The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (9 page)

Had she not spurned Nathaniel Upchurch years ago, might this now be her home? The irony left a sour taste in her mouth.

A liveried footman rushed out to meet the coach. Margaret twisted on the bench to descend, but Mr. Hudson laid a staying hand on her arm.

“Not here, Nora. After we get Mr. Upchurch inside, I'll drive you around to the servants' entrance.”

Her cheeks burned. “Of course.” She could hardly believe Nathaniel Upchurch was in the very coach she sat atop. She shivered at the thought of what he might do if he saw her there.

The footman opened the door and let down the step.

Hudson called down, “Mr. Upchurch has been injured. Please assist him inside.”

The footman offered a hand to the occupant. The coach swayed as the passenger alighted. Margaret sat stiffly, staring ahead, face averted. She was afraid Nathaniel Upchurch might look up and recognize her and send her away before she'd even begun.

“There you go, sir. Easy does it,” the footman soothed.

“I am not an invalid, man. Let off.”

“Only trying to help.”

Margaret risked a glance and saw a tall dark-haired man in rumpled clothing shake off the footman's hand. A bandage swathed his head, and one arm hung in a sling. A second footman ran forward to help, concern evident in his expression.

Mr. Hudson addressed the servants. “Please see Mr. Upchurch to his room and draw him a bath.”

“Yes, sir.”

Margaret watched Nathaniel Upchurch hobble to the door, shaking off the second footman's hand as he had the first's. He was certainly not the mild-tempered fellow she remembered from years gone by. She recalled the searing look of disgust he had shot her across the ballroom only a few nights before. It had sent a clear message—
I loathe you.
He would probably relish an opportunity to revenge himself for her cold refusal of his offer.

She could definitely not risk revealing herself to him.

Mr. Hudson drove to the back of the house. There, a groom came forward and took charge of the horses and carriage. Hudson helped Margaret alight, then escorted her down the outside stairs to the basement. Inside, he led her along a passage to a closed door. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Then he asked her to wait while he went alone into the housekeeper's parlor.

He knocked, was admitted by a faint “Come,” and disappeared within, closing the door behind him.

Seeing no one about, Margaret allowed herself to lean against the wall beside the door. She was fatigued from the long, stressful day. Through the closed door she overheard the low rumble of Mr. Hudson's voice, followed by a silence, then expressions of surprise and concern in a female voice. Unable to resist, Margaret tilted her head nearer the door.

A woman said, “I realize, Mr. Hudson, that as house steward, you have the right to hire whom you please, but I would have thought, considering you have just come into your position, that you might at least have consulted me.”

He made some placating reply, but his words were not as distinct as the woman's, so Margaret made out only a few words, “London . . . help . . . trial.”

A trial
, as in it would be a trial to have her there, or a trial period of employment? A heavy sigh followed. Whichever it was, the housekeeper was clearly not pleased by the prospect.

The door opened and Mr. Hudson appeared, grim-faced. “Mrs. Budgeon will see you now.” He added on a whisper, “Mind your p's and q's.”

———

The woman within was not what Margaret had expected. She supposed she'd imagined someone like the woman who had hired Joan—a gloomy-faced matron in a decorous high-necked gown and outmoded cap. The woman before her was only in her midforties. Her dress was black but fashionable, striped with grey and brightened by a pretty lace collar. No dowdy cap crowned her thick dark hair, which was neatly pinned back. Her eyes were brown, her face pleasant if a touch long, her complexion fair, her jawline just beginning to soften. She had been a beauty in her youth, Margaret thought. She was attractive still, except for the stern tightening of her mouth and wary light in her eyes.

“Nora, is it?”

“Yes, ma'am. Nora Garret.”

“Under servants use only Christian names here at Fairbourne Hall. Except when we have more than one Mary, for example.”

Margaret nodded.

“Mr. Hudson tells me you worked previously as a young lady's maid. And that was where?”

“Lime Tree Lodge, in Summerfield.”

“And your employer?”

Margaret swallowed. “A Mrs. Haines.”

“Normally, I would write to your past employer to request a character reference be sent directly to me. But as Mr. Hudson has taken it upon himself to engage you, I have agreed to give you a month's trial. Employment after that time will depend upon how well you perform your duties, follow house rules, and get on with other members of staff. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Well. We shall see.” The woman rose. “From the looks of you, you've had a long day already. Let's go up and get you settled.”

