Margaret felt her cheeks heat. “Not at all.”
He shrugged easily. “Mr. Lewis did offer me a post in London. He entertains a great deal, I understand. Many distinguished guests.”
“Why did you not accept?”
Monsieur Fournier did not answer for several moments, and she feared she had offended him by prying.
Finally he said, “You know the housekeeper remains at one house—she does not travel for the season. She stays with her maids to keep all ready for the family’s return.”
It was an odd answer. Or was it? “I see . . .” Margaret murmured. She did see, she thought. Or was beginning to.
He cocked his head, listening almost dreamily as another melody melted through the kitchen door. “That is a Jadin sonata. She plays it well, does she not?”
Nathaniel had remained busier than usual during the last week. He had been obliged to attend a series of commissioners’ meetings about local road repairs and to meet with the vicar to devise plans for relief of the parish poor. Because of his responsibilities at home, he’d sent Hudson to London in his stead to meet with a shipwright to discuss repair estimates. During Hudson’s absence, Nathaniel was busier yet, taking on his steward’s duties as well as his own—overseeing the carpenter and slater repairing the roof and the workmen erecting a new fence.
He had greeted Hudson’s return three days later with relief. Hudson reported that the Ecclesia had suffered no further vandalism, and that he had published the reward Nathaniel offered for the capture of Abel Preston, the so-called Poet Pirate. Finally, Hudson handed him the repair estimates from the shipwright. The figures stole Nathaniel’s breath. So high. Too high. They would have to seek another bid.
Now that Hudson had resumed his normal duties, Nathaniel spent the morning catching up on his own correspondence. In the afternoon, he went upstairs to relax with Helen in the family sitting room over a game of draughts. Helen beat him handily. As usual.
Hudson knocked and entered. Helen, Nathaniel noticed, straightened her already impressive posture. His sister always seemed to stiffen in the new steward’s presence.
“Miss Upchurch. Mr. Upchurch.”
“Hello, Hudson,” Nathaniel said. “Did you need something?”
He hesitated. “Actually, I hoped to have a word with Miss Upchurch.”
Helen folded her hands primly in her lap. “Of course, Mr. Hudson. What is it?”
“It is your Miss Nash. Your former lady’s maid, I understand.”
“I know who she is.”
“Of course. I wonder . . .”
Helen’s expression tightened. “Has something happened to her?” she asked quickly. “Has she taken ill?”
“No, miss, it isn’t that. She seems in good health, relatively speaking. But her cottage, on the other hand, is not.”
“Well, fix it. Is that not part of your responsibility as steward, Mr. Hudson?”
Nathaniel was surprised at his sister’s almost snappish tone.
“That’s just it, miss,” Hudson said. “She refuses to allow me or the estate carpenter inside to make repairs. I only learned about the leaking roof and moldering floors when Mrs. Sackett—”
Helen’s brows furrowed. “Mrs. Sackett?”
“The gardener’s wife. She visited the old woman and was appalled at the condition of the place. She convinced her husband to report it to me.”
“I see.” She pulled a face. “No, I don’t see, actually. What has this to do with me?”
Hudson patiently explained, “When I spoke to Miss Nash, at her door, she said she was never allowed men in her rooms at Fairbourne Hall and doesn’t mean to begin now. She said you would understand and support her decision.”
“Oh dear.”
Hudson fidgeted with the coins in his coat pocket. “You see my predicament.”
“I do.” Helen considered. “Perhaps we might go and speak with her together, Mr. Hudson? See if we might make her see reason?”
Hudson’s eyes twinkled. “I’d happily accompany you anywhere, miss. But make Miss Nash see reason . . . ? I shall leave that to you.”
An hour or so later, Nathaniel walked across the lawn toward the road, tossing a stick to Jester as he went. He was on his way to meet with the Weavering Street craftsman he’d commissioned to make new cradle scythes for the upcoming harvest.
Hudson and his sister strolled into view, returning from the direction of the estate cottages. They were talking and laughing companionably, apparently successful in their quest. Helen smiled up at Hudson, and he was glad to see his sister warming to their new steward. One look at the man’s beaming face, however, and Nathaniel realized Hudson was long past warm.
