The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

by Julie Klassen

  Mrs. Budgeon hesitated. “I would be happy to pass along any message, sir, if you would rather.”

  “Thank you, but I would prefer to do so myself.”

  “Very good, sir.” She formed an unconvincing smile and backed away, no doubt believing something unsavory afoot. Well, it could not be helped. He could not tell her why he really wanted to see the new housemaid.

  ———

  Two hours later, he stood in the library, watching the young woman carefully as she entered. She clasped her hands before her and kept her head bowed, not meeting his gaze. Her face, what he could see of it beneath the dark fringe, was quite pale.

  She did not speak, and for a moment neither did he. How should he go about this?

  She bit her lip, twisting her hands. “You asked to see me, sir?”

  Her voice trembled—was it her voice? It was difficult to say with that unfamiliar accent.

  “You are not in any trouble, Nora. Do not be uneasy.”

  She darted a look up at him. His heart constricted at that flash of her face. Lord, please give me clarity of mind.

  “Come closer, please. I mean you no harm.”

  Her throat convulsed as she swallowed, but she obeyed, taking three steps forward.

  His voice was a low rumble in his ears. “Look at me.”

  She hesitated, then slowly lifted her chin.

  His throat went dry.

  He was either insane, or there stood Margaret Macy—or some long-lost twin—with black hair instead of blond. Had she dyed it, or was it a wig? She had darkened her brows as well. His heart began to beat hard—fast and irregular. He clenched the hand behind his back and forced his expression to remain impassive.

  Why was she here? What on earth was she doing? He thought back to Sterling Benton’s visit. Something was wrong there. He had sensed it, even as he tried not to allow her disappearance to concern him. A part of him was relieved at this confirmation that she was alive and well. Another part of him was suspicious of her motives for coming to Fairbourne Hall. Perhaps it had been some ploy to ensnare Lewis into marriage. She wouldn’t be the first girl to try. But, he argued with himself, Lewis had returned to London and she remained.

  How had he not recognized her before? He remembered what Sterling Benton had said about women being more discerning than men. He also recalled several times in the past when he had commented on how alike two people were in appearance and Helen had scoffed at him. “Their hair is similar, and perhaps their stature, but otherwise they look nothing alike.” Or, “How can you confuse Lydia Thompson with Kitty Hawkins? Yes, they are both ginger-haired girls, but beyond that they are completely different. One is freckled, the other pale. One has blue eyes, the other green. And one is clever and the other insipid!” Yet both he and Lewis continued to confuse the two.

  He wondered if Helen had recognized Miss Macy. He was certain Lewis had not or he would have blurted it out like a great joke long ago. But he was not sure what Helen might do.

  What should he do? Expose her deceit and demand an explanation? Notify her stepfather? Toss her out on the street? Take her in his arms?

  He fisted both hands as the wave of contradictory desires swept over him, but he stood stock-still, barely even blinking. What a strange twist of fate this was. That she should be here, under his roof, under his power. With Lewis back in London, he was her master for all intents and purposes, at least as far as her employment and housing were concerned. He rather liked the notion of holding some power over her for once. What a relief after the awful power she had held over him these last few years, whether she knew it or not.

  He knew Margaret had an impulsive nature, as Benton and even Helen had allowed. But would she really enter service—would any gentleman’s daughter—unless she was truly desperate? And she was actually doing the work, according to Mrs. Budgeon. If it had been some foolish schoolgirl prank to put herself in Lewis’s path, that lark would have long since ended with disillusionment and weariness after a few days of drudgery. She must have another reason.

  He decided he needed to find out what was really going on. He would not hand her over to Sterling Benton—a man he had never liked at all events.

  Margaret’s face had gone from pale to blushing red while he stood there staring at her.

  With a supreme effort, he schooled his features and moderated his tone of voice. “You need not worry, Nora. I have only asked you here to thank you. Mr. Hudson told me of your brave help the night we were nearly set upon by thieves in London. He has already thanked you, I know. But I had not.”

