The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (29 page)

A throat cleared to their left. Both Margaret and Mr. Hudson turned their heads, and she was surprised and chagrined to find Nathaniel Upchurch standing in the library doorway.

Hudson winced. “Forgive us, sir. We meant no harm. Only deciding that this portrait doesn't do you justice. Is that not right, Nora?”

Margaret ducked her head, nodding stiffly.

Nathaniel crossed his arms. “And what do you find lacking?”

She hoped he was addressing Mr. Hudson, but glancing up, she found Nathaniel's piercing eyes riveted on her. She squirmed. “Na—nothing, sir. Only that, in reality, you are more . . . That is, you have changed. . . . In appearance, I mean, and . . .”

He said dryly, “Are you suggesting I have improved with age?”

She swallowed. “Yes, actually.” She dared add, “A smile might improve your looks all the more.”

He frowned. “I have had little cause to smile of late.”

Hudson looked from one to the other. “Well, we shall have to work on that, Nora, shan't we.” He chuckled and blithely winked at her.

Under Nathaniel's unwavering stare, Margaret's cheeks heated. She murmured, “Yes, sir,” and excused herself, fleeing to safety belowstairs.

It was after midnight when Nathaniel walked through the upstairs sitting room on his way to the balcony. He could not sleep and hoped the crisp night air would help clear his head. His mind would not stop spinning with questions. What to do about his damaged ship, his brother, his sister, his housemaid . . .

Almighty God, make clear to me my path. Help me to do your will.

He pushed open the balcony door and stepped outside. A gasp startled him, and he tensed to full alert, as though “Pirate” Preston had just leapt over the railing.

But the figure at the far end of the balcony was no criminal. A threat? Yes, she certainly was that.

“Beg pardon, sir.” Nora—Margaret—ducked her head and stepped back from the railing.

He said, “No need to rush off on my account.”

“But you will want your solitude. I should not be here.”

He supposed that was true. But he was suddenly eager she remain. Had he so soon forgotten his determination to avoid the pain of her presence like the plague itself?

“Please stay,” he said.

Apparently he had.

She hesitated, then turned and gripped the railing once more.

He was relieved she did not ask why. His only answer could have been,
“Because I am a fool.”

She looked up, at the stars he supposed, or perhaps simply to avoid his gaze.

“That's the North Star.” He pointed. “The bright one there. Do you see it?”

She followed his finger. “Yes.”

“How many nights I looked for her on the voyage home. A favorite lady with our sailing master.”

She nodded but was silent. He assumed he had failed to engage her in conversation.

But a moment later she asked quietly, “Did you enjoy the sea, sir?”

Satisfaction. “I did, though my return was not without its losses.”

He felt her gaze, and looked over to find her watching him, brows quirked in expectation. She wore her spectacles, but he noticed her customary dark fringe was missing. Instead, her cap was pulled down low, her hair tucked up in it. Even so, she looked more like herself without all that dark hair around her face.

He asked, “Do your spectacles help you see things in the distance—like those stars?”

She looked back up at the stars, then tucked her chin to look over the top of the lenses. “Yes.”

“I used to wear spectacles most of the time, until I realized all I really needed them for was reading and close work.”

She nodded, then asked quietly, “You spoke of losses?”

He grimaced. “We were attacked at the docks by a man we knew in Barbados. Calls himself the Poet Pirate nowadays. Wasn't terribly poetic of him to rob and burn my ship.”

She shook her head in sympathy. “Mr. Hudson mentioned it. How sorry I was to hear it.”

“That's why I was insensible the night Hudson drove the coach and lost his way. He'd taken me to a nearby surgeon the customs house recommended. The man dressed my wounds and was overly generous with the laudanum.”

She nodded her understanding once more.

Studying her profile, he asked quietly, “And how did you lose
your
way? How did you end up near the docks, then in Maidstone?”

“Tryin' to avoid trouble, I suppose.”

“What sort of trouble?”

She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.

