The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (27 page)

Retreating into the kitchen, Margaret wrung her hands in time with the twisting of her stomach. Now Nathaniel would think the worst of her. If he still thought her simply a maid, he would now think her a flirt, a saucy light-skirt who had instigated the dance and near tête-à-tête with Lewis. And worse, if he suspected who she was, he would surely think she was up to her old tricks. Trying to woo his older brother. She paced the kitchen, fretting.

One of the hired servers looked up from the tray she was laying with tea and sandwiches. “All right, love?”

Margaret nodded. Then her eyes locked on the tray. “Is that for upstairs?”

“It is.”

“May I take it up?”

The older woman shook her head. “Don't want them thinkin' I'm shirkin' my duty. Yer to be dancin'. Aren't you enjoying it?”

“I was, but . . . a certain man was becoming a bit forward.”

“A footman, was it?” The woman tsked. “Always a footman.”

Margaret stepped near. “May I please take it up? The sitting room is it?”

“Yes, but . . . Oh, very well. If yer set on it. Any man comes lookin' fer ya, I'll send him on his way sharp-like, all right?”

“Thank you.”

Hands trembling, Margaret carried the tray upstairs and along the corridor to the sitting room. This way, she told herself, Nathaniel would see her and know she was not still with Lewis. Would not imagine the two of them alone together somewhere and believe the worst. Using her elbow, she hooked the door and pulled it open, letting herself in. Carrying the tray inside, she kept her head down to mask her anxiety.

“Ah, Nora,” Helen said. “Why are you not at the ball? The hired servers were to relieve you all tonight.”

“I don't mind. They were busy, so I offered.”

Helen nodded, but Nathaniel watched her through narrowed eyes as she set down the tray on the table before them.

“Shall I pour, or . . . ?”

She hoped to delay her departure, though she was sure her hands would shake if she tried to pour under his scrutiny.

But Helen excused her. “Never mind, I shall pour. You go back downstairs and enjoy yourself.”

“Thank you, miss.” Margaret curtsied and stepped to the door, just as Lewis sailed through it.

He hesitated at seeing her. “There you are. Wondered where you'd gone to.”

“Lewis!” Helen called warmly.

He turned to his sister, “Hello, Helen old girl.” He walked over to kiss her upturned cheek, and Margaret made her escape.

———

Nathaniel wasn't sure what to think. Would “Nora” and Lewis still be dancing, or lingering alone in the dim passage, had she not been asked to bring up the tray? Or had she really offered, and if so why? She clearly had not taken advantage of a private moment to reveal her identity to Lewis, for he obviously had no idea who she was.

“A ball at Fairbourne Hall, at long last.” Lewis smirked. “I take it the economizing is over?”

Nathaniel shook his head. “No. But we thought it wise to do something good for our people here, after recent . . . misunderstandings. But we still must tighten our belts or we may yet need to take more radical steps. Perhaps even sell the London house.”

“Never say so.” Lewis's face puckered. “Promise me you will not do . . . In fact, you cannot, without my consent, my being the eldest and all.”

Nathaniel willed himself not to grow angry. “Lewis, you are perfectly welcome to stay and manage the estate if you like, but you cannot manage it from your London club.”

Lewis stared at him, shaking his head. “I still don't understand why you didn't remain in Barbados. We were managing fine here on our own. Weren't we, Helen?”

Helen sipped her tea but made no answer.

Nathaniel said, “Even if that were true, it was time for me to come home.”

One of Lewis's eyebrows rose. “Barbados didn't suit you?”

“It wasn't Barbados I objected to. It was slavery, as you know.”

Lewis pressed, “You think we have problems now? Force Father to give up slave labor and you'll learn the meaning of financial straits.”

“Money isn't everything, Lewis.”

Lewis frowned. “Then why do you always ride me about it? Your lofty morals don't put you in charge, Nate. Nor do they give you the right to sit there and play potentate.”

Nathaniel seethed. “Father put me in charge when you insisted on remaining in London while Fairbourne languished. Had you stayed in Barbados as he wished, I—”

Lewis leaned back and crossed his long legs. “Too dashed hot there. Too much work.” He raised a brow. “Not enough beautiful women.”

“Lewie . . .” Helen scolded, but affection tinged her tone.

Nathaniel inhaled deeply and moderated his voice. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

Lewis shrugged. “No reason. Does a man need a reason to come to his own home?”

“Usually. Do you mean to stay, then?”

“No, not yet. I've just come down for a day or two.”

“What are your plans?”

“No plans.” He grinned at Helen. “Just wanted to see my favorite girl.”

Even though Lewis directed the words at Helen, Nathaniel had the distinct impression she was not the “girl” he meant.

Life in service could be very regimented and dictatorial,
with little time off and the knowledge that romantic
relations between servants were forbidden in many houses.

—
Luxury and Style
, “The History of Country House Staff”

Chapter 20

I
n the morning, Margaret trudged downstairs beside Betty. They were both exhausted from being up so late the night before.

“Fiona looked so lovely in her gown last night,” Margaret said. “I still can't imagine how she came by it. And did you see her dancing? So graceful and elegant. Almost as if she were a lady.”

