The Maid of Fairbourne Hall (36 page)

He nodded dully and stepped aside, face pale. He looked as low over the tragedy as Hester herself. But of course he would, witnessing it firsthand, having to drag Mr. Upchurch's body into a wagon.

Margaret paused in the passage, listening curiously as Hester greeted the young man in low, comforting tones. “How are you holding up there, Connor?”

His voice rumbled in low reply, almost a groan.

“There now. It wasn't your fault. You mustn't blame yourself so.”

Another low reply.

“Now, don't you worry. Mr. Lewis may yet recover. You just see if he don't.”

Clearly, Margaret was not the only person who sought out Hester for comfort.

After prayers that morning, Nathaniel followed Clive back out to the stables to speak with him in private. When he returned several minutes later, he sought out Mr. Saxby. He found him in the guest room, overseeing his valet's efforts in packing too many articles of clothing into too few valises.

“Give us a moment, will you?” Nathaniel said to the valet.

With a glance at his master, the slight man bowed and departed.

When the door closed, Nathaniel said, “I spoke with our groom just now. He verified the approximate time Lewis left the house yesterday morning, his valet with him. He also mentioned that you called for your horse soon after.”

Saxby shrugged. “So? I was restless and went for a ride.”

“So early? It isn't like you.”

Saxby smirked. “You have no idea what I'm like. But if you must know, I tried to follow Lewis. He called me a liar when I suggested he was seeing a local girl. I thought I would follow him, catch the two together, and prove
him
the liar. But I never caught up with him.”

“Then where were you all day yesterday?”

Saxby's eyes flashed irritation. “I rode over to Hunton to see my cousin George. I didn't realize I needed to report my every move to you.”

Nathaniel studied the man's heated expression. Yes, there was defensiveness there, but guilt? He did not know.

Mr. Saxby took his leave later that morning. He stayed long enough to visit Lewis in the sickroom, emerging pale and stricken. He asked to be kept apprised of Lewis's condition, then bent over Helen's hand and gave Nathaniel a somber bow.

“You have my sympathies.”

From the hall windows, Nathaniel and Helen watched the man walk across the drive and step inside his carriage.

Staring out the window, Helen said, “Tell me he is going to live.”

Nathaniel swallowed as he reached over and squeezed his sister's hand. “He's going to live.” To himself he added,
Lord willing.

———

Dr. Drummond, a longtime family friend, had been away attending at a birth, but he came that afternoon. He examined Lewis, not only the wound itself, but the rest of Lewis as well. Afterward, he redressed the wound and then took Nathaniel and Helen aside and gave his report.

“I see no sign of infection setting in. His internal organs—heart and lungs—seem to be functioning normally, which, considering how near the bullet came to damaging both, is a miracle in my book. If you believe in such things.”

“I do,” Nathaniel replied.

The physician nodded. “He did sustain a knock to the head when the shot felled him—I found a raised lump, nothing alarming, but a concussion might account for his insensibility. That and, of course, the laudanum Mr. White administered when he removed the bullet. I wouldn't give him any more laudanum unless he displays signs of distress or discomfort. It is important he lie still to allow his wound to heal, so his insensible state has its benefits. It is sometimes a body's way of coping with shock and trauma.”

Before he took his leave, Dr. Drummond left instructions for Nurse Welch, said he would return on the morrow, and asked to be advised if there was any change in Lewis's condition.

Nathaniel sat with Helen at Lewis's bedside that evening, trying to read an agricultural journal but mostly staring at the taper as it burned and guttered. “Did Lewis say anything to you about a woman?”

“Barbara Lyons, do you mean?”

He shrugged, knew he was grasping at straws. “Saxby suggested a local woman. But according to the valet, Lewis and Saxby argued over Miss Lyons.”

Helen lifted her hands. “Lewis made no secret of admiring her. Why do you mention it?”

He held up the blue ribbon Mrs. Budgeon had found in Lewis's pocket. “This piece of feminine frippery has me thinking. And Lewis's valet said he thought the duel was fought over a woman's honor.”

A maid entered, head bowed as she maneuvered a tray through the door. She glanced up, and he saw it was Margaret.

With no pause in conversation, Helen gestured her forward. “But Mr. Saxby is not even engaged to Miss Lyons.”

Nathaniel watched Margaret approach. “But a gentleman could feel his honor offended should a friend seduce the woman he loves.” Nathaniel thought back to how Lewis had suddenly begun showering Miss Macy with attention after
he
had begun courting her. Lewis seemed to find other men's ladies irresistible.

Margaret set down the tea tray and quietly departed.

