Still shaking, Margaret slipped into Helen’s room and took a moment to catch her breath. The bed curtains were drawn, but a soft snore told Margaret its occupant slept on undisturbed by her presence. She completed her tasks without incident.
In Nathaniel’s room, she was not as fortunate. The bed curtains had been left tied back—leaving a full view of Nathaniel Upchurch lying on his stomach, arms wrapped around his pillow, cheek pressed into its downy depths. A sheet was pulled up to his waist; a nightshirt covered his upper body and arms.
She tiptoed closer, knowing she should avert her eyes and complete her tasks as quickly as possible. Instead she paused several feet away. How peaceful he looked. How much younger with neither stiff cravat, spectacles, nor somber scowl. His fair cheeks were peppered with black stubble. Did he shave himself, she wondered. Or did Mr. Arnold do so for him?
As she regarded him, a thought came, unbidden. He might have been my husband. I might now be sharing his bed. She swallowed, her neck heating at the intimate thought pondered in that private place.
Instead I’m emptying his chamber pot.
With that, she pushed futile thoughts away and returned to her work.
Margaret stood at the railing as Betty demonstrated how to dust the family’s collection of vases, displayed on shelves built into a recess at the top of the main staircase. From below came the sound of the front door opening and Mr. Arnold greeting some male guest.
Lewis Upchurch’s gregarious voice echoed from the hall below. “Don’t bother, Arnold. I’ll show him up myself.”
Betty shot her a sharp-eyed look, but footsteps were already trotting up the stairs. There was no time to slip down the corridor and into one of the vacant rooms. Betty stepped away from the railing and as far into the corner as she could, presenting her back to the two men mounting the stairs. Feeling foolish and self-conscious, Margaret followed suit.
The men passed without pause or a word, as if finding two grown women standing with their noses to the wall was an everyday occurrence. Margaret realized for the first time that it probably was. Thinking back, she recalled the Berkeley Square housemaids doing something similar when they accidentally crossed paths with Sterling or her mother. She had given it little thought before, but now decided that when she had a house of her own, she would make certain the staff knew such a practice was not necessary.
The men entered the family sitting room, one of them giving the door a shove behind him, but it did not fully close. From inside, voices rose in amiable greeting. Margaret idly wondered who the visitor was.
Keeping a wary eye on the partially opened door, Betty quietly continued her demonstration. “Now, take your dustcloth—no, that’s your glass cloth. Right—that one. We have to be prodigious careful, for these pretty things are worth a pretty penny, Mrs. Budgeon says.”
They were lovely vases. Margaret could not imagine that the Upchurch men appreciated them. No doubt some female ancestor had collected them and chosen to display them so prominently at the top of the stairs.
Betty gingerly picked up the first vase, holding it as gently as a baby bird. “Now take the thing careful-like in one hand while you run the cloth inside its innards.”
From inside the room, a man’s voice shouted, “Margaret Macy?”
Margaret started violently and let out a shriek. Had Sterling Benton come for her already? Frightened, Betty jerked back, sending the vase crashing to the floor, shattering it to pieces.
Betty cried out, her hand belatedly covering her mouth.
Margaret stood there, uncertain. Should she flee, which would draw attention to herself, or hope her disguise sufficient?
She risked a glance over her shoulder, and quailed as Nathaniel Upchurch strode out of the sitting room, his expression turbulent.
“What is all this?” he asked.
Betty ducked her head, “Sorry, sir. Beggin’ your pardon, sir.”
Footsteps tattooed up the stairs. Mrs. Budgeon appeared, her mouth a grim line.
Margaret wanted to say, knew she should say, “It was my fault.” Had Mrs. Budgeon been there alone, she would have done so. But with Mr. Upchurch standing there as witness? The words would not come.
Mrs. Budgeon shot Betty a frosty glare, then turned primly to Mr. Upchurch. “I am sorry, sir. Betty has never broken anything before. The cost will be taken from her wages, of course.”
Nathaniel exhaled a dry puff of air. “Should we withhold her wages a dozen years, she should never be able to pay for that relic.”
Beside her, Betty blanched.
