The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(11)

He turned his milky gaze from Joan to Margaret. “The Northampton line will take you as far as Dunstable for a crown—if you take an outside seat, which is cheaper. It leaves in twenty minutes. Or, the Maidstone Times leaves in thirty.”

Joan glanced at her. “Which shall it be, miss? North or south?”

Margaret thought quickly. Her old home, the village of Summerfield, lay to the south, though outside the chalk circle. Would Sterling look for her there? “South, I think.” She hesitated. “Unless you prefer north?”

“Maidstone has a hiring fair, I understand,” Joan said. “So that would suit me.” She lowered her voice. “But remember, it’s you what has to get out of town. Once we are safely out of London, you shall go your way and I mine. Understand?”

Margaret felt chastened by the cutting words of her once-docile maid. But she nodded without retort. She needed Joan too much to risk complaining.

Joan turned back to the man. “Two for Maidstone, please.”

He took the money, gave them their change, and directed them inside. “Marsh is the coachman you want.”

They would go south. Not as far as Summerfield, but as far as their meager coin would take them.

Half an hour later, Margaret found herself, for the first time in her life, sitting on a bench atop the roof of a stagecoach, in an outside seat no less. She gripped the metal handrail so hard her knuckles ached, and they had yet to set off. In front of her, the coachman sat at the ready in his many-caped coat and top hat. Beside her sat a soldier, Joan on his other side.

The soldier turned his cheek toward first Joan, then Margaret, pointing out a long scar. “See that. Not from the war, no. From being struck by a coachman’s wild whip.”

Margaret swallowed and inched back on her perch as far as the low leather backrest and the baggage behind would allow.

When the guard had assisted the last passenger, he climbed up to his box at the rear and blew his yard of tin—first the “start,” then the “clear the road,” signal. Margaret cringed. The horn had never seemed so loud from inside a coach.

The coachman called to his horses, “Get on lads. Walk on.”

Soon, they were trotting down Southwark streets, gaining speed as they left the metropolis behind. The roads worsened, but this seemed no deterrent to the coachman, snapping his whip and urging his horses faster. Margaret sent up a prayer and held on tight. The careening coach rocked to and fro over the rutted road, and Margaret feared she would lose what little breakfast she had eaten. A man’s hat flew off, and the gusting wind pulled at her bonnet and wig. She could not imagine how the wind must bite and torture in winter. She risked loosing her handhold only long enough to tie the ribbons tighter before gripping the rail once more. At every turn, the coach pitched and the soldier’s body pressed against her side. He needed a bath.

The stage stopped to pay tolls at several tollgates. The polite soldier leaned near and said, “I prefer traveling by Royal Mail when I can. They don’t have to stop and pay tolls.”

Margaret nodded her understanding but did not mind the brief stops. They gave her a few moments to rub her aching hand and check her wig and spectacles. Joan, she noticed, bore the journey without complaint.

Margaret leaned forward, mustered a smile, and said to her, “Could be worse. At least it is not raining.”





Maids attending [hiring] fairs carried distinctive

insignia to indicate their particular skills. Cooks,

for instance, wore a red ribbon and carried a basting

spoon, while housemaids wore blue and held a broom.

—Pamela Horn, introduction to The Complete Servant


Chapter 5



Several hours later, the stagecoach approached Maidstone, the county town of Kent, passing hop fields and cherry orchards as it neared. From across the river Medway, Margaret saw many stone and timber-framed buildings, paper mills, and an impressive church with great arched windows and a castle-like tower.

The stage rattled over the bridge, and Margaret spied a boat moored along the riverbank and grain sacks being unloaded onto a wagon. The horses then trotted down a street lined with shops, a bluecoat school, and inns. Margaret read the signs as they passed: Gegan, Carver & Gilder, Miss Sarah Stranger, Ladies’ Boarding and Day School, The Queen’s Arms.

