The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(48)
“One of your many conquests, no doubt,” he said dryly. “Well, I shall leave you to it. Just wanted to welcome you home.”
Retreating into the kitchen, Margaret wrung her hands in time with the twisting of her stomach. Now Nathaniel would think the worst of her. If he still thought her simply a maid, he would now think her a flirt, a saucy light-skirt who had instigated the dance and near tête-à-tête with Lewis. And worse, if he suspected who she was, he would surely think she was up to her old tricks. Trying to woo his older brother. She paced the kitchen, fretting.
One of the hired servers looked up from the tray she was laying with tea and sandwiches. “All right, love?”
Margaret nodded. Then her eyes locked on the tray. “Is that for upstairs?”
“It is.”
“May I take it up?”
The older woman shook her head. “Don’t want them thinkin’ I’m shirkin’ my duty. Yer to be dancin’. Aren’t you enjoying it?”
“I was, but . . . a certain man was becoming a bit forward.”
“A footman, was it?” The woman tsked. “Always a footman.”
Margaret stepped near. “May I please take it up? The sitting room is it?”
“Yes, but . . . Oh, very well. If yer set on it. Any man comes lookin’ fer ya, I’ll send him on his way sharp-like, all right?”
“Thank you.”
Hands trembling, Margaret carried the tray upstairs and along the corridor to the sitting room. This way, she told herself, Nathaniel would see her and know she was not still with Lewis. Would not imagine the two of them alone together somewhere and believe the worst. Using her elbow, she hooked the door and pulled it open, letting herself in. Carrying the tray inside, she kept her head down to mask her anxiety.
“Ah, Nora,” Helen said. “Why are you not at the ball? The hired servers were to relieve you all tonight.”
“I don’t mind. They were busy, so I offered.”
Helen nodded, but Nathaniel watched her through narrowed eyes as she set down the tray on the table before them.
“Shall I pour, or . . . ?”
She hoped to delay her departure, though she was sure her hands would shake if she tried to pour under his scrutiny.
But Helen excused her. “Never mind, I shall pour. You go back downstairs and enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you, miss.” Margaret curtsied and stepped to the door, just as Lewis sailed through it.
He hesitated at seeing her. “There you are. Wondered where you’d gone to.”
“Lewis!” Helen called warmly.
He turned to his sister, “Hello, Helen old girl.” He walked over to kiss her upturned cheek, and Margaret made her escape.
Nathaniel wasn’t sure what to think. Would “Nora” and Lewis still be dancing, or lingering alone in the dim passage, had she not been asked to bring up the tray? Or had she really offered, and if so why? She clearly had not taken advantage of a private moment to reveal her identity to Lewis, for he obviously had no idea who she was.
“A ball at Fairbourne Hall, at long last.” Lewis smirked. “I take it the economizing is over?”
Nathaniel shook his head. “No. But we thought it wise to do something good for our people here, after recent . . . misunderstandings. But we still must tighten our belts or we may yet need to take more radical steps. Perhaps even sell the London house.”
“Never say so.” Lewis’s face puckered. “Promise me you will not do . . . In fact, you cannot, without my consent, my being the eldest and all.”
Nathaniel willed himself not to grow angry. “Lewis, you are perfectly welcome to stay and manage the estate if you like, but you cannot manage it from your London club.”
Lewis stared at him, shaking his head. “I still don’t understand why you didn’t remain in Barbados. We were managing fine here on our own. Weren’t we, Helen?”
Helen sipped her tea but made no answer.
Nathaniel said, “Even if that were true, it was time for me to come home.”
One of Lewis’s eyebrows rose. “Barbados didn’t suit you?”
“It wasn’t Barbados I objected to. It was slavery, as you know.”
Lewis pressed, “You think we have problems now? Force Father to give up slave labor and you’ll learn the meaning of financial straits.”
“Money isn’t everything, Lewis.”
Lewis frowned. “Then why do you always ride me about it? Your lofty morals don’t put you in charge, Nate. Nor do they give you the right to sit there and play potentate.”
