The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(46)

The fiddler arrived late—and somewhat tipsy, Margaret surmised as he began warming up his bow. On cue, Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, Helen on his arm. The crowd instantly quieted in awkward solemnity. Margaret had been so busy helping the other maids prepare for the ball, that she had neglected Miss Upchurch. A pity too. For her hair lay flat and severely pulled back. Her face bare. Her dress . . . What a horrid old thing. Someone had taken a ball dress at least a decade old and added a new ruffled neckline and flounces in a contrasting color and ill-suited material. Still, when Helen looked around the candlelit room and the finely turned out crowd, she smiled broadly, and with that smile she was a real beauty.

“How well you all look!” She beamed.

“Indeed,” Mr. Upchurch agreed. “Now don’t stop enjoying yourselves on our account.” He nodded to the fiddler, who then struck up the notes of the first dance.

As expected, Nathaniel stepped before Mrs. Budgeon, bowed, and asked her for the first dance. Likewise, Mr. Hudson, as the top-ranking male servant, bowed before his mistress. Margaret wondered if sour Mr. Arnold minded the newcomer usurping this honor, but one glance told her Mr. Arnold was busy enjoying yet another cup of punch and liberal samplings of the tempting buffet.

The fiddler played a lively Scottish reel and a few other couples filled in. Margaret watched Nathaniel, surprised to see that he was a better dancer than she remembered, impressed to witness the warmth and respect with which he exchanged pleasantries with his housekeeper. She also watched Miss Upchurch as she danced with Mr. Hudson. They bounded through the steps in lively abandon. Mr. Hudson’s form was a bit ungainly, but he had never seemed so young and handsome as he did while dancing with Miss Upchurch. Margaret wondered if she glimpsed admiration in Miss Helen’s eyes for the house steward as well. She wished again she had taken time with Helen’s hair.

Craig and Joan danced near them in a jaunty facsimile of the steps, their smiles and shy glances more evident than skill.

After the reel “Speed the Plow” was called, Mr. Upchurch escorted Mrs. Budgeon to the edge of the room, bowed, then asked whom he should lead out next. Mrs. Budgeon looked around to locate the upper housemaid, Margaret guessed, but Betty stood behind Mr. Arnold frantically gesturing to be spared.

“Ah. Betty is occupied at present,” Mrs. Budgeon said. “Perhaps the newest member of our staff might receive the honor?” She gestured toward Margaret.

Why had she so blatantly been looking at Mrs. Budgeon, Margaret lamented. The woman must think she was begging a partner!

Nathaniel Upchurch looked her way. Did he hesitate? There was no smile on his face as he nodded to Mrs. Budgeon and walked toward her. Should she demur as well?

He stopped before her and she trained her gaze on his waistcoat, too nervous to look up at him.

“Might I have this dance, Nora?”

“Oh. I thought . . . I am hardly an upper servant.”

“Apparently the first housemaid is avoiding me like the plague. I trust you will not reject me as well.”

Reject me . . . Was it a veiled reference to her cruel rejection of his offer of marriage? She was imagining things. If he’d recognized her he would have tossed her out by now, demanded an explanation, or alerted Sterling Benton. But he had done none of these, as far as she knew.

She swallowed. “No, sir.”

He led her through the steps of the dance, formed those vague half smiles of acknowledgment when they faced or passed one another, but showed little of the warmth he had displayed with Mrs. Budgeon. He had known the housekeeper for years, she reminded herself. And he knew “Nora” not at all, even if she had done him and his steward a good turn that night in London.

She thought of other long-ago nights, when they had danced together at this ball or that. Then he had looked at her with admiration, nearly adoration, in his serious, bespectacled eyes. His fingers had lingered on her hand, her waist, whenever the steps and positions of the dance brought them together. Now his eyes were distant, his closed-mouth smile false, his hand cool and quick to depart. The ballrooms had been larger then, the guests wealthier, the music finer, but if he would only smile at her—truly smile—she would rate this night with this company the more enjoyable occasion.

When the silence between them became strained, he asked politely, “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the music to your liking?”

“Yes. Very nice.” What a ninny she was. Why could she not think of one appropriate thing to say?

He asked, “Are the others enjoying themselves, do you think?”

“Yes, sir. Very much.”