“Were you . . . let go, for some reason? I promise it shall not jeopardize your situation here.”

“It wasn't anything like that, sir. What I mean is . . . One of the men in the house, he made things . . . difficult for me.”

“Difficult, how?”

She fidgeted, then whispered, “I'd rather not say.”

“Had you no recourse, no friend or relative to protect you?”

She shook her head, once again staring up at the stars. “I found myself thinkin' of Joseph. When Potiphar's wife tried to seduce him, he fled, didn't he? He ran and ran fast without thinkin' ahead to the consequences, without lookin' back.”

“So that's what you did.”

She nodded.

He grinned wryly. “Joseph ended up in prison, you know.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “I forgot that part.”

“I trust Fairbourne Hall is a better fate than prison. You are treated with respect, I hope?”

“Yes, sir, that is . . .” She faltered, began again. “Everyone on staff has been very kind.”

He stiffened at her hesitation. Had Lewis trifled with her? “Miss—Nora. If anyone dares . . . If anyone bothers you, you must not hesitate to tell me. At once. I will”—
kill the man—
“reprimand severely any man who mistreats you. Do you understand?”

Tears filling her eyes, she nodded, but did not speak.

Dash it.
“I'm sorry. I . . . didn't mean to upset you.”
What an idiot I am.

She shook her head. “I'm fine. My hardships are little to yours. Is your ship lost completely?”

He sighed, looking up. “No, but the costs to repair it will be higher than that star.”

“I'm sorry, sir.” She hesitated. “Was her name . . . the
Ecclesia
?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It was the name on your model ship.” She looked sheepish about breaking it over again.

“Ah. Yes—
Ecclesia.
Latin for ‘church.' ”

“Clever.”

“I once thought so. But I don't think myself very clever these days.”

Her profile was painfully familiar by moonlight as she gazed up at the night sky. He was tempted to reveal that he knew who she was, ask why she was hiding, and offer to help her. But would she be mortified to be discovered in such a humbling role? Would she thank him or curse him for exposing her?

He bit his tongue. Why should he want to help her? Had she not proven herself fickle and shallow? But somehow, looking at her now, he saw none of those traits. He saw a shadow of the loneliness he felt inside himself. A quiet desperation to fix something broken. He knew what was broken in his life—his family's finances, his ship, his sister's heart . . . and his own. But what was broken in Miss Macy's life, and how did running away fix it?

He decided to bide his time. “Nora. You came to our aid—Hudson's and mine—and I am grateful. If there is any way we . . . I . . . can return the favor, you need only ask.”

She looked over at him, pale eyes wide and silvery in the moonlight. She opened her mouth as though to respond, to confide in him, but instead pressed her lips together. Lips he had longed to kiss for years . . . and heaven help him, still did. Warmth swept through him at the thought of the kiss they had shared, at least in his dreams.

She whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Upchurch.” Once again she hesitated, then dipped her head. “And now I shall bid you good-night.”

She had forgotten to use a working class accent in her final words, but he made no comment. He liked hearing her voice. Her real voice. “Good night, Nora.”

In his mind, he added,
“Good night, Margaret.”

The steward supervised the duties of the entire
household, hiring and firing other servants, paying
their wages and controlling expenditure.

—Giles Waterfield and Anne French,
Below Stairs

Chapter 22

I
n the morning, Nathaniel stopped by Hudson's office to speak to him. “I have a project for you, Hudson. If you don't mind another trip to London.”

“Not at all, sir.”

Nathaniel studied his friend. “That was quick. And eager. Find the life of a house steward confining, do you?”

“A bit of getting used to, sir,” he said diplomatically. “Not that I'm complaining.”

“I don't blame you.” Nathaniel could have gone to London himself, but he was reluctant to leave Fairbourne Hall so soon after returning.
Who am I fooling?
he asked himself. It was perfectly obvious he was reluctant to leave Margaret. He pulled the door closed behind him and cleared his throat. “It's a bit of a . . .
private
project.”

