She met Betty in the passage and followed her down one flight of stairs to the housemaids’ closet, where they retrieved two handled wooden boxes of cleaning supplies. Palms damp, she trotted after Betty down to the ground floor, through a conservatory, and into the drawing room. Would she really be able to manage a maid’s chores?
“First, we open the shutters . . .”
That she could do. Margaret made her way to a second window and unlatched and folded back the shutters. In the advancing morning light, she saw that the upper housemaid had faded auburn hair, blue eyes, and the freckles of a girl.
She followed Betty through each room, learning what would become her morning rounds—cleaning the grates, sweeping the carpets, dusting, and generally straightening the public rooms: conservatory and drawing room at the rear of the house. Salon and library on one side of the front entry hall, morning room and dining room on the other. All before breakfast.
Margaret noticed the elegant high-ceilinged rooms and fine furniture but was too busy observing Betty to admire them. Betty worked with brisk efficiency, without wasted motion or apparent strain. Margaret wished she had a notebook. She doubted she would remember everything.
A stout, grave man in a gentleman’s black coat and trousers stepped into the library, his dark hair slicked back. Betty introduced him as Mr. Arnold, the under butler. He welcomed Nora and checked their progress, running a white glove over furniture as he went.
At eight o’clock, Margaret and Betty made their way down to the basement and along the dim passage to the servants’ hall for breakfast. And not a moment too soon. Last night’s bread and cheese were long gone. Margaret pressed a hand to her unhappy midriff. The gnawing discomfort had, until recently, been a foreign sensation to Margaret Macy, one she recognized as hunger, though it was a feeling she had rarely experienced in her routine of late breakfasts, nuncheons, teas, early family dinners, and late suppers.
The servants’ hall was a narrow, rectangular room dominated by a long table with a chair at each end and benches along its sides. To the right of the door, pegs held coats and aprons. On one long wall stood an unlit hearth; on the other hung an embroidered plaque, which read,
A good character is valuable to everyone, but especially to servants.
For it is their bread and butter
and without it they cannot be admitted into a creditable family,
and happy it is that the best of characters is in everyone’s power to deserve.
At the far end of the room, several high windows emitted cheerful morning sunshine. An oil lamp suspended from the beamed ceiling supplemented their light. In the corner stood an old pianoforte, shrouded and silent. How generous that the Upchurch family allowed its use by the servants. She wondered who played.
She took her place on a bench next to Betty and Fiona, the sharp-nosed housemaid who had brought her water and food the night before. Two kitchen maids introduced themselves, but their names went in one of Margaret’s ears and out the other.
On the opposite side of the table, the two handsome young footmen in livery sat sullenly, paying no attention to her or the other maids. It was a strange feeling, being ignored by men. The grave under butler, Mr. Arnold, whom she had met upstairs, moved to sit at the head of the table, but at the last moment he scowled and sat on the bench to the right of the chair. Several servants exchanged wry looks, though no one dared a word.
The table was laid with silverware and china—not the finest, but china just the same. Butter knives crossed bread plates and sturdy mugs sat at the ready. At one corner lay a cutting board of freshly baked bread, a pot of jam, and a jar of butter, as well as a pitcher of milk. A teapot steeped on a trivet. Another maid came in, a plump young woman with a smile as broad as her figure. She set a basin of porridge near the foot of the table before taking her place beside Margaret and introducing herself as Hester, the stillroom maid. A young scullery maid and hall boy scurried in with plates of sausages, sliced tomatoes, and a dish of boiled eggs before disappearing once more.
A tall thin man in a white coat—the chef, apparently—entered with the housekeeper, discussing the day’s menu. The man’s black hair was still damp—he was just beginning his day, Margaret surmised. The stillroom maid must prepare the servants’ breakfast, while the chef reserved his talents for the family’s fare.
Mrs. Budgeon, looking neat and rested, took her place at the foot. She glanced around the table. “I trust you have all introduced yourselves to Nora?”
Heads nodded and murmurs agreed.
Mr. Hudson stepped into the room and Betty snagged Margaret’s sleeve and all but yanked her to her feet. She belatedly realized that everyone rose when the house steward entered—a sign of respect for the highest-ranking member of staff. Mr. Hudson took his place at the head, sending a sheepish smile toward the under butler, who fastidiously ignored him.
