The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(18)

Nathaniel hesitated. He knew his sister doted on Lewis. Everyone did and always had. She would not thank him for speaking against their elder brother.

Helen asked, “So Father sent you home to take the place in hand, did he?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. I own I feared the entire staff would have deserted by the time I reached you.”

“You overreacted, the both of you. Things are not so bleak, as you see. You needn’t have come.”

Did she wish he hadn’t? Probably. Nathaniel shrugged. “Father and I had come to an impasse, at all events. I refused to manage the plantation as long as slave labor was used, and he refused to transition to paid laborers.”

“Lewis says our profits would suffer greatly.”

“They would indeed. But there is more to life than profits.”

She lifted her chin. “You held no such compunctions before you left for Barbados.”

All too true, and his conscience smote him for it. “I had not seen the institution for myself then, Helen. It was not real to me, merely theoretical. Since then I have seen the cruelty of overseers and masters like Abel Preston. I have heard the cries and seen the scars.”

Helen winced. “I tend to agree with you. But certainly Papa and others have seen what you saw and have not come to the same conclusion. How do you account for it?”

He slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. Willful blindness. Apathy. Greed. Misinformation or ignorance. I cannot say. All I know is that I am convinced to the core of my soul it is wrong.”

She picked at the doily on the arm of her chair. “At least Papa and the other planters did not fight Parliament when it abolished the slave trade.”

He nodded. “That was years ago, yet slavery continues. The only reason the planters did not fight the abolishment of the trade itself was because by that time Barbados was no longer dependent on slave importation.” His stomach twisted. “They encouraged slave reproduction instead.”

Helen looked down at her hands, clearly disconcerted.

It was his turn to wince. “Forgive me.”

She cleared her throat and forced her head up. “But do we not live by its profits? Was not your ship purchased by slave-wrought sugar, as well as your Oxford education and the very clothes on your back?”

“You begin to sound like Father,” Nathaniel said dryly. “And you are right, of course. To my shame. But we need not go on as we have in the past. Sugar is not our only source of income, Helen. We had a good crop this past season, yes. But the market is not what it once was, and overall profits are declining, slavery or no. I believe we should sell out. If we retrench, invest wisely, and live modestly, we can live off the income from the estate here.” He realized he was going on like an excited boy. Or an evangelist. He sighed. “But Father is not ready to give it up.”

She asked gently, “Is he very angry with you?”

Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “He is disappointed—there is no denying it. He says he respects my convictions but finds them too inconvenient.” His father was honest at least; Nathaniel gave him that. He drew himself up. “All this to say, it was time for me to come home. I can be useful here. Look after things.”

“But please don’t blame Lewis,” Helen said. “If there wasn’t any money, what did you expect him to do?”

Nathaniel rubbed a hand over his eyes. Again, he bit his lip to stop himself from saying what he wished to say: “I expected him to stop spending money we didn’t have on new clothes, a new barouche, new horses, lavish dinner parties, improvements to the London house, and I know not what.” His stomach churned anew at the thought of the stacks of bills he’d discovered when he spent a few days there.

When he was silent, Helen continued, “Perhaps we ought to have been more careful, but how was Lewis to raise money to pay the servants? Surely you did not expect him to work.”

Nathaniel said, “The rents from our tenants have not been collected for the last two quarters. He might have done that. For now, Hudson and I will endeavor to bring the accounts to order. If that dashed Preston had not stolen half our profits we would be closer to bringing finances up to snuff. I am only glad I did not leave the whole in that chest.”

“Does he know that?” Helen asked.

Nathaniel had wondered the same thing. “I don’t know. He said he’d heard Father had boasted about our profits. Hopefully not the specific amount.” He sighed. “I pray we’ve seen the last of him.” But somehow Nathaniel doubted it.

Helen regarded him earnestly with hazel eyes very like their mother’s, gone these many years. “I am glad you were not injured more seriously.”

“Thank you.”

