The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

by Julie Klassen

  Margaret sniffed. “Very well.”

  The upper housemaid studied her, a knowing glint in her blue eyes. “I see how you are, Nora. You won’t let it lie, so I’ll tell you. Only to keep you from askin’ Fiona and makin’ life difficult for us all.”

  Guilt pricked Margaret. “I shouldn’t tempt you to gossip. I’m sorry. Listen, Betty, let’s forget it.”

  “No, you listen. Fiona has never breathed a word to me. But my uncle is butler at Linton Grange, where Fiona last worked, and he told me.”

  “Does Fiona know you know?”

  Betty pursed her lip. “I don’t believe so. You’d think she’d wonder, knowing the butler had the Tidy surname, same as me. But she’s never mentioned it.”

  Betty scrubbed at a stubborn stain, then paused, gathering her thoughts. “This all happened some five or six years ago. Fiona was housemaid at the Grange, as she is here. It’s the old story: the young master—the only son—fell in love with her. Asked her to marry him. Even set her up in her own cottage on the estate. It was him what gave her that fine gown—and dreams of a better life in the bargain.”

  Betty shook her head, lips pressed in a thin line. “I don’t know if he really meant to marry her, or only told her so. His parents forbade the match, as you can imagine, throwing all sorts of obstacles in their way. But Fiona was certain he would marry her eventually, or so my uncle said. But it weren’t to be. The young master died in a hunting accident. His gun misfired.”

  “Oh no.” Margaret’s heart sank.

  Betty nodded. “He lived long enough to beg his parents to provide for Fiona after he’d gone.”

  “Your uncle heard that as well?”

  “Servants hear everything, Nora,” Betty said shrewdly. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?” Her eyes hardened. “But that young man was no sooner in his grave than they put her out. Out of the cottage, off the estate. Without a bean to her name or a character. In the end, my uncle wrote one for her on the sly. He told me, and I put in a good word for her here. Mrs. Budgeon trusted me and hired her.”

  “Poor Fiona.”

  Betty nodded and returned to her scrubbing. “I’ve never regretted vouching for her. She’s a hard worker and has a good heart for all that. She may be slow to trust, but once she does she’s very loyal. And if she is a mite bitter . . . well, maybe now you’ll understand why.”

  Margaret shook her head. “It isn’t right.”

  “That’s life in service for many a poor girl, Nora. Mind you take care ’round men. Even them what call themselves gentlemen.”

  For a few moments, Margaret scrubbed rather aimlessly as she considered everything Betty had told her. Then she said, “I’m surprised Fiona wore that dress. She must have known we would wonder. . . .”

  “Nora.” Betty’s voice held a warning note. “If you dare let on I told you, I’ll box your ears.”

  “Very well. Her former life is safe with me.” Margaret winced on aching knees. “I am good at keeping that sort of secret.”

  ———

  That afternoon Margaret clumped down the back stairs, her housemaid’s box in hand. Finished with the public rooms and bedchambers, she had been asked to clean Mrs. Budgeon’s parlor belowstairs. Margaret crossed the passage into the servery, heading toward the basement stairs. As she did, she heard the jingling of keys. Normally, the jangle of Mrs. Budgeon’s impressive set of keys was the signal to pick up one’s pace, or quit gossiping and get back to work. But today that familiar jangle was accompanied by a less common sound—Mrs. Budgeon’s voice raised, not in reprimand or command, but in fine elocution worthy of a museum curator. Margaret turned back and listened from the servery door.

  “Fairbourne Hall was completed in 1735 by Lambert Upchurch and his wife, Katherine Fairbourne Upchurch. A covered walkway, or arcade, was added in 1760 by his eldest son, inspired by the Italian architecture he had seen on his grand tour. . . .”

  Margaret realized Mrs. Budgeon was showing the house to some travelers, likely touring the Kent countryside. She knew this was a common duty for housekeepers in fine old country estates, and she found it oddly touching to hear Mrs. Budgeon in the role, going on with such pride about the house and its ancestors as though she were part of the family. Margaret wondered how much she would receive as a perquisite for her trouble.

