The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

by Julie Klassen

  The tall case clock struck midnight, but sleep felt far away. Margaret’s spirit was troubled. For Lewis’s sake, for Helen’s, for Nathaniel’s, even for her own, she thanked God Lewis still lived. But something wasn’t right, beyond the fact that Lewis Upchurch had been shot in the first place. It had been three days and he had yet to wake.

  Margaret found herself thinking of all those nights her dear papa had been called away—or had gone on his own initiative—to sit at the bedside of an ailing or dying parishioner. She felt somehow closer to her father, keeping vigil in Lewis Upchurch’s sickroom.

  A creaking door startled her.

  A man whispered, “How devoted she is, sitting by his bedside like a loyal hound.”

  “Mr. Upchurch . . .” she breathed, rising to her feet. Nathaniel lounged against the doorjamb fully dressed, arms crossed. He did not look pleased to see her there.

  She tiptoed to stand near him. She spoke in an accent, and a whisper to avoid waking Mrs. Welch. “I had only come to check on him.”

  “And where is the nurse? Or are you assuming that role as well?”

  “Of course not.” She gestured toward the settee, where the woman lay on her side, a lap rug over her middle. “I couldn’t sleep, while Mrs. Welch clearly does not share that problem.”

  She tentatively grinned, but he did not return the gesture.

  “I hope, Nora, that you do not cherish any . . . romantic notions about my brother.”

  Margaret frowned in surprise. “Why would you say that, sir?” As Nora, she had not knowingly flirted with anyone. Yet Nathaniel had seen them together at the servants’ ball. . . .

  “You would not be the first to do so, nor the last. . . .” He winced. “God willing, not the last.”

  “You needn’t worry, sir. I don’t think of him that way.”

  His gaze pierced hers in the lamplight. “Do you not?”

  Why did she feel like he was asking her, and not Nora the housemaid? She shook her head. “I do not. Besides,” she faltered. “Your brother is . . . That is, I believe another woman has already captured his heart.”

  “Are we speaking of Miss Lyons again?”

  “No, sir. Not a London lady.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  She hesitated. For Lewis’s heart might have had nothing to do with those late-night rendezvous. She felt her cheeks heat at the thought. “I . . . It’s just that . . .”

  “You needn’t protect him, Nora. I am familiar with my brother’s . . . proclivities. But I want to find out who did this.” He gestured toward the unnaturally still figure in the bed. “Anything you can tell me about Lewis’s affairs, so to speak, might be important.”

  She nodded. “It is only that I have seen him come in very early in the morning.”

  “An early ride, perhaps.”

  “No, sir. I mean very early. Five or six o’clock in the morning. As though he’d been out all night.”

  “And what are you doing up so early . . . beyond spying on my brother?”

  “Spying?” She pulled a face. “You forget, sir. While you are still abed, I am up by five thirty, opening shutters and polishing grates.”

  He slowly shook his head. “How you must hate it, having to rise before noon.”

  She lifted her chin. “I have never slept so late, sir. Even before I . . . came here. What must you think of me!”

  His gaze roved her eyes, her face, her cap. “I don’t know what to think of you.”

  Did he look at her with approval or disapproval? It was difficult to tell in the dim light.

  He drew himself up. “It proves nothing. How do you know he had been out all night?”

  “He wears the same rumpled clothes and is in need of a shave.”

  His eyes glinted. “How closely you regard him, to notice such detail.” He paused. “Still, he might have been out with friends, playing cards or some such.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Based on what?”

  How awkward this was. How did one describe the subtle things—not the obvious smell of perfume, nor lip rouge on his cravat. But his warm, tousled look. His smirk of satisfaction. His lack of interest in trifling with her . . .

  “Let us just say feminine intuition.”

  He quirked a brow. “I don’t suppose your feminine intuition can conjure the name of this theoretical female friend?”

  She shook her head. “No, but he comes home on foot through the side door, so she cannot live too far away. Weavering Street, I would suppose. Or Maidstone.”

