The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (18 page)

With a sigh, she returned to her work. Bending to pick up the fallen book, she glanced at it and saw that it was a volume of poetry. Robert Burns. A corner of some paper, a card perhaps, protruded from between its pages like a child sticking out his tongue. It had likely been jarred loose during the fall. Something about the paper snagged her attention. She wondered what poem Nathaniel Upchurch deemed worthy of marking. She slid her fingernail to the spot near the back of the book and opened the pages to see what it was.

She stared. Blinked. Felt her brows furrow. Poem forgotten, she turned the rectangle of thick parchment to right the image upon it. Studied it through her spectacles, then again beneath the lenses. Yes . . . It was definitely what she thought it was. An intermingled flush and chill ran over her body.

How strange that he had kept this small amateur watercolor. She did not recall giving it to him. Did he not know it was by her hand? Perhaps he had stuck it into the volume to mark some place long ago and had completely forgotten about it, and when he found it later did not remember the artist was the very woman who had spurned him, the woman he despised. Surely he would not have kept it had he remembered.

The painting was one of her better attempts but nothing of any value, monetary or sentimental, surely. It was only a pretty watercolor of Lime Tree Lodge, idealized no doubt, ivy climbing its walls, clematis cascading down its trellis, the garden adrift in honeysuckle blossoms and daffodils, their white cat, Claude, lying across the front steps. The only person in the painting was a young woman in a yellow frock, sitting on a swing at the side of the house, facing away, revealing only a glimpse of profile beneath the white bonnet. She had imagined Caroline as the figure swinging in the side yard, but now that she thought about it, she had owned a yellow frock at some point, whilst Caroline had not.

She was tempted to keep the painting. It was hers, after all. And how she would love to have this reminder of Lime Tree Lodge. Of better days.

But she dared not. She could not risk him missing it, and wondering why this old painting by Margaret Macy had gone missing so soon after the arrival of a new housemaid.

When Nathaniel returned to his room later that evening, he picked up the volume of Burns poetry he'd discarded earlier. From it, he extracted the small watercolor of Lime Tree Lodge—the last thing he had rescued from his burning ship. He wondered why he insisted on torturing himself. Still, he allowed the memory to come.

———

Nathaniel had met the Reverend Mr. Stephen Macy at a debate sponsored by the African Institution. The topic was immediate vs. gradual emancipation after slaves were first educated for freedom.

There had been several distinguished speakers on both sides of the debate, but Nathaniel found himself most moved by the simple, heartfelt plea of a clergyman from a neighboring county. Mr. Macy called for immediate freedom, declaring souls had no color, and that everyone was equally important to God, whose son died to purchase freedom for all.

Nathaniel did not agree with everything the man said, but his heart was touched. Looking back now, he realized Mr. Macy had planted a seed in him, which would not come to fruition until after he had lived in Barbados and seen the atrocities of slavery with his own eyes.

After the debate adjourned, Nathaniel introduced himself to Mr. Macy. The reverend accepted his hand, and even his disagreement, gracefully. In fact, he invited Nathaniel to call on him at his home when next he traveled that way.

A ride to his uncle Townsend's took Nathaniel into Sussex later that fall. Nathaniel decided he would take Mr. Macy up on his offer. The village of Summerfield was not large, and by asking the blacksmith, Nathaniel was quickly able to locate Lime Tree Lodge.

What a picture the cottage made. Two stories of golden stone hung with ivy and capped by a slate roof. Beautiful old trees bordered the property and a stone fence surrounded a garden awash in autumn color.

Nathaniel sat astride his horse across the lane, partially hidden by a large willow, taking in the scene and wondering whether or not to intrude. A gig and single grey clattered into view and Nathaniel recognized Stephen Macy at the reins. Beside him sat a young woman with fair hair. Adoration lit her face as she laughed at something Mr. Macy said. She kissed his cheek and leapt from the gig before it came to a complete stop. Loping to the tree swing in the side yard, she began swinging with energetic pleasure more youthful than her years. He felt himself smiling, and his heart lighten at the sight.

