Hester would know what to do. Margaret let herself from the room and down the back stairs.
Margaret had tinkered with homemade cosmetics as a girl, when she had been in a hurry to grow up even though her mother had deemed her too young for cosmetics. In the stillroom at Lime Tree Lodge the indulgent Mrs. Haines had allowed her to mix a little vegetable rouge tinted with red carmine. Also a little pot of lip color made of wax, almond oil, and alkanet. She had helped Mrs. Haines prepare pearl water to help Margaret combat the blemishes of youth, and a chamomile hair rinse to brighten her blond hair.
Of course, all this had been years ago, and she did not recall the ingredients or mode. After Margaret’s coming out, her mother had approved a few prepared cosmetics, purchased from an apothecary or modiste. So much easier and packaged so prettily: Rose Lip Salve, Pear’s Liquid Blooms of Roses, and Gowland’s Lotion. But Margaret believed that with a bit of help, she could manage cold cream pomatum and perhaps an oil of rosemary hair tonic for Miss Helen as well. She wondered if she might sneak a bit of walnut juice into the tonic to gently cover Miss Helen’s greying strands. Her mother’s maid used just such a concoction to keep grey at bay.
Thinking of hair color, Margaret wondered, not for the first time, if she ought to forgo the wig altogether and dye her hair instead. Once done, her day to day life would certainly be easier and more comfortable. Her risk of discovery so much decreased. But for every advertisement in the London newspapers touting the various nostrums available for darkening one’s hair or returning it to the glossy shades of youth, there were also warnings about the ill effects of their ingredients—salts of iron or carbonates of lead.
Even without such warnings, Margaret would be loath to dye her hair. It seemed so extreme, so permanent. What if her hair never returned to the fair color she prized? She needed to remain brunette for only a few months, a fortnight of which had passed already. She decided she could put up with the wig a little longer.
When she reached the stillroom, Hester greeted her with her usual cheer. “Hello, love.”
“Hello, Hester. The mistress’s cold cream pomatum has gone rancid. Help me make more?”
“With pleasure. Why, I can’t remember the last time we mixed up somethin’ for Miss Upchurch. Long overdue on other things too, I’d wager.”
Hester pulled down a thick green leather volume from one of the shelves. “It’s been so long, I’d best check the measures. . . .” She flipped the creased, oil-stained pages.
“Here we are. One ounce oil of sweet almonds, half a drachm each of white wax and spermaceti, with a little balm.”
Hester began bustling about the stillroom, opening drawers and reaching up to shelves to gather tools and ingredients. She instructed Margaret to melt the almond oil, wax, and whale oil in a glazed pipkin over hot ashes in the hearth. Margaret did so. Then she poured the mixture into a marble mortar. Hester handed her a pestle, and with it, Margaret pressed and stirred the cream until it was smooth and cool.
“Orange flower or rose water, do you think?” Hester asked.
She recalled Helen relishing the scent of the roses she’d put in her room. “Rose, if you have it.”
“Indeed I do.”
While Margaret continued to stir, Hester drizzled in rose water for fragrance.
Hester returned to her book and read, “ ‘This cold cream pomatum renders the skin at once supple and smooth. If not meant for immediate use, the gallipot in which it is kept should have a piece of bladder tied over it.’ ”
Margaret knew apothecaries tied wet pig bladders over their pots of ointments and nostrums, because as the bladders dried they shrunk, forming an airtight seal. Margaret quailed. She didn’t relish the thought of touching pig parts.
“I’d like Miss Helen to be able to use it right away.”
“Then a parchment cover will do.”
Margaret waited until the next morning to carry up the cold cream pomatum to Helen’s room. She uncovered the pot and set it on the washstand without comment. She did not want Helen to notice her delivering it and mention it to Mrs. Budgeon, nor to further rouse Fiona’s ire if word got around that Nora had usurped yet another of Betty’s rightful roles. She walked briskly into the dressing room to set it to rights and find a few more hairpins.
