Margaret thought about Helen Upchurch, whom she had seen at morning prayers as well. Helen was five years older than Margaret, and the two had had only a passing acquaintance. Still, Margaret had been saddened to hear of her disappointment in love when the man she hoped to marry died a few years before. Apparently she had now resigned herself to life as a spinster.
There was no sign of Lewis Upchurch, the only Upchurch she thought she might turn to—had she the nerve to do so.
Margaret massaged her fingers. She heard a whine, and for a moment feared she had moaned aloud, but then someone scratched at her door. She started up in bed, reaching in a flailing panic for her wig. The door creaked open.
“Just a moment!” she whispered urgently. But it was too late. Whoever it was walked into the room, feet clicking on the floorboards. Margaret’s eyes adjusted just as a damp nose nudged her elbow. In the dim room, she reached for the wolfhound’s grey head, silvery white in the faint moonlight.
“Jester . . .” she scolded mildly. “What are you doing up here—come to give me another bath?” She stroked the big dog’s ears. “Your master would not approve. A beast with your bloodlines, consorting with a servant?”
Saying the word aloud gave Margaret pause. “I am a servant,” she whispered to herself, incredulous. She lay there, exhausted and sore, thinking she should just pack up and leave. Sneak out and go . . . somewhere. Anywhere. But at the moment she was too tired to move.
The next afternoon, Nathaniel took himself to the library to write to his father and the family’s solicitor, apprising them both of the situation with the ship and with Fairbourne Hall. He’d hoped to use part of the sugar profits to begin repair work on the Ecclesia, but knew he must first bring the languishing estate into order. He and Hudson had completed an initial inspection of the place. The manor roof leaked into the old schoolroom, several laborer cottages needed repair, the orchard had grown wild, one of the tenant farms sat vacant, a fence was down, and the list went on. Nathaniel sighed. As much as he wanted to, he could not in good conscience funnel money into his ship. Not yet.
Through the open library door, he glimpsed his brother sweeping through the hall, unannounced. He supposed Lewis felt he needed no announcing in his own home, infrequently though he slept there.
Nathaniel added his signature to the letter, replaced the quill in its stand, and rose to find and greet his brother. He hoped to make peace with him. And to be firm about the family’s need to get their affairs in order—and keep spending in line with their reduced income.
Arnold appeared in the threshold. “Excuse me, sir, but your brother has just arrived. He did not wish to be announced, but I thought you would want to know.”
Nathaniel found the under butler’s ingratiating manners irritating, but forced himself to reply civilly, “Thank you. Where is he now?”
“The sitting room, I believe, with Miss Upchurch.”
Nathaniel thanked the man again, crossed the hall, and climbed the stairs. His family had long preferred the upstairs sitting room to the formal drawing room on the main level. As he neared the sitting-room door, he heard his brother’s booming voice and his sister’s calm happy tones.
“Lewis, you can’t know how pleased I am to see you.”
“So you’ve said. Twice. Did Nate tell you what he did to me in London?”
“Ask you to come home?”
“He punched me—right in the midst of the Valmores’ ball.”
“He never!”
“He did. Of course, I got my licks in too. Man has to stand up for himself, you know.”
“Oh, Lewie. Is that where that bruise came from? I was afraid you’d been breaking hearts again.”
“Only two or three a week.”
“Lewie . . .” Helen scolded fondly, “one of these days someone’s father, or brother, or sweetheart will do worse than bruise you.”
“Then perhaps I ought to swear off women. After all, you are my favorite, Helen, and always shall be.”
“Oh, go on. I can tell the difference between charm and a hum, you know.”
“And which has old Nate been giving you?”
“Neither. Though he has been a bit overbearing since he’s been home.”
Helen’s words stung. Nathaniel crossed the threshold in time to see Lewis rub his jaw.
“As I am painfully aware. Had I known things were so bad here, I would have come sooner.”
Helen raised one brow. “I did write to you.”
“Yes, but you are always so mincing with your words, so careful not to alarm me, that I had no real idea how bad the situation had become.”