Hudson leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the desk.

Nathaniel began, “I want you to find out everything you can about a Marcus Benton, and while you're at it, Sterling Benton, of Berkeley Square, Mayfair.”

Hudson did not blink a lash. “The man who came here looking for his stepdaughter?”

Nathaniel nodded.

“What am I looking for, sir?”

Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “I don't know exactly. Financial situation, family relations, unexplained absences, anything . . . unusual.” He took another deep breath, contemplating how much to tell the man. He trusted Hudson implicitly, but there was no reason he needed to know—not yet, at any rate—just whom he had hired in the position of housemaid.

Hudson considered the request. “Do I take it you believe the stepfather has something to do with this, em . . . ?”

“Miss Macy.”

“Miss Macy's disappearance?”

“It is only suspicion at present.”

“What about the girl? She may have run off of her own accord. Shall I investigate her whereabouts as well?”

“I don't think that necessary.”

Hudson cocked his head to one side, studying him. “May I ask, sir, how you are acquainted with Miss Macy?”

“No, Hudson. You may not.”

Mrs. Budgeon kept a stack of writing paper in the servants' hall, free for anyone who wished a piece or two to write home. Margaret wondered again if she ought to write to her friend Emily. A defensive measure. When she learned that evening that Mr. Hudson was returning to London once again, she saw it as a definite sign that she should.

My dear Emily,

You have no doubt heard that I have gone away. I know that you, my dearest friend, would never assume the worst. Still, I thought I should write to you, so you will not fret about me. I did send a letter to Mamma—did she tell you? If she has not, then I fear it may have gone astray and never made it into her hands. I hope this letter fares better.

Nothing dire has befallen me. I have not been kidnapped, nor have I eloped, nor have I been compromised—even if cruel gossips are tempted to bandy such nonsense about. (Not you, of course, dear Emily.)

The truth is that I no longer felt safe living under the same roof as Marcus Benton. You know his uncle had been pressuring us to marry, and Marcus had become quite desperate to convince me or compel me by any means necessary—with his uncle's blessing, no less. Perhaps you will not believe me, or think my estimation of my charms puffed up and my worries foolish fancy. But trust me when I tell you my fears were very real and justified.

I don't expect you to defend me to fickle society nor to the world at large, but I did want you to know, dear loyal friend, that I am well and safely hidden for now.

Yours sincerely,
Margaret Macy

“Mr. Hudson?” Margaret's heart beat fast the next morning when she stepped into the steward's office. Perhaps she ought to have asked Miss Helen to act as her intermediary again, but she didn't want to press the issue of her identity with the woman, who seemed determined to carry on the ruse for some reason of her own. She hoped Mr. Hudson would not refuse her—or worse, show the letter to Nathaniel Upchurch. He would surely recognize the name and wonder how his housemaid knew Emily Lathrop—closest friend of Margaret Macy. He might easily put two and two together and her secret would be revealed—and her safe hiding place gone with it.

“Yes, Nora?”

“I understand you are traveling to London this afternoon?”

“I am.”

“I wonder if you might do something for me. I don't want to presume, but—”

“What is it, Nora?” His lips tightened a bit, perhaps anticipating an unreasonable request.

“I was hoping you could post this letter for me. From London.”

“I could post it from Maidstone on my way. . . .”

“From London, if you please.” She hurried to add, “It is bound for London, you see, and will arrive all the quicker.”

“Ah.” He held out his hand. “You do know, Nora, that whoever receives this letter will have to pay the postage.”

“I know, sir.” She placed the letter into his waiting palm.

He glanced down at the direction, brows furrowed, and for a moment she feared he recognized the name. Then his dark expression lifted. Had he perhaps expected a letter to a young man, and did not relish being party to some illicit communication?

He said, “I trust Miss Emily Lathrop will find the postage no hardship?”

“No hardship, sir.”

“Very well, Nora.”