  Behind her spectacles, her round eyes blinked. She swallowed and nodded, murmuring, “Yer welcome, sir.”

  Had she spent time belowstairs with servants in her youth? Where else would she have cultivated that accent?

  He said, “Very good. That will be all.”

  Clearly relieved, she bobbed a curtsy.

  For now, he added to himself, watching her go.

  The tenth Duke of Bedford was liable to dismiss any

  maid who unwittingly crossed his path after midday, by which

  time all housework was supposed to have been completed.

  —Trevor May, The Victorian Domestic Servant

  Chapter 18

  After attending the funeral of an old tenant, Nathaniel walked back into Fairbourne Hall, thinking about the best way to find an industrious young farmer to take the old bachelor’s place. He needed to increase the profitability of the estate if he had any hope of repairing his ship.

  Reaching the sitting room, Nathaniel paused in the threshold. Inside, Hudson and Helen stood near one another at the balcony window, heads together, bent over some papers Helen held—lists of things to be done for the servants’ ball, he imagined. His sister wore an attractive green-and-ivory striped gown he hadn’t seen before, with a sash that emphasized her narrow waist.

  Helen smiled up at him as he approached. “Hello, Nate.”

  “Why, Helen, do my eyes deceive me, or is that a new dress?”

  She lifted her chin. “No, it isn’t new. But I own, it has been made over. Nora did it.”

  “Nora?” He prayed she could not see his heart suddenly lurch in his chest.

  His sister eyed him carefully. “The new housemaid. I don’t imagine you’ve met her?”

  “Um . . . yes,” he faltered. “I believe I know who you mean.”

  Noticing his discomfort, Hudson said smoothly, “Well, you look lovely, Miss Helen, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

  Helen dipped her head, pleased but self-conscious. “Thank you, Mr. Hudson. Now, if the two of you would stop staring at me, we have a ball to plan. . . .”

  His sister’s face blushed becomingly. How strange to think Robert Hudson had put that blush there. If so, did he mind? It was unexpected and, he admitted to himself, mildly disconcerting to see his ladylike sister on such friendly terms with a man in his employ. He was not quite certain how he felt about it.

  But perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps his sister was merely wearing a bit of rouge. He quickly dismissed the notion. His practical sister would never bother with anything as frivolous as cosmetics.

  Margaret trudged up the back stairs to the attic and down the passage to her room. She felt bone weary and hoped to rest for half an hour or so until it was time to help Fiona gather the laundry. She nudged the door closed behind her, then took off her apron and spectacles and sat on the bed, sliding off her slippers. A scratch sounded at her door, and before she could respond, the wolfhound pushed it open with his head, as he had done before. She couldn’t think what attracted the dog to her small dim room. Did she still smell of that morning’s sausages?

  “I’m too exhausted to play with you, Jester.”

  With a little whine, the hound walked to the small oval rug beside her bed, turned around, around again, then lay down, curling himself on the rug, tail tucked, chin resting on his forelegs.

  “That’s what I have in mind to do too.”

  S
he lay down on her made bed, pulling the little lap robe over her legs. She had a good thirty or forty minutes to rest. What luxury.

  She found her mind replaying her meeting with Nathaniel Upchurch, when he’d summoned her to the library to speak with her. He’d told her to “Come closer. . . . Look at me.” And her heart had pounded so loudly she was sure he would hear it.

  Then he stood there and stared at her. Just stared. How unsettling it had been. She’d begun to fear her masquerade was up, and was torn between wanting to bolt and wanting to confess all. But then he’d surprised her by saying he merely wanted to thank her for her help back in London. Why then, after so much time? But what a relief to know that was all he wanted. That her secret was still safe.

  On the floor nearby, the dog gave a little sigh of contentment. Margaret smiled, feeling content as well, and drifted to sleep.

