The Maid of Fairbourne Hall(56)
“I don’t understand,” Margaret whispered, nerves flaring.
“Nor do I.”
“Mr. Upchurch showed this to you?”
Helen hesitated. “Yes.” She considered. “I cannot say he seemed terribly upset about it.”
A flash of hurt stung Margaret. What was wrong with her? The Morning Post was speculating about her death, and she was disappointed Nathaniel Upchurch wasn’t more affected by the news?
She skimmed the article again . . . the body not yet officially identified . . . anonymous source . . . authorities speculate . . . deceased might be . . .
Dear God in heaven, whose body?
Was the report mere speculation, based on the fact that she had yet to be found, alive or otherwise? Clearly, Sterling had reported her disappearance to the authorities. Had he done more than that? Had he resorted to violence? Or simply made convenient use of some other poor girl’s death to suggest, anonymously, that the body was that of his missing stepdaughter?
Margaret! she scolded herself. You’re being ridiculous. Melodramatic. Certainly Sterling Benton would not stoop so low, would not carry out such a desperate act.
Yet who would receive Margaret’s inheritance if Margaret was dead or officially declared so? Her mother, or her sister? Either way, the Benton men were sure to profit.
“Thank you for showing me,” Margaret murmured.
Helen’s eyes widened with sympathetic concern. “What will you do?”
Margaret slowly shook her head. “I have no idea.”
The next morning, a cloud of dread and uncertainly hovered over Margaret. She plodded through her duties, thoughts heavy with the news of her death and what, if anything, she should do about it.
After Margaret dressed Helen’s hair, Miss Upchurch turned from the mirror to face her. “I have been giving it a great deal of thought and have decided you and Nathaniel are right. I have shunned society for too long.”
“I . . . am relieved to hear it,” Margaret said, though in truth her mind remained on the more pressing matter of news of her own demise. “Will you begin paying calls, then?” Margaret hoped she wouldn’t be expected to accompany her.
“Something better. I have decided we should host a party here. It has been far too long since the Upchurches have entertained.”
Here? They would be inviting a houseful of guests—some of whom Margaret was sure to have met, since they had acquaintances in common—to Fairbourne Hall, her hideaway?
She asked hopefully, “A small party with local friends . . . ?”
“A big party with local friends and friends from town. Many have quit London for their country estates, but a fair number live near enough to attend. I am thinking of a ball—as I so enjoyed my two dances at the servants’ ball. Perhaps even a masquerade, since that was the last event I attended before . . .”
“A ball . . . ?” Margaret’s mind was a whirl of worry and worse-case scenarios—London friends, perhaps Sterling Benton and her mother, or even Marcus Benton. She might be asked to serve them, or stand ready in the ladies’ dressing room to assist female guests with their wraps or with using the chamber commode. Surely her mother would recognize her.
Helen frowned at her. “You don’t approve?”
Margaret hesitated. “No, I . . .” What if someone saw through her disguise? The thought abruptly stilled her. Disguise . . .
She drew in a long breath. “I think you are absolutely right, Miss Helen. A masquerade ball is the perfect idea.”
At breakfast, Lewis piled sausages on his plate and grinned at his brother and sister. “A masquerade ball, you say? Delightful notion! Why, I shall help plan the soiree myself. Do be sure to include Miss Barbara Lyons on the guest list. You know she is a favorite of mine.”
“And with your friend Mr. Saxby, I believe,” Nathaniel said dryly.
Lewis pulled a face. “Oh, a little friendly rivalry never hurt anybody.”
Nathaniel’s gut twisted. His brother’s rivalry had hurt him a great deal two years ago. He avoided Helen’s gaze and said evenly, “At all events, I don’t think we should expect many of our London friends to come down. Besides, where would we put them all?”
“Never fear,” Lewis said. “Miss Lyons has relatives nearby and might stay with them.” He shrugged. “Or she could have my bed.”
“Lewisss . . .” Helen reprimanded, drawing out his name as was her habit when vexed.
“Only a jest, old girl. Don’t go getting all holier-than-Nate. One killjoy in the family is ample sufficient!”
Lewis stayed another night to help plan the ball. Then he returned to London with his valet in tow but promised to return for the masquerade to act the part of host for the evening.
