Fiona huffed. “That’s convenient.”
Margaret shushed the disrespectful maid without thinking, earning herself a glare from the Irishwoman.
Mr. Upchurch tucked the book back under his good arm and bowed his head. “Lord, help us each to serve you well this day, in whatever place you have seen fit to place us. Amen.” He nodded to the group in dismissal and turned away.
His sister offered them what seemed an apologetic smile, perhaps hoping to soften his benediction. The others began to grumble or to stonily make their way back to their posts. But Margaret stood where she was.
Had God seen fit to place her in the service of the Upchurch family? Or had she simply made a muddle of her life?
After breakfast, Nathaniel carried a cup of coffee with him from the dining room into the library. Hudson was already inside, ready for their morning meeting, but he said nothing for several moments. Nathaniel surveyed Hudson over his coffee, sipped, then lowered the cup. “What?”
Hudson winced. “Far be it from me to interfere, sir. But that might not have been the best choice of Scriptures for your first shot at morning prayers.”
“Oh?”
“Consider, sir. How that Scripture might seem an . . . arrow, more than the gentle admonition you no doubt intended.”
Nathaniel opened the book on his desk and reread the passage. “Is that why I received surly looks? It was simply the next verse in my own daily reading. I knew it had not gone well and assumed it my delivery. I shall choose more carefully in future.”
“Ah.” Hudson nodded his understanding. “Well. I am certain it shall go better next time.”
Nathaniel regarded his steward. Robert Hudson was a few years his senior. Although originally from England, he had spent many years living and working aboard ships before settling in Barbados. There, Nathaniel had hired him away from Abel Preston, the neighboring planter neither man could stand. As a clerk, Hudson was forthright and completely trustworthy. The two men had become fast friends, their relationship more partnership than master-servant. Though Hudson never failed to show him respect, neither did he fail to speak his mind.
When Nathaniel’s father commissioned him to return and put Fairbourne Hall to rights, he had lost no time in convincing Hudson to return with him as steward. If Mrs. Budgeon and that coxcomb of an under butler did not like it, he did not care. Hudson would lead them with humility and competence. A rare combination of traits, which Nathaniel hoped to learn to emulate.
Nathaniel finished his coffee and set down his cup. “And far be it from me to interfere with the servants, Hudson, but I am curious. Mrs. Budgeon lodged a complaint with my sister about your hiring a housemaid without consulting her.” He raised a hand before Hudson could protest. “I trust you to hire whom you like, but not two days ago you avowed your intention to leave the female staff entirely to the housekeeper.”
“I know, sir. But I found quite an unexpected gem at market yesterday.”
“Oh?”
“Remember the girl I mentioned to you? The one who warned me when I stopped to check on you near the docks?”
Nathaniel frowned at the memory. “Your wild driving knocked me from the seat.”
“Be that as it may, I saw that very girl at the hiring fair in Maidstone. Woebegone she looked too, standing there alone after everyone else had gone home.”
“You hired her because she shouted at you to move along?” Incredulity and amusement tinged Nathaniel’s words.
“You don’t remember that night, sir. Laid low with the surgeon’s laudanum as you were. You did not see the cutthroats descending to do us a violence and no doubt steal us blind in the bargain. She not only brought them to my attention, but she shoved a door in the leader’s face when he would have overtaken us. The last thing I saw before we turned the corner was those three brutes trying to break down the lodging house door. Until I saw her again yesterday, I feared she might have come to harm on our account.”
“Is that why she left London?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“Hmm . . . Strange that she should come here, do you not think?”
Hudson shrugged. “Not so strange. Maidstone has a regular hiring fair and is not terribly distant from London.”
“I suppose.”
Hudson grimaced and screwed his lips to one side. “Do you think I have made Mrs. Budgeon very angry?”
It was Nathaniel’s turn to shrug. “The woman is a professional. She will get over it no doubt. Assuming, that is, your girl is a good worker and knows the difference between a hairbrush and a chimney brush.”
