The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Read online

  “What did the river police say? Any hope of catching the vandal?”

  He snorted ruefully. “Catch a man most people believe mere legend? How they laughed behind their hands when I admitted Hudson and I had been overtaken by a lone attacker, a man who calls himself the Poet Pirate no less. Of course I told them the man’s real name as well, but I don’t think they believed me.”

  “I am sorry, Nathaniel.” She shook her head. “At least the ship was not lost. You can make repairs, can you not?”

  He had barely returned and didn’t want to burden her with the reality of their finances just yet. He exhaled a deep breath. “We shall see. Now, let us talk of something else. How have you been keeping while we have all been away?”

  “Well enough. And how was Papa when you left him? In good health, I hope?”

  How he abhorred the polite restraint between them. “Yes. The warmer climate seems to agree with him. Says he barely notices his rheumatism anymore.”

  Helen studied him. “But . . . does he mind being alone there?”

  He hesitated, biting back a sarcastic retort about the charming widow from a nearby plantation with whom their father spent an inordinate amount of time. Considering Helen’s solitary state, it seemed unkind to mention it. He said instead, “He has lived there a long time now, Helen. He has many friends.”

  “And you? Were you sorry to return?”

  Nathaniel considered. Should he tell her about the escalating arguments between him and their father? He said, “In hindsight, the timing of it all seems God-ordained, receiving that letter from Stephens when we did.”

  Helen shook her head. “I still cannot believe Stephens wrote to Father. He always insisted servants should know and keep their place. I cannot believe he would say a word against Lewis.”

  In his mind’s eye, Nathaniel saw the somber face of their dignified old butler. He had written to say he felt it his duty to apprise James Upchurch of the state of affairs at Fairbourne Hall, to make him aware of the decline of the great estate it had been his honor to serve for more than twenty years. Stephens apologized but said that he could not in good conscience remain longer. The butler had given his notice, not to Lewis or Nathaniel but to their father—the real master in his eyes, absent or not.

  “His tone was very respectful—quite mournful, really.”

  Helen pursed her lips. “Still, I thought him more loyal.”

  Nathaniel fought against incredulity. “Helen, the man had not been paid in six months. Stephens paid a quarter’s wages to the lower servants out of his own savings. He tried to cover for us to keep the Upchurch reputation from suffering.”

  She stared at him. “I had no idea it had come to that. Certainly, had Lewis known he would have done something. Stephens should have told him.”

  Nathaniel hesitated. He knew his sister doted on Lewis. Everyone did and always had. She would not thank him for speaking against their elder brother.

  Helen asked, “So Father sent you home to take the place in hand, did he?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. I own I feared the entire staff would have deserted by the time I reached you.”

  “You overreacted, the both of you. Things are not so bleak, as you see. You needn’t have come.”

  Did she wish he hadn’t? Probably. Nathaniel shrugged. “Father and I had come to an impasse, at all events. I refused to manage the plantation as long as slave labor was used, and he refused to transition to paid laborers.”

  “Lewis says our profits would suffer greatly.”

  “They would indeed. But there is more to life than profits.”

  She lifted her chin. “You held no such compunctions before you left for Barbados.”

  All too true, and his conscience smote him for it. “I had not seen the institution for myself then, Helen. It was not real to me, merely theoretical. Since then I have seen the cruelty of overseers and masters like Abel Preston. I have heard the cries and seen the scars.”

  Helen winced. “I tend to agree with you. But certainly Papa and others have seen what you saw and have not come to the same conclusion. How do you account for it?”

  He slowly shook his head. “I don’t know. Willful blindness. Apathy. Greed. Misinformation or ignorance. I cannot say. All I know is that I am convinced to the core of my soul it is wrong.”

  She picked at the doily on the arm of her chair. “At least Papa and the other planters did not fight Parliament when it abolished the slave trade.”

  He nodded. “That was years ago, yet slavery continues. The only reason the planters did not fight the abolishment of the trade itself was because by that time Barbados was no longer dependent on slave importation.” His stomach twisted. “They encouraged slave reproduction instead.”