“Is this your first servants’ ball?”

“As a mai—matter of fact, yes.”

“And how are you getting on in your position here?”

“Better, I think. Thank you for asking.” She licked her lips and forged a question of her own. “And how fares your father, sir, if I may ask?”

“He fares well, according to his last letter. Thank you for asking.”

Margaret was relieved when the dance ended and Mr. Upchurch escorted her to the perimeter of the room and bowed his farewell.

Helen Upchurch, she noticed, was talking to Mr. Arnold, with whom she had danced the second dance. How puffed up the under butler appeared, swaggering across the room with the lady of the house on his arm.

After the customary two dances, master and mistress took their leave of the party, thanking Mrs. Budgeon and Mr. Hudson, shaking hands, and bestowing a general farewell wave to the assembly on their way out.

Part of Margaret was disappointed they were leaving, but the others were apparently relieved, for the tension in the room faded when the two departed and a relaxed buzz of conversation and laughter rose.

One person, however, did not look happy. Monsieur Fournier. Margaret saw him leaning against the wall, empty glass dangling in his hand, watching Mrs. Budgeon’s every move.

Margaret strolled nonchalantly to the housekeeper’s side.

“Evening, Nora.”

“Mrs. Budgeon.” They watched the fiddler down another glass and wobble a bit as he asked what they wished him to play next.

Someone yelled, “ ‘The Roast Beef of Old England’!”

Margaret said in a low aside, “Mrs. Budgeon, I was wondering. Is it not true that in many houses, the chef is actually higher ranking than the under butler?”

She considered this. “Yes, I believe so.”

“But Miss Upchurch danced with Mr. Arnold, and not Monsieur Fournier. I wonder if that is why he looks so . . . disappointed.”

A small line formed between Mrs. Budgeon’s brows. “But Miss Upchurch has already taken her leave.”

“I know. But perhaps you might at least acknowledge the slight, or offer to dance with him yourself?”

“Me? I hardly think I’m suitable replacement. I don’t imagine Monsieur even likes to dance.”

“I don’t know. I hate to see him looking so sad. He worked so hard for tonight. . . .”

Mrs. Budgeon looked over at the chef and found him looking at her. He quickly looked away and feigned a sip from his empty glass. How strange it was to see him in a brown tweed suit, instead of his customary white coat and hat.

The housekeeper drew herself up. “Thank you, Nora. I will at least compliment Monsieur on the success of his buffet. We don’t want him to feel unappreciated.”

“Good idea.”

As Mrs. Budgeon crossed the room toward him, Monsieur Fournier straightened, pushing away from the wall. His expression was uncertain, as if he wasn’t sure if reprimand or pleasure was coming his way.

It was really too bad of her, but she couldn’t help herself. Margaret had to hear. She walked along the buffet table, plucking a grape here and a fig there as she made her way to the table’s end, listening to their conversation.

“Monsieur Fournier. Good evening.”

“Madame.”

“I hope you are enjoying yourself?”

He shrugged.

“I must compliment you on the buffet. You have outdone yourself.”

“Merci, madame.”

Mrs. Budgeon hesitated. “I am afraid it is my fault Miss Upchurch danced the second with Mr. Arnold. An oversight, I assure you.”

“No matter, madame.”

“You don’t care to dance, I suppose?”

He hesitated. “With you?”

Her mouth parted. She reddened. “Never mind. I thought . . . I only meant . . .”

The fiddler launched into the next tune, and the chef leaned nearer to be heard. “With you, Mrs. Budgeon, I would happily dance.”

He offered his arm, and after a surprised pause, she gave a tentative smile.

Margaret smiled too. In fact, she could not stop smiling as she watched the tall, thin chef dance like a smitten, gangly youth with proper, staid Mrs. Budgeon.

But midway through the set, the fiddler, swaying and doing a little drunken jig as he played, backed into a chair, knocked his mug off the pianoforte, and crashed to the floor, out cold. Margaret was more disappointed for the chef than for anyone else that the dance should be cut short.

Mr. Arnold and Thomas carried the fiddler down the passage to the kitchen, while Betty rushed to clean up the spilled ale. After a moment’s hesitation—it still wasn’t second nature to Margaret to respond to such domestic crises—she hurried to Betty’s aid and righted the chair.