huffed. “Did you not hear the bells?”

Margaret checked her wig with a black-streaked hand as she backed from the fireplace. “Not really. Not with my head up the chimney. Why?”

“It's a call to assembly. In the main hall.” Betty surveyed Margaret's face, wincing. “You've got soot on your spectacles. Your face too. But there's no time. Everyone else is down there already.” She bent and extracted a clean cloth from the housemaid's box nearby and handed it to Margaret. “Here.”

Taking it, Margaret rose from stinging knees and wiped her hands. “Assembly for what?” she asked. “We've already had prayers.”

“Someone's come, and we're to assemble immediately. That's all I know. But that's ten minutes ago now.”

She poked a hand into Margaret's back and turned her toward the door. “Let's go!”

Dropping the cloth, Margaret bent quickly and retrieved her cap, settling it back on her wig. “All right?” She angled her face toward Betty as they hurried to the stairway.

Betty grimaced. “Here, take my handkerchief and wipe your spectacles at least.”

“But that's your best handkerchief.”

“Go on, we haven't time to argue.”

Margaret removed her glasses, polishing the lenses as she clambered down the attic stairs, almost tripping and missing a step.

“Better?” she asked, slipping the spectacles on once more.

Betty glanced at her and sighed. “It'll have to do. Stay in the back.”

They reached the next floor. When Margaret would have continued down the back stairs to the ground floor, Betty pulled her by the wrist past the family bedchambers toward the main stairway the servants were not to use—except when sweeping and polishing. Margaret wondered why but did not argue.

Then she saw. The staff had gathered in the hall below—outdoor servants and estate workers as well. Gamekeeper, carpenter, grooms, stable boys, gardeners, and others she did not know stood on one side of the hall floor. Behind them stood the laundry maids, the hen woman, the spider brusher, and the dairy maid. When the floor had become too crowded, other servants had lined up in rows behind them on the wide steps, filling the stairs past the first landing. Monsieur Fournier, Hester, the kitchen maids, and scullery maid. Behind them Fiona, the footmen, and hall boy. The estate workers were not obligated to attend morning prayers at Fairbourne Hall, so Margaret had never seen the entire staff assembled before.

Margaret followed Betty down the steps, hoping to join the crowd as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. She found herself ducking her head, as though that would make her invisible or draw less attention to her soiled self.

Margaret stopped on the stair behind the blond second footman. Betty stood beside her.

“What's happening, Craig?” Betty whispered.

He shrugged.

Margaret looked down past the waiting flock of servants to the four people standing on the other side of the hall facing them. Standing a little apart from the men, Mrs. Budgeon surveyed the group, as though mentally counting their ranks. Appearing satisfied, she turned to the three men—Mr. Hudson, Nathaniel Upchurch, and . . .

Margaret froze.
Sterling Benton. Here. Now.
Standing for all intents and purposes in the same room with her. Her heart rate accelerated, thudding hard.

Sterling made an impressive and commanding presence with his silver hair, deep blue frock coat, and ebony walking stick. His hat was carefully held by the under butler, but he had not surrendered his coat. Hopefully that meant he did not intend to stay long.

Mr. Hudson said something to Nathaniel. Nathaniel nodded and took a half step forward, facing them squarely and clearing his throat.

“Good afternoon, everyone. This gentleman is Mr. Sterling Benton of London. I will let him tell you why he is here and ask that you give him your full attention.”

Sterling stepped forward, turning something in his hands.

“I am here today because my stepdaughter has been missing for nearly a month. My dear wife, her mother, is beside herself, as you can well imagine.”

Margaret could hardly breathe.

“I don't know why she left. She did have a bit of a . . . lover's quarrel . . . with her intended, and may have flown in a fit of pique. She is an impulsive girl, I admit. But whatever the reason, I want to find her and return her safely to her mother, and to her repentant future husband. All will be forgiven. We simply want her home.”

He lifted the object in his hands. A miniature portrait. “This is her likeness, painted several years ago. I would like you to pass it one person to the next, so each may see it. Her name is Margaret Macy. She is four and twenty years old. If any of you have seen her, please speak up. Or, if anyone sees her after I leave, tell the steward here and he promises to send word directly.”

Margaret's ears buzzed; her chest, neck, and face felt hot and sticky. While each person looked at the portrait, then passed it on, Sterling Benton looked closely at him or her. Looking for a reaction, or for
her
?

The minutes felt like painful hours standing on broken glass. Fearing she might faint, Margaret forced herself to breathe deeply, barely resisting the urge to pant, or duck down, or flee.