  Margaret remained hidden within the servery and listened. Footsteps told her Mrs. Budgeon was leading the visitors across the marble-floored hall.

  “There are more family portraits in the salon, but allow me to draw your attention to a few here in the hall.”

  A high affected voice asked, “Is it true the Upchurch family made their fortune in the West Indies sugar trade?”

  “Dorcas!” came a whispered reprimand. After all, a lady did not discuss money in public.

  “The Upchurches have owned a sugar plantation in Barbados for well over a hundred years,” Mrs. Budgeon replied. “In fact, Mr. James Upchurch, the current head of the family, presently resides there.”

  “So who lives here now?” the second young woman asked.

  The voice struck a chord of familiarity in Margaret. A pleasant familiarity. Emily Lathrop . . . What was she doing here?

  Mrs. Budgeon answered, “His grown children—his daughter, Helen, and his sons, Lewis and Nathaniel. Though Lewis is often in London.” Then the housekeeper resumed her prepared commentary.

  Margaret crept from the servery and peered around the corner as Mrs. Budgeon directed the attention of her small entourage to several paintings hung in the hall. Margaret saw her old friend Emily as she solemnly attended Mrs. Budgeon’s narration. A second young woman stood at Emily’s side, a close-in-age cousin, Margaret thought, though she had only met her once or twice. A matronly companion Margaret did not recognize stood behind them.

  “Here we have portraits of three generations of Upchurch men: Lambert, Henry, and James.”

  The housekeeper stepped to the side and gestured regally to two other paintings. “And here are portraits of the sons of James Upchurch: Lewis and Nathaniel. Each was commissioned to honor his twenty-first birthday.”

  The matronly chaperone pointed across the hall and asked timidly, “May I ask, Mrs. Budgeon, about that black urn? It is most unusual.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Budgeon flipped a page in her book. “That is a basalt-ware urn produced by Josiah Wedgwood. . . .”

  As the older women crossed the hall to examine the urn on its pedestal, the two young ladies stayed where they were, gazing up at the likenesses of Lewis and Nathaniel Upchurch.

  Emily said, “Lewis Upchurch is exceedingly handsome, is he not?”

  “Which is he?” the cousin asked in her high voice.

  “The one on the left, of course.”

  “I don’t know . . .” her cousin considered. “I like the face of the other. It is a strong face. Serious. Masculine.”

  “Do you think so? All the women I know think Lewis the more attractive. But then again, he is the elder and heir, which no doubt adds to his appeal.” Emily giggled, and her cousin smiled obligingly.

  “In fact, the younger Mr. Upchurch once proposed to my friend Margaret, but she refused him, so taken was she by his elder brother.”

  “And did the elder brother propose?”

  “No.” Emily sighed. “I could have told her he would not. But she wouldn’t have listened.”

  Margaret’s stomach sank to hear her friend say so.

  “Has there been any word from her?”

  Emily shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  Margaret was surprised her mother had not shared news of the letter Margaret had sent. She hoped her mother had received it.

  “What has become of her, do you think?”

  Emily shrugged her thin shoulders. “Some guessed she had eloped, but word of the marriage would have reached us by now.”

  The cousin smirked. “If Marcus Benton shared my house, I should have no cause to wander, I assure you. Is it true they are engaged
?”

  “I cannot credit it. Margaret protested not to like him.”

  “I think you must be right. For did you see him dancing with that horse-faced American at Almacks last week? How she ever made it past the patronesses, I shall never know.”

  “I’m surprised Mr. Benton went at all with Margaret missing.”

  “Perhaps she isn’t really missing.”

  Emily looked over sharply. “What do you mean?”

  “Perhaps she had to go away, if you take my meaning.”

  “I don’t.”

  “To hide a certain . . . condition?”

  As the implication struck Margaret, she thought she might be sick.

  “Not Margaret.” Emily frowned, then tilted her head to one side as she considered. “Though she was a bit of a flirt and might have got in over her head . . .”

  “With Marcus Benton?”

  “Not him.” Emily regarded the portraits once more. “But Lewis Upchurch is a notorious rake.”