  He studied her. “And are you jealous of this phantom woman, whoever she is?”

  “Not at all.”

  His eyes narrowed. “I hope you speak the truth.”

  A snort interrupted them. On the settee, Mrs. Welch smacked her lips and muttered something under her breath. The wooden frame creaked as she struggled to sit up.

  Nathaniel shook his head and, with an empathetic grimace, slipped from the room. Margaret guessed he hoped to spare the woman the embarrassment of being found asleep on duty. She hesitated, surprised to realize she thought so charitably, so highly, of Nathaniel Upchurch now. Had he changed since her arrival, or had she?

  “What? Who’s there?” Mrs. Welch murmured. “I was only restin’ me eyes.”

  “It’s all right, Mrs. Welch. It’s only me, Nora.”

  “Ohhh.” The old woman exhaled in relief. “Forget the tea tray again, did you?”

  Margaret smiled to herself. “That’s it. Good night.”

  Hudson left early the next morning to return to London. In his absence, Nathaniel made the rounds of the estate on his own, but he did not tarry, unwilling to leave his brother for too long. Later, Nathaniel sat at the desk in the library reading correspondence and scouring newspapers for further reports on the slave revolt and its aftermath. Helen had yet to join him.

  Now and again he looked across the room at his brother lying so still in the transplanted sickbed. He liked to be near Lewis. Keep him company in this way, even if Lewis was unaware of his presence. Four days and he still hadn’t wakened.

  The under butler, Arnold, appeared in the doorway and coughed. “Sir, there is a Mr. Tompkins to see you. I’ve put him in the morning room.”

  Tompkins? Was that not the name of the runner who had already questioned Hudson?

  Nathaniel rose. “I’ll see him there.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  The man who stood when Nathaniel entered the morning room was short, slight, and bald. He was perhaps thirty or five and thirty, not old enough to have lost all his hair naturally. Nathaniel fleetingly wondered if he shaved his head and why he would do so. The skin of his face was smooth, his brows giving evidence of hair that would be brown, had he any to show.

  “Mr. Nathaniel Upchurch, I presume.”

  “Yes.”

  “John Tompkins.” The man offered neither hand nor bow. “I have a few questions to put to you, sir, if you don’t mind.”

  “And if I do?”

  “Well, sir”—his eyes glinted—“then I might think you had something to hide. And we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

  Nathaniel crossed his arms. “I have nothing to hide, personally, but nor do I want my family’s business bandied about the county. Who sent you?”

  “I am not at liberty to say.”

  Nathaniel was tempted to refuse to answer the man’s questions but tried another tack. “A pity, for I would be happy to share your employer’s expense. For you see, I too am very interested to learn who shot my brother.”

  “You assume that’s why I am here, sir?”

  Nathaniel frowned. “My steward told me you were here yesterday asking about it.”

  “Ah.” Tompkins nodded his understanding.

  Nathaniel regarded him. “Perhaps I might hire you to reveal the name of the person employing you?”

  Tompkins grinned. “Ah. That’s a good one, sir. But I’m afraid I’ve got my hands full at present.”


  Nathaniel said, “One wonders how the matter came to the attention of someone in London—where I assume whoever hired you lives, you being a Bow Street man.”

  The small man regarded him, eyes alight. “Perhaps you ought to consider a career in detection, sir. You have a gift for it.”

  Nathaniel shrugged.

  “Have you any idea who might have done it?” Tompkins asked.

  “What, me do your job for you?” Nathaniel smirked. “Actually, I do have several ideas.”

  “Thought you might,” the man said wryly.

  Nathaniel had been thinking about what Margaret had told him, but he was not ready to dismiss Saxby as a suspect yet. He said, “I don’t like to malign anyone without proof, but I have heard from several sources that the fight was over a woman.”

  “Usually is. Who are these ‘sources,’ if I may ask?”

