The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (15 page)

Margaret sat beside Hester in the servants' hall that night, lingering together with several others after supper, enjoying the camaraderie and the chance to sit and relax after a long day's work. Around her, everyone listened with fond amusement as Connor regaled them with tales of his five brothers and younger sister.

“All as ginger-haired as he,” Hester whispered in Margaret's ear.

Connor said, “The first time I went home in my new clothes after I become a valet, no one would come to the door. My own home and they wouldn't answer my knock. Turns out my little sister had seen ‘some fine gentleman' coming up the lane and ran to tell my brothers the bill collector had come to call. I went around the back and found them all huddled in the woodshed, hiding from their own brother!”

Chuckles and grins were exchanged around the room, and Connor beamed a charming smile. Margaret could certainly see why Hester was taken with the young man—as all the maids were.

Lewis had always had that same effect on women, young and old alike.

As Margaret made her way up to her room and prepared for bed, she found herself thinking about him. She recalled the first time she had seen Lewis after his return from Barbados more than two years ago—and the effect he'd had on
her
. . . .

———

Margaret glimpsed a tall dark-haired man striding across the ballroom with such confidence, such presence, that all paused to look. The fact that he was heart-stoppingly handsome caused those looks to linger.

“Who is that?” a debutante near her breathed.

Margaret's friend, Emily Lathrop, followed the direction of their gazes. “That's Lewis Upchurch. Nathaniel Upchurch's older brother.”

Margaret had seen Lewis Upchurch in the past, but he had never taken any notice of her. So while she enjoyed the view, she entertained no thoughts of him beyond surprise at seeing him there.

Margaret turned and looked instead for Nathaniel Upchurch. He saw her at the same moment and crossed the ballroom to meet her, a shy smile on his bespectacled face.

She stepped away from the other young ladies to speak with him. “Good evening, Mr. Upchurch. I see your brother is back. I don't remember your mentioning he planned to return.”

Nathaniel grimaced. “That's because I didn't know. Seems Lewis got bored and decided to return to London without my father's approval.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

“As was I.” He glanced over at the ladies and gentlemen crowding around Lewis, all eager to greet him. “Though we are alone in that sentiment.”

Margaret and Nathaniel danced together twice after that and then he led her to the punch table for a glass of ratafia.

Lewis appeared at his elbow. “Hello, Nate. Do introduce me to this lovely creature you're monopolizing.”

Nathaniel hesitated, then turned to oblige him. “Of course. Miss Margaret Macy, my brother, Lewis Upchurch.”

“But we have met before, Mr. Upchurch,” Margaret said. “Though it was more than a year ago. I don't expect you remember—”

“It can't be,” Lewis protested. “I would have remembered an exquisite face like yours. Do say you'll dance with me.”

Never had Lewis Upchurch looked at her with such admiration, such intensity in his warm brown eyes. It was as though he were seeing her for the first time. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he had never really noticed her amid all the other women forever flocking about him like chattering hens.

Unsettled and bemused by his charming flattery, she faltered, “Oh . . . well, of course. If you like.”

It was only a dance, she told herself. Nathaniel did not own her, nor was it even proper for the two of them to dance more than twice together in the same evening. They were not engaged.

Even so, she did not miss the wariness that flashed in Nathaniel's eyes.

Margaret danced with Lewis twice that night, and at the next ball, and by the next week she allowed him to escort her in to supper in Nathaniel's stead.

Lewis is better looking, a better dancer, more confident, and more exciting,
she justified to herself, overwhelmed by the astounding fact that the man everyone wanted, wanted her.

———

With a sigh, Margaret rolled over in her attic bed, wondering yet again why his interest had not lasted.

In the morning, when the staff again assembled for morning prayers, Lewis Upchurch stood in the hall between his brother and sister for the first time. Lewis, Hester had told her, would be returning to London that very afternoon. He had spent only a few days at Fairbourne Hall, but did plan to return soon. This last word had made Hester's eyes sparkle and brought dimples to her cheeks.

Nathaniel opened the book, then hesitated. He turned to his brother and offered it to him. Lewis waved the offer away, indicating Nathaniel should continue.

Nathaniel did so. He read a brief Scripture and prayed. Margaret liked that instead of reading a prayer by rote every morning, he often uttered prayers of his own invention, crafted in the moment evidently, judging by the screwing up of his face, the occasional pauses, and false starts. Mr. Arnold denounced him a poor cleric. But Nathaniel's earnest informality in prayer, though in little else, reminded Margaret of her father, also denounced a poor cleric by many. Though not by her.