Finally the portrait reached the row ahead of them. Craig looked at it quickly, shook his head, and passed it up to Betty. Betty glanced at it, hesitated, looked again, then handed it to Margaret. Margaret swallowed. How strange to see her former image while in her current circumstances. How young the girl in the portrait looked, light yellow hair curled and piled high around her face, fair brows above proud blue eyes, pale cheeks, and pink lips. It didn't seem like her. Not anymore.

“Do you recognize her?” Sterling Benton called up.

Too late, Margaret realized she had held on to the portrait too long and had drawn attention to herself. She quickly handed it back to Betty with a shake of her head. She dug an elbow into Betty's side.

“Uh no, sir,” Betty answered for her. “Sorry, sir. She's a pretty thing though.”

Mrs. Budgeon called up, “Mr. Benton did not ask for an assessment of her beauty, Betty, but thank you.”

The portrait made its way back down more rapidly, passed from hand to hand. Mrs. Budgeon gave it to Mr. Hudson, who glanced at it, looked again, and then murmured, “Betty is correct.”

He passed it to Nathaniel Upchurch, who returned it to Sterling Benton without a glance.

Sterling looked around the hall once more before pinning Nathaniel with a look. “And where is your good sister?”

Nathaniel said evenly, “My sister is not much out in society these days, so it is highly unlikely she would have come across Mar . . . your stepdaughter.”

Sterling gave a thin smile. “Still, she is a woman, and women can be so much more discerning than men, I find. Don't you?”

Nathaniel stared at the man. Without looking away from him, he said crisply, “Mrs. Budgeon, would you please send for Miss Upchurch?”

“Yes, sir.”

But Mrs. Budgeon, looking up at the crowd blocking the stairs, speared Margaret with a look and commanded, “Nora, please ask your mistress to join us.”

Margaret did not move, the words barely registering in her frozen brain. It was Betty's turn to elbow her. Coming to life, Nora turned and hurried up the stairs, feeling a pair of eyes scorching her back.

She all but ran down the corridor and into Helen's room without knocking. She rushed straight to the washstand. “Your presence is requested in the hall, miss.”

Miss Upchurch looked up expectantly from her writing desk, her brow furrowed. “Oh? Why?”

With nervous energy, Margaret washed her hands, then retrieved the new fichu from a drawer. “A man has come,” she said, barely managing an accent. “A Mr. Benton.”

Helen cast her a quick look. “Sterling Benton?”

Margaret nodded, arranging the fichu around Helen's shoulders and tucking it into the neckline of her gold day dress.

“What does he want?”

Margaret swallowed. “Says his stepdaughter has gone missing. And he's showing her miniature and asking if anyone has seen her.”

“And did anyone recognize . . . the woman in the portrait?”

Margaret repinned a lock of hair that had come loose from Helen's twist. “Only Mr. Upchurch, I think.”

“Why does Mr. Benton ask for me?”

“I don't know, miss. To ask if you've seen the girl, I suppose.”

For a moment the two women looked at one another face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

Helen asked soberly, “And have I?”

Margaret pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Her throat went dry. She whispered, “That's for you to say.”

Helen cocked her head to one side. “But?”

In the silence, the mantel clock ticked.

Hoping to give her a way out, Margaret stammered, “But . . . your brother did tell him that,
your
seeing . . . her . . . was highly unlikely. You not being out much in society.”

Helen frowned. “Be that as it may, I have eyes, have I not?”

Margaret lowered her gaze. “Yes, miss.”

She had said the wrong thing. Now what would Helen say?

———

Margaret followed Helen back to the stairway, staying a few yards behind her, matching her stately pace. She was reluctant to return to the hall, her every nerve pulsing a warning—
Turn around, run, flee!

Instead she put one foot in front of the other and followed her mistress. Would Helen expose her? What would happen if she did? She would lose her place to live, her dignity, her freedom. Would she be forced to leave with Sterling? She had nowhere else to go.

The people on the stairs parted like the Red Sea to allow their mistress to pass between them.

Margaret resumed her place beside Betty.

“Ah, Miss Upchurch.” Sterling Benton beamed his icy, enigmatic smile. “How good of you to join us. A pleasure to see you again, even though one would wish for happier circumstances.”

“Mr. Benton.”

He handed her the portrait. “You may recall my stepdaughter, Margaret Macy?”

Helen regarded the framed image. “I recall Miss Macy, though of course she was not your stepdaughter when last I saw her in London. She was the daughter of Mr. Stephen Macy, an exceptional gentleman and clergyman, gone from this world too soon.”

Margaret's heart squeezed to hear the words. She had not realized Helen had more than a passing acquaintance with her father.

Mr. Benton's mouth tightened fractionally. “How kind of you to say.”

Helen inclined her head.

“You have heard, I trust, that Margaret has gone missing?”

“I did. Mr. Saxby brought the news from town a few weeks ago. Do you fear some harm has befallen her?”