The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(21)

The door opened and her stomach knotted. Nathaniel Upchurch, with his sister at his side, entered from the library. There was no sign of Lewis. Disappointment and relief warred within her. She guessed Lewis was still abed or had gone for a morning ride.

Nathaniel’s arm was no longer in a sling, but a small bandage still graced one temple. And this time he wore his spectacles. Ah . . . she remembered him in spectacles. Apparently he only wore them for reading these days. With them, he looked more like a clergyman than a pirate.

Nathaniel found his place in the book and cleared his throat. He hesitated, left his thumb marking the spot and looked up at them, then down once more. “Many of you have been with us for years and remember me as the arrogant youth I no doubt was. Perhaps you think it hypocritical of me to stand before you now, as though I think myself worthy to be your spiritual leader. I do not. I am convinced not of my own worthiness, but of God’s. I need to hear the words of this book—its truth, forgiveness, hope—as much as anybody.” He looked up with an apologetic smile. “I know I’m no great orator. But I ask you to bear with me as I fumble through this new duty.”

Margaret felt it, the easing of tension and resentment. Mr. Hudson grinned, and Mrs. Budgeon and the under butler exchanged impressed glances. At the far end of the front row, Betty nodded, tears in her eyes.

Nathaniel found his place once more and read, “ ‘The God of peace, that brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, Make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ; to whom be glory for ever and ever. Amen.’ ”

After morning prayers, once the Upchurch family had gone to their own later breakfast, Margaret, Betty, and Fiona went back upstairs and retrieved their boxes from the housemaids’ closet. The days previous she and Betty had worked side by side in Helen’s and the absent James Upchurch’s rooms, Betty demonstrating how all was done. But today Betty was leaving her alone to clean two different rooms—those of the Upchurch brothers.

An unmarried lady in a gentleman’s bedchamber? Normally such a thing would mean instant ruination. But there was nothing normal about Margaret’s current situation.

As she departed, Betty told her to fetch Fiona when she was ready to remake the beds, as making beds properly was often a two-person job, especially for a new girl.

Margaret sighed, bracing herself. At least the rooms would be unoccupied at this time of day.

Opening the door, she surveyed the first masculine bedchamber, paneled in dark wood with rich burgundy draperies. She tied back the bed curtains, stripped the bedclothes, laid them over a chair, and pushed open the windows to air out the room. Then she steeled herself and reached under the bed, pulling forth the chamber pot with averted eyes and stopped nose, pleased to find its lid in place. Hopefully, Fiona had emptied it during the early morning water delivery.

Margaret carried it into the dressing room, grimacing at the wadded cravat, soiled shirt, and stockings on the floor. She wondered which Upchurch brother slept in this room and guessed Nathaniel, based on his unkempt appearance at the ball. She imagined Lewis to be more fastidious, considering how exquisitely dressed and groomed he always appeared. Though, perhaps his valet, Connor, was due the credit. Setting the pot aside, she tidied the dressing room, wondering why the man’s clothes were in disarray. She did not recall any mention of Nathaniel Upchurch having a valet, so perhaps one of the footmen or the under butler performed double duty, though poorly.

She dumped the soapy water from the washbasin into a pail. Wiped clean the vessel, changed the water in the pitcher, and returned both to the washstand. She put off emptying the chamber pot as long as possible. Finally, she resolutely lifted the lid. Breathing only from her mouth, she tipped the pot over the pail, heard the slosh, and then risked a peek. Something had stuck to the bottom. She tapped the pot against the lip of the pail to dislodge the remnant. Ugh. She had not spent two years at Miss Highworth’s Seminary for this!

Successful at last, she cleaned her hands and returned to her other duties. She swept the floor and carpets, and began dusting. She noticed several coins and wadded receipts on the bedside table. As she picked up the crumpled papers to dust the table beneath, she glanced at them. One was a scrawled note. Meet me at 11. Our place. —L. The others were receipts from White’s, a men’s club in London. With a twinge of guilt, she replaced the papers and the coins.

Reminded of Sterling’s money, and of Joan, Margaret asked forgiveness once again and finished straightening the room.

