The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (40 page)

Away from home, the valet waited on [his master]
at table and loaded his shotguns.

—
Upstairs and Downstairs, Life in an English Country House

Chapter 30

H
e has come to finish what he started
, Margaret thought, standing frozen in the shadowy sickroom, unable to move or cry out as a man tried to force Lewis Upchurch to swallow some poisonous weed. But Lewis was asleep and could not chew. The weed wouldn't go down Lewis's throat, no matter how the man stuffed it in his mouth.

The man looked over at her, and with a start she realized it was Sterling Benton.

“You can't marry Lewis if he's dead,” Sterling said, his face a grimace of effort as he jammed his fingers into Lewis's slack mouth. “Now you shall have to marry Marcus. . . .”

Margaret's eyes flew open, startled awake. The disturbing images lingered along the edges of her mind, and she shuddered. How relieved she was to realize it was only a dream. An unsettling dream.
Lewis is all right
, she told herself. No one—not Sterling, nor masked man, nor pirate—had come to finish him off.

Still, an eerie sense of fear prickled through her limbs and needled her stomach. There would be no falling back asleep now. Giving up, she threw back her covers and climbed from bed. She pulled on her wrapper, slid her feet into slippers, and let herself from her room. The attic was perfectly quiet. Yet the eerie feeling did not diminish; if anything, it coiled and grew.

She crept down the first set of stairs and paused to listen. Had she heard something? She wasn't certain. She padded down the back stairs to the ground floor. How still and museum-like the soaring hall felt in mottled moonlight, filtering through the high half-circle transoms. Nothing but the ticking of a tall case clock to disturb the silence, mark time, match her stride and heartbeat.

Her feet took her past the main stairway and Hudson's office and across the marble floor to the library. There should be only two people inside at this time of night. Lewis and his nurse. Why did she feel they were not alone? Why this sense of imminent danger?

———

Nathaniel sat on a bench outside, leaning his back against a low-bending willow. From where he sat, he had a clear view of the moonlit arcade and gardens beyond. He hoped Margaret might venture out tonight and join him.

Unfortunately, thoughts of Lewis, and of Preston's threat to come calling, kept impinging on more pleasant thoughts of Miss Macy. Even if the scoundrel had robbed the navy in Portsmouth five days ago, he could easily have returned to Kent by now. At the thought, he idly ran his finger over the hilt of the sword at his side. Ever since Lewis had been shot, he'd kept it near at hand.

Footsteps sounded on the flagstones of the arcade. He swiveled his head, but it was not Margaret emerging from the house. It was a man emerging from the shadows, wearing a long, many-caped coat.

And a tricorn hat.

Nathaniel rose and crept to the arcade. Though his blood boiled, he managed a cool façade. “Good evening.”

Abel Preston started. Surprise widened his eyes and slackened his mouth. But just that quickly, his eyes hardened, his lip curled. “Hello, Nate. Are you the welcome party?”

Nathaniel drew his sword. “If this is the welcome you had in mind.”

The man sighed. “I had hoped to find the rest of that money first. I know there's more.”

Nathaniel glanced beyond the man, alert to the possibility of accomplices. “Where are your partners in crime?”

“Oh, they don't like to venture so far from the sea. Besides, I assured them I could handle this small errand myself. I don't suppose you would give me leave to do so, if I promise to return afterward and die like a gentleman?”

“You are no gentleman, sir.”

“There's no call to be rude, Nate. I didn't take your life when I had the chance, did I? But I will kill you now if you dare stand in my way.”

“I dare.” Nathaniel raised his sword.

Again the man sighed in a longsuffering manner and drew his own sword. The blade suddenly flashed and Nathaniel barely dodged in time. Thunder and turf, the man was fast. Again and again Preston advanced. Nathaniel parried, losing ground, barely keeping out of range of the man's flashing blade.

He soon realized the former army major was still the better swordsman, regardless of his hours of practice with Hudson. He would not be able to withstand him much longer.
Gracious God, your will be done. . . .

———

It was only a feeling, Margaret told herself. Not strong enough nor certain enough to justify rousing Mr. Hudson or some other ally to accompany her. Was she foolish to venture into the library on her own? A chill crept up her spine at the thought. She remembered what Hudson and Nathaniel had said about the pirate with a grudge. What if he had shot Lewis and returned tonight to finish him off? Or what if Sterling was in there, as in her dream? Lying in wait for her after that runner reported she was hiding in Fairbourne Hall as a housemaid. Would Sterling kill a man to keep her from marrying anyone other than Marcus? She shivered. Margaret detested the man, but she did not believe him that evil.

