“Mrs. Budgeon sent me to the chandler’s this afternoon. How surprised I was to find Betty’s chatelaine gone.” Fiona advanced into the room, expression menacing. “And who bought it, I ask Mr. Johnston. And what does he tell me? A housemaid with spectacles and a great deal of dark hair.”
Fiona’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Ya know how much it means to her. How dare ya buy Betty’s chatelaine for yarself?”
“She didn’t.”
Both women turned. Betty stood in the threshold, cradling the chatelaine in both hands.
“She bought it for me.”
Margaret had slipped into Betty’s room that morning and left it on her bedside table, wrapped in tissue.
Betty’s eyes glistened with tears and fastened on Margaret. “Thank you. I shall pay you back when I can.”
Margaret shook her head. “You needn’t. It was the least I could do. I hope it makes up for the trouble I’ve caused you.”
Betty winked, a tear spilling over her round cheek. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
Margaret smiled. The surprise and joy on Betty’s face eased her pain over the loss of her cameo. For the moment, at least.
Several mornings later, Fiona knocked on her door. Actually knocked. When Margaret opened the door to her, the maid stepped inside and thrust something into her hands.
“What’s this?” Margaret asked, unfolding a stiff white garment.
“Short stays what lace up the front. You can get them on and off yarself.”
Margaret pulled her gaze from material to maid. “You made this for me?”
Fiona grimaced. “It isn’t a gift, now is it? Those fancy stays of yars aren’t suitable for a working girl. And it isn’t fair to Betty, always having to be dressing ya morning and night. This—”
“I agree,” Margaret interrupted. “Is this the sort you and Betty wear?”
“It is. And if it’s good enough for the rest of us, it’s good enough for you.”
Margaret smiled. “More than good enough, Fiona. Why, I have rarely seen such fine stitching.”
Fiona winced and fidgeted. “Go on, that’s going it a bit brown. You’d think I’d given ya silk drawers or somethin’.” She gestured with both hands. “Now, let’s see how it fits.”
Over her shift, Margaret slipped her hands through each armhole of the short stays, which were rather like a man’s waistcoat, though not as long. The stays were made of sturdy corded cotton with gussets, four or five pair of holes up the front, and even a few embroidered embellishments. Margaret pulled the two sides together over her bosom, effectively lifting and supporting her breasts.
“Now take that string there,” Fiona said, “and go back and forth between those holes, like ya was sewing.”
Margaret did as instructed, then tied the string.
Fiona surveyed her work. “Fits ya rather well, if I do say so myself.”
“It does indeed. Thank you again.”
“Mind you, I only did it so ya might dress yarself from now on.”
Apparently, the Irishwoman would rather die than to be thought doing Nora a favor. Margaret grinned. “Still, I appreciate it. You might simply have told me to make one myself.”
Fiona tilted her head to one side. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”
But Margaret thought she saw the faintest glimmer of humor in Fiona’s green eyes.
This hand is surely far too fine,
This foot so dainty and small.
The manner of speaking which I have,
My waist, my bustle,
These would never be found
On a lady’s maid!
—André Rieu, “Mein Herr Marquis”
Chapter 15
Horse hooves. The jingle of harnesses. High in the attic, Margaret heard them only distantly.
On that drizzly mid-September afternoon, Margaret had been assigned to clean out the old schoolroom, now used for storage. Beneath the window, pails caught drips from the leaking ceiling. Along the far wall, several trunks lay in a neat row like coffins. In one of these she had found space to stack the primers, slates, and maps which had been left in a dusty, moldering pile in the chimney corner. In another trunk, she found layer upon layer of old ball gowns a decade out of fashion. From Miss Helen’s coming-out days, she guessed.
Mrs. Budgeon had also instructed her to clean out the fireplace and flue after years of disuse. Why now? Margaret had wondered but managed to bite her tongue. Apparently the housekeeper wanted to make sure the new maid didn’t begin to think too highly of herself.
