The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

by Julie Klassen

  The old man must have overheard their conversation, for he rose from the barrel and pulled something from his pocket. Reaching over the rope, he handed Margaret a stained and folded copy of the Maidstone Journal. “Ain’t many listings, but you might give a look.”

  Margaret thanked him and unfolded the broadsheet, and together she and Joan studied the employment column.

  After a few moments, Joan sighed. “Nothing. Nothing suitable.” She lifted the skirt of her blue dress and stepped gracefully over the rope and into the cordoned square. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, “Well? Are you coming or not?”

  Margaret hesitated. “I don’t think any employer would allow you to bring me along.”

  “Of course not. You shall have to find your own place.”

  It felt like a slap. “But . . . I am only suited to be a governess or perhaps a companion. What are the chances of someone coming here to fill such a post?”

  “Very slim indeed.”

  Margaret knew this. These positions—the only acceptable ones for gently bred females, were most often acquired through acquaintances or poor relations, and occasionally through agencies or advertisements.

  “What else am I fit for?”

  Joan rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t know.” Then she added begrudgingly, “But you are clever, I grant you, and could learn most anything you put your mind to.”

  Joan opened her valise and from within withdrew a large utility brush of some sort. Margaret glanced from it to the spoon and brooms held by the other hopeful hirelings. What had she to announce her abilities, whatever they were? Margaret was fairly well educated, but beyond her father’s New Testament had no book to announce that fact in hopes of catching the eye of some parent in need of a governess. What would a lady’s companion carry? In her current state of dress, she doubted she would convince anyone she was a gentlewoman fit to educate their children or accompany their elderly relation.

  “What about a lady’s maid?” she asked Joan.

  Joan slanted her a sidelong glace. “Know anything about arranging hair?”

  “I have dressed my sister’s many times. And I sew and am well read. And I am familiar with the latest fashions.”

  Joan slowly shook her head. “You have as much chance of finding work here as a lady’s maid as a governess or companion. Especially looking as you do now.”

  But Margaret hesitated to shed her disguise. Beyond being too close to London for comfort, and in a well-traveled county town in the bargain, how exposed she would feel standing there as herself. Margaret Macy at a hiring fair, looking for work? Inconceivable.

  She opened her reticule and once again counted the few coins within. Her heart sank. She had no money to spend the night in a hotel. No money to travel farther, nor even to travel back to London in defeat. She set her carpetbag on a nearby bench and opened it, reviewing its meager contents once more. She picked up the only item one might deem a symbol of what she was good for: a hairbrush.

  She shut the bag and stepped over the rope.

  ———

  The two ginger-haired maids were hired first. They had been engaged by men who seemed more interested in their fawning manners and the jiggling flesh displayed in low necklines than their qualifications. The old cook stood there still, grimly staring straight ahead. Margaret began to feel sorry for her.

  An innkeeper hired the scrawny lad to haul and carry. The boy’s resigned nod at the slave-like terms chafed Margaret’s heart. Perhaps she only imagined the quiver of his lip amid his raised-chin bravado. She could not help but imagine her brother, Gilbert, having to go out to work at such a tender age. The thought pricked her, and she found herself whispering a prayer for the unknown boy.

  Around them the noise of the market—the hawkers, the bargaining, the cluck-chuck of hens and squeals of pigs—diminished as the sun began its descent.

  Margaret glanced at Joan. “How long does the market last?”

  “Not much longer now, I shouldn’t think.”

  The old man said, “Usually breaks up just after four. Looks like we shall have to try again next week.”

  Next week?

  A matronly looking woman in a severe black dress, high white-lace collar, and an old-fashioned bonnet came striding purposely across the High Street in their direction, keys dangling at her waist. From the corner of her eye, Margaret noticed both the old cook and Joan straighten their shoulders. Margaret followed suit.

