The Maid of Fairbourne Hall Page 6

  She turned to the door and yanked it open. “I shall return directly.” Without awaiting a reply, Margaret drummed down the stairs. She was halfway to street level before the second thought followed. . . . It had been in the midst of just such a good deed that her father had been killed.

  Reaching the front door, she cracked it open. The driver still had his head and shoulders inside the carriage, and she could see that he was repositioning a pillow under a man’s bandaged head. A pillow was not going to help either of them if they did not get out of there in the next few seconds!

  She peered around the edge of the door. The large man had paused down the street, bending to remove something from his boot. A knife? His thin crony cinched up his baggy breeches as the third man yawned and sized up the unguarded coach. Margaret wondered why the travelers had neither guard nor groom.

  She inched open the tenement door a bit farther, glad that it acted as a shield between her and the approaching cutthroats.

  Dredging up her best imitation of Nanny Booker, she called sharply, “You there. Best drive off . . . and sharp-like.”

  The driver swiveled around to frown at her. “What do you want?”

  Only then did she see that one of his hands was bandaged. She pointed beyond the open door. “Are ya blind? Get out of ’ere. Go.”

  The man looked in the direction she’d pointed and the skin around his eyes tightened. His mouth followed suit.

  “Hold on,” he urged the man inside. He slammed the coach door and leapt back up into the coachman’s seat far more adroitly than he’d climbed down. He slapped the reins, yelled a command, and snapped the whip in the air. The horses tossed their heads, whinnied and pulled, and the coach began to move away. Too slowly.

  She braved one more glance around the door. The black-haired man was running up the lane. He shouted, “Let’s get ’em, lads!”

  His cronies followed more cautiously.

  In a flash she gauged the hulk’s gait against the coach’s slowly increasing speed. Not accelerating quickly enough. Looking up, she saw the driver glance back, his face grim.

  She heard the pounding of the boots just beyond the door she held slightly ajar. At the last moment, she shoved the door wide open with all her strength.

  Slam. Umph. The heavy wooden door reverberated violently and came slamming toward her. She leapt back. The door smacked her shoulder, barely missing her face. She heard a shout, a thud-slap, as knees and limbs hit the cobbles, followed by a sharp curse.

  The door hit the jamb and bounced outward. Through the opening, a pair of black eyes locked on hers. She snagged the latch and pulled the door closed. Hands shaking, she slid the bar home.

  Margaret bolted up the stairs as fast as her feet could carry her. She tripped at the first landing and felt her stocking tear. Her ankle and knee screamed complaint as she rounded the first newel-post and shot up the second pair of stairs. Below, the bar splintered and the door crashed open. Footfalls, threats, and curses gained on her as she hoofed it up the remaining stairs and down the passage. She ran into number 23 and shut and barred the door behind her, hoping the men had not seen which of the many doors she had disappeared into.

  “What is it?” Joan asked.

  “Shh.” Trembling all over, Margaret picked up a cumbersome oak chair and propped it against the door.

  Peg asked, “Is it those ruffians?”

  Margaret nodded.

  Peg’s eyes grew wide, and she wrapped a protective arm around the child nearest her.

  Running footsteps raced past their door.

  The women looked from one to the other as they waited, listening.

  The footsteps clomped back, more slowly. A man shouted, “I’ll find you. And when I do, I’ll kill you.”

  That night, Margaret shared the narrow pallet bed with Peg’s son. She didn’t sleep well. She was reminded of the days Gilbert would climb into her bed for a story, fall asleep, and then rob all the bedclothes.

  In the morning, Margaret sat at the small table with Peg’s family, sharing a meager breakfast and strained silence. Even the children were unnaturally quiet. From across the table, sisters Joan and Peg exchanged a pained, meaningful look, which Margaret had no trouble interpreting. She had worn out her welcome already.

  She opened her mouth, but Joan beat her to it. “I am afraid, mi—Nora. That after last night, it would be best if you took your leave. If those men see you and figure out whose place . . .”

