The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (31 page)

Helen's brow furrowed. “What? But how . . . ?”

Lewis grinned. “I believe I
may
have hinted that I knew where she was . . . and planned to elope with her or some such. I don't remember exactly, for I had kept pace with that solicitor in all those drinks, sorry to say.”

“Lewisss . . .” Helen scolded.

Lewis waved away the lecture before she could begin. “I'd wager he doesn't care a whit about the girl, just wants to keep the money in the family. Stab me, I'm half tempted to find the chit and marry her myself. I wouldn't have to live on the meager allowance Nate wants to leash me to—”

“Don't.” Nathaniel bit out the single syllable.

Lewis regarded him, one brow raised. “Why not? Want a second shot at her yourself, do you?”

Helen laid a hand on Nathaniel's forearm. Had she not been there, Nathaniel knew he would probably have lost control and punched his brother again.

Instead he gritted his teeth and warned, “Don't trifle with Sterling Benton, Lewis. The man is financially desperate. Far more so than we are. There's no telling what he might do if he thinks you stand between him and a fortune.”

Early the next morning, Margaret began her duties in the drawing room, glad it was Fiona's day to carry the water and slops. As she opened the shutters, she thought back to Nathaniel Upchurch's kind attention when she'd fallen from the cart, and to their conversation on the moonlit balcony. His vow to defend her should any man mistreat her. His intense, earnest eyes had captured hers, and she had felt powerless to look away . . . to breathe. Tears had come from nowhere, burning her throat and filling her eyes. Oh, to have a man like Nathaniel Upchurch protect her. Love her.

Click.
Somewhere nearby, a door latch opened. That was odd.

Pulse accelerating, she tiptoed to the threshold of the adjoining conservatory and peered around the doorjamb. By dawn's light seeping through the many panes of glass, she saw a figure—a man with his back to her—gingerly close the terrace door behind him. That door should have been locked. The man turned and crept across the room. For a rash second, she feared it was that pirate Nathaniel had mentioned. But then she recognized the man's profile. It was Lewis, coming in at dawn, his cravat untied and in need of a shave. He had obviously been out all night again. She wondered with whom.

He pulled up short at seeing her in the doorway but only lifted a finger to his lips and continued past her without a second glance. Apparently too tired—or sated—to bother flirting with her.

Margaret felt a dull stab of disappointment. Disappointment at his behavior, not at his disinterest in her. She had given up all thought of Lewis Upchurch, at least romantically. She hoped the poor girl, whoever she was, knew what she was doing.

Margaret sighed and returned to her work. The carpets were not going to brush themselves.

The masquerade . . . became the entertainment
of the century par excellence, not just with the upper
classes but much lower down the social scale.

—Giles Waterfield and Anne French,
Below Stairs

Chapter 23

A
round midday, Nathaniel read the staid
Times
before turning to the livelier of the London newspapers, the
Morning Post.
He skimmed quickly through the social columns, the
who had been seen with whom
, the engagements, births, and scandals. Suddenly he stopped, heart lurching painfully against his breastbone. His gaze flew back to the top of the column, and he read the lines again, temples pounding with each word.

Young woman found drowned in the Thames. The body has not yet been officially identified, pending coroner inquisition and family notification, but an anonymous source reports that authorities speculate the deceased might be 24-year-old Margaret Macy of Berkeley Square, Mayfair, who has been missing since . . .

What in the world? Was Margaret not somewhere in his house at that very moment? He searched his memory. When had he last seen her? Come to think of it, he had not seen her that morning. Nor had he found her on the balcony last night as he'd hoped. Had he seen her yesterday? He scoured his brain. Yesterday had been quite busy—a review of the account books with Lewis, a tedious hour with the under butler as he reported in minute detail on the inventory of the cellar, and a meeting with the council at town hall. But he believed he had seen Margaret the day before yesterday. Surely she did not have time to return to London and drown? This was mere speculation, surely. Irresponsible reporting. That was all.