Miss Upchurch stirred in her bed, and Margaret guessed Betty would be in any moment to help her dress. Margaret wished Helen would wear something besides the grey, dull gold, and brown day dresses or the dark burgundy evening gown. She ran her fingers over the garments in Helen’s wardrobe, noticing a lovely ivory-and-green walking dress she had never seen Helen wear. On closer inspection she discovered the likely cause: two buttons were missing and the holes themselves were frayed.
Margaret carried the dress into the bedchamber.
Helen, washing her face and hands in the basin, looked up. “Morning, Nora.”
“Morning.” She hesitated. “Miss Upchurch?”
“Hmm?”
“This walking dress is missing a few buttons. Do you mind if I take it and repair it this afternoon?”
“If you wish to.”
“Thank you, I do. Betty and Fiona sew in the afternoons when their other duties are done, and I think I shall join them.”
Helen pressed a hand towel to her face. “Very well.” She lifted the pot of pomatum. “This cold cream smells wonderful. It must be new.”
“Yes.” Margaret quickly changed the subject. “Did your lady’s maid keep a tin of buttons somewhere about?”
“I don’t know. Betty might. If you cannot find any to match, perhaps you might walk into Weavering Street. There is a little shop there where Miss Nash often bought ribbons and buttons and things.” Helen pulled a few coins from the reticule on her dressing table and handed them to Margaret. “You may tell Mrs. Budgeon I sent you.”
“Thank you. If I find we already have spares to suit, I shall return the money.”
Helen waved the assurance away. “I trust you, Nora.”
Margaret hesitated at that remark, looking at Helen to see if she’d realized what she’d said, and if she had meant it. “Do you?” she asked softly.
Slowly, Helen lifted her head and for a moment the two women simply looked at one another. Then Helen said, “Yes. Oddly enough, I find that I do.”
Margaret’s throat tightened. She whispered, “Thank you.”
Gown over her arm, Margaret turned and walked to the door. When she reached it, Helen added, “Don’t make me regret it.”
That afternoon, Margaret found Fiona and Betty already seated in the sunny attic room that had once been the domain of the lady’s maid before her retirement. It was a spacious room, larger than Betty’s superior room and twice the size of Margaret’s, with a dress form in the corner, an ironing board, bolts of cloth in an open cupboard, a worktable in the center, and a bare bed along one wall.
They stopped talking as soon as she entered, which gave Margaret the uneasy sense they’d been talking about her. She forced a smile. “May I join you?”
Fiona eyed her warily, but Betty answered, “Of course, Nora. Always more mending to be done.”
Fiona’s lip curled. “Looks like she’s brought her own work.”
“I have. Miss Upchurch’s gown is missing a few buttons.”
Betty’s face puckered wistfully. “Asked you to do it, did she?”
Margaret shook her head. “Actually, Miss Upchurch specifically told me to ask you, Betty, if we have a tin of buttons where replacements might be found. She said if anyone would know, it was Betty.”
Betty’s round eyes widened. “Did she, now?”
Margaret nodded. She hoped she would be forgiven the slight exaggeration. Judging by Fiona’s smirk, that seemed unlikely.
Betty rose and hurried over to the cupboard, pulled open a drawer, and extracted a round tin. “Here are the spare buttons. I don’t believe I have seen any what would match those exactly, but . . . let’s have a look, shall we?”
“Tha
nk you, Betty. Miss Upchurch was right—you were the person to ask.”
Fiona rolled her eyes.
“These might do,” Betty said, plucking two buttons from the tin, neither the right size nor shade.
Margaret smiled politely. “I’ll keep looking, shall I? You two go on with what you’re doing. I know Mrs. Budgeon wants those new tablecloths soon.”
Fiona shook her head. “Why she has us making new cloths and table napkins, I’ll never know.”
Margaret asked, “Do you mean, because the Upchurches don’t often entertain?”
“Not for ages. They never even have anyone to dine, save that friend of Mr. Lewis’s.”
“A handsome devil he is,” Betty said.
“Devil is right.”
