The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (39 page)

Nathaniel sat in the library near Lewis's bed, telling Helen about Mr. Tompkins's inquiries. The door opened, and Lewis's valet entered, toilet case in hand.

“Connor, there you are. How did it go with that Mr. Tompkins? He wasn't too hard on you, I hope.”

The young man ducked his head. “No, sir. Fine, sir. He's talking to Nora now.”

“Nora?”

The young valet looked up, surprised. “He said you knew. Told me you'd suggested he do so.”

Nathaniel's heart began pounding dully. He didn't like the thought of that man alone with Margaret. That man seeking
hidden things.
“I . . . did, yes. Still, I didn't think he would need to speak with her after speaking with you.”

“And why's that, sir?”

“Because you were there, of course, while she was not.” He turned to his sister. “Helen, might you come with me a moment?”

She set down her needlework and rose, unconcerned. “Am I to be questioned next?”

He took her hand and pulled her along with him out the door and across the hall.

“Nate, what is it?”

“Probably nothing, but I don't trust the man.”
Or whoever hired him.

He burst into the morning room without knocking. Margaret stood at the table poised to flee. Mr. Tompkins sat opposite, tucking something into his pocket as they entered.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Nathaniel began, not sounding at all apologetic.

Margaret turned to them, face flushed, eyes unnaturally bright. “Perfect timing. I was just leaving.”

Mr. Tompkins rose. Nathaniel noticed his sister look from Nora to the bald man, and back again.

“I should hope so,” Helen said, mock-imperious. “You have neglected your work long enough, Nora. Really, Mr. Tompkins, we don't pay our people to have tea with callers.”

The man sputtered, “I-I'm not . . .”

“Sorry, Miss Upchurch.” Margaret dipped a quick curtsy, flashed a look of gratitude at Helen, and scurried from the room.

Nathaniel watched the exchange with interest, and then said, “This is my sister, Miss Helen Upchurch. I brought her in . . .” He hesitated. He couldn't say,
“as an excuse to see what you were up to with Margaret.”
So instead he said, “To ask her to verify my whereabouts the morning Lewis was shot.”

Tompkins raised one brow, barely glancing at Helen. “How . . . convenient. But I already told you how little I value the word of sisters and servants.”

Nathaniel seethed. “If you dare question my sister's honesty, her honor, I shall—”

The runner lifted a hand. “Ah! The famous Upchurch temper raises its fierce head once again. I wonder your brother survived as many years as he did.”

Nathaniel clenched his fist and prepared to charge.

Helen laid a staying hand on his arm and said almost sweetly, “If you do not leave this very moment, Mr. Tompkins, I fear it is you who will not survive much longer.”

Bonnet was a sugar planter who knew nothing
about sailing. He started his piracies by buying an
armed sloop on Barbados and recruiting a
pirate crew, possibly to escape from his wife.

—
The Pirate Encyclopedia

Chapter 29

M
argaret retreated belowstairs, her pulse still tripping at an alarming rate after her disconcerting interview with Mr. Tompkins. Did he leave satisfied, believing she was Nora Garret, or would he be back? Margaret wondered if she should tell Helen or even Nathaniel about the strange interview. If he had been there to discover Lewis's assailant, why did he carry her portrait?

Pondering all of this, Margaret arranged the flowers in a vase with trembling fingers, then carried them up to the sickroom. She entered quietly, expecting Helen and perhaps Nathaniel to be inside, but the room was empty except for Lewis Upchurch. Approaching the bed, she reached out to set the vase on the bedside table and nearly dropped it.

Lewis's eyes were open.

“Margaret . . . ?” he breathed, hoarse and confused. His eyes drifted closed once more.

“Thank God,” Margaret whispered.

Interview forgotten, she ran from the room to find Helen and Nathaniel.

Pacing the arcade, Nathaniel replayed the scenes with Tompkins in his mind—the unexpected questions the man had asked, the expected questions he'd failed to ask. The hints and taunts about
him
being the man who shot Lewis. But they were taunts without substance, without judgment, as though he didn't really believe it. It was almost as if he had merely tried to provoke him.

Nathaniel wanted to speak with Margaret. Assure himself she was all right. Find out what the man had asked her and why she looked so shaken when he and Helen had interrupted their meeting.

He found Margaret where he'd feared he would. Just leaving Lewis's room. She had said she no longer held romantic notions about Lewis. Had that been Nora speaking or Margaret? He hoped it was true for them both.

“I was just coming to find you.” She beamed up at him. “Lewis opened his eyes just now.”

Energy surged through his body; the stranglehold around his neck and chest loosened. “Thank God.”

Other thoughts fleeing, he strode past her into the sickroom. Margaret followed but stayed in the background as he approached the bed and gently grasped his brother's arm.

“Lewis? Lewis, it's Nate. Can you hear me?”

Lewis's eyes fluttered opened, then closed once more.

“Lewis?”

Lewis winced. “Stop . . . shouting.”

Nathaniel's heart leapt to hear a voice he'd feared silenced forever. “Lewis, you've been hurt. Who did this to you?”

But Lewis turned his face to the wall and responded no further to his entreaties.

Miss Macy stepped to his side and whispered, “Still, that is a good sign, is it not?”

“Yes.” His heart buoyed. “I've got to tell Helen.”

———

Margaret was about to offer to summon Helen for him, but Nathaniel had already bolted from the room, a boy eager to share a great surprise with his sister. From the hall, Margaret heard him call to someone, “He's coming around. Is that not good news?”

