“If she wanted a partner,” Saxby said, “she had only to turn to Marcus Benton, who was at her heel all night, like a besotted hound.”
Barbara shook her head. “It was obvious to me she did not care for young Mr. Benton.” She fluttered her lashes at Lewis. “She only had eyes for you, Mr. Upchurch.”
Lewis leaned near the brunette beside him. “While I only had eyes for you, Miss Lyons.”
“As did I,” Saxby said, glaring at him.
Lewis shook his head and confessed, “I am afraid I was less than gallant with Miss Macy. For the truth was, I was smitten with another lady.” He looked meaningfully at Miss Lyons. “One as far from my reach as Miss Macy is from Nate’s.”
Nathaniel inhaled slowly, willing anger to remain at bay.
Saxby huffed. “Oh, you are never heartbroken for long, Lewis. I seem to recall you flirting with a whole succession of females since then.”
“None seriously.” Lewis kept his gaze on Miss Lyons’s face, coyly dipped though it was.
“I wonder you find yourself at Fairbourne Hall so much more often lately,” Saxby persisted, reptilian eyes sliding to Miss Lyons before returning to Lewis.
“It’s Nate here,” Lewis quipped. “Has me on a short tether these days.”
“Has he? I thought it might have more to do with a certain ginger-haired girl in Maidstone.”
Lewis’s grin faded. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oh, come, Lewie,” Saxby sneered. “You forget Lavinia and I still have friends and family nearby. Local gossip does not fail to reach us.”
Lewis said through clenched teeth, “The gossips have it wrong.”
“Do they indeed?”
Nathaniel wondered if Saxby manufactured such a claim to put a wedge between Lewis and Miss Lyons. It was obvious both men were vying for the woman’s affections.
While the question, the challenge, hung in the air, Lewis flicked a look across the room, as if checking his reflection in the window. Connor, his valet, stood behind his chair, ramrod straight.
Lewis then riveted Saxby with an icy glare. “Indeed.”
“Then I stand corrected.” Saxby met his glare, then relaxed back against his chair. “Or should I say, sit corrected.” He raised his glass in a mock toast.
Nathaniel glanced at his brother’s valet. Noticed Connor’s jaw tighten. He supposed the young man was privy to most of Lewis’s comings and goings, clandestine or otherwise. He likely knew whether Lewis—or the gossips Saxby quoted—spoke the truth. But Nathaniel knew a good valet was nothing if not discreet. Lewis’s secrets would be safe.
Just as Margaret’s secrets were safe with him.
Formidable in her dark silk dress, the keys to the
household at her belt . . . it was often the housekeeper’s
duty to show visitors around the house.
—Margaret Willes, Household Management
Chapter 21
Even after the uncomfortable dinner party, Margaret’s mind continued to drift to the mystery of Fiona’s ball gown. While she and Betty scrubbed the dining room floor the next morning, Margaret daydreamed about Fiona’s past, imagining several possible scenarios.
Unable to resist any longer, she slid her pail forward and asked, “Why can’t I ask Fiona about the dress?”
Betty pulled a face. “Not this again. Just . . . don’t ask.”
“A gown like that must have cost a great deal of money. Too much for a housemaid to afford. And I can’t imagine her mistress handing down such a gown—it’s too impractical.”
Betty squeezed out her cloth. “Fiona wouldn’t want us talking about this.”
“Do you know how she came by it?”
Betty hesitated. “Yes. But not because she told me.” Betty sat back on her heels, regarded her warily. “Fiona will be vexed indeed if you pry into this—believe me.”
Margaret sniffed. “Very well.”
The upper housemaid studied her, a knowing glint in her blue eyes. “I see how you are, Nora. You won’t let it lie, so I’ll tell you. Only to keep you from askin’ Fiona and makin’ life difficult for us all.”
Guilt pricked Margaret. “I shouldn’t tempt you to gossip. I’m sorry. Listen, Betty, let’s forget it.”
“No, you listen. Fiona has never breathed a word to me. But my uncle is butler at Linton Grange, where Fiona last worked, and he told me.”
“Does Fiona know you know?”
Betty pursed her lip. “I don’t believe so. You’d think she’d wonder, knowing the butler had the Tidy surname, same as me. But she’s never mentioned it.”
