The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (5 page)

While they waited, Joan turned and whispered, “I've had all the trouble I care to from your Mr. Benton. I think it best we don't tell my sister your name or who you really are. Peg has never been good at keeping secrets.”

Margaret nodded.

A few moments later, shuffling and grumbling came from the other side of the door. Then a woman's hoarse whisper. “Who's there?”

“Peg, it's Joan.”

The lock clicked, and the door was opened by a frowzy woman very like Joan in appearance, though several years older and a stone heavier. She might have been pretty once, but her skin was rough, her face too careworn for her years.

“Good heavens, Joan. What's happened?”

Joan answered calmly, “I've lost my place.”

Her sister's face crumpled. “Oh no. What did you do?”

“Nothing. Look, it's late. We'll talk in the morning, all right?”

The woman nodded over Joan's shoulder. “Who's this, then?”

Joan flicked Margaret a glance. “She's with me. She just needs a place a sleep for a night or two. Come on, Peg, let us in. We'll help with the children and give the place a good cleaning—whatever you like.”

The woman frowned. “Oh, very well. But keep it down. The children are already asleep.”

They stepped inside the dark room, which smelled of cabbage and soiled nappies. Margaret could see little, as their reluctant hostess spared no candle for them to get settled by.

“Candles are dear, they are,” Peg explained as if reading her thoughts. “There's a bit of light from the window, if you need it. And embers in the stove.”

Joan disappeared into the apartment's only separate room. She returned a moment later and tossed something onto the floor. Margaret realized with sinking dread that she was meant to sleep on an old blanket on the floor.

Margaret stood there, waiting for Joan to help her undress. But Joan followed her sister back into the bedchamber.

Margaret whispered after her, “Joan?”

“You're on your own now, miss,” Joan said. “I am a maid no longer.” She shut the door behind her.

Well. She needn't be so snippy,
Margaret thought, oddly chastised as well as annoyed. She decided she was too tired to undress in any case and settled down atop the thin scratchy blanket on the floor, hoping no mice or rats decided to join her there.

Margaret awoke on her side, stiff. Her hip bone ached from being pressed against the hard floor. Sunlight, filtering through sooty windows, shone on the grey wool blanket she had pulled over herself in the night. Likely it had once been the golden hue of boiled wool. As she pushed it away, something furry brushed her hand. She gasped and bolted to her feet. A dark, hairy form fell from her shoulder to the floor. She shrieked, only to realize it was not a rat, but her wig. She quickly bent and pulled it on. Another creature appeared before her and she reared back and nearly shrieked again. This creature had a small pale face, curtained by stringy ginger hair.

“Hello,” the little girl said, staring at her. “Who are you?”

“I am . . .”
Who am I?
Margaret's brain was a fog. She remembered Joan saying she ought not give her real name. Probably wise. If Sterling came here to question Joan's sister, Peg might say Joan had been there with someone, but not that a Margaret had been there.

“I am a . . . friend . . . of Joan's.”

“Is Aunt Joan here, too?”

“Yes. In your mamma's room, I believe.” She made no effort to disguise her voice with the child.

The little girl tilted her head to one side. “What's wrong with your hair?”

Margaret reached up and realized her wig was askew. She righted the wig and muttered lamely, “Always a mess in the morning. You, on the other hand, have very pretty hair.” She said it hoping to distract the girl. She did not want her reporting to Sterling or a runner that a blond lady wearing a wig had been there. That would give away her disguise and make Sterling's search all the easier.

She eyed the girl's stringy hair again. “Or you could have. When was the last time you combed it?”

The little girl shrugged.

Margaret looked away from the girl to survey her surroundings. One end of the room housed a small stove, cupboards, and table and chairs. The other end held a pallet bed complete with sleeping boy and baskets heaped with fabric. Apparently Joan's sister was a seamstress of sorts. Margaret spied a piece of broken mirror hanging on the wall by a ribbon and walked over to it, checking her wig and cap and wiping a smear of kohl from between her eyes.

“I want breakfast,” the little girl pouted.

“And I want to be a thousand miles from here,” Margaret whispered to the stranger in the mirror.

Peg stepped out of the bedchamber, tying on an apron and stifling a yawn. She said, “Light the fire, will you?”

Margaret looked at the little girl. She seemed awfully young to be trusted with fire. It took Margaret a few seconds to realize Peg had asked
her.

Margaret had poked at many a drawing room fire but had never actually laid one. She eyed the small stove. A bucket with a few pieces of coal sat at the ready.

Joan came out of the room, a toddler on her hip. She glanced at Margaret, then smiled down at the boy. “This is little Henry.”

“Named for his father, he is.” Peg pulled a sack of oats from the cupboard.