Margaret was attempting to clean the flue with, yes, the flue brush. She was foolishly proud of herself for identifying the correct tool. Vaguely she heard the sounds of hurrying feet and the ringing of bells but, concentrating on her task, paid them little heed.
The angle for cleaning the flue was awkward. Kneeling before the grate, Margaret leaned in, her head inside the fireplace. For a fleeting second, she thought it fortunate she wore a dark wig, for if she was not careful her hair would be black soon enough. With that thought, she pulled the white cap from her wig and tossed it out of range, not wanting to spoil it. Margaret scraped the inside of the flue with her brush, dislodging a wad of sooty buildup and a cloud of dust. She coughed and squeezed her eyes shut, wondering what coal dust did to one’s lungs and vision. She scraped again.
The door behind her burst open and Margaret started, hitting her head on the lintel.
She lowered her head and saw Betty run in, gesturing frantically. “Here you are!” She huffed. “Did you not hear the bells?”
Margaret checked her wig with a black-streaked hand as she backed from the fireplace. “Not really. Not with my head up the chimney. Why?”
“It’s a call to assembly. In the main hall.” Betty surveyed Margaret’s face, wincing. “You’ve got soot on your spectacles. Your face too. But there’s no time. Everyone else is down there already.” She bent and extracted a clean cloth from the housemaid’s box nearby and handed it to Margaret. “Here.”
Taking it, Margaret rose from stinging knees and wiped her hands. “Assembly for what?” she asked. “We’ve already had prayers.”
“Someone’s come, and we’re to assemble immediately. That’s all I know. But that’s ten minutes ago now.”
She poked a hand into Margaret’s back and turned her toward the door. “Let’s go!”
Dropping the cloth, Margaret bent quickly and retrieved her cap, settling it back on her wig. “All right?” She angled her face toward Betty as they hurried to the stairway.
Betty grimaced. “Here, take my handkerchief and wipe your spectacles at least.”
“But that’s your best handkerchief.”
“Go on, we haven’t time to argue.”
Margaret removed her glasses, polishing the lenses as she clambered down the attic stairs, almost tripping and missing a step.
“Better?” she asked, slipping the spectacles on once more.
Betty glanced at her and sighed. “It’ll have to do. Stay in the back.”
They reached the next floor. When Margaret would have continued down the back stairs to the ground floor, Betty pulled her by the wrist past the family bedchambers toward the main stairway the servants were not to use—except when sweeping and polishing. Margaret wondered why but did not argue.
Then she saw. The staff had gathered in the hall below—outdoor servants and estate workers as well. Gamekeeper, carpenter, grooms, stable boys, gardeners, and others she did not know stood on one side of the hall floor. Behind them stood the laundry maids, the hen woman, the spider brusher, and the dairy maid. When the floor had become too crowded, other servants had lined up in rows behind them on the wide steps, filling the stairs past the first landing. Monsieur Fournier, Hester, the kitchen maids, and scullery maid. Behind them Fiona, the footmen, and hall boy. The estate workers were not obligated to attend morning prayers at Fairbourne Hall, so Margaret had never seen the entire staff assembled before.
Marga
ret followed Betty down the steps, hoping to join the crowd as quietly and unobtrusively as possible. She found herself ducking her head, as though that would make her invisible or draw less attention to her soiled self.
Margaret stopped on the stair behind the blond second footman. Betty stood beside her.
“What’s happening, Craig?” Betty whispered.
He shrugged.
Margaret looked down past the waiting flock of servants to the four people standing on the other side of the hall facing them. Standing a little apart from the men, Mrs. Budgeon surveyed the group, as though mentally counting their ranks. Appearing satisfied, she turned to the three men—Mr. Hudson, Nathaniel Upchurch, and . . .
Margaret froze. Sterling Benton. Here. Now. Standing for all intents and purposes in the same room with her. Her heart rate accelerated, thudding hard.
Sterling made an impressive and commanding presence with his silver hair, deep blue frock coat, and ebony walking stick. His hat was carefully held by the under butler, but he had not surrendered his coat. Hopefully that meant he did not intend to stay long.
