Helen Upchurch had never been a ravishing beauty, not with that pointed nose reminiscent of her brother Nathaniel’s, nor with her somewhat sallow complexion. But she had been handsome enough and well thought of. It was such a shame, really. Margaret realized that she had done nothing when she’d heard of Helen’s loss. She wondered if she should have, could have helped somehow. Would a kind letter or call really have been so taxing?
Margaret pushed thoughts of the past aside—anxious now to see how Betty fared.
She finished dressing, pinned her blond hair back into its tight bun, positioned her wig, cap, and spectacles, and sat on her bed to await Betty’s knock. . . . She retrieved her father’s New Testament and read for a quarter of an hour. . . . Still the attic was quiet. It was time to go down and open the shutters, but again Betty had failed to show up at her door. Had she gone down without her? Was she so very angry with her?
Margaret once again made her way to Betty’s room. The door was closed. She knocked softly, listened, but no one answered.
Gingerly, she pushed open the door. The room was dim, the shutters closed. As her eyes adjusted, Margaret frowned, retracting her head like a turtle encountering an unexpected obstacle. Betty was still in bed. She lay on her stomach, face smashed into her pillow, cheek bunched up, mouth slack. Her arm hung out of the bedclothes, limp, fingers nearly reaching the floor. How strange. Betty never slept late.
“Betty?” she whispered, not wanting to startle her. But Betty did not rouse. “Betty!” Margaret repeated, suddenly fearful the woman was ill . . . or worse.
She hurried to the window and threw back the shutters. Dawn light seeped into the room. Returning to the bed, she grasped Betty’s shoulder and gently shook her.
The upper housemaid muttered something unintelligible.
“Betty, you’ve overslept. What will Mrs. Budgeon say? I don’t want you to get into trouble.”
“Wha’ time is it?” Betty asked, voice thick, as though her mouth were stuffed with cotton wool.
“It’s gone six.”
“Six?” Betty’s eyes popped open. Wincing, she twisted around, sat up, and pressed her hands to her temples. Her complexion greened, and those same hands grasped her mouth in alarm.
Thinking quickly, Margaret grabbed the basin from the washstand and thrust it under Betty’s chin. Betty retched. Then retched again.
She groaned. “The room’s spinnin’, Nora. Just give me a few minutes to gather my wits. The shutters await. . . .” Weakly she fell back in bed, throwing an arm over her eyes.
From the evidence and foul odor, Margaret came to the surprising conclusion that stalwart, dependable, workhorse Betty had been in her cups last night and was paying the devil this morning. On second thought, perhaps not so surprising, considering what she’d had to part with yesterday. But to drink the money away?
Hopefully not all of it.
Again, Betty began to rise, only to moan. “Aw-oh, my head . . .”
“There, there, Betty. Lie back. Sleep is what you need.” Margaret gently settled Betty back onto her pillows and pulled up the bedclothes. She drained the basin into the chamber pot, rinsed it with water from the pitcher and drained it again. She left the basin next to Betty’s bed. Just in case. She closed the shutters and then took the covered chamber pot out with her to dump it.
Margaret hurried through Betty’s early morning routine as well as her own, folding back shutters, polishing grates, and sweeping and dusting the main floor rooms Betty usually handled, trusting Fiona was doing the others. Then she hurried down to the basement for the water cans, perspiration trickling down her back and along her hairline. The dashed wig was hot.
She saw Mr. Arnold entering the servants’ hall for breakfast. If she did not scurry in now, she would miss the prayer. Mr. Arnold would not be pleased—Mrs. Budgeon either—but she needed to finish for Betty’s sake. Her stomach growled, but she quickly filled the water cans and carried them up to Nathaniel’s and Helen’s rooms, emptying the slops before returning belowstairs.
When she reached the servants’ hall at last, sweaty and weary, the others were already rising, Jenny beginning to clear.
Mrs. Budgeon’s lip thinned in disapproval. “If you are late, you don’t eat, Nora. Unless you have a valid excuse . . . ?”
Her mild whirled. She was hungry. She would have given her last shilling for one of Hester’s muffins. But what could she say that would not get Betty into trouble? “Um . . . no. Duties took longer than usual, that’s all.”