Taking a candlestick, Mrs. Budgeon led the way along the basement passage. Handing Margaret the lit candle, the woman unlocked a storeroom with one of the many keys hanging from her waist and extracted a set of bed linens and a hand towel. Carrying the candle in one hand and her carpetbag in the other, Margaret followed Mrs. Budgeon up a pair of narrow stairs, through a servery on the ground floor, then up two more flights of back stairs. Margaret was accustomed to climbing stairs in the Berkeley Square town house, but not at such a pace!

“You are to use the back stairs for all your comings and goings,” the housekeeper said. “You are only allowed on the main stairs for staff assemblies or if you are sweeping or polishing the railings.”

Margaret nodded, breathing too hard to answer.

Finally they reached the attic. “The servants' rooms along this corridor are occupied or used for storage. But there is one small chamber you might use beyond the old schoolroom.” She turned the corner and added with pride, “Each of the female servants here at Fairbourne Hall has her own bedchamber. That is something you won't find everywhere.”

Had Joan shared a room, perhaps even a bed, with one of the other maids in the Berkeley Square attic? Margaret had no idea.

Mrs. Budgeon opened the last door, and the musty chalk smell of disuse met Margaret's nose. The chamber was small, narrow, and paneled in white. A cloudy window offered the faint glow of evening sunlight. A cast-iron bed with a bare mattress stood against one wall, a dressing chest and wooden slat chair against the other. Shifting the linens to one arm, Mrs. Budgeon laid the hand towel on the dressing chest, frowning at the empty basin where a pitcher should have been. “I shall send someone up with water.”

Margaret's stomach grumbled a noisy complaint, and she felt her cheeks heat.

Mrs. Budgeon glanced at her. “When did you last eat?”

Margaret set down the candle and her carpetbag. “This morning.”

“You've missed dinner, and supper isn't until nine.” She sighed. “I shall have something sent up to you. But don't get used to being waited upon.”

Too late
, Margaret thought.

The woman handed Margaret the armload of bed linens. “You are capable of making your own bed, I trust?”

“Of course,” Margaret murmured. But the truth was, she had never made a bed in her life.

“In the morning, Betty will show you what is expected here at Fairbourne Hall. I'll hear no excuses of ‘but in my last situation things were done differently.' Understood?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Margaret said.
No fear of that from me.

———

When the housekeeper left, Margaret hung her bonnet on the peg behind the door, and set about trying to make the bed. The sheets and pillowcase were of coarse cotton—nothing as fine as she was used to but clean and sweet smelling. She spread the sheets and tucked them under the tick, too tired to care about the wrinkles. Then she covered it with a blanket of summer-weight wool and a spread of white tufted cotton.

A single rap sounded, and her door was butted open before Margaret could reply. A thin dark-haired woman in cap and apron pushed her way inside, pitcher in one hand, plate in the other.

“Oh.” Margaret surveyed the tiny room, and directed the maid toward the dressing chest.

The woman's mouth tightened. “Yes, m'lady,” she murmured acidly. She dropped the plate onto the chest with a clunk, then shoved the pitcher into Margaret's arms, some of the water sloshing onto Margaret's bodice. Cold water.

“I'm not yar servant, am I?” she said, her voice lilting Irish. “I've already carried that up three flights of stairs; don't be commandin' me to do more.”

“I wasn't.” Margaret bit her lip and set the heavy pitcher into the basin herself. She glanced back to find the maid smirking at the bed.

“I hope ya make beds better than that . . . or ya won't last here a week.”

Margaret turned to regard the creased bedclothes.

“Well, don't stay up too late. Five thirty comes early.” The maid turned on her heel and swept from the room as regally as any highborn miss giving the cut direct.

Margaret sat on the hard chair and ate the bread, cheese, and sliced pickles the maid had brought up. She looked once more at the wrinkled bed and thought it appeared inviting indeed. She was heavy with weariness. Emotionally drained. It was probably only six or seven in the evening, but the escape of sleep beckoned her with its intoxicating pull. Setting down the plate, she rose and stepped toward the bed, and then stiffened.

How would she undress on her own? She ought to have thought of that before the sharp-nosed, sharp-tongued maid left, though she would have been reluctant to ask the cheeky woman for any favor.

