The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

by Julie Klassen

  “Ah. And what of friends or family she might have gone to?”

  “I have already been to see her friends and sent a man to call on her few remaining relatives. No one has seen her.”

  “So you believed they had not seen her but, I take it, question my brother’s word, as you insisted on seeing me?”

  Benton fidgeted. It was the first time Nathaniel had seen the man look uncomfortable. “Perhaps you are not aware that your brother Lewis danced with Margaret and paid her several calls in the past and again earlier this season.”

  His sister shot Nathaniel a look. “Did he?”

  Nathaniel ignored an irrational stab of jealousy and answered coolly, “Lewis dances with any number of women, as you well know. I can assure you, Benton, your stepdaughter was not alone in receiving his attentions.”

  “Do you suspect an elopement?” Helen asked, incredulous. “Lewis would never do such a thing. And why would you think Margaret would countenance the notion? I thought you said she was all but engaged to your nephew.”

  Sterling stilled. “I never mentioned my nephew. Who told you that?”

  Helen hesitated only a second. “I . . . suppose Mr. Saxby must have mentioned it with the rest of the town gossip.”

  Benton studied her face. “Yes, Margaret was on the cusp of being engaged to my nephew, Marcus Benton. They did quarrel, I admit. But nothing serious. He is a very forgiving young man and still has every intention of marrying her.”

  Another stab of jealousy. Nathaniel clenched a fist and endeavored to keep his expression neutral. “You still haven’t explained why you are here. Lewis has gone back to town.”

  “I have already been to see Lewis. Of course he denies any knowledge of Margaret’s whereabouts. I suppose I thought she might have come here to see Lewis and stayed on even after he refused her.”

  “Why would Margaret hope for a proposal of marriage from my brother if she is as attached as you say to your nephew?” Helen asked.

  “Who can understand women? Perhaps she seeks to make him jealous.”

  Helen frowned.

  Sterling ran a hand through his thick silver hair. “I am here because I am running out of ideas of where to look for her. I am growing desperate.”

  “Why ‘desperate’?”

  Sterling regarded Helen warily. “Do you not think me capable of concern for my wife’s children? If only we could be assured she was all right. Receive some word of her . . .” He handed her the portrait once more. “Are you certain you have not seen or heard from her, Miss Upchurch?”

  Helen met his apparently frank gaze a moment longer, then looked at the portrait again. “A woman would not see such a lovely face and not recognize her, Mr. Benton. A man either, not with all that glorious blond hair.” She glanced up at Nathaniel. “Would you not agree, Nate?”

  Nathaniel stared dumbly at her. “I . . . wouldn’t know.”

  Helen rose and returned the portrait. “Now, will that be all, Mr. Benton? If I were you, I should not worry. I am certain your wife will receive news of her any day now and by her own hand, assuring you of her continuing health and safety.”

  Slowly shaking her head, Helen gave Sterling a feline smile. “A young woman like Margaret Macy—who can guess what she might do on a whim?”

  Margaret studied herself in the small looking glass in her room. How changed she was. It was little wonder no one had linked the Margaret Elinor Macy of the portrait to the Nora Garret staring back at her now. The hair and darkened brows were strikingly different, of course. And the smudged spectacles did mask her eyes to some degree. The Miss Macy of old would never have worn so dowdy a cap or a stained maid’s apron. But the changes went deeper than that. Her face was thinner now. After nearly a month of constant hard work, simple meals, and rare sweets, she had lost weight. Her cheekbones were more prominent, with new hollows beneath, and her jawline more defined.

  She removed her father’s spectacles. She actually saw better with them. She had probably needed spectacles for some time but had been too vain to admit it. Without the lenses, her eyes still seemed different. But how, she could not say for certain. Less noticeable dark circles now that she was sleeping somewhat better? Less world weary?

  And even without the spectacles, she was beginning to see herself more clearly than before.

  Housemaids were meant to be invisible, and all

  cleaning had to be performed either before the family got up or

  while they were absent. As one housemaid later wrote, “It was

  assumed, I suppose, that the fairies had been at the rooms.”

