He considered this. “He might have changed his mind.”
She faltered, “Do men . . . change their minds once they deem a woman unworthy?”
He studied her, pondered her words. “Not easily.”
She looked down.
“Perhaps Saxby was only upset with Miss Lyons but still loves her.” He added in a low voice, “Any man might be angry, to think the woman he loved preferred Lewis.”
She met his gaze. “She does not.”
He regarded her closely. “Doesn’t she?” Was she speaking for Miss Lyons or for herself?
She shook her head. “If she once did, she does no longer.”
He blinked, pulling his stubborn gaze from hers. “And have you a better theory? A more likely suspect?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Well—” he rose—“thank you for telling me.”
She nodded. “May I ask how your brother fares this morning?”
“There is no improvement, I fear.”
“We are all of us praying belowstairs.” She reached for the door latch, then turned back. “I am so sorry this happened. For all your sakes.”
How wide her blue eyes, how appealing her tremulous lips. It was all he could do not to take her in his arms. What a comfort that would be. What a torment.
Instead he remained where he was. “Thank you.”
After Margaret left, Nathaniel gathered the poem he had just found in Lewis’s things, the duel challenge note, and Preston’s “must I visit Fairbourne Hall” threat, and took all three up to the sitting room to show Helen.
He first handed her the new “How dare ye set yer hands upon her, blasted louse” poem.
She read it and breathed, “Good heavens.”
Nathaniel jabbed a finger toward the note. “This points to Preston. The man calls himself the Poet Pirate, after all. Yet I had no idea his vendetta encompassed Lewis as well.”
Helen held out her palm. “Let me see the poem he wrote threatening to come here for the rest of the profits.”
He handed it to her, and she compared the two poems. “The handwriting is completely different.”
Nathaniel looked over her shoulder. “You’re right. Why would he disguise his hand, yet write in his signature poetry?”
“I don’t know.”
He handed her the third letter he’d brought upstairs. “Here’s the note challenging Lewis to a duel in the first place.”
Helen compared the brief challenge note to the latest poem. “These two were written by the same person.”
Nathaniel grimaced. “Are you saying Preston wrote only the first letter, threatening to come here, and the other two were written by a different person?”
Helen nodded.
“Two poets?” Nathaniel said, incredulous. “One threatening me, the other threatening Lewis?”
Helen nodded. “I agree it seems highly unlikely.” She frowned over the latest poem and read it aloud. “ ‘Ye cruel, vain, blasted louse. Detested by all in my house. How dare ye set yer hands upon her. Such a sweet innocent girl. Go somewhere else to seek yer pleasure. With some other poor pearl.’ ” She shook her head. “I feel as though I have read this before. . . .”
Nathaniel agreed. “It is very like the Burns poem ‘To a Louse.’ ”
Helen’s eyes lit in recognition. “Ah. So it is.”
Abel Preston specialized in manufacturing poetry to suit the occasion. But two poets? Nathaniel’s head hurt. He felt more confused than before.
On her way to the servants’ hall for dinner, Margaret peeked into the stillroom and glimpsed a flash of deep red—the back of Connor’s auburn head. She supposed he was talking with Hester again. But was talking all they were doing? Margaret hoped Mrs. Budgeon wouldn’t catch them. Staff romances were deeply frowned upon, she knew.
But when Margaret reached the servants’ hall, there was Hester, cheerfully helping Jenny lay out the servants’ dinner.
“Oh.” Margaret drew up short. “I thought you were in the stillroom.”
Hester set down a tray of savory biscuits and looked up. “Now, why would you think that?”
Margaret waited until Jenny had returned to the kitchen and then said, “I saw Connor in there.”
Hester’s face lit up. “Did you? Wonder what he needs.” She winked. “Besides me, a’course.”
Seeing the fondness shining in Hester’s eyes, Margaret felt oddly envious of the stillroom maid. Oh, to be loved and to have that love reciprocated. She thought back to her last conversation with Nathaniel. It was almost as if his words had carried latent meaning for her—Margaret. “Any man might be angry, to think the woman he loved preferred Lewis.” And the way he had looked at her . . .
