Margaret wandered around the corner and down the attic corridor, silent now. Several doors stood ajar. None bore locks. Entering the room of a servant of the same sex was not considered taboo. The rooms weren’t theirs, after all—everything belonged to their employers. Betty had told Nora that as the lowest-ranking housemaid, she would likely be assigned to clean the servants’ quarters one day soon. Apparently people in service had little privacy. A situation Margaret had not considered when she’d adopted a wig.
Margaret paused in the threshold of Betty’s room, neat as a pin as usual, with nothing on the washstand save a hairbrush and her week’s allotment of soap. The bedside table was bare as well.
She stepped next into Fiona’s room, smaller than Betty’s, but just as neat. Beside a worn chair pulled near the window was a basket of knitting wool and needles, and on the arm of the chair, a worn copy of the novel Pamela. Margaret grinned. Pamela was an old story about a virtuous maid who tirelessly warded off her master’s attempts at seduction until he finally married her. It was no wonder someone like Fiona might enjoy it. Though she was somewhat surprised to learn Fiona could read. And did.
Her conscience smarting from snooping, Margaret left the room and wandered down the many pairs of stairs to the kitchen, hoping for something to eat. She found Monsieur Fournier seated at the worktable, quill in hand and inkpot nearby, bent over a letter.
“Bonjour, monsieur. I thought everyone had left.”
“Nora.” He straightened. “Come to steal from my kitchen, ey?”
“Yes, please.” She grinned.
He looked at her from under his great bushy black brows. And for a moment she feared he was truly angry. Then he shook his head, one side of his thin mouth quirking. “Ah, very well, ma petite. It shall be our secret, non?”
He rose and bustled about the kitchen. In a few moments, he placed before her a ramekin and a spoon. “Now. Today I prepare zis with East India sugar. Made without slave labor, you see. Mr. Upchurch insists, even though it costs more. So. We shall eat zis in ze name of research, oui?”
Margaret nodded and pierced her spoon through a layer of burnt sugar, dipping into a creamy custard and, at the bottom, a layer of dark chocolate. She placed the intermingled layers in her mouth, closed her eyes, and savored the rich, bittersweet kiss upon her tongue.
“Oh, monsieur. I think I am in love.”
He grinned with satisfaction and picked up his quill once more.
She wondered how he stayed so thin. She took another bite and glanced at him. “What are you writing?”
“I write to my brother. He is a chef as well, but in France. I write to him little improvements to old family recipes. Or to ask him what herbs Mamma put in her potage aux champignons . . .” He lifted an expressive hand. “But I never hear back. I hope all is well.”
“I am sure it is. But with the war barely over . . .”
“Yes, yes. The mail is peu fiable.”
She nodded, echoing, “Yes. Unreliable, indeed.”
His head snapped up, eyes alight with surprise. “You speak French, mademoiselle?”
Too late she realized her error. “Oh . . . no. Not really. My mother has a French lady’s—lady friend, and I heard French spoken now and again. That’s all.”
He studied her, his expression measuring and perhaps even suspicious. Then he seemed to shake it off. “In his last letter, more zan a year ago now, my brother promised to send Le Cuisiniere Impérial—the very best book of French cuisine. But . . . well . . .” He lifted both hands and shrugged. “C’est la guerre.”
Margaret licked her spoon. “Perhaps you should write your own book.”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Perhaps I shall.”
From down the passage, the tinkling of keys filtered into the kitchen and swelled into melody. The old pianoforte being played in the servants’ hall. She looked up in surprise, but monsieur seemed to take it in his stride, listening distantly as he spooned another bite into his mouth.
“Who is that?” Margaret asked, reluctant to leave her sweet dessert to investigate.
“Madame Budgeon.”
“Really? I had no idea she played.”
“She is a woman of hidden talents, Anna Budgeon.”
Anna? Margaret mused, “I wondered if she would take the afternoon off, or do the work of all the missing staff combined.”
“She could no doubt, with vigor to spare.”
He said it with admiration, and she regretted her sarcastic remark.
