Margaret felt a pang of homesickness, not for the Bentons’ house, but for her sister and brother, even her mother. How often she had brushed her mother’s or sister’s hair, even trimmed Gilbert’s unruly curls now and again.
“Allow me, miss.”
Helen’s motions stilled, and Margaret gently took the brush from her hand. She brushed the woman’s hair with long strokes, pausing when she hit a snarl to carefully untangle it before continuing. Brushing Helen’s hair soothed her and reminded her of Caroline, though her sister’s hair was lighter in hue and weight. In the mirror, Margaret noticed Helen had closed her eyes. Good, she thought.
At closer range now, Margaret noticed a few strands of grey in with the brown.
“Are you able to dress hair?” Helen asked. “If not, I can manage a simple knot on my own.”
How undemanding Helen Upchurch was, Margaret thought, in her loose, bone-free stays, old dress, and easygoing ways.
“It’d be my pleasure, miss, to give it a go.”
“Very well.”
Margaret soon found herself absorbed in the task. She brushed the hair upwards from Helen’s neck and gathered it in one hand, then leaned over to set down the brush. She had seen Helen often enough since arriving to know she wore her hair in a plain, severe knot low at the back of her head. But in Margaret’s opinion, it would look much prettier with soft height. She thought of suggesting heating the clay curling rod, but the day was too warm for a fire. So she settled for leaving out two thick strands at either temple, dampening these with water, winding them up, and pinning the curls to the sides of Helen’s head. These she allowed to dry while she continued to arrange the remaining hair high on the crown of her head.
Margaret leaned over again, snagged the pins, and secured the coil. When she finished, she removed the pin curls from Helen’s temples, pleased when the strands hung in spiraling tendrils on either side of her face. Fortunately, Helen’s hair had some natural curl, unlike Caroline’s, which would hang limp without help from a hot iron.
So engrossed was Margaret in dressing Helen’s hair, that it took her several moments to notice how still, even stiff, Helen had suddenly become.
Margaret glanced up with a start. Helen no longer had her eyes closed, nor was she looking at her own reflection in the mirror. She was staring, eyes wide, at her.
“What are you doing?” Helen breathed.
Margaret’s heart pounded. She stared back, then feigned interest in an imaginary stray lock of hair. Had Helen recognized her, or was she merely offended at the liberties a new maid had taken with her hair? Perhaps Margaret was reading too much into the question.
Swallowing, Margaret chose to respond to the latter meaning and exaggerated her accent. “Just tryin’ to give your hair a bit of height, miss. But I can do it over if ya like.”
She held her breath, feeling Miss Upchurch’s scrutinizing stare on her bowed head. The silence was thick. Margaret’s palms grew damp. Her voice breathy, she asked, “Which earbobs would ya like to wear, miss?”
Helen swiveled on her dressing stool, and Margaret backed up several steps. The woman’s direct gaze was even more intimidating than it had been in reflection. Margaret forced herself to meet that gaze.
Helen asked warily, “Why are you here?”
Margaret was sure Helen must hear her heart ta-tombing in her ears. “As I say, miss. I’m only helpin’ Betty today. I meant no harm.”
Helen’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know what you are about. But I shall be watching you.”
“Yes, miss,” Margaret murmured. “Will there be anythin’ else, miss?”
Helen slowly shook her head.
Margaret curtsied, turned, and strode to the door, feeling Helen Upchurch’s suspicious eyes follow her every step of the way.
In the corridor, she nearly collided with Fiona. The thin Irishwoman was out of breath and grim-faced. She glanced from Margaret to the door she had just exited.
“What were ya about in there?”
“Just helping out. Since Betty’s not able.”
“I was just going in. Is she angry?”
She thought of Helen’s suspicious face. “Not angry, no.”
“Did ya tell her Betty was . . . ?”
“I only said we were a bit behind after yesterday and I was filling in this morning. That’s all.”
“A bit behind? Sure and that’s a fine way of sayin’ foxed and sick as a dog. Castin’ up her accounts was she?”
“Well . . .” Margaret gestured helplessly.
“Are ya sayin’ you helped the mistress dress?”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps I should go in and check . . .”