“Lewis would nev—” Helen stopped abruptly, chuckling without mirth. “I was about to say Lewis would never do such a thing, but of course I know better. Still it shames me to say so while he lies so near death.” She choked back a sob. “How I love him.”

“Of course you do. And so do I. That needn't mean we are blind to his faults, nor take no recourse against his assailant.”

“But if it was a duel, fought honorably, a jury isn't likely to convict the gentleman.”

“Duels are illegal, and more than one man has hanged for killing another, duel or no.” Nathaniel added, “There's something else. I spoke with the groom. He mentioned that Saxby called for his horse just after Lewis left that morning.”

Helen stared at him. “Are you saying you think Mr. Saxby shot Lewis?”

“No . . . I don't know. He said he tried to follow Lewis but couldn't find him so instead rode to Hunton.”

Nathaniel ran a hand over his face. “The valet says the man wore a mask, dressed like a gentleman, and spoke in a pompous accent. So I suppose it
might
have been Saxby, but I find myself wondering whether the man who robbed the
Ecclesia
might have shot Lewis.”

Helen's eyes widened. “No.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “He did threaten to come here and ‘rend the place asunder.' ”

“The duel was held only a few hours after our masquerade ball, remember,” Helen said. “Any number of gentlemen might have worn a mask.”

“I know.”

“Why would that Preston fellow shoot Lewis? And if he did, why bother with a mask?”

“I don't know,” Nathaniel repeated, exasperated. He expelled a deep breath. “I don't know what to think.”

Helen said gently, “Until we know more, please don't report Lewis's part in this. I don't want him to face prosecution if . . .” Her voice broke. “Oh, God, I pray he lives.”

Nathaniel squeezed her hand. “Eventually I shall have to report this to someone in authority, as will Dr. Drummond, most likely. But I shall be careful.”

If only Lewis would wake up. He could name the man and save them all the trouble. If only Lewis would live, this suffocating dread might lift and Nathaniel could breathe easily again.
Dear Lord, please let him live.

Mrs. Budgeon had assigned Nora the added duty of attending the sickroom, keeping it tidy, serving meals to the chamber nurse, and delivering trays to the family, who now spent so much time there.

That night, Margaret reached her bedchamber in the attic before she realized she had forgotten to collect the tea things she had delivered to the sickroom a few hours before. She sighed wearily and made her way back downstairs.

On the ground floor, she quietly tiptoed from the stairwell. When she reached the hall, she glanced across it to the library-turned-sickroom. The door was closed. She wondered if Helen and Nathaniel still kept their vigil or if the chamber nurse, Mrs. Welch, had arrived to relieve them. The door opened, and Margaret paused, stepping back into the shadows behind the grand staircase to let the family pass.

A man stepped out and closed the door quietly behind him. In a shaft of moonlight, Margaret saw that it was only Connor, Lewis's valet, toilet case in hand. Her heart squeezed to see the young man tending his master.

When she stepped into the hall, Connor flinched. “Nora. You startled me.”

“Sorry.” She smiled apologetically, then whispered, “How is he?”

He shook his head. “Still hasn't woken.”

She pressed his forearm. “You are kind to check on him.”

“That nurse is in there as well. You needn't bother.”

“I forgot to collect the tea things earlier.”

“Oh.” He nodded his understanding. “I should have done that for you.”

“Isn't your job. Now get some sleep.”

“I'll try. Good night, Nora.”

“Good night.”

She quietly unlatched the door. She was no longer shocked to be entering the room where Lewis Upchurch slept—only shocked that it was now a sickroom.

The elderly chamber nurse looked up at her entrance and smiled. Mrs. Welch had a kind, wrinkled face framed by a floppy mobcap.

“How is he?” Nora whispered.

“The same, my dear. No better, no worse.”

Margaret picked up the tray. “May I bring you anything before I go to bed?”

“How kind you are to offer, but I have everything I need.”

“Good night, then.” She paused a moment, looking down at Lewis. She hated to see him so pale and still.

She recalled what she'd overheard Helen and Nathaniel discussing earlier when she'd delivered the tray. Nathaniel apparently thought Mr. Saxby might have challenged Lewis to a duel over Miss Lyons. But Miss Lyons had told her friend that Mr. Saxby had broken things off with her before the ball. Should she tell Nathaniel? She hated the thought of him falsely accusing Lewis's friend.

After she returned the tray to the kitchen, Margaret went upstairs to the balcony. She hoped to see Mr. Upchurch, to offer her condolences, and perhaps mention what she knew about Mr. Saxby and Miss Lyons.

Instead, she stared at the North Star alone. Still, she somehow felt closer to Nathaniel on the balcony, empty though it was. There, she prayed for Lewis to live. She prayed for peace for Helen and Nathaniel. She prayed for safety for her family—her mother, sister, and brother.