Standing in the basement passageway, Margaret watched Betty’s stubby fingers and rough, heavily veined hands as she laid out brush after brush on the narrow worktable.
Betty turned to her. “Now, name each brush and describe its proper use, if you please.”
Margaret’s mouth went dry. Before her were brushes of every imaginable description. Long-haired, short and wiry, feather, miniature brooms, and more. She had little idea what they might be called or how each was to be used.
She began, “Well, this is a feather duster of course, and, um . . .” She licked her lips. “You know, Mrs. Budgeon made it quite clear that I was not to try to do things as I did in my former place. Therefore, perhaps you had better teach me how each of these brushes is to be used here at Fairbourne Hall.”
Betty studied her a moment, then sighed. “Very well.” She picked up one bristled handle after another. “Picture brush, shoe brush, hearth brush, plate brush, flue brush, library brush, velvet brush, banister brush, carpet brush, wall broom, bed broom . . .”
Very soon, Margaret’s head was spinning. She hoped there would be no examination. Miss Hightower’s Seminary for Girls had not prepared her for this.
Why, you know, Sir Thomas’s means
will be rather straitened if the Antigua estate
is to make such poor returns.
—Jane Austen, Mansfield Park
Chapter 8
Nathaniel found Helen ensconced in her favorite chair in the family sitting room—where he suspected she spent the majority of her time. He took in his sister’s plain grey frock, her severely pulled-back hair, and the pallor of her cheeks. Helen was only a year his senior, but at the moment she looked older than her thirty years.
She glanced up from her novel. “How are you feeling today?”
Her words struck him as the distant kindness of an acquaintance.
“In body? Better. I cannot claim the same for mind and spirit.” He settled himself on the settee across from her.
“What did the river police say? Any hope of catching the vandal?”
He snorted ruefully. “Catch a man most people believe mere legend? How they laughed behind their hands when I admitted Hudson and I had been overtaken by a lone attacker, a man who calls himself the Poet Pirate no less. Of course I told them the man’s real name as well, but I don’t think they believed me.”
“I am sorry, Nathaniel.” She shook her head. “At least the ship was not lost. You can make repairs, can you not?”
He had barely returned and didn’t want to burden her with the reality of their finances just yet. He exhaled a deep breath. “We shall see. Now, let us talk of something else. How have you been keeping while we have all been away?”
“Well enough. And how was Papa when you left him? In good health, I hope?”
How he abhorred the polite restraint between them. “Yes. The warmer climate seems to agree with him. Says he barely notices his rheumatism anymore.”
Helen studied him. “But . . . does he mind being alone there?”
He hesitated, biting back a sarcastic retort about the charming widow from a nearby plantation with whom their father spent an inordinate amount of time. Considering Helen’s solitary state, it seemed unkind to mention it. He said instead, “He has lived there a long time now, Helen. He has many friends.”
“And you? Were you sorry to return?”
Nathaniel considered. Should he tell her about the escalating arguments between him and their father? He said, “In hindsight, the timing of it all seems God-ordained, receiving that letter from Stephens when we did.”
Helen shook her head. “I still cannot believe Stephens wrote to Father. He always insisted servants should know and keep their place. I cannot believe he would say a word against Lewis.”
In his mind’s eye, Nathaniel saw the somber face of their dignified old butler. He had written to say he felt it his duty to apprise James Upchurch of the state of affairs at Fairbourne Hall, to make him aware of the decline of the great estate it had been his honor to serve for more than twenty years. Stephens apologized but said that he could not in good conscience remain longer. The butler had given his notice, not to Lewis or Nathaniel but to their father—the real master in his eyes, absent or not.
“His tone was very respectful—quite mournful, really.”
Helen pursed her lips. “Still, I thought him more loyal.”
Nathaniel fought against incredulity. “Helen, the man had not been paid in six months. Stephens paid a quarter’s wages to the lower servants out of his own savings. He tried to cover for us to keep the Upchurch reputation from suffering.”
She stared at him. “I had no idea it had come to that. Certainly, had Lewis known he would have done something. Stephens should have told him.”