The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (26 page)

She considered this. “Yes, I believe so.”

“But Miss Upchurch danced with Mr. Arnold, and not Monsieur Fournier. I wonder if that is why he looks so . . . disappointed.”

A small line formed between Mrs. Budgeon's brows. “But Miss Upchurch has already taken her leave.”

“I know. But perhaps you might at least acknowledge the slight, or offer to dance with him yourself?”

“Me? I hardly think I'm suitable replacement. I don't imagine Monsieur even likes to dance.”

“I don't know. I hate to see him looking so sad. He worked so hard for tonight. . . .”

Mrs. Budgeon looked over at the chef and found him looking at her. He quickly looked away and feigned a sip from his empty glass. How strange it was to see him in a brown tweed suit, instead of his customary white coat and hat.

The housekeeper drew herself up. “Thank you, Nora. I will at least compliment Monsieur on the success of his buffet. We don't want him to feel unappreciated.”

“Good idea.”

As Mrs. Budgeon crossed the room toward him, Monsieur Fournier straightened, pushing away from the wall. His expression was uncertain, as if he wasn't sure if reprimand or pleasure was coming his way.

It was really too bad of her, but she couldn't help herself. Margaret had to hear. She walked along the buffet table, plucking a grape here and a fig there as she made her way to the table's end, listening to their conversation.

“Monsieur Fournier. Good evening.”

“Madame.”

“I hope you are enjoying yourself?”

He shrugged.

“I must compliment you on the buffet. You have outdone yourself.”

“Merci,
madame
.”

Mrs. Budgeon hesitated. “I am afraid it is my fault Miss Upchurch danced the second with Mr. Arnold. An oversight, I assure you.”

“No matter, madame.”

“You don't care to dance, I suppose?”

He hesitated. “With you?”

Her mouth parted. She reddened. “Never mind. I thought . . . I only meant . . .”

The fiddler launched into the next tune, and the chef leaned nearer to be heard. “With you, Mrs. Budgeon, I would happily dance.”

He offered his arm, and after a surprised pause, she gave a tentative smile.

Margaret smiled too. In fact, she could not stop smiling as she watched the tall, thin chef dance like a smitten, gangly youth with proper, staid Mrs. Budgeon.

But midway through the set, the fiddler, swaying and doing a little drunken jig as he played, backed into a chair, knocked his mug off the pianoforte, and crashed to the floor, out cold. Margaret was more disappointed for the chef than for anyone else that the dance should be cut short.

Mr. Arnold and Thomas carried the fiddler down the passage to the kitchen, while Betty rushed to clean up the spilled ale. After a moment's hesitation—it still wasn't second nature to Margaret to respond to such domestic crises—she hurried to Betty's aid and righted the chair.

“I am afraid that concludes our ball,” Mrs. Budgeon apologized.

“Not so,” Monsieur said. “Perhaps you might play for us, Mrs. Budgeon.”

Again her mouth parted. She sputtered, “Me? No. I cannot play. Not really.”

“Of course you can. You are very accomplished. I hear you from ze kitchen now and again.”

Her face puckered, surprised and disconcerted. “But . . . I always check to make certain no one is about before I begin. And I shut the door as well.”

“When you play, I leave my room and come into ze kitchen to hear you better.”

She blushed like a schoolgirl. “Oh! I had no idea. I shall never play again.”

He placed a hand on his chest. “Please don't say so. What a loss of pleasure for us both.”

Jenny, tipsy and brazen, said, “Come on, Mrs. Budgeon. Favor us with a song or two. Something lively we can dance to.”

The housekeeper wrung her hands. “But I never play for an audience. I am woefully out of practice and play very ill.”

“Not at all,” Monsieur insisted.

“None of us can play a note,” Jenny said. “So if you blunder, we wouldn't know any better, would we?”

Mr. Hudson added gently, “You won't find a more appreciative audience.”

“I would be too self-conscious with all of you listening.”

“Aww. We promise not to listen too close,” Craig said, his arm around Joan. “We'll be too busy dancin'. ”

“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Budgeon relented, flustered by all the attention. “If you promise to dance and not listen for my mistakes.”

Everyone clapped and cheered and found partners for the next dance.

Monsieur Fournier stayed near the pianoforte and smiled down at its fair musician. Margaret had no partner this time but watched the dancers with pleasure.

When the song ended, Joan returned to her side, breathless and grinning. “And how are you getting on with that housemaid who barely tolerates you?”

Margaret blew out a breath between puffed cheeks. “Better, I think.”

Joan surveyed the crowd. “Which one is she?”

Margaret nodded toward Fiona, now dancing gracefully with a Hayfield footman. She marveled at the transformation. Fiona looked almost happy, and as elegant as a lady. “That's her. Fiona.”

Joan regarded the Irishwoman thoughtfully. “I'm not surprised.” She tilted her head. “For all her smiles tonight, that one's had a hard life. I can tell.”

Margaret asked tentatively, “And you, Joan. How is life at Hayfield—any improvement?”

Joan shrugged. “About the same. Though having this to look forward to has helped. How surprised we were to be invited.” Joan slanted her a knowing glance. “I don't suppose you had anything to do with that?”

Margaret only shrugged.

Fred, the hall boy who had been posted upstairs on door duty, ran in and found Mr. Hudson. “Thought you should know, sir. Mr. Lewis Upchurch just arrived. Wants his horses and carriage attended to.”

Mr. Hudson frowned. “He was not expected. Thank you, Freddy.”

He dispatched the groom, who left with a good-natured groan, promising to return in a flash.

Then Mr. Hudson laid a hand on Fred's shoulder. “You stay here and enjoy yourself, Freddy. I'll mind the door.”

