The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (28 page)

Embarrassment flushed through Margaret.

Saxby goaded, “Impulsive, as in throwing you over for a chance at Lover Boy Lewie here?”

Margaret's vision blurred and she felt herself sway.

“Piers, really,” Miss Lyons murmured disapprovingly.

Likely hoping to bring the subject to less volatile ground, Lavinia said quickly, “I wonder if there is any truth to the rumor that Margaret will inherit a great—”

Crash.
The silver serving dish slipped from Margaret's fingers. All heads turned her way. She swiftly turned and bent to begin picking up the mess, self-conscious at having her backside taken in by so many pairs of eyes. In a moment, Fiona was on her haunches beside her, scooping up the sweetbreads and sending her an empathetic grimace.

Mr. Arnold spoke up. “I'm terribly sorry, sir.”

“No matter, Arnold,” Nathaniel said. “These things happen.”

Face burning, Margaret retreated belowstairs.

———

Nathaniel glanced toward the servery door. The uncomfortable conversation continued, though its subject had disappeared from sight.

“I only met Miss Macy once,” Barbara Lyons said. “At the Valmores' ball. And she did seem desperate enough to elope. For she all but begged a partner. I nearly felt sorry for her.”

“If she wanted a partner,” Saxby said, “she had only to turn to Marcus Benton, who was at her heel all night, like a besotted hound.”

Barbara shook her head. “It was obvious to me she did not care for young Mr. Benton.” She fluttered her lashes at Lewis. “She only had eyes for you, Mr. Upchurch.”

Lewis leaned near the brunette beside him. “While I only had eyes for you, Miss Lyons.”

“As did I,” Saxby said, glaring at him.

Lewis shook his head and confessed, “I am afraid I was less than gallant with Miss Macy. For the truth was, I was smitten with another lady.” He looked meaningfully at Miss Lyons. “One as far from my reach as Miss Macy is from Nate's.”

Nathaniel inhaled slowly, willing anger to remain at bay.

Saxby huffed. “Oh, you are never heartbroken for long, Lewis. I seem to recall you flirting with a whole succession of females since then.”

“None seriously.” Lewis kept his gaze on Miss Lyons's face, coyly dipped though it was.

“I wonder you find yourself at Fairbourne Hall so much more often lately,” Saxby persisted, reptilian eyes sliding to Miss Lyons before returning to Lewis.

“It's Nate here,” Lewis quipped. “Has me on a short tether these days.”

“Has he? I thought it might have more to do with a certain ginger-haired girl in Maidstone.”

Lewis's grin faded. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

“Oh, come,
Lewie
,” Saxby sneered. “You forget Lavinia and I still have friends and family nearby. Local gossip does not fail to reach us.”

Lewis said through clenched teeth, “The gossips have it wrong.”

“Do they indeed?”

Nathaniel wondered if Saxby manufactured such a claim to put a wedge between Lewis and Miss Lyons. It was obvious both men were vying for the woman's affections.

While the question, the challenge, hung in the air, Lewis flicked a look across the room, as if checking his reflection in the window. Connor, his valet, stood behind his chair, ramrod straight.

Lewis then riveted Saxby with an icy glare. “Indeed.”

“Then I stand corrected.” Saxby met his glare, then relaxed back against his chair. “Or should I say,
sit
corrected.” He raised his glass in a mock toast.

Nathaniel glanced at his brother's valet. Noticed Connor's jaw tighten. He supposed the young man was privy to most of Lewis's comings and goings, clandestine or otherwise. He likely knew whether Lewis—or the gossips Saxby quoted—spoke the truth. But Nathaniel knew a good valet was nothing if not discreet. Lewis's secrets would be safe.

Just as Margaret's secrets were safe with him.

Formidable in her dark silk dress, the keys to the
household at her belt . . . it was often the housekeeper's
duty to show visitors around the house.

—Margaret Willes,
Household Management

Chapter 21

E
ven after the uncomfortable dinner party, Margaret's mind continued to drift to the mystery of Fiona's ball gown. While she and Betty scrubbed the dining room floor the next morning, Margaret daydreamed about Fiona's past, imagining several possible scenarios.

Unable to resist any longer, she slid her pail forward and asked, “
Why
can't I ask Fiona about the dress?”

Betty pulled a face. “Not this again. Just . . . don't ask.”

“A gown like that must have cost a great deal of money. Too much for a housemaid to afford. And I can't imagine her mistress handing down such a gown—it's too impractical.”

Betty squeezed out her cloth. “Fiona wouldn't want us talking about this.”

“Do you know how she came by it?”

Betty hesitated. “Yes. But not because she told me.” Betty sat back on her heels, regarded her warily. “Fiona will be vexed indeed if you pry into this—believe me.”

Margaret sniffed. “Very well.”

The upper housemaid studied her, a knowing glint in her blue eyes. “I see how you are, Nora. You won't let it lie, so I'll tell you. Only to keep you from askin' Fiona and makin' life difficult for us all.”

Guilt pricked Margaret. “I shouldn't tempt you to gossip. I'm sorry. Listen, Betty, let's forget it.”