Betty scrubbed at a stubborn stain, then paused, gathering her thoughts. “This all happened some five or six years ago. Fiona was housemaid at the Grange, as she is here. It’s the old story: the young master—the only son—fell in love with her. Asked her to marry him. Even set her up in her own cottage on the estate. It was him what gave her that fine gown—and dreams of a better life in the bargain.”
Betty shook her head, lips pressed in a thin line. “I don’t know if he really meant to marry her, or only told her so. His parents forbade the match, as you can imagine, throwing all sorts of obstacles in their way. But Fiona was certain he would marry her eventually, or so my uncle said. But it weren’t to be. The young master died in a hunting accident. His gun misfired.”
“Oh no.” Margaret’s heart sank.
Betty nodded. “He lived long enough to beg his parents to provide for Fiona after he’d gone.”
“Your uncle heard that as well?”
“Servants hear everything, Nora,” Betty said shrewdly. “Haven’t you figured that out yet?” Her eyes hardened. “But that young man was no sooner in his grave than they put her out. Out of the cottage, off the estate. Without a bean to her name or a character. In the end, my uncle wrote one for her on the sly. He told me, and I put in a good word for her here. Mrs. Budgeon trusted me and hired her.”
“Poor Fiona.”
Betty nodded and returned to her scrubbing. “I’ve never regretted vouching for her. She’s a hard worker and has a good heart for all that. She may be slow to trust, but once she does she’s very loyal. And if she is a mite bitter . . . well, maybe now you’ll understand why.”
Margaret shook her head. “It isn’t right.”
“That’s life in service for many a poor girl, Nora. Mind you take care ’round men. Even them what call themselves gentlemen.”
For a few moments, Margaret scrubbed rather aimlessly as she considered everything Betty had told her. Then she said, “I’m surprised Fiona wore that dress. She must have known we would wonder. . . .”
“Nora.” Betty’s voice held a warning note. “If you dare let on I told you, I’ll box your ears.”
“Very well. Her former life is safe with me.” Margaret winced on aching knees. “I am good at keeping that sort of secret.”
That afternoon Margaret clumped down the back stairs, her housemaid’s box in hand. Finished with the public rooms and bedchambers, she had been asked to clean Mrs. Budgeon’s parlor belowstairs. Margaret crossed the passage into the servery, heading toward the basement stairs. As she did, she heard the jingling of keys. Normally, the jangle of Mrs. Budgeon’s impressive set of keys was the signal to pick up one’s pace, or quit gossiping and get back to work. But today that familiar jangle was accompanied by a less common sound—Mrs. Budgeon’s voice raised, not in reprimand or command, but in fine elocution worthy of a museum curator. Margaret turned back and listened from the servery door.
“Fairbourne Hall was completed in 1735 by Lambert Upchurch and his wife, Katherine Fairbourne Upchurch. A covered walkway, or arcade, was added in 1760 by his eldest son, inspired by the Italian architecture he had seen on his grand tour. . . .”
Margaret realized Mrs. Budgeon was showing the house to some travelers, likely touring the Kent countryside. She knew this was a common duty for housekeepers in fine old country estates, and she found it oddly touching to hear Mrs. Budgeon in the role, going on with such pride about the house and its ancestors as though she were part of the family. Margaret wondered how much she would receive as a perquisite for her trouble.
Margaret remained hidden within the servery and listened. Footsteps told her Mrs. Budgeon was leading the visitors across the marble-floored hall.
“There are more family portraits in the salon, but allow me to draw your attention to a few here in the hall.”
A high affected voice asked, “Is it true the Upchurch family made their fortune in the West Indies sugar trade?”
“Dorcas!” came a whispered reprimand. After all, a lady did not discuss money in public.
“The Upchurches have owned a sugar plantation in Barbados for well over a hundred years,” Mrs. Budgeon replied. “In fact, Mr. James Upchurch, the current head of the family, presently resides there.”
“So who lives here now?” the second young woman asked.
The voice struck a chord of familiarity in Margaret. A pleasant familiarity. Emily Lathrop . . . What was she doing here?
Mrs. Budgeon answered, “His grown children—his daughter, Helen, and his sons, Lewis and Nathaniel. Though Lewis is often in London.” Then the housekeeper resumed her prepared commentary.