Mrs. Budgeon clasped her hands together. “Again I am sorry, sir. Would you have her dismissed?”
Betty sucked in a sharp breath.
“I don’t . . .” He hesitated. “That is for you and Mr. Hudson to decide. Bring the pieces to the study so he may make note in the inventories when he returns.”
“Very good, sir.”
Helen’s concerned face appeared in the threshold behind Nathaniel, but no one else joined her there. No Lewis, no unseen visitor. Whoever had come to call was surely not Sterling Benton, Margaret told herself. How foolish she had been. And now a vase had been broken—and Betty’s perfect record with it.
———
Nathaniel cared little for the antique vase, although he knew his father would be vexed to learn of its demise. His mind was still echoing with the news Lewis’s friend had brought with him from London.
When Piers Saxby had gleefully announced, “You shall never guess who has gone missing—not seen nor heard from in more than a week . . . Margaret Macy!” it had struck Nathaniel like a violent kick to his gut. Shocked, he had forgotten himself, echoing her name more vehemently than he had intended. He did not miss the knowing look his sister and brother exchanged. The crash in the corridor had been a welcome diversion from their too-knowing glances.
When Nathaniel returned to the sitting room, Saxby said, “Good heavens, Nate. Are you all right? You look ghastly.”
Nathaniel took a long shaky breath. “I’m fine. A maid broke a family heirloom, that’s all.”
Saxby blew out a loud exhale. “What a relief. Not about the heirloom, of course, but I was afraid I had blundered in telling you. If you still hold feelings for the girl . . .”
Nathaniel pulled a face. “That was years ago.”
“Glad to hear it,” Saxby said. “Hate to think of you pining over some chit. Pray take no offense, Miss Upchurch, but I have rarely suffered from sentiment where women are concerned. Although I realize not every man is as fortunate.”
Lewis rubbed his chin. “Come to think of it, I did hear an on dit before I came down. Apparently Sterling Benton has been calling on all her friends in town, fueling any number of rumors.”
Helen reclaimed her seat. “You might have told us before.”
Lewis raised a hand in defense. “In all honesty, it slipped my mind. What with Nate here dragging me to the inquisition as soon as I returned and numbing my brain with ledgers and recriminations and I know not what.”
Nathaniel pressed his lips tight. I will not lose my temper. I will not . . .
Lewis went on, “It is not as though the Macys are closely connected to our family. I am acquainted with the girl, of course—as are we all.” Lewis turned to him. “Do you still harbor feelings for her?”
“Of course not, but—”
Saxby laid a hand over his heart. “Pray forgive me, Nate. I should not have been so cavalier in breaking the news.”
“You did not err in telling us,” Nathaniel insisted. “We are acquainted with both the Macy family and the Bentons. Of course we would be interested. And disturbed to think that any lady of our acquaintance might be . . . might have met with some foul fate.”
“Oh, I don’t imagine it is anything as dramatic as all that,” Lewis said.
“Not that the girl doesn’t have a flair for theatrics,” Helen added. “She does, as I recall.”
Lewis shrugged. “More likely she’s gone off in a
pet over a spat with a new suitor. Or her mamma refused her a trinket or something of that sort. She’ll return as soon as her purse is empty, and that shall be that.”
“No doubt you are correct,” Nathaniel said, wishing to end this conversation. He was surprised at how much he hoped Miss Macy was all right. For all the resentment he had felt toward her—even wishing she might have her own heart broken one day—he would never wish bodily harm to befall her. The very thought of it made him want to charge off to London, sword blazing, and rescue her. What a fool he was. Even now.
———
Finally, Margaret’s heart slowed to a rate approaching normal. What a start she had been given. Several, actually. First hearing her name called, fearing Sterling had come, then the vase shattering, and Nathaniel Upchurch charging out to see what had happened. He had not recognized her, she assured herself and took another deep breath.
She wiped her hands on her apron and swallowed. She had seen the look on Betty’s face. Felt the silent terror at the thought of losing her place—for something that wasn’t even her fault. Margaret had no intention of making service her life’s work, but Betty did, and for her, being dismissed would be catastrophic.
