She was leaning far over the bed, attempting to pull free the tangled bedclothes to air them, when the door burst open behind her.
She gasped, chagrined to be found hands and knees on the bed, rump in the air. She leapt to her feet, whirling to see who had entered. Was it Fiona come to help her remake the bed?
No.
Nathaniel Upchurch entered the room, barely looking her way. He held up a staying hand when she would flee. “Go about your work. I shall be out of your way in a moment.”
Margaret felt as though she had just run up a flight of stairs. She took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. She picked up the pillow and began to plump it, stealing a glance over her shoulder to where Nathaniel was pawing through a desk drawer for something. Nathaniel’s room. Nathaniel’s Bible. That made sense. Not Lewis’s. Lewis was the slovenly one. Well, what did it matter if Lewis was not neat? That was what servants were for. She bit her lip, hard, at the thought.
How strange it felt, to be . . . well, almost embracing Nathaniel Upchurch’s pillow. To be running her hands over his bedclothes. The thought made her cheeks heat.
Apparently finding whatever he was looking for, he turned and strode across the room without a second glance.
Of course a man like Nathaniel Upchurch would never notice a housemaid, would never pay her unwanted attention as Marcus Benton might. Would never look at her closely enough to recognize her or to find her attractive. She should be relieved.
She was still standing there beside Nathaniel Upchurch’s bed when Fiona strode in. “There you are. Not finished yet? Never knew a maid so slow. Come, come. I’m to help you make up the beds. Heaven knows you cannot manage it alone.”
Fiona’s stinging reprimand reminded Margaret of Joan. How her former maid would snigger to see her now.
That evening, Nathaniel entered the dining room, dressed for dinner. Helen sat alone at the long table, wearing a dull burgundy evening gown that did little to flatter her complexion.
“Where is Lewis?” he asked, taking his place at the table.
“He won’t be joining us tonight. Said he was visiting friends in Maidstone.”
Irritation flashed through Nathaniel. Lewis had barely arrived and was already finding reasons to leave Fairbourne Hall. “Which friends?”
“He did not say.”
Nathaniel thought of their acquaintance in Maidstone—Lord Romney of Mote Park, the Whatmans of Vinters, the Langleys, the Bishops. For himself he did not care, but why had they not included Helen in their invitation, if invitation it was. He felt offended on his sister’s behalf. Or had Lewis simply gone uninvited?
He said carefully, “How are the Whatmans . . . ? Have you seen them lately?”
Helen shook her head. “I believe they’ve been spending a great deal of time on the coast. Mr. Whatman has taken to sea bathing, I understand. For his health.”
She glanced at the footman, who, taking his cue, removed the lid from the soup tureen. Helen served Nathaniel, then herself, in traditional family style.
As Nathaniel spooned his vegetable-marrow soup, he asked, “Tell me, how did you occupy your time while I was away?”
She shrugged and dipped her spoon. “Oh, I read a great deal. And I did what I could as mistress of the place while Lewis was in London.”
“How long has it been since you’ve attended a social event?”
She hesitated, eyes on her bowl.
“I have been gone for two years,” Nathaniel pressed. “Tell me you have not remained home the entire time I was away?”
She frowned. “Of course not!”
“And I don’t count attending church, nor Christmas and Easter with Uncle Townsend.”
Helen’s face reddened. “Someone had to stay home to look after the place. And Lewis puts no pressure on me to pay calls. He understands.”
As Nathaniel served Helen brills in shrimp sauce, he again surveyed the evening gown he had seen her wear a few times already. He waited until the footman replaced the soup tureen with a platter of lamb cutlets, then said, “And I take it you have had no new gowns recently?”
She took a sip of wine. “What need have I for new gowns? Mamma’s lady’s maid made over some of my frocks before she retired, to disguise the wear. I would have thought you would be glad of the economy.”
“We are not so poor you cannot dress well, Helen. Or attend an occasional entertainment. I guarantee Lewis has not forgone the latest in haberdashery, nor every lavish party of the season.”