She gingerly lifted the latch and inched open the door.

Dim lamplight and stillness. As the arc of the door widened, she saw first the nurse, Mrs. Welch, slumped in the settee in the corner, mouth ajar, snore noticeably absent. She opened the door farther, revealing the bed, Lewis's still form, and a man bent over him, pressing a pillow to his face. . . .

———

Hoping to distract his foe, Nathaniel panted, “What, no poetry tonight?”

They circled each other, catching their breaths.

“I didn't think you appreciated my poetry.”

“True.”

“Still, I might try, if you insist. . . .”

For a fleeting second Preston's focus shifted, and Nathaniel kicked, catching his opponent off guard and knocking his feet out from under him. Preston
oof
ed to the ground, but still managed to raise his sword to block Nathaniel's attack.

A voice rang out, “Lay down your weapon.”

Nathaniel whirled. Robert Hudson trained a pistol on the man on the ground.

Glancing from Hudson's resolute expression to his steady pistol, Preston laid down his sword and slowly got to his feet, arms raised in apparent surrender. “Well, well. If it isn't Robbie Hudson, my former clerk. Surely you wouldn't shoot your old master.”

“If I have to.”

“Thou shalt not kill, remember.”

“You have killed plenty. How many slaves died at your hands?”

Preston flinched. “I left that life behind.”

Hudson's lip curled. “And your wife and children in the bargain.”

Keeping his eyes on Preston, Hudson said to Nathaniel, “Should we send the coachman for the sheriff?”

Suddenly, Preston leapt and in one continuous blur of motion, shoved Hudson and yanked a small pistol from his boot. Hudson's arms windmilled as he careened back, fighting to keep his balance, barely managing to keep to his feet.

“No prison for me, thank you,” Preston said, pointing his pistol at Hudson's chest.

Nathaniel cried out, “Nooooo!”

A shot rang out, and a man fell.

Icy terror sliced through Nathaniel's veins. If Hudson had been killed, he would never forgive himself. He blinked. Looked about him.

Hudson still stood, expression dazed. The Poet Pirate lay sprawled on his back, coat spread wide, blood blossoming from his shirt.

Nathaniel whirled about. If Hudson had not shot him, who had?

There stood his answer.

In the steely form of bald Mr. Tompkins, arm stretched before him, pistol still smoking.

———

Margaret blinked and the scene before her changed. Perhaps it was due to her nightmare, or the fact that she'd read too many gothic novels, but for a moment she'd thought she'd seen a man bent over the bed, pressing a pillow to Lewis's face. In reality, the man sat on the bed. He was neither masked man, pirate, nor Sterling Benton. By the light of the lamp burning on the side table, she recognized the familiar figure of Connor. The young valet sat, stoop-shouldered, on the edge of his master's bed, head bowed, pillow on his lap. Defeated. Had she only imagined him trying to suffocate Lewis?

She darted a look back to Lewis's face, then to his chest. Was there any rise and fall there? Was she too late?

“Nora?” Connor looked up at her, face bleak, eyes bleary. Had he gotten drunk for courage?

“Connor.” She licked suddenly dry lips. “What are you doing with that pillow?”

He looked down at it as if only then realizing he held it in his arms. “Nothing, as it turns out,” he whispered, more to the pillow—to himself—than to her.

“Is Mr. Upchurch . . . ?”

“Alive and well,” he muttered darkly.

Relief filled her. She amended, “Not exactly
well
.”

“He will be. Dr. Drummond said as much.”

Margaret felt her brow pucker. “Said what?”

“That Mr. Lewis would recover. Was quite sure of it. And you heard him talking. Coming around. It is only a matter of time.”

Realization prickled through her. “Is that why you are here?”

As if in a stupor, he nodded. “But in the end I couldn't do it.”

Worriedly, she glanced at Mrs. Welch, unnaturally still on the settee. “Connor, why is Mrs. Welch still asleep?”

He shrugged. “A little laudanum in her tea is all.”

Is that why the woman slept so heavily? “This isn't the first time, is it?”