“Papa is gone to sea,” a boy of seven or eight piped up. Margaret had not seen him rise from the pallet bed. “I am going to sea one day too.”

“Not for a few more years, Michael. Don't be in a hurry,” Joan said, an indulgent dimple in her cheek.

Margaret caught Joan's eye, and nodded her head toward the stove. Joan frowned at her, uncomprehending.

“Haven't you got that fire lit yet?” Peg asked, not looking up as she pulled a pot from the cupboard.

“Um. . . . no. I am not certain . . .”

“I'll do it,” Joan said in a long-suffering manner, placing the child in Margaret's arms.

At least this was something Margaret could do. Having two siblings many years younger than herself, she knew how to hold a child.

Margaret settled the child against her and soon felt dampness seep into her gown.
Ugh.
She wondered if she could manage to change him. At Lime Tree Lodge, they had employed a nursery maid to deal with soiled nappies.

“What's your name?” the older boy asked her.

“My name?” Margaret echoed stupidly. “Ah . . .” Her mind whirled. “Elinor,” she said, choosing her middle name.

“But she goes by Nora,” Joan added, perhaps finding the name too grand—or too close to her real name.

“Make the porridge, will you, Nora?” Peg said. “I've got six orders of piecework to finish today.” Peg glanced up. “You do know how to make porridge, I trust?”

“'Course she does,” Joan said. “You go about your work, Peg, and we'll manage breakfast.”

Peg nodded and crossed the room to the waiting baskets.

When her back was turned, Joan whispered, “Peg makes thin gruel for the children. It's better for their little stomachs.”

And cheaper
, Margaret thought, but did not say so.

“Six parts water to one part groats. Can you manage that? Unless you'd rather change Henry?”

“No thank you. I shall give gruel a go.”

———

Later, after they had eaten thin, lumpy, mildly scorched gruel with neither milk nor sugar, Margaret fumbled her way through drying the pot, spoons, and basins as Joan washed. As she did so, she thought about something Joan had said—that Peg's name and address were recorded in Benton's staff records as Joan's next of kin. Sterling might very well put two and two together and knock on Peg's door any moment looking for her. Margaret shuddered. She could not stay there long.

After the dishes were put away, Joan sat down with a wrinkled copy of a newspaper a few days old, reading through the advertisements. Not knowing what else to do, Margaret pulled her comb from her bag and went to work on the little girl's hair, untangling then plaiting the ginger strands.

Peg glanced from her sewing to Joan, still bent over the newspaper. “Any luck, Joan?”

Joan shook her head. “It seems everyone wants maids-of-all-work here in town. That's one fate I should like to avoid.”

Reaching the end of the girl's hair, Margaret looked around for a ribbon or something else to secure it.

Peg tossed her a thin scrap of muslin. “Here.”

Margaret tied the end of the plait, and the girl stroked her coppery braid, smiling coyly up at Joan. “Am I pretty, Aunt Joan?”

Joan looked from her niece to Margaret, then back again. “Pretty is as pretty does, little miss. You remember that.”

The jab was intended for her, Margaret realized. At the moment, being pretty seemed of little use. What should she
do
?

The “Gentleman Pirate” . . . a retired British
army major with a large sugar plantation in Barbados,
abandoned his wife, children, land and fortune; bought
a ship; and turned to piracy on the high seas.

—
Amy Crawford,
Smithsonian
magazine

Chapter 4

N
athaniel Aaron Upchurch spent two restless nights in his family's London residence after his appearance at the ball. He did not see his brother at all the first day. Lewis slept in very late and then had left for his club while Nathaniel met with the family's London banker. He supposed his brother was avoiding him after their fight.

In Lewis's absence, Nathaniel began taking stock of the situation—gathering unpaid bills and paying the permanent staff as well as the valet and coachman who had come up from Maidstone to help run the place. All the while his sister remained in Fairbourne Hall, necessitating the upkeep of both houses simultaneously, further compounding their expenses.

Lewis sauntered down for breakfast late the second morning, sporting a black eye and bruised cheek. “I say, Nate ol' boy, you made quite an entrance the other night.”

Nathaniel regarded his brother warily, but Lewis's tone held no rancor. Nathaniel regretted losing his temper, overtired from the journey as he was. He was determined not to do so again.

Lewis sized him up, surveying him from head to toe. Nathaniel became conscious of the fact that he had yet to shave his beard or cut his hair.

“My, my,” Lewis drawled. “Who, I wonder, is this rogue before me and what has happened to my young pup of a brother?”

“Two years in Barbados happened.”

“The island did not have such an effect on me.”

Unfortunately
, Nathaniel thought. But he said, “I am sorry we came to blows at the ball.”

“I am not.” Lewis smirked. “We shall be the talk of town for a week.”