Margaret steeled herself, as she always did, when it was time to enter one of the men’s bedchambers—especially the first time of a morning, when the occupant was still in his bed. She had gotten over the initial shock of having to do so but still did not relish the prospect. Her early training was imbedded too deeply within her. Heaven help her if anyone ever found out she had done so not once, but every morning for months.
Margaret took a deep breath and eased open Nathaniel Upchurch’s door. Slipping inside, she closed the door behind her so any corridor noises would not disturb the sleeper. It was too late, however, for the sleeper seemed disturbed already. Nathaniel’s head thrashed from side to side, though his eyes remained closed. What in the world?
One leg, dark with hair, escaped the bedclothes. Cheeks warm, she averted her eyes. She delivered the water, found the chamber pot blessedly empty, and made to leave. But Nathaniel groaned like a man in pain. He was having a bad dream, apparently. A very bad dream. She risked another glance, knowing she ought to slip out before he awoke. How rude an awakening would it be to find a housemaid staring down at him?
He moaned again, a tortured sound. If only he had a valet to rouse him and end his misery. But there was only her. A wave of dark hair fell over his brow, and with those piercing eyes closed, he looked younger, less dangerous. For a moment he reminded her of Gilbert, who had experienced terrible nightmares as a young child. She had never hesitated to wake him, to soothe him, to stroke the hair from his brow.
Margaret took a tentative step forward. From the weak morning light leaking from between shutters and transom, she saw Nathaniel’s face contort. Poor man. Of what must he be dreaming?
Perhaps if she whispered to him, the dream would end, or at least shift, without him waking and she could slip out undetected.
She took another step toward the bed and leaned near. “Sir?” she whispered. “Sir?” Gingerly, she reached a hand toward his shoulder. Dared she give him the barest tap?
His hand shot out and he grabbed her arm. She gasped. His eyes flew open, but they were glazed with that vague, unfocused look she recognized from Gilbert’s sleepwalking days. His eyes might be open, but Nathaniel Upchurch was still asleep.
She tried to extract her arm, but his grip was too tight. “Sir, you’re dreaming. Wake—”
He rolled toward her, grasping her other arm as well. “Margaret?”
Her heart lurched. Was he dreaming of her, or of some other Margaret?
“Cannot save her . . .” The ragged timbre of his voice tore at her heart.
“Sir. You’re all right,” she soothed. “You’re safe.” She hesitated, then lifted one of her captured hands and awkwardly patted his arm. “Margaret is safe.”
He suddenly pulled her toward him and she lost her balance, falling to her knees beside the bed. He pulled her closer yet, until their faces were very near.
Stunned, Margaret did not move quickly enough to escape his grasp. Was not sure she wanted to escape him. Nathaniel Upchurch was dreaming of her, touching her, perhaps about to kiss her. Was she dreaming as well?
She could feel his hot breath on the sensitive skin of her upper lip.
“Margaret . . .” The name was part groan, part growl.
She was filled with a sweet, aching longing to bridge the lingering space between them. She leaned down and their lips met in a feather touch. Sparks thrilled her every nerve. He angled his head to deepen the kiss, pressing his mouth to hers, fervently, fiercely. Her head felt light, her pulse pounded.
What was she doing? The heady, delicious kiss took her off guard. She had never expected such a passionate, forceful embrace from a man she had once thought timid. A man who doesn’t know what he is doing, she reminded herself. Who is dreaming.
She, on the other hand, knew very well what she was doing. She tried to pull away but, leaning over as she was, fell forward, her elbows spearing his chest. Crying out, she scrambled out of his hold and to her feet.
“What on earth?” His voice was different now. Lucid, though still hoarse. Awake.
She turned away, flying toward the door.
Incredulous, he called, “What in heaven’s name . . . ?”
Too shaken to force an accent, she fled without a word.
Heaven help him. What had just happened? In his mind swirled a quagmire of conflicting thoughts, images, sensations. . . . Had he been dreaming? Merciful Father. Had some well-meaning servant slipped into his chamber to calm him, only to be pulled into his bed? What had he been thinking? He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to remember. The dark putrid smoke of the dream laid over him like a heavy cloak, making it hard to breathe. He could still feel the shock, the fury, the terror of the fire. His ship. Being destroyed.