  —Trevor May, The Victorian Domestic Servant

  Chapter 16

  After breakfast the next morning, Margaret went upstairs to Miss Upchurch’s room with some trepidation. She wondered if Helen would tell her what had been said behind closed doors yesterday. What Sterling had said, what Helen had revealed . . . or not revealed. Margaret hoped she would tell her, even as she feared what she might learn.

  When Margaret entered, Helen was not sitting at her dressing table as usual. Instead she stood beside her desk, pointing down to a sheet of paper lying atop it.

  “Sit.”

  Margaret hesitated at Helen’s stern syllable. “What . . . ?”

  “I suppose you haven’t paper and ink of your own,” Helen said. “So sit and write your letter here.”

  “Letter?”

  Helen’s eyes flashed. “To your mother. You do have a mother, I trust? One who might be worrying and wondering where you’ve gone?”

  Margaret swallowed. Realizing there was no longer any point in altering her voice with Helen, she said quietly, “I have wanted to write. But were I to post a letter from Maidstone, would not the postal markings divulge my whereabouts to—”

  “To the evil stepfather?” Helen archly supplied. “I have thought of that. Hudson travels to London tomorrow to meet with a shipwright or some such. I will ask him to post the letter while he is there.”

  Margaret marveled at her kindness. “Thank you.”

  Helen gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Your mother deserves to know you are alive and well.”

  “You are right.” Margaret sat down at Helen’s desk, picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink, and began her letter home.

  My dear Mamma, Caroline, and Gilbert,

  I am sorry I have not written sooner. I hope you have not been unduly concerned about me. I am fine and in good health.

  Pray do not worry about me or try to find me. I am content where I am and do not wish to return home for reasons you, Mamma, as well as Mr. Benton, understand.

  I trust Mr. Marcus Benton will be taking his leave of Berkeley Square very soon. Do bid him farewell for me.

  Attend well to your studies, Caroline and Gilbert, know that I miss you, and never forget how much I love you.

  Sincerely,

  Margaret

  Finishing her letter, she blotted the ink, read it over, and then folded it. She fleetingly wondered if the Turkey Mill watermark—paper milled right there in Maidstone—might give her away. Thankfully, it was the most popular paper the country over.

  Helen came over and set a lit candle on the desk—Margaret had not even noticed her leave the room for one. Wordlessly, she handed Margaret a stick of sealing wax. Margaret softened the stick over the flame and then applied a circle of wax to the edge of the letter.

  Helen gave her a handled seal stamp. “This one is only decorative, not the family crest or anything identifiable.”

  “You’ve thought of everything,” Margaret murmured, pressing the stamp into the wax and lifting it, checking to make certain the seal held. She was glad Helen had thought of that. For though she had addressed the letter to her mother, she had no doubt Sterling would read it as well—and scour it for clues.

  Two days later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, Margaret found herself bored and with nothing to do. Her work was finished. The mending caught up. She had nothing new to read. She thought to h
ave a chat with Betty, but when she paused outside her door, the sound of soft snoring told her the upper housemaid was enjoying a rare and well-deserved nap.

  Feeling lonely, Margaret took herself belowstairs. The stillroom was empty—no sign of sweet Hester. She continued on. Entering the kitchen, she found the large room uncommonly quiet. She was surprised Monsieur Fournier and the kitchen maids were not scurrying about as usual, preparing the family’s dinner.

  Instead she found the chef alone at the kitchen worktable, feet propped on a crate, eyes closed, listening to . . . ? She paused to listen and heard the faint sound of the pianoforte being played.

  “Good afternoon,” she whispered.

  The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up as his eyes opened. “Ah, Nora.” He straightened.

  She glanced around. “I haven’t seen the kitchen this quiet since we were all given a half day for Miss Upchurch’s birthday.”

  He nodded. “The family is dining with an uncle zis evening. So, for a few hours, at least, I am a man of leisure.” He lifted a carefree gesture with both hands.

  She smiled. “Something tells me you wouldn’t like being a man of leisure for long. You enjoy your work too much.”

