The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 17

  “Nor will you make any further changes in your assigned duties. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Very well.” Mrs. Budgeon avoided her eyes and took a deep breath. “It seems Miss Upchurch would like you to dress her hair once again. You will attend her immediately after your breakfast.”

  “But . . . I . . .”

  “It was not a suggestion, Nora.”

  “No, ma’am. Yes, ma’am.”

  ———

  Heart pounding, Margaret scratched on Miss Helen’s door. A proper lady’s maid had no need to knock before entering her mistress’s bedchamber. But there was nothing proper about the maid trembling at Helen Upchurch’s door. She wondered if Helen really wanted “Nora” to dress her hair, or if she had another reason for summoning her.

  “Come.”

  Whispering a prayer, Margaret pushed open the door and stepped inside. Helen was seated at her dressing table, fully clothed. Betty had obviously been there before her.

  Helen glanced up at her in the mirror. “Nora, was it?”

  Mouth dry, Margaret nodded.

  “Kindly dress my hair, please.”

  Please. Had Margaret ever said the word to Joan?

  Margaret walked forward, glad Helen’s back was to her but wishing she might throw a shawl over that mirror.

  She picked up the brush and again began stroking through Helen’s hair. Glancing down, she noticed that the high neck of Miss Upchurch’s gown was frayed—the decorative buttons sagging on their threads. The dress was not only worn but outmoded. Helen Upchurch had always dressed quite fashionably when Margaret had seen her during the London seasons. But that was before her heart had been broken and she put herself on the shelf.

  As she pinned Helen’s hair, she felt the woman’s eyes watching her in the mirror. Margaret swallowed and, nervous, stuck the final pin too deep.

  Helen winced. “What are you doing?”

  Margaret did not like the odd light in Helen’s eyes. The light of suspicion . . . or recognition? She said in her acquired accent, “Beg pardon, miss.”

  Helen blinked. She asked slowly, “Why are you here at Fairbourne Hall?”

  That question again. Margaret licked dry lips. She wondered once more if Helen knew. Had she seen through her disguise when her brothers had not? She was probably reading too much into Helen’s questions. After all, the woman had not tossed her out on her ear after their last meeting.

  Margaret summoned her courage. “I needed the work, miss,” she began. “Glad I was when Mr. Hudson offered me a place.”

  Helen’s eyes narrowed. “Why would you want to work here?”

  “I . . . There was no work in London.”

  Helen’s expression hardened. “There is always work in London.”

  “I couldn’t stay there, miss. I had to get away.”

  “But why?” Helen repeated, her expression perplexed, frustrated.

  Margaret swallowed. “Because my . . .” She hated to use the word father related to Sterling Benton but didn’t want to name the man. “My stepfather was pressurin’ me to marry his nephew—a man I can’t abide.” Margaret shuddered anew at the thought of marrying Marcus Benton.

  Helen seemed to consider this, then said slowly, “You cannot be forced to marry against your will, you know. The law prohibits it. You can marry or not as you choose.”

  “Did you?” Margaret’s tongue jabbed the words before she could stop them.

  A flush of pain and of indignation marred Helen Upchurch’s face.

  Remorse swamped Margaret. “I am sorry, miss. I shouldn’ta said it. But you know men has their ways of gettin’ what they want and there is little women can do to stop ’em.”

  For a moment, a faraway look misted Helen’s hazel eyes. “Yes, I do know.” Then she looked up sharply again in the mirror. “What are you playing at in coming here? If you have some scheme in mind, I warn you—”

  Margaret lifted both hands in her defense. “No scheme, miss. I woulda gone farther than Maidstone, but I hadn’t the money. When Mr. Hudson found me at the hiring fair, I didn’t even know which family he worked for. Honest I didn’t.”

  For several ticks of the clock, the two women stared at each other in the looking glass.

  Then Helen seemed to reach some decision. She rose and turned, saying officiously, “Well then . . . Nora. You had better go about your duties, had you not?”