Fred beamed. “Awfully decent of you, sir!”

But Margaret's mind was still echoing with Fred's news. Lewis Upchurch had returned.

Then, before Hudson had even moved, there Lewis was, framed in the doorway, resplendent in evening attire, frock coat and cravat, as though he had just been dining out and not on the road for the last few hours. His valet, Connor, also well dressed, slipped in behind him.

Lewis surveyed the room. “What's all this, then? A party without me? I'm crushed.” His tone was part hurt, part humor. Was he truly offended or jesting?

“Your brother knew you'd approve,” Hudson soothed, handing him a glass of punch and deftly smoothing things over. “In fact, I believe he credited you with the notion.”

Lewis hesitated, then lifted his chin. “Dashed right too.” He took a long swallow. “Though had I planned the affair there would be real drink instead of this weak woman's punch.”

“Exactly,” Hudson agreed, a strange glint in his eyes.

Connor, Margaret noticed, skirted the crowd and sidled over to a beaming Hester. He took her hands, spread them wide, and surveyed her new dress with admiration.

Lewis downed the remainder of his cup and strode across the room. “Mrs. Budgeon, I wish to claim my dance as eldest son and master in my father's absence.”

“I'm sorry, sir. But I am needed to play. We engaged a fiddler, but I am afraid he is, em, indisposed.”

Jenny protested loudly, “Flat-out foxed, more like!”

Mrs. Budgeon offered apologetically, “Perhaps another of the staff will do?”

Once again Betty ducked behind Mr. Arnold. Lewis looked around the room, frowned at Jenny's saucy gap-toothed smile, hesitated on Joan, then landed on Nora.

His eyes narrowed as he walked toward her. “You look familiar. What's your name?”

Accent, don't fail me now!
“Nora, sir. Nora Garret.”

“Have we met?”

She almost said she made his bed every morning but feared he would find some unintended innuendo in that. Instead she laughed nervously and looked down at her clasped hands. “Not likely.”

She was aware of Joan's wide eyes as she looked from this gentleman to her former mistress and back again. Had Joan ever seen Lewis Upchurch? It was possible she had seen him when he called at Berkeley Square once or twice early in the season. She certainly hoped Joan wouldn't say anything to expose her now. She had enough to worry about, fearing she might expose herself.

Something about the flat gleam in Lewis's eyes made Margaret wary, but when he offered his arm, she took it.

Nathaniel sat in the cozy sitting room upstairs, spent. Helen sat in an armchair near the fire, book in hand. He was glad they had decided to give the servants their ball. But it had never crossed his mind that in so doing, he might be compelled to dance with Margaret Macy again, and in his very home. He might have reconsidered had he known. His traitorous body had reacted to her nearness, the touch of her hand in his, in annoying fashion.

Hudson gave his telltale double knock and entered when bid. Nathaniel was still not used to seeing his friend in such a role. In Barbados, things had been much more informal between them.

“Good evening, Hudson. Everything all right belowstairs?”

“I . . . believe so, sir. Shall I have tea and sandwiches sent up for you here?”

“Thank you, Hudson, yes,” Helen replied for them both.

Hudson hesitated. “I thought you would want to know that Mr. Lewis has just arrived.”

“Lewis?” Helen's countenance brightened. “We weren't expecting him.”

Nathaniel frowned and sat forward. “Where is he?”

“Last I saw him he was dancing with our new housemaid.”

Nathaniel stood abruptly to his feet. Helen rose and stepped to his side, laying a hand on his arm. “Nathaniel . . . careful. Please don't fight again. Lewis means no harm to . . . anyone, I'm sure.”

It was an odd reaction, he realized after his burst of anger subsided, unless she knew the true identity of the new housemaid.

“I shall just go down and welcome him home.” Nathaniel patted Helen's hand, extracted himself from her grip, and quit the room. He strode down the corridor and jogged down the stairs. In the basement, the unexpected sound of the pianoforte—along with the aromas of savory meats, yeasty breads, and ale—ushered him down the narrow passageway to the servants' hall.

From the doorway, Nathaniel saw them, and his stomach clenched. Lewis, tall and handsome, hand in hand with Nora, looking self-conscious. But in a flash, he saw not Nora but Margaret. Not with black hair but with blond. Her simple frock replaced with a gown of fine white satin, jeweled ornaments in her golden curls, eyes sparkling up into the face of his dashing older brother. He felt again the sharp kick of jealousy, the iron weight of dread he had felt two years ago when he realized,
She doesn't look at me that way. . . .
And he'd tried to ignore the growing fear that he was losing her. To his very own brother. A man who would never appreciate her, never love her as he did.

Lewis danced Nora through the doorway, all but colliding with Nathaniel, jarring him from his miserable reverie.

Lewis drew up short. “Nate, ol' boy. Grand party. Well done. Wouldn't have thought it of you.”

“Mr. Upchurch!” Nora blurted, face blushing. “I . . . I am glad to see you. Again.”

He doubted it. She looked embarrassed. Caught.

Bemused, Lewis glanced from the girl's flushed face back to him. “A housemaid is glad to see you. And why should that be, I wonder?”

“I have no idea,” Nathaniel said, avoiding her eyes. “What brings you home?”

“I must have sensed something afoot. I can smell a party forty miles off.”

“Apparently.”

Nora pulled her hands from Lewis's grasp and excused herself, hurrying away down the passage.

Lewis watched her go. “She reminds me of someone. . . . Who is it?”

“One of your many conquests, no doubt,” he said dryly. “Well, I shall leave you to it. Just wanted to welcome you home.”