Lewis walked near. “Cat got your tongue?”
Margaret swallowed. So near, yet no flicker of recognition. Should she abandon the idea while she still could? If he refused her, how humiliating that would be. What would she do then—shrug, slap her wig back on, and empty his chamber pot?
In her earlier fantasies, she had imagined a thrilling scenario. The tragic heroine, standing on the dim balcony, staring up at the stars bemoaning her unjust fate, when handsome Lewis appeared. One moment, he regarded a dejected housemaid with compassion. The next, the scales fell away, and his eyes were opened.
“Of course! No wonder I thought we had met before. My soul recognized you, even if my foolish eyes did not!”
And he would put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him when she would look away. “Look at me. What is the matter?”
And she would tell him, all maidenly embarrassment and injury. And he would assure her no one would harm her. No one would touch her, except him. His hands would cradle her face.
“There you are,” he would whisper, his voice growing husky, his face, his lips nearing hers. “How I have missed you . . .”
“You missed something.”
“Hmm?” Shaken from her reverie, she found Lewis smirking at her. He pointed to a soiled stocking on the floor.
Cheeks heating, she bent to retrieve it. When she straightened, she saw him tugging off his gloves.
He glanced around the room with a frown. “Have you seen my valet recently?”
“No, sir.”
He muttered something derogatory about the young man, then arched an eyebrow. “I don’t suppose you would like to help me undress?”
He was probably joking, but still her body flushed in indignation. “No, Mr. Upchurch, I would not.”
She turned and stalked from the room, glad she had not revealed herself to him. She was halfway down the corridor before she realized she had addressed him in her normal voice, and quite haughty in the bargain.
On her way downstairs, Margaret stopped at the housemaids’ closet to gather up the lamps she had collected. She carried them down to the butler’s pantry, where Craig would trim the candles and clean the lamps. On her way along the basement passage, she passed the stillroom, surprised to see its door partially closed—it was usually wide open. She glanced around the door, hoping Hester was all right.
She was more than all right, apparently. She was leaning back against her worktable, wrapped in the arms of a ginger-haired man in a dark suit of clothes. Margaret pulled back guiltily and quickly continued on her way. She had wondered where Lewis’s valet was. Now she knew.
Margaret watched Mrs. Budgeon fly about the house in a flutter of nerves and preparations. Evidently, Lewis Upchurch had taken it upon himself to invite guests to dinner while he was home and they had insufficient staff to wait at table. Piers Saxby, his sister, and Miss Lyons had come to Maidstone to visit the Earl of Romney and see all the improvements to his estate. But Lewis had persuaded them to come to Fairbourne Hall first. Together with Helen, Lewis, and Nathaniel, they would be a party of six.
Mr. Arnold, Thomas, and Craig would wait at table, of course, as would the valet, Connor. But that meant they would also need to find livery to fit Freddy, the hall boy. And one of the maids would need to wait table as well. Betty was chosen, but Mrs. Budgeon informed Fiona and Nora that they would need to lend a hand as needed, both in delivering dishes from the servery warming cupboard and carrying away lids from covered dishes and plates from used courses as the dinner progressed.
Margaret was relieved she would not be required to stand behind one of the chairs, to serve the guests directly and risk Lavinia Saxby or even Miss Lyons recognizing her. If Helen was any indication, women were more likely to see through her disguise than men were. The thought of venturing into the back of the dining room to deliver and carry made her nervous enough.
At seven, the guests made their way into the dining room, lit with candelabras and decorated with towering displays of fruits and flowers, which Margaret had helped the chef arrange. Monsieur Fournier was more tense and bossy than she had ever seen him. Not harsh, but focused and exacting, aware of the pressure to perform, to please, and well represent his employers. Pressure exacerbated by the fact that they were all—from chef to scullery maid—out of practice in entertaining.
Young Freddy seemed especially nervous, decked in livery tacked up to shorten sleeves in haste, hair slicked back. Betty looked somewhat flushed herself, in black dress and white cap and apron, pressed for the occasion. Fiona, meanwhile, was cool and calm as usual. Thomas and Craig were powdered and proud in their best livery, and Mr. Arnold oozed chin-up decorum, though Margaret noticed his hand tremble when he poured the wine.