  Knees weak, Margaret bobbed an awkward curtsy. “Yes, miss. Thank you, miss.” She backed from the room, not fully certain what had just transpired. Had Helen Upchurch just agreed to allow her to continue her ruse? Or had she imagined all those telling looks and suspicious questions? She would need to tread carefully and follow Helen’s lead.

  ———

  In the corridor, Fiona grasped her arm none too gently. “In there again? What are you about? Waiting on the mistress is Betty’s job. And if it wasn’t, it’d be mine.”

  “I only went because she asked for me.”

  “And why is that? Because ya pushed yar way in, didn’t ya? Took advantage of Betty bein’ indisposed to wheedle yar way into her place. The mistress would barely know you existed otherwise.”

  If only Margaret had foreseen that. “I only meant to help.”

  “Help yarself, ya mean. You know Betty hopes Miss Helen will bring her up as lady’s maid, official-like. A step toward becoming housekeeper one day.”

  Margaret had not thought of that. She was tempted to point out that Betty had no talent for either hairdressing or making over old gowns, nor any of the other beauty tricks a lady’s maid was supposed to know. But it would be unkind to say so. And—seeing the anger in Fiona’s expression—unwise as well.

  “I know you won’t believe me, but I have no wish to be Miss Upchurch’s personal maid.”

  Fiona snorted. “And why not? Prefer blacking grates, I suppose?”

  “No. It isn’t that. In fact I like dressing her hair, but . . .” How could she verbalize her real objections? I don’t like the way Helen Upchurch stares at me. I think she recognizes me but is toying with me. Besides, Margaret knew many gentlewomen took their personal maids with them on calls, and to house parties, and shopping . . . Margaret had no wish to be out and about and increase her chances of being seen. Recognized. Considering her situation, being an invisible housemaid was better by far.

  “But?” Fiona prompted.

  “You’ll just have to trust me when I tell you that you have nothing to fear from me. I don’t want Betty’s job—yours either.”

  After morning prayers, while the family ate their later breakfast, Margaret went upstairs to clean the brothers’ bedchambers. She hurried, as usual, dreading being caught in the room should Nathaniel come upstairs. Knowing Lewis had returned to London, Margaret had skipped his room yesterday in her hurry to complete her other duties as well as Betty’s. The amiable Connor had left the room in a mess when he’d packed up while the others were off enjoying their half day, and it took her longer than it should have to clean it this morning. She was behind schedule when she hurried into Nathaniel Upchurch’s bedchamber and began her work there.

  Margaret paused in her dusting to inspect a model ship on the dressing chest. This was no child’s toy, but a detailed scale model. A wooden hull, polished and veneered, rigging made of horsehair and silk, masts and spars carved of ivory. How did one dust a ship? She picked up the model in her hands, tipping it back to see the word Ecclesia painted on its side.

  Snap.

  Margaret froze at the sound. The main mast had broken off in her hands, taking a small section of decking with it. She sucked in a breath. “No . . .”

  The door opened behind her, and she whirled around. In her panic, she hid the pieces behind her back like a child caught in yet another misdemeanor.

  Nathaniel Upchurch strode across the room with barely a glance her way. Did he think servants unworthy of his notice?

  He went to his desk, retrieved a book, and tu
rned to go.

  Relief—she was not to be caught after all. Once he had gone, she would sneak the ship up to her room and try to repair it herself. But then might she, or Betty or Fiona, be accused of stealing it? A ship such as this would bring a high price in town. No. She could not do it. Besides, she told herself, she was a woman of four and twenty, not a sneaky seven-year-old.

  “Sir?” she blurted.

  He hesitated at the door, frowning. She supposed he didn’t approve of maids speaking first. “Yes?”

  “I’m afeared I broke yer ship,” she said, laying the accent on thick.

  His gaze swiftly flew to the pieces she now held forth in her hands.

  “I was dustin’ it, sir. I’m dreadful sorry. I shoulda been more careful-like.”

  He strode swiftly across the room, eyes riveted on the ship, lips pulled tight. He did not look at her, yet she saw irritation or something worse sparking in his eyes.

  He tossed the book back onto the desk with such force that it slid off onto the floor. He paid it no heed. He took first the ship from her hand, then the broken mast, assessing the damage and trying to fit the pieces together.