Margaret touched Fiona’s arm. “The mistress is fine. Washed, clothed, hair dressed.”
Fiona breathed a sigh of relief, then murmured, “Which is more’n I can say for Betty.”
“Have you seen her?”
Fiona nodded. “I was just up lookin’ for her and found her sleepin’. Y’ought to have told me.”
“You had your own work.” Margaret’s stomach growled, and she turned away. It was time for morning prayers.
Fortunately for Betty, no one seemed to notice her absence. Afterward, Margaret and Fiona went back upstairs to clean the family bedchambers. When Fiona later rejoined her to help remake the beds, there had still been no sign of Betty.
“Poor lamb,” Fiona said, shaking out the aired bedclothes. “She was low indeed last night. Worried about her ma.”
“Her ma? I thought she had passed on.”
Fiona frowned. “What put that notion into yar head?”
Margaret inhaled. “She showed me her mother’s chatelaine. I assumed . . .” Margaret let her words drift away on a shrug.
“She isn’t dead, only retired. Ailing.” Fiona went to the other side of the bed and helped her spread the sheets. “Mrs. Tidy was a fine housekeeper, until her health failed and she could work no more. Had an apoplexy, poor soul, and needs constant care now. She lives with a widow in Maidstone, and Betty’s wages support them both.”
“Is that why she sold her chatelaine . . .” Margaret breathed, stricken at the thought.
Fiona’s head snapped toward her. “Did she now? And how might you be knowing that?”
“I saw it in the chandler’s window.”
“Is that where she went off to? Never said a word to me. I wondered where she come by all that money for drink. Must have fetched enough for her ma with plenty left over to drown her sorrows.”
“But surely she might have explained . . .”
“Tell her mother, the sainted housekeeper, what never made a mistake in her life, to hear her tell it. Let on her wages was being garnished? Not Betty. She has her pride, hasn’t she?”
Margaret winced. “But not her prized possession.”
“And whose fault is that? All yar fine words won’t get it back neither, so don’t be lookin’ down yar nose at her.”
“I wasn’t.”
Fiona gave her a sidelong glance. “So ya came into Weavering Street yesterday, but couldn’t be bothered to join us?”
“I meant to, but—”
Mrs. Budgeon popped her head in the door. “Here you are. I have just come from the green bedroom. Why is that bed not yet made? It is nearly eleven.”
Margaret glanced at Fiona, but Fiona trained her stony gaze on the pillow in her arms.
“It’s my fault, ma’am,” Margaret said. “I fell behind today, but I’ll soon catch up.”
“You had better.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Thank you for helping out, Fiona.”
Fiona nodded.
Mrs. Budgeon asked, “Have you seen Betty?”
Fiona looked at Margaret.
Margaret faltered, “Um . . . yes. Last I saw her she was in one of the other bedchambers.” Well, that was true to a point, though the bedchamber had been her own.
“When you see her, tell her I need to speak with her.”
At that moment, Betty appeared in the doorway, looking sheepish. “Here I am, Mrs. Budgeon. I am terribly sorry . . .”
The housekeeper said, “You are responsible for overseeing the duties of the under maids, but Nora is not new any longer and must learn to complete her duties on time herself. You and Fiona cannot continue to cover for her.”
Betty’s mouth dropped open. “But . . . I—”
Margaret said quickly, “That’s what Betty is always telling me, Mrs. Budgeon. I shall do better in future. I promise.”
Mrs. Budgeon studied her. “Very well. We shall let it pass this once. I knew yesterday’s idleness would exact its price.”
“Right you were,” Margaret agreed.
In the doorway, Betty nodded, her pale countenance and red-rimmed eyes hinting at just how high a price it was.
Chamber maid wanted who can dress hair,
clear starch, read & write, bear moderate confinement,
work well at her needle, dress a young lady, is sober &
honest & well behaved. Apply Mrs. Lambe, Stall St.
—Bath Chronicle, 1793
Chapter 13
Margaret stood waiting in her room in her wig, shift, and undone stays when Fiona knocked on her door the next morning. She had been expecting Betty.
“Betty’s already hard at work. Makin’ up for yesterday, no doubt. She asked me to help ya with yar stays this mornin’.”