The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

by Julie Klassen

  No one came to mind. “And the masked man—what you could see of him?”

  “He was well-dressed, sir. A gentleman—that I did notice. Medium build. Brown hair. Perhaps five and thirty years of age.”

  Nathaniel considered. Such a description might fit Saxby. Perhaps even Preston, though he was closer to forty. But it wasn’t enough to act upon. Nathaniel asked, “Are there other women . . . other jealous suitors or offended fathers I should know about?”

  The young man reddened. “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  “Couldn’t or won’t?”

  “I don’t like to speak ill of Mr. Lewis. Not when he’s laid low.”

  “I’m not asking you to gossip, Connor. Only to tell me anything that might help me identify the man who shot my brother.” A thought struck Nathaniel. “Can I ask you something? The masked man—would you recognize his voice should you hear it again?”

  The valet hesitated, frowning. “His voice . . . ? I don’t know.”

  “He didn’t happen to speak in a certain, say . . . accent . . . perhaps an upper crust accent, or poetical speech?” He didn’t like to lead Connor but didn’t know how else to pull the information from him. He wanted to know. If Preston had shot his brother, Nathaniel would not rest until he had found him and demanded satisfaction of his own.

  “Poetical, you say?” In the mirror, Connor’s face puckered. “You’re not suggesting that Poet Pirate might have done it?”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  Connor hesitated, considering. “They say he looks and dresses every inch the gentleman, don’t they?”

  “Yes. I know the man, and it is true.”

  The valet’s eyes widened. “Do you indeed, sir?”

  “I’m afraid so. Dashed fiend torched my ship.”

  The razor hovered midair as Connor winced in concentration. “He . . . may have spoken a bit pompous-like. But poetical? I’m not sure. I shall have to think about that, sir. See what I might remember.”

  “You do that.”

  Connor wiped the lingering soap from Nathaniel’s cheek and smoothed on a spicy-smelling balm. “Would you mind, sir, if I looked in on Mr. Lewis myself? I could bring down fresh nightshirts and help the nurse bathe him. Maybe even shave him if she thinks it wouldn’t hurt him.”

  “You certainly may.” Nathaniel felt the slightest flicker of wistfulness. Perhaps he ought to have hired his own valet years ago. “Your thoughtfulness does you credit.”

  Connor shook his head, sheepish. “I just want to do something.”

  Nathaniel nodded. “I understand exactly how you feel.”

  Margaret went through her early morning duties in a haze. She couldn’t believe it. She felt ill at the thought. Who would shoot Lewis Upchurch? Lewis was a flirt, but she could not imagine him challenging anyone to a duel. So what had he done to cause another man to rise up in defense of his honor? Had Lewis insulted the wrong man . . . or the wrong man’s wife, sister, or lover? That she could imagine. Still, she shuddered to think of him hovering near death.

  Margaret went upstairs in hopes of offering Helen some comfort, but when she reached Helen’s room, Betty was just coming out, lips pursed.

  “She’s not there. And her bed hasn’t been slept in either. Spent the night in the sickroom, I’d wager. Poor lamb.”

  Margaret had no appetite, so instead of the servants’ hall for breakfast, she stopped in the stillroom, hoping to talk with cheerful and level-headed Hester. She found Hester bent over her worktable, both hands gripping a scrub brush, bucket of soapy, steamy water nearby. She bent from the waist, using her entire body to push the brush over the surface with grim-lipped vigor, cheeks ruddy from the effort, breath heaving, forearms bulging.

  “Hester . . . ?”

  Hester glanced up but did not cease her motions. “No matter how many times I scrub it, with salt, lye, soap . . . It makes no difference. I can’t get it clean.”

  Margaret had never seen Hester upset before. She touched her shoulder. “Let me have a go. You’re exhausted.”

  Hester nodded gratefully, wiping the heel of her hand over her brow. She leaned against the sideboard while Margaret picked up the brush and resumed scrubbing.

  “Between you and me,” Hester said, “I’ll never be able to roll dough on this table again. I shall always have to cover it with parchment or a tray. No matter how hard I scrub, I still see his blood. Smell it too.”

  “I’m so sorry, Hester. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

  “Awful. Never saw the like before and pray I never do again.”