  He murmured to himself, “First the real thing, now this.”

  Guilt pricked and coated her innards with remorse. “I shall have it repaired, shall I? Perhaps someone in town might—”

  “Leave it,” he snapped. Setting the ship on his desk, he turned on his heel and left the room.

  The door slammed behind him, reverberating through her heart. She remembered that look. This feeling. She hated disappointing him yet again.

  With a sigh, she returned to her work. Bending to pick up the fallen book, she glanced at it and saw that it was a volume of poetry. Robert Burns. A corner of some paper, a card perhaps, protruded from between its pages like a child sticking out his tongue. It had likely been jarred loose during the fall. Something about the paper snagged her attention. She wondered what poem Nathaniel Upchurch deemed worthy of marking. She slid her fingernail to the spot near the back of the book and opened the pages to see what it was.

  She stared. Blinked. Felt her brows furrow. Poem forgotten, she turned the rectangle of thick parchment to right the image upon it. Studied it through her spectacles, then again beneath the lenses. Yes . . . It was definitely what she thought it was. An intermingled flush and chill ran over her body.

  How strange that he had kept this small amateur watercolor. She did not recall giving it to him. Did he not know it was by her hand? Perhaps he had stuck it into the volume to mark some place long ago and had completely forgotten about it, and when he found it later did not remember the artist was the very woman who had spurned him, the woman he despised. Surely he would not have kept it had he remembered.

  The painting was one of her better attempts but nothing of any value, monetary or sentimental, surely. It was only a pretty watercolor of Lime Tree Lodge, idealized no doubt, ivy climbing its walls, clematis cascading down its trellis, the garden adrift in honeysuckle blossoms and daffodils, their white cat, Claude, lying across the front steps. The only person in the painting was a young woman in a yellow frock, sitting on a swing at the side of the house, facing away, revealing only a glimpse of profile beneath the white bonnet. She had imagined Caroline as the figure swinging in the side yard, but now that she thought about it, she had owned a yellow frock at some point, whilst Caroline had not.

  She was tempted to keep the painting. It was hers, after all. And how she would love to have this reminder of Lime Tree Lodge. Of better days.

  But she dared not. She could not risk him missing it, and wondering why this old painting by Margaret Macy had gone missing so soon after the arrival of a new housemaid.

  When Nathaniel returned to his room later that evening, he picked up the volume of Burns poetry he’d discarded earlier. From it, he extracted the small watercolor of Lime Tree Lodge—the last thing he had rescued from his burning ship. He wondered why he insisted on torturing himself. Still, he allowed the memory to come.

  ———

  Nathaniel had met the Reverend Mr. Stephen Macy at a debate sponsored by the African Institution. The topic was immediate vs. gradual emancipation after slaves were first educated for freedom.

  There had been several distinguished speakers on both sides of the debate, but Nathaniel found himself most moved by the simple, heartfelt plea of a clergyman from a neighboring county. Mr. Macy called for immediate freedom, declaring souls had no color, and that everyone was equally important to God, whose son died to purchase freedom for all.

  Nathaniel did not agree with everything the man said, but his heart was touched. Looking back now, he realized Mr. Macy had planted a seed in him, which would not come to fruition until after he had lived in Barbados and seen the atrocities of slavery with his own eyes.

  After the debate adjourned, Nathaniel introduced himself to Mr. Macy. The reverend accepted his hand, and even his disagreement, gracefully. In fact, he invited Nathaniel to call on him at his home when next he traveled that way.

  A ride to his uncle Townsend’s took Nathaniel into Sussex later that fall. Nathaniel decided he would take Mr. Macy up on his offer. The village of Summerfield was not large, and by asking the blacksmith, Nathaniel was quickly able to locate Lime Tree Lodge.

  What a picture the cottage made. Two stories of golden stone hung with ivy and capped by a slate roof. Beautiful old trees bordered the property and a stone fence surrounded a garden awash in autumn color.