He shook his head. “Didn't want her to see me giving him the stuff. She might have said something. I only meant to keep him quiet until he passed on.”

“Is that what you were doing when I walked in on you a couple of days ago?”

“You made me drop the stuff. It's not cheap either.” Connor rubbed his brow. “Mr. White was so certain he wouldn't survive. I thought I could bide my time, but he lived on and on.”

“But it was you, wasn't it? You shot him in the duel?”

He uttered a desolate laugh. “There was no duel.”

“But, Miss Upchurch mentioned a challenge letter—”

“I wrote that letter and slid it under Mr. Lewis's door the night of the ball. When he finally returned to his room and read it, he believed Mr. Saxby had called him out over Miss Lyons. How he blustered and paced. I feared he would back out. He decided he would meet Saxby but hoped to dissuade the man from the duel. Said he planned to apologize instead.”

“But still he brought the dueling pistols?”

“I brought them. I had cleaned and loaded them enough times to know how it was done.”

Now that he was talking, it seemed Connor wished to confess all. Margaret wished she was not alone in hearing it.

“When we arrived at Penenden Heath, we tied our horses and Lewis looked for his challenger. I gave Mr. Upchurch one of the pistols, and said I was he. I told him to face me man to man, but he refused. ‘Dueling is only for
gentlemen
,' he says.” Connor spit out the word like a vile thing. “And apparently as a valet, I am barely even a man, let alone a gentleman. And Laura's honor not worth risking his life over, not worth anything at all, beyond the few trinkets he'd given her.”

“Who is Laura?” Margaret whispered, fearing she already knew the answer.

“My little sister. Dearest creature God ever made. Only sixteen.”

Margaret did not know which act sickened her more.

“To see his smirking face, when he spoke of sweet Laura. It was beyond me to endure. . . . I pointed the gun and told him to stop laughing, but he would not stop. He said he knew I could not shoot him, that
I
knew I could not shoot him.”

White-faced, Connor swallowed and whispered, “He was wrong.”

Margaret slowly, gingerly pulled the pillow from his grasp, as though a loaded pistol. “Did you intend to kill him?”

He inhaled deeply. “I was angry. I wanted to stop him. To punish him for hurting her, using her. I didn't think past that. But later . . . Later I saw how stupid I had been. I tried to throw suspicion on Saxby, even that Poet Pirate fellow. No one suspected me. But Lewis knew. If he lived . . . I would hang.”

She asked gently, “You shot him but could not suffocate him?”

Connor shook his head, expression bleak. “I would do anything to save Laura. But not, it seems, to save myself.”

If you have a bad servant
part with him, a diseased sheep
spoils a whole flock.

—Joseph Florance, celebrated French chef, 1827

Chapter 31

N
athaniel and Helen sat in chairs pulled near Lewis's bed in his own room at last. Lewis sat propped up with pillows. Though still weak, he had quickly regained his senses once Connor wasn't there to administer large amounts of laudanum.

Helen raised the teacup to his lips, recalling the doctor's admonition to give him plenty of liquids.

Lewis sipped, then shook his head. “To think I trusted him.”

Helen bit her lip, then whispered, “As his sister trusted you?”

He glanced at her, then away. “She wasn't complaining.”

“She is
sixteen
, Lewis. You must have seemed a god to her. Wealthy and handsome. And old enough to know better.”

He slanted her another glance, then looked at Nate. “So what have you done with him? Has he gone to prison?”

“Connor is on a ship bound for Barbados as we speak.”

Lewis frowned. “What?”

“Nathaniel and Mr. Hudson procured a place for him with an acquaintance returning to the West Indies,” Helen explained.

“But he shot me, tried to—”

Nathaniel cut off his protests before Lewis could work himself into a lather. “Prison means a trial, Lewis. A trial in which your part would be made quite public. In Connor's mind it was a duel for his sister's honor. In all truth, I cannot say I completely blame him. If someone treated Helen the way you treated that poor girl”—Nathaniel's voice shook—“I might very well have done the same.”

Disgust filled him, but he would not lash out at his brother when he was still so weak. He inhaled deeply to calm himself. “Even so, we thought you might sleep better knowing the young man was out of the country.”

Their stillroom maid had begged to go with Connor and would soon be his wife, but Nathaniel did not think Lewis would appreciate the concession and didn't mention it.

Lewis said nothing for several ticks of the clock, staring at his hands. “And what of the sister?”

