The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(14)

She looked at his bandaged hand. “You were injured as well?”

He shook his head dismissively. “It’s nothing.”

“But you were on the ship too?”

“Yes, though regrettably of no help to him. Mr. Upchurch had to drag me from the burning ship.”

Mr. Upchurch. Her heart thudded. Then it was true. She had just been hired as a maid in the home of two former suitors. . . .

“Good heavens,” she murmured. She could barely take it in. She had planned only a few days ago to seek out Lewis Upchurch privately, perhaps even to brazenly hint they marry. Of course, seeing him so enthralled with another woman had dashed those plans. But she would never want him to see her like this, so bedraggled looking and in such mortifying circumstances.

She very much wanted to ask which Mr. Upchurch he referred to, but knew revealing she was acquainted with the family would put her at risk of discovery. As far as she knew, Lewis was no longer involved in the family business and would not have been the one dealing with Upchurch sugar ships.

Instead she asked, “Had you been overtaken by the smoke?”

“No. Wasn’t the smoke that overtook me, but a crafty scoundrel with a club to my head.”

“No!”

“Yes. You’ve heard of the thief folks call the Poet Pirate?”

“Yes. But I thought he was only a legend.”

“A legend with flesh and bones. And a grudge. Now, I best say no more. Mr. Upchurch would not want me spreading his troubles.”

Margaret remembered what Emily had said at the Valmores’ ball—that Nathaniel looked like a pirate and might be the so-called Poet Pirate himself. Clearly, Emily had been wrong.

Still, Mr. Hudson might be speaking of their father, Margaret thought, somewhat desperately. Perhaps he had returned with Nathaniel and was the man inside the coach. Maybe Lewis and Nathaniel had remained in London. She ventured, “Is this Mr. Upchurch an older man?”

“No. Not unless you call nine-and-twenty old, and I don’t.”

“Oh. You called him master, so I thought . . .”

“The father lives in Barbados, so his son is master of the place for all intents and purposes. He has an elder brother, but Lewis Upchurch spends most of his time in London. We’ll not likely be seeing much of him.”

“Surely he shall come home now,” she said, thinking of Nathaniel’s demands at the ball.

Mr. Hudson gave her a sharp look.

“I mean . . . now that his brother is home.”

He studied her a moment longer, then returned his eyes to the road. Had she already given herself away?

“Perhaps.” The steward cleared his throat. “But you, Nora, being a housemaid, will not see much of the family. Maids are to be all but invisible, I understand.”

Vaguely, Margaret nodded, but she wasn’t really thinking of invisible maids. She was thinking of handsome Lewis Upchurch.

If Lewis did come home, what should she do? Sneak off to find him, reveal herself and her situation? Even if his interest had cooled toward her in recent months, surely he might help her.

A few minutes later, Mr. Hudson turned the horses down a curved drive and reined them in with a “Whoa.” The coach came to a halt in front of a stately red brick manor house with a white front door. Tall, white-framed windows lined the first two levels, while the top floor was punctuated by smaller dormer windows. Broad chimneys crowned its roof, while a manicured lawn, shaped hedges, and flower gardens added color and warmth.

Had she not spurned Nathaniel Upchurch years ago, might this now be her home? The irony left a sour taste in her mouth.

A liveried footman rushed out to meet the coach. Margaret twisted on the bench to descend, but Mr. Hudson laid a staying hand on her arm.

“Not here, Nora. After we get Mr. Upchurch inside, I’ll drive you around to the servants’ entrance.”

Her cheeks burned. “Of course.” She could hardly believe Nathaniel Upchurch was in the very coach she sat atop. She shivered at the thought of what he might do if he saw her there.

The footman opened the door and let down the step.

Hudson called down, “Mr. Upchurch has been injured. Please assist him inside.”

The footman offered a hand to the occupant. The coach swayed as the passenger alighted. Margaret sat stiffly, staring ahead, face averted. She was afraid Nathaniel Upchurch might look up and recognize her and send her away before she’d even begun.

“There you go, sir. Easy does it,” the footman soothed.

“I am not an invalid, man. Let off.”

“Only trying to help.”