“And you?” she asked. “Why are you not off at some inn with the others?”
He pulled a face. “I cannot abide English food, Nora. I make no secret of zis. English ale little better. No. I told Mr. Upchurch I appreciate his offer, but I prefer to stay and prepare something extraordinaire for Miss Helen’s birthday. Seulement moi, in a quiet kitchen. Sweet music in my ears and sweet aromas in my nose.”
His last word drew her attention to his abundant nose hairs, and she forced herself to look away. She guessed the scullery maid would not enjoy the mountain of dishes awaiting her return but didn’t say so.
Rising, she said, “Then I shall leave you to it.”
“If you like. Though you are pleasant company.”
“Thank you. And thank you again for the delicious pudding.”
He nodded. “Not going out?”
She shook her head. “Betty was kind enough to ask, but . . . I think I shall do a bit of reading instead.”
His head tilted to one side. “The new maid reads books and speaks French. Très intérresant.”
———
Leaving the kitchen, Margaret tiptoed down the passage and peeked into the servants’ hall. Mrs. Budgeon sat, head bent, hands spread wide, playing with abandon. And though the instrument was not in perfect tune, the housekeeper played very well. Hidden talents, indeed. She wondered who had taught her and guessed Mrs. Budgeon did not often have opportunity to practice and enjoy her skill.
Margaret decided not to disturb her.
She returned to her room but was too restless to read. The warm, sunny afternoon beckoned her out of doors. She tied on her bonnet and retrieved her reticule, which still contained her worldly treasures—her few remaining coins and cameo necklace. Then she trotted down the back stairs and out the servants’ door.
The warm late-August air embraced her. She paused to tip her face to the sunshine, the warmth on her skin as sweet as the pudding had been. The wolfhound, Jester, appeared and trotted beside her, tail wagging.
Her half boots crunched over the pebbled drive as she walked between the kitchen garden and one of the flower gardens, surrounding her with the fragrances of comfrey, lavender, and intermingled floral scents. She followed the hedgerow to the front boundary of the estate. Jester shadowed her as far as the road, but there she told him to stay. She was surprised when the dog obeyed, though he watched her depart with mournful eyes.
She would walk into Weavering Street, she decided. Whether or not she would have the courage to enter the Fox and Goose remained to be seen.
The tiny hamlet of Weavering Street was a collection of cottages and shops that had sprouted up during the building of Fairbourne Hall and continued to succor the spouses of several estate workers. Mrs. Budgeon, Margaret had heard, did the majority of the marketing in large and prosperous Maidstone beyond.
Margaret strolled up the walkway fronting the businesses—a combination butcher shop and bakery as well as a chandler’s shop which sold a bit of everything, displaying its wares in a many-paned bow window. As she passed, she breathed in the delicious aromas of pies and cakes, pungent cheeses, and savory sausages.
She stopped short at the sight of Joan standing beside a gig, its horse tethered near the chandler’s. A jumble of emotions crowded her throat. Nostalgia at seeing a familiar face. Shame at the weakness she had displayed in her former maid’s presence. Gratitude. And fear of rejection.
“Hello, Joan,” she said tentatively.
Joan looke
d over and also seemed to hesitate. “Well, well. Never thought I’d see you again.” She stepped up to the walkway. “What are you doing here?”
“I have a post nearby.”
“You? What as?”
“Housemaid.”
Joan shook her head in disbelief, then glanced toward the shop door. “Someone came along and hired you after I left?”
Margaret nodded. “Eventually.” Joan didn’t appear interested in long explanations, so instead Margaret asked, “So . . . are you out enjoying a half day as well?”
“Half day? Hardly.” Joan snorted, again glancing toward the shop. “The Hayfields have been in mourning for nearly a year and are broke in the bargain. So no time off, no servants’ ball, no gifts at Christmas, nothing. Several left for better places because of it, which is why I was hired.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.” Guilt slithered through Margaret. “How is it working there otherwise?”
