Satisfaction. “I did, though my return was not without its losses.”
He felt her gaze, and looked over to find her watching him, brows quirked in expectation. She wore her spectacles, but he noticed her customary dark fringe was missing. Instead, her cap was pulled down low, her hair tucked up in it. Even so, she looked more like herself without all that dark hair around her face.
He asked, “Do your spectacles help you see things in the distance—like those stars?”
She looked back up at the stars, then tucked her chin to look over the top of the lenses. “Yes.”
“I used to wear spectacles most of the time, until I realized all I really needed them for was reading and close work.”
She nodded, then asked quietly, “You spoke of losses?”
He grimaced. “We were attacked at the docks by a man we knew in Barbados. Calls himself the Poet Pirate nowadays. Wasn’t terribly poetic of him to rob and burn my ship.”
She shook her head in sympathy. “Mr. Hudson mentioned it. How sorry I was to hear it.”
“That’s why I was insensible the night Hudson drove the coach and lost his way. He’d taken me to a nearby surgeon the customs house recommended. The man dressed my wounds and was overly generous with the laudanum.”
She nodded her understanding once more.
Studying her profile, he asked quietly, “And how did you lose your way? How did you end up near the docks, then in Maidstone?”
“Tryin’ to avoid trouble, I suppose.”
“What sort of trouble?”
She shrugged, clearly uncomfortable.
“Were you . . . let go, for some reason? I promise it shall not jeopardize your situation here.”
“It wasn’t anything like that, sir. What I mean is . . . One of the men in the house, he made things . . . difficult for me.”
“Difficult, how?”
She fidgeted, then whispered, “I’d rather not say.”
“Had you no recourse, no friend or relative to protect you?”
She shook her head, once again staring up at the stars. “I found myself thinkin’ of Joseph. When Potiphar’s wife tried to seduce him, he fled, didn’t he? He ran and ran fast without thinkin’ ahead to the consequences, without lookin’ back.”
“So that’s what you did.”
She nodded.
He grinned wryly. “Joseph ended up in prison, you know.”
“Oh,” she breathed. “I forgot that part.”
“I trust Fairbourne Hall is a better fate than prison. You are treated with respect, I hope?”
“Yes, sir, that is . . .” She faltered, began again. “Everyone on staff has been very kind.”
He stiffened at her hesitation. Had Lewis trifled with her? “Miss—Nora. If anyone dares . . . If anyone bothers you, you must not hesitate to tell me. At once. I will”—kill the man—“reprimand severely any man who mistreats you. Do you understand?”
Tears filling her eyes, she nodded, but did not speak.
Dash it. “I’m sorry. I . . . didn’t mean to upset you.” What an idiot I am.
She shook her head. “I’m fine. My hardships are little to yours. Is your ship lost completely?”
He sighed, looking up. “No, but the costs to repair it will be higher than that star.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She hesitated. “Was her name . . . the Ecclesia?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“It was the name on your model ship.” She looked sheepish about breaking it over again.
“Ah. Yes—Ecclesia. Latin for ‘church.’ ”
“Clever.”
“I once thought so. But I don’t think myself very clever these days.”
Her profile was painfully familiar by moonlight as she gazed up at the night sky. He was tempted to reveal that he knew who she was, ask why she was hiding, and offer to help her. But would she be mortified to be discovered in such a humbling role? Would she thank him or curse him for exposing her?
He bit his tongue. Why should he want to help her? Had she not proven herself fickle and shallow? But somehow, looking at her now, he saw none of those traits. He saw a shadow of the loneliness he felt inside himself. A quiet desperation to fix something broken. He knew what was broken in his life—his family’s finances, his ship, his sister’s heart . . . and his own. But what was broken in Miss Macy’s life, and how did running away fix it?
He decided to bide his time. “Nora. You came to our aid—Hudson’s and mine—and I am grateful. If there is any way we . . . I . . . can return the favor, you need only ask.”
She looked over at him, pale eyes wide and silvery in the moonlight. She opened her mouth as though to respond, to confide in him, but instead pressed her lips together. Lips he had longed to kiss for years . . . and heaven help him, still did. Warmth swept through him at the thought of the kiss they had shared, at least in his dreams.
She whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Upchurch.” Once again she hesitated, then dipped her head. “And now I shall bid you good-night.”
She had forgotten to use a working class accent in her final words, but he made no comment. He liked hearing her voice. Her real voice. “Good night, Nora.”
In his mind, he added, “Good night, Margaret.”
The steward supervised the duties of the entire
household, hiring and firing other servants, paying
their wages and controlling expenditure.
—Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs
Chapter 22
In the morning, Nathaniel stopped by Hudson’s office to speak to him. “I have a project for you, Hudson. If you don’t mind another trip to London.”
“Not at all, sir.”
Nathaniel studied his friend. “That was quick. And eager. Find the life of a house steward confining, do you?”
“A bit of getting used to, sir,” he said diplomatically. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“I don’t blame you.” Nathaniel could have gone to London himself, but he was reluctant to leave Fairbourne Hall so soon after returning. Who am I fooling? he asked himself. It was perfectly obvious he was reluctant to leave Margaret. He pulled the door closed behind him and cleared his throat. “It’s a bit of a . . . private project.”
Hudson leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the desk.
Nathaniel began, “I want you to find out everything you can about a Marcus Benton, and while you’re at it, Sterling Benton, of Berkeley Square, Mayfair.”
Hudson did not blink a lash. “The man who came here looking for his stepdaughter?”
Nathaniel nodded.
“What am I looking for, sir?”
Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “I don’t know exactly. Financial situation, family relations, unexplained absences, anything . . . unusual.” He took another deep breath, contemplating how much to tell the man. He trusted Hudson implicitly, but there was no reason he needed to know—not yet, at any rate—just whom he had hired in the position of housemaid.
Hudson considered the request. “Do I take it you believe the stepfather has something to do with this, em . . . ?”
“Miss Macy.”
“Miss Macy’s disappearance?”
“It is only suspicion at present.”
“What about the girl? She may have run off of her own accord. Shall I investigate her whereabouts as well?”
“I don’t think that necessary.”
Hudson cocked his head to one side, studying him. “May I ask, sir, how you are acquainted with Miss Macy?”
“No, Hudson. You may not.”
Mrs. Budgeon kept a stack of writing paper in the servants’ hall, free for anyone who wished a piece or two to write home. Margaret wondered again if she ought to write to her friend Emily. A defensive measure. When she learned that evening that Mr. Hudson was returning to London once again, she saw it as a definite sign that she should.
My dear Emily,
You have no doubt heard that I have gone away. I know that you, my dearest friend, would never assume the worst. Still, I thought I should write to you, so you will not fret about me. I did send a letter to Mamma—did she tell you? If she has not, then I fear it may have gone astray and never made it into her hands. I hope this letter fares better.
Nothing dire has befallen me. I have not been kidnapped, nor have I eloped, nor have I been compromised—even if cruel gossips are tempted to bandy such nonsense about. (Not you, of course, dear Emily.)
The truth is that I no longer felt safe living under the same roof as Marcus Benton. You know his uncle had been pressuring us to marry, and Marcus had become quite desperate to convince me or compel me by any means necessary—with his uncle’s blessing, no less. Perhaps you will not believe me, or think my estimation of my charms puffed up and my worries foolish fancy. But trust me when I tell you my fears were very real and justified.
I don’t expect you to defend me to fickle society nor to the world at large, but I did want you to know, dear loyal friend, that I am well and safely hidden for now.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Macy
“Mr. Hudson?” Margaret’s heart beat fast the next morning when she stepped into the steward’s office. Perhaps she ought to have asked Miss Helen to act as her intermediary again, but she didn’t want to press the issue of her identity with the woman, who seemed determined to carry on the ruse for some reason of her own. She hoped Mr. Hudson would not refuse her—or worse, show the letter to Nathaniel Upchurch. He would surely recognize the name and wonder how his housemaid knew Emily Lathrop—closest friend of Margaret Macy. He might easily put two and two together and her secret would be revealed—and her safe hiding place gone with it.