With Fiona, Margaret carried up dish after dish from kitchen to servery, now and then peeking in to catch a glimpse of the august company.
There was Nathaniel, stiff yet undeniably masculine in evening dress. Lewis looked handsome as always, perfectly attired and with an air of confident ease. Piers Saxby eschewed traditional dark colors for a patterned waistcoat in apple green, his hair brushed into a high cockscomb over his brow. Fitting, Margaret thought.
Beside Helen sat Lavinia Saxby, Mr. Saxby’s sister, with whom Margaret had been at school. And between Piers and Lewis sat the beautiful brunette, Miss Barbara Lyons, whom Margaret had seen with these same two men at the London masquerade ball. How Margaret’s life had changed since then.
Carrying in courses and handing them off to Mr. Arnold or Thomas, Margaret heard snatches of dinner conversation. Most of it vague pleasantries—the weather, upcoming shoots and hunts, various house parties attended. But then Margaret heard her own name mentioned and nearly spilled a platter of poached pigeon.
“. . . scouring all of London and beyond, but still no sign of the missing Miss Macy.” Saxby swallowed a bite, then continued, “At first, the gossips predicted an elopement.”
Margaret’s cheeks burned. She felt someone’s eyes on her and glanced over to find Helen looking her way.
Thomas stepped near and took the pigeon from her, whispering for her to next bring in the sweetbreads. In the servery she could still hear the humiliating conversation.
“But if that were the case, the family would have heard from her by now,” Lavinia Saxby insisted. “And we would have heard of a missing gentleman as well.”
Saxby considered. “Then perhaps she has been abducted. Or worse.”
“Never say so,” Lavinia protested.
Margaret returned from the servery and stood at the rear of the dining room, holding a silver serving dish of sweetbreads at the ready.
Lewis leaned back, all elegant nonchalance. “Be careful what you say about Miss Macy,” he warned. “Nathaniel here was quite besotted with her once upon a time.”
“Were you indeed?” Miss Lyons asked, brows arched high.
Nathaniel fidgeted. “That was a long time ago. Before I sailed for Barbados.”
Saxby smirked. “Some say that was why you left the country.”
“I left because my father asked me to, Mr. Saxby.”
“Nate here is the dutiful son.” Lewis winked. “Or was.”
“I don’t imagine Margaret was very happy when her mother married Sterling Benton so soon after Mr. Macy’s death,” Helen mused. “And even less so when Benton sold their family home.”
“To give up some rural cottage for a chance to live in Berkeley Square with Sterling Benton?” Miss Lyons scoffed. “I’d say she had not a thing to complain about.”
Nathaniel’s expression hardened. “Then you did not know Stephen Macy, nor Lime Tree Lodge, if you think Sterling Benton or Berkeley Square could compare favorably with either of them.”
Margaret’s throat tightened to hear Nathaniel say so.
“So what do you say, Nate,” Saxby asked. “Has some harm befallen Miss Macy, or has she gone off on a lark?”
Nathaniel flicked a glance across the room—toward her? “Miss Macy was headstrong and impulsive when I knew her years ago. And I imagine she is headstrong and impulsive now.”
Embarrassment flushed through Margaret.
Saxby goaded, “Impulsive, as in throwing you over for a chance at Lover Boy Lewie here?”
Margaret’s vision blurred and she felt herself sway.
“Piers, really,” Miss Lyons murmured disapprovingly.
Likely hoping to bring the subject to less volatile ground, Lavinia said quickly, “I wonder if there is any truth to the rumor that Margaret will inherit a great—”
Crash. The silver serving dish slipped from Margaret’s fingers. All heads turned her way. She swiftly turned and bent to begin picking up the mess, self-conscious at having her backside taken in by so many pairs of eyes. In a moment, Fiona was on her haunches beside her, scooping up the sweetbreads and sending her an empathetic grimace.
Mr. Arnold spoke up. “I’m terribly sorry, sir.”
“No matter, Arnold,” Nathaniel said. “These things happen.”
Face burning, Margaret retreated belowstairs.
Nathaniel glanced toward the servery door. The uncomfortable conversation continued, though its subject had disappeared from sight.
“I only met Miss Macy once,” Barbara Lyons said. “At the Valmores’ ball. And she did seem desperate enough to elope. For she all but begged a partner. I nearly felt sorry for her.”