Joan shrugged. “I’ve had worse. The housekeeper’s a terror, never satisfied. But I’ve got a roof over my head. The food is decent and the others aren’t a bad lot.”
It wasn’t very convincing. “At least you’re not a maid-of-all-work,” Margaret suggested weakly.
“Yes, I avoided that fate, at least.” Joan smirked. “I suppose your place is a bed of roses?”
“Not bad, though one of the other housemaids barely tolerates me.” Margaret almost added, “She reminds me of you,” but thought the better of it.
At that moment, the stern Hayfield housekeeper stepped out of the chandler’s.
“Let’s go, Hurdle. Stop dawdling.”
Joan looked once more at Margaret. “Well, good-bye again.”
“Good-bye, Joan,” Margaret whispered over an unexpected lump in her throat.
She stood there, watching until the two women climbed in and the gig moved on. Then Margaret turned to the chandler’s window, idly wondering what the old biddy had found to buy there.
She casually surveyed the hodgepodge of wares—from cheap candlesticks to cookware to bottles of the latest patent medicines for those who did not wish to venture to a Maidstone apothecary. She regarded the collection with some amusement and, if she were honest, condescension. Clearly, the shop did not have the most elite of clientele. She was about to continue on, when something behind the glass reflected a ray of sunlight, shining, winking at her. She frowned and bent nearer, as much as her stays would allow, to view the object more closely.
Her breath caught. There beside a paltry collection of slightly dented pots and kettles lay a gilt chatelaine in a velvet box. It could not be . . . Chatelaines were not uncommon, she told herself—in fact they had become quite ubiquitous. Even fine ladies wore them, inlaid with mother of pearl and even jewels. This one bore no jewels but a distinct engraving of a stag’s head on the body of the brooch. Empty key chains and three tiny gilt boxes lay in a tangle beneath. Oh no . . .
Before she consciously chose to do so, Margaret stepped inside the shop, only distantly hearing the jingle of the bell announcing her arrival. A diminutive man with thin hair and the bushiest side whiskers she had ever seen stepped forward to greet her, hands clasped before his narrow, vested chest.
“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”
“The chatelaine in the window . . .” She was tempted to ask whose it had been to verify her suspicions. But Betty’s brother lived in the hamlet. She did not want to embarrass Betty before her family, or for word to reach Betty that Nora had been snooping into her affairs. “Who . . . that is, I don’t recall seeing it there before.”
The man shook his head, a sparkle in his eye belying the regretful expression. “No, miss. Just come in today, it did. And a fine piece it is. How lovely it would look pinned to your frock just there.”
She did not like the man eyeing her waist. She frowned. Betty would never forgive her if she heard some Fairbourne housemaid was thinking of buying her cherished chatelaine for herself.
“I wasn’t thinking of it for myself.”
“Oh.” Disappointment etched his features, but then his brows rose. “A gift, perhaps? And a fine gift it would be, indeed.”
Margaret licked her lips. “I don’t know. I . . . How much are you asking?”
“For a fine piece like that? Dear it is, but worth every farthing to the lucky lady who wears it.”
A farthing she could manage, but from the gleam in his eye she guessed he was asking far more. “How much?”
“Oh . . .” He screwed up his face, lips protruding, as he took in her reticule, her leather gloves, her bonnet . . .
She knew she would not like his answer.
He named a figure. An astounding figure.
“But . . . it isn’t real gold, you know. It’s only brass.”
“Pinchbeck, actually.”
“Which still isn’t gold,” she insisted.
“I could let it go for a bit less, for a fine young lady like yourself.”
She huffed. “I am not a fine lady, sir. I am a housemaid.”
“You don’t say? Where are you placed? Fairbourne Hall?”
Margaret turned to leave before she said something she regretted. She reached for the door latch.
“Don’t be hasty, miss,” he called to her. “A pound, two and six. And that’s as low as I can go.”
“Did you give her a pound, two and six?”
His brows furrowed. “Who?”
“The woman who brought it in.” She swallowed and added, “Whoever she was.”