She found herself remembering her father's final hours. The Reverend Mr. Macy had been struck by a runaway coach-and-four when he'd stopped to help a fellow traveler on the road. The surgeon had been summoned, but there was little he could do for such severe internal injuries. Her father lingered a few hours, insensible, before slipping into eternity. Knowing him, he had been ready to meet his Maker. But she had not been ready to lose him.

“I miss you, Papa,” she whispered, blinking back tears anew.

A Briton knows . . .
That souls have no discriminating hue,
Alike important in their Maker's view;
That none are free from blemish since the fall,
And love divine has paid one price for all.

—William Cowper, “Charity,” 1782

Chapter 27

H
ere it is, sir. That's all of it.”

Nathaniel had asked Connor to go through all the pockets of Lewis's many coats as well as his other belongings, looking for more clues for the identity of the man, or the woman, behind the duel. After morning prayers the next day, the valet delivered the things he'd found. Nathaniel thanked the young man and dismissed him.

Sitting at the small morning room table, Nathaniel fingered through the pile of club receipts, opera ticket stubs, and one of Lewis's own calling cards bearing a “kiss”—the imprint of full lips in red rouge.

What was he to do with that? Take it about the county and ask all the women he met to pucker until he found a match? Useless.

He unfolded a piece of paper, a small sheet of stationery, and read.

Ye cruel, vain, blasted louse

Detested by all in my house

How dare ye set yer hands upon her

Such a sweet innocent girl

Go somewhere else to seek yer pleasure

With some other poor pearl.

Light flashed behind his eyes. His stomach clenched. He wanted to tear the paper to shreds as though the author himself. What shoddy rhyme. What a shoddy waste of paper and ink.

He read the note again. The words spoke of heartfelt injury. Yet he doubted this “poet” had a heart. One phrase snagged his attention: “
a sweet innocent girl
 . . .” Could it be—had Lewis met and seduced one of Preston's daughters when he lived in Barbados? Nathaniel shook his head. It didn't make sense. Lewis had left Barbados more than two years ago. Why now? Yet here was proof before his eyes, if proof it was. He squeezed them shut. He had lost all objectivity in his determination to identify the man who shot Lewis. He hated feeling helpless, unable to do even this for his poor brother.

He decided he would show the poem to Helen. Perhaps she could make sense of it.

Someone scratched at the morning room door. He looked up as it inched open and Margaret's face appeared.

“Pardon me, Mr. Upchurch?”

His pulse quickened. “Yes, Nora?”

She swallowed. “May I speak with you a moment?”

He hesitated, conflicting emotions coursing through him. His determination to keep his distance warring against the irrational longing to be near her. “Very well. Come in.”

She shut the door behind her and stepped forward. “Please excuse me, but I couldn't help overhearing a little of your conversation with your sister last night. About Mr. Saxby.”

He stared at her. Realized she had forgotten to use her accent.

“I felt I should say something.” She clasped her hands before her. “While I cannot speak to his character, I think you are wrong to accuse him of challenging your brother to a duel over Miss Lyons.”

“Oh? Why?”

“I happen to know Mr. Saxby broke things off with Miss Lyons before the . . . incident.”

“And how would you know that?”

She swallowed. “I overheard her tell a friend he had done so.”

“When was this?”

“The evening of the masquerade ball. In the ladies' dressing room.”

He considered this. “He might have changed his mind.”

She faltered, “Do men . . . change their minds once they deem a woman unworthy?”

He studied her, pondered her words. “Not easily.”

She looked down.

“Perhaps Saxby was only upset with Miss Lyons but still loves her.” He added in a low voice, “Any man might be angry, to think the woman he loved preferred Lewis.”

She met his gaze. “She does not.”

He regarded her closely. “Doesn't she?” Was she speaking for Miss Lyons or for herself?

She shook her head. “If she once did, she does no longer.”

He blinked, pulling his stubborn gaze from hers. “And have you a better theory? A more likely suspect?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Well—” he rose—“thank you for telling me.”

She nodded. “May I ask how your brother fares this morning?”

“There is no improvement, I fear.”

“We are all of us praying belowstairs.” She reached for the door latch, then turned back. “I am so sorry this happened. For all your sakes.”

How wide her blue eyes, how appealing her tremulous lips. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms. What a comfort that would be. What a torment.

Instead he remained where he was. “Thank you.”

———

After Margaret left, Nathaniel gathered the poem he had just found in Lewis's things, the duel challenge note, and Preston's “must I visit Fairbourne Hall” threat, and took all three up to the sitting room to show Helen.

He first handed her the new “How dare ye set yer hands upon her, blasted louse” poem.

