Hester made a beeline for one of the gowns on the bed—a sheer overgown with a silk chemise beneath, both embroidered in a lily-of-the-valley motif.
“It’s gorgeous!” she enthused, holding the gown up in front of herself. It was immediately evident that the slender-cut chemise would not accommodate Hester’s generous proportions. Her cheerful face fell.
Margaret hurried to one of the gowns on the worktable—a full-skirted cream-colored gown to which Margaret had added side and back panels of blue, trimmed with ribbon embroidery in cream to match the original fabric. “Hester, I thought this one, with its blues and creams, would look so well with your perfect complexion.”
“Do you think so?” Hester handed the first gown to slim Hannah and took the second from Margaret, holding it to her shoulders and looking down at the ribbon trim at neckline and bodice.
Margaret said, “Let’s try it on, shall we?”
She helped Hester off with her everyday frock and into the made-over ball gown. The material slid over Hester’s ample bosom and hips easily. Margaret pinched an inch of loose material at the high waist. “Why, it’s a tad big, Hester. I shall have to take it in for you.”
Hester beamed.
“You look a picture, Hester,” Jenny breathed.
“Indeed she does,” Betty said. “What a pity Connor is away in London. Why, if he saw you in that gown, he shouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
Hester blushed prettily.
Margaret noticed that Fiona had disappeared from the doorway. She tried not to let it hurt her but could not quite ignore the sting of disappointment. Her offering—rejected. She forced a smile and helped Betty into a garden frock of pale green satin with capped sleeves and a hem embellished with gold fringe. The soft green flattered Betty’s coloring and dark red hair.
Fiona reappeared in the doorway several minutes later, wearing a gown of white gauze over an underslip of pink silk. “Might this do?”
Margaret stared. “Why, Fiona, it’s beautiful.”
The others stared as well, mouths ajar.
Fiona asked, “Ya don’t think I’ll look out of place—silk purse from a sow’s ear and all that?”
Hannah and Jenny shook their heads vigorously.
Margaret said, “No, you look lovely.”
“Really lovely,” Hester echoed.
Fiona blustered, “Oh, go on with ya. Sure and ya know how to embarrass a girl.”
Margaret began, “The dress is splendid. Where did you—?”
Betty pinched her elbow, and Margaret faltered. “Em . . . where have you been hiding it?”
“At the bottom of my trunk. Never thought I’d have reason to unearth it.”
Margaret stifled her questions and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you did.”
The servants’ ball was a recurring feature
of country-house life.
—Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs
Chapter 19
The date of the servants’ ball arrived at last, and very little work was accomplished that day. In some ways, it was unfortunate Miss Helen had acted upon Margaret’s suggestion and invited outside guests, because that news caused Mrs. Budgeon to demand the house receive a more thorough cleaning and polishing than usual. But the staff had finished that work the day before.
The servants’ hall was closed once the midday meal was over, and only Mrs. Budgeon, Mr. Hudson, and the hall boy were allowed in, readying the room for the night’s festivities.
Monsieur Fournier labored all day, preparing not only the family’s meals, but also a lavish buffet for the ball. But he seemed happy with the extra work, grinning and humming to himself in an amusing compote of English, French, and foolishness. His hands flew about, dusting this dish with sugar, and that with sprigs of mint.
“Tonight you shall see what you have been missing! Zen tomorrow it is back to burnt sausages and gruel. Quel dommage!”
Margaret offered to arrange Betty’s hair for the occasion, and before she knew it, she had four other women clustered around her in Miss Nash’s room, begging to be next. Margaret curled, pinned, powdered, and rouged, but kept her kohl pencil well concealed. She didn’t want to give anyone ideas.
Fiona wore her own gown but did accept a pair of long gloves and allowed Margaret to dress her hair with a comb of silk flowers. Betty, Hester, Jenny, and Hannah wore the made-over gowns. Margaret demurred when they insisted she should wear one of them, since she had done the work, but she did not wish to draw attention to herself. Especially since she knew Nathaniel Upchurch would be in attendance for at least the first few dances. And what of Joan? She hoped her former maid would not give her away.