Relief washed over her. She smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

Nathaniel stepped from his room, hat and gloves in hand, and Jester at his heel. He needed to go into town to take care of a brief errand. In the corridor, he saw Helen in her bedroom doorway, speaking in low tones to Margaret, who wore bonnet and shawl. He wondered idly where she had been. He skirted the women to avoid interrupting their conversation.

Helen called him back. “Nathaniel, are you driving into Maidstone?”

He turned. “Yes.”

“Good. Would you mind taking Nora to the modiste's on Bank Street?”

Nathaniel considered. He had already asked for the dogcart to be brought around, so a passenger would be no problem. He enjoyed driving the small sporting carriage, harnessed to a sturdy Cleveland bay. And Jester could ride along as well, which the dog seemed to relish. Best of all, while he was in the bank, no one would be tempted to steal a carriage with a wolfhound sitting watch.

He said, “If you like. I am headed to the county bank very near there.”

“Are you?” Helen's wide eyes were all innocence. “How convenient, then.”

Nathaniel slanted her a narrow glance. Was his sister up to something?

———

Feeling self-conscious, Margaret followed Mr. Upchurch downstairs and outside, remaining several paces behind him. A small carriage with two tall wheels waited on the drive, harnessed to a single horse.

Nathaniel said to the groom, “The housemaid is going along on an errand for Miss Upchurch.”

Clive lowered the tailboard and gave her a boost up while Nathaniel climbed onto the front bench and took the reins. Jester leapt in behind Nathaniel's seat, and off they went. How strange it felt to be riding on the back of a vehicle driven by Nathaniel Upchurch.

They passed through Weavering Street and followed the road into town. Around them, men wielded scythes in lush golden fields, finishing up the harvest. Margaret tipped her face to the mild sunshine and breathed in the crisp autumn air. Behind her, Jester took in the passing countryside, tongue lolling, eyes at blissful half-mast in the brisk breeze.

Several minutes later, they rumbled into Maidstone and turned down Bank Street. In front of the ladies' shop, Margaret alighted.

Mr. Upchurch looked down from his bench. “How long do you need?”

“Not long. Perhaps . . . twenty or thirty minutes?”

He nodded. “I shall collect you here in half an hour's time.”

She stepped inside the modiste's. From the shop window, she wistfully watched Nathaniel tip his hat to an elderly matron and return the wave of a passing lad as he drove off toward the bank.

Margaret made quick work of selecting the face powder and new rouge Miss Upchurch wanted. Helen had asked her to purchase the items rather than prepare them in the stillroom. She didn't want the servants speculating about her sudden interest in cosmetics.

Half an hour later, Mr. Upchurch halted the cart in front of the shop as arranged. She hopped up on the tailboard, reminding herself that a servant would not expect her master to assist her.

He glanced back to make sure she was settled, then told his horse to walk on.

She noticed he turned down an unfamiliar street—taking a different route home. A few minutes later, the road curved to follow a narrow mill leat. Accelerating around the bend, the cart wheel hit a deep hole, and Margaret suddenly felt herself thrust off the tailboard. For one second, a midair weightlessness tingled through her stomach. She gave a little shriek and landed in a bone-rattling thud on the hard road.

Jester barked a warning.

Vaguely she heard Mr. Upchurch call a “Whoa” to the horse some distance ahead. Blood roared in her ears and pain shot from hip to leg. She drew in a ragged breath as stars danced before her eyes.

Jester bounded over and licked her cheek.

Nathaniel jogged to her side. “Are you all right?” Alarm rang in his voice—more than the slight accident called for.

She looked up at him from her unladylike sprawl, gathering her skirts and parcels and trying to sit up.

“Wait. Be still. Jester, down.” He frowned in concern. “Is anything broken, do you think?”

“I . . .” Mentally she surveyed her body. Hip throbbing. Palm burning. Head spinning. Though the latter might be caused by Nathaniel Upchurch's nearness.

“I've had the wind knocked out of me, that's all,” she murmured. “I'm fine, really.” She tried in vain to push herself to her feet.