  Helen looked down at her hands, clearly disconcerted.

  It was his turn to wince. “Forgive me.”

  She cleared her throat and forced her head up. “But do we not live by its profits? Was not your ship purchased by slave-wrought sugar, as well as your Oxford education and the very clothes on your back?”

  “You begin to sound like Father,” Nathaniel said dryly. “And you are right, of course. To my shame. But we need not go on as we have in the past. Sugar is not our only source of income, Helen. We had a good crop this past season, yes. But the market is not what it once was, and overall profits are declining, slavery or no. I believe we should sell out. If we retrench, invest wisely, and live modestly, we can live off the income from the estate here.” He realized he was going on like an excited boy. Or an evangelist. He sighed. “But Father is not ready to give it up.”

  She asked gently, “Is he very angry with you?”

  Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “He is disappointed—there is no denying it. He says he respects my convictions but finds them too inconvenient.” His father was honest at least; Nathaniel gave him that. He drew himself up. “All this to say, it was time for me to come home. I can be useful here. Look after things.”

  “But please don’t blame Lewis,” Helen said. “If there wasn’t any money, what did you expect him to do?”

  Nathaniel rubbed a hand over his eyes. Again, he bit his lip to stop himself from saying what he wished to say: “I expected him to stop spending money we didn’t have on new clothes, a new barouche, new horses, lavish dinner parties, improvements to the London house, and I know not what.” His stomach churned anew at the thought of the stacks of bills he’d discovered when he spent a few days there.

  When he was silent, Helen continued, “Perhaps we ought to have been more careful, but how was Lewis to raise money to pay the servants? Surely you did not expect him to work.”

  Nathaniel said, “The rents from our tenants have not been collected for the last two quarters. He might have done that. For now, Hudson and I will endeavor to bring the accounts to order. If that dashed Preston had not stolen half our profits we would be closer to bringing finances up to snuff. I am only glad I did not leave the whole in that chest.”

  “Does he know that?” Helen asked.

  Nathaniel had wondered the same thing. “I don’t know. He said he’d heard Father had boasted about our profits. Hopefully not the specific amount.” He sighed. “I pray we’ve seen the last of him.” But somehow Nathaniel doubted it.

  Helen regarded him earnestly with hazel eyes very like their mother’s, gone these many years. “I am glad you were not injured more seriously.”

  “Thank you.”

  How long since he’d heard a kind word spoken by one of his family. The kind words of a woman were salve, even if spoken by his sister. Still, he wished he could rekindle the camaraderie he had shared with Helen in their youth, even if she preferred Lewis.

  For a moment, he wondered how Helen could idealize Lewis—as did every other female of their acquaintance, who saw only the handsome exterior and charming, carefree ways. But then Nathaniel realized Helen did not know their elder brother as well as he did. Lewis had gone away to school as a boy, then on to Oxford and
his grand tour, then had spent much of his time in London or at this or that friend’s country estate.

  In his boyhood, Nathaniel had been taught at home by a tutor but then had followed Lewis to Oxford. His first year had overlapped with Lewis’s last, and he had spent more time in his brother’s company, witnessing his antics away from the restraints and duties of home. But beyond term breaks and holidays, how much time had Helen and Lewis really spent together? Nathaniel didn’t like to disparage his brother. He loved him and always would, though he did not always like or respect him. Lewis seemed to save his charm for the fair sex, their sister included, and who could blame him? Many was the time Nathaniel would have traded his higher marks and accomplishments for an ounce of that charm where women—or at least a certain woman—were concerned.

  That night, Margaret trudged along after Betty, through the house and down the back stairs once more. She wanted nothing more than to return to her room and sleep. Instead she followed Betty like a weary duckling trailing its parent.

  “You’re in for a treat tonight, Nora. Monsieur Fournier has prepared quite a feast to welcome Mr. Upchurch home. And we’re to have the leavings for our supper.”

