At one, the staff hurried to their rooms in various parts of the house or stable loft to divest themselves of the marks of their servitude—the caps, aprons, and tools of their trade. Some were going off to visit family in the nearby hamlet of Weavering Street or in Maidstone proper. Others had no family in the area but were making plans with one or two companions to go into Maidstone for an afternoon of revelry, shopping, or just enjoying the out of doors. It appeared Miss Upchurch had authorized the use of the wagon and horses to transport anybody who wanted to go into Maidstone. The groom warned that the wagon would leave The Queen’s Arms at eight sharp and any latecomers would have themselves a long walk back.
Margaret carried her housemaid’s box back to the closet, then started up to her room. She paused on the stairs to retie the laces of her half boot. From below, she heard Fiona and Betty talking as they stowed their own supplies. Apparently they, along with the two young kitchen maids—nieces of Betty’s—planned to walk together into Weavering Street to enjoy an unexpected afternoon with family.
Margaret overheard Betty say, “I suppose we should ask her to join us.”
Fiona hissed, “Why? After what she done to you?”
Betty sighed. “I know. I’m with her day in and day out as it is.”
“That’s right. You need a respite if anybody does.”
The closet door closed. Betty said tentatively, “But she is new and doesn’t know anybody else. I doubt she has anywhere to go.”
Fiona groaned. “Oh, a pox upon you Betty, for yar fun-killing charity. Very well, you ask her. Though I shan’t enjoy my half day half so well as I might.”
Ears burning, Margaret hurried upstairs, slipped into her room, and quickly lay on the bed.
A minute later, Betty knocked once and poked her head in the door. “Nora, a few of us are walking into Weavering Street. One of my brothers keeps a little inn there, so there’s sure to be plenty of food and foolishness. You’re welcome to join us if you like.”
“Thank you, but I think I shall just stay here and rest. Maybe do a bit of reading.”
“But it’s a beautiful day.”
Margaret turned on the bed to face her. “Then I shall walk the grounds later. You go on. Have a good time.”
Betty shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll come by to unlace your stays before I go to bed.” She hesitated. “If you change your mind, we’ll be in the Fox and Goose. Just a half mile or so up the road.”
“Thank you.”
Margaret waited until Betty had shut the door and the passage was quiet, then rose and stepped to her open window. She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear distant laughter, whoops, and wagon wheels as the revelers departed, each to their own ideal of relaxation and enjoyment.
Margaret sighed.
Why should it sting? Why should she care? She hadn’t wanted to spend time with servants since she was a girl. Why should she now? She was only lonely because she missed her own friends and family. That was all. She wished for the hundredth time she could write to her mother or sister. But a Maidstone postal marking would reveal her whereabouts.
Margaret wandered around the corner and down the attic corridor, silent now. Several doors stood ajar. None bore locks. Entering the room of a servant of the same sex was not considered taboo. The rooms weren’t theirs, after all—everything belonged to their employers. Betty had told Nora that as the lowest-ranking housemaid, she would likely be assigned to clean the servants’ quarters one day soon. Apparently people in service had little privacy. A situation Margaret had not considered when she’d adopted a wig.
Margaret paused in the threshold of Betty’s room, neat as a pin as usual, with nothing on the washstand save a hairbrush and her week’s allotment of soap. The bedside table was bare as well.
She stepped next into Fiona’s room, smaller than Betty’s, but just as neat. Beside a worn chair pulled near the window was a basket of knitting wool and needles, and on the arm of the chair, a worn copy of the novel Pamela. Margaret grinned. Pamela was an old story about a virtuous maid who tirelessly warded off her master’s attempts at seduction until he finally married her. It was no wonder someone like Fiona might enjoy it. Though she was somewhat surprised to learn Fiona could read. And did.
Her conscience smarting from snooping, Margaret left the room and wandered down the many pairs of stairs to the kitchen, hoping for something to eat. She found Monsieur Fournier seated at the worktable, quill in hand and inkpot nearby, bent over a letter.
“Bonjour, monsieur. I thought everyone had left.”
“Nora.” He straightened. “Come to steal from my kitchen, ey?”
“Yes, please.” She grinned.