Betty sighed wearily, eyes distant. “She might have been once.”

Margaret turned to stare at her.

“Thought she was giving up all this”—Betty lifted her housemaid's box—“but it weren't to be.”

Stunned, Margaret grasped Betty's wrist to halt her progress. “What are you talking about?”

Betty winced, chagrined. “I'm tired and not thinking straight. I shouldn't have said anything.”

“But you have to tell me now.”

Betty shook her head. “No I don't. And don't you be askin' Fiona either, my girl. That would be foolhardy indeed. Do you hear?”

Margaret nodded. Satisfied, Betty continued down the stairs, but Margaret stood there, mind whirling.

After breakfast and prayers, Margaret set about cleaning Lewis Upchurch's bedchamber, which had been fastidiously neat until his return the night before, but which had already been marred by his presence—small clothes on the floor, bedclothes in a tangle as though he'd spent the night wrestling angels or someone more earthly, water sloshed onto the washstand, a jumble of toiletry items in disarray. And she didn't even want to think about what might await her in the chamber pot. The reality of men was certainly different than the pristine image they portrayed in a ballroom.

Where was Connor? She had not seen him since morning prayers. Even with a valet in residence, she would be expected to deliver water and empty slops first thing in the morning, and to return later to clean the room and make the bed. But the valet was responsible for his master's clothing. Was Connor down in the stillroom, becoming “reacquainted” with Hester? Margaret lofted the bedclothes high, enjoying the way they rose and billowed before settling flat. The door behind her flew open with a bang. She stifled a shriek and spun around, pillow to her chest. A shield.

Lewis Upchurch hesitated fractionally upon seeing her, and then a lazy grin spread over his face. “Well, well. Look who's here. How kind of you to pay a call after our dance last night.”

He was wearing riding clothes—cutaway coat, leather breeches, Hessian boots. He looked devilishly handsome, and his light brown eyes glinted with confidence and mischief. She had always been drawn to confident men.

She dipped an awkward curtsy, pillow still in arms. “Good day, sir.”

She should have gone about her work. Instead she remained motionless, thoughts racing. Was this an unfortunate coincidence or the answer to her plight? Before her stood Lewis Upchurch, the very man she had sought out with marriage in mind at the Valmores' ball, hoping to foil Sterling Benton's plan. Now, at last, she was alone with him—in broad daylight and behind closed doors. The thought made her palms perspire.

Should she tell him who she was? Dramatically remove her cap, wig, and spectacles and wait for realization to dawn? Her heart pounded, her breathing grew shallow and rapid. How would he react? Would his heart go out to her when she explained her desperate situation, or would he grimace in scandalized disgust to see Miss Macy so denigrated? Or worse, would he sneer or flee, thinking it a desperate ploy to trick him into marriage? “
By Jove, one moment I was in my bedchamber flirting harmlessly with a housemaid, and in the next, I was trapped by a spoiled hoyden demanding I rescue her reputation!”

Lewis walked near. “Cat got your tongue?”

Margaret swallowed. So near, yet no flicker of recognition. Should she abandon the idea while she still could? If he refused her, how humiliating that would be. What would she do then—shrug, slap her wig back on, and empty his chamber pot?

In her earlier fantasies, she had imagined a thrilling scenario. The tragic heroine, standing on the dim balcony, staring up at the stars bemoaning her unjust fate, when handsome Lewis appeared. One moment, he regarded a dejected housemaid with compassion. The next, the scales fell away, and his eyes were opened.

“Of course! No wonder I thought we had met before. My soul recognized you, even if my foolish eyes did not!”

And he would put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him when she would look away.
“Look at me. What is the matter?”

And she would tell him, all maidenly embarrassment and injury. And he would assure her no one would harm her. No one would touch her, except him. His hands would cradle her face.

“There you are,”
he would whisper, his voice growing husky, his face, his lips nearing hers.
“How I have missed you . . .”

“You missed something.”

“Hmm?” Shaken from her reverie, she found Lewis smirking at her. He pointed to a soiled stocking on the floor.

Cheeks heating, she bent to retrieve it. When she straightened, she saw him tugging off his gloves.

He glanced around the room with a frown. “Have you seen my valet recently?”

“No, sir.”

He muttered something derogatory about the young man, then arched an eyebrow. “I don't suppose you would like to help me undress?”

He was probably joking, but still her body flushed in indignation. “No, Mr. Upchurch, I would not.”

She turned and stalked from the room, glad she had not revealed herself to him. She was halfway down the corridor before she realized she had addressed him in her normal voice, and quite haughty in the bargain.

On her way downstairs, Margaret stopped at the housemaids' closet to gather up the lamps she had collected. She carried them down to the butler's pantry, where Craig would trim the candles and clean the lamps. On her way along the basement passage, she passed the stillroom, surprised to see its door partially closed—it was usually wide open. She glanced around the door, hoping Hester was all right.

She was more than all right, apparently. She was leaning back against her worktable, wrapped in the arms of a ginger-haired man in a dark suit of clothes. Margaret pulled back guiltily and quickly continued on her way. She had wondered where Lewis's valet was. Now she knew.

