The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(13)
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?
And now the master was “within.” Perhaps Mr. Hudson referred to Mr. Upchurch senior. But Margaret was certain James Upchurch was still in Barbados. Of course, she had thought Nathaniel still there as well until the night of the masquerade ball.
She licked dry lips. “May I ask about the man I saw in the coach? Is he all right?”
“He was injured last night when his ship was set on fire.”
“How dreadful.”
He nodded. “I took him to a surgeon after it happened. I didn’t like the looks of the fellow, so after we left you, we spent the night at an inn and saw a physician this morning before we left town. Says he’ll be all right. In fact, I had only stopped in Maidstone to fill the physician’s order for salve when I happened to see you.”