With a glance at Nathaniel, Helen said quietly, “She has been settled with relatives. Far away.”

Lewis nodded, lifting his gaze to stare at the striped wallpaper. “Fine by me. She'd grown tiresome of late.”

Inwardly Nathaniel's anger turned to pity and prayer. Would his brother never change his ways?

Helen offered Lewis more tea, but he waved the cup away, eyes distant. “Still, I shall find her again if I decide to. See if I don't.”

Pain flashed in Helen's eyes. Pain and disappointment. “I do see.” She opened her mouth to say more, hesitated, and then instead turned to Nathaniel.

“When you returned from Barbados, I was less than kind to you. I misjudged you, and I apologize. I see now that your motivations were honorable. Your actions meant to protect our family. Thank you.”

Nathaniel's heart squeezed.

She turned back to their older brother, expression tight. “Lewis, for all your charm and good looks, you are . . .” She broke off, and tears flowed in place of the unspoken words. Her voice thick, she whispered, “But I never could hear a word against you.”

———

Later that day, Nathaniel sat with his steward and his sister in the library, thankful for the fact that it no longer served double duty as sickroom. Nathaniel enjoyed having the private use of the library once more, though Helen still spent more time there than she had before. As did Hudson.

Robert Hudson rubbed his palms together. “What shall we take on next, sir? New plans for drainage? Expanding the orchards? Another trip to London?”

Before he could answer, Mrs. Budgeon knocked on the open doorjamb.

“Mr. Hudson, sorry to disturb you, but the candidates are here. Should you like to sit in on the interviews?”

Hudson pulled a face. “Mrs. Budgeon, I have every confidence in your ability to hire a suitable stillroom maid.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hudson. And please do remember the annual inspection of linens and livery is at three.”

“How could I forget?” He smiled wryly, and the housekeeper departed.

Helen watched the exchange with interest. “Forgive me for saying so, Mr. Hudson, but life in service doesn't seem to suit you.”

Hurt and defensiveness crossed his face. “I am sorry if I've disappointed you.”

“Not at all. But it is clear to me you are ambitious and capable of a much more self-directed life.”

He narrowed his eyes. “That almost sounds like a compliment, Miss Helen.”

“It is. Good heavens, have I been such a shrew you don't recognize praise from me when you hear it?”

“No, miss. But nor do I take praise from your lips lightly.”

She inclined her head. “I think you could accomplish anything you set your mind to.”

He looked at her significantly. “Anything?”

She blushed. “I refer to business, of course.”

Arnold came in with a special delivery on a tray. Nathaniel's heart surged to see the familiar handwriting. The much-anticipated letter.

He waved it to gain Helen's attention. “A letter from Father.”

Helen pressed a hand to her chest. “What does he say?”

Hudson, Nathaniel noticed, gave Helen's arm a discreet, comforting squeeze.

Nathaniel unfolded the letter and read the first line. “He assures us he is well.”

Helen pressed her eyes closed and sighed. “Thank God.”

He continued to read. Paused. Blinked his eyes, then read the words again. Stunned, he handed the letter to his sister.

For several moments Helen read silently, frowned, then stared up at him, eyes wide. “Good heavens. I have never known him to be so . . . Apparently he was quite shaken by the revolt, the brutality of the soldiers, the confessions of the implicated slaves. . . .”

“Does he say what I think he says?”

She nodded slowly. “I believe so. He says . . . he says you were right, Nathaniel. And he vows to put into motion your plans to extricate our family from any involvement with slavery.”

Nathaniel released a long exhale. “I was afraid to believe my eyes.”

His heart lifted. Sitting there with his sister and friend, and knowing that his father and brother were safe, Nathaniel had a sudden longing to see another quite dear to him.

Margaret dusted the desk in Nathaniel's bedchamber, careful not to knock over the candle lamp nor break anything else of his. The door opened behind her, and she turned, startled. It was Nathaniel himself.

She backed up a step, disconcerted by the look in his eye.

He stepped forward.

“What is it?” she asked. She held the feather duster before her like a sword.

He advanced, eyes riveted on hers. “Seeing you puts me in mind of a piece of French chocolate.”

She swallowed and took another step backward.

“If one wants to discover what is inside, one must first remove the foreign wrapping.”