“No, you listen. Fiona has never breathed a word to me. But my uncle is butler at Linton Grange, where Fiona last worked, and he told me.”

“Does Fiona know you know?”

Betty pursed her lip. “I don't believe so. You'd think she'd wonder, knowing the butler had the Tidy surname, same as me. But she's never mentioned it.”

Betty scrubbed at a stubborn stain, then paused, gathering her thoughts. “This all happened some five or six years ago. Fiona was housemaid at the Grange, as she is here. It's the old story: the young master—the only son—fell in love with her. Asked her to marry him. Even set her up in her own cottage on the estate. It was him what gave her that fine gown—and dreams of a better life in the bargain.”

Betty shook her head, lips pressed in a thin line. “I don't know if he really meant to marry her, or only told her so. His parents forbade the match, as you can imagine, throwing all sorts of obstacles in their way. But Fiona was certain he would marry her eventually, or so my uncle said. But it weren't to be. The young master died in a hunting accident. His gun misfired.”

“Oh no.” Margaret's heart sank.

Betty nodded. “He lived long enough to beg his parents to provide for Fiona after he'd gone.”

“Your uncle heard that as well?”

“Servants hear everything, Nora,” Betty said shrewdly. “Haven't you figured that out yet?” Her eyes hardened. “But that young man was no sooner in his grave than they put her out. Out of the cottage, off the estate. Without a bean to her name or a character. In the end, my uncle wrote one for her on the sly. He told me, and I put in a good word for her here. Mrs. Budgeon trusted me and hired her.”

“Poor Fiona.”

Betty nodded and returned to her scrubbing. “I've never regretted vouching for her. She's a hard worker and has a good heart for all that. She may be slow to trust, but once she does she's very loyal. And if she is a mite bitter . . . well, maybe now you'll understand why.”

Margaret shook her head. “It isn't right.”

“That's life in service for many a poor girl, Nora. Mind you take care 'round men. Even them what call themselves
gentlemen
.”

For a few moments, Margaret scrubbed rather aimlessly as she considered everything Betty had told her. Then she said, “I'm surprised Fiona wore that dress. She must have known we would wonder. . . .”

“Nora.” Betty's voice held a warning note. “If you dare let on I told you, I'll box your ears.”

“Very well. Her former life is safe with me.” Margaret winced on aching knees. “I am good at keeping that sort of secret.”

———

That afternoon Margaret clumped down the back stairs, her housemaid's box in hand. Finished with the public rooms and bedchambers, she had been asked to clean Mrs. Budgeon's parlor belowstairs. Margaret crossed the passage into the servery, heading toward the basement stairs. As she did, she heard the jingling of keys. Normally, the jangle of Mrs. Budgeon's impressive set of keys was the signal to pick up one's pace, or quit gossiping and get back to work. But today that familiar jangle was accompanied by a less common sound—Mrs. Budgeon's voice raised, not in reprimand or command, but in fine elocution worthy of a museum curator. Margaret turned back and listened from the servery door.

“Fairbourne Hall was completed in 1735 by Lambert Upchurch and his wife, Katherine Fairbourne Upchurch. A covered walkway, or arcade, was added in 1760 by his eldest son, inspired by the Italian architecture he had seen on his grand tour. . . .”

Margaret realized Mrs. Budgeon was showing the house to some travelers, likely touring the Kent countryside. She knew this was a common duty for housekeepers in fine old country estates, and she found it oddly touching to hear Mrs. Budgeon in the role, going on with such pride about the house and its ancestors as though she were part of the family. Margaret wondered how much she would receive as a perquisite for her trouble.

Margaret remained hidden within the servery and listened. Footsteps told her Mrs. Budgeon was leading the visitors across the marble-floored hall.

“There are more family portraits in the salon, but allow me to draw your attention to a few here in the hall.”

A high affected voice asked, “Is it true the Upchurch family made their fortune in the West Indies sugar trade?”

“Dorcas!” came a whispered reprimand. After all, a lady did not discuss money in public.

“The Upchurches have owned a sugar plantation in Barbados for well over a hundred years,” Mrs. Budgeon replied. “In fact, Mr. James Upchurch, the current head of the family, presently resides there.”

“So who lives here now?” the second young woman asked.

The voice struck a chord of familiarity in Margaret. A pleasant familiarity. Emily Lathrop . . . What was she doing here?

Mrs. Budgeon answered, “His grown children—his daughter, Helen, and his sons, Lewis and Nathaniel. Though Lewis is often in London.” Then the housekeeper resumed her prepared commentary.

Margaret crept from the servery and peered around the corner as Mrs. Budgeon directed the attention of her small entourage to several paintings hung in the hall. Margaret saw her old friend Emily as she solemnly attended Mrs. Budgeon's narration. A second young woman stood at Emily's side, a close-in-age cousin, Margaret thought, though she had only met her once or twice. A matronly companion Margaret did not recognize stood behind them.

“Here we have portraits of three generations of Upchurch men: Lambert, Henry, and James.”