  And feast it was, though Margaret was not accustomed to being served from dishes with portions missing, partial jelly moulds, and congealing sauces. But the other servants beamed at the dishes in anticipation, not minding the secondhand nature of the feast.

  Monsieur Fournier waved his long arm and pointed a hairy-knuckled finger as he named each dish: vermicelli soup, trout en Matelote, stewed pigeon, French beans, and vegetable marrows in white sauce. And later, the finale—gooseberry tarts and fresh pineapple.

  Everyone oohed and ahhed over the dessert, for pineapple was a rare luxury.

  Mr. Hudson gave thanks, and they began the supper, passing things politely when asked and eating quietly. How unexpectedly formal the meal was. Margaret felt transported back to an uncomfortable evening when her great-aunt had invited her to dine with a crusty dowager countess. This was not how she had imagined servant suppers to be.

  Abruptly, a few people began to rise, Betty among them, and Margaret made to follow. But this time, Fiona grabbed her arm and pulled her back down. She hissed in her ear, “What are ya doin’? Only the uppers go.”

  The upper servants—Mr. Hudson, Mrs. Budgeon, Mr. Arnold, and Betty, as first housemaid—rose and quietly left the room in somber procession.

  “Where are they going?” Margaret whispered.

  “To the moon—what do ya think? Pug’s parlor, o’ course.”

  Mr. Arnold paused in the threshold and looked back. “Fred, I trust you will remember to walk the dog after your supper?”

  “I will, sir.”

  The under butler, Margaret noticed, carried a bottle of port beneath his arm, while the servants were left with small beer.

  Margaret had heard of the custom of the “upper ten” partaking of their pudding and of finer dishes and wines separately from the under servants in the housekeeper’s parlor. Still, she felt a strange stab at finding herself at the lower end of the social hierarchy. Left out.

  The feeling soon evaporated, however, because the stiff atmosphere in the servants’ hall melted into relaxed conviviality once the uppers—the bosses—were gone.

  Thomas, the dark-haired first footman, raised his glass of small beer. “Here’s to the return of Mr. Upchurch.”

  A female voice to Margaret’s right said, “I wish Mr. Lewis Upchurch would return.”

  Margaret snapped her head around in surprise. She took in the wistful expression of the heavyset stillroom maid she had met at breakfast.

  “Do you? Why?” Margaret could not help but ask. She found it somehow disconcerting that she was not the only maid awaiting Lewis’s appearance.

  Hester gazed into the distance but did not answer.

  Dark-haired Thomas slanted Margaret a look. “You’ve never seen him, or you wouldn’t ask. All the girls flutter about Mr. Lewis.”

  “I don’t know why.” The second footman, Craig, shrugged.

  “Come on now,” Jenny said. “We all know it isn’t Mr. Lewis Hester pines for, but the young man what comes with him.”

  Margaret turned to the kitchen maid. “Who’s that?”

  Jenny looked at her, incredulous. “His valet, of course.”

  “Oh, right,” Margaret murmured, noticing how pink Hester’s round cheeks had become.

  “I don’t know what girls see in him either,” fair-haired Craig pouted. “What’s he got that I haven’t got?”

  “Class, that’s what he’s got,” Jenny answered. “And genteel ways.”

  Another kitchen maid answered, “And so handsome in his fine clothes.”

  Craig frowned. “Well, I’ve got fine clothes.”

  Thomas threw down his table napkin. “You call livery fine?” The footman’s lip curled. “For trained monkeys, maybe.”

  Margaret was surprised the first footman despised the very livery he himself wore.

  “Oh, now don’t listen to Thomas,” Jenny soothed. “I think you’re both quite handsome in your livery. Very smart.”

  “Thank you, Jenny.” Craig added hopefully, “I don’t suppose you have a sister?”

  Thomas smirked. “Or a grandmother. Craig isn’t fussy.”

  Craig glared, but the others chuckled, enjoying the teasing nearly as much as their desserts.