  Nathaniel sat astride his horse across the lane, partially hidden by a large willow, taking in the scene and wondering whether or not to intrude. A gig and single grey clattered into view and Nathaniel recognized Stephen Macy at the reins. Beside him sat a young woman with fair hair. Adoration lit her face as she laughed at something Mr. Macy said. She kissed his cheek and leapt from the gig before it came to a complete stop. Loping to the tree swing in the side yard, she began swinging with energetic pleasure more youthful than her years. He felt himself smiling, and his heart lighten at the sight.

  A much younger girl and boy ran out from the cottage. The young woman jumped from the swing, landing neatly, and surrendered her seat, pushing first one sibling and then the other.

  Stephen Macy appeared beside Nathaniel’s horse, mouth quirked and amusement in his eyes. “Do you plan to sit there all afternoon and enjoy the view, or are you coming inside?”

  “Ah. Sorry, sir. Wanted to give you time to settle before I knocked.”

  Stephen Macy looked over the stone fence at his three offspring. “That’s my eldest, Margaret. We just returned from parish calls. She’s a treasure, as are my younger children. I am a blessed man.”

  “I see that, sir.”

  Mr. Macy regarded him. “Nathaniel, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My wife is not at home, but do come in and join me for tea.”

  “I don’t wish to intrude.”

  “Not a bit of it. Come. Arthur will see to your horse.”

  A few minutes later they sat down together in a cozy parlor. An elderly housekeeper brought in a tray laden with biscuits and tarts and every good thing.

  The young blond woman stepped into the room and hesitated at seeing him. “I’m sorry, Father. I did not realize you had a guest.”

  “Come join us, my dear. This is Nathaniel Upchurch. Mr. Upchurch, my daughter Margaret.”

  Nathaniel rose and bowed. “Miss Macy.”

  She curtsied. “Mr. Upchurch.”

  At closer range, the young woman looked familiar. Nathaniel said, “I believe I have seen you before, Miss Macy. In London, during the season?”

  “Have you?” Self-conscious, she touched her windblown hair and dipped her unpowdered face. “I am surprised you recognize me; I must look a fright.”

  “Not at all.”

  Her face was still rosy from the carriage ride and exertion of the swing. In his view, this Margaret Macy was far more appealing than the powdered, perfectly coiffed lady of th
e ballroom. She looked unaffected, spirited, and breathtakingly beautiful. Had her father not been in the room he likely would have said so.

  Margaret joined the men for tea, sitting ramrod straight and clearly uncomfortable. But her father’s teasing soon cajoled her into laughing at herself and at him. Then he went to work on Nathaniel, regaling his daughter with an exaggerated account of catching Nathaniel “spying” over their garden wall.

  Nathaniel could not remember when he had enjoyed a visit more. By the time he departed charming Lime Tree Lodge a few hours later, he had determined to stay in contact with Mr. Macy. And to court his beautiful daughter.

  After Easter the following spring, Nathaniel and Helen packed up and moved to London for the social season. They believed their brother Lewis would not be joining them that year. He had sailed to the West Indies at their father’s behest the previous summer. James Upchurch found it expedient to live in Barbados the majority of the time for the management of his affairs. He had summoned his elder son to join him there, hoping to detach him from unsavory connections at home.

  At the first ball of the new season, Nathaniel saw Miss Macy and immediately requested a dance. She happily agreed, and the two began a courtship that lasted for many weeks. She seemed to enjoy his company, allowed him to escort her in to supper, and received him with pleasure when he paid the requisite call the next morning. All seemed to be going swimmingly.

  But then Lewis returned.

  ———

  Nathaniel slid the watercolor back into the book and closed it with a snap. He had no wish to think about what had happened after that.

  In 1770, a British law was proposed to

  Parliament granting grounds for annulment if a

  bride used cosmetics prior to her wedding day.

  —Marjorie Dorfman, “The History of Make-up”

  Chapter 14

  In Helen Upchurch’s room a few days later, Margaret lifted the lid from a partially used jar of cold cream pomatum and inspected its contents. The cream had an unusual greyish cast. She took a tentative sniff and jerked her head back. Rancid. How long had it been since Helen had any new cosmetics? No wonder she used the soap made right there in the Fairbourne Hall stillroom, drying to a lady’s complexion though it was.