The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(36)

Mr. Hudson said something to Nathaniel. Nathaniel nodded and took a half step forward, facing them squarely and clearing his throat.

“Good afternoon, everyone. This gentleman is Mr. Sterling Benton of London. I will let him tell you why he is here and ask that you give him your full attention.”

Sterling stepped forward, turning something in his hands.

“I am here today because my stepdaughter has been missing for nearly a month. My dear wife, her mother, is beside herself, as you can well imagine.”

Margaret could hardly breathe.

“I don’t know why she left. She did have a bit of a . . . lover’s quarrel . . . with her intended, and may have flown in a fit of pique. She is an impulsive girl, I admit. But whatever the reason, I want to find her and return her safely to her mother, and to her repentant future husband. All will be forgiven. We simply want her home.”

He lifted the object in his hands. A miniature portrait. “This is her likeness, painted several years ago. I would like you to pass it one person to the next, so each may see it. Her name is Margaret Macy. She is four and twenty years old. If any of you have seen her, please speak up. Or, if anyone sees her after I leave, tell the steward here and he promises to send word directly.”

Margaret’s ears buzzed; her chest, neck, and face felt hot and sticky. While each person looked at the portrait, then passed it on, Sterling Benton looked closely at him or her. Looking for a reaction, or for her?

The minutes felt like painful hours standing on broken glass. Fearing she might faint, Margaret forced herself to breathe deeply, barely resisting the urge to pant, or duck down, or flee.

Finally the portrait reached the row ahead of them. Craig looked at it quickly, shook his head, and passed it up to Betty. Betty glanced at it, hesitated, looked again, then handed it to Margaret. Margaret swallowed. How strange to see her former image while in her current circumstances. How young the girl in the portrait looked, light yellow hair curled and piled high around her face, fair brows above proud blue eyes, pale cheeks, and pink lips. It didn’t seem like her. Not anymore.

“Do you recognize her?” Sterling Benton called up.

Too late, Margaret realized she had held on to the portrait too long and had drawn attention to herself. She quickly handed it back to Betty with a shake of her head. She dug an elbow into Betty’s side.

“Uh no, sir,” Betty answered for her. “Sorry, sir. She’s a pretty thing though.”

Mrs. Budgeon called up, “Mr. Benton did not ask for an assessment of her beauty, Betty, but thank you.”

The portrait made its way back down more rapidly, passed from hand to hand. Mrs. Budgeon gave it to Mr. Hudson, who glanced at it, looked again, and then murmured, “Betty is correct.”

He passed it to Nathaniel Upchurch, who returned it to Sterling Benton without a glance.

Sterling looked around the hall once more before pinning Nathaniel with a look. “And where is your good sister?”

Nathaniel said evenly, “My sister is not much out in society these days, so it is highly unlikely she would have come across Mar . . . your stepdaughter.”

Sterling gave a thin smile. “Still, she is a woman, and women can be so much more discerning than men, I find. Don’t you?”

Nathaniel stared at the man. Without looking away from him, he said crisply, “Mrs. Budgeon, would you please send for Miss Upchurch?”

“Yes, sir.”

But Mrs. Budgeon, looking up at the crowd blocking the stairs, speared Margaret with a look and commanded, “Nora, please ask your mistress to join us.”

Margaret did not move, the words barely registering in her frozen brain. It was Betty’s turn to elbow her. Coming to life, Nora turned and hurried up the stairs, feeling a pair of eyes scorching her back.

She all but ran down the corridor and into Helen’s room without knocking. She rushed straight to the washstand. “Your presence is requested in the hall, miss.”

Miss Upchurch looked up expectantly from her writing desk, her brow furrowed. “Oh? Why?”

With nervous energy, Margaret washed her hands, then retrieved the new fichu from a drawer. “A man has come,” she said, barely managing an accent. “A Mr. Benton.”

Helen cast her a quick look. “Sterling Benton?”

Margaret nodded, arranging the fichu around Helen’s shoulders and tucking it into the neckline of her gold day dress.

“What does he want?”

Margaret swallowed. “Says his stepdaughter has gone missing. And he’s showing her miniature and asking if anyone has seen her.”

“And did anyone recognize . . . the woman in the portrait?”