She shook her head. “Do not speak against Lewis, Nathaniel. I will not hear a word against him.”
Nathaniel took a deep breath. “My point was not to disparage Lewis, but to express my concern for you. I hate to see you trapped here. Not living your life.”
She slowly shook her head. “Can you not conceive—a least a little—how I might feel? My chance at happiness was denied me.”
Yes, I do understand, Nathaniel thought, but he refused to admit it aloud. “I am sorry for your loss, Helen. I am. But that was years ago. Do you mean to go on living as though a widow forever?”
“Why not?” Helen’s eyes flashed. “What use have I for frivolous entertainments or to pretend an interest in other men I can never feel? And now . . . now I am a spinster. On the shelf. Do you know how people would talk if I showed up at a ball after all this time? ‘Does she not realize she is too old?’ they would say. ‘Who does she think she is, a debutante?’ ”
“If you think yourself the topic of conversation after all this time, you overestimate yourself.”
Helen’s mouth fell ajar. “What an unkind thing to say!”
“I did not mean . . .” He grimaced. “Why is it you seem determined to twist my every word? I only meant you worry too much—the gossips have moved on a hundred times over.”
She winced. “You still hope to marry me off, then—get me off your hands?”
“Of course not, Helen. I did not say you ought to cast a net for a husband. But could you not socialize with other women?”
“And do what? Play cards? Gossip? I have no taste for either.”
“But it does you no good, living in seclusion like this.”
“How do you know? Excuse me, Nathaniel, but how would you know? You have been gone these two years with little thought to my well-being. Why now do you suddenly care?”
“That is not fair, Helen. You know it was Father’s decision to summon me to Barbados when Lewis chose to return. I know I was not faithful in writing letters, but my every hour was taken up in plantation affairs.”
One eyebrow rose. “Your every hour?” She leaned back, hazel eyes alert. “Did you meet no interesting young ladies your entire time there?”
He inhaled deeply. “I did, actually. Well, one.”
“Oh?”
“Ava DeSante. Her father owns a neighboring plantation. She is accomplished, intelligent, beautiful . . .”
“But?”
“But she could not understand nor respect my objections to slavery.”
Helen blinked. “I am sorry to hear it, but really, were you surprised? From what I understand, slaves are the very lifeblood of plantations. No slaves, no profits—or at least, greatly diminished profits.”
Nathaniel slumped back in his chair. “Yes, as Father never tires of reminding me.”
His sister studied him over her glass while the footmen removed the entrees and laid the next course. “You have changed, Nathaniel, while you were away.”
He paused, his own glass held midair. “For the better or worse? I hate to ask.”
“Both, I think. Your new fervor makes me wary, I admit. But I do respect your stance.” She tilted her head to one side, regarding him. “But you seem, well, harder somehow. Guarded. Did Barbados do that to you, or did she?”
He swallowed. Did Helen refer to Ava, or to her? The truth was, Nathaniel had been illogically relieved when his courtship in Barbados had ended. He shook his head. “If you had seen what I’ve seen, Helen. The
vile things men do to other men for the sake of money. . . .”
She asked quietly, “But is that really all it is?”
He did not answer. What did she want him to say—that he was still hurt over his disappointment with Margaret Macy? After all this time? It was imbecilic. He would not do it.
Helen dabbed her lips with a table napkin. “I support emancipation and the need to retrench.” Her mouth rose in a one-sided grin. “Even if it does mean I shall have to curtail my excessive visits to the modiste.”
Nathaniel grinned in return, thankful for her attempt to lighten the moment. Perhaps his sister might warm to him yet.
His grin faded, and he continued to eat without tasting a thing. As much as he tried to fight it, his mind reeled back to the still-painful day Miss Macy cast him aside.