But no, she was reading too much into his looks and the words he’d spoken to a housemaid named Nora.
Dr. Drummond returned that afternoon as promised. Again he examined Lewis but found no change in his condition. After the physician took his leave, Nathaniel sat at the library desk with the newspapers, while Helen sat nearby at Lewis’s bedside.
Several minutes later, Nathaniel tossed the Times onto the library desk and laid his head in his hands. What next?
Helen looked over at him, alarmed. “What is it?”
“News from Barbados. A slave revolt.”
“No!” She pressed a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.
He nodded. “Estates damaged. Cane fields burned, property destroyed. By the time soldiers crushed the revolt, a quarter of the island’s sugar crop had gone up in smoke.”
“Our estate?”
“It is not mentioned. Thank God we got our harvest in early.”
“What else does it say?”
He picked up the Times once more. “‘Approximately four hundred slaves, men and women both, armed with pitchforks and a few muskets fought against the well-armed militia and regulars. Hundreds of rebels were killed.’” He shook his head as images of Upchurch slaves flashed before his mind’s eye. Tuma, Jonah, Cuffey . . . Please, no.
He forced himself to continue, “‘Hundreds more were captured and will be executed or sold elsewhere.’”
Nathaniel had warned his father what might happen if planters rejected the registry bill. But even he had not predicted such a grisly outcome.
Helen asked, “Were any planters killed?”
He shot her a look, surprised she was concerned only for the white owners. But he couldn’t really blame her. She had never met an enslaved person. Did not know dozens, as he did. He shook his head. “Only two soldiers apparently, one white and one black soldier from the West India Regiment.”
“That’s a relief. I mean . . . that Papa and his neighbors are all right.”
He bit back a bitter retort. It wasn’t Helen’s fault. “I shall write to Father directly to make certain. But no doubt we will hear from him any day now.”
Helen nodded. “In the meantime, I shall pray for his safety.”
Nathaniel thought, And I shall pray for theirs.
Margaret carried an armload of yellow chrysanthemums and purple verbena into the stillroom. It was late in the season, and these were the only flowers she could find to brighten the sickroom.
She drew up short at seeing Connor standing again at the worktable—Hester’s domain. “Oh. Hello, Connor. Where’s Hester?”
“She’ll be in the servants’ hall about now, I expect.”
He was in shirtsleeves, wearing a black bib-apron to protect his clothing.
Margaret nodded, then hesitated, wondering what he was doing. A mortar and pestle stood on the worktable before him, a jar of something beside it, a bit of powder spread about. “Making something for Mr. Upchurch, are you?”
He looked up at her. “What do you mean?”
She shrugged easily. “Some elixir or restorative, I imagine.”
He glanced at her, then back to the worktable. “I am not an apothecary, Nora.”
She smiled at him. “Hester says you prepare your own shaving soap and hair tonic. Don’t be so modest.”
He shook his head. “I am only grinding a bit of tooth powder.”
“Then I shall leave you to it.” Margaret turned to the sideboard and set about trimming and arranging the flowers in a green glass vase.
The silence between them as they worked felt uncomfortable. Sensing Connor was not completely at ease sharing the close quarters with a maid other than Hester, Margaret didn’t tarry over her task. As soon as she had cleaned up after herself, she lost no time in carrying the arrangement to the library upstairs.
That night, Connor did not appear for supper. After grumbling about his absence, Mr. Arnold determined they would eat without him, with Mr. Hudson’s approval, of course.
“As you like,” the steward said, in his mild-mannered way.
Margaret wondered why Connor was missing the meal—it was unlikely Monsieur Fournier would save him a plate, though she guessed Hester might very well do so in secret. Margaret hoped nothing had happened—that Lewis had not taken a turn for the worse. She decided to check on him as soon as she had finished eating.
After the upper servants excused themselves to take their dessert and port in Mrs. Budgeon’s parlor, leaving the rest of the servants to partake of a simple bread pudding in the servants’ hall, Margaret excused herself. This brought a raised-brow glance from Fiona, who knew how very fond of sweets Nora was.