But nor was Margaret ready to lose her position—she had barely gotten there, and hated the thought of being put out with barely a shilling to her name. And so she stood there, mute, while Betty picked up the pieces and followed Mrs. Budgeon down to her parlor to discuss the matter.
Twenty minutes or so later, Margaret had just finished dusting the remaining shelves when Betty returned, white faced.
“What did she say?” Margaret whispered.
“She said we was to talk to Mr. Hudson about it, but Mr. Hudson is gone calling on tenants. So I am to see him tomorrow after dinner.”
Again the words I am sorry stuck in Margaret’s throat. Instead she said, “It was an accident. Surely they won’t put you out for that.”
Betty’s brow creased in incredulity. “Maids is put out for a few coins gone missing or a piece of china broke. That was a family heirloom. Worth a great deal of money.”
“I . . . I didn’t mean to startle you. I—”
Betty’s face puckered. “Why did you cry out? Did you see a mouse or some-like?”
“No.” Margaret slowly shook her head. “Not a mouse. A ghost.”
At five thirty the next morning, Margaret slipped her hands through the armholes of her stays and stepped into her frock, expecting any moment to hear Betty’s sharp single knock, ready to pragmatically lace up her stays and hurry her along with her brisk “The shutters await, my girl.”
No knock came.
When a clock struck six somewhere in the house and Betty still had not come, Margaret left the stays unlaced beneath her frock and hurried down the passage, around the corner, and along the main attic corridor to Betty’s room. She knocked softly and the door swung open on its hinges. Glancing in, she saw Betty sitting on her small, neatly made bed, staring down at her hands resting in her lap.
“Betty? Are you all right?”
“Hmm?”
Margaret quipped, “The shutters await, my girl.”
No answering grin lifted Betty’s mouth. She was no doubt still upset about the vase.
Margaret stepped into the room. When Betty made no move to rise, Margaret sat gingerly on the bed beside her. She noticed then that Betty held something in her hands. A large gilt brooch ornamented with a stag’s head and several long chains dangling from it. A chatelaine.
“That’s pretty,” Margaret said.
Betty nodded. “My mum gave it to me. She was housekeeper at Mote Park for many years. The mistress gave this to her to mark her twentieth year in service. How proud she was, wearing this pinned to her waist, Mote Park keys hangin’ from it, and these other usefuls as well.” Betty lifted the small pair of candle scissors and ran a finger over three small gilt boxes hanging like appendages from the chatelaine. “This one holds a toothpick, this one a needle and thread, and this one an ear scoop.”
“It’s very nice,” Margaret agreed. She guessed it was made of brass and not gold, though the gilt still shone after all these years. It had obviously been well cared for.
Still Betty stared down at the chatelaine in her lap, tears filling her eyes. “I shall never see twenty years now. . . .”
“Don’t say that,” Margaret soothed, patting Betty’s arm.
The tears settled it—Margaret knew she must say something, do something, before Mrs. Budgeon and the steward reached their verdict about Betty. She hoped kind Mr. Hudson would be lenient.
Finally, Betty laid the chatelaine back in a velvet-lined box on her bedside table and rose with a sigh. “Well. Turn around and let’s have a tug on those fancy stays of yours. Then we’d best be on our way. Like I always say—”
“The shutters await,” Margaret supplied.
Betty raised one brow. “And the chamber pots besides.”
———
Margaret hurried through her duties, nerves giving her the energy her lack of sleep would normally have drained. There was nothing like the pressure of knowing one had done wrong, and that every minute of putting off doing right might bring more trouble to oneself or another to distract one’s focus. Margaret finished her duties quickly. How well, she could not say.
Palms damp, Margaret knocked on the door of Mr. Hudson’s office on the ground floor, tucked behind the main stairway.
“Enter,” she heard from within and pushed open the door, wiping her palms on her apron.
She hesitated. Mrs. Budgeon was there as well, seated before the man’s desk.
“What is it, Nora?” Mr. Hudson asked.
“I . . . never mind, sir. I shall come back when you’re not busy.”
“You are here now. What is it?”
