The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(37)

His sister shot Nathaniel a look. “Did he?”

Nathaniel ignored an irrational stab of jealousy and answered coolly, “Lewis dances with any number of women, as you well know. I can assure you, Benton, your stepdaughter was not alone in receiving his attentions.”

“Do you suspect an elopement?” Helen asked, incredulous. “Lewis would never do such a thing. And why would you think Margaret would countenance the notion? I thought you said she was all but engaged to your nephew.”

Sterling stilled. “I never mentioned my nephew. Who told you that?”

Helen hesitated only a second. “I . . . suppose Mr. Saxby must have mentioned it with the rest of the town gossip.”

Benton studied her face. “Yes, Margaret was on the cusp of being engaged to my nephew, Marcus Benton. They did quarrel, I admit. But nothing serious. He is a very forgiving young man and still has every intention of marrying her.”

Another stab of jealousy. Nathaniel clenched a fist and endeavored to keep his expression neutral. “You still haven’t explained why you are here. Lewis has gone back to town.”

“I have already been to see Lewis. Of course he denies any knowledge of Margaret’s whereabouts. I suppose I thought she might have come here to see Lewis and stayed on even after he refused her.”

“Why would Margaret hope for a proposal of marriage from my brother if she is as attached as you say to your nephew?” Helen asked.

“Who can understand women? Perhaps she seeks to make him jealous.”

Helen frowned.

Sterling ran a hand through his thick silver hair. “I am here because I am running out of ideas of where to look for her. I am growing desperate.”

“Why ‘desperate’?”

Sterling regarded Helen warily. “Do you not think me capable of concern for my wife’s children? If only we could be assured she was all right. Receive some word of her . . .” He handed her the portrait once more. “Are you certain you have not seen or heard from her, Miss Upchurch?”

Helen met his apparently frank gaze a moment longer, then looked at the portrait again. “A woman would not see such a lovely face and not recognize her, Mr. Benton. A man either, not with all that glorious blond hair.” She glanced up at Nathaniel. “Would you not agree, Nate?”

Nathaniel stared dumbly at her. “I . . . wouldn’t know.”

Helen rose and returned the portrait. “Now, will that be all, Mr. Benton? If I were you, I should not worry. I am certain your wife will receive news of her any day now and by her own hand, assuring you of her continuing health and safety.”

Slowly shaking her head, Helen gave Sterling a feline smile. “A young woman like Margaret Macy—who can guess what she might do on a whim?”





Margaret studied herself in the small looking glass in her room. How changed she was. It was little wonder no one had linked the Margaret Elinor Macy of the portrait to the Nora Garret staring back at her now. The hair and darkened brows were strikingly different, of course. And the smudged spectacles did mask her eyes to some degree. The Miss Macy of old would never have worn so dowdy a cap or a stained maid’s apron. But the changes went deeper than that. Her face was thinner now. After nearly a month of constant hard work, simple meals, and rare sweets, she had lost weight. Her cheekbones were more prominent, with new hollows beneath, and her jawline more defined.

She removed her father’s spectacles. She actually saw better with them. She had probably needed spectacles for some time but had been too vain to admit it. Without the lenses, her eyes still seemed different. But how, she could not say for certain. Less noticeable dark circles now that she was sleeping somewhat better? Less world weary?

And even without the spectacles, she was beginning to see herself more clearly than before.





Housemaids were meant to be invisible, and all

cleaning had to be performed either before the family got up or

while they were absent. As one housemaid later wrote, “It was

assumed, I suppose, that the fairies had been at the rooms.”

—Trevor May, The Victorian Domestic Servant


Chapter 16



After breakfast the next morning, Margaret went upstairs to Miss Upchurch’s room with some trepidation. She wondered if Helen would tell her what had been said behind closed doors yesterday. What Sterling had said, what Helen had revealed . . . or not revealed. Margaret hoped she would tell her, even as she feared what she might learn.

When Margaret entered, Helen was not sitting at her dressing table as usual. Instead she stood beside her desk, pointing down to a sheet of paper lying atop it.