  “And the more time passes without word of marriage . . .”

  Margaret longed to rush into the hall and set the two young women straight, but her appearance would cause more scandal than it alleviated.

  Perhaps she ought to write to Emily. Did Sterling have his tentacles in the Lathrop post as he did in his own house? She had to do something. As it was, her quest to spare her virtue seemed to be laying ruin to her reputation.

  When the tour moved on and the hall was empty once more, Margaret lingered, quietly crossing the marble floor. She stood before Lewis and Nathaniel Upchurch. Their portraits, at any rate. She first regarded Lewis. The artist had skillfully captured the mischievous light in his golden-brown eyes and the hint of a smirk about his full mouth, as though he possessed a secret he was eager to tell. His nose was perfect, his features so well formed that he was almost beautiful. And knew it.

  She turned her head to study Nathaniel’s likeness. This was the Nathaniel of old. He did not wear spectacles in the portrait, but he did wear his somber expression. His face appeared pale and his thin mouth nearly prim. The artist had not treated kindly his long, pointed nose, but had painted it in bold, unforgiving strokes. His eyes—had she ever looked so closely at his eyes before?—were a stormy bluish green. His hair, darker than Lewis’s, was thick and straight, lacking the rich curl of his elder brother’s. Margaret thought, of the two, only Lewis’s portrait flattered its subject. Even so, Nathaniel did have a good face, she decided, agreeing with the earlier assessment of Emily’s cousin. Strong, serious, masculine.

  Glimpsing a thin cobweb in the corner of the frame, she unconsciously lifted the portrait brush from the housemaid’s box still in her hand, a nearly natural extension of her arm. She flicked away the offending filament. The brush lingered, and she gently dusted Nathaniel’s portrait with a feathery touch—the firm cheek, the long nose, strong jaw, and stern mouth, wishing she might once again see him smile.

  The echoing approach of footsteps on marble startled her. She swiftly turned, muscles tense, then relaxed to see it was only Mr. Hudson.

  “How diligent you are. Even keeping Mr. Upchurch in shipshape.” His brown eyes glinted with humor. “What do you think, Nora. Does that old thing do him justice?”

  She shook her head. “Not at all, sir.”

  “Oh?” He reared back on his heels, clearly expecting nothing more than a smile or self-conscious assent. He considered the painting once more. “You are quite right, Nora. How dour he looks in that pose.”

  “Mr. Upchurch rarely smiles, sir.”

  Hudson’s brows rose as he regarded her, then he looked back at the portrait, his lower lip protruding in thought. “He used to smile more often. I particularly remember several happy occasions in Barbados. . . .”

  A throat cleared to their left. Both Margaret and Mr. Hudson turned their heads, and she was surprised and chagrined to find Nathaniel Upchurch standing in the library doorway.

  Hudson winced. “Forgive us, sir. We meant no harm. Only deciding that this portrait doesn’t do you justice. Is that not right, Nora?”

  Margaret ducked her head, nodding stiffly.

  Nathaniel crossed his arms. “And what do you find lacking?”

  She hoped he was addressing Mr. Hudson, but glancing up, she found Nathaniel’s piercing eyes riveted on her. She squirmed. “Na—nothing, sir. Only that, in reality, you are more . . . That is, you have changed. . . . In appearance, I mean, and . . .”

  He said dryly, “Are you suggesting I have improved with age?”

  She swallowed. “Yes, actually.” She dared add, “A smile might improve your looks all the more.”

  He frowned. “I have had little cause to smile of late.”

  Hudson looked from one to the other. “Well, we shall have to work on that, Nora, shan’t we.” He chuckled and blithely winked at her.

  Under Nathaniel’s unwavering stare, Margaret’s cheeks heated. She murmured, “Yes, sir,” and excused herself, fleeing to safety belowstairs.

  It was after midnight when Nathaniel walked through the upstairs sitting room on his way to the balcony. He could not sleep and hoped the crisp night air would help clear his head. His mind would not stop spinning with questions. What to do about his damaged ship, his brother, his sister, his housemaid . . .

  Almighty God, make clear to me my path. Help me to do your will.