  “Is there anything else I can do to help?”

  “Just having you to chat with has helped already, Nora. I don’t care what the others say, you’re a bit of sunshine to me.”

  Chagrined, Margaret scrubbed the worktable for a quarter of an hour, then rinsed away the soap and dried it with a clean towel. “Spotless,” she announced.

  “Better,” Hester amended.

  Margaret squeezed Hester’s hand and took her leave, realizing it was almost time for morning prayers. She stepped into the passage and nearly ran into Connor, who was just coming into the stillroom. “Oh! Excuse me.”

  He nodded dully and stepped aside, face pale. He looked as low over the tragedy as Hester herself. But of course he would, witnessing it firsthand, having to drag Mr. Upchurch’s body into a wagon.

  Margaret paused in the passage, listening curiously as Hester greeted the young man in low, comforting tones. “How are you holding up there, Connor?”

  His voice rumbled in low reply, almost a groan.

  “There now. It wasn’t your fault. You mustn’t blame yourself so.”

  Another low reply.

  “Now, don’t you worry. Mr. Lewis may yet recover. You just see if he don’t.”

  Clearly, Margaret was not the only person who sought out Hester for comfort.

  After prayers that morning, Nathaniel followed Clive back out to the stables to speak with him in private. When he returned several minutes later, he sought out Mr. Saxby. He found him in the guest room, overseeing his valet’s efforts in packing too many articles of clothing into too few valises.

  “Give us a moment, will you?” Nathaniel said to the valet.

  With a glance at his master, the slight man bowed and departed.

  When the door closed, Nathaniel said, “I spoke with our groom just now. He verified the approximate time Lewis left the house yesterday morning, his valet with him. He also mentioned that you called for your horse soon after.”

  Saxby shrugged. “So? I was restless and went for a ride.”

  “So early? It isn’t like you.”

  Saxby smirked. “You have no idea what I’m like. But if you must know, I tried to follow Lewis. He called me a liar when I suggested he was seeing a local girl. I thought I would follow him, catch the two together, and prove him the liar. But I never caught up with him.”

  “Then where were you all day yesterday?”

  Saxby’s eyes flashed irritation. “I rode over to Hunton to see my cousin George. I didn’t realize I needed to report my every move to you.”

  Nathaniel studied the man’s heated expression. Yes, there was defensiveness there, but guilt? He did not know.

  Mr. Saxby took his leave later that morning. He stayed long enough to visit Lewis in the sickroom, emerging pale and stricken. He asked to be kept apprised of Lewis’s condition, then bent over Helen’s hand and gave Nathaniel a somber bow.

  “You have my sympathies.”

  From the hall windows, Nathaniel and Helen watched the man walk across the drive and step inside his carriage.

  Staring out the window, Helen said, “Tell me he is going to live.”

  Nathaniel swallowed as he reached over and squeezed his sister’s hand. “He’s going to live.” To himself he added, Lord willing.

  ———

  Dr. Drummond, a longtime family friend, had been away attending at a birth, but he came that afternoon. He examined Lew
is, not only the wound itself, but the rest of Lewis as well. Afterward, he redressed the wound and then took Nathaniel and Helen aside and gave his report.

  “I see no sign of infection setting in. His internal organs—heart and lungs—seem to be functioning normally, which, considering how near the bullet came to damaging both, is a miracle in my book. If you believe in such things.”

  “I do,” Nathaniel replied.

  The physician nodded. “He did sustain a knock to the head when the shot felled him—I found a raised lump, nothing alarming, but a concussion might account for his insensibility. That and, of course, the laudanum Mr. White administered when he removed the bullet. I wouldn’t give him any more laudanum unless he displays signs of distress or discomfort. It is important he lie still to allow his wound to heal, so his insensible state has its benefits. It is sometimes a body’s way of coping with shock and trauma.”

  Before he took his leave, Dr. Drummond left instructions for Nurse Welch, said he would return on the morrow, and asked to be advised if there was any change in Lewis’s condition.

  Nathaniel sat with Helen at Lewis’s bedside that evening, trying to read an agricultural journal but mostly staring at the taper as it burned and guttered. “Did Lewis say anything to you about a woman?”