When Mr. Upchurch lifted his head to dismiss them, Lewis stepped forward before he could do so.

“Just a brief announcement . . .” Lewis began.

Beside her, Fiona stiffened in anticipation and Thomas quietly groaned.

“You are probably not aware, but today is Miss Upchurch's birthday. She will ask for no gift for herself and tells me she only wishes that everyone would, in her words, ‘be happy and get along.' ” He shot Nathaniel a telling look, then grinned at his sister. Helen met his glance with a wary one of her own, clearly unsure of his plan.

“In that spirit, and in her honor, I have asked Mr. Hudson to give all of you a half day—this very afternoon, to spend as you please.”

Gasps and exclamations of surprise and delight swept through the assembly. Nathaniel and Helen Upchurch, Margaret noticed, looked as surprised as the rest. Did Lewis not realize what he was doing? How was his sister to enjoy even a decent birthday supper if the entire staff was off duty?

But Helen beamed up at her brother. “That is an excellent notion, Lewis. I could ask for nothing better for my birthday.”

Mrs. Budgeon looked far less pleased. Concerned no doubt about what would be left undone, who would prepare dinner for the staff, not to mention the family, and a whole host of other tasks. She glanced at Mr. Hudson, perhaps seeking an empathetic grimace, but Mr. Hudson rubbed his hands together like a young boy anticipating a treat. The housekeeper rolled her eyes.

Cheerful chatter arose from the staff as they departed in twos and threes like chirpy robins in springtime, talking among themselves, laughing, joking, and hurrying to finish their remaining duties in record time. Only Hester looked deflated. Margaret glanced at Connor and was surprised to see him glaring at his master. Then she understood. For Connor would be leaving with Lewis and unable to share in the afternoon's pleasure.

———

At one, the staff hurried to their rooms in various parts of the house or stable loft to divest themselves of the marks of their servitude—the caps, aprons, and tools of their trade. Some were going off to visit family in the nearby hamlet of Weavering Street or in Maidstone proper. Others had no family in the area but were making plans with one or two companions to go into Maidstone for an afternoon of revelry, shopping, or just enjoying the out of doors. It appeared Miss Upchurch had authorized the use of the wagon and horses to transport anybody who wanted to go into Maidstone. The groom warned that the wagon would leave The Queen's Arms at eight sharp and any latecomers would have themselves a long walk back.

Margaret carried her housemaid's box back to the closet, then started up to her room. She paused on the stairs to retie the laces of her half boot. From below, she heard Fiona and Betty talking as they stowed their own supplies. Apparently they, along with the two young kitchen maids—nieces of Betty's—planned to walk together into Weavering Street to enjoy an unexpected afternoon with family.

Margaret overheard Betty say, “I suppose we should ask her to join us.”

Fiona hissed, “Why? After what she done to you?”

Betty sighed. “I know. I'm with her day in and day out as it is.”

“That's right. You need a respite if anybody does.”

The closet door closed. Betty said tentatively, “But she is new and doesn't know anybody else. I doubt she has anywhere to go.”

Fiona groaned. “Oh, a pox upon you Betty, for yar fun-killing charity. Very well, you ask her. Though I shan't enjoy my half day half so well as I might.”

Ears burning, Margaret hurried upstairs, slipped into her room, and quickly lay on the bed.

A minute later, Betty knocked once and poked her head in the door. “Nora, a few of us are walking into Weavering Street. One of my brothers keeps a little inn there, so there's sure to be plenty of food and foolishness. You're welcome to join us if you like.”

“Thank you, but I think I shall just stay here and rest. Maybe do a bit of reading.”

“But it's a beautiful day.”

Margaret turned on the bed to face her. “Then I shall walk the grounds later. You go on. Have a good time.”

Betty shrugged. “All right, then. I'll come by to unlace your stays before I go to bed.” She hesitated. “If you change your mind, we'll be in the Fox and Goose. Just a half mile or so up the road.”

“Thank you.”

Margaret waited until Betty had shut the door and the passage was quiet, then rose and stepped to her open window. She couldn't see anything, but she could hear distant laughter, whoops, and wagon wheels as the revelers departed, each to their own ideal of relaxation and enjoyment.

Margaret sighed.

Why should it sting? Why should she care? She hadn't wanted to spend time with servants since she was a girl. Why should she now? She was only lonely because she missed her own friends and family. That was all. She wished for the hundredth time she could write to her mother or sister. But a Maidstone postal marking would reveal her whereabouts.

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?”