He threw down the paper and rose, knowing he would have no peace until he made certain. Where would she be this time of day? In the past, he'd had no knowledge of what his mostly invisible maids did when. But since recognizing “Nora,” he had found himself keenly aware of her movements, where he might catch a glimpse of her during her daily rounds. He consulted his pocket watch and winced in thought, trying to recall where she would be at this time. Belowstairs, he believed. He did not like to intrude into the servants' domain, but he could not wait.

From the library, he walked across the hall past the main staircase, then slipped through the servery and trotted down the basement stairs. Passing the butler's pantry, he turned and followed the dim passage past the kitchen and stillroom, neck craning for any glimpse of her as he went. It was quiet belowstairs. The kitchen was empty. Where on earth was everyone? He pushed open the door to the servants' hall, door banging off the wall like gunshot, startling the seated occupants within. Heads jerked around the table, and many pairs of wide eyes darted up at him. Ah, the servants' dinner time—he had forgotten it was so early. His eyes raked over the faces gaping at him and snagged on a certain pair of pale blue eyes, as startled as the rest. He resisted the urge to go to her. Take her hand. Feel her pulse. Relief swept over him. He realized he had thrown a hand over his chest and was clutching at his ragged heart.

Hudson rose, as did Arnold.

“Is everything all right, sir?” Hudson asked in concern.

Nathaniel held out a placating palm. “Sit. Please. I am sorry to disturb your dinner.”

From the foot of the table, Mrs. Budgeon asked, “Is there something you needed, sir?”

He inhaled deeply, realizing he was out of breath. He laid his eyes on Margaret once more, satisfying himself.

“No, em, never mind. Everything is fine.”

He formed an awkward smile, gestured for them to continue, and backed from the room, closing the door behind him. He was embarrassed, but relieved.
Everything is fine
, he repeated to himself.
Margaret is fine.

He wondered who the anonymous source had been and if the report was really pure conjecture. Or had someone a motive for wanting Margaret Macy declared dead?

———

Nathaniel knew Lewis was somewhere about the place but decided not to seek him out. Instead, he went upstairs and knocked on Helen's door. He was nearly relieved when she did not answer. He didn't trust his ability to appear disinterested should he show her the news in person. What would he say?
“The
Morning Post
reports that Miss Macy's body may have been found—drowned in the Thames. Poor creature. Can you imagine?”

Besides, he had the sneaking suspicion his sister knew very well who Nora was—perhaps had known long before he did.

He settled for circling the column of type with a stroke of blue ink and leaving the newspaper on the writing desk in her room. Closing the door behind him, he wondered where she was. During the early days of his return, Helen had rarely ventured farther than the sitting room, except for meals and Sunday services. But since the servants' ball, she had begun walking out-of-doors and involving herself in church charity work, and had even accepted an invitation to dinner from the vicar's wife.

At least someone's lot had improved since his return. He had a sneaking suspicion, however, that his sister's renewed interest in life had less to do with him than his steward, Robert Hudson. And he still wasn't quite certain how he felt about that.

———

Half an hour later, Helen burst into the library, cheeks flushed and out of breath, brandishing the folded newspaper like a weapon. “Did you leave this in my room?”

Nathaniel fought to keep his face impassive. He glanced up at the newspaper as though to remind himself. “Ah, yes. I thought you might be interested. You were some acquainted with her, as I recall.”

“
I
was acquainted with her?” His sister's eyes pierced him, and he nearly quailed.

He found himself murmuring the lame lines he had practiced before. “Poor creature. Can you imagine?”

Helen narrowed her eyes, weighing his sincerity. Did she know? Did she know he knew? Or perhaps she merely studied him to see if he was more devastated by the possibility of Miss Macy's death than he was willing to let on.

“It is only speculation,” Helen said. “You know the
Morning Post
is more gossip than fact. I would not worry if I were you.”

“I am not worried.”

One brow rose. “Are you not?”

He shrugged. “Are you?”

She stared at him, and he forced himself to meet her gaze blankly.

She asked, “Have you shown this to Lewis?”

“No.”

