The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (22 page)

Nathaniel asked Hudson to ride with him that morning, and the steward happily obliged. They rode away from the estate and cantered along a country lane, scaring up grouse and pheasant. Then they slowed their mounts to a leisurely walk, enjoying the swish of horsetails against dragonflies, a gentle September breeze, and companionable silence.

Finally, Nathaniel began, “What do you suppose it means, Hudson, when I dream of a beautiful blond lady and awaken to find a long blond hair in my bed?”

Hudson chuckled. “My goodness, sir. What vivid dreams you must have!”

“You have no idea.”

Nathaniel was confident Hudson knew he was not suggesting he had actually had a woman in his bed. Since his change of heart on Barbados, he had made every effort to keep his ways pure. He asked, “Have we some blond housemaid I am unaware of?”

“You seem unaware of all the maids, sir, if I may say.” Hudson paused to consider, staring up at the blue sky as though a staff roster were written there. “There is a scullery maid with fair hair, but hers is a rather short mop of curls. The laundry maid's hair might once have been considered blond, but it's all but grey now. And your sister's hair is a rich coffee brown.”

Nathaniel gave his steward a sharp look, and Hudson turned away, face reddening. “Not that I have cause to notice.” He cleared his throat. “I can think of any manner of ways a stray hair might have ended in your bedclothes. I will ask Mrs. Budgeon to speak to the laundry maid straightaway, and see that she takes more care in future.”

Nathaniel waved the notion away. “Never mind, Hudson. I was only curious.”

“Very well, sir.” Hudson coughed. “But do let me know if you find any more . . . em . . . souvenirs.”

Nathaniel nodded. He realized he was lost in thought when he looked over to find Hudson studying him with wry amusement.

“Must have been some dream, sir. Did you eat something unusual last night, I wonder?”

“Come to think of it, Monsieur Fournier served herrings in some new garlic sauce, and I ate too many of them.”

Hudson's eyes glinted. “Herrings, you say? I shall have to remember that.” He sighed. “What a man wouldn't do to have such dreams.”

For the first time since his return, Nathaniel found his eyes traveling to the female servants he had consciously avoided before, both for their ease of mind and his privacy. He did not stare, only glanced quickly to gain a general impression of hair and stature. Had one of them been in his bedchamber early that morning? Was it her? Or her?

Stop it
. None of the women, young or old, seemed unusually uncomfortable in his presence. All turned their backs or heads, feigning invisibility when he neared and then quietly resuming their work once he'd passed. He had not ordained the cold, impersonal system, but it had reigned at Fairbourne Hall since his grandmother's day, and he had given it little thought before now.

He trotted upstairs, deciding to return to the scene of the morning's strange dream. A middle-aged housemaid with auburn hair passed him in the corridor, eyebrows high, perhaps surprised to see him returning to his bedchamber at such an early hour, but she made no comment. He opened his bedchamber door and saw the rising billow of bedclothes being lofted over the bed, and the apron of the invisible housemaid beyond.

When the bedclothes lowered and settled, the maid glanced up and gave a little gasp. Unless he was imagining it, her face blanched, then mottled red.

Here then was a housemaid who
did
seem alarmed by his presence. Or was she merely startled, unaccustomed to being disturbed at this time of day? He looked at her more closely, but the young woman ducked her head, clearly uncomfortable. He recognized her as the new maid Hudson hired, the one who wore spectacles and had broken his model ship. He blinked, trying to recall his dawn awakening. Had the face above him—whether in dream or reality—worn spectacles? Perhaps . . . He couldn't quite recall. She had turned and fled so quickly.

A fringe of dark hair covered much of the new maid's brow, the rest of her hair hidden beneath a floppy mobcap. Her eyebrows were dark as well. A pretty girl to be sure, but not the woman who'd left behind a loose blond lock.

“Sorry to startle you. Go about your work. I shall be out of your hair in a moment.” Why was he chatting away with a housemaid who clearly wanted him gone?
Out of your hair?
He had never uttered such an inane phrase in his life. He had hair on the brain.

Imbecile
, he scolded himself. He was harebrained indeed.

Do nothing in your master's house that you feel
obliged to conceal to keep your situation.

—Samuel and Sarah Adams,
The Complete Servant

Chapter 17

N
athaniel and Helen once again sat talking in the family sitting room when Hudson entered.