  The matron stopped before the rope, her gaze skimming past the cook’s spoon and landing on Joan’s cleaning brush. She introduced herself as the housekeeper at Hayfield and began drilling Joan with one terse question after another—how long she had been in service, where she had last been employed and in what capacity, why she had left, was she a good Church of England member, was she in good health . . .

  Joan answered each question calmly, faltered slightly over why she had left her last place, and offered a letter of character by way of explanation—the reference Margaret had written for her before they left Peg’s.

  “I prefer to write for my own references.” The woman eyed the folded letter with suspicion. “I warn you that I can spy a forged character a mile off. Are you certain you wish to put that letter into my hands?” One steel-grey brow rose. “I cannot promise to return it to you.”

  Joan’s hand trembled slightly, but her expression remained placid. “This letter was written by my own mistress, mum. I trust you will find everything in order.”

  The housekeeper held Joan’s gaze before snatching the letter from her. Margaret had never written a character before. Their housekeeper, or maybe her mother, must have taken care of such things. Perhaps there were certain requirements or customary phrases of which she knew nothing. Would the woman denounce Joan as a fraud and have her hauled in for questioning? What more trouble would Margaret bring down on Joan’s head?

  The woman unfolded the letter, took in the quality of paper, and began to read. She frowned once or twice as she did so, and Joan sent Margaret a beseeching look.

  Finally, the woman looked up. “It is written in a fine hand and by an educated person to be sure. I may yet write to this lady to verify the reference, you understand, but this will suit for now.”

  Joan nodded.

  “Well—” the woman consulted the letter briefly once more—“Joan Hurdle. The pay is eight pounds per annum and you’ll be expected to attend church once a month in a rotation with the other servants.”

  She waited for Joan’s response, but Joan did not immediately accept. She glanced quickly at Margaret and then away. “I am very grateful for the offer, mum. And I wonder . . . might you need a lady’s maid or companion? I worked with this young woman in a former post, and she is in need of a place as well.”

  The woman’s sharp eyes shot to Margaret, took in the hairbrush, the spectacles, and the ill-fitting dress with apparent disapprobation. “I think not.”

  Margaret managed a tremulous smile. “A second housemaid, then,” she suggested hopefully. Joan was on the verge of leaving her, alone, in a strange town with only a few farthings to rub together.

  “I don’t need anybody else,” the woman insisted. “Nor are you allowed to have any followers, Hurdle—male or female. Now, will you take the post or not?”

  Joan pressed her lips together, shooting an apologetic look in Margaret’s direction. She opened her mouth to answer, then hesitated, shoulders wilting. “Perhaps you would take her in my stead, mum? She has a fine reading voice and could read to you of an evening when her other work is done.”

  It was on the tip of Margaret’s tongue to toss in a desperate “I can even arrange hair. And I’m very good with a needle.” But she refrained.

  The woman narrowed her eyes at Joan. “Don’t you want to work at Hayfield? What have you heard?” She jerked her head toward Margaret. “Or is there something wrong with her beyond her weak eyes and you’re trying to foist her off on me? Is she your sister or something?”

  “No
, we’re not sisters. And it’s not that I don’t wish to work for you. I just thought . . .”

  “No, Joan, you take it.” The words were out of Margaret’s mouth before she could think them through or change her mind. The frightened, selfish child within her wanted to grasp Joan’s hand and beg her not to leave her alone, or to beg the matronly housekeeper to take them both, to confess the whole sordid situation and beseech her to help them. But she knew the woman would not care, and would likely not hire either of them if she knew why they were there. Margaret had already gotten Joan dismissed and had forced her to leave her sister’s before she’d found another place. She could not, as much as she was tempted to, take this position from her now.

  Joan looked at her, eyes searching. She whispered, “Are you sure, miss?”

  Margaret’s knees were turning liquid beneath her baggy frock. Doubts and anxiety were rising by the minute, but she nodded and pulled back her lips in a semblance of a smile.

  “Come along, Hurdle,” the woman said. “I have to stop at the chandler’s before we drive home. You may carry the sack of rice we need.”