  Margaret nodded, though fear ran through her veins. “I understand.”

  “And as soon as possible,” Peg added. “While that lot is still sleeping it off.”

  “I know you meant well,” Joan allowed. “But I can’t have you bringin’ danger to my sister’s door.”

  Again Margaret nodded and woodenly repeated, “I understand.” She rose, her legs weak and trembling. Where was she to go? And what if those men were out there right now, lying in wait?

  She plucked her Oldenburg bonnet from the peg near the door, and tied it securely under her chin. She picked up her bag and bid farewell to each of the children and pressed one of her few coins into Peg’s palm. “For your hospitality,” she murmured and opened the door.

  “Wait,” Joan called after her. “I’m going with you.”

  Peg began to protest, but Joan insisted she needed to find work. “There aren’t any positions hereabouts anyway.”

  Margaret swallowed a bitter pill of pride and humbling gratitude. She guessed Joan was making excuses. But Margaret was not brave enough to insist Joan remain, to bluster that she would be fine on her own. She would not be. And after the near-miss with those men, she was frightened of venturing out alone.

  “Very well,” Margaret said, the words thank you sticking in her throat.

  Joan embraced her niece and nephews, and quietly warned Peg not to say anything about them being there. Peg no doubt believed the warning due to the three would-be thieves alone.

  Taking valise and carpetbag in hand once more, Joan and Margaret went quietly downstairs. They peered from behind the splintered door, and seeing no one about, stepped outside. They walked quickly down Fish Street Hill, turning from the lane as soon as possible to avoid being seen by any early riser glancing from his window.

  Once they were several blocks away, Joan moderated their pace, leading the way toward the Thames and across London Bridge. The wide river teemed with boats—fishing boats moored midriver or docked to unload the morning’s catch—while sailing vessels of every size slipped between them.

  On the other side of the bridge, they passed the Southwark Cathedral before turning left into the Borough High Street. There, Margaret glimpsed a three-story galleried coaching inn. Joan explained that many stagecoaches as well as a Royal Mail coach departed from The George each day.

  From behind the railing of the first gallery above, a swarthy porter carried a bolt of fabric over one shoulder, and a well-dressed gentleman smiled down at them and tipped his hat. On the upper gallery, a woman in a low-cut nightdress blew kisses to a sailor trotting down the outer stairs.

  The inn’s courtyard swarmed with activity. Dogs barked. Horses snorted and pranced in their braces. A large stagecoach with red wheels prepared to depart. Hostellers checked the horses’ harnesses. An official-looking man in red greatcoat and top hat opened the coach door and handed in a matron and her young charge. Once the door was closed, a brawny dark-skinned man strapped barrels to the side of the carriage.

  The body of the yellow stagecoach was emblazoned with its final destination in bold and stopping points along the way in smaller lettering. Four passengers sat on its roof, and another shared the coachman’s bench. The guard climbed to his position at the rear and blew his long horn.

  Joan led Margaret to the front of the clapboard inn, to a protruding half-circle structure with the words Coach Office painted above its sash window. Boards listing routes and departure times lined its outer walls.

  “Where to, miss?” Joan asked, studying the bo
ards.

  Margaret frowned in thought. “I don’t know . . .”

  “How much money do you have?”

  Margaret recounted the coins in her reticule, bit her lip, and pronounced the paltry sum.

  Joan stepped to the office window and addressed the booking clerk within.

  “Hello. There are two of us traveling together.” She laid the coins before him. “How far can we go?”

  The clerk stared at her a moment without speaking. Margaret noticed one of his eyes was milky white. With no change of expression, he drew a chalk circle on a map on the counter. Margaret glanced over Joan’s shoulder at the circle of modest diameter around London. Not very far at all.

  “Stage rates are tuppence to four pence per double mile. Royal Mail is faster, but costs a bit more, and don’t leave till tonight.”

  Joan said, “We prefer to get out of . . . that is, to be on our way as soon as possible.”

