The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(31)

“Thank you, Fiona.”

“It’s a favor to Betty, mind, not you.”

Margaret turned her back to Fiona. But Fiona circled her, surveying the long stays of ivory linen which came down to her hip. The shoulder straps and satiny gusseted cups supported, while pretty stitching decorated the front.

“Well, well. Such finery for a housemaid. A castoff from yar last mistress?”

“Um . . . it belonged to one of the daughters, yes.”

Fiona nodded and stepped behind her, pulling the single lace through the many holes with more force than necessary.

“Thank you,” Margaret said through gritted teeth, and waited for Fiona to step from the room.

“Let’s have the rest, then,” Fiona said.

Margaret preferred no audience when she pulled her petticoat and day dress over her head, in case her wig should slip. “Thank you, but I can manage the rest on my own.”

Fiona stuck out her lip, as though impressed. “That’s somethin,’ I suppose.”



Two hours later, her first round of duties completed, Margaret went downstairs for breakfast. On her way to the servants’ hall, she passed the housekeeper’s parlor. From within, Mrs. Budgeon hailed her.

“Nora?”

Margaret veered into her doorway. “Yes, Mrs. Budgeon?”

The housekeeper looked up from the tea she was measuring. “It seems you made quite an impression on Miss Upchurch yesterday when you took it upon yourself to help her dress and arrange her hair.” Her tone was not complimentary.

“Betty was busy elsewhere, ma’am. I only meant to help the one time.”

“In future, you are to see me before promoting yourself.”

“I had no intention of promoting my—”

“Do not interrupt me.”

Margaret swallowed.

“Nor will you make any further changes in your assigned duties. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Budgeon avoided her eyes and took a deep breath. “It seems Miss Upchurch would like you to dress her hair once again. You will attend her immediately after your breakfast.”

“But . . . I . . .”

“It was not a suggestion, Nora.”

“No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”



Heart pounding, Margaret scratched on Miss Helen’s door. A proper lady’s maid had no need to knock before entering her mistress’s bedchamber. But there was nothing proper about the maid trembling at Helen Upchurch’s door. She wondered if Helen really wanted “Nora” to dress her hair, or if she had another reason for summoning her.

“Come.”

Whispering a prayer, Margaret pushed open the door and stepped inside. Helen was seated at her dressing table, fully clothed. Betty had obviously been there before her.

Helen glanced up at her in the mirror. “Nora, was it?”

Mouth dry, Margaret nodded.

“Kindly dress my hair, please.”

Please. Had Margaret ever said the word to Joan?

Margaret walked forward, glad Helen’s back was to her but wishing she might throw a shawl over that mirror.

She picked up the brush and again began stroking through Helen’s hair. Glancing down, she noticed that the high neck of Miss Upchurch’s gown was frayed—the decorative buttons sagging on their threads. The dress was not only worn but outmoded. Helen Upchurch had always dressed quite fashionably when Margaret had seen her during the London seasons. But that was before her heart had been broken and she put herself on the shelf.

As she pinned Helen’s hair, she felt the woman’s eyes watching her in the mirror. Margaret swallowed and, nervous, stuck the final pin too deep.

Helen winced. “What are you doing?”

Margaret did not like the odd light in Helen’s eyes. The light of suspicion . . . or recognition? She said in her acquired accent, “Beg pardon, miss.”

Helen blinked. She asked slowly, “Why are you here at Fairbourne Hall?”

That question again. Margaret licked dry lips. She wondered once more if Helen knew. Had she seen through her disguise when her brothers had not? She was probably reading too much into Helen’s questions. After all, the woman had not tossed her out on her ear after their last meeting.

Margaret summoned her courage. “I needed the work, miss,” she began. “Glad I was when Mr. Hudson offered me a place.”

Helen’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to work here?”

“I . . . There was no work in London.”

Helen’s expression hardened. “There is always work in London.”

“I couldn’t stay there, miss. I had to get away.”

“But why?” Helen repeated, her expression perplexed, frustrated.