A moment later, Connor stepped inside, toilet case in hand. He asked in disbelief, “Is he awake?”

She shook her head. “Only for a few moments.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Just muttered a little nonsense.”

He looked at her. “What nonsense?”

My name
, she thought, but said only, “He told Mr. Upchurch to stop shouting.” Margaret grinned at the memory, but Connor only sighed.

“I wish I had been here.”

He set the case on the bedside table. “I would have attended him earlier, but you would hang about. And now I am late in giving him his wash and shave.”

“I'm sorry. I only meant to bring in some flowers, but then I—”

“Have you no other work? Perhaps I ought to mention it to Mrs. Budgeon.”

She was stunned by his cutting words. “She's the one who asked me to tend this room. You might have come in while I was here.”

“I could not very well see to his personal needs in a woman's presence, now could I?”

“You could have asked me to leave.”

“I'm asking now.”

His face flushed, a shade lighter than his hair. A pulse ticked in his jaw.

“Very well, Connor,” she said softly. “You needn't be nasty about it.”

His expression crumbled, sheepish. Pained. “I'm sorry, Nora. Just please go.”

———

Margaret took herself belowstairs to see her cheerful friend Hester. But Hester did not smile when she entered the stillroom.

“Hello, Hester. Did you hear Mr. Lewis is coming around? Is that not good news?”

The stillroom maid scooped up the corner of her apron and snatched a copper pot from the hearth, setting it atop the worktable with a bang.

“Hester? What is it?”

She took up a utensil and began mashing whatever was in that pot with righteous indignation.

Margaret's stomach dropped. What had she done now? Was she to lose her only real friend belowstairs? “Hester? Did I do something?”

Hester struck the utensil's handle against the side of the pot to dislodge its contents.
Clang, clang, clang.
“Not to me, you didn't. But you are making Connor's life difficult.”

“Am I?” Margaret was sincerely surprised. She knew he had been distracted and even a little surly of late but had no idea it was her doing. She thought of his recent tirade, but Hester could not yet know about that. “What have I done?”

“Sticking your nose in where it don't belong. He says you have no place flittin' in and out of the master's room. Isn't right.”

Margaret was incredulous. “I'm in his room every day to make his bed and dump the slops.”

“But not in the sickroom. Connor sees that as
his
place.”

“I had no intention of usurping—”

“Of what?”

“Of taking over his responsibilities, as he sees them.”

“Then what are you doing hanging about the sickroom at all hours?”

“Mrs. Budgeon asked me to keep the room tidy and serve the chamber nurse. But, yes . . . I own I nip in now and again to check on Mr. Lewis, or take in some flowers. I didn't realize I was getting in the way.”
Until just now,
she added to herself.

Hester glanced up at her with narrow eyes, shaking her head without ceasing her work. “You're a fool if you've taken a liking to Lewis Upchurch. Mind you, you wouldn't be the first girl to break her heart over the handsome devil. Her heart . . . and worse.”

Hester worked in choppy, agitated movements, dumping the contents of the pot onto a marble board and rolling the lump flat.

Margaret asked tentatively, “You?”

“Me?” Hester scoffed. “I'm no fool. Connor warned me about him long ago. Said that man could charm a nun out of her convent and a bride from her wedding trip.”

Margaret bit back a grin at the colorful and rather accurate description.

Hester frowned. “You think it's funny when a young girl is ruined by such a rake, is that it?”

Margaret sobered immediately. “Not in the least. It's why I left my last place. To avoid that very fate.”

Hester stilled a moment, studying her as though to gauge her sincerity. Apparently satisfied, she nodded. “Then you understand. I know Connor and his brothers are terrible careful about their young sister. Have you a brother, Nora?”

Margaret hesitated, confused by the jump in topic. “Yes.”

“Could he not protect you from the man threatening you?”

Oh.
“He is much younger than I. Only a boy.”

Hester nodded. “A pity. And your father?”

“Passed on.”

Hester glanced up from her work. “Sorry to hear it.”

Margaret was sorry as well. She found herself missing both Gilbert and her father very much at that moment.

The next day Nathaniel paced the library, agitated. Lewis had not again regained his senses. He had so hoped his brief waking had been a sign that he was coming around. Improving. Had it been a fluke? He sat at the desk and tried to calm himself by reading from the Psalms, but his anxious mind kept wandering.

A double knock sounded on the door, signaling Hudson's return. Nathaniel rose to shake his hand. “How glad I am to see you. That was a quick trip. What did you find out?”

Hudson hung his head. “I'm sorry, sir. But I am afraid I didn't learn who hired Mr. Tompkins to investigate the duel.”

“Dash it.” Nathaniel ran a hand over his face, then took in Hudson's hangdog expression. “Don't look so low, man. It isn't your fault.”

Hudson said, “I did learn something that will interest you. It seems our poetical friend Preston is becoming less mythical and more genuine pestilence.”

“Oh?”

“His crimes are mounting, and with it his infamy. Word around London and the admiralty is that he stole a shipment of Royal Navy prize money bound for Portsmouth. At least he is being credited with the deed. The navy has added to the reward you've already offered.”

“The insolence of the man. When was this?”

“The fifth of November. Which means, if true, Preston could not have shot your brother. He was eighty miles away in Portsmouth, robbing the navy.”

Nathaniel frowned. “Why is that not a comforting thought?”

“Because that means we still don't know who did it.”

Nathaniel shook his head. “If not him, if not Saxby, if not me, then who?”