Nathaniel waved the notion away. “Never mind, Hudson. I was only curious.”
“Very well, sir.” Hudson coughed. “But do let me know if you find any more . . . em . . . souvenirs.”
Nathaniel nodded. He realized he was lost in thought when he looked over to find Hudson studying him with wry amusement.
“Must have been some dream, sir. Did you eat something unusual last night, I wonder?”
“Come to think of it, Monsieur Fournier served herrings in some new garlic sauce, and I ate too many of them.”
Hudson’s eyes glinted. “Herrings, you say? I shall have to remember that.” He sighed. “What a man wouldn’t do to have such dreams.”
For the first time since his return, Nathaniel found his eyes traveling to the female servants he had consciously avoided before, both for their ease of mind and his privacy. He did not stare, only glanced quickly to gain a general impression of hair and stature. Had one of them been in his bedchamber early that morning? Was it her? Or her?
Stop it. None of the women, young or old, seemed unusually uncomfortable in his presence. All turned their backs or heads, feigning invisibility when he neared and then quietly resuming their work once he’d passed. He had not ordained the cold, impersonal system, but it had reigned at Fairbourne Hall since his grandmother’s day, and he had given it little thought before now.
He trotted upstairs, deciding to return to the scene of the morning’s strange dream. A middle-aged housemaid with auburn hair passed him in the corridor, eyebrows high, perhaps surprised to see him returning to his bedchamber at such an early hour, but she made no comment. He opened his bedchamber door and saw the rising billow of bedclothes being lofted over the bed, and the apron of the invisible housemaid beyond.
When the bedclothes lowered and settled, the maid glanced up and gave a little gasp. Unless he was imagining it, her face blanched, then mottled red.
Here then was a housemaid who did seem alarmed by his presence. Or was she merely startled, unaccustomed to being disturbed at this time of day? He looked at her more closely, but the young woman ducked her head, clearly uncomfortable. He recognized her as the new maid Hudson hired, the one who wore spectacles and had broken his model ship. He blinked, trying to recall his dawn awakening. Had the face above him—whether in dream or reality—worn spectacles? Perhaps . . . He couldn’t quite recall. She had turned and fled so quickly.
A fringe of dark hair covered much of the new maid’s brow, the rest of her hair hidden beneath a floppy mobcap. Her eyebrows were dark as well. A pretty girl to be sure, but not the woman who’d left behind a loose blond lock.
“Sorry to startle you. Go about your work. I shall be out of your hair in a moment.” Why was he chatting away with a housemaid who clearly wanted him gone? Out of your hair? He had never uttered such an inane phrase in his life. He had hair on the brain.
Imbecile, he scolded himself. He was harebrained indeed.
Do nothing in your master’s house that you feel
obliged to conceal to keep your situation.
—Samuel and Sarah Adams, The Complete Servant
Chapter 17
Nathaniel and Helen once again sat talking in the family sitting room when Hudson entered.
“You wanted to see me, sir?”
“Hello, Hudson. I was just telling Helen about your idea to hold a servants’ ball at harvest time.”
Helen gave a small smile. “I think it a marvelous notion.” She gripped her hands in her lap. “Would you mind terribly if I helped you plan it?”
Hudson pursed his lips in surprise. “I wouldn’t mind at all, miss. In fact it would be a pleasure.”
Her smile widened. “Good. It is very exciting and far too long since we have done anything for our people here. Did you do anything like it for yours in Barbados?”
Hudson knit his brows. “For the slaves, miss?”
She faltered, “Well . . . No, I don’t suppose that would be quite the thing.”
Nathaniel and Hudson exchanged a look.
“We had no ‘balls,’ in the English sense, no,” Hudson explained. “But the slaves celebrate the end of harvest or ‘crop over’ with dancing and feasting in the plantation yards.”
“Oh. I see.” Helen brightened. “Then this shall be the inaugural servants’ ball for the both of us. I have several ideas, but what have you thought of so far?”
Hudson rocked on his heels. “Well . . . there should be food, of course. A nice buffet supper.”
“I wonder if Monsieur Fournier would have any suggestions? Though perhaps we ought to hire a cook and waitstaff for the day so none of the servants have to work.”