She read it and breathed, “Good heavens.”

Nathaniel jabbed a finger toward the note. “This points to Preston. The man calls himself the Poet Pirate, after all. Yet I had no idea his vendetta encompassed Lewis as well.”

Helen held out her palm. “Let me see the poem he wrote threatening to come here for the rest of the profits.”

He handed it to her, and she compared the two poems. “The handwriting is completely different.”

Nathaniel looked over her shoulder. “You're right. Why would he disguise his hand, yet write in his signature poetry?”

“I don't know.”

He handed her the third letter he'd brought upstairs. “Here's the note challenging Lewis to a duel in the first place.”

Helen compared the brief challenge note to the latest poem. “These two were written by the same person.”

Nathaniel grimaced. “Are you saying Preston wrote only the first letter, threatening to come here, and the other two were written by a different person?”

Helen nodded.

“Two poets?” Nathaniel said, incredulous. “One threatening me, the other threatening Lewis?”

Helen nodded. “I agree it seems highly unlikely.” She frowned over the latest poem and read it aloud. “ ‘Ye cruel, vain, blasted louse. Detested by all in my house. How dare ye set yer hands upon her. Such a sweet innocent girl. Go somewhere else to seek yer pleasure. With some other poor pearl.' ” She shook her head. “I feel as though I have read this before. . . .”

Nathaniel agreed. “It is very like the Burns poem ‘To a Louse.' ”

Helen's eyes lit in recognition. “Ah. So it is.”

Abel Preston specialized in manufacturing poetry to suit the occasion. But two poets? Nathaniel's head hurt. He felt more confused than before.

On her way to the servants' hall for dinner, Margaret peeked into the stillroom and glimpsed a flash of deep red—the back of Connor's auburn head. She supposed he was talking with Hester again. But was talking all they were doing? Margaret hoped Mrs. Budgeon wouldn't catch them. Staff romances were deeply frowned upon, she knew.

But when Margaret reached the servants' hall, there was Hester, cheerfully helping Jenny lay out the servants' dinner.

“Oh.” Margaret drew up short. “I thought you were in the stillroom.”

Hester set down a tray of savory biscuits and looked up. “Now, why would you think that?”

Margaret waited until Jenny had returned to the kitchen and then said, “I saw Connor in there.”

Hester's face lit up. “Did you? Wonder what he needs.” She winked. “Besides me, a'course.”

Seeing the fondness shining in Hester's eyes, Margaret felt oddly envious of the stillroom maid. Oh, to be loved and to have that love reciprocated. She thought back to her last conversation with Nathaniel. It was almost as if his words had carried latent meaning for
her
—Margaret.
“Any man might be angry, to think the woman he loved preferred Lewis.”
And the way he had looked at her . . .

But no, she was reading too much into his looks and the words he'd spoken to a housemaid named Nora.

Dr. Drummond returned that afternoon as promised. Again he examined Lewis but found no change in his condition. After the physician took his leave, Nathaniel sat at the library desk with the newspapers, while Helen sat nearby at Lewis's bedside.

Several minutes later, Nathaniel tossed the
Times
onto the library desk and laid his head in his hands.
What next?

Helen looked over at him, alarmed. “What is it?”

“News from Barbados. A slave revolt.”

“No!” She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

He nodded. “Estates damaged. Cane fields burned, property destroyed. By the time soldiers crushed the revolt, a quarter of the island's sugar crop had gone up in smoke.”

“Our estate?”

“It is not mentioned. Thank God we got our harvest in early.”

“What else does it say?”

He picked up the
Times
once more. “‘Approximately four hundred slaves, men and women both, armed with pitchforks and a few muskets fought against the well-armed militia and regulars. Hundreds of rebels were killed.'” He shook his head as images of Upchurch slaves flashed before his mind's eye. Tuma, Jonah, Cuffey . . .
Please, no.

He forced himself to continue, “‘Hundreds more were captured and will be executed or sold elsewhere.'”

Nathaniel had warned his father what might happen if planters rejected the registry bill. But even he had not predicted such a grisly outcome.

Helen asked, “Were any planters killed?”

He shot her a look, surprised she was concerned only for the white owners. But he couldn't really blame her. She had never met an enslaved person. Did not know dozens, as he did. He shook his head. “Only two soldiers apparently, one white and one black soldier from the West India Regiment.”

“That's a relief. I mean . . . that Papa and his neighbors are all right.”

He bit back a bitter retort. It wasn't Helen's fault. “I shall write to Father directly to make certain. But no doubt we will hear from him any day now.”

Helen nodded. “In the meantime, I shall pray for his safety.”

Nathaniel thought,
And I shall pray for theirs.