  “Barbara Lyons, do you mean?”

  He shrugged, knew he was grasping at straws. “Saxby suggested a local woman. But according to the valet, Lewis and Saxby argued over Miss Lyons.”

  Helen lifted her hands. “Lewis made no secret of admiring her. Why do you mention it?”

  He held up the blue ribbon Mrs. Budgeon had found in Lewis’s pocket. “This piece of feminine frippery has me thinking. And Lewis’s valet said he thought the duel was fought over a woman’s honor.”

  A maid entered, head bowed as she maneuvered a tray through the door. She glanced up, and he saw it was Margaret.

  With no pause in conversation, Helen gestured her forward. “But Mr. Saxby is not even engaged to Miss Lyons.”

  Nathaniel watched Margaret approach. “But a gentleman could feel his honor offended should a friend seduce the woman he loves.” Nathaniel thought back to how Lewis had suddenly begun showering Miss Macy with attention after he had begun courting her. Lewis seemed to find other men’s ladies irresistible.

  Margaret set down the tea tray and quietly departed.

  “Lewis would nev—” Helen stopped abruptly, chuckling without mirth. “I was about to say Lewis would never do such a thing, but of course I know better. Still it shames me to say so while he lies so near death.” She choked back a sob. “How I love him.”

  “Of course you do. And so do I. That needn’t mean we are blind to his faults, nor take no recourse against his assailant.”

  “But if it was a duel, fought honorably, a jury isn’t likely to convict the gentleman.”

  “Duels are illegal, and more than one man has hanged for killing another, duel or no.” Nathaniel added, “There’s something else. I spoke with the groom. He mentioned that Saxby called for his horse just after Lewis left that morning.”

  Helen stared at him. “Are you saying you think Mr. Saxby shot Lewis?”

  “No . . . I don’t know. He said he tried to follow Lewis but couldn’t find him so instead rode to Hunton.”

  Nathaniel ran a hand over his face. “The valet says the man wore a mask, dressed like a gentleman, and spoke in a pompous accent. So I suppose it might have been Saxby, but I find myself wondering whether the man who robbed the Ecclesia might have shot Lewis.”

  Helen’s eyes widened. “No.”

  Nathaniel shrugged. “He did threaten to come here and ‘rend the place asunder.’ ”

  “The duel was held only a few hours after our masquerade ball, remember,” Helen said. “Any number of gentlemen might have worn a mask.”

  “I know.”

  “Why would that Preston fellow shoot Lewis? And if he did, why bother with a mask?”

  “I don’t know,” Nathaniel repeated, exasperated. He expelled a deep breath. “I don’t know what to think.”

  Helen said gently, “Until we know more, please don’t report Lewis’s part in this. I don’t want him to face prosecution if . . .” Her voice broke. “Oh, God, I pray he lives.”

  Nathaniel squeezed her hand. “Eventually I shall have to report this to someone in authority, as will Dr. Drummond, most likely. But I shall be careful.”

  If only Lewis would wake up. He could name the man and save them all the trouble. If only Lewis would live, this suffocating dread might lift and Nathaniel could breathe easily again. Dear Lord, please let him live.

  Mrs. Budgeon had assigned Nora the added duty of attending the sickroom, keeping it tidy, serving meals to the chamber nurse, and delivering trays to the family, who now spent so much time there.

  That night, Margaret reached her bedchamber in the attic before she realized she had forgotten to collect the tea things she had delivered to the sickroom a few hours before. She sighed wearily and made her way back downstairs.

  On the ground floor, she quietly tiptoed from the stairwell. When she reached the hall, she glanced across it to the library-turned-sickroom. The door was closed. She wondered if Helen and Nathaniel still kept their vigil or if the chamber nurse, Mrs. Welch, had arrived to relieve them. The door opened, and Margaret paused, stepping back into the shadows behind the grand staircase to let the family pass.

  A man stepped out and closed the door quietly behind him. In a shaft of moonlight, Margaret saw that it was only Connor, Lewis’s valet, toilet case in hand. Her heart squeezed to see the young man tending his master.

  When she stepped into the hall, Connor flinched. “Nora. You startled me.”