  He pursed his lip and pivoted his hand in a gesture of comme ci, comme ça.

  She cocked her head to the side, listening to the distant music. “Does Mrs. Budgeon play every Sunday?”

  “Not every, but now and again.”

  “Has she no family nearby to visit? I never hear her speak of children or a husband.”

  He shook his head. “Mrs. Budgeon is not married. It is customary for housekeepers to be called Mrs., whether they are married or no. You know zis, yes?”

  “Oh yes. I had heard that.” She regarded him a moment, then asked, “Do you ever think about working somewhere more grand? Where your skills might be better appreciated?”

  His eyes sparkled. “You hope to be rid of me?”

  Margaret felt her cheeks heat. “Not at all.”

  He shrugged easily. “Mr. Lewis did offer me a post in London. He entertains a great deal, I understand. Many distinguished guests.”

  “Why did you not accept?”

  Monsieur Fournier did not answer for several moments, and she feared she had offended him by prying.

  Finally he said, “You know the housekeeper remains at one house—she does not travel for the season. She stays with her maids to keep all ready for the family’s return.”

  It was an odd answer. Or was it? “I see . . .” Margaret murmured. She did see, she thought. Or was beginning to.

  He cocked his head, listening almost dreamily as another melody melted through the kitchen door. “That is a Jadin sonata. She plays it well, does she not?”

  Nathaniel had remained busier than usual during the last week. He had been obliged to attend a series of commissioners’ meetings about local road repairs and to meet with the vicar to devise plans for relief of the parish poor. Because of his responsibilities at home, he’d sent Hudson to London in his stead to meet with a shipwright to discuss repair estimates. During Hudson’s absence, Nathaniel was busier yet, taking on his steward’s duties as well as his own—overseeing the carpenter and slater repairing the roof and the workmen erecting a new fence.

  He had greeted Hudson’s return three days later with relief. Hudson reported that the Ecclesia had suffered no further vandalism, and that he had published the reward Nathaniel offered for the capture of Abel Preston, the so-called Poet Pirate. Finally, Hudson handed him the repair estimates from the shipwright. The figures stole Nathaniel’s breath. So high. Too high. They would have to seek another bid.

  Now that Hudson had resumed his normal duties, Nathaniel spent the morning catching up on his own correspondence. In the afternoon, he went upstairs to relax with Helen in the family sitting room over a game of draughts. Helen beat him handily. As usual.

  Hudson knocked and entered. Helen, Nathaniel noticed, straightened her already impressive posture. His sister always seemed to stiffen in the new steward’s presence.

  “Miss Upchurch. Mr. Upchurch.”

  “Hello, Hudson,” Nathaniel said. “Did you need something?”

  He hesitated. “Actually, I hoped to have a word with Miss Upchurch.”

  Helen folded her hands primly in her lap. “Of course, Mr. Hudson. What is it?”

  “It is your Miss Nash. Your former lady’s maid, I understand.”

  “I know who she is.”

  “Of course. I wonder . . .”

  Helen’s expression tightened. “Has something happened to her?” she asked quickly. “Has she taken ill?”

  “No, miss, it isn’t that. She seems in good health, relatively speaking. But her cottage, on the other hand, is not.”

  “Well, fix it. Is that not part of your responsibility as steward, Mr. Hudson?”

  Nathaniel was surprised at his sister’s almost snappish tone.

  “That’s just it, miss,” Hudson said. “She refuses to allow me or the estate carpenter inside to make repairs. I only learned about the leaking roof and moldering floors when Mrs. Sackett—”

  Helen’s brows furrowed. “Mrs. Sackett?”

  “The gardener’s wife. She visited the old woman and was appalled at the condition of the place. She convinced her husband to report it to me.”

  “I see.” She pulled a face. “No, I don’t see, actually. What has this to do with me?”

  Hudson patiently explained, “When I spoke to Miss Nash, at her door, she said she was never allowed men in her rooms at Fairbourne Hall and doesn’t mean to begin now. She said you would understand and support her decision.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Hudson fidgeted with the coins in his coat pocket. “You see my predicament.”

