The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(25)

“Why say something now and not at the time?” Mrs. Budgeon asked.

Margaret felt her cheeks heat and kept her head low. “I was afraid, ma’am. That was wrong of me too.”

How self-conscious she felt with those two pairs of eyes on her bowed head. She risked a glance and found Mr. Hudson studying her. “Very well, Nora. We had already decided not to dismiss Betty, but thank you for telling us.”

Relief filled her. “Thank you, sir.”



When Betty emerged from Mr. Hudson’s office half an hour later, Margaret expected her to be cheerful and relieved, but Betty’s head was bowed and her mouth tight.

“Betty, what is it?” She followed her to the back stairs. “You are not to be dismissed, I understand?”

She shook her head. “No. Not dismissed. But my wages garnished for the quarter.”

“Oh no. But I thought—”

“’Twas Mrs. Budgeon’s decision, I gather. To remind me to be more careful in future.”

“But I told them it was my fault.”

“I know you did. Mr. Hudson said as much, and I do appreciate it. But I am the upper housemaid, so it was my responsibility.”

Margaret winced. “Will you be all right?”

Betty sighed. “I shall manage. But my . . .” Her sentence trailed away unfinished.

“Your what?” Margaret prompted.

Betty lifted her quivering chin. “Never you mind; I’ll sort it somehow.”





I am as yet ‘wanting a situation,’ like a

housemaid out of place. I have lately discovered I

have quite a talent for cleaning, sweeping up hearths,

dusting rooms, making beds, etc.; so, if everything

else fails, I can turn my hand to that.

—Charlotte Brontë, in a letter to her sister Emily


Chapter 11



The next day, Margaret backed from the drawing room, pulling the double doors closed as she went. Thomas, the first footman, appeared out of nowhere and gave her arm a playful pinch.

“Fetch me up some German polish, there’s a love.”

Margaret hesitated. Was that one of her duties as well?

Thomas smiled at her. He had very good teeth, though quite large. And something about those gleaming teeth, hard blue eyes, and dark hair reminded her of a wolf.

He gave her a gentle nudge. “You do know where the stillroom is, I trust?”

“Of course.” Chin high, Margaret turned on her heel and padded through the servery and down the basement stairs.

The stillroom. What memories of Lime Tree Lodge it evoked. The snug room with a cheery fire and sunlight from its high windows gleaming off copper kettles and colorful glass bottles. With its own stove, brick baking oven, worktable, basin, shelves displaying pots and jelly moulds, and cupboards containing tea, coffee, and more. Filled with the aromas of spices sweet and savory—ginger and coriander, cloves and rosemary. Where pastries and biscuits were prepared one moment, distilled beverages the next. Vinegars, pickles, and preserves on some days. Soaps, cosmetics, and medicinals on others.

Oh, the hours Margaret had spent perched on a stool in the stillroom at Lime Tree Lodge with Mrs. Haines, cutting ginger biscuits with copper cutters or making toffee.

Belowstairs, she passed the butler’s pantry, kitchen, and the housekeeper’s parlor. The stillroom was next door, the domain of both Mrs. Budgeon and the stillroom maid who carried out her many orders and receipts.

“Hello, Hester.” Margaret smiled at the round, sweet-faced maid as she entered.

“Hello, Nora.” Hester returned her smile and added a wink. “What brings you down to the dungeons this time of day?”

“The footman needs something called German polish.”

“Does he now? And why is that your problem?”

“I don’t know. He asked, so I thought it was something I was meant to do.”

“Thomas was it?”

Margaret nodded.

“Craig is a lamb, but mind you watch that Thomas. Charmer he may be, but lazy in the bargain. Gettin’ the new girl to fetch and carry for him.” She shook her head. “Maybe in your last place housemaids was responsible for furniture polish, but here that’s the footman’s duty. Ah well. You’re here now and I’m glad for an excuse to chat.”

Hester continued on with her work, crushing rose petals into a jar of salt.

“Um . . . have you any of this polish?” Margaret asked.

Hester looked up. “You’ve got to make it, love. Have you never?”

“I am afraid not.”

“Nothin’ to it.” Wiping her hands on her apron, Hester led her to the long, low stewing hearth, where several pots were bubbling and simmering already. She picked up an earthen pot with tripod feet and handle.