Margaret risked a glance and saw a tall dark-haired man in rumpled clothing shake off the footman’s hand. A bandage swathed his head, and one arm hung in a sling. A second footman ran forward to help, concern evident in his expression.

Mr. Hudson addressed the servants. “Please see Mr. Upchurch to his room and draw him a bath.”

“Yes, sir.”

Margaret watched Nathaniel Upchurch hobble to the door, shaking off the second footman’s hand as he had the first’s. He was certainly not the mild-tempered fellow she remembered from years gone by. She recalled the searing look of disgust he had shot her across the ballroom only a few nights before. It had sent a clear message—I loathe you. He would probably relish an opportunity to revenge himself for her cold refusal of his offer.

She could definitely not risk revealing herself to him.

Mr. Hudson drove to the back of the house. There, a groom came forward and took charge of the horses and carriage. Hudson helped Margaret alight, then escorted her down the outside stairs to the basement. Inside, he led her along a passage to a closed door. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Then he asked her to wait while he went alone into the housekeeper’s parlor.

He knocked, was admitted by a faint “Come,” and disappeared within, closing the door behind him.

Seeing no one about, Margaret allowed herself to lean against the wall beside the door. She was fatigued from the long, stressful day. Through the closed door she overheard the low rumble of Mr. Hudson’s voice, followed by a silence, then expressions of surprise and concern in a female voice. Unable to resist, Margaret tilted her head nearer the door.

A woman said, “I realize, Mr. Hudson, that as house steward, you have the right to hire whom you please, but I would have thought, considering you have just come into your position, that you might at least have consulted me.”

He made some placating reply, but his words were not as distinct as the woman’s, so Margaret made out only a few words, “London . . . help . . . trial.”

A trial, as in it would be a trial to have her there, or a trial period of employment? A heavy sigh followed. Whichever it was, the housekeeper was clearly not pleased by the prospect.

The door opened and Mr. Hudson appeared, grim-faced. “Mrs. Budgeon will see you now.” He added on a whisper, “Mind your p’s and q’s.”



The woman within was not what Margaret had expected. She supposed she’d imagined someone like the woman who had hired Joan—a gloomy-faced matron in a decorous high-necked gown and outmoded cap. The woman before her was only in her midforties. Her dress was black but fashionable, striped with grey and brightened by a pretty lace collar. No dowdy cap crowned her thick dark hair, which was neatly pinned back. Her eyes were brown, her face pleasant if a touch long, her complexion fair, her jawline just beginning to soften. She had been a beauty in her youth, Margaret thought. She was attractive still, except for the stern tightening of her mouth and wary light in her eyes.

“Nora, is it?”

“Yes, ma’am. Nora Garret.”

“Under servants use only Christian names here at Fairbourne Hall. Except when we have more than one Mary, for example.”

Margaret nodded.

“Mr. Hudson tells me you worked previously as a young lady’s maid. And that was where?”

“Lime Tree Lodge, in Summerfield.”

“And your employer?”

Margaret swallowed. “A Mrs. Haines.”

“Normally, I would write to your past employer to request a character reference be sent directly to me. But as Mr. Hudson has taken it upon himself to engage you, I have agreed to give you a month’s trial. Employment after that time will depend upon how well you perform your duties, follow house rules, and get on with other members of staff. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well. We shall see.” The woman rose. “From the looks of you, you’ve had a long day already. Let’s go up and get you settled.”

Taking a candlestick, Mrs. Budgeon led the way along the basement passage. Handing Margaret the lit candle, the woman unlocked a storeroom with one of the many keys hanging from her waist and extracted a set of bed linens and a hand towel. Carrying the candle in one hand and her carpetbag in the other, Margaret followed Mrs. Budgeon up a pair of narrow stairs, through a servery on the ground floor, then up two more flights of back stairs. Margaret was accustomed to climbing stairs in the Berkeley Square town house, but not at such a pace!

“You are to use the back stairs for all your comings and goings,” the housekeeper said. “You are only allowed on the main stairs for staff assemblies or if you are sweeping or polishing the railings.”

Margaret nodded, breathing too hard to answer.