The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(43)

He wondered if Helen had recognized Miss Macy. He was certain Lewis had not or he would have blurted it out like a great joke long ago. But he was not sure what Helen might do.

What should he do? Expose her deceit and demand an explanation? Notify her stepfather? Toss her out on the street? Take her in his arms?

He fisted both hands as the wave of contradictory desires swept over him, but he stood stock-still, barely even blinking. What a strange twist of fate this was. That she should be here, under his roof, under his power. With Lewis back in London, he was her master for all intents and purposes, at least as far as her employment and housing were concerned. He rather liked the notion of holding some power over her for once. What a relief after the awful power she had held over him these last few years, whether she knew it or not.

He knew Margaret had an impulsive nature, as Benton and even Helen had allowed. But would she really enter service—would any gentleman’s daughter—unless she was truly desperate? And she was actually doing the work, according to Mrs. Budgeon. If it had been some foolish schoolgirl prank to put herself in Lewis’s path, that lark would have long since ended with disillusionment and weariness after a few days of drudgery. She must have another reason.

He decided he needed to find out what was really going on. He would not hand her over to Sterling Benton—a man he had never liked at all events.

Margaret’s face had gone from pale to blushing red while he stood there staring at her.

With a supreme effort, he schooled his features and moderated his tone of voice. “You need not worry, Nora. I have only asked you here to thank you. Mr. Hudson told me of your brave help the night we were nearly set upon by thieves in London. He has already thanked you, I know. But I had not.”

Behind her spectacles, her round eyes blinked. She swallowed and nodded, murmuring, “Yer welcome, sir.”

Had she spent time belowstairs with servants in her youth? Where else would she have cultivated that accent?

He said, “Very good. That will be all.”

Clearly relieved, she bobbed a curtsy.

For now, he added to himself, watching her go.





The tenth Duke of Bedford was liable to dismiss any

maid who unwittingly crossed his path after midday, by which

time all housework was supposed to have been completed.

—Trevor May, The Victorian Domestic Servant


Chapter 18



After attending the funeral of an old tenant, Nathaniel walked back into Fairbourne Hall, thinking about the best way to find an industrious young farmer to take the old bachelor’s place. He needed to increase the profitability of the estate if he had any hope of repairing his ship.

Reaching the sitting room, Nathaniel paused in the threshold. Inside, Hudson and Helen stood near one another at the balcony window, heads together, bent over some papers Helen held—lists of things to be done for the servants’ ball, he imagined. His sister wore an attractive green-and-ivory striped gown he hadn’t seen before, with a sash that emphasized her narrow waist.

Helen smiled up at him as he approached. “Hello, Nate.”

“Why, Helen, do my eyes deceive me, or is that a new dress?”

She lifted her chin. “No, it isn’t new. But I own, it has been made over. Nora did it.”

“Nora?” He prayed she could not see his heart suddenly lurch in his chest.

His sister eyed him carefully. “The new housemaid. I don’t imagine you’ve met her?”

“Um . . . yes,” he faltered. “I believe I know who you mean.”

Noticing his discomfort, Hudson said smoothly, “Well, you look lovely, Miss Helen, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

Helen dipped her head, pleased but self-conscious. “Thank you, Mr. Hudson. Now, if the two of you would stop staring at me, we have a ball to plan. . . .”

His sister’s face blushed becomingly. How strange to think Robert Hudson had put that blush there. If so, did he mind? It was unexpected and, he admitted to himself, mildly disconcerting to see his ladylike sister on such friendly terms with a man in his employ. He was not quite certain how he felt about it.

But perhaps he was mistaken. Perhaps his sister was merely wearing a bit of rouge. He quickly dismissed the notion. His practical sister would never bother with anything as frivolous as cosmetics.





Margaret trudged up the back stairs to the attic and down the passage to her room. She felt bone weary and hoped to rest for half an hour or so until it was time to help Fiona gather the laundry. She nudged the door closed behind her, then took off her apron and spectacles and sat on the bed, sliding off her slippers. A scratch sounded at her door, and before she could respond, the wolfhound pushed it open with his head, as he had done before. She couldn’t think what attracted the dog to her small dim room. Did she still smell of that morning’s sausages?