“I wanted to . . . that is, I needed to tell you that it wasn’t Betty’s fault about the vase. It was my fault. I startled her and . . .” She felt Mrs. Budgeon’s gaze and ducked her head. “Please don’t dismiss her for my mistake.”
“Why say something now and not at the time?” Mrs. Budgeon asked.
Margaret felt her cheeks heat and kept her head low. “I was afraid, ma’am. That was wrong of me too.”
How self-conscious she felt with those two pairs of eyes on her bowed head. She risked a glance and found Mr. Hudson studying her. “Very well, Nora. We had already decided not to dismiss Betty, but thank you for telling us.”
Relief filled her. “Thank you, sir.”
———
When Betty emerged from Mr. Hudson’s office half an hour later, Margaret expected her to be cheerful and relieved, but Betty’s head was bowed and her mouth tight.
“Betty, what is it?” She followed her to the back stairs. “You are not to be dismissed, I understand?”
She shook her head. “No. Not dismissed. But my wages garnished for the quarter.”
“Oh no. But I thought—”
“’Twas Mrs. Budgeon’s decision, I gather. To remind me to be more careful in future.”
“But I told them it was my fault.”
“I know you did. Mr. Hudson said as much, and I do appreciate it. But I am the upper housemaid, so it was my responsibility.”
Margaret winced. “Will you be all right?”
Betty sighed. “I shall manage. But my . . .” Her sentence trailed away unfinished.
“Your what?” Margaret prompted.
Betty lifted her quivering chin. “Never you mind; I’ll sort it somehow.”
I am as yet ‘wanting a situation,’ like a
housemaid out of place. I have lately discovered I
have quite a talent for cleaning, sweeping up hearths,
dusting rooms, making beds, etc.; so, if everything
else fails, I can turn my hand to that.
—Charlotte Brontë, in a letter to her sister Emily
Chapter 11
The next day, Margaret backed from the drawing room, pulling the double doors
closed as she went. Thomas, the first footman, appeared out of nowhere and gave her arm a playful pinch.
“Fetch me up some German polish, there’s a love.”
Margaret hesitated. Was that one of her duties as well?
Thomas smiled at her. He had very good teeth, though quite large. And something about those gleaming teeth, hard blue eyes, and dark hair reminded her of a wolf.
He gave her a gentle nudge. “You do know where the stillroom is, I trust?”
“Of course.” Chin high, Margaret turned on her heel and padded through the servery and down the basement stairs.
The stillroom. What memories of Lime Tree Lodge it evoked. The snug room with a cheery fire and sunlight from its high windows gleaming off copper kettles and colorful glass bottles. With its own stove, brick baking oven, worktable, basin, shelves displaying pots and jelly moulds, and cupboards containing tea, coffee, and more. Filled with the aromas of spices sweet and savory—ginger and coriander, cloves and rosemary. Where pastries and biscuits were prepared one moment, distilled beverages the next. Vinegars, pickles, and preserves on some days. Soaps, cosmetics, and medicinals on others.
Oh, the hours Margaret had spent perched on a stool in the stillroom at Lime Tree Lodge with Mrs. Haines, cutting ginger biscuits with copper cutters or making toffee.
Belowstairs, she passed the butler’s pantry, kitchen, and the housekeeper’s parlor. The stillroom was next door, the domain of both Mrs. Budgeon and the stillroom maid who carried out her many orders and receipts.
“Hello, Hester.” Margaret smiled at the round, sweet-faced maid as she entered.
“Hello, Nora.” Hester returned her smile and added a wink. “What brings you down to the dungeons this time of day?”
“The footman needs something called German polish.”
“Does he now? And why is that your problem?”
“I don’t know. He asked, so I thought it was something I was meant to do.”
“Thomas was it?”
Margaret nodded.
“Craig is a lamb, but mind you watch that Thomas. Charmer he may be, but lazy in the bargain. Gettin’ the new girl to fetch and carry for him.” She shook her head. “Maybe in your last place housemaids was responsible for furniture polish, but here that’s the footman’s duty. Ah well. You’re here now and I’m glad for an excuse to chat.”
The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 13