Nathaniel Upchurch had decided to go down to the kitchen himself, though he rarely entered the servants’ area these days. He had been too restless to sleep and hungry in the bargain. He thought a bit of bread and cheese might help. Normally, he would ring for a servant. But after his recent encounter with the housemaid, he was reticent to ask anyone to come into his room at such a late hour.
But as he reached the bottom of the stairs, a figure appeared in the shadowy passage below and scurried up the stairs past him. He froze. His mind flashed light and dark. His heart rate accelerated. The woman he had just passed—the voice had belonged to the new housemaid. But the face belonged to the woman who haunted his dreams. Margaret Macy.
It could not be. . . . He sunk to the stairs, sweat pouring from his skin. He was distraught, exhausted, losing his mind. The stress of the fire, the loss of half the year’s profits, the debts. These had taken their toll, and he was now imagining, hallucinating the face of Miss Macy on one of the housemaids?
He shook his head to clear his vision and his mind. Dear God in heaven, help me. The image seemed burned into his brain, unshakable. The oval face with pointed chin, framed so starkly by the towel. The face so young and innocent, without the powder and paint she had worn at the ball when he had glimpsed her last. The blue eyes, wide at seeing him, fearful.
No! He was imagining things. The new housemaid had come to Hudson’s aid near the London docks. Hudson had then recognized her at a hiring fair in Maidstone, and offered her a post out of gratitude. This maid did not speak nor dress like a Macy. Besides, she had dark hair, unless she had dyed it. And she was a maid, for heaven’s sake, though not a good one, he gathered. Proud, conceited Margaret Macy would never so demean herself as to enter service. Besides, he would have recognized her immediately.
Or would he have? He had never really looked at the new maid, any of the maids for that matter, until he feared he’d kissed one of them. And they, in turn, did their best to avoid him. If he were honest, as a younger man he had thought himself too far above the servants to give them a second thought. Since his change of heart, he no longer felt himself better than the people working for him. Still, that did not change the ways ingrained in him since youth. Which was obvious in the fact that he had barely looked at this new maidservant before now.
How strange that he had imagined Miss Macy’s face on the new housemaid. He needed more sleep. He needed to pray more fervently for God to heal his heart, to help him get over her. He thought he had, for the most part. Returning to London and seeing her, though fleetingly, must have brought her to the forefront of his mind again. Botheration.
He rose from the stairs, wishing it were not so late. He was tempted to rouse Hudson from his slumber and demand a rematch of the morning’s fencing defeat. A bout with the foils seemed to help. He felt he could go twenty bouts at that very moment.
Nathaniel decided he would not look at her again, not risk another fanciful likeness, until he had fenced with Hudson, bathed, dressed, read from the Scriptures, prayed, and prayed some more. Then he would be ready to face her. To see that she was merely a housemaid from a rough London neighborhood. A fishmonger’s daughter, perhaps. Or even a merchant’s daughter, for her speech, though accented, carried the vocabulary and syntax of an educated woman. He would see her for what she was and be relieved to find his faculties intact. Might there be some small stab of disappointment that she was not Miss Macy in the flesh? Ridiculous.
The clash of steel striking steel echoed against the garden wall as the two men fenced in the long arcade, hemmed in by its columns. Hudson retreated, struggling to parry as Nathaniel advanced, driving him back and back, closer to the arcade’s end with every lunge. Finally the practice tip hit its mark, and Hudson touched his chest in acknowledgment.
“Touché,” he panted.
Nathaniel stepped back, still bouncing gently on his feet to stay loose.
“Good heavens, sir!” Hudson wiped a sleeve across his brow. “What has got in to you this morning? You’re on fire!”
“Determination,” Nathaniel gritted, breathing hard.
“To kill me? What have I done since yesterday to so vex you?”
Nathaniel’s only answer was to raise his blade once more, and the bout resumed. He advanced, striking again and again. His wrist and fingers began to ache, his thigh muscles to burn from the low stance and grueling pace. Sweat poured down his face and back, shirtsleeves clinging to damp skin. He scored another hit, and the men paused to catch their breaths.