  Joan followed dutifully behind the woman, valise swinging against her leg. She looked back only once, her lips forming a silent I’m sorry.

  Margaret’s heart twisted in self-pity followed by a pinch of guilt. She had never apologized to Joan for getting her into this situation in the first place and now she was apologizing to her? If she ever saw Joan again, she decided, she would make things right.

  Young persons, on their first entering into service, should

  endeavor to divest themselves of former habits, and devote

  themselves to the control of those whom they engage to serve.

  —Samuel and Sarah Adams, The Complete Servant, 1825

  Chapter 6

  Finally, the stoic cook heaved a sigh, lifted a beefy ankle over the rope and slogged down the cobbled street. The old man sheathed his whittling knife and rose.

  “Best head on home, lass,” he said.

  Home. Margaret could not return even if she wanted to. And truly, she did not think of Sterling Benton’s house as her home. The real home of her heart was still the home of her childhood. Even the name—Lime Tree Lodge—brought waves of wistful longing, conjured up memories of good smells and warm embraces, of laughter and horse rides and love. Would she never have a real home again? She felt tears prick her eyes but blinked them away. She would. She would find a way to survive the next three months and then claim her inheritance. She would buy a house of her own—perhaps even Lime Tree Lodge, were it ever offered for sale—and invite her sister and brother to live with her, once they were of age.

  Even as the thoughts spun through her mind, she knew deep in her heart they were unrealistic. Her sister would marry. Her brother would have a career and eventually a wife and want a home of his own—perhaps a vicarage if he went into the church. Even so, thoughts of her future independence bolstered her courage and Margaret dried her tears.

  Around her, farmers loaded remaining produce back into their wagons. The last of the shoppers hauled baskets toward waiting carts and carriages. Margaret’s stomach gurgled a rude complaint. Perhaps a farmer would be willing to give her a bruised apple or the butcher’s lad might part with an unsold pie. The notion of asking was tantamount to begging and caused her stomach to churn, nearly overpowering the hunger. What should she do—take her own advice and go door-to-door seeking a place? Or find some almshouse or church that might allow her to sleep under its roof? Oh, merciful God. I know I have neglected you. I know I have no right to ask you to help me. But I do. Please help me.

  “Hello . . .”

  Margaret looked up, startled, into the face of a man standing a few feet away. She had not even noticed him approach. He was a sturdy man in his midthirties, with broad, sloping shoulders and a slightly protruding middle. His hair was light brown, as were his eyes. His features were rounded, pleasant, and for some reason, familiar.

  He studied her closely, which discomfited her. She hoped he was not one of those men, looking for one of those women. He did not look the part and, hopefully, neither did she, but she no longer trusted her first impressions of men.

  Perhaps noticing how she dodged his too-direct eye contact, he glanced down. She followed his gaze and realized he was looking at the hairbrush hanging limp in her hand.

  “Are you . . . ?” he began, with a quizzical lift of his brows.

  She cut him off, eager in the presence of a prospective employer. “Oh! I was hoping to find a place.” She reminded herself to disguise her voice—but only a little. After all she didn’t wish to be hired as a scullery maid. “As a companion or governess, ideally. Have you any children?”

  He ducked his head. “I haven’t any children, no. But—”

  “Or perhaps a lady’s maid—hence the brush.” She gave the hairbrush a vague lift. “Or even a housemaid,” Margaret added, hating how desperate she sounded.

  He looked at her, head cocked to the side. “You are seeking a place here in Maidstone?”

  It seemed an obvious question. “Well . . . yes.”

  A crease formed between his brows. “You don’t remember me.”

  She frowned, faltering as she looked at him. “I . . .”

  “Are you not the young woman who helped me avoid a run-in with ne’er-do-wells only last night?”

  Her mouth fell open. “Oh! I thought you looked familiar.”

  “I confess myself stunned to see you here when I imagined our guardian angel still snug in London. I hope you did not have to leave on our account. Did that lot threaten you as well?”