Well, she would make do. How hard could it be? Margaret stripped off her apron and hung it on the peg. She pulled the cap and wig from her head and set them beside the bed, near at hand. The gown, loose and wide necked, posed little problem. Margaret peeled it off one shoulder, then the other, then twisted the gown so that the few ribbon ties at the back were easily undone, then she slid the gown over her hips and stepped out.
Nothing to it
, she thought. And Joan had hinted that Margaret was helpless. 
Ha!

She stood there in her stays and shift. Trying the same method, she tugged at the shoulder straps of the linen stays. The very snug straps. She succeeding in wiggling one strap partway down, but the other would not give, taut as it was from being pulled in the opposite direction. She tried to reach around herself to grasp the laces up her back, but the stays limited her movement, and even if they had not, she was not contortionist enough to manage the feat. She reached around with her comb, hoping to snag the lacing, but her shoulder ached from being bent so unnaturally.

Giving up, she sat on the bed to remove her stockings. It was difficult to bend at the waist with the stays in place, the rigid ivory busk running from between her breasts to her lower belly. She managed to untie the ribbons that held the stockings above her knees, then had to lift her leg to roll the stockings from her feet. She sat back, oddly winded from the constriction of bending over in her stays.

She cleaned her teeth perfunctorily with the supplies she'd brought. Then she rinsed her hands and face in the cold water and dried off with the towel the housekeeper had provided. Transferring the candle to the small bedside table, Margaret pulled back the bedclothes and climbed in, still wearing her stays and a fine cotton shift beneath. She glanced down at the wig in a curly heap on the floor. What if someone came in? There was no lock on the door. She hated the thought of sleeping with the warm, itchy wig. Instead, she pulled on the cap alone and tucked all of her blond hair into it. That should do. She blew out the candle.

Though mentally fatigued, Margaret tossed and turned, worried about her future, wondering how her mother was reacting, and what was happening in Berkeley Square . . . until finally, finally, sweet sleep lured her away.

The first thing a Housekeeper should teach a new servant
is to carry her candle upright. The next thing is those general
directions that belong to “her” place, such as not setting the
brooms and brushes where they will make a mark.

—
The Housekeeping Book of Susanna Whatman
,
Maidstone, 1776

Chapter 7

T
he pounding. Who in the world would be pounding at this hour? London was such a noisy place. Margaret felt she would never get used to living in such a sprawling, bustling city. She had not slept well since coming to live in Sterling Benton's house. She had barely fallen asleep and already the rapping had awoken her. She rolled over, and began drifting off once more. The pounding resumed, louder. She pulled the limp pillow from under her cheek and covered her head with it.
Need sleep
 . . .

“You need to get up, lazy lay-a-bed.”

Why was Joan pestering her? It could not be morning yet, and Margaret often slept in until quite late, especially when she had been out the night before.

The door creaked open.

“Leave me be,” she murmured.

The bedclothes were yanked from her body, the cool morning air prickling her skin. She rolled over to face her tormentor, ready to give Joan a tongue-lashing. “What do you think you are doing?”

She froze. Candlelight illuminated not Joan's face, but that of a stranger. The bed, the room, were not her own. Her mind whirled.
What? Where . . . ?

A woman stared at her, stunned no doubt at the haughty reception. With a wave of dread, Margaret remembered. She was in London no longer.

Suddenly London seemed the far friendlier fate.

“I . . . I was dreamin',” Margaret mumbled, trying to find the accent of her dear old housekeeper. “I thought you were my . . . someone else.”

“I am the upper housemaid here at Fairbourne Hall,” the woman said, lifting her offended nose high. “And I am not accustomed to being addressed so rudely.”

“I . . .” Margaret could eke out no apology. She sat up on the edge of the bed, carefully nudging the wig under the bed with her toes. “How shall I address you, then?”

The upper housemaid was a short, stocky middle-aged woman. In the flickering light her coloring was uncertain, but the whites of her eyes lingered on Margaret's stays and shift. Likely too fine for a housemaid. But apparently the woman had not noticed the wig. Nor, hopefully, any stray blond hairs.

“My name is Betty Tidy, but you may use my Christian name.”

“Betty
Tidy
?”

“Is there something you find amusing about that, Nora?”

That's right,
she thought,
I'm Nora.
“Only the name Tidy. For a housemaid.”

Betty frowned. “There are many Tidys in these parts. It's a perfectly respectable family name.”

“I meant no disrespect, Betty.” Margaret bit back a smirk. “In fact I think it the perfect name. The name every housemaid should have.”

Betty sniffed and stepped to the door. “I shall give you five minutes to dress.”