Margaret donned the blue dress she had worn at the masquerade ball, but without an apron. In place of her mobcap, she wore a wide blue ribbon as a headband—for ornamentation yes, but also to assure her wig stayed in place during the dancing.
At half past six, the first carriage rattled up the drive from Hayfield, soon followed by a wagon loaded with men young and old in Sunday best. At seven, the doors to the servants’ hall were thrown wide. The long room gleamed with candles dressed in ivy and strung with garlands of colored paper. Wooden boards had been laid over the stone floor for dancing. The buffet table boasted a centerpiece of colorful mums, fresh fruit, and fronds—which Margaret had helped to arrange. Surrounding it were serving dishes resplendent with roasted turkey, salads of every description, and the largest baked salmon she had ever seen swimming in a sea of shrimp sauce, mouth ajar, eyes glassy, curved at head and tail to fit on the platter. There were also delicious-looking desserts—miniature gooseberry tarts, blancmange, and syllabub in tall glasses. Knowing the attendees were likely to drink a little wine punch or ale, Miss Helen and Mr. Hudson had thought it wise to serve food throughout, instead of waiting for a late supper.
Margaret watched nervously as the guests arrived, waiting to see Joan. She hoped the harsh housekeeper had allowed her to attend.
Then, there she was, in the same blue dress Margaret remembered but without an apron. Instead of a cap, a string of beads ornamented her carefully arranged hair. Joan did not look her way. Was she ignoring her? Were they supposed to pretend they did not know one another, to avoid questions of how they had met? But Margaret longed to speak to her again, even as she feared it.
She waited while Joan greeted Mr. Hudson and Mrs. Budgeon, in the role of host and hostess for the evening. Impulsively, she poured two cups of punch and carried them to Joan, hoping her peace offering would not be rejected.
“Hello, Joan,” she said tentatively, braving a smile.
Joan’s eyes widened. “Miss—!”
“Nora. It’s just Nora.” She made no effort to disguise her voice with her former maid. “I’ve brought you some punch.”
Joan eyed it almost warily, Margaret realized with chagrin. Had she given her so much reason to distrust her?
“Imagine that. You servin’ me,” Joan quipped, making no move to take the glass.
“I have some experience at it now. Though nothing to you, of course. I never realized how hard you worked until I came here.”
Joan cocked her head to one side, as if gauging her sincerity. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Then I shall have that punch and thank you.” She accepted the glass at last and lifted it in a toast.
Margaret returned the gesture, and they both sipped.
Margaret said, “I was hoping you would be here.”
“Were you? I figured you gave up and went home since I saw you last.”
“I was tempted more than once, I can tell you. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”
Joan shook her head in wonder. “I still can’t believe it. You . . . a housemaid.”
Margaret nodded. “Though not a very good one.”
Joan’s eyes danced. “What I wouldn’t have given to be a mouse in the corner the first time you had to empty the slops.”
Margaret chuckled. “Don’t remind me.” She bit her lip, smile fading. “I’ve wanted to tell you how sorry I am for . . . well, everything. And to thank you for helping me.”
Again Joan shook her head. “Sorry and thank you . . . I never thought to hear those two words from you.”
Margaret grimaced. “I’m sorry for that too.”
Tears blurred her eyes. And she was surprised when answering tears brightened Joan’s eyes as well.
Her former maid gripped her fingers. “Now, that’s enough of that. This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”
Margaret returned her watery smile.
A voice at her elbow interrupted them.
“And who is this pretty lady you’re talking to, Nora?” the second footman, Craig, asked, all eagerness. “Do introduce me.”
Margaret grinned first at Joan, then Craig. “Miss Joan Hurdle, may I present Craig . . . I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”
“Craig is my last name! But we already had a Thomas, didn’t we?”
“Oh. Well then, may I present Mr. Thomas Craig.”
“How do you do?” Joan dipped her head.
“A great deal better now you’re here. Say you’ll save a dance for me, Miss Joan, and I shall do better yet.”
Joan smiled. “Very well.”
How pretty Joan looked when she smiled. How had Margaret not noticed that before?