The housekeeper stepped to the side and gestured regally to two other paintings. “And here are portraits of the sons of James Upchurch: Lewis and Nathaniel. Each was commissioned to honor his twenty-first birthday.”

The matronly chaperone pointed across the hall and asked timidly, “May I ask, Mrs. Budgeon, about that black urn? It is most unusual.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Budgeon flipped a page in her book. “That is a basalt-ware urn produced by Josiah Wedgwood. . . .”

As the older women crossed the hall to examine the urn on its pedestal, the two young ladies stayed where they were, gazing up at the likenesses of Lewis and Nathaniel Upchurch.

Emily said, “Lewis Upchurch is exceedingly handsome, is he not?”

“Which is he?” the cousin asked in her high voice.

“The one on the left, of course.”

“I don't know . . .” her cousin considered. “I like the face of the other. It is a strong face. Serious. Masculine.”

“Do you think so? All the women I know think Lewis the more attractive. But then again, he is the elder and heir, which no doubt adds to his appeal.” Emily giggled, and her cousin smiled obligingly.

“In fact, the younger Mr. Upchurch once proposed to my friend Margaret, but she refused him, so taken was she by his elder brother.”

“And did the elder brother propose?”

“No.” Emily sighed. “I could have told her he would not. But she wouldn't have listened.”

Margaret's stomach sank to hear her friend say so.

“Has there been any word from her?”

Emily shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

Margaret was surprised her mother had not shared news of the letter Margaret had sent. She hoped her mother had received it.

“What has become of her, do you think?”

Emily shrugged her thin shoulders. “Some guessed she had eloped, but word of the marriage would have reached us by now.”

The cousin smirked. “If Marcus Benton shared my house, I should have no cause to wander, I assure you. Is it true they are engaged?”

“I cannot credit it. Margaret protested not to like him.”

“I think you must be right. For did you see him dancing with that horse-faced American at Almacks last week? How she ever made it past the patronesses, I shall never know.”

“I'm surprised Mr. Benton went at all with Margaret missing.”

“Perhaps she isn't really missing.”

Emily looked over sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Perhaps she
had
to go away, if you take my meaning.”

“I don't.”

“To hide a certain . . . condition?”

As the implication struck Margaret, she thought she might be sick.

“Not Margaret.” Emily frowned, then tilted her head to one side as she considered. “Though she was a bit of a flirt and might have got in over her head . . .”

“With Marcus Benton?”

“Not him.” Emily regarded the portraits once more. “But Lewis Upchurch is a notorious rake.”

“And the more time passes without word of marriage . . .”

Margaret longed to rush into the hall and set the two young women straight, but her appearance would cause more scandal than it alleviated.

Perhaps she ought to write to Emily. Did Sterling have his tentacles in the Lathrop post as he did in his own house? She had to do something. As it was, her quest to spare her virtue seemed to be laying ruin to her reputation.

When the tour moved on and the hall was empty once more, Margaret lingered, quietly crossing the marble floor. She stood before Lewis and Nathaniel Upchurch. Their portraits, at any rate. She first regarded Lewis. The artist had skillfully captured the mischievous light in his golden-brown eyes and the hint of a smirk about his full mouth, as though he possessed a secret he was eager to tell. His nose was perfect, his features so well formed that he was almost beautiful. And knew it.

She turned her head to study Nathaniel's likeness. This was the Nathaniel of old. He did not wear spectacles in the portrait, but he did wear his somber expression. His face appeared pale and his thin mouth nearly prim. The artist had not treated kindly his long, pointed nose, but had painted it in bold, unforgiving strokes. His eyes—had she ever looked so closely at his eyes before?—were a stormy bluish green. His hair, darker than Lewis's, was thick and straight, lacking the rich curl of his elder brother's. Margaret thought, of the two, only Lewis's portrait flattered its subject. Even so, Nathaniel did have a good face, she decided, agreeing with the earlier assessment of Emily's cousin.
Strong, serious, masculine.

Glimpsing a thin cobweb in the corner of the frame, she unconsciously lifted the portrait brush from the housemaid's box still in her hand, a nearly natural extension of her arm. She flicked away the offending filament. The brush lingered, and she gently dusted Nathaniel's portrait with a feathery touch—the firm cheek, the long nose, strong jaw, and stern mouth, wishing she might once again see him smile.

The echoing approach of footsteps on marble startled her. She swiftly turned, muscles tense, then relaxed to see it was only Mr. Hudson.

“How diligent you are. Even keeping Mr. Upchurch in shipshape.” His brown eyes glinted with humor. “What do you think, Nora. Does that old thing do him justice?”

She shook her head. “Not at all, sir.”

“Oh?” He reared back on his heels, clearly expecting nothing more than a smile or self-conscious assent. He considered the painting once more. “You are quite right, Nora. How dour he looks in that pose.”

“Mr. Upchurch rarely smiles, sir.”

Hudson's brows rose as he regarded her, then he looked back at the portrait, his lower lip protruding in thought. “He used to smile more often. I particularly remember several happy occasions in Barbados. . . .”