Five minutes? Perhaps, then, it was fortunate Margaret had not managed to remove her stays, for she would certainly not have gotten them on by herself given five hours, let alone five minutes. She quickly washed her face, then wiped the damp cloth beneath each capped sleeve to remove the previous day's perspiration. She stepped into her dress, tied the ribbons, and wiggled it back to front and up over her shoulders. Then she tied on the apron, pinned her hair, and put on her father's spectacles. Finally, she settled the wig snugly against her head, checking in the small mirror over the dressing chest to be sure all the blond hairs were covered before donning her cap once more. She was glad the generous cap disguised the lump beneath the wig caused by her twist of hair.

She met Betty in the passage and followed her down one flight of stairs to the housemaids' closet, where they retrieved two handled wooden boxes of cleaning supplies. Palms damp, she trotted after Betty down to the ground floor, through a conservatory, and into the drawing room. Would she really be able to manage a maid's chores?

“First, we open the shutters . . .”

That she could do. Margaret made her way to a second window and unlatched and folded back the shutters. In the advancing morning light, she saw that the upper housemaid had faded auburn hair, blue eyes, and the freckles of a girl.

She followed Betty through each room, learning what would become her morning rounds—cleaning the grates, sweeping the carpets, dusting, and generally straightening the public rooms: conservatory and drawing room at the rear of the house. Salon and library on one side of the front entry hall, morning room and dining room on the other. All before breakfast.

Margaret noticed the elegant high-ceilinged rooms and fine furniture but was too busy observing Betty to admire them. Betty worked with brisk efficiency, without wasted motion or apparent strain. Margaret wished she had a notebook. She doubted she would remember everything.

A stout, grave man in a gentleman's black coat and trousers stepped into the library, his dark hair slicked back. Betty introduced him as Mr. Arnold, the under butler. He welcomed Nora and checked their progress, running a white glove over furniture as he went.

At eight o'clock, Margaret and Betty made their way down to the basement and along the dim passage to the servants' hall for breakfast. And not a moment too soon. Last night's bread and cheese were long gone. Margaret pressed a hand to her unhappy midriff. The gnawing discomfort had, until recently, been a foreign sensation to Margaret Macy, one she recognized as hunger, though it was a feeling she had rarely experienced in her routine of late breakfasts, nuncheons, teas, early family dinners, and late suppers.

The servants' hall was a narrow, rectangular room dominated by a long table with a chair at each end and benches along its sides. To the right of the door, pegs held coats and aprons. On one long wall stood an unlit hearth; on the other hung an embroidered plaque, which read,

A good character is valuable to everyone, but especially to servants.

For it is their bread and butter
and without it they cannot be admitted into a creditable family,
and happy it is that the best of characters is in everyone's power to deserve.

At the far end of the room, several high windows emitted cheerful morning sunshine. An oil lamp suspended from the beamed ceiling supplemented their light. In the corner stood an old pianoforte, shrouded and silent. How generous that the Upchurch family allowed its use by the servants. She wondered who played.

She took her place on a bench next to Betty and Fiona, the sharp-nosed housemaid who had brought her water and food the night before. Two kitchen maids introduced themselves, but their names went in one of Margaret's ears and out the other.

On the opposite side of the table, the two handsome young footmen in livery sat sullenly, paying no attention to her or the other maids. It was a strange feeling, being ignored by men. The grave under butler, Mr. Arnold, whom she had met upstairs, moved to sit at the head of the table, but at the last moment he scowled and sat on the bench to the right of the chair. Several servants exchanged wry looks, though no one dared a word.

The table was laid with silverware and china—not the finest, but china just the same. Butter knives crossed bread plates and sturdy mugs sat at the ready. At one corner lay a cutting board of freshly baked bread, a pot of jam, and a jar of butter, as well as a pitcher of milk. A teapot steeped on a trivet. Another maid came in, a plump young woman with a smile as broad as her figure. She set a basin of porridge near the foot of the table before taking her place beside Margaret and introducing herself as Hester, the stillroom maid. A young scullery maid and hall boy scurried in with plates of sausages, sliced tomatoes, and a dish of boiled eggs before disappearing once more.

A tall thin man in a white coat—the chef, apparently—entered with the housekeeper, discussing the day's menu. The man's black hair was still damp—he was just beginning his day, Margaret surmised. The stillroom maid must prepare the servants' breakfast, while the chef reserved his talents for the family's fare.