“Shall I?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “If you like. It makes no difference to me.”

Helen frowned, studying him for several moments longer. Finally, she turned on her heel with a huff and swept from the room.

Apparently, acting disinterested had not earned him any points with his sister.

———

Margaret and Fiona were carrying baskets of laundry down the back stairs when Helen Upchurch called from the top of the stairs, “Nora, I need to speak with you. Alone.”

Fiona gave her a hard look that asked,
“What have you done now?”
She took Margaret's basket atop her own and jerked her head to send her on her way.

Nervously, Margaret followed Miss Upchurch upstairs and into her apartment. Afternoon sunlight spilled warmly through the window and onto Helen Upchurch as she seated herself at her writing desk. Standing before her, Margaret gripped her hands together. Hard.

Helen handed her a newspaper. “My brother Nathaniel gave this to me. I thought you should see it.”

Margaret accepted the folded paper and began reading the circled print. She felt disoriented, confused as the words swam before her, making no sense. She blinked, and read again.

“I don't understand,” Margaret whispered, nerves flaring.

“Nor do I.”

“Mr. Upchurch showed this to you?”

Helen hesitated. “Yes.” She considered. “I cannot say he seemed terribly upset about it.”

A flash of hurt stung Margaret. What was wrong with her? The
Morning Post
was speculating about her death, and she was disappointed Nathaniel Upchurch wasn't more affected by the news?

She skimmed the article again . . .
the
body not yet officially identified . . . anonymous source . . . authorities speculate . . . deceased might be . . .

Dear God in heaven, whose body?

Was the report mere speculation, based on the fact that she had yet to be found, alive or otherwise? Clearly, Sterling had reported her disappearance to the authorities. Had he done more than that? Had he resorted to violence? Or simply made convenient use of some other poor girl's death to suggest, anonymously, that the body was that of his missing stepdaughter?

Margaret!
she scolded herself.
You're being ridiculous. Melodramatic.
Certainly Sterling Benton would not stoop so low, would not carry out such a desperate act.

Yet who would receive Margaret's inheritance if Margaret was dead or officially declared so? Her mother, or her sister? Either way, the Benton men were sure to profit.

“Thank you for showing me,” Margaret murmured.

Helen's eyes widened with sympathetic concern. “What will you do?”

Margaret slowly shook her head. “I have no idea.”

The next morning, a cloud of dread and uncertainly hovered over Margaret. She plodded through her duties, thoughts heavy with the news of her death and what, if anything, she should do about it.

After Margaret dressed Helen's hair, Miss Upchurch turned from the mirror to face her. “I have been giving it a great deal of thought and have decided you and Nathaniel are right. I have shunned society for too long.”

“I . . . am relieved to hear it,” Margaret said, though in truth her mind remained on the more pressing matter of news of her own demise. “Will you begin paying calls, then?” Margaret hoped she wouldn't be expected to accompany her.

“Something better. I have decided we should host a party here. It has been far too long since the Upchurches have entertained.”

Here?
They would be inviting a houseful of guests—some of whom Margaret was sure to have met, since they had acquaintances in common—to Fairbourne Hall, her hideaway?

She asked hopefully, “A small party with local friends . . . ?”

“A big party with local friends and friends from town. Many have quit London for their country estates, but a fair number live near enough to attend. I am thinking of a ball—as I so enjoyed my two dances at the servants' ball. Perhaps even a masquerade, since that was the last event I attended before . . .”

“A ball . . . ?” Margaret's mind was a whirl of worry and worse-case scenarios—London friends, perhaps Sterling Benton and her mother, or even Marcus Benton. She might be asked to serve them, or stand ready in the ladies' dressing room to assist female guests with their wraps or with using the chamber commode. Surely her mother would recognize her.

Helen frowned at her. “You don't approve?”

Margaret hesitated. “No, I . . .” What if someone saw through her disguise? The thought abruptly stilled her.
Disguise . . .

She drew in a long breath. “I think you are absolutely right, Miss Helen. A masquerade ball is the perfect idea.”