How long since he’d heard a kind word spoken by one of his family. The kind words of a woman were salve, even if spoken by his sister. Still, he wished he could rekindle the camaraderie he had shared with Helen in their youth, even if she preferred Lewis.

For a moment, he wondered how Helen could idealize Lewis—as did every other female of their acquaintance, who saw only the handsome exterior and charming, carefree ways. But then Nathaniel realized Helen did not know their elder brother as well as he did. Lewis had gone away to school as a boy, then on to Oxford and his grand tour, then had spent much of his time in London or at this or that friend’s country estate.

In his boyhood, Nathaniel had been taught at home by a tutor but then had followed Lewis to Oxford. His first year had overlapped with Lewis’s last, and he had spent more time in his brother’s company, witnessing his antics away from the restraints and duties of home. But beyond term breaks and holidays, how much time had Helen and Lewis really spent together? Nathaniel didn’t like to disparage his brother. He loved him and always would, though he did not always like or respect him. Lewis seemed to save his charm for the fair sex, their sister included, and who could blame him? Many was the time Nathaniel would have traded his higher marks and accomplishments for an ounce of that charm where women—or at least a certain woman—were concerned.





That night, Margaret trudged along after Betty, through the house and down the back stairs once more. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room and sleep. Instead she followed Betty like a weary duckling trailing its parent.

“You’re in for a treat tonight, Nora. Monsieur Fournier has prepared quite a feast to welcome Mr. Upchurch home. And we’re to have the leavings for our supper.”

And feast it was, though Margaret was not accustomed to being served from dishes with portions missing, partial jelly moulds, and congealing sauces. But the other servants beamed at the dishes in anticipation, not minding the secondhand nature of the feast.

Monsieur Fournier waved his long arm and pointed a hairy-knuckled finger as he named each dish: vermicelli soup, trout en Matelote, stewed pigeon, French beans, and vegetable marrows in white sauce. And later, the finale—gooseberry tarts and fresh pineapple.

Everyone oohed and ahhed over the dessert, for pineapple was a rare luxury.

Mr. Hudson gave thanks, and they began the supper, passing things politely when asked and eating quietly. How unexpectedly formal the meal was. Margaret felt transported back to an uncomfortable evening when her great-aunt had invited her to dine with a crusty dowager countess. This was not how she had imagined servant suppers to be.

Abruptly, a few people began to rise, Betty among them, and Margaret made to follow. But this time, Fiona grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. She hissed in her ear, “What are ya doin’? Only the uppers go.”

The upper servants—Mr. Hudson, Mrs. Budgeon, Mr. Arnold, and Betty, as first housemaid—rose and quietly left the room in somber procession.

“Where are they going?” Margaret whispered.

“To the moon—what do ya think? Pug’s parlor, o’ course.”

Mr. Arnold paused in the threshold and looked back. “Fred, I trust you will remember to walk the dog after your supper?”

“I will, sir.”

The under butler, Margaret noticed, carried a bottle of port beneath his arm, while the servants were left with small beer.

Margaret had heard of the custom of the “upper ten” partaking of their pudding and of finer dishes and wines separately from the under servants in the housekeeper’s parlor. Still, she felt a strange stab at finding herself at the lower end of the social hierarchy. Left out.

The feeling soon evaporated, however, because the stiff atmosphere in the servants’ hall melted into relaxed conviviality once the uppers—the bosses—were gone.

Thomas, the dark-haired first footman, raised his glass of small beer. “Here’s to the return of Mr. Upchurch.”

A female voice to Margaret’s right said, “I wish Mr. Lewis Upchurch would return.”

Margaret snapped her head around in surprise. She took in the wistful expression of the heavyset stillroom maid she had met at breakfast.

“Do you? Why?” Margaret could not help but ask. She found it somehow disconcerting that she was not the only maid awaiting Lewis’s appearance.

Hester gazed into the distance but did not answer.

Dark-haired Thomas slanted Margaret a look. “You’ve never seen him, or you wouldn’t ask. All the girls flutter about Mr. Lewis.”