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Hello, Hudson. I was just telling Helen about your idea to hold a servants' ball at harvest time.”

Helen gave a small smile. “I think it a marvelous notion.” She gripped her hands in her lap. “Would you mind terribly if I helped you plan it?”

Hudson pursed his lips in surprise. “I wouldn't mind at all, miss. In fact it would be a pleasure.”

Her smile widened. “Good. It is very exciting and far too long since we have done anything for our people here. Did you do anything like it for yours in Barbados?”

Hudson knit his brows. “For the slaves, miss?”

She faltered, “Well . . . No, I don't suppose that would be quite the thing.”

Nathaniel and Hudson exchanged a look.

“We had no ‘balls,' in the English sense, no,” Hudson explained. “But the slaves celebrate the end of harvest or ‘crop over' with dancing and feasting in the plantation yards.”

“Oh. I see.” Helen brightened. “Then this shall be the inaugural servants' ball for the both of us. I have several ideas, but what have you thought of so far?”

Hudson rocked on his heels. “Well . . . there should be food, of course. A nice buffet supper.”

“I wonder if Monsieur Fournier would have any suggestions? Though perhaps we ought to hire a cook and waitstaff for the day so none of the servants have to work.”

“I doubt Monsieur Fournier will relish the thought of handing over his kitchen. But day help is an excellent idea.”

She beamed, and it did Nathaniel's heart good to see his sister looking so happy.

“We must have music, of course,” Helen said. “And dancing.”

Hudson agreed. “Mr. Arnold informs me he knows of an excellent fiddler who plays all the country dances.”

“Wonderful.”

Nathaniel felt like a spectator at a shuttlecock match as the two batted ideas back and forth.

“And perhaps a few games or a contest?” Helen added. “A prize or two?”

“Or a small gift for everyone.”

“Very thoughtful,” she enthused. “This will be great fun, Mr. Hudson. I for one look forward to it.”

Hudson nodded slowly, eyes fastened on her bright, smiling face. “As do I.”

The following morning, Margaret entered Miss Upchurch's bedchamber to dress her hair as usual. Helen stood at the window wearing her day dress of Devonshire brown. When she did not turn, Margaret went to join her at the window to see what had captured her attention. The distant clang of steel drew her gaze down to the arcade below.

There, Nathaniel Upchurch and Mr. Hudson were fencing in shirtsleeves. Through the columns, Margaret saw them advancing and retreating, lunging and striking, in an intricate fast-paced dance. Their swords clashed, circled, and struck again, morning sunshine glinting off polished blades.

Without looking away, Helen murmured, “What is it about men and swords?”

Even from a distance, Margaret could not help but admire their grace and agility. Nor could she fail to notice the outline of Nathaniel's broad shoulders against damp shirtsleeves. Nor how his leg muscles strained against snug white pantaloons with each lunge. She hoped Helen could not read her thoughts.

She glanced over and saw a strange light in Helen's eyes as she observed her brother. Or was it Mr. Hudson she watched? Margaret hadn't the courage to ask.

Leaving Helen at the window, Margaret took herself into the dressing room to see if anything needed to be done. A few moments later, Helen came and sat at her dressing table. She eyed the new arrangement of flowers Margaret had delivered earlier that morning—yellow and white chrysanthemums amid vibrant greenery.

Helen turned to smile at her, but her eyes quickly returned to the colorful flowers. “Did you arrange these?”

“I did.”

“Exquisite.”

The simple compliment pleased Margaret greatly. She was less pleased by Helen's apparel but made no comment. By now, she was resigned to Miss Upchurch's habit of alternating between her day dresses of grey, brown, and a dull gold color that did no favors for her sallow complexion.

Margaret picked up brush and pins to begin, only to be startled when Helen suddenly rose from her seat.

“Do you know, I believe I shall wear the green walking dress you made over for me. Such a pity to waste it. If you would kindly help me change?”

Margaret smiled. “Of course. I should be delighted.”

She brought out the dress and a pair of long stays. “The line of the gown would be so much improved by correct underpinnings, Miss Helen. Would you mind terribly?”

Helen's face puckered at the sight of the boned contraption, but she acquiesced. “Oh, very well.”

Margaret helped Helen out of the brown dress and unstructured undergarments, then into the long stays. While Margaret worked the lacing, Helen eyed her reflection in the looking glass, tilting her chin from side to side. “And perhaps, just a touch of rouge?”