Nathaniel said dryly, “Or until the next scandal erupts.”

Lewis helped himself to coffee with several lumps of sugar—sugar grown in Barbados, though refined there in England. Nathaniel took his coffee—without sugar—and settled himself at the small desk in the breakfast room. He placed his spectacles on his nose and continued inscribing the outstanding debts into a ledger. He ought to have brought Hudson to do this, but the man had insisted on staying aboard the
Ecclesia
to keep watch, since Nathaniel had given the crew three-days leave.

Lewis turned from the sideboard and laughed. “Now
there
is the brother I remember. Nose in a book and wearing unfashionable spectacles.”

Nathaniel ignored the jab. “Were you ever going to pay these bills?”

“Me? Is that not why we have staff?”

Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “You tell me. I see that you have hired another French chef but no clerk or secretary.”

Lewis popped a hunk of sausage into his mouth and spoke around the bite. “Monsieur Fournier preferred to stay at Fairbourne Hall, and I could not leave Helen in the lurch, could I?”

“That is exactly what you have done.”

“The season is almost over, ol' boy,” Lewis soothed. “Then I shall tuck tail and go home like a dutiful spaniel, ey? But to insist I leave London now? Especially now that you are returned? You cannot be so cruel.” Lewis rubbed his bruised jaw. “Though after meeting with your fists, I am not so certain.”

Nathaniel noticed that Lewis did not bring up the reasons for his return. He knew their father had written to Lewis about it, but he was relieved not to have to rehash it all again.

After breakfast Nathaniel spent several more hours meeting with tradesmen and bringing accounts up to snuff. Then he allowed Lewis's valet to cut his hair and give him a better shave than he'd had in months. Finally, Nathaniel felt ready to return to his ship, collect Hudson and the rest of his belongings, and set off for Maidstone.

Nathaniel left the coachman and fashionable barouche with Lewis and insisted on driving the old traveling chariot himself—to the coachman's horror. Nathaniel would have settled for horseback or a small curricle, but he had quite a bit of cargo to unload and transport to Fairbourne Hall before the captain and crew departed for Barbados without him.

He enjoyed handling the reins, though the boxy enclosed carriage and team did not handle as well as the small trap and spirited mare he had driven around the island.

He pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and pulled down his hat, ignoring the disapproving look of an old dowager-neighbor, stunned to see him playing coachman. No doubt he had just given the gossips more reason to denounce him as uncivilized.

He drove his customary route to the Port of London and, when he arrived, hopped down and tied the horses near the Legal Quays. He turned toward the river and stopped, staring in disbelief. Flames shot up from the
Ecclesia
and smoke billowed.
God have mercy. What next?

He began running while these thoughts still echoed in his mind, his boots thumping against the wooden planking in time with his heart. Beside the three-masted merchantman, a dinghy floated. Several men waited at the oars, ready to make their escape. This was no accident, then, but an intentional attack. Where was Hudson?
Almighty God, please spare Hudson.

Nathaniel ran up the gangplank, heedless of the flames and smoke. If only he had retained a skeleton crew. Where were the river police? They were supposed to patrol against cargo theft and vandalism. Had a port worker—or even a member of the river police—been bribed to look the other way?

Fire licked up the mizzenmast. Nathaniel ran to the larboard rail and looked down at the dinghy. Still there. Nate was torn between the desire for revenge and the desire to try to save his ship. The ragged crew smirked up at him. What were they waiting for?

He had his answer soon enough, for a man leapt down from the quarter deck and sprinted across the main. He wore the clothes of a gentleman. His face was tanned, distinguished, and . . . familiar. Nathaniel's gut clenched.
Thunder and turf. Not him. Not here.

Nathaniel drew his pistol.

Abel Preston skidded to a halt, an infuriating grin on his handsome face. “A pistol? Not very sportsmanlike.” He glanced down at the fine sword sheathed at his side.

“But effective,” Nathaniel said. “Where is Hudson?”

Preston jerked his head toward the stern. “Fast asleep, poor lamb. Better drag him off before he's overcome with smoke.”

Nathaniel gestured with the gun tip. “You lead the way.”

“Very well.” Preston stepped forward as though to comply but then whirled and slashed out with his sword, knocking Nathaniel's gun to the deck, where it went skidding beneath a pallet of sugar-syrup casks.

Nathaniel drew his sword and struck. The former army major coolly met him thrust for thrust for several minutes. Then Preston stepped back and the two men circled each other warily.

Struggling to catch his breath, Nathaniel scoffed, “This is the career you left Barbados to pursue?”

Preston smiled. “Yes, and I am making quite a name for myself.”

“I must have missed it. For I've not heard your name mentioned since you left.”