“Servants up in arms, shopkeepers at the door, butler gone without notice . . . that was mincing words?”
Lewis tweaked her cheek. “Well, I am here now. Do say you forgive me. I cannot abide having both of my siblings vexed with me.”
Helen smiled adoringly at their handsome brother. “I could never stay vexed with you, Lewis.”
“That’s my girl. Now, that’s what I like to hear.”
Nathaniel cleared his throat and crossed the room. “Hello, Lewis. Glad you could come.”
“You made sure of that, didn’t you?”
Nathaniel saw the purple bruise on his brother’s jaw and grimaced. “Sorry.”
“That’s all right. I made good use of it, I can tell you. The ladies were full of sympathy and comfort, never doubt it.”
“I don’t.”
“And look at you!” Lewis gestured toward Nathaniel’s sling and the bandage on his temple. “Told you I got my licks in, Helen.”
Nathaniel and Helen exchanged a look. Deciding not to worry her with more discussions of thieves—pirates or bankers—he asked Lewis, “Would you mind joining me in the library? I would like you to meet our new steward and take a look at the books together.”
Helen frowned. “But Lewis has just arrived.”
“I am afraid several items simply will not wait.”
Helen looked ready to protest further, but Lewis patted her hand, then hauled his tall lanky form to his feet. “Oh, very well, I’m coming. Don’t knot your neckcloth.”
The whole household assembled in the hall in the
morning, before breakfast, for family worship.
—A Memoir of the Reverend Alexander Waugh, 1830
Chapter 9
There was a great deal of buzzing and giggling that night as Margaret made her way along the basement passage to the servants’ hall for supper. When she entered, she saw Fiona, Betty, and the kitchen maid Jenny standing clustered about Hester, speaking in smiles and whispers.
Curious, Margaret approached the small clutch of women. Fiona’s green eyes sliced her way but immediately returned to Hester as though she had not seen her. Betty sent her a quick smile without pause in conversation or invitation to join them. Margaret stood there, a little apart, feeling like a third shoe.
Thomas entered the servants’ hall with a young man she had never seen before. He was of middling height—not quite as tall as Thomas, but his shoulders were broader. At least they appeared so, under the well-cut black coat, grey pinstriped waistcoat, and crisp cravat. He held himself with athletic ease, smiling at Thomas as the two men talked. His hair was deep red, thick and slightly wavy, brushed just so across his forehead. His complexion was fair, his nose straight, his eyes a bright blue. Margaret realized she was staring. He returned her gaze, and Margaret looked away, embarrassed. She was sure Fiona would be scowling at her. But all the other maids were staring at the handsome young man as well.
Betty stepped to her side and whispered, “That’s Connor. I’ve known him since a lad. Isn’t he a handsome one?”
“Indeed. Who is he?”
“Mr. Lewis’s valet,” Betty said with evident pride. “They arrived from London this afternoon.”
Margaret’s heart raced. Lewis Upchurch is here! Under the same roof. Perhaps she would see him soon. Might she find a way to speak to him in private?
The valet crossed the room to greet them. “Hello, ladies.”
A chorus of grins and good-evenings rose in reply.
Connor kissed Betty’s cheek, then his sparkling eyes lingered on the stillroom maid. “And Hester, my girl, how are you?”
Hester smiled, her face glowing in round-cheeked loveliness. “A sight better, now you’re here.” She turned to Margaret. “And this is Nora. New to us since your last visit.”
“How d’you do, Nora? A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” His smile was genuine but quickly returned to Hester. “A pleasure to be among you all again.”
At nine the following morning, the house servants once again filed into the hall for morning prayers. The valet Connor stood among them, between Hester and second footman Craig, who sent doleful looks his way.
Margaret, as was her habit, found a spot at the back behind someone taller than she, usually Monsieur Fournier. They were all creatures of habit, she had noted, and in general occupied the same places each morning. Connor was upsetting this order. Is that what had Craig looking resentful? Or was it the man’s obvious popularity with the ladies? Poor Craig.
Margaret surreptitiously peeked out from behind the chef’s white-coated shoulder, keeping an eye on the library door, heart beating hard.