  After a long and tedious meeting with the church commissioners, Nathaniel felt like shooting something. He thought he might take himself grouse hunting before September got away from him. He looked about for Jester, who was always eager for a jaunt in the woods, but didn’t see the hound anywhere. He asked the footman on door duty, “Have you seen the dog?”

  “Yes, sir. Just went up the stairs a bit ago.”

  Likely on his way to my bedchamber, Nathaniel thought and headed for the stairs.

  He had always been fond of the wolfhound and had missed him whilst he was away. He had thought of taking Jester along to Barbados, but it had made little sense to inflict such a long sea journey on an animal who loved nothing better than to run in the woods, chase down a fox, or stir a bevy of game birds. When Nathaniel was busy or away, he knew the hall boy or groom exercised the dog, but he preferred to do it himself.

  In the old days, his mother hadn’t allowed dogs above the ground floor. But the rules had grown more lax since her death. He found he enjoyed Jester’s company and didn’t mind him sleeping on his floor near the hearth. Though the dog didn’t appear every night.

  When Nathaniel reached the top of the main stairs, a thin, dark-haired housemaid staggered around the corner, arms full of linens.

  “Have you seen the dog?” he asked.

  “Aye, sir. Near about run me over. He’s gone up the back stairs.”

  “Thank you.” That’s strange, Nathaniel thought. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. A bit of exercise would do him good, he decided as he started up the stairs, especially after forgoing a fencing session with Hudson that morning.

  Still, he hesitated to enter the attic, the domain of the female servants. He had rarely ventured there since boyhood, when his daily vigil to the schoolroom had brought him up those stairs nearly every day. But he had no real business there now. What could Jester be doing up here?

  Nathaniel walked along the passage, but all the doors were closed. He turned the corner into a side passage. There, at its end, one door stood ajar.

  Walking quietly, Nathaniel reached it and glanced in, surprised to see a figure lying atop the made bed, napping peacefully. Nora, or rather, Margaret. And curled on a rug before her bed and looking quite content, lay his wolfhound. Jester’s eyes opened, clearly aware of his presence, but the dog made no move to rise or join him.

  Disloyal creature, Nathaniel thought, part amusement, part irritation. Yet he could not blame him for being drawn to that particular door.

  Giving up his plans to go shooting, Nathaniel went back downstairs and found Helen in her favorite chair in the family sitting room, needlework on her lap and tea beside her.

  “Well, Helen. What do you think of our new housemaid?”

  She stilled, then looked up, studying him. “Why do you ask?”

  He shrugged. “A bit unusual, do you not think?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “How so?”

  Did she really not know, or was she hedging, as he was? If so, was Helen trying to protect Margaret . . . or him?

  Nathaniel hesitated. He found he was not ready to burst the little bubble he was inhabiting. He was oddly enjoying the strange secret. He was not ready to share it, for then he would have to act differently with “Nora.” Guard himself. Helen would be watching. Wondering.

  He feigned nonchalance. “A girl like her, clearly never in service before.”

  She stared at him a moment longer, then relaxed and returned her gaze to her embroidery. “I like her. I did not at first, I own. But she has proved most helpful to me.”

  “Has she indeed? I am glad to hear it.” He paused. “So, how are plans progressing for the servants’ ball?”

  Helen smiled. “Very well, I think.”

  Knowing Helen had not initially approved of the new steward, he asked, “And how are you getting on with Hudson?”

  She kept her eyes averted, but her needle stilled as she considered. Then her mouth crooked and a dimple appeared in one cheek. She echoed, “I like him. I did not at first, I own. But he has proved most helpful to me.”

  Nathaniel grinned. “Shall I announce the ball soon?”

  “Yes. Do.”

  That night, Nathaniel was surprised to see “Nora” walking away from the house through the moonlit arcade. It was after ten. Why was she not in bed like every other no-doubt-exhausted maid? Was she leaving Fairbourne Hall? He followed her quietly but was relieved when she turned at the end of the arcade and started back at the same pace, apparently out for a simple stroll, like a lady of leisure. Seeing him, she started and looked about her for a place to disappear, but the narrow walkway offered little cover.