Mr. Hudson said something to Nathaniel. Nathaniel nodded and took a half step forward, facing them squarely and clearing his throat.
“Good afternoon, everyone. This gentleman is Mr. Sterling Benton of London. I will let him tell you why he is here and ask that you give him your full attention.”
Sterling stepped forward, turning something in his hands.
“I am here today because my stepdaughter has been missing for nearly a month. My dear wife, her mother, is beside herself, as you can well imagine.”
Margaret could hardly breathe.
“I don’t know why she left. She did have a bit of a . . . lover’s quarrel . . . with her intended, and may have flown in a fit of pique. She is an impulsive girl, I admit. But whatever the reason, I want to find her and return her safely to her mother, and to her repentant future husband. All will be forgiven. We simply want her home.”
He lifted the object in his hands. A miniature portrait. “This is her likeness, painted several years ago. I would like you to pass it one person to the next, so each may see it. Her name is Margaret Macy. She is four and twenty years old. If any of you have seen her, please speak up. Or, if anyone sees her after I leave, tell the steward here and he promises to send word directly.”
Margaret’s ears buzzed; her chest, neck, and face felt hot and sticky. While each person looked at the portrait, then passed it on, Sterling Benton looked closely at him or her. Looking for a reaction, or for her?
The minutes felt like painful hours standing on broken glass. Fearing she might faint, Margaret forced herself to breathe deeply, barely resisting the urge to pant, or duck down, or flee.
Finally the portrait reached the row ahead of them. Craig looked at it quickly, shook his head, and passed it up to Betty. Betty glanced at it, hesitated, looked again, then handed it to Margaret. Margaret swallowed. How strange to see her former image while in her current circumstances. How young the girl in the portrait looked, light yellow hair curled and piled high around her face, fair brows above proud blue eyes, pale cheeks, and pink lips. It didn’t seem like her. Not anymore.
“Do you recognize her?” Sterling Benton called up.
Too late, Margaret realized she had held on to the portrait too long and had drawn attention to herself. She quickly handed it back to Betty with a shake of her head. She dug an elbow into Betty’s side.
“Uh no, sir,” Betty answered for her. “Sorry, sir. She’s a pretty thing though.”
Mrs. Budgeon called up, “Mr. Benton did not ask for an assessment of her beauty, Betty, but thank you.”
The portrait made its way back down more rapidly, passed from hand to hand. Mrs. Budgeon gave it to Mr. Hudson, who glanced at it, looked again, and then murmured, “Betty is correct.”
He passed it to Nathaniel Upchurch, who returned it to Sterling Benton without a glance.
Sterling looked around the hall once more before pinning Nathaniel with a look. “And where is your good sister?”
Nathaniel said evenly, “My sister is not much out in society these days, so it is highly unlikely she would have come across Mar . . . your stepdaughter.”
Sterling gave a thin smile. “Still, she is a woman, and women can be so much more discerning than men, I find. Don’t you?”
Nathaniel stared at the man. Without looking away from him, he said crisply, “Mrs. Budgeon, would you please send for Miss Upchurch?”
“Yes, sir.”
But Mrs. Budgeon, looking up at the crowd blocking the stairs, speared Margaret with a look and commanded, “Nora, please ask your mistress to join us.”
Margaret did not move, the words barely registering in her frozen brain. It was Betty’s turn to elbow her. Coming to life, Nora turned and hurried up the stairs, feeling a pair of eyes scorching her back.
She all but ran down the corridor and into Helen’s room without knocking. She rushed straight to the washstand. “Your presence is requested in the hall, miss.”
Miss Upchurch looked up expectantly from her writing desk, her brow furrowed. “Oh? Why?”
With nervous energy, Margaret washed her hands, then retrieved the new fichu from a drawer. “A man has come,” she said, barely managing an accent. “A Mr. Benton.”
Helen cast her a quick look. “Sterling Benton?”
Margaret nodded, arranging the fichu around Helen’s shoulders and tucking it into the neckline of her gold day dress.
“What does he want?”