“That is because I've acquired a new name.” Preston gave a mock bow and recited, “They call me the Pirate Poet. And some the Poet Pirate. How fickle is Lady Fame, when she cannot settle upon a name.”

Nathaniel cringed, remembering several island socials this man had attended—without his wife—during which he had attempted to impress the ladies with his long-winded recitations. Nathaniel
had
heard tales of a poetry-spouting “pirate” but assumed them mere legend. He had never imagined Preston might be that man. He supposed it made sense. The fop always did love poetry. Preston had spent more time composing rhymes than overseeing his plantation—when he wasn't tormenting his slaves. No wonder he'd failed as a planter.

But the man had always been good at one thing—he was highly skilled with the blade. Once again Preston advanced, striking with startling speed. Nathaniel countered, but his every strike was parried with ease. He fought back hard but with the growing realization that he was the inferior swordsman. Barring aid from Hudson, or heaven, he would be beaten. Sweat ran down Nathaniel's face. Fear threatened, but he refused to cower before this man.
Almighty God, help me.

Preston knocked Nathaniel's sword from his grasp and kicked his feet out from under him in a blinding blur of motion. Nathaniel landed on the deck with a thump, his breath knocked out of him, his sword out of reach. Preston pinned him to the deck with a sword tip to his throat.

I commit my soul into your care,
Nathaniel thought.
Please forgive my many sins, for Jesus' sake.
He said, “Take what you want and kill me if you will, but let Hudson go. This is my ship. He only works for me.”

Preston's lip curled. “Do you suppose I'd forgotten how you lured Hudson away—stole my best clerk? Not to mention the other problems you caused me.”

Nathaniel's calls for reform had not made him many friends in Barbados. Preston had been chief among his detractors, especially after Nathaniel reported his continuing involvement in the slave trade after it was outlawed.

Still pinning Nathaniel to the deck, Preston called over his shoulder, “Turtle, bring me the master's chest.” He looked down at Nate once more. “This year's profits, I assume?”

“As well you know,” Nathaniel snapped, though he'd taken half the money to their London town house to begin paying bills. The remainder was even now hidden in the coach's lockbox. “I see how it is. Why live off the meager profits from your own ill-managed plantation, when you can live off the profits of others?”

“Exactly so.” Preston's eyes gleamed. “I hear your father bragged about this season's yield—the highest in several years, I understand.” The man lowered his sword tip to the chain around Nathaniel's neck. “The key?” With a flick of his wrist, he severed the chain, speared the key through its hole and tossed it into the air, catching it handily.

“I've got it, sir!” the man called Turtle shouted, lifting the two-foot-square padlocked chest in the air. His scar, from mouth to ear, looked like a gruesome leer.

“Take it down to the others. I shall join you directly.”

Here it comes,
Nathaniel thought, his whole body tensing.
He has everything he wants from me. This is the end.
He found himself thinking of Helen. More alone than ever now. And his father. Would he think him a failure? And then he thought of Margaret Macy. Perhaps it was just as well she hadn't married him. He wouldn't want to leave her such a young widow.

Preston lifted his sword once more—to bring down the death blow, Nathaniel knew. Instead the man rose with a jerk. “Away with us, me lads! Take our bounty and be gay. Let these good men live, to see another day!” He leapt from the burning deck and swung from a mooring line with impressive agility.

Nathaniel jumped up and dashed to the rail in time to see the man land in the dinghy with practiced ease. Preston smiled up at him and tipped his tricorn.

Nathaniel called down, “Running away? For all your skill and supposed renown, you are a coward, sir.”

Preston's smile faded. “You risk my sword, saying that.”

“Name the time and place.”

An eerie gleam shone in the man's eyes. “Your place. When you least expect it.”

The crew began rowing, and the dinghy pulled away, no doubt on course for a waiting ship.

Nate considered jumping in after him, but that would be suicide. He debated rousing the tardy river police, but there was no time. The stern of the ship was burning rapidly now. His ship. The one he had convinced his father to add to their small fleet. The one he had invested in with his own share of the profits.

He ran to where Hudson lay, insensible but alive, and bodily dragged the man away from the burning master's cabin. A flaming yard clubbed his arm, nearly felling him. Ignoring the bone-deep pain, he lugged Hudson across the main deck and down the gangplank, hearing the alarm being raised at last. Too late. The dinghy was already fading into a dim shape and disappearing behind a row of moored frigates.

Nathaniel ran up the gangplank once more, vaguely hearing Hudson's groggy voice calling after him to stop but not heeding him. He ran into what was left of the master's cabin, grabbing what he could of value—monetary or sentimental. A roar surrounded him. The deck below him buckled. He grabbed one last thing. The only thing he had of hers. He ran from the cabin as it caved in, a section of the wall crashing into his left side, searing his temple.

But he did not let it go.