  The next morning Margaret began her first full round of work. If she had thought the day before taxing, this one promised to be more so. The previous day had been spent in learning and in observing Betty or assisting her. Today, Margaret was on her own. Betty had assigned her the drawing room, conservatory, hall, and steward’s office to clean before breakfast, while she would see to the library, salon, morning room, dining room, and servery. Fiona, meanwhile, would take care of the early morning duties abovestairs—taking up water and emptying the slops in the bedchambers as well as cleaning the family sitting room.

  In the drawing room, Margaret did as Betty had taught her. First she lugged all the furniture she could move to the center of the room: chairs, settees, tea tables, and end tables. These she covered with cloths to protect them from the dust she was about to raise whilst sweeping the carpet. She grasped a handful of damp tea leaves from a wide-mouth jar, gave them a final squeeze, and sprinkled the leaves over the carpet. This was meant to freshen the carpet and sweeten the air, but to Margaret it seemed illogical to cast debris on something she was meant to clean.

  Selecting the carpet sweeper brush from her box, she went to work on her knees, sweeping the scant dirt and occasional pebble toward the hearth, from which she had already removed the fender and polished the grates. Afterwards, she wiped her hands on a cloth. She removed the dust covers and dusted the furniture and then began dragging the pieces back to their places. Perspiration trickled from beneath her wig and down her back, causing the skin beneath her long stays to itch. She was breathing heavily and her back ached by the time she restored the last piece of furniture to its proper—she hoped—place.

  Gathering up her tools into the housemaid’s box, Margaret paused to wipe a hand across her brow.

  One room down. Three to go.

  ———

  After breakfast, Betty hurried upstairs to help Miss Upchurch dress, leaving Margaret to sweep the main stairs and rub the banister with a little oil.

  They attended morning prayers and then Margaret helped Betty clean Miss Upchurch’s apartment—Betty still did not trust her with the family bedchambers, nor to make beds alone. She helped Betty tie back the bed curtains and strip the bed to air, emptied the washbasin, and tidied the dressing room.

  As the afternoon wore on, Margaret found her knees aching and her hands dry and stiff. She helped Fiona collect the soiled laundry throughout the house and was then assigned to scrub the basement passageway leading from the servants’ entrance on one end, all the way to the men’s quarters on the other.

  On her hands and knee
s, with a bucket of hot water heated on the stove, Margaret scrubbed a floor for the first time in her life. Her knees throbbed against the hard stone floor, and her hands burned from the harsh soap. She was midway down the passage when hall boy Fred came in the servants’ door with a rangy wolfhound, its wiry grey hair slick and wet.

  Margaret sat back on her heels. “I’ve just washed that floor,” she grumbled.

  “It’s all right,” Fred said. “Jester’s cleaner than either of us. He’s just had a swim in the pond.”

  Suddenly the dog at Fred’s heel shook himself mightily, spraying muddy water all over Fred’s trouser legs and Margaret’s face and bodice.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, sputtered, and groaned. “Oh, no . . .”

  “Sorry, miss,” Fred said.

  Mrs. Budgeon appeared in her doorway nearby. “What is the matter?” She looked from Margaret, to Fred, to the dog and back again. Surveying Margaret, her lips thinned and she sighed. “Well, Fred, you’ve won the honor of finishing that floor. Nora, I would tell you to bathe, but we haven’t time for all that now. Go on up to your room and clean up as best as you can. You do have another frock, I trust?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Well, one.”

  “Let’s hope it suits.”

  Margaret took herself up to her room and cleaned her face, neck, and hands as best she could at the washstand with her allotted bar of soap. She had peeked inside the servants’ bathing room Mrs. Budgeon had referred to. The small room lay at the end of a narrow side passage, past the servants’ hall. But she had yet to use the tub it contained. Until she figured out how to remove her stays, she would make do with sponge baths in her room.

  She changed into the blue gown, eyeing her bed with longing, but forced herself back downstairs.

  After the family ate their dinner, Margaret helped Mrs. Budgeon wash the china in the storeroom adjoining her parlor. The room was fitted with a special wooden sink lined with lead for the purpose. Once dry, the housekeeper meticulously examined each piece for damage before checking it back in.