  “A friend of Lewis’s, a housemaid who saw him returning after being out all night, and his own valet.”

  “Might that friend be Piers Saxby, sir?”

  Nathaniel hesitated, surprised. It had crossed his mind that Saxby might have hired Tompkins, but would the runner name him if he had? In either case, Nathaniel felt no obligation to protect Saxby. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”

  Tompkins shrugged. “I have already spoken to Mr. Saxby about . . . well, several items.”

  “What items?”

  “Oh, you know,” Tompkins said casually, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “About that brawl between you and your brother in Mayfair, which he witnessed, as did so many shocked ladies and gents. Such threats. Such violence. But then you know all about that, so I won’t bore you.”

  Nathaniel gritted his teeth. “If you have spoken to Saxby, then I trust he told you all about his feud with Lewis over one Miss Lyons?”

  “Miss Lyons?” The man’s endless brow furrowed. “I don’t recall him mentioning that lady by name. Though several others did enter the conversation, including a Miss Macy.”

  Nathaniel stilled. Knowing Tompkins was watching him carefully, he attempted to retain a neutral expression, though inwardly alarm bells sounded. Miss Macy—what has she to do with it?

  “Did you and your brother not ‘feud’ over that young lady at one time?”

  Is that what he was getting at? Nathaniel wondered. “That was years ago.”

  “Still, resentments left to fester often lead to violence in the end.”

  Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “I did not shoot my brother, Mr. Tompkins. I was here, in the house, when they brought him in by wagon.”

  “So your Mr. Hudson said.”

  “You don’t believe him? Then ask my sister. Besides, do you not think Lewis’s valet would have recognized me, masked or not, had I been the man?”

  “Recognized maybe. Reported? Not likely. Servants—and sisters for that matter—are so dashed loyal, I find. Makes ferreting out the truth, as well as other hidden . . . things, quite difficult.”

  Nathaniel felt his temper rising but held his tongue.

  “Any other ideas?” Tompkins asked, clearly humoring him.

  “You have heard, I trust, of the thief who calls himself the Poet Pirate?”

  “Indeed I have, sir. There is quite a reward offered for his capture.”

  “I know.” Nathaniel said dryly. “I am the man who offers that reward.”

  Tompkins appeared skeptical, nearly amused. “You don’t expect me to believe the Poet Pirate did this?”

  “Why not? The man’s real name by the way is Abel Preston. He burnt my ship and stole from me—why not shoot my brother?”

  He felt the man’s amused condescension. How desperate to throw off suspicion he must appear. He thought of mentioning Sterling Benton—how Lewis had provoked the man by threatening to elope with his moneyed stepdaughter. But he decided against it.

  Tompkins shook his head. “I shall take it under advisement, sir. But while I’m here, I would like to speak to the valet and that housemaid you mentioned. What was her name?”

  Nathaniel wished he had never mentioned her, but refusing to name her now would only make them both seem suspect. “Her name is Nora, though I doubt she can tell you any more than I have.” He frowned at the man. “I am surprised you did not speak to Lewis’s valet during your first call. As he is the only known witness to the events of that morning, I would have thought interviewing him your first priority.”

  For the first time, the implacable man looked ill at ease. “I . . . take your point, sir. An oversight I shall redress promptly, if you would be so good as to arrange such an interview.”

  “Very well, I shall send him in directly.” Nathaniel turned. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he had successfully diverted Mr. Tompkins’s attention from a certain housemaid. At the door, he turned back. “If you learn the identity of my brother’s assailant, I should very much like to know.”

  The man’s eyes glinted. “I am sure you would, sir.”

  His knowing smirk irritated Nathaniel, but he thought it wiser not to display the temper that had already made him a suspect in someone’s eyes.

  Margaret came in the servants’ entrance with Fiona. The Irishwoman carried a basket of fresh laundry from the washhouse, while Margaret carried a bundle of chrysanthemums—the last of the season, Mr. Sackett had said.