A much younger girl and boy ran out from the cottage. The young woman jumped from the swing, landing neatly, and surrendered her seat, pushing first one sibling and then the other.

Stephen Macy appeared beside Nathaniel's horse, mouth quirked and amusement in his eyes. “Do you plan to sit there all afternoon and enjoy the view, or are you coming inside?”

“Ah. Sorry, sir. Wanted to give you time to settle before I knocked.”

Stephen Macy looked over the stone fence at his three offspring. “That's my eldest, Margaret. We just returned from parish calls. She's a treasure, as are my younger children. I am a blessed man.”

“I see that, sir.”

Mr. Macy regarded him. “Nathaniel, wasn't it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“My wife is not at home, but do come in and join me for tea.”

“I don't wish to intrude.”

“Not a bit of it. Come. Arthur will see to your horse.”

A few minutes later they sat down together in a cozy parlor. An elderly housekeeper brought in a tray laden with biscuits and tarts and every good thing.

The young blond woman stepped into the room and hesitated at seeing him. “I'm sorry, Father. I did not realize you had a guest.”

“Come join us, my dear. This is Nathaniel Upchurch. Mr. Upchurch, my daughter Margaret.”

Nathaniel rose and bowed. “Miss Macy.”

She curtsied. “Mr. Upchurch.”

At closer range, the young woman looked familiar. Nathaniel said, “I believe I have seen you before, Miss Macy. In London, during the season?”

“Have you?” Self-conscious, she touched her windblown hair and dipped her unpowdered face. “I am surprised you recognize me; I must look a fright.”

“Not at all.”

Her face was still rosy from the carriage ride and exertion of the swing. In his view, this Margaret Macy was far more appealing than the powdered, perfectly coiffed lady of the ballroom. She looked unaffected, spirited, and breathtakingly beautiful. Had her father not been in the room he likely would have said so.

Margaret joined the men for tea, sitting ramrod straight and clearly uncomfortable. But her father's teasing soon cajoled her into laughing at herself and at him. Then he went to work on Nathaniel, regaling his daughter with an exaggerated account of catching Nathaniel “spying” over their garden wall.

Nathaniel could not remember when he had enjoyed a visit more. By the time he departed charming Lime Tree Lodge a few hours later, he had determined to stay in contact with Mr. Macy. And to court his beautiful daughter.

After Easter the following spring, Nathaniel and Helen packed up and moved to London for the social season. They believed their brother Lewis would not be joining them that year. He had sailed to the West Indies at their father's behest the previous summer. James Upchurch found it expedient to live in Barbados the majority of the time for the management of his affairs. He had summoned his elder son to join him there, hoping to detach him from unsavory connections at home.

At the first ball of the new season, Nathaniel saw Miss Macy and immediately requested a dance. She happily agreed, and the two began a courtship that lasted for many weeks. She seemed to enjoy his company, allowed him to escort her in to supper, and received him with pleasure when he paid the requisite call the next morning. All seemed to be going swimmingly.

But then Lewis returned.

———

Nathaniel slid the watercolor back into the book and closed it with a snap. He had no wish to think about what had happened after that.

In 1770, a British law was proposed to
Parliament granting grounds for annulment if a
bride used cosmetics prior to her wedding day.

—Marjorie Dorfman, “The History of Make-up”

Chapter 14

I
n Helen Upchurch's room a few days later, Margaret lifted the lid from a partially used jar of cold cream pomatum and inspected its contents. The cream had an unusual greyish cast. She took a tentative sniff and jerked her head back. Rancid. How long had it been since Helen had any new cosmetics? No wonder she used the soap made right there in the Fairbourne Hall stillroom, drying to a lady's complexion though it was.

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?”

“Thank 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.