“I’m too exhausted to play with you, Jester.”

With a little whine, the hound walked to the small oval rug beside her bed, turned around, around again, then lay down, curling himself on the rug, tail tucked, chin resting on his forelegs.

“That’s what I have in mind to do too.”

She lay down on her made bed, pulling the little lap robe over her legs. She had a good thirty or forty minutes to rest. What luxury.

She found her mind replaying her meeting with Nathaniel Upchurch, when he’d summoned her to the library to speak with her. He’d told her to “Come closer. . . . Look at me.” And her heart had pounded so loudly she was sure he would hear it.

Then he stood there and stared at her. Just stared. How unsettling it had been. She’d begun to fear her masquerade was up, and was torn between wanting to bolt and wanting to confess all. But then he’d surprised her by saying he merely wanted to thank her for her help back in London. Why then, after so much time? But what a relief to know that was all he wanted. That her secret was still safe.

On the floor nearby, the dog gave a little sigh of contentment. Margaret smiled, feeling content as well, and drifted to sleep.





After a long and tedious meeting with the church commissioners, Nathaniel felt like shooting something. He thought he might take himself grouse hunting before September got away from him. He looked about for Jester, who was always eager for a jaunt in the woods, but didn’t see the hound anywhere. He asked the footman on door duty, “Have you seen the dog?”

“Yes, sir. Just went up the stairs a bit ago.”

Likely on his way to my bedchamber, Nathaniel thought and headed for the stairs.

He had always been fond of the wolfhound and had missed him whilst he was away. He had thought of taking Jester along to Barbados, but it had made little sense to inflict such a long sea journey on an animal who loved nothing better than to run in the woods, chase down a fox, or stir a bevy of game birds. When Nathaniel was busy or away, he knew the hall boy or groom exercised the dog, but he preferred to do it himself.

In the old days, his mother hadn’t allowed dogs above the ground floor. But the rules had grown more lax since her death. He found he enjoyed Jester’s company and didn’t mind him sleeping on his floor near the hearth. Though the dog didn’t appear every night.

When Nathaniel reached the top of the main stairs, a thin, dark-haired housemaid staggered around the corner, arms full of linens.

“Have you seen the dog?” he asked.

“Aye, sir. Near about run me over. He’s gone up the back stairs.”

“Thank you.” That’s strange, Nathaniel thought. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound. A bit of exercise would do him good, he decided as he started up the stairs, especially after forgoing a fencing session with Hudson that morning.

Still, he hesitated to enter the attic, the domain of the female servants. He had rarely ventured there since boyhood, when his daily vigil to the schoolroom had brought him up those stairs nearly every day. But he had no real business there now. What could Jester be doing up here?

Nathaniel walked along the passage, but all the doors were closed. He turned the corner into a side passage. There, at its end, one door stood ajar.

Walking quietly, Nathaniel reached it and glanced in, surprised to see a figure lying atop the made bed, napping peacefully. Nora, or rather, Margaret. And curled on a rug before her bed and looking quite content, lay his wolfhound. Jester’s eyes opened, clearly aware of his presence, but the dog made no move to rise or join him.

Disloyal creature, Nathaniel thought, part amusement, part irritation. Yet he could not blame him for being drawn to that particular door.

Giving up his plans to go shooting, Nathaniel went back downstairs and found Helen in her favorite chair in the family sitting room, needlework on her lap and tea beside her.

“Well, Helen. What do you think of our new housemaid?”

She stilled, then looked up, studying him. “Why do you ask?”

He shrugged. “A bit unusual, do you not think?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How so?”

Did she really not know, or was she hedging, as he was? If so, was Helen trying to protect Margaret . . . or him?

Nathaniel hesitated. He found he was not ready to burst the little bubble he was inhabiting. He was oddly enjoying the strange secret. He was not ready to share it, for then he would have to act differently with “Nora.” Guard himself. Helen would be watching. Wondering.

He feigned nonchalance. “A girl like her, clearly never in service before.”