  “I do.” Helen considered. “Perhaps we might go and speak with her together, Mr. Hudson? See if we might make her see reason?”

  Hudson’s eyes twinkled. “I’d happily accompany you anywhere, miss. But make Miss Nash see reason . . . ? I shall leave that to you.”

  ———

  An hour or so later, Nathaniel walked across the lawn toward the road, tossing a stick to Jester as he went. He was on his way to meet with the Weavering Street craftsman he’d commissioned to make new cradle scythes for the upcoming harvest.

  Hudson and his sister strolled into view, returning from the direction of the estate cottages. They were talking and laughing companionably, apparently successful in their quest. Helen smiled up at Hudson, and he was glad to see his sister warming to their new steward. One look at the man’s beaming face, however, and Nathaniel realized Hudson was long past warm.

  Margaret steeled herself, as she always did, when it was time to enter one of the men’s bedchambers—especially the first time of a morning, when the occupant was still in his bed. She had gotten over the initial shock of having to do so but still did not relish the prospect. Her early training was imbedded too deeply within her. Heaven help her if anyone ever found out she had done so not once, but every morning for months.

  Margaret took a deep breath and eased open Nathaniel Upchurch’s door. Slipping inside, she closed the door behind her so any corridor noises would not disturb the sleeper. It was too late, however, for the sleeper seemed disturbed already. Nathaniel’s head thrashed from side to side, though his eyes remained closed. What in the world?

  One leg, dark with hair, escaped the bedclothes. Cheeks warm, she averted her eyes. She delivered the water, found the chamber pot blessedly empty, and made to leave. But Nathaniel groaned like a man in pain. He was having a bad dream, apparently. A very bad dream. She risked another glance, knowing she ought to slip out before he awoke. How rude an awakening would it be to find a housemaid staring down at him?

  He moaned again, a tortured sound. If only he had a valet to rouse him and end his misery. But there was only her. A wave of dark hair fell over his brow, and with those piercing eyes closed, he looked younger, less dangerous. For a moment he reminded her of Gil
bert, who had experienced terrible nightmares as a young child. She had never hesitated to wake him, to soothe him, to stroke the hair from his brow.

  Margaret took a tentative step forward. From the weak morning light leaking from between shutters and transom, she saw Nathaniel’s face contort. Poor man. Of what must he be dreaming?

  Perhaps if she whispered to him, the dream would end, or at least shift, without him waking and she could slip out undetected.

  She took another step toward the bed and leaned near. “Sir?” she whispered. “Sir?” Gingerly, she reached a hand toward his shoulder. Dared she give him the barest tap?

  His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. She gasped. His eyes flew open, but they were glazed with that vague, unfocused look she recognized from Gilbert’s sleepwalking days. His eyes might be open, but Nathaniel Upchurch was still asleep.

  She tried to extract her arm, but his grip was too tight. “Sir, you’re dreaming. Wake—”

  He rolled toward her, grasping her other arm as well. “Margaret?”

  Her heart lurched. Was he dreaming of her, or of some other Margaret?

  “Cannot save her . . .” The ragged timbre of his voice tore at her heart.

  “Sir. You’re all right,” she soothed. “You’re safe.” She hesitated, then lifted one of her captured hands and awkwardly patted his arm. “Margaret is safe.”

  He suddenly pulled her toward him and she lost her balance, falling to her knees beside the bed. He pulled her closer yet, until their faces were very near.

  Stunned, Margaret did not move quickly enough to escape his grasp. Was not sure she wanted to escape him. Nathaniel Upchurch was dreaming of her, touching her, perhaps about to kiss her. Was she dreaming as well?

  She could feel his hot breath on the sensitive skin of her upper lip.

  “Margaret . . .” The name was part groan, part growl.

  She was filled with a sweet, aching longing to bridge the lingering space between them. She leaned down and their lips met in a feather touch. Sparks thrilled her every nerve. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, pressing his mouth to hers, fervently, fiercely. Her head felt light, her pulse pounded.