When Margaret went to Miss Upchurch’s room to dress her hair the next morning, Helen said, “I must ask you to hurry today, Nora. I’m meeting with Mr. Hudson before prayers to finalize arrangements for the ball.”
Margaret nodded. Gathering the brush and pins, she said, “Would you ever consider inviting the staff of another house to join us?”
Helen looked at her in the mirror. “I had not thought of it. Why?”
Margaret began brushing Helen’s hair. “I met a housemaid from Hayfield when I went to Weavering Street, and she mentioned the house has been in mourning and the servants haven’t had any privileges or entertainments for over a year.”
Helen pursued her lip, considering. “I like the idea. I shall see what Mr. Hudson thinks.”
Margaret bit back a smile. “You have been spending a great deal of time with Mr. Hudson of late.”
“Do you think so? It is only that there are so many details to attend to.”
Is that all? Margaret wondered. “Perhaps a little rouge today, Miss Helen?”
“I’m not sure there’s time.”
Margaret traded hair brush for cosmetic brush. “Won’t take a moment.”
“Oh . . . very well. Why not.”
Margaret deftly brushed subtle color to Helen’s cheeks and dabbed just a smidge of lip rouge to her mouth. The old rouge pot was nearly empty, she noticed. She would soon need to make more. She switched to fine talcum powder and dusted Helen’s nose, chin, and cheeks.
Helen said wryly, “You are skilled in altering a lady’s appearance, I see. You handle that brush like an artist.”
Margaret shrugged, eyes focused on Helen’s cheek. “It is very like painting, actually.”
“Do you enjoy painting?”
“I did, yes. Though I haven’t done so in ages.”
Margaret gathered Helen’s hair and began to pin it up. “Miss Upchurch, I wonder. Do you remember that trunk of old gowns and things I found when I cleaned the schoolroom?”
“Yes?”
“If you haven’t use for them, would you mind allowing the maids to wear them? For the servants’ ball, I mean. Perhaps I could make over a few of them for the girls who haven’t a stitch beyond their everyday frock to wear.”
“That would be very kind of you, Nora. I am surprised you want to.”
“I would enjoy it very much.”
“Very well. Only don’t fail in your other work. We don’t want Mrs. Budgeon to find reason to dismiss you.” Helen’s eyes twinkled, and Margaret grinned in return.
Margaret found it funny and perplexing that Helen Upchurch still carried on the pretense, addressing her as the maid Nora, while at other times it seemed clear she knew who she really was. Was it merely a game to her or was it to keep her from becoming confused—from calling her Margaret or Miss Macy at an inopportune moment? Or was she enjoying treating her as a subservient? Margaret sensed no malice in the woman’s demeanor, but there was still that reserve, that caution in her aspect, that made Margaret realize she not yet passed whatever test Nathaniel Upchurch’s sister was giving her.
With Mrs. Budgeon’s approval, Margaret asked several of the maids to join her in