The odd light in his eyes both mesmerized and frightened her. She wanted to run; she wanted to stay. Her body, nerves tingling, mind whirling, refused to move. Like a hare cornered by a fox about to pounce, she could only stare, eyes wide. Frozen.

He was only a foot away from her now.

He lifted both hands toward her face. She leaned her head back to evade his reach, but her head came to rest against the wall.

He touched not her face, but her spectacles, gently unhooking them from her ears and lifting them from her nose. “You don't really need these, do you,” he murmured.

“I do, actually,” she whispered, but he continued on, setting the spectacles on the desk.

He returned his gaze to her face. A gaze too penetrating for comfort. She was torn between wanting to look away and wanting to sink into those intense sea-storm eyes.

He tilted his head to one side, regarding her. “I hope you don't think me rude for mentioning it, but you have a little something on your face.” He withdrew his handkerchief, dipped it into the pitcher and came forward with it. She tipped her head back, but he grasped her chin in his long fingers, gently but firmly, and wiped first at one eyebrow, then the other.

“A bit of soot, perhaps,” he said and tossed the handkerchief aside. “From your work with the grates, no doubt.”

“I . . .” she faltered but could form no further words, because now both his hands touched her skin. His fingertips slid over her cheeks and jaw, cupping her face, while his thumbs reached up to rub arcs over each eyebrow, the fine hairs bristling to life under his touch.

Her heart thudded. He knew. He had to know. Was he not surprised to find blond brows beneath the dark? He did not appear surprised.

Emotions crossed his features like lightning dancing across the sky, sparking behind his eyes. “And this cap doesn't suit you. I'm sorry to say something so ungallant, but there it is. Do you mind?”

She licked her lips. A tremor passed through her, of anticipation, of fear, of hope. If he didn't know, if he had merely removed her spectacles to see her face more clearly, to ease his way toward—her chest ached to even think the phrase—
kissing her.
If he really had mistaken her darkened brows for soot . . .

But beneath her cap lay a wig. A wig could be mistaken for nothing but disguise, unless she were bald beneath! No, he must know.

He raised his hands when she would have happily endured them on her face far longer. He peeled off the cap and tossed it on the desk. Again he regarded her. “I am afraid, miss, that your hair, if hair it can be called, does not suit you either. May I?”

Yes, he definitely knew. He did not seem angry, as she would have guessed. Or was he so self-possessed that it did not show? How in control of himself, of the situation, of her, he seemed.

He gave a gentle pull, but the wig caught at its anchor pins, stinging her scalp.

“Pins,” she murmured and managed to reach up and pull them from behind each ear. She was helping him? Yes, she was, she realized. She suddenly wanted very much to stand before him as herself, with no more guise or lies between them. Her hands hesitated, then lowered to her sides. Heart hammering, and more self-conscious than ever, she waited. Waited for him to bare her hair. Her identity.

Slowly, carefully, he pulled the wig from her head. He asked, bemused, “You just happened to have this lying about?”

“I meant to wear it for a masquerade.”

He chuckled, deep in his throat. An intimate sound that warmed her. “And you certainly did. The longest masquerade in history.”

He set the wig aside, his eyes lingering on her face, her hair. He reached up, stroking a tendril at her temple that had come free when he'd pulled the wig away.

Then Nathaniel cupped the sides of her face once more. He leaned near, lowering his face toward hers, tipping her chin one way, angling his the other. His eyes roamed her cheeks, her eyes, her lips.

She felt warm and flushed, as though she had sipped orange wine. He leaned nearer yet, and she could smell his sweet peppermint breath and shaving soap.

Her voice sounding young and nearly giddy in her ears, she asked, “Are you certain, sir, you ought to kiss a housemaid?”

No answering chuckle. “I have never been more certain of anything in my life,” he whispered, his breath tickling her upper lip with each syllable.

He was going to kiss her. Sweet heaven. Nathaniel Upchurch was going to kiss her. Her knees suddenly felt weak, her heart shot through with electricity.

His head dipped and his lips touched hers, softly, faintly. Too faintly. She couldn't help it. She leaned up on her tiptoes and pressed her mouth more tightly to his. In a second, his arms were around her, molding her body to his in an embrace that stole what was left of her breath.
Is this what love is? Oh, what I have been missing!

He pulled his mouth away, grasped her shoulders firmly and took a half step back. “Forgive me, I should not. Not so . . .”