“Well, a man has to make a profit, hasn’t he?”
“From other people’s misfortunes?”
There, she had said too much. She turned and left the shop without another word, ignoring his plaintive calls to reconsider.
She stalked back down the road, back toward Fairbourne Hall. She could not face Betty. Not now. She did not have that much money. Nowhere near it. All she had was the cameo necklace her father had given her. It was likely worth quite a bit more than the chatelaine, but she could never part with it. Not the last gift her dear papa had given her. Perhaps when all this was over and she had her inheritance, she would send Betty a new chatelaine. Or even drive back down in a private carriage and buy back Betty’s chatelaine from the greedy little man, as much as it would gall her to do so.
In the back of her mind, a voice asked, “Will it still be there months from now?” But she resolutely ignored it.
The housemaid’s folding back her
window-shutters at eight o’clock the next day
was the sound which first roused Catherine.
—Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
Chapter 12
Margaret arose feeling refreshed the next morning. She had gone to bed early the night before, and though she tossed and turned for a time, she had gotten more sleep than usual. Betty had forgotten to come to her room to unlace her stays, so again Margaret had slept in them. Constricting as they were, keeping them on did make dressing in the morning so much the quicker—and possible solo. She hoped Betty had not similarly forgotten to attend to Miss Upchurch. The upper housemaid had been doing what she could to dress her mistress and arrange her hair since the lady’s maid retired, but based on Helen Upchurch’s appearance at morning prayers, Betty’s skills in that department were rudimentary at best.
Margaret thought again of what she had heard about Helen Upchurch’s great disappointment in love, and the rare sympathy in the gossips’ tone as they speculated about her long absence from society. Something about her father refusing his consent to the match and then the man’s untimely death soon after. Poor Helen. She recalled the good-looking man in the miniature portrait on Helen’s dressing table. No wonder she was disappointed.
Helen Upchurch had never been a ravishing beauty, not with that pointed nose reminiscent of her brother Nathaniel’s, nor with her somewhat sallow complexion. But she had been handsome enough and well thought of. It was such a shame, really. Margaret realized that she had done nothing when she�
��d heard of Helen’s loss. She wondered if she should have, could have helped somehow. Would a kind letter or call really have been so taxing?
Margaret pushed thoughts of the past aside—anxious now to see how Betty fared.
She finished dressing, pinned her blond hair back into its tight bun, positioned her wig, cap, and spectacles, and sat on her bed to await Betty’s knock. . . . She retrieved her father’s New Testament and read for a quarter of an hour. . . . Still the attic was quiet. It was time to go down and open the shutters, but again Betty had failed to show up at her door. Had she gone down without her? Was she so very angry with her?
Margaret once again made her way to Betty’s room. The door was closed. She knocked softly, listened, but no one answered.
Gingerly, she pushed open the door. The room was dim, the shutters closed. As her eyes adjusted, Margaret frowned, retracting her head like a turtle encountering an unexpected obstacle. Betty was still in bed. She lay on her stomach, face smashed into her pillow, cheek bunched up, mouth slack. Her arm hung out of the bedclothes, limp, fingers nearly reaching the floor. How strange. Betty never slept late.
“Betty?” she whispered, not wanting to startle her. But Betty did not rouse. “Betty!” Margaret repeated, suddenly fearful the woman was ill . . . or worse.
She hurried to the window and threw back the shutters. Dawn light seeped into the room. Returning to the bed, she grasped Betty’s shoulder and gently shook her.
The upper housemaid muttered something unintelligible.
“Betty, you’ve overslept. What will Mrs. Budgeon say? I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“Wha’ time is it?” Betty asked, voice thick, as though her mouth were stuffed with cotton wool.
“It’s gone six.”
“Six?” Betty’s eyes popped open. Wincing, she twisted around, sat up, and pressed her hands to her temples. Her complexion greened, and those same hands grasped her mouth in alarm.
Thinking quickly, Margaret grabbed the basin from the washstand and thrust it under Betty’s chin. Betty retched. Then retched again.
The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 15