  He turned his milky gaze from Joan to Margaret. “The Northampton line will take you as far as Dunstable for a crown—if you take an outside seat, which is cheaper. It leaves in twenty minutes. Or, the Maidstone Times leaves in thirty.”

  Joan glanced at her. “Which shall it be, miss? North or south?”

  Margaret thought quickly. Her old home, the village of Summerfield, lay to the south, though outside the chalk circle. Would Sterling look for her there? “South, I think.” She hesitated. “Unless you prefer north?”

  “Maidstone has a hiring fair, I understand,” Joan said. “So that would suit me.” She lowered her voice. “But remember, it’s you what has to get out of town. Once we are safely out of London, you shall go your way and I mine. Understand?”

  Margaret felt chastened by the cutting words of her once-docile maid. But she nodded without retort. She needed Joan too much to risk complaining.

  Joan turned back to the man. “Two for Maidstone, please.”

  He took the money, gave them their change, and directed them inside. “Marsh is the coachman you want.”

  They would go south. Not as far as Summerfield, but as far as their meager coin would take them.

  Half an hour later, Margaret found herself, for the first time in her life, sitting on a bench atop the roof of a stagecoach, in an outside seat no less. She gripped the metal handrail so hard her knuckles ached, and they had yet to set off. In front of her, the coachman sat at the ready in his many-caped coat and top hat. Beside her sat a soldier, Joan on his other side.

  The soldier turned his cheek toward first Joan, then Margaret, pointing out a long scar. “See that. Not from the war, no. From being struck by a coachman’s wild whip.”

  Margaret swallowed and inched back on her perch as far as the low leather backrest and the baggage behind would allow.

  When the guard had assisted the last passenger, he climbed up to his box at the rear and blew his yard of tin—first the “start,” then the “clear the road,” signal. Margaret cringed. The horn had never seemed so loud from inside a coach.

  The coachman called to his horses, “Get on lads. Walk on.”

  Soon, they were trotting down Southwark streets, gaining speed as they left the metropolis behind. The roads worsened, but this seemed no deterrent to the coachman, snapping his whip and urging his horses faster. Margaret sent up a prayer and held on tight. The careening coach rocked to and fro over the rutted road, and Margaret feared she would lose what little breakfast she had eaten. A man’s hat flew off, and the gusting wind pulled at her bonnet and wig. She could not imagine how the wind must bite and torture in winter. She risked loosing her handhold only long enough to tie the ribbons tighter before gripping the rail once more. At every turn, the coach pitched and the soldier’s body pressed against her side. He needed a bath.

  The stage stopped to pay tolls at several tollgates. The polite soldier leaned near and said, “I prefer traveling by Royal Mail when I can. They don’t have to stop and pay tolls.”

  Margaret nodded her understanding but did not mind the brief stops. They gave her a few moments to rub her aching hand and check her wig and spectacles. Joan, she noticed, bore the journey without complaint.

  Margaret leaned forward, mustered a smile, and said to her, “Could be worse. At least it is not raining.”

  Maids attending [hiring] fairs carried distinctive

  insignia to indicate their particular skills. Cooks,

  for instance, wore a red ribbon and carried a basting

  spoon, while housemaids wore blue and held a broom.

  —Pamela Horn, introduction to The Complete Servant

  Chapter 5

  Several hours later, the stagecoach approached Maidstone, the county town of Kent, passing hop fields and cherry orchards as it neared. From across the river Medway, Margaret saw many stone and timber-framed buildings, paper mills, and an impressive church with great arched windows and a castle-like tower.

  The stage rattled over the bridge, and Margaret spied a boat moored along the riverbank and grain sacks being unloaded onto a wagon. The horses then trotted down a street lined with shops, a bluecoat school, and inns. Margaret read the signs as they passed: Gegan, Carver & Gilder, Miss Sarah Stranger, Ladies’ Boarding and Day School, The Queen’s Arms.