Margaret swallowed. “Says his stepdaughter has gone missing. And he’s showing her miniature and asking if anyone has seen her.”
“And did anyone recognize . . . the woman in the portrait?”
Margaret repinned a lock of hair that had come loose from Helen’s twist. “Only Mr. Upchurch, I think.”
“Why does Mr. Benton ask for me?”
“I don’t know, miss. To ask if you’ve seen the girl, I suppose.”
For a moment the two women looked at one another face-to-face and eye-to-eye.
Helen asked soberly, “And have I?”
Margaret pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Her throat went dry. She whispered, “That’s for you to say.”
Helen cocked her head to one side. “But?”
In the silence, the mantel clock ticked.
Hoping to give her a way out, Margaret stammered, “But . . . your brother did tell him that, your seeing . . . her . . . was highly unlikely. You not being out much in society.”
Helen frowned. “Be that as it may, I have eyes, have I not?”
Margaret lowered her gaze. “Yes, miss.”
She had said the wrong thing. Now what would Helen say?
———
Margaret followed Helen back to the stairway, staying a few yards behind her, matching her stately pace. She was reluctant to return to the hall, her every nerve pulsing a warning—Turn around, run, flee!
Instead she put one foot in front of the other and followed her mistress. Would Helen expose her? What would happen if she did? She would lose her place to live, her dignity, her freedom. Would she be forced to leave with Sterling? She had nowhere else to go.
The people on the stairs parted like the Red Sea to allow their mistress to pass between them.
Margaret resumed her place beside Betty.
“Ah, Miss Upchurch.” Sterling Benton beamed his icy, enigmatic smile. “How good of you to join us. A pleasure to see you again, even though one would wish for happier circumstances.”
“Mr. Benton.”
He handed her the portrait. “You may recall my stepdaughter, Margaret Macy?”
Helen regarded the framed image. “I recall Miss Macy, though of course she was not your stepdaughter when last I saw her in London. She was the daughter of Mr. Stephen Macy, an exceptional gentleman and clergyman, gone from this world too soon.”
Margaret’s heart squeezed to hear the words. She had
not realized Helen had more than a passing acquaintance with her father.
Mr. Benton’s mouth tightened fractionally. “How kind of you to say.”
Helen inclined her head.
“You have heard, I trust, that Margaret has gone missing?”
“I did. Mr. Saxby brought the news from town a few weeks ago. Do you fear some harm has befallen her?”
“I pray not. That is why I am doing everything in my power to find her.”
“Is it?” she asked archly.
Careful, Miss Helen . . . Margaret thought, worried Miss Upchurch might unintentionally tip her hand.
“Did she leave alone?” Helen asked.
“As far as I know, though she may have taken her maid with her.”
“The maid is missing too?”
He shifted his feet. “She was dismissed from our employ the day Margaret disappeared.”
“May I ask why you are so concerned? The Margaret Macy I remember was young and foolish. Impulsive even.”
Margaret winced. Ouch . . .
“I hope you take no offense, Mr. Benton?”
“Not at all.”
Nathaniel Upchurch cleared his throat, perhaps aware of the listening ears of many fidgeting servants. He said, “Why do we not continue this discussion in the library. In private?”
Mrs. Budgeon and Mr. Hudson exchanged relieved looks. As Mr. Hudson dismissed the staff to return to their duties, Margaret felt similar relief but also dread, wondering what would be said about her when she was not there to hear.
In the library, Nathaniel leaned against the desk, arms crossed. His brain pounded painfully with Benton’s words “her repentant future husband . . . future husband . . .”
Helen took a seat and gestured for Benton to do the same, but he refused her offer and continued to stand.
Helen asked, “So how do you know Margaret hasn’t simply gone off on a lark? A shopping trip or a visit with friends?”
Benton pulled a face. “For nearly a month?”
“Surely she had the means,” Helen said. “A girl like that always has a good deal of money in her purse, has she not?”
Benton looked away. “Actually she did not. We were . . . forced to stop any allowance to her. Her expenditures had become exorbitant.”