  He pushed open the balcony door and stepped outside. A gasp startled him, and he tensed to full alert, as though “Pirate” Preston had just leapt over the railing.

  But the figure at the far end of the balcony was no criminal. A threat? Yes, she certainly was that.

  “Beg pardon, sir.” Nora—Margaret—ducked her head and stepped back from the railing.

  He said, “No need to rush off on my account.”

  “But you will want your solitude. I should not be here.”

  He supposed that was true. But he was suddenly eager she remain. Had he so soon forgotten his determination to avoid the pain of her presence like the plague itself?

  “Please stay,” he said.

  Apparently he had.

  She hesitated, then turned and gripped the railing once more.

  He was relieved she did not ask why. His only answer could have been, “Because I am a fool.”

  She looked up, at the stars he supposed, or perhaps simply to avoid his gaze.

  “That’s the North Star.” He pointed. “The bright one there. Do you see it?”

  She followed his finger. “Yes.”

  “How many nights I looked for her on the voyage home. A favorite lady with our sailing master.”

  She nodded but was silent. He assumed he had failed to engage her in conversation.

  But a moment later she asked quietly, “Did you enjoy the sea, sir?”

  Satisfaction. “I did, though my return was not without its losses.”

  He felt her gaze, and looked over to find her watching him, brows quirked in expectation. She wore her spectacles, but he noticed her customary dark fringe was missing. Instead, her cap was pulled down low, her hair tucked up in it. Even so, she looked more like herself without all that dark hair around her face.

  He asked, “Do your spectacles help you see things in the distance—like those stars?”

  She looked back up at the stars, then tucked her chin to look over the top of the lenses. “Yes.”

  “I used to wear spectacles most of the time, until I realized all I really needed them for was reading and close work.”

  She nodded, then asked quietly, “You spoke of losses?”

  He grimaced. “We were attacked at the docks by a man we knew in Barbados. Calls himself the Poet Pirate nowadays. Wasn’t terribly poetic of him to rob and burn my ship.”

  She shook her head in sympathy. “Mr. Hudson mentioned it. How sorry I was to hear it.”

  “That’s why I was insensible the night Hudson drove the coach and lost his way. He’d taken me to a nearby surgeon the customs house recommended. The man dres
sed my wounds and was overly generous with the laudanum.”

  She nodded her understanding once more.

  Studying her profile, he asked quietly, “And how did you lose your way? How did you end up near the docks, then in Maidstone?”

  “Tryin’ to avoid trouble, I suppose.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.

  “Were you . . . let go, for some reason? I promise it shall not jeopardize your situation here.”

  “It wasn’t anything like that, sir. What I mean is . . . One of the men in the house, he made things . . . difficult for me.”

  “Difficult, how?”

  She fidgeted, then whispered, “I’d rather not say.”

  “Had you no recourse, no friend or relative to protect you?”

  She shook her head, once again staring up at the stars. “I found myself thinkin’ of Joseph. When Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce him, he fled, didn’t he? He ran and ran fast without thinkin’ ahead to the consequences, without lookin’ back.”

  “So that’s what you did.”

  She nodded.

  He grinned wryly. “Joseph ended up in prison, you know.”

  “Oh,” she breathed. “I forgot that part.”

  “I trust Fairbourne Hall is a better fate than prison. You are treated with respect, I hope?”

  “Yes, sir, that is . . .” She faltered, began again. “Everyone on staff has been very kind.”

  He stiffened at her hesitation. Had Lewis trifled with her? “Miss—Nora. If anyone dares . . . If anyone bothers you, you must not hesitate to tell me. At once. I will”—kill the man—“reprimand severely any man who mistreats you. Do you understand?”

  Tears filling her eyes, she nodded, but did not speak.

  Dash it. “I’m sorry. I . . . didn’t mean to upset you.” What an idiot I am.

  She shook her head. “I’m fine. My hardships are little to yours. Is your ship lost completely?”

  He sighed, looking up. “No, but the costs to repair it will be higher than that star.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.” She hesitated. “Was her name . . . the Ecclesia?”