Margaret repinned a lock of hair that had come loose from Helen’s twist. “Only Mr. Upchurch, I think.”

“Why does Mr. Benton ask for me?”

“I don’t know, miss. To ask if you’ve seen the girl, I suppose.”

For a moment the two women looked at one another face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

Helen asked soberly, “And have I?”

Margaret pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Her throat went dry. She whispered, “That’s for you to say.”

Helen cocked her head to one side. “But?”

In the silence, the mantel clock ticked.

Hoping to give her a way out, Margaret stammered, “But . . . your brother did tell him that, your seeing . . . her . . . was highly unlikely. You not being out much in society.”

Helen frowned. “Be that as it may, I have eyes, have I not?”

Margaret lowered her gaze. “Yes, miss.”

She had said the wrong thing. Now what would Helen say?



Margaret followed Helen back to the stairway, staying a few yards behind her, matching her stately pace. She was reluctant to return to the hall, her every nerve pulsing a warning—Turn around, run, flee!

Instead she put one foot in front of the other and followed her mistress. Would Helen expose her? What would happen if she did? She would lose her place to live, her dignity, her freedom. Would she be forced to leave with Sterling? She had nowhere else to go.

The people on the stairs parted like the Red Sea to allow their mistress to pass between them.

Margaret resumed her place beside Betty.

“Ah, Miss Upchurch.” Sterling Benton beamed his icy, enigmatic smile. “How good of you to join us. A pleasure to see you again, even though one would wish for happier circumstances.”

“Mr. Benton.”

He handed her the portrait. “You may recall my stepdaughter, Margaret Macy?”

Helen regarded the framed image. “I recall Miss Macy, though of course she was not your stepdaughter when last I saw her in London. She was the daughter of Mr. Stephen Macy, an exceptional gentleman and clergyman, gone from this world too soon.”

Margaret’s heart squeezed to hear the words. She had not realized Helen had more than a passing acquaintance with her father.

Mr. Benton’s mouth tightened fractionally. “How kind of you to say.”

Helen inclined her head.

“You have heard, I trust, that Margaret has gone missing?”

“I did. Mr. Saxby brought the news from town a few weeks ago. Do you fear some harm has befallen her?”

“I pray not. That is why I am doing everything in my power to find her.”

“Is it?” she asked archly.

Careful, Miss Helen . . . Margaret thought, worried Miss Upchurch might unintentionally tip her hand.

“Did she leave alone?” Helen asked.

“As far as I know, though she may have taken her maid with her.”

“The maid is missing too?”

He shifted his feet. “She was dismissed from our employ the day Margaret disappeared.”

“May I ask why you are so concerned? The Margaret Macy I remember was young and foolish. Impulsive even.”

Margaret winced. Ouch . . .

“I hope you take no offense, Mr. Benton?”

“Not at all.”

Nathaniel Upchurch cleared his throat, perhaps aware of the listening ears of many fidgeting servants. He said, “Why do we not continue this discussion in the library. In private?”

Mrs. Budgeon and Mr. Hudson exchanged relieved looks. As Mr. Hudson dismissed the staff to return to their duties, Margaret felt similar relief but also dread, wondering what would be said about her when she was not there to hear.





In the library, Nathaniel leaned against the desk, arms crossed. His brain pounded painfully with Benton’s words “her repentant future husband . . . future husband . . .”

Helen took a seat and gestured for Benton to do the same, but he refused her offer and continued to stand.

Helen asked, “So how do you know Margaret hasn’t simply gone off on a lark? A shopping trip or a visit with friends?”

Benton pulled a face. “For nearly a month?”

“Surely she had the means,” Helen said. “A girl like that always has a good deal of money in her purse, has she not?”

Benton looked away. “Actually she did not. We were . . . forced to stop any allowance to her. Her expenditures had become exorbitant.”

“Ah. And what of friends or family she might have gone to?”

“I have already been to see her friends and sent a man to call on her few remaining relatives. No one has seen her.”

“So you believed they had not seen her but, I take it, question my brother’s word, as you insisted on seeing me?”

Benton fidgeted. It was the first time Nathaniel had seen the man look uncomfortable. “Perhaps you are not aware that your brother Lewis danced with Margaret and paid her several calls in the past and again earlier this season.”