Mrs. Budgeon, looking neat and rested, took her place at the foot. She glanced around the table. “I trust you have all introduced yourselves to Nora?”

Heads nodded and murmurs agreed.

Mr. Hudson stepped into the room and Betty snagged Margaret's sleeve and all but yanked her to her feet. She belatedly realized that everyone rose when the house steward entered—a sign of respect for the highest-ranking member of staff. Mr. Hudson took his place at the head, sending a sheepish smile toward the under butler, who fastidiously ignored him.

Mr. Hudson gestured for everyone to sit. Then he folded his hands at the edge of the table and bowed his head. The others followed suit.

He prayed simply. “For this food, and this day, and your many blessings, make us truly grateful. Amen.”

The chef, sitting next to the under butler, speared a sausage. He passed the basin of porridge with a scowl and instead sawed off a generous hunk of bread and slathered it with butter. Upon this, he laid two slices of tomato, which he salted and peppered heavily. Then he cut the sausage lengthwise and laid the planks across the tomatoes. He set to his creation with knife and fork.

Margaret ate her porridge with creamy milk but without the sugar she indulged in at home. She sipped her tea with relish, again missing the sugar but not commenting. The warm richness of the tea with fresh milk was pleasure enough.

Mr. Hudson cleared his throat and announced, “Mr. Upchurch has decided to reinstitute the practice of morning prayers. So please assemble in the main hall at nine sharp.”

Margaret saw Mr. Arnold send a look of surprise to Mrs. Budgeon, who ignored him, even though the surprise in her own expression was evident. Beside Margaret, Fiona grumbled, as did several others. The elder of the two footmen rolled his eyes.

“Well, I think it a splendid idea,” Betty said. “We haven't had prayers since Mr. Upchurch senior went off to the Indies.”

The grumbling faded as they returned to their meal. The chef was the first to excuse himself, likely having a great deal of work awaiting him in the kitchen. A few minutes later the footmen and under butler departed to lay the family's breakfast upstairs. Mrs. Budgeon glanced at the clock atop the mantel, and that was signal enough that everyone else rose to return to their duties.

Margaret followed after Betty as she stopped in the stillroom to assemble a tray of tea things and a pressed newspaper to take up to Miss Upchurch while Fiona prepared a tray for Mr. Upchurch. Fiona had already taken up cans of hot and cold water and emptied the chamber pots while Betty and Margaret were busy in the public rooms.

Upstairs, Betty gestured for Margaret to wait and then let herself in to Miss Upchurch's bedchamber to deliver the tea and help her dress. Margaret, who had met Helen Upchurch several times, was only too glad to remain in the corridor.

Afterward, Betty and Margaret returned the tray to the stillroom. The kitchen maids passed by, clad in clean aprons, their hair smoothed back under their caps. Taking Betty's cue, Margaret followed them up to the main level.

Betty whispered, “It's the first time these poor girls have been allowed abovestairs.”

At nine, servants from every nook and cranny of the house filed into the front hall, with its broad entrance doors, marble floors, carved ceiling, and impressive main stairway. The staff lined up in rows on the floor near the bottom stair, waiting in fidgets and whispers.

Mr. Arnold muttered, “Didn't know he'd become a vicar whilst he was away.”

The library door opened, and Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, his sister at his side. Stomach knotting, Margaret slipped a little farther behind the tall chef.

Mr. Upchurch carried a black book in one hand, his other arm still cradled in a sling. He wore a bandage above one eye, which reminded her of a pirate's eye patch, askew. She wondered how badly he was hurt and why he was determined to lead prayers when he was recovering from recent injuries. How somber he looked—little like the fierce, wild-haired ruffian who had started a brawl at a Mayfair ball. The beard was gone. His hair groomed. The rough sea-voyage clothes replaced with everyday gentleman's attire: coat, waistcoat, cravat.

Hesitating, Mr. Upchurch handed the book to Hudson, behind him. Then he patted his pockets with his sound hand in vain. Was he searching for his spectacles? He used to wear them, she recalled. He said something in low tones to Mr. Hudson, and Hudson opened the book to a page marked with a square of paper before handing it back.

Mr. Upchurch cast a swift glance at the assembled group. Beside him, Helen Upchurch smiled up at them.

Margaret ducked her head.

“Good morning.” Mr. Upchurch cleared his throat, squinted at the book, then read, “From First Peter. ‘Honour all men. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honour the king.' ” He turned the page. “ ‘Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.' ”