“Where is Betty?” the housekeeper asked.
“Uh . . . In one of the rooms, I expect. She wasn’t hungry.”
Someone snorted.
Jenny giggled, then whispered, “Not surprising. After all she drank last night.”
If Mrs. Budgeon heard, she ignored the comment. “Your duties, yours and Betty’s, are completed I trust?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then, see you are not late for dinner.”
Margaret looked at the clock above the mantel. It was the time Betty always veered from her housemaid duties and went up to help Miss Upchurch into her clothes and dress her hair. It would not do for Miss Upchurch to be kept waiting. Word would get back to Mrs. Budgeon all too quickly, and such an omission would not easily be forgiven by the exacting housekeeper.
Margaret went upstairs and, gathering her courage, entered Miss Upchurch’s room once more. She had been inside the apartment several times to deliver water or flowers, but not to help the mistress of the manor prepare for the day.
She folded back the shutters and heard a stirring in the bed behind her.
“Where is Betty?”
Margaret took a steadying breath, reminding herself to alter her voice. She had not seen Helen Upchurch socially in two years. Still, she would have to be careful not to give herself away.
“Somethin’ come up, miss.” To herself she added, Literally. “Betty asked me to come in ’er place this mornin’.”
Helen regarded her. “You’re the new girl.”
“Yes, miss.” Margaret bobbed a curtsy, glad for any excuse to bow her head.
“What is your name?”
“Nora, miss. Nora Garret.”
“Welcome, Nora.” Helen gave her a sleepy smile.
With her gentle smile and dark hair tumbling around her shoulders, Helen Upchurch looked younger and prettier than usual, even in the worn, unadorned nightdress.
“I do hope Betty is all right?” she said.
“Oh, she’ll be right as a trivet in two shakes, I’d wager. We’re all a bit behind after yesterday—that’s all.”
“I do hope the time off on account of my birthday did not cause problems. . . .”
“No, miss. I didn’t mean that. It was right kind of Mr. Upchurch and yourself, ma’am.”
“I am glad to hear it. Did everyone enjoy themselves?”
Margaret poured some of the hot water into the basin and laid out a fresh towel. “Yes, miss. Very much.” Some a bit too much, she thought, then asked, “And did you enjoy your birthday supper?”
“Oh yes. Monsieur Fournier outdid himself. It was a delicious buffet and a lovely evening. Only . . .” She hesitated. “I do wish both of my brothers might have shared it with me.” Helen looked troubled a moment, but then her expression cleared. “But Lewis had pressing business in town and simply could not stay. How disappointed he was to miss it.”
“That’s too bad, miss.”
While Helen washed, Margaret stepped into the dressing room, opened the wardrobe, and surveyed its contents. She was surprised at the modest selection. Many gowns were several years out of fashion, even more so than Margaret’s own gowns had become since Sterling limited their spending.
“What would you like to wear today, miss?” She pulled forth a gown of bishop blue. She had not yet seen Miss Upchurch wear it. It would look so well on her.
Helen sighed. “I don’t know . . .”
“If I may, miss. How about this lovely blue?”
Helen glanced over and her lips parted, then she frowned. “Not that one. I don’t wear that one.”
Then why keep it, Margaret wondered, but knew better than to ask.
“The grey day dress will do fine.”
That one she had already seen Miss Upchurch wear. Several times.
Margaret bit her lip and shook the dress to loosen the wrinkles, found a dress brush and gave the skirt and sleeves a quick once-over. She helped Helen on with a freshly laundered shift, then held open a pair of stays without busk or boning. At least this she knew how to do, having helped her sister many times. Helen slipped her arms through the holes and then turned her back toward Margaret, clearly as accustomed to being dressed as Margaret was. Again it was a relief not to be face-to-face with the woman.
“Not so tight, if you please.”
“Sorry, miss,” Margaret murmured, though she thought it a pity. With a little cinching Helen’s feminine figure could be quite attractive.
Finishing the stays, Margaret then helped her into a petticoat and stockings, tying the ribbons above Helen’s knees before helping her into the gown itself.
Finally, Helen sat on a small stool before the dressing table, arranging her skirts about her. She picked up an elegant brush and began stroking her long brown hair, judging her progress in the mirror.