“Sit.”

Margaret hesitated at Helen’s stern syllable. “What . . . ?”

“I suppose you haven’t paper and ink of your own,” Helen said. “So sit and write your letter here.”

“Letter?”

Helen’s eyes flashed. “To your mother. You do have a mother, I trust? One who might be worrying and wondering where you’ve gone?”

Margaret swallowed. Realizing there was no longer any point in altering her voice with Helen, she said quietly, “I have wanted to write. But were I to post a letter from Maidstone, would not the postal markings divulge my whereabouts to—”

“To the evil stepfather?” Helen archly supplied. “I have thought of that. Hudson travels to London tomorrow to meet with a shipwright or some such. I will ask him to post the letter while he is there.”

Margaret marveled at her kindness. “Thank you.”

Helen gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Your mother deserves to know you are alive and well.”

“You are right.” Margaret sat down at Helen’s desk, picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink, and began her letter home.

My dear Mamma, Caroline, and Gilbert,

I am sorry I have not written sooner. I hope you have not been unduly concerned about me. I am fine and in good health.

Pray do not worry about me or try to find me. I am content where I am and do not wish to return home for reasons you, Mamma, as well as Mr. Benton, understand.

I trust Mr. Marcus Benton will be taking his leave of Berkeley Square very soon. Do bid him farewell for me.

Attend well to your studies, Caroline and Gilbert, know that I miss you, and never forget how much I love you.

Sincerely,

Margaret

Finishing her letter, she blotted the ink, read it over, and then folded it. She fleetingly wondered if the Turkey Mill watermark—paper milled right there in Maidstone—might give her away. Thankfully, it was the most popular paper the country over.

Helen came over and set a lit candle on the desk—Margaret had not even noticed her leave the room for one. Wordlessly, she handed Margaret a stick of sealing wax. Margaret softened the stick over the flame and then applied a circle of wax to the edge of the letter.

Helen gave her a handled seal stamp. “This one is only decorative, not the family crest or anything identifiable.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” Margaret murmured, pressing the stamp into the wax and lifting it, checking to make certain the seal held. She was glad Helen had thought of that. For though she had addressed the letter to her mother, she had no doubt Sterling would read it as well—and scour it for clues.





Two days later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, Margaret found herself bored and with nothing to do. Her work was finished. The mending caught up. She had nothing new to read. She thought to have a chat with Betty, but when she paused outside her door, the sound of soft snoring told her the upper housemaid was enjoying a rare and well-deserved nap.

Feeling lonely, Margaret took herself belowstairs. The stillroom was empty—no sign of sweet Hester. She continued on. Entering the kitchen, she found the large room uncommonly quiet. She was surprised Monsieur Fournier and the kitchen maids were not scurrying about as usual, preparing the family’s dinner.

Instead she found the chef alone at the kitchen worktable, feet propped on a crate, eyes closed, listening to . . . ? She paused to listen and heard the faint sound of the pianoforte being played.

“Good afternoon,” she whispered.

The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up as his eyes opened. “Ah, Nora.” He straightened.

She glanced around. “I haven’t seen the kitchen this quiet since we were all given a half day for Miss Upchurch’s birthday.”

He nodded. “The family is dining with an uncle zis evening. So, for a few hours, at least, I am a man of leisure.” He lifted a carefree gesture with both hands.

She smiled. “Something tells me you wouldn’t like being a man of leisure for long. You enjoy your work too much.”

He pursed his lip and pivoted his hand in a gesture of comme ci, comme ça.

She cocked her head to the side, listening to the distant music. “Does Mrs. Budgeon play every Sunday?”

“Not every, but now and again.”

“Has she no family nearby to visit? I never hear her speak of children or a husband.”

He shook his head. “Mrs. Budgeon is not married. It is customary for housekeepers to be called Mrs., whether they are married or no. You know zis, yes?”

“Oh yes. I had heard that.” She regarded him a moment, then asked, “Do you ever think about working somewhere more grand? Where your skills might be better appreciated?”

His eyes sparkled. “You hope to be rid of me?”