  “Nora.”

  Margaret looked up. Connor stood there in the passage, his skin pale and glazed with sweat.

  She stopped where she was. “What is it?”

  “There’s a man wants to speak to you. In the morning room.”

  “Who?”

  “A Mr. Tompkins. He’s looking into Mr. Lewis’s . . . situation.”

  Confusion snaked through her. “Does Mr. Upchurch know?”

  He nodded. “He’s the one who sent for me. Tompkins said he wanted to speak with me first, then you.”

  She knew Nathaniel was eager to learn the identity of the other man involved. But even so she was surprised he thought she had any information to offer.

  She placed a hand on Connor’s arm. “I am sorry you had to go through that again.”

  He nodded, eyes downcast, and took his leave.

  Fiona shifted the basket to one hip and held out her hand for the flowers. “I’ll take them to the stillroom and put them in water for ya.”

  “Thank you, Fiona.”

  Margaret walked upstairs, through the servery, and past the dining room toward the front of the house. She felt her hands perspiring and wiped them on her apron. She had no reason to be nervous, she told herself. But her accelerating pulse paid her no heed.

  She stepped inside the morning room, hands clasped before her. The man sat at the modest table, bald head dipped over the tea someone had brought him. Betty or Mrs. Budgeon most likely.

  He looked up, and her nerves gave a little start. Did she know him? Or was it just the surprise of his youthful unlined face beneath the incongruous bald head?

  He set down his cup and rose. “Nora, is it?”

  She nodded.

  He gestured toward one of the other chairs around the table. “Won’t you be seated?”

  She sat primly on the edge of the chair across the table from his, posture erect, hands clasped in her lap. If he looked familiar to her, might she look familiar to him?

  He resumed his seat. “And what is your surname, if I may ask?”

  “Garret.”

  With a stubby drawing pencil, he jotted her name in a small notebook. “Nora Garret. And how long have you been in service here?”

  “A few months now.”

  One sable eyebrow rose. “A newcomer, then. Have there been any other new arrivals to the house?”

  “Besides Mr. Hudson, you mean?”

  He nodded, adding, “And not necessarily among the servant ranks.”

  She shook her head. “Only me, sir.”

  “And where were you before that?”

  She shifted on her chair and primed her tongue to deliver her best working-
class accent. “London, sir. But wha’ has that to do with Mr. Lewis? Is that not why you’ve come?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Why, Connor, sir.”

  He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, regarding her. “London, you say? Perhaps that is why you seem familiar. I may have seen you there.”

  She swallowed. “Perhaps. Though London is an awful big place.”

  He nodded vaguely. “So, working behind the scenes here, I imagine you’ve learnt quite a lot about the Upchurch family. Their comings and goings. Their affections and arguments. What they are capable of.”

  “A bit. Though maids don’t mix with the family much, do they?”

  “Don’t they? You tell me.”

  “I did see Lewis Upchurch coming in a few times early of a morning, as though he’d been out all night. That’s why I thought maybe he had a lady friend nearby. I assume Mr. Upchurch mentioned it and that’s why you’ve asked to see me?”

  He studied her through narrowed eyes. “I’m not really certain anymore.”

  Keeping his focus on her, he withdrew something from his coat pocket and laid it on the table beside his saucer.

  She felt her gaze drawn to it, and her heart lurched. It was a framed miniature portrait—her portrait. The very one Sterling had shown to the staff weeks ago. She schooled her expression, hoping her anxiety was not as apparent as it felt. She lifted her gaze from the portrait to the man’s face, forcing her features into placid unconcern.

  He looked away first but not before she remembered where she had seen the man before. He had been at Emily Lathrop’s house when she’d gone there with Joan. The runner who’d ridden up and spoken to Sterling and Mr. Lathrop on the stoop.

  He said, “You have heard, perhaps, that Nathaniel Upchurch once courted a certain young lady, only to have her spurn him in favor of his elder brother?”