  “Well, yes . . .” It seemed the simplest explanation. “And as I was only a guest there. . .” She let her words trail away.

  “Well then. How fortunate that you were on hand when we wandered off course. Allow me to thank you.”

  “It was nothing. I was happy to help.”

  He inhaled through wide nostrils. “So . . . you are seeking a post?”

  “Yes, it seems that I am.”

  Dimples appeared in his round cheeks and amusement shone in his eyes. “Have you ever been in service before?”

  “No . . . That is, well, in my last . . . place, I had the care of a young lady, helping her dress, arranging her hair, reading to her, escorting her on calls, hearing her prayers . . .” She was rambling, she realized. She had done all these things with Caroline. Still she hated to lie. Her father had taught her to prize honesty and shun falsehood. For one dark second she was almost relieved he was not alive to see her at that moment.

  The man said, “The mistress isn’t convinced she needs another lady’s maid, though the last one has retired. So I cannot offer you a chance to put that fine hairbrush of yours to use. Still, one good turn deserves another. I can offer you a position as under housemaid, assuming you’re willing to learn.”

  Margaret Macy—a housemaid? The thought was both mortifying and frightening. She would have no idea what to do.

  But neither could she afford to pass up this opportunity, assuming the offer was legitimate and the man offering it trustworthy.

  Tentatively she began, “May I ask why your wife doesn’t want a lady’s maid?”

  His face colored. “She is not my wife. Nor I the master. You misunderstand me. I am the house steward. As to why the lady of the house wishes no maid of her own, it is not for me to say. I understand the upper housemaid helps her”—he colored all the more and faltered—“dress . . . and whatnot.”

  “I see.”

  He offered her ten pounds per annum—more, she realized with chagrin, than Joan had been offered, and she an experienced maid.

  “Does that sound fair?” he asked.

  She forced a smile. “Yes.”

  “When can you start?”

  “Right now, I suppose.”

  “Do you need to let someone know, or gather your things, or . . . ?”

  “I have everything here.” She lifted her bag, thinking, And
nowhere else to sleep.

  “Very well. This way.”

  She stepped over the rope and followed him down the High Street to a line of waiting carriages. She felt ill at ease, putting herself in the hands of this stranger, kind though he seemed on the surface.

  As they walked, he said, “I forgot to introduce myself. I am Mr. Hudson. And may I know your name?”

  She gave the name she and Joan had decided upon—Nora Garret. Nora from her middle name, Elinor. And Garret from Margaret.

  “A pleasure to meet you, Nora.”

  He paused before a stately old carriage, and she recognized it as the one she had seen from Peg’s window back in London. She was still stunned he had recognized her, stunned he should hire her because he did. This knowledge soothed the nagging worry that he had hired her with dishonorable intentions. He had not even asked for a character reference and could not in truth have hired her based on her qualifications. If he had hired her out of gratitude, she could live with that.

  She hoped the other servants would be as understanding.

  “Allow me to give you a hand up.”

  Only belatedly did she realize he referred not to helping her inside the coach but rather to the coachman’s bench outside.

  “The master is within, you understand.”

  After Mr. Hudson had helped her up, he paused to open the coach door and exchange a few words with the man inside. Then he untied the reins and climbed up himself, the coach lurching, then righting itself under his weight.

  Margaret had ridden beside her father countless times in his gig, but sitting beside a strange man was far less comfortable. She wondered where the coachman was and why the steward took the reins.

  “Have we far to go?” Margaret asked as they rattled down the cobbled street, quickly leaving the busy town center behind.

  “Not far. Fairbourne Hall is a mile or so southeast of town.”

  Fairbourne Hall? The name rang in her memory, and a queasy feeling stirred her stomach, not entirely caused by the swaying of the coach. It could not be. She must be mistaken. She had never been to the Upchurch country estate, only to the town house they kept in London. Still she believed she remembered both Nathaniel and Lewis Upchurch mentioning their family home. How had she forgotten it was near Maidstone?