Once he had taken his leave, Helen solicited Mr. Hudson’s help. Since the two of them had made such a formidable team in planning the servants’ ball, she saw no reason why they should not once again join forces to plan this one.
Even Nathaniel was pressed into duty one afternoon, in helping to write out the many invitations when he returned from his rounds of the estate.
When Helen took herself to her own room for more ink, Hudson watched her go, then turned to Nathaniel.
“Sir, uh, I wonder . . .”
Noticing Hudson’s uncharacteristic unease, Nathaniel braced himself. “What?”
“You know I am . . . fond . . . of your sister,” he faltered. “How would you . . . How would you feel about . . . about my . . .” He grimaced and muttered, “Arrr. Never mind. Foolish notion. A lady like her and a nobody like me.”
Nathaniel looked at his friend, felt a combination of protectiveness for his sister, and true fondness and empathy for his smitten friend. No, Robert Hudson was not his sister’s social equal. But he was a good man. A worthy man. He wondered how Helen would react. Had she any idea how obvious it was that she . . . well, at least, enjoyed the man’s company? Was there more to it than that, or would she be offended at the notion of a match between them?
Nathaniel asked carefully, “Has my sister given you any indication she reciprocates your feelings?”
Hudson sighed. “I think so. But it’s dashed hard to tell with women, isn’t it? She’d be polite to the ratcatcher. But I believe it’s more than politeness. And I think, maybe . . .” He sighed again. “Or maybe it’s only wishful thinking on my part.”
Nathaniel said, “Well, I cannot speak for her, but nor will I stand in your way.”
“Do you mean it, sir?”
“I suppose I do. Though you shall have to lay off with the ‘sir’ bit.”
Hudson grinned. “That I will, Nate. That I will.”
Several days later, while Margaret put away the hairbrush and extra pins and tidied the dressing table, Helen sat at her writing desk. She picked up the first letter atop the thick pile of the morning’s post.
She opened the missive and read. “Well, this is something of a surprise.”
“What is?”
“We have received the first reply to our invitations. The Bentons have accepted.”
Margaret’s heart thudded. “Have they? All of them?”
Helen scanned the text. “Mr. and Mrs. Sterling Benton, Mr. Marcus Benton, and Miss Caroline Macy.”
Gilbert was still too young and—at least Margaret hoped—too busy at Eton to attend. She fervently prayed Sterling had not made good on his threat to pull Gilbert from the institution.
The girls’ seminary Caroline attended was located between Maidstone and London, so perhaps it was not so surprising her sister would attend. Perhaps their mother arranged to visit her daughter and attend the ball in the same journey to better justify the distance. Or perhaps Sterling had his own reasons for wanting to visit Fairbourne Hall once more.
Helen said, “I suppose we can conclude that the Benton family does not believe the speculation about Miss Macy’s death. For they would not accept an invitation if they were in mourning.”
Any mourning the Benton men observed on her account, Margaret thought, would be only for show. Though, of course, her mother and siblings would be devastated.
Helen picked up the next reply in the stack. “Let us see who else is coming to our little soiree. It’s going to be quite an interesting night, I think. Most revealing.”
Masquerade balls were sometimes set as a
game among the guests. The masked guests were
supposedly dressed so as to be unidentifiable.
This would create a type of game to see if a
guest could determine each other’s identities.
—The Jane Austen Centre
Chapter 24
As the date of the masquerade ball approached, Margaret’s nerves and fears escalated. Not only would Sterling Benton again be under the same roof, but also Marcus, as well as her mother and sister. She prayed everything would go according to plan.
Helen had actually ordered a new evening gown for the occasion—light blue with a low round neckline edged in gathered white lace. This, plus a high belt of white ribbon, accentuated Helen’s figure admirably. Puffed white lace sleeves peeked out from slashed cap oversleeves of blue. The gown was simple yet elegant, and both Helen and Margaret liked it immensely.
On the night of the masquerade, Margaret helped Helen dress and arranged her hair. She had rolled Helen’s hair with pomade and paper curls the night before and now she piled Helen’s curly hair high, leaving tendrils loose at her temples to soften her face and downplay her ears. She then decorated the coif with a white ostrich feather. Margaret applied a light dusting of powder, a hint of rouge to Helen’s cheeks and lips, and the slightest bit of kohl around her eyes. It was after all, a masquerade. She also helped Helen on with a pearl necklace and earrings.