Margaret watched Mrs. Budgeon fly about the house in a flutter of nerves and preparations. Evidently, Lewis Upchurch had taken it upon himself to invite guests to dinner while he was home and they had insufficient staff to wait at table. Piers Saxby, his sister, and Miss Lyons had come to Maidstone to visit the Earl of Romney and see all the improvements to his estate. But Lewis had persuaded them to come to Fairbourne Hall first. Together with Helen, Lewis, and Nathaniel, they would be a party of six.

Mr. Arnold, Thomas, and Craig would wait at table, of course, as would the valet, Connor. But that meant they would also need to find livery to fit Freddy, the hall boy. And one of the maids would need to wait table as well. Betty was chosen, but Mrs. Budgeon informed Fiona and Nora that they would need to lend a hand as needed, both in delivering dishes from the servery warming cupboard and carrying away lids from covered dishes and plates from used courses as the dinner progressed.

Margaret was relieved she would not be required to stand behind one of the chairs, to serve the guests directly and risk Lavinia Saxby or even Miss Lyons recognizing her. If Helen was any indication, women were more likely to see through her disguise than men were. The thought of venturing into the back of the dining room to deliver and carry made her nervous enough.

At seven, the guests made their way into the dining room, lit with candelabras and decorated with towering displays of fruits and flowers, which Margaret had helped the chef arrange. Monsieur Fournier was more tense and bossy than she had ever seen him. Not harsh, but focused and exacting, aware of the pressure to perform, to please, and well represent his employers. Pressure exacerbated by the fact that they were all—from chef to scullery maid—out of practice in entertaining.

Young Freddy seemed especially nervous, decked in livery tacked up to shorten sleeves in haste, hair slicked back. Betty looked somewhat flushed herself, in black dress and white cap and apron, pressed for the occasion. Fiona, meanwhile, was cool and calm as usual. Thomas and Craig were powdered and proud in their best livery, and Mr. Arnold oozed chin-up decorum, though Margaret noticed his hand tremble when he poured the wine.

With Fiona, Margaret carried up dish after dish from kitchen to servery, now and then peeking in to catch a glimpse of the august company.

There was Nathaniel, stiff yet undeniably masculine in evening dress. Lewis looked handsome as always, perfectly attired and with an air of confident ease. Piers Saxby eschewed traditional dark colors for a patterned waistcoat in apple green, his hair brushed into a high cockscomb over his brow. Fitting, Margaret thought.

Beside Helen sat Lavinia Saxby, Mr. Saxby's sister, with whom Margaret had been at school. And between Piers and Lewis sat the beautiful brunette, Miss Barbara Lyons, whom Margaret had seen with these same two men at the London masquerade ball. How Margaret's life had changed since then.

Carrying in courses and handing them off to Mr. Arnold or Thomas, Margaret heard snatches of dinner conversation. Most of it vague pleasantries—the weather, upcoming shoots and hunts, various house parties attended. But then Margaret heard her own name mentioned and nearly spilled a platter of poached pigeon.

“. . . scouring all of London and beyond, but still no sign of the missing Miss Macy.” Saxby swallowed a bite, then continued, “At first, the gossips predicted an elopement.”

Margaret's cheeks burned. She felt someone's eyes on her and glanced over to find Helen looking her way.

Thomas stepped near and took the pigeon from her, whispering for her to next bring in the sweetbreads. In the servery she could still hear the humiliating conversation.

“But if that were the case, the family would have heard from her by now,” Lavinia Saxby insisted. “And we would have heard of a missing gentleman as well.”

Saxby considered. “Then perhaps she has been abducted. Or worse.”

“Never say so,” Lavinia protested.

Margaret returned from the servery and stood at the rear of the dining room, holding a silver serving dish of sweetbreads at the ready.

Lewis leaned back, all elegant nonchalance. “Be careful what you say about Miss Macy,” he warned. “Nathaniel here was quite besotted with her once upon a time.”

“Were you indeed?” Miss Lyons asked, brows arched high.

Nathaniel fidgeted. “That was a long time ago. Before I sailed for Barbados.”

Saxby smirked. “Some say that was why you left the country.”

“I left because my father asked me to, Mr. Saxby.”

“Nate here is the dutiful son.” Lewis winked. “Or was.”

“I don't imagine Margaret was very happy when her mother married Sterling Benton so soon after Mr. Macy's death,” Helen mused. “And even less so when Benton sold their family home.”

“To give up some rural cottage for a chance to live in Berkeley Square with Sterling Benton?” Miss Lyons scoffed. “I'd say she had not a thing to complain about.”

Nathaniel's expression hardened. “Then you did not know Stephen Macy, nor Lime Tree Lodge, if you think Sterling Benton or Berkeley Square could compare favorably with either of them.”

Margaret's throat tightened to hear Nathaniel say so.

“So what do you say, Nate,” Saxby asked. “Has some harm befallen Miss Macy, or has she gone off on a lark?”

Nathaniel flicked a glance across the room—toward her? “Miss Macy was headstrong and impulsive when I knew her years ago. And I imagine she is headstrong and impulsive now.”