Nathaniel seethed. “Father put me in charge when you insisted on remaining in London while Fairbourne languished. Had you stayed in Barbados as he wished, I—”
Lewis leaned back and crossed his long legs. “Too dashed hot there. Too much work.” He raised a brow. “Not enough beautiful women.”
“Lewie . . .” Helen scolded, but affection tinged her tone.
Nathaniel inhaled deeply and moderated his voice. “So, to what do we owe the pleasure?”
Lewis shrugged. “No reason. Does a man need a reason to come to his own home?”
“Usually. Do you mean to stay, then?”
“No, not yet. I’ve just come down for a day or two.”
“What are your plans?”
“No plans.” He grinned at Helen. “Just wanted to see my favorite girl.”
Even though Lewis directed the words at Helen, Nathaniel had the distinct impression she was not the “girl” he meant.
Life in service could be very regimented and dictatorial,
with little time off and the knowledge that romantic
relations between servants were forbidden in many houses.
—Luxury and Style, “The History of Country House Staff”
Chapter 20
In the morning, Margaret trudged downstairs beside Betty. They were both exhausted from being up so late the night before.
“Fiona looked so lovely in her gown last night,” Margaret said. “I still can’t imagine how she came by it. And did you see her dancing? So graceful and elegant. Almost as if she were a lady.”
Betty sighed wearily, eyes distant. “She might have been once.”
Margaret turned to stare at her.
“Thought she was giving up all this”—Betty lifted her housemaid’s box—“but it weren’t to be.”
Stunned, Margaret grasped Betty’s wrist to halt her progress. “What are you talking about?”
Betty winced, chagrined. “I’m tired and not thinking straight. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“But you have to tell me now.”
Betty shook her head. “No I don’t. And don’t you be askin’ Fiona either, my girl. That would be foolhardy indeed. Do you hear?”
Margaret nodded. Satisfied, Betty continued down the stairs, but Margaret stood there, mind whirling.
After breakfast and prayers, Margaret set about cleaning Lewis Upchurch’s bedchamber, which had been fastidiously neat until his return the night before, but which had already been marred by his presence—small clothes on the floor, bedclothes in a tangle as though he’d spent the night wrestling angels or someone more earthly, water sloshed onto the washstand, a jumble of toiletry items in disarray. And she didn’t even want to think about what might await her in the chamber pot. The reality of men was certainly different than the pristine image they portrayed in a ballroom.
Where was Connor? She had not seen him since morning prayers. Even with a valet in residence, she would be expected to deliver water and empty slops first thing in the morning, and to return later to clean the room and make the bed. But the valet was responsible for his master’s clothing. Was Connor down in the stillroom, becoming “reacquainted” with Hester? Margaret lofted the bedclothes high, enjoying the way they rose and billowed before settling flat. The door behind her flew open with a bang. She stifled a shriek and spun around, pillow to her chest. A shield.
Lewis Upchurch hesitated fractionally upon seeing her, and then a lazy grin spread over his face. “Well, well. Look who’s here. How kind of you to pay a call after our dance last night.”
He was wearing riding clothes—cutaway coat, leather breeches, Hessian boots. He looked devilishly handsome, and his light brown eyes glinted with confidence and mischief. She had always been drawn to confident men.
She dipped an awkward curtsy, pillow still in arms. “Good day, sir.”
She should have gone about her work. Instead she remained motionless, thoughts racing. Was this an unfortunate coincidence or the answer to her plight? Before her stood Lewis Upchurch, the very man she had sought out with marriage in mind at the Valmores’ ball, hoping to foil Sterling Benton’s plan. Now, at last, she was alone with him—in broad daylight and behind closed doors. The thought made her palms perspire.
Should she tell him who she was? Dramatically remove her cap, wig, and spectacles and wait for realization to dawn? Her heart pounded, her breathing grew shallow and rapid. How would he react? Would his heart go out to her when she explained her desperate situation, or would he grimace in scandalized disgust to see Miss Macy so denigrated? Or worse, would he sneer or flee, thinking it a desperate ploy to trick him into marriage? “By Jove, one moment I was in my bedchamber flirting harmlessly with a housemaid, and in the next, I was trapped by a spoiled hoyden demanding I rescue her reputation!”