The guard played “home” on his horn and the coach halted before the red brick Star Hotel. Hostellers rushed out to tend the horses, and the guard hopped from his perch. Taking his offered hand, Margaret climbed gingerly from the roof, knuckles aching, legs shaking. The soldier handed down the carpetbag and Joan’s valise, then hopped down himself, tipped his hat, and wished them well.

Margaret looked around. Maidstone. Only thirty-five or forty miles from London. Not far enough away to Margaret’s way of thinking. And why did the town’s name ring a distant bell in her mind? She had never been there before, and she didn’t think she had any family nearby. If only she did have some kind relative, whom Sterling would not think to search down, who might take her in and hide her away. But she could think of no one.

Margaret adjusted her windblown bonnet and glanced at Joan. “What is the plan?”

“My plan is to find work,” Joan said flatly. “I’d advise you to do the same.”

Inwardly Margaret cringed. She would have to find some way to pay for lodgings, but she had no idea what sort of work she was equipped to do, unless one counted ornamental needlework. She had been an only child until Caroline and then Gilbert came along years later, and her father had treated her more as a prized son than a housebound female.

The second son of wealthy parents, Stephen Macy had gone into the church after his elder brother inherited the estate. He had raised Margaret to enjoy everything he did—well-bred horses and well-trained dogs, serious discussions, and helping people in need. Her mother had drawn the line at cigars. While at girls’ seminary, Margaret had learned to enjoy a few typically feminine pursuits, like watercolors and fashion. But when she was home, her father continued to take her riding and on parish calls. But no one would pay her to paint or ride, she guessed, nor to visit the sick with food baskets.

At the thought of food her stomach growled. How Margaret wished she might walk into the Star Hotel, pay for a meal and room, and sleep for days. She sighed. “I suppose finding work is the only option.”

Joan pointed down the busy street. “I’m guessing the hiring fair lies in that direction.” Joan turned and walked away.

Margaret matched the maid’s brisk stride as they followed the flow of the crowd. In the midst of the wide, cobbled High Street, a cupola-topped town hall stood like an island between two rows of facing storefronts. The open marketplace between was filled with milling shoppers, stalls and carts of every description, and noisy fishmongers and hawkers touting the superiority of their goods and services.

“White turnips and fine carrots, ho!” chanted a lad, his donkey laden with baskets on each side.

A man straddled a grinding wheel. “I’ll grind your knives for three ha’pence a blade. Knives and scissors to grind, oh!”

The shops on the High Street had opened wide their doors, merchandise spilling forth to add to the color and variety of the marketplace. A baker’s shop brought out baskets of aromatic golden buns, spicy-sweet gingerbread, and loaves of every description.

The window of Betts’, the butchers, displayed hanging geese, hogs, and sausages. An aproned lad stood out front, selling meat pies to passersby.

The front of the chandler’s shop was lined with crates of cabbages, gooseberries, and early apples.

Margaret’s stomach growled again.

Her head swiveling from side to side to take it all in, Margaret nearly collided with a man with a barrel on his shoulder, begged his pardon, and realized she had become separated from her maid. She quickened her pace.

At the top end of the High Street, she once again caught up with Joan, who gave her the merest glance and pointed to an open area ahead, cordoned off by ropes hung between barrels. Several people stood within. Two ginger-haired girls leaned against broom handles, talking together and giggling behind their hands. An older woman stood stiffly, a red ribbon pinned to her bosom and carrying a spoon, staring stoically ahead. An old man sat on one of the upturned barrels, whittling. Beside him on the ground sat a scrawny lad of no more than eight or nine, in need of a haircut and a good meal.

“What are they doing?” Margaret whispered.

“Waiting to be hired. Have you never seen a hiring fair before?”

Margaret shook her head. The scene vaguely reminded her of the slave markets she had read about in abolitionist pamphlets. She said, “I thought you would search the newspaper advertisements, or . . . I don’t know, knock at the doors of fine houses and ask if they need another maid.”

“At every door in town? Not terribly effective. And have you money for a newspaper?”

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.