Were they referring to Mr. Saxby or to Lewis himself? Personally she had never thought Piers Saxby handsome. He was too much the dandy for her tastes. Lewis was undoubtedly handsome. But a devil? She didn’t think either man deserved that title.
Margaret sat down and sifted through the entire tin without finding a suitable match—or four buttons of any kind to replace the quartet of buttons running from high waist to neck.
Betty tied off her thread and sighed. “Time to fetch the clean sheets from the laundry.” She propped her hands on the arms of her chair and levered herself up.
Margaret rose. “Why don’t I go? You two are busy, and this gown can wait.”
“Would you? That’s kind of you, Nora.” Betty eased back into her chair.
Fiona’s eyes narrowed, no doubt questioning her motives.
The truth was, Margaret simply wanted an excuse to leave the house and walk into Weavering Street without Betty knowing Miss Upchurch had entrusted her with the errand. She dared not, however, go without informing Mrs. Budgeon.
Margaret retrieved the clean sheets from the laundry maid in the washhouse and carried them to the linen cupboard for the housekeeper to check in. Once there, she explained her errand.
“Very well, Nora.” Mrs. Budgeon surprised her by agreeing readily. “I take it I can trust you to return directly?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Margaret gestured with her hand. “There and back.”
The housekeeper nodded.
Margaret asked, “Would you mind keeping this between us?”
The housekeeper frowned. “Why should it be a secret?”
“It’s only that I don’t want Betty to feel slighted.”
Mrs. Budgeon studied her. Margaret was afraid she’d said too much, been too presumptuous—as though an upper housemaid could have anything to fear from a lowly newcomer like her.
“Very well, Nora. I take your meaning. No use in hurt feelings if they can be avoided. But should Miss Upchurch decide to make the situation of your helping her more . . . official . . . some hurt feelings will be inevitable.”
“I am not hoping or pushing for anything official . . . or permanent, Mrs. Budgeon. I only want to help where I am able.”
One brow quirked. “Well. We shall see.”
A few minutes later, reticule over her wrist and bonnet tied beneath her chin, Margaret let herself from the servants’ door, up the recessed stairs, and across the drive. She relished the rare bit of freedom, of solitude, of sunshine and fresh air. Of not having her hands in lye or polish or turpentine. Crunching along the gravel path between gardens and lawn, she inhaled deeply of roses and freshly scythed grass and strolled happily up the road. She didn’t see Jester and wondered where the dog was.
She had just reached the boardwalk fronting the row of Weavering Street shops when Nathaniel Upchurch stepped from the blacksmith’s stall across the road, Jester at his heel. Her stomach gave a little lurch. Nathaniel glanced over and frowned. He looked perplexed, perhaps even disapproving, at seeing one of his housemaids strolling through the hamlet. She ducked her head.
If they met on the street, would he greet her? She doubted it. She was only a servant, after all. He kept his distance from the servants, except for Mr. Hudson. He seemed to treat Mr. Hudson more like a friend than a steward.
Jester had no such reservations. The dog bounded across the road, tail wagging, tongue lolling. She patted his head in greeting and kept walking. As she approached the chandler’s, she saw, from the corner of her eye, Mr. Upchurch crossing the road in her direction. Her pulse pounded. She turned away, feigning interest in the display window. For a moment, in her self-conscious awareness of being watched, the contents of the display window remained a blur, but then she blinked them into focus. She scanned the items in the window yet again, heart sinking.
The chatelaine was gone.
Dread filling her, Margaret hurried into the shop, Nathaniel Upchurch and his dog forgotten. The thin shopkeeper looked up from his counter as she approached.
“The chatelaine, sir. Is it gone?”
“No, it’s right here. Brought it up front to display it proper.”
“Oh.” She exhaled a sigh of relief. “Good.” She hesitated. “May I see what buttons you have?”
“Buttons?” He seemed disappointed but quickly recovered. “Of course.” He pulled out a long shallow drawer filled with buttons of every variety and laid it on the counter before her.