  “Good evening, Nora.”

  She flashed him a look of surprise and alarm, clearly not expecting nor wanting him to address her.

  “Sir.” She dipped her head and made to skirt around him, but he halted before her.

  “And what brings you outside this evening?”

  “Em . . . just takin’ a bit of air, sir.”

  He bit back a smile at her accent. “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “That’s it, sir.” Reluctantly she turned toward him, head bowed.

  “I am sorry to hear it. Do you not find your life here . . . comfortable?”

  “I’m not complainin’, sir.”

  “I am surprised.”

  She darted a glance up at him, moonlight and confusion streaking her face.

  “A life in service must be difficult,” he said gently. “I understand you have not been a housemaid before?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You had not long planned to enter service, I take it.”

  She shook her head.

  “May I ask what you had planned for your life?”

  “I . . . don’t know, sir. Live independent-like, I suppose. Or marry.”

  “Oh? And who might the lucky man be?”

  She ducked her head once more, clearly uncomfortable. “I couldn’t say, sir.”

  Did she think he was trying to seduce her? He was making a poor job of it if he was. Still, he hated the thought of her nurturing a low opinion of his character.

  “You needn’t worry, Nora,” he said. “I have no ungentlemanly intentions in speaking to you. Now, I will bid you good-night and hope you sleep well.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She scurried past him, back into the refuge of Fairbourne Hall.

  During morning prayers the next day, Margaret watched Nathaniel Upchurch carefully, wondering about his strange behavior of the night before. She hoped he had spoken the truth—that he had no improper intentions toward her. Then why had he taken the time to speak with her when he had rarely done so before?

  Across the hall, Nathaniel capped his prayer with his usual amen, then removed his spectacles and tucked them into his pocket. He regarded the assembled servants, but instead of dismissing them, he drew his shoulders back and began, “I have an announcement. It has come to my attention that over the last two years, the Christmas and Epiphany festivities here at Fairbourne Hall have been regretfully few. Therefore we have decided—Mr. Hudson, Miss Upchurch, and I—that it is long past time for a ser
vants’ ball.”

  Kitchen-maid Jenny let out a whoop, then quickly threw a hand over her mouth. Craig elbowed the hall boy, Freddy, beside him.

  Mr. Upchurch allowed a small grin. “I take it the plan meets with your approbation?”

  Freddy gushed, “Don’t know ’bout that, sir, but it sounds grand!”

  Mr. Upchurch and his steward exchanged a look. Hudson chuckled. Mrs. Budgeon shook her head, but her stern expression was softened by the sparkle in her eyes.

  “Miss Upchurch and Mr. Hudson are planning the affair and will no doubt keep you apprised of the details. But for now you are dismissed.”

  Instantly the maids began whispering and giggling amongst themselves even as the footmen and grooms laughed and teased each other. Mrs. Budgeon didn’t even reprimand them, which was surprising. Margaret hoped the ball would be a success and they would all enjoy themselves. . . .

  Wait. I am a servant, she thought. She would be attending. Her first servants’ ball as a servant.

  She had attended several in her youth, as the daughter of the family. Her father had insisted upon allowing their small clutch of servants an evening of frivolity and pleasure on Twelfth Night. Lime Tree Lodge was too small to have a proper servants’ hall, and the basement kitchen and workrooms were too cramped for dancing. So Stephen Macy had given them use of the family dining room, pushing the table to the side to be laden with punch and victuals, and the rest of the furniture cleared away for the night. He’d hired several waiters to do the serving and cleaning up and brought in a fiddler to play the dances. When she was old enough to stay up late, she had joined in with the dancing, finding it amusing to put her small silken hands in the gardener’s rough paws and be led around the room in a jig. She had felt a princess among peasants. Now she wondered if they had really looked upon her with the fond benevolence she had imagined, or if they thought her condescending and spoiled. She would not blame them.