———
Nathaniel waited in the drawing room of the Macys’ modest town house while the footman went to announce him. His hands shook. His pulse pounded. He paced the room, rehearsing the words that would change their lives forever. Yes, a kernel of insecurity lodged within his heart. He was not blind. He had not missed the attention Lewis had paid Margaret since his return. But surely she realized Lewis was only flirting with her. It was his way. Margaret’s feelings, Margaret herself, meant little to his brother and everything to him. She must know that.
A few minutes later, Margaret swept into the room, an expectant smile on her lovely face.
Nathaniel rose, his heart lifting at the sight of her. “Miss Macy.”
“Oh . . .” she faltered. “Mr. Upchurch.” She glanced toward the mantel clock.
Had she been expecting someone else? Nathaniel remained standing, suddenly ill at ease.
Margaret sat stiffly in an armchair and gestured to the settee across from her. “Please, won’t you be seated?”
He considered his options, then sat at the end nearest her chair.
“I wish to speak to you,” he began, a drop of perspiration rolling down his hairline. “About Barbados. About . . . you and me. Our future.” Why must his voice shake like a schoolboy’s?
She stared at him, lips parted.
Nathaniel hurried on, “Because of Lewis’s return, my father has asked me to travel to Barbados to take his place.”
Still she said nothing.
He swallowed and continued, “I realize it might be difficult for you were we to live in Barbados for a time, but when I spoke with your father, he—”
“Live in Barbados?” she sputtered. “I am not moving to Barbados, Mr. Upchurch. I hope I never gave you that impression. I could never leave my family—live at such a distance to them.”
He hesitated, taken aback. He would forgo Barbados for her in a heartbeat, but he hated to disappoint his father. “Ah . . . Well then. I shall write to my father and inform him—”
She rose abruptly. “Don’t. Please don’t say another word, Mr. Upchurch. I fear a misunderstanding has occurred between us. I have no plans to marry in the near future. No plans to marry anyone. If I have led you to believe otherwise, I apologize. I see how you might have thought—earlier in the season, I mean. But at present, no.”
An invisible fist struck him. Pain lanced his chest and his vision blurred. What was happening? He blinked and blinked again.
She clasped her hands before her. “I apologize, Mr. Upchurch, but I cannot marry you. There was a time I thought I could. But things have changed and I am sorry.”
He tasted bile. “Because of Lewis?”
Shame colored her cheeks, yet she lifted her chin. “Yes, I do admire your brother. I cannot deny it.”
Another blow. A kick in the ribs. He drew a painful, jagged breath and said quietly, “I think it only fair to warn you. Lewis is unlikely to marry you.”
Irritation flashed on her face. “And so I should ignore my feelings for him and marry you instead?”
His heart deflated. His hopes . . . crumbled. “Margaret . . . Miss Macy. I . . .” He pressed his eyes shut and cleared his throat. “I had no idea things had gone so far . . . had . . . come to this. I must say, I . . . I am deeply disappointed.”
“Can you not be happy for Lewis and me?”
He stared at her, bewildered. “That I cannot do. Nor can I stand by and watch the two of you and pretend . . .” He slowly shook his head. “I think, after all, I shall sail for Barbados without delay.”
“Then I wish you safe journey, Mr. Upchurch.”
He flinched at her indifference. He shook his head again, stunned and bemused. This was not how he had imagined the events of this day. His gut twisted as he crossed the room. At the door, he turned back. “I wish you never feel as I do at this moment, Miss Macy.” He opened the door, then hesitated. “Or, perhaps . . . I hope you do.”
“Again, I am sor—”
He held up his palm, anger flaring. “Enough. I don’t want your pity. I bid you good-day, madam. And good-bye.”
He turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
———
Nathaniel could still hear it, that door slamming shut in his past . . . and on his fondest dream.
The upper housemaids undertook the lighter jobs,
making the beds in the best bedrooms and
keeping an eye on the lower housemaids. The latter
would lay and light the fires, clean the living rooms,
polish the brass, carry upstairs the water
for washing, and empty the chamber pots.