Nathaniel shook the sweaty hair back from his brow. Between pants, he said, “Tell me again why you hired the new housemaid?”
Hudson grimaced in surprise. “I told you, sir. To repay her kindness.”
“You said you recognized her.”
“Yes, from London, the night of the fire. When we lost our way.”
“But had you seen her before that?”
“No, sir. Where should I have seen her before?”
Hudson would not have seen her. He was being illogical again. Miss Macy would have been quite a young girl the last time Hudson was in England.
“Never mind.”
“Do you recognize her, sir? From somewhere else, that is?”
“No,” he said. “She reminds me of someone, that’s all.” But God help me if I’m wrong.
Nathaniel muddled his way through morning prayers, trying not to stare at her. He would not ogle her in front of the other servants. Not embarrass her or himself. Yet how could he see her more closely? He supposed he could corner her behind closed doors in one of the bedchambers when she was making beds and doing whatever else maids did to tidy the place, but that might stir rumors. Rumors which would make it difficult for her to stay, once he assured himself he was mistaken. Besides, he did not like the thought of sneaking up on her while she worked. He had done so inadvertently once or twice before and had frightened her half to death. But what reason could he give Mrs. Budgeon to summon the girl to the library for a private interview?
When the staff was dismissed, he turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Budgeon. I would like a word with the new housemaid, when it’s convenient.”
Mrs. Budgeon looked stricken. “What has she done now? I know I was her biggest critic in the beginning—girl had not a whit of experience. But she has improved. I’m sorry if you are disappointed, sir.”
“Not at all. Nothing of the kind. Mr. Hudson has made me aware of a great kindness she paid us before she came here. It is why Hudson engaged her in the first place. But I have never thanked her myself and wish to do so.”
Mrs. Budgeon hesitated. “I would be happy to pass along any message, sir, if you would rather.”
“Thank you, but I would prefer to do so myself.”
“Very good, sir.” She formed an unconvincing smile and backed away, no doubt believing something unsavory afoot. Well, it could not be helped. He could not tell her why he really wanted to see the new housemaid.
Two hours later, he stood in the library, watching the young woman carefully as she entered. She clasped her hands before her and kept her head bowed, not meeting his gaze. Her face, what he could see of it beneath the dark fringe, was quite pale.
She did not speak, and for a moment neither did he. How should he go about this?
She bit her lip, twisting her hands. “You asked to see me, sir?”
Her voice trembled—was it her voice? It was difficult to say with that unfamiliar accent.
“You are not in any trouble, Nora. Do not be uneasy.”
She darted a look up at him. His heart constricted at that flash of her face. Lord, please give me clarity of mind.
“Come closer, please. I mean you no harm.”
Her throat convulsed as she swallowed, but she obeyed, taking three steps forward.
His voice was a low rumble in his ears. “Look at me.”
She hesitated, then slowly lifted her chin.
His throat went dry.
He was either insane, or there stood Margaret Macy—or some long-lost twin—with black hair instead of blond. Had she dyed it, or was it a wig? She had darkened her brows as well. His heart began to beat hard—fast and irregular. He clenched the hand behind his back and forced his expression to remain impassive.
Why was she here? What on earth was she doing? He thought back to Sterling Benton’s visit. Something was wrong there. He had sensed it, even as he tried not to allow her disappearance to concern him. A part of him was relieved at this confirmation that she was alive and well. Another part of him was suspicious of her motives for coming to Fairbourne Hall. Perhaps it had been some ploy to ensnare Lewis into marriage. She wouldn’t be the first girl to try. But, he argued with himself, Lewis had returned to London and she remained.
How had he not recognized her before? He remembered what Sterling Benton had said about women being more discerning than men. He also recalled several times in the past when he had commented on how alike two people were in appearance and Helen had scoffed at him. “Their hair is similar, and perhaps their stature, but otherwise they look nothing alike.” Or, “How can you confuse Lydia Thompson with Kitty Hawkins? Yes, they are both ginger-haired girls, but beyond that they are completely different. One is freckled, the other pale. One has blue eyes, the other green. And one is clever and the other insipid!” Yet both he and Lewis continued to confuse the two.