Another surprise. “With pleasure.” Curiosity nipped at Margaret. “May I ask . . . is today some special occasion?”

Helen colored. “Not at all. Why would you ask that? I have nothing scheduled today beyond a meeting with the steward and chef. Nothing special at all.”

Margaret and Betty sat companionably together in the servants' hall, polishing silver. The others had long since departed to their own afternoon duties.

Betty glanced over and said, “In my last place, the butler polished the silver.”

“Really? I cannot fancy Mr. Arnold mucking his hands with polish and the like.”

Betty snorted. “Nor I, and him only an under butler.”

As they worked, Margaret noticed Betty's freckled hands and how heavily veined and work-worn they were, more aged than the rest of her. Margaret hoped three months of labor wouldn't do the same to her hands.

Betty was probably almost old enough to be her mother, yet they held nearly the same position. She wondered if Betty minded.

“How long have you been a housemaid, Betty?” she asked.

Betty set down a silver fork and picked up another. “Oh, fifteen years here, give or take. And eleven at the Langleys' before that. Started as a scullery maid when I was just a girl, then moved up to kitchen maid, then housemaid. Never had to work the laundry, thank the Lord.”

“Was this your dream, then?”

“Dream?”

“What you wanted out of life.”

“Pfff.”
Betty's hand was in constant motion as she spoke. “Few indeed get what they want in life, and that's a fact. Look at Fiona.”

Margaret glanced up quickly. “Fiona? What about Fiona?”

“Never you mind. The point is, I don't think any little girl
dreams
, as you call it, of working as a scullion all her days, does she?”

“But what would you do if you could do anything?”

Betty pursed her lips. “Nora. I don't mind chattin' to pass the time, but it's foolish to hanker after the past or the impossible. I am content enough. I have been in service since I were fourteen. It's all I know and ever will, and that's all right by me.”

Even though the words were spoken kindly, Margaret felt chastised. “I am glad to hear it,” she murmured, fastening her attention on yet another butter knife.

Betty applied silver polish to several serving spoons with vigor and skill, the topic evidently forgotten.

A few moments later, Betty said abruptly, “There is one thing.”

Margaret looked up, not sure what she was referring to.

“One thing I would like.” Betty's focus remained on the spoons.

“What's that?”

“I would like to be housekeeper one day. It's the top rung, you know. And, well, if I reach that, I'll know I've done my best and all I could. I would be proud to wear my mum's chatelaine heavy with keys, commanding respect from servant and master alike.”

Margaret grinned. “Sending fear into the hearts of all the maids, you mean, when they hear the jingle of your keys.”

A small grin dimpled Betty's cheeks. “That too.”

“I'm going to tell Mrs. Budgeon to watch her back,” Margaret teased.

“Don't you dare!”

“Don't worry, Betty. I won't say a word about you hankering after her job.”

Betty slanted her a wry look and moved on to the fish forks.

Margaret said, “Honestly, I think you would be an excellent housekeeper, Betty Tidy.”

“Oh, I don't know . . .”

“I for one would be proud to work for you,” Margaret insisted.

Betty's eyes sparkled with mischief. “You say that now. But Mrs. Budgeon is a pussycat compared to the housekeeper I'd be.” She tucked her chin and gave a decent impression of Mrs. Budgeon in high dudgeon, “Now get about your work, my girl. We're not paying you to chat and idle!”

Margaret hauled yet another kettle of hot water from the kitchen into the servants' bathing room belowstairs. The small, tiled room held a generous double slipper tub, chair, mirror, and a shelf and hooks for clothing and towels. She'd taken a few quick baths since she'd arrived but mostly made do with sponge baths—room temperature water from the basin in her room, a rough towel, and her weekly bar of soap. But she didn't feel really clean, and her scalp was beginning to itch under the wig. She wanted a real bath. She could hardly wait to wash her hair again.

The kitchen had running water, piped in from a cistern outside. This she heated on the stove in large kettles. The house was quiet. Even the scullery maid had scrubbed her last pot and gone to bed. She ought to be sleeping too. But first, a bath.

How long it took to fill the tub! She had never given it a thought all those times she had told Joan to draw her a bath, regardless if she had just had one a day or two before. Baths relaxed her and helped her sleep, she had justified. How much extra work she had caused poor Joan, though the woman never complained. At least, not to Margaret directly.