  “Sorry.” She smiled apologetically, then whispered, “How is he?”

  He shook his head. “Still hasn’t woken.”

  She pressed his forearm. “You are kind to check on him.”

  “That nurse is in there as well. You needn’t bother.”

  “I forgot to collect the tea things earlier.”

  “Oh.” He nodded his understanding. “I should have done that for you.”

  “Isn’t your job. Now get some sleep.”

  “I’ll try. Good night, Nora.”

  “Good night.”

  She quietly unlatched the door. She was no longer shocked to be entering the room where Lewis Upchurch slept—only shocked that it was now a sickroom.

  The elderly chamber nurse looked up at her entrance and smiled. Mrs. Welch had a kind, wrinkled face framed by a floppy mobcap.

  “How is he?” Nora whispered.

  “The same, my dear. No better, no worse.”

  Margaret picked up the tray. “May I bring you anything before I go to bed?”

  “How kind you are to offer, but I have everything I need.”

  “Good night, then.” She paused a moment, looking down at Lewis. She hated to see him so pale and still.

  She recalled what she’d overheard Helen and Nathaniel discussing earlier when she’d delivered the tray. Nathaniel apparently thought Mr. Saxby might have challenged Lewis to a duel over Miss Lyons. But Miss Lyons had told her friend that Mr. Saxby had broken things off with her before the ball. Should she tell Nathaniel? She hated the thought of him falsely accusing Lewis’s friend.

  After she returned the tray to the kitchen, Margaret went upstairs to the balcony. She hoped to see Mr. Upchurch, to offer her condolences, and perhaps mention what she knew about Mr. Saxby and Miss Lyons.

  Instead, she stared at the North Star alone. Still, she somehow felt closer to Nathaniel on the balcony, empty though it was. There, she prayed for Lewis to live. She prayed for peace for Helen and Nathaniel. She prayed for safety for her family—her mother, sister, and brother.

  She found herself remembering her father’s final hours. The Reverend Mr. Macy had been struck by a runaway coach-and-four when he’d stopped to help a fellow traveler on the road. The surgeon had been summoned, but there was little he c
ould do for such severe internal injuries. Her father lingered a few hours, insensible, before slipping into eternity. Knowing him, he had been ready to meet his Maker. But she had not been ready to lose him.

  “I miss you, Papa,” she whispered, blinking back tears anew.

  A Briton knows . . .

  That souls have no discriminating hue,

  Alike important in their Maker’s view;

  That none are free from blemish since the fall,

  And love divine has paid one price for all.

  —William Cowper, “Charity,” 1782

  Chapter 27

  Here it is, sir. That’s all of it.”

  Nathaniel had asked Connor to go through all the pockets of Lewis’s many coats as well as his other belongings, looking for more clues for the identity of the man, or the woman, behind the duel. After morning prayers the next day, the valet delivered the things he’d found. Nathaniel thanked the young man and dismissed him.

  Sitting at the small morning room table, Nathaniel fingered through the pile of club receipts, opera ticket stubs, and one of Lewis’s own calling cards bearing a “kiss”—the imprint of full lips in red rouge.

  What was he to do with that? Take it about the county and ask all the women he met to pucker until he found a match? Useless.

  He unfolded a piece of paper, a small sheet of stationery, and read.

  Ye cruel, vain, blasted louse

  Detested by all in my house

  How dare ye set yer hands upon her

  Such a sweet innocent girl

  Go somewhere else to seek yer pleasure

  With some other poor pearl.

  Light flashed behind his eyes. His stomach clenched. He wanted to tear the paper to shreds as though the author himself. What shoddy rhyme. What a shoddy waste of paper and ink.

  He read the note again. The words spoke of heartfelt injury. Yet he doubted this “poet” had a heart. One phrase snagged his attention: “a sweet innocent girl . . .” Could it be—had Lewis met and seduced one of Preston’s daughters when he lived in Barbados? Nathaniel shook his head. It didn’t make sense. Lewis had left Barbados more than two years ago. Why now? Yet here was proof before his eyes, if proof it was. He squeezed them shut. He had lost all objectivity in his determination to identify the man who shot Lewis. He hated feeling helpless, unable to do even this for his poor brother.