Mr. Hudson gestured for everyone to sit. Then he folded his hands at the edge of the table and bowed his head. The others followed suit.
He prayed simply. “For this food, and this day, and your many blessings, make us truly grateful. Amen.”
The chef, sitting next to the under butler, speared a sausage. He passed the basin of porridge with a scowl and instead sawed off a generous hunk of bread and slathered it with butter. Upon this, he laid two slices of tomato, which he salted and peppered heavily. Then he cut the sausage lengthwise and laid the planks across the tomatoes. He set to his creation with knife and fork.
Margaret ate her porridge with creamy milk but without the sugar she indulged in at home. She sipped her tea with relish, again missing the sugar but not commenting. The warm richness of the tea with fresh milk was pleasure enough.
Mr. Hudson cleared his throat and announced, “Mr. Upchurch has decided to reinstitute the practice of morning prayers. So please assemble in the main hall at nine sharp.”
Margaret saw Mr. Arnold send a look of surprise to Mrs. Budgeon, who ignored him, even though the surprise in her own expression was evident. Beside Margaret, Fiona grumbled, as did several others. The elder of the two footmen rolled his eyes.
“Well, I think it a splendid idea,” Betty said. “We haven’t had prayers since Mr. Upchurch senior went off to the Indies.”
The grumbling faded as they returned to their meal. The chef was the first to excuse himself, likely having a great deal of work awaiting him in the kitchen. A few minutes later the footmen and under butler departed to lay the family’s breakfast upstairs. Mrs. Budgeon glanced at the clock atop the mantel, and that was signal enough that everyone else rose to return to their duties.
Margaret followed after Betty as she stopped in the stillroom to assemble a tray of tea things and a pressed newspaper to take up to Miss Upchurch while Fiona prepared a tray for Mr. Upchurch. Fiona had already taken up cans of hot and cold water and emptied the chamber pots while Betty and Margaret were busy in the public rooms.
Upstairs, Betty gestured for Margaret to wait and then let herself in to Miss Upchurch’s bedchamber to deliver the tea and help her dress. Margaret, who had met Helen Upchurch several times, was only too glad to remain in the corridor.
Afterward, Betty and Margaret returned the tray to the stillroom. The kitchen maids passed by, clad in clean aprons, their hair smoothed back under their caps. Taking Betty’s cue, Margaret followed them up to the main level.
Betty whispered, “It’s the first time these poor girls have been allowed abovestairs.”
At nine, servants from every nook and cranny of the house filed into the front hall, with its broad entrance doors, marble floors, carved ceiling, and impressive main stairway. The staff lined up in rows on the floor near the bottom stair, waiting in fidgets and whispers.
Mr. Arnold muttered, “Didn’t know he’d become a vicar whilst he was away.”
The library door opened, and Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, his sister at his side. Stomach knotting, Margaret slipped a little farther behind the tall chef.
Mr. Upchurch carried a black book in one hand, his other arm still cradled in a sling. He wore a bandage above one eye, which reminded her of a pirate’s eye patch, askew. She wondered how badly he was hurt and why he was determined to lead prayers when he was recovering from recent injuries. How somber he looked—little like the fierce, wild-haired ruffian who had started a brawl at a Mayfair ball. The beard was gone. His hair groomed. The rough sea-voyage clothes replaced with everyday gentleman’s attire: coat, waistcoat, cravat.
Hesitating, Mr. Upchurch handed the book to Hudson, behind him. Then he patted his pockets with his sound hand in vain. Was he searching for his spectacles? He used to wear them, she recalled. He said something in low tones to Mr. Hudson, and Hudson opened the book to a page marked with a square of paper before handing it back.
Mr. Upchurch cast a swift glance at the assembled group. Beside him, Helen Upchurch smiled up at them.
Margaret ducked her head.
“Good morning.” Mr. Upchurch cleared his throat, squinted at the book, then read, “From First Peter. ‘Honour all men. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honour the king.’ ” He turned the page. “ ‘Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.’ ”
Around her, Margaret felt bodies stiffen, and a snotty footman muttered something she was probably better spared.