Leaving the bed to air as instructed, Margaret took herself into the second bedchamber and dressing room assigned to her. She glanced at the clock and realized she would need to hurry if she was to finish by eleven. Fortunately, this second pair of rooms was much neater than the first. Lewis’s room, she guessed. No clothes lay strewn on the floor. The papers and books on the corner desk were neat and orderly.

She went about her routine, relieved the chamber pot had already been emptied, whether by Fiona or dutiful Connor she did not know but silently thanked them both. She noticed an open book on the bedside table and, curious, glanced beneath her spectacles to read its print. It was the Bible, opened to the gospel of John. This gave her pause, and she began to second-guess the room’s occupant. She had not thought Lewis the sort of man who read his Bible in private, though she would be happy to be proven wrong. Her father had been such a man.

She was leaning far over the bed, attempting to pull free the tangled bedclothes to air them, when the door burst open behind her.

She gasped, chagrined to be found hands and knees on the bed, rump in the air. She leapt to her feet, whirling to see who had entered. Was it Fiona come to help her remake the bed?

No.

Nathaniel Upchurch entered the room, barely looking her way. He held up a staying hand when she would flee. “Go about your work. I shall be out of your way in a moment.”

Margaret felt as though she had just run up a flight of stairs. She took a deep breath and told herself to calm down. She picked up the pillow and began to plump it, stealing a glance over her shoulder to where Nathaniel was pawing through a desk drawer for something. Nathaniel’s room. Nathaniel’s Bible. That made sense. Not Lewis’s. Lewis was the slovenly one. Well, what did it matter if Lewis was not neat? That was what servants were for. She bit her lip, hard, at the thought.

How strange it felt, to be . . . well, almost embracing Nathaniel Upchurch’s pillow. To be running her hands over his bedclothes. The thought made her cheeks heat.

Apparently finding whatever he was looking for, he turned and strode across the room without a second glance.

Of course a man like Nathaniel Upchurch would never notice a housemaid, would never pay her unwanted attention as Marcus Benton might. Would never look at her closely enough to recognize her or to find her attractive. She should be relieved.

She was still standing there beside Nathaniel Upchurch’s bed when Fiona strode in. “There you are. Not finished yet? Never knew a maid so slow. Come, come. I’m to help you make up the beds. Heaven knows you cannot manage it alone.”

Fiona’s stinging reprimand reminded Margaret of Joan. How her former maid would snigger to see her now.





That evening, Nathaniel entered the dining room, dressed for dinner. Helen sat alone at the long table, wearing a dull burgundy evening gown that did little to flatter her complexion.

“Where is Lewis?” he asked, taking his place at the table.

“He won’t be joining us tonight. Said he was visiting friends in Maidstone.”

Irritation flashed through Nathaniel. Lewis had barely arrived and was already finding reasons to leave Fairbourne Hall. “Which friends?”

“He did not say.”

Nathaniel thought of their acquaintance in Maidstone—Lord Romney of Mote Park, the Whatmans of Vinters, the Langleys, the Bishops. For himself he did not care, but why had they not included Helen in their invitation, if invitation it was. He felt offended on his sister’s behalf. Or had Lewis simply gone uninvited?

He said carefully, “How are the Whatmans . . . ? Have you seen them lately?”

Helen shook her head. “I believe they’ve been spending a great deal of time on the coast. Mr. Whatman has taken to sea bathing, I understand. For his health.”

She glanced at the footman, who, taking his cue, removed the lid from the soup tureen. Helen served Nathaniel, then herself, in traditional family style.

As Nathaniel spooned his vegetable-marrow soup, he asked, “Tell me, how did you occupy your time while I was away?”

She shrugged and dipped her spoon. “Oh, I read a great deal. And I did what I could as mistress of the place while Lewis was in London.”

“How long has it been since you’ve attended a social event?”

She hesitated, eyes on her bowl.

“I have been gone for two years,” Nathaniel pressed. “Tell me you have not remained home the entire time I was away?”

She frowned. “Of course not!”

“And I don’t count attending church, nor Christmas and Easter with Uncle Townsend.”

Helen’s face reddened. “Someone had to stay home to look after the place. And Lewis puts no pressure on me to pay calls. He understands.”