“I doubt Monsieur Fournier will relish the thought of handing over his kitchen. But day help is an excellent idea.”
She beamed, and it did Nathaniel’s heart good to see his sister looking so happy.
“We must have music, of course,” Helen said. “And dancing.”
Hudson agreed. “Mr. Arnold informs me he knows of an excellent fiddler who plays all the country dances.”
“Wonderful.”
Nathaniel felt like a spectator at a shuttlecock match as the two batted ideas back and forth.
“And perhaps a few games or a contest?” Helen added. “A prize or two?”
“Or a small gift for everyone.”
“Very thoughtful,” she enthused. “This will be great fun, Mr. Hudson. I for one look forward to it.”
Hudson nodded slowly, eyes fastened on her bright, smiling face. “As do I.”
The following morning, Margaret entered Miss Upchurch’s bedchamber to dress her hair as usual. Helen stood at the window wearing her day dress of Devonshire brown. When she did not turn, Margaret went to join her at the window to see what had captured her attention. The distant clang of steel drew her gaze down to the arcade below.
There, Nathaniel Upchurch and Mr. Hudson were fencing in shirtsleeves. Through the columns, Margaret saw them advancing and retreating, lunging and striking, in an intricate fast-paced dance. Their swords clashed, circled, and struck again, morning sunshine glinting off polished blades.
Without looking away, Helen murmured, “What is it about men and swords?”
Even from a distance, Margaret could not help but admire their grace and agility. Nor could she fail to notice the outline of Nathaniel’s broad shoulders against damp shirtsleeves. Nor how his leg muscles strained against snug white pantaloons with each lunge. She hoped Helen could not read her thoughts.
She glanced over and saw a strange light in Helen’s eyes as she observed her brother. Or was it Mr. Hudson she watched? Margaret hadn’t the courage to ask.
Leaving Helen at the window, Margaret took herself into the dressing room to see if anything needed to be done. A few moments later, Helen came and sat at her dressing table. She eyed the new arrangement of flowers Margaret had delivered earlier that morning—yellow and white chrysanthemums amid vibrant greenery.
Helen turned to smile at her, but her eyes quickly returned to the colorful flowers. “Did you arrange these?”
“I did.”
“Exquisite.”
The simple compliment pleased Margaret greatly. She was less pleased by Helen’s apparel but made no comment. By now, she was resigned to Miss Upchurch’s habit of alternating between her day dresses of grey, brown, and a dull gold color that did no favors for her sallow complexion.
Margaret picked up brush and pins to begin, only to be startled when Helen suddenly rose from her seat.
“Do you know, I believe I shall wear the green walking dress you made over for me. Such a pity to waste it. If you would kindly help me change?”
Margaret smiled. “Of course. I should be delighted.”
She brought out the dress and a pair of long stays. “The line of the gown would be so much improved by correct underpinnings, Miss Helen. Would you mind terribly?”
Helen’s face puckered at the sight of the boned contraption, but she acquiesced. “Oh, very well.”
Margaret helped Helen out of the brown dress and unstructured undergarments, then into the long stays. While Margaret worked the lacing, Helen eyed her reflection in the looking glass, tilting her chin from side to side. “And perhaps, just a touch of rouge?”
Another surprise. “With pleasure.” Curiosity nipped at Margaret. “May I ask . . . is today some special occasion?”
Helen colored. “Not at all. Why would you ask that? I have nothing scheduled today beyond a meeting with the steward and chef. Nothing special at all.”
Margaret and Betty sat companionably together in the servants’ hall, polishing silver. The others had long since departed to their own afternoon duties.
Betty glanced over and said, “In my last place, the butler polished the silver.”
“Really? I cannot fancy Mr. Arnold mucking his hands with polish and the like.”
Betty snorted. “Nor I, and him only an under butler.”
As they worked, Margaret noticed Betty’s freckled hands and how heavily veined and work-worn they were, more aged than the rest of her. Margaret hoped three months of labor wouldn’t do the same to her hands.
Betty was probably almost old enough to be her mother, yet they held nearly the same position. She wondered if Betty minded.
“How long have you been a housemaid, Betty?” she asked.