He looked at her from under his great bushy black brows. And for a moment she feared he was truly angry. Then he shook his head, one side of his thin mouth quirking. “Ah, very well, ma petite. It shall be our secret, non?”
He rose and bustled about the kitchen. In a few moments, he placed before her a ramekin and a spoon. “Now. Today I prepare zis with East India sugar. Made without slave labor, you see. Mr. Upchurch insists, even though it costs more. So. We shall eat zis in ze name of research, oui?”
Margaret nodded and pierced her spoon through a layer of burnt sugar, dipping into a creamy custard and, at the bottom, a layer of dark chocolate. She placed the intermingled layers in her mouth, closed her eyes, and savored the rich, bittersweet kiss upon her tongue.
“Oh, monsieur. I think I am in love.”
He grinned with satisfaction and picked up his quill once more.
She wondered how he stayed so thin. She took another bite and glanced at him. “What are you writing?”
“I write to my brother. He is a chef as well, but in France. I write to him little improvements to old family recipes. Or to ask him what herbs Mamma put in her potage aux champignons . . .” He lifted an expressive hand. “But I never hear back. I hope all is well.”
“I am sure it is. But with the war barely over . . .”
“Yes, yes. The mail is peu fiable.”
She nodded, echoing, “Yes. Unreliable, indeed.”
His head snapped up, eyes alight with surprise. “You speak French, mademoiselle?”
Too late she realized her error. “Oh . . . no. Not really. My mother has a French lady’s—lady friend, and I heard French spoken now and again. That’s all.”
He studied her, his expression measuring and perhaps even suspicious. Then he seemed to shake it off. “In his last letter, more zan a year ago now, my brother promised to send Le Cuisiniere Impérial—the very best book of French cuisine. But . . . well . . .” He lifted both hands and shrugged. “C’est la guerre.”
Margaret licked her spoon. “Perhaps you should write your own book.”
His dark eyes gleamed. “Perhaps I shall.”
From down the passage, the tinkling of keys filtered into the kitchen and swelled into melody. The old pianoforte being played in the servants’ hall. She looked up in surprise, but monsieur seemed to take it in his stride, listening distantly as he spooned another bite into his mouth.
“Who is that?” Margaret asked, reluctant to leave her sweet dessert to investigate.
“Madame Budgeon.”
“Really? I had no idea she played.”
“She is a woman of hidden talents, Anna Budgeon.”
Anna? Margaret mused, “I wondered if she would take the afternoon off, or do the work of all the missing staff combined.”
“She could no doubt, with vigor to spare.”
He said it with admiration, and she regretted her sarcastic remark.
“And you?” she asked. “Why are you not off at some inn with the others?”
He pulled a face. “I cannot abide English food, Nora. I make no secret of zis. English ale little better. No. I told Mr. Upchurch I appreciate his offer, but I prefer to stay and prepare something extraordinaire for Miss Helen’s birthday. Seulement moi, in a quiet kitchen. Sweet music in my ears and sweet aromas in my nose.”
His last word drew her attention to his abundant nose hairs, and she forced herself to look away. She guessed the scullery maid would not enjoy the mountain of dishes awaiting her return but didn’t say so.
Rising, she said, “Then I shall leave you to it.”
“If you like. Though you are pleasant company.”
“Thank you. And thank you again for the delicious pudding.”
He nodded. “Not going out?”
She shook her head. “Betty was kind enough to ask, but . . . I think I shall do a bit of reading instead.”
His head tilted to one side. “The new maid reads books and speaks French. Très intérresant.”
Leaving the kitchen, Margaret tiptoed down the passage and peeked into the servants’ hall. Mrs. Budgeon sat, head bent, hands spread wide, playing with abandon. And though the instrument was not in perfect tune, the housekeeper played very well. Hidden talents, indeed. She wondered who had taught her and guessed Mrs. Budgeon did not often have opportunity to practice and enjoy her skill.
Margaret decided not to disturb her.
She returned to her room but was too restless to read. The warm, sunny afternoon beckoned her out of doors. She tied on her bonnet and retrieved her reticule, which still contained her worldly treasures—her few remaining coins and cameo necklace. Then she trotted down the back stairs and out the servants’ door.