She selected two buttons of varying shades of bluish-green. As she held them up to compare them, the image of Betty’s grieving blue eyes appeared before her. She blinked the image away. Lying on the counter nearby, the chatelaine beckoned her attention, but Margaret resisted, spending the next quarter hour looking not only at buttons, but ribbon trim, lace, and fabric.
In the end she selected four new buttons, a few yards of ribbon, and a length of sheer lawn from which to fashion a fichu. Again the chatelaine drew her eye. For a fleeting moment, she thought about forgoing the falderals and purchasing the chatelaine with Miss Upchurch’s money instead. Would Helen even notice mismatched buttons? But Margaret quickly scolded herself for even considering the idea. She was a vicar’s daughter. A lady. A trusted servant. The irony of considering herself both lady and servant in a single thought struck her, and she bit her lip.
She handed over one of Miss Upchurch’s guineas and then carefully slid the smaller coins the shopkeeper proffered as change into her reticule. As she did she spied her cameo necklace nestled inside. The gift from her father. Irreplaceable. Dear. She pressed her eyes closed.
What would you have me do, Papa? She silently asked. What would you have me do, almighty God? She bit the inside of her cheek, but still tears pricked her eyes.
Heart thudding, Margaret reached in and grasped the cameo necklace by its gold clasp and slowly, reverently extracted it. The hawk-eyed shopkeeper watched every move, his gaze riveted on the gold chain, the fine if modest-sized cameo. She laid the cameo on the counter, its chain spiraling down beside it, her stiff fingers holding firmly to its clasp.
Two mornings later, Helen Upchurch inspected the made-over walking dress in astonishment. “Why, you did more than sew on new buttons, Nora. This is lovely.”
“I’m glad you like it, miss.”
Margaret was very glad, because she had spent far too much time working on it, staying up into the wee hours the last two nights to finish the stitching. She had added a border of trefoils around its hem, contrasting cuffs, and a wide band of the same material at the waist.
Helen looked up at her. “You did all this with only the few coins I gave you?”
“And odds and ends I found in Miss Nash’s old room.”
Helen chuckled. “How strange to hear you say her name when you have never met her.”
“That’s what the others call the room.”
“I suppose they think it odd that I have not engaged another maid?”
Margaret shrugged. “A little.” She hesitated. “May I ask why you have not?”
Helen sat on the dressing room chair and faced her. “You see, Miss Nash was my mother’s maid. Mamma was very fond of her. I was happy to keep her on after Mamma died. But when Miss Nash reached a certain age, she began to sli
p a little. Mentally and physically. She began doing my hair in little girl ringlets and sewing a great many youthful frills and flounces to my gowns. So I convinced her to retire. She will live out her life in a snug cottage on our estate. She was loath to go, but I assured her she had done her duty by me and I no longer needed a maid dedicated solely to my appearance. I had, after all, given up my social life. My days of balls and routs and flirtations were over. Betty could help me dress and pin my hair when needed. If I hired a new lady’s maid, Miss Nash would take it as a slight, I fear. She might come to think it was not that I no longer needed her, but that I no longer wanted her.”
“And did you?”
Helen sighed. “You saw the condition of my frocks? They were not so much better while Miss Nash was still here. She even once scolded me for no longer fitting into my little-girl stays, as though she had only just noticed I had developed a bosom.”
“But Miss Helen . . .”
She waved away Margaret’s argument before she could voice it. “The truth is, I really don’t care. I have no desire to spend a great deal of time on my appearance, or the family’s money on fashion. It simply does not matter to me.”
Margaret was formulating a suitable reply, but Helen cut her off with uncharacteristic defensiveness. “On second thought, I shall wear my old grey gown again. I have no need to dress especially well today.”
“But—”
“That will be all, Nora. You may return to your duties.”
That evening, Margaret stood in her room, gently stretching her weary neck, shoulder, and arm muscles as she waited for Betty to come and unlace her stays. Behind her, the bedchamber door banged open.
“How dare you?”
Margaret spun toward the door, thankful her wig stayed in place.
Fiona stood there, hands on her hips, clearly in high dudgeon.
The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 18