As evening darkened to night, Margaret began longing for her narrow attic bed with the most ardent zeal—though she wondered if her wobbly legs would carry her up the many stairs even one more time. And to think she had to do it all again tomorrow! Tears filled her eyes from fatigue and self-pity. She would never live through another day of this, let alone three and a half months.
When they finished their duties at last, Betty walked with her up to the attic and followed her all the way to her room. There, Betty closed the door behind them and faced her. Her reddish-brown hair peeked out from under her cap after the long day. Her elfin blue eyes shone with concern. Margaret expected some private reprimand, but instead, Betty said, “I saw you sleeping in your stays that first morning. Are you still?”
Cheeks heated, Margaret nodded sheepishly. “I can’t reach the laces.”
Betty shook her head and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. Let’s get them off you.”
She did so, and what blessed relief it was. After wearing the garment around the clock and through unaccustomed exertion, the stays had left their mark. Betty took one look at the welts and insisted she would help her morning and night from then on.
If I live that long, Margaret thought.
Betty squeezed her arm as if reading her mind. “It’ll get easier by and by. You’ll see.”
When Margaret finally climbed into her bed after ten, she lay awake, sheet pulled up to her chin but the blanket folded at the foot, unwelcome on the warm summer night. She had opened the small window, but not a breath of breeze stirred the air. She lowered the sheet to her waist. Even that effort made her wince. Never had she been so physically exhausted. Her arms ached from strenuous effort—pushing brooms, wringing mops, scrubbing floors, brushing grates, flinging sheets and making beds, reaching high to polish windows and clear cobwebs, carrying heavy buckets of water and worse. Her light work with a needle and her watercolors, her hours on the pianoforte, had not prepared her poor spindly arms for such exertion.
She crossed her chest, massaging each forearm with the opposite hand—hands already blistered and dry from hot soapy water, blacking, and lye. Thank heaven she had not ended up as a laundry maid or she would depart Fairbourne Hall with stubs.
Margaret rolled over. Her legs were sore as well, from climbing up and down stairs carrying buckets, piles of laundered bedclothes, baskets of small clothes fresh from the laundry, and her housemaid’s box. She would have legs like a pack mule in no time.
So tired . . . And yet she could not keep her eyes closed. In her mind revolved a painted carousel of objects, duties, instructions, and warnings. Shoe brushes, grate brushes, bed brushes. Open shutters by seven, make beds by eleven. Never drip candle wax. Never wax mahogany. Always scrub hands between blacking and bed making, and whatever you do, don’t speak to the family unless spoken to. Around and around it went. Margaret groaned. She had never imagined the work of a housemaid could be so taxing.
She still found it difficult to grasp that she was doing such work in the manor of the Upchurch family. How strange to be under Nathaniel’s roof. She had seen him at morning prayers, of course, but according to first Mr. Hudson, then Betty, it was unlikely she would see much of the family otherwise, except in passing. What would Nathaniel say to finding her living in his house, eating his food, polishing his floors? He might enjoy the latter, she mused, but resent the former. A good thing, then, that he was unlikely to see her.
Margaret thought about Helen Upchurch, whom she had seen at morning prayers as well. Helen was five years older than Margaret, and the two had had only a passing acquaintance. Still, Margaret had been saddened to hear of her disappointment in love when the man she hoped to marry died a few years before. Apparently she had now resigned herself to life as a spinster.
There was no sign of Lewis Upchurch, the only Upchurch she thought she might turn to—had she the nerve to do so.
Margaret massaged her fingers. She heard a whine, and for a moment feared she had moaned aloud, but then someone scratched at her door. She started up in bed, reaching in a flailing panic for her wig. The door creaked open.
“Just a moment!” she whispered urgently. But it was too late. Whoever it was walked into the room, feet clicking on the floorboards. Margaret’s eyes adjusted just as a damp nose nudged her elbow. In the dim room, she reached for the wolfhound’s grey head, silvery white in the faint moonlight.
“Jester . . .” she scolded mildly. “What are you doing up here—come to give me another bath?” She stroked the big dog’s ears. “Your master would not approve. A beast with your bloodlines, consorting with a servant?”
Saying the word aloud gave Margaret pause. “I am a servant,” she whispered to herself, incredulous. She lay there, exhausted and sore, thinking she should just pack up and leave. Sneak out and go . . . somewhere. Anywhere. But at the moment she was too tired to move.
The next afternoon, Nathaniel took himself to the library to write to his father and the family’s solicitor, apprising them both of the situation with the ship and with Fairbourne Hall. He’d hoped to use part of the sugar profits to begin repair work on the Ecclesia, but knew he must first bring the languishing estate into order. He and Hudson had completed an initial inspection of the place. The manor roof leaked into the old schoolroom, several laborer cottages needed repair, the orchard had grown wild, one of the tenant farms sat vacant, a fence was down, and the list went on. Nathaniel sighed. As much as he wanted to, he could not in good conscience funnel money into his ship. Not yet.
Through the open library door, he glimpsed his brother sweeping through the hall, unannounced. He supposed Lewis felt he needed no announcing in his own home, infrequently though he slept there.
Nathaniel added his signature to the letter, replaced the quill in its stand, and rose to find and greet his brother. He hoped to make peace with him. And to be firm about the family’s need to get their affairs in order—and keep spending in line with their reduced income.
Arnold appeared in the threshold. “Excuse me, sir, but your brother has just arrived. He did not wish to be announced, but I thought you would want to know.”
Nathaniel found the under butler’s ingratiating manners irritating, but forced himself to reply civilly, “Thank you. Where is he now?”
“The sitting room, I believe, with Miss Upchurch.”
Nathaniel thanked the man again, crossed the hall, and climbed the stairs. His family had long preferred the upstairs sitting room to the formal drawing room on the main level. As he neared the sitting-room door, he heard his brother’s booming voice and his sister’s calm happy tones.
“Lewis, you can’t know how pleased I am to see you.”
“So you’ve said. Twice. Did Nate tell you what he did to me in London?”
“Ask you to come home?”
“He punched me—right in the midst of the Valmores’ ball.”
“He never!”
“He did. Of course, I got my licks in too. Man has to stand up for himself, you know.”
“Oh, Lewie. Is that where that bruise came from? I was afraid you’d been breaking hearts again.”
“Only two or three a week.”
“Lewie . . .” Helen scolded fondly, “one of these days someone’s father, or brother, or sweetheart will do worse than bruise you.”
“Then perhaps I ought to swear off women. After all, you are my favorite, Helen, and always shall be.”
“Oh, go on. I can tell the difference between charm and a hum, you know.”
“And which has old Nate been giving you?”
“Neither. Though he has been a bit overbearing since he’s been home.”
Helen’s words stung. Nathaniel crossed the threshold in time to see Lewis rub his jaw.
“As I am painfully aware. Had I known things were so bad here, I would have come sooner.”
Helen raised one brow. “I did write to you.”
“Yes, but you are always so mincing with your words, so careful
not to alarm me, that I had no real idea how bad the situation had become.”
“Servants up in arms, shopkeepers at the door, butler gone without notice . . . that was mincing words?”
Lewis tweaked her cheek. “Well, I am here now. Do say you forgive me. I cannot abide having both of my siblings vexed with me.”
Helen smiled adoringly at their handsome brother. “I could never stay vexed with you, Lewis.”
“That’s my girl. Now, that’s what I like to hear.”
Nathaniel cleared his throat and crossed the room. “Hello, Lewis. Glad you could come.”
“You made sure of that, didn’t you?”
Nathaniel saw the purple bruise on his brother’s jaw and grimaced. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. I made good use of it, I can tell you. The ladies were full of sympathy and comfort, never doubt it.”
“I don’t.”
“And look at you!” Lewis gestured toward Nathaniel’s sling and the bandage on his temple. “Told you I got my licks in, Helen.”
Nathaniel and Helen exchanged a look. Deciding not to worry her with more discussions of thieves—pirates or bankers—he asked Lewis, “Would you mind joining me in the library? I would like you to meet our new steward and take a look at the books together.”
Helen frowned. “But Lewis has just arrived.”
“I am afraid several items simply will not wait.”
Helen looked ready to protest further, but Lewis patted her hand, then hauled his tall lanky form to his feet. “Oh, very well, I’m coming. Don’t knot your neckcloth.”
The whole household assembled in the hall in the
morning, before breakfast, for family worship.
—A Memoir of the Reverend Alexander Waugh, 1830
Chapter 9
There was a great deal of buzzing and giggling that night as Margaret made her way along the basement passage to the servants’ hall for supper. When she entered, she saw Fiona, Betty, and the kitchen maid Jenny standing clustered about Hester, speaking in smiles and whispers.
Curious, Margaret approached the small clutch of women. Fiona’s green eyes sliced her way but immediately returned to Hester as though she had not seen her. Betty sent her a quick smile without pause in conversation or invitation to join them. Margaret stood there, a little apart, feeling like a third shoe.
Thomas entered the servants’ hall with a young man she had never seen before. He was of middling height—not quite as tall as Thomas, but his shoulders were broader. At least they appeared so, under the well-cut black coat, grey pinstriped waistcoat, and crisp cravat. He held himself with athletic ease, smiling at Thomas as the two men talked. His hair was deep red, thick and slightly wavy, brushed just so across his forehead. His complexion was fair, his nose straight, his eyes a bright blue. Margaret realized she was staring. He returned her gaze, and Margaret looked away, embarrassed. She was sure Fiona would be scowling at her. But all the other maids were staring at the handsome young man as well.
Betty stepped to her side and whispered, “That’s Connor. I’ve known him since a lad. Isn’t he a handsome one?”
“Indeed. Who is he?”
“Mr. Lewis’s valet,” Betty said with evident pride. “They arrived from London this afternoon.”
Margaret’s heart raced. Lewis Upchurch is here! Under the same roof. Perhaps she would see him soon. Might she find a way to speak to him in private?
The valet crossed the room to greet them. “Hello, ladies.”
A chorus of grins and good-evenings rose in reply.
Connor kissed Betty’s cheek, then his sparkling eyes lingered on the stillroom maid. “And Hester, my girl, how are you?”
Hester smiled, her face glowing in round-cheeked loveliness. “A sight better, now you’re here.” She turned to Margaret. “And this is Nora. New to us since your last visit.”
“How d’you do, Nora? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His smile was genuine but quickly returned to Hester. “A pleasure to be among you all again.”
At nine the following morning, the house servants once again filed into the hall for morning prayers. The valet Connor stood among them, between Hester and second footman Craig, who sent doleful looks his way.
Margaret, as was her habit, found a spot at the back behind someone taller than she, usually Monsieur Fournier. They were all creatures of habit, she had noted, and in general occupied the same places each morning. Connor was upsetting this order. Is that what had Craig looking resentful? Or was it the man’s obvious popularity with the ladies? Poor Craig.
Margaret surreptitiously peeked out from behind the chef’s white-coated shoulder, keeping an eye on the library door, heart beating hard.
The door opened and her stomach knotted. Nathaniel Upchurch, with his sister at his side, entered from the library. There was no sign of Lewis. Disappointment and relief warred within her. She guessed Lewis was still abed or had gone for a morning ride.
Nathaniel’s arm was no longer in a sling, but a small bandage still graced one temple. And this time he wore his spectacles. Ah . . . she remembered him in spectacles. Apparently he only wore them for reading these days. With them, he looked more like a clergyman than a pirate.
Nathaniel found his place in the book and cleared his throat. He hesitated, left his thumb marking the spot and looked up at them, then down once more. “Many of you have been with us for years and remember me as the arrogant youth I no doubt was. Perhaps you think it hypocritical of me to stand before you now, as though I think myself worthy to be your spiritual leader. I do not. I am convinced not of my own worthiness, but of God’s. I need to hear the words of this book—its truth, forgiveness, hope—as much as anybody.” He looked up with an apologetic smile. “I know I’m no great orator. But I ask you to bear with me as I fumble through this new duty.”
Margaret felt it, the easing of tension and resentment. Mr. Hudson grinned, and Mrs. Budgeon and the under butler exchanged impressed glances. At the far end of the front row, Betty nodded, tears in her eyes.
Nathaniel found his place once more and read, “ ‘The God of peace, that brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, Make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ; to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.’ ”
After morning prayers, once the Upchurch family had gone to their own later breakfast, Margaret, Betty, and Fiona went back upstairs and retrieved their boxes from the housemaids’ closet. The days previous she and Betty had worked side by side in Helen’s and the absent James Upchurch’s rooms, Betty demonstrating how all was done. But today Betty was leaving her alone to clean two different rooms—those of the Upchurch brothers.
An unmarried lady in a gentleman’s bedchamber? Normally such a thing would mean instant ruination. But there was nothing normal about Margaret’s current situation.
As she departed, Betty told her to fetch Fiona when she was ready to remake the beds, as making beds properly was often a two-person job, especially for a new girl.
Margaret sighed, bracing herself. At least the rooms would be unoccupied at this time of day.
Opening the door, she surveyed the first masculine bedchamber, paneled in dark wood with rich burgundy draperies. She tied back the bed curtains, stripped the bedclothes, laid them over a chair, and pushed open the windows to air out the room. Then she steeled herself and reached under the bed, pulling forth the chamber pot with averted eyes and stopped nose, pleased to find its lid in place. Hopefully, Fiona had emptied it during the early morning water delivery.
Margaret carried it into the dressing room, grimacing at the wadded cravat, soiled shirt, and stockings on the floor. She wondered which Upchurch brother slept in this room and guessed Nathaniel, based on his unkempt appearance at the ball. She imagined Lewis to be more fastidious, considering how exquisitely dressed and groomed he always appeared.
Though, perhaps his valet, Connor, was due the credit. Setting the pot aside, she tidied the dressing room, wondering why the man’s clothes were in disarray. She did not recall any mention of Nathaniel Upchurch having a valet, so perhaps one of the footmen or the under butler performed double duty, though poorly.
She dumped the soapy water from the washbasin into a pail. Wiped clean the vessel, changed the water in the pitcher, and returned both to the washstand. She put off emptying the chamber pot as long as possible. Finally, she resolutely lifted the lid. Breathing only from her mouth, she tipped the pot over the pail, heard the slosh, and then risked a peek. Something had stuck to the bottom. She tapped the pot against the lip of the pail to dislodge the remnant. Ugh. She had not spent two years at Miss Highworth’s Seminary for this!
Successful at last, she cleaned her hands and returned to her other duties. She swept the floor and carpets, and began dusting. She noticed several coins and wadded receipts on the bedside table. As she picked up the crumpled papers to dust the table beneath, she glanced at them. One was a scrawled note. Meet me at 11. Our place. —L. The others were receipts from White’s, a men’s club in London. With a twinge of guilt, she replaced the papers and the coins.
Reminded of Sterling’s money, and of Joan, Margaret asked forgiveness once again and finished straightening the room.
Leaving the bed to air as instructed, Margaret took herself into the second bedchamber and dressing room assigned to her. She glanced at the clock and realized she would need to hurry if she was to finish by eleven. Fortunately, this second pair of rooms was much neater than the first. Lewis’s room, she guessed. No clothes lay strewn on the floor. The papers and books on the corner desk were neat and orderly.
She went about her routine, relieved the chamber pot had already been emptied, whether by Fiona or dutiful Connor she did not know but silently thanked them both. She noticed an open book on the bedside table and, curious, glanced beneath her spectacles to read its print. It was the Bible, opened to the gospel of John. This gave her pause, and she began to second-guess the room’s occupant. She had not thought Lewis the sort of man who read his Bible in private, though she would be happy to be proven wrong. Her father had been such a man.
The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 11