“First off, you melt a pound of yellow wax and an ounce of black resin in this pipkin.” Hester gathered the ingredients from various drawers and shelves in the room. She added the wax and the resin to the pot and handed Margaret a wooden spoon. “Once it’s melted, pour in two ounces of spirit of turpentine. Give or take. Now give ’er a good stir.”

Margaret stirred, and once the concoction was fully melted, added the spirit of turpentine.

“All there is to it. I believe that’s the first thing Mrs. Budgeon taught me to make when I come here. So I could make sure the footmen made it correct-like.”

Hester took the covered jar to the stillroom basin, washed it out, then returned to the hearth. “Let’s pour it in here. Careful now. Don’t want to burn yourself. Tell Thomas he needs to wait until it cools before he uses it. He knows, of course, but he’s not above skippin’ a step if he can get away with it.”

Margaret picked up the jar, but the heat singed her hand and she quickly plunked it back on the worktable.

Hester shook her head, bemused. “Your apron, love. Your apron.”

Margaret nodded and took up the jar once more, protected by a corner of her apron. She felt oddly pleased with herself at her small accomplishment, even though she had done little more than stir.

Thomas was waiting in the drawing room when she returned, staring idly out the window. He whirled when she came in, then smiled, relieved not to be caught by a senior servant. Striding over, he gave her nose a cheeky tweak. “There’s a love.”

He took the pot from her, cursed, and bent to quickly set it down. “Dashed thing’s hot!”

She bit back a smile and returned to her own duties.





As arranged, Nathaniel met Hudson outside in the arcade—a long, covered walkway from the house through the rose gardens. It had been a later addition to the original manor. The arcade’s open-air walls consisted of a series of arches supported by ornate pillars. It was there the men met for their morning fencing bout with practice swords.

Fencing was Nathaniel’s favorite way of taking exercise, with riding second, and rambling with the dog third. He was in far better physical condition now than he had been before sailing to the West Indies. When he met Hudson soon after arriving there, the two men had formed the habit of taking regular exercise together, whether fencing, hunting, riding, or even boxing, though the latter had proved a failure never to be repeated.

Nathaniel was the quicker of the two, and his skills finer, which was no surprise considering the classical training he’d received, while Hudson was primarily self-taught. Still, what the man lacked in finesse, he more than made up for in endurance and sheer determination. And how the man perspired! Nathaniel nearly felt sorry for the laundry maids.

After exchanging good mornings and comments about the fine weather, the bout began. Advance, lunge, retreat, retreat. Strike, parry-riposte. Feint, attack, parry-riposte . . . On and on it went in a rhythmic cycle. Now and again a balestra was thrown in, or a rare flèche, until one man slipped up or tired and gave his opponent an opening to score a hit.

Half an hour into the bout, Hudson struck with impressive speed, but Nathaniel parried. Nathaniel lunged and Hudson countered . . . but too late.

“Touché,” Hudson acknowledged.

“Bravo,” Lewis drawled.

Nathaniel glanced up and saw his brother leaning against one of the columns. He had not noticed him come out of the house.

Hudson wiped his forehead with a pocket handkerchief, preparing to continue. He addressed Lewis, “Would you like to give it a go, sir? I don’t mind bowing out.”

Lewis waved away the offer. “Heavens no. Too much dashed work. You two go on.”

Nathaniel panted to catch his breath. “Was there something you wanted, Lewis?”

“Just to let you know I return to London tomorrow.”

Irritation surged. Lewis had yet to help him prioritize the repairs needed at Fairbourne, nor had he agreed to expense-reducing measures for the London house. “Already? But—”

Lewis held up a hand. “Don’t start. I have several things to attend to in town, but I will return soon, I promise.”





That afternoon, Margaret stepped from the servants’ hall just as the under gardener appeared in the basement passage, carrying a basket of long-stemmed cut flowers.

“Hello there, love. New, are you?”

“Yes. I’m Nora Garret.”

“Well, Nora. I would be much obliged if you’d deliver these to Mrs. Budgeon for me. Mr. Sackett’s nippin’ at my heels to get back to work.”

“Of course. They’re lovely. For Miss Upchurch’s apartment?”