Margaret swallowed. “Because my . . .” She hated to use the word father related to Sterling Benton but didn’t want to name the man. “My stepfather was pressurin’ me to marry his nephew—a man I can’t abide.” Margaret shuddered anew at the thought of marrying Marcus Benton.

Helen seemed to consider this, then said slowly, “You cannot be forced to marry against your will, you know. The law prohibits it. You can marry or not as you choose.”

“Did you?” Margaret’s tongue jabbed the words before she could stop them.

A flush of pain and of indignation marred Helen Upchurch’s face.

Remorse swamped Margaret. “I am sorry, miss. I shouldn’ta said it. But you know men has their ways of gettin’ what they want and there is little women can do to stop ’em.”

For a moment, a faraway look misted Helen’s hazel eyes. “Yes, I do know.” Then she looked up sharply again in the mirror. “What are you playing at in coming here? If you have some scheme in mind, I warn you—”

Margaret lifted both hands in her defense. “No scheme, miss. I woulda gone farther than Maidstone, but I hadn’t the money. When Mr. Hudson found me at the hiring fair, I didn’t even know which family he worked for. Honest I didn’t.”

For several ticks of the clock, the two women stared at each other in the looking glass.

Then Helen seemed to reach some decision. She rose and turned, saying officiously, “Well then . . . Nora. You had better go about your duties, had you not?”

Knees weak, Margaret bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.” She backed from the room, not fully certain what had just transpired. Had Helen Upchurch just agreed to allow her to continue her ruse? Or had she imagined all those telling looks and suspicious questions? She would need to tread carefully and follow Helen’s lead.



In the corridor, Fiona grasped her arm none too gently. “In there again? What are you about? Waiting on the mistress is Betty’s job. And if it wasn’t, it’d be mine.”

“I only went because she asked for me.”

“And why is that? Because ya pushed yar way in, didn’t ya? Took advantage of Betty bein’ indisposed to wheedle yar way into her place. The mistress would barely know you existed otherwise.”

If only Margaret had foreseen that. “I only meant to help.”

“Help yarself, ya mean. You know Betty hopes Miss Helen will bring her up as lady’s maid, official-like. A step toward becoming housekeeper one day.”

Margaret had not thought of that. She was tempted to point out that Betty had no talent for either hairdressing or making over old gowns, nor any of the other beauty tricks a lady’s maid was supposed to know. But it would be unkind to say so. And—seeing the anger in Fiona’s expression—unwise as well.

“I know you won’t believe me, but I have no wish to be Miss Upchurch’s personal maid.”

Fiona snorted. “And why not? Prefer blacking grates, I suppose?”

“No. It isn’t that. In fact I like dressing her hair, but . . .” How could she verbalize her real objections? I don’t like the way Helen Upchurch stares at me. I think she recognizes me but is toying with me. Besides, Margaret knew many gentlewomen took their personal maids with them on calls, and to house parties, and shopping . . . Margaret had no wish to be out and about and increase her chances of being seen. Recognized. Considering her situation, being an invisible housemaid was better by far.

“But?” Fiona prompted.

“You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that you have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want Betty’s job—yours either.”





After morning prayers, while the family ate their later breakfast, Margaret went upstairs to clean the brothers’ bedchambers. She hurried, as usual, dreading being caught in the room should Nathaniel come upstairs. Knowing Lewis had returned to London, Margaret had skipped his room yesterday in her hurry to complete her other duties as well as Betty’s. The amiable Connor had left the room in a mess when he’d packed up while the others were off enjoying their half day, and it took her longer than it should have to clean it this morning. She was behind schedule when she hurried into Nathaniel Upchurch’s bedchamber and began her work there.

Margaret paused in her dusting to inspect a model ship on the dressing chest. This was no child’s toy, but a detailed scale model. A wooden hull, polished and veneered, rigging made of horsehair and silk, masts and spars carved of ivory. How did one dust a ship? She picked up the model in her hands, tipping it back to see the word Ecclesia painted on its side.