  The guard played “home” on his horn and the coach halted before the red brick Star Hotel. Hostellers rushed out to tend the horses, and the guard hopped from his perch. Taking his offered hand, Margaret climbed gingerly from the roof, knuckles aching, legs shaking. The soldier handed down the carpetbag and Joan’s valise, then hopped down himself, tipped his hat, and wished them well.

  Margaret looked around. Maidstone. Only thirty-five or forty miles from London. Not far enough away to Margaret’s way of thinking. And why did the town’s name ring a distant bell in her mind? She had never been there before, and she didn’t think she had any family nearby. If only she did have some kind relative, whom Sterling would not think to search down, who might take her in and hide her away. But she could think of no one.

  Margaret adjusted her windblown bonnet and glanced at Joan. “What is the plan?”

  “My plan is to find work,” Joan said flatly. “I’d advise you to do the same.”

  Inwardly Margaret cringed. She would have to find some way to pay for lodgings, but she had no idea what sort of work she was equipped to do, unless one counted ornamental needlework. She had been an only child until Caroline and then Gilbert came along years later, and her father had treated her more as a prized son than a housebound female.

  The second son of wealthy parents, Stephen Macy had gone into the church after his elder brother inherited the estate. He had raised Margaret to enjoy everything he did—well-bred horses and well-trained dogs, serious discussions, and helping people in need. Her mother had drawn the line at cigars. While at girls’ seminary, Margaret had learned to enjoy a few typically feminine pursuits, like watercolors and fashion. But when she was home, her father continued to take her riding and on parish calls. But no one would pay her to paint or ride, she guessed, nor to visit the sick with food baskets.

  At the thought of food her stomach growled. How Margaret wished she might walk into the Star Hotel, pay for a meal and room, and sleep for days. She sighed. “I suppose finding work is the only option.”

  Joan pointed down the busy street. “I’m guessing the hiring fair lies in that direction.” Joan turned and walked away.

  Margaret matched the maid’s brisk stride as they followed the flow of the crowd. In the midst of the wide, cobbled High Street, a cupola-topped town hall stood like an island between two rows of facing storefronts. The open marketplace between was filled with milling shoppers, stalls and carts of every description, and noisy fishmongers and hawkers touting the superiority of their goods and services.

  “White turnips and fine carrots, ho!” chanted a lad, his donkey laden with baskets on each side.

  A man straddled a grinding wheel. “I’ll grind your knives for three ha’pence a blade. Knives and scissors to grind
, oh!”

  The shops on the High Street had opened wide their doors, merchandise spilling forth to add to the color and variety of the marketplace. A baker’s shop brought out baskets of aromatic golden buns, spicy-sweet gingerbread, and loaves of every description.

  The window of Betts’, the butchers, displayed hanging geese, hogs, and sausages. An aproned lad stood out front, selling meat pies to passersby.

  The front of the chandler’s shop was lined with crates of cabbages, gooseberries, and early apples.

  Margaret’s stomach growled again.

  Her head swiveling from side to side to take it all in, Margaret nearly collided with a man with a barrel on his shoulder, begged his pardon, and realized she had become separated from her maid. She quickened her pace.

  At the top end of the High Street, she once again caught up with Joan, who gave her the merest glance and pointed to an open area ahead, cordoned off by ropes hung between barrels. Several people stood within. Two ginger-haired girls leaned against broom handles, talking together and giggling behind their hands. An older woman stood stiffly, a red ribbon pinned to her bosom and carrying a spoon, staring stoically ahead. An old man sat on one of the upturned barrels, whittling. Beside him on the ground sat a scrawny lad of no more than eight or nine, in need of a haircut and a good meal.

  “What are they doing?” Margaret whispered.

  “Waiting to be hired. Have you never seen a hiring fair before?”

  Margaret shook her head. The scene vaguely reminded her of the slave markets she had read about in abolitionist pamphlets. She said, “I thought you would search the newspaper advertisements, or . . . I don’t know, knock at the doors of fine houses and ask if they need another maid.”

  “At every door in town? Not terribly effective. And have you money for a newspaper?”