—Margaret Willes, Household Management
Chapter 10
It isn’t fair, Betty, and you know it,” Fiona complained as the three of them gathered their boxes from the housemaids’ closet the next morning.
“I know, Fiona. But—”
“But what? In every other situation I’ve had, the lowest-ranking maid has had to deal with the slops. It’s what’s done. Isn’t right I’ve had to haul water and empty slops for all the family, especially now that Mr. Lewis has come. And Connor, for all his handsome ways, hasn’t offered to take it over.”
“Now, Fiona. I won’t hear a word against Connor. Sends all his wages home to provide for his brothers and sister. Such a high position at so young an age. It’s no wonder he leaves the like to us.”
“Leaves it to me, you mean. And I’ve had enough. At least we might share the duty.”
Betty sighed. “Very well.” She turned wide, expectant eyes on Margaret. “Nora, Fiona makes a good point. She’s been carrying up the water cans and emptying the chamber pots every morning while I was training you. But you’ve got the way of things now. Give or take. It’s only right you should take your turn with that duty.”
Margaret found herself nodding but inwardly cringed. It had been one thing to go into the gentlemen’s bedchambers when they were up, properly dressed, and well out of the rooms. But to go in first thing, while the men were still in their beds? Wearing—or not—who knew what? She shuddered at the thought and prayed no one ever learned she had done so.
A few minutes later, after Fiona and Betty had gone downstairs to clean the public rooms, Margaret stood before Lewis Upchurch’s bedchamber door, water cans in hand, heart banging against her ribs. Should she wake him? Use this opportunity to reveal herself and enlist his help? Her stomach clenched at the thought. No, she could not reveal herself as Margaret Macy while Lewis Upchurch lay in his bed. She would have to wait for a better time.
She reminded herself that her goal was to slip in with the water and slip out with the slops without waking the sleeping men. Very soon the weather would turn and she would somehow have to lay and light a fire in each room as well, in perfect quiet. She thought back to her time in Berkeley Square and even before that to her childhood in Lime Tree Lodge. Joan had been excellent, she realized now. For Margaret had awakened to a warm fire in autumn and winter with little thought to how it got there. Among a succession of housemaids at Lime Tree Lodge, there had been one maid—she did not recall her name—who clanged the irons and muttered
over the tinder, waking the whole house whilst lighting the morning fires. She had not lasted long.
Taking a steadying breath, Margaret eased open the door, its whining creak sending a snake of dread down her spine. Stepping inside, she surveyed the dim room by meager predawn light. The bed curtains had not been drawn closed. She looked beyond them with an anticipatory wince, but the bed was empty. In fact it was still neatly made. Margaret felt her brow furrow. Lewis remained in residence, she was sure. She would have heard if he and the charming Connor had left Fairbourne Hall already. How strange. Had he stayed the night with some friend? Or fallen asleep downstairs? On one hand she was relieved not to find him there, to not be alone with him in his bedchamber. On the other hand, she was foolishly disappointed. She quickly went about her tasks, leaving the water and checking the chamber pot. Empty. He’d been out all night.
Mulling this over, she left Lewis’s room and stepped down the corridor to Helen’s. As she was about to lift the latch, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Startled, she looked over her shoulder. A shadowy figure crept up the stairs and around the newel-post. In the light from the candle left burning at the landing, Margaret saw Lewis Upchurch, fully dressed and still wearing an outdoor coat. Was this her chance? Even if he had no interest in marrying her, might he not at least help her arrange a more suitable hiding place?
She stood, quavering, hand on Helen’s door latch, as Lewis walked toward her down the corridor. This is it, she told herself. Open your mouth. Say something.
No sound came.
As Lewis passed behind her, he patted her bottom. Margaret’s face flushed hot. She craned to look over her other shoulder. Lewis sauntered on. At his door, he turned, winked at her, and then let himself into his room without a flicker of embarrassment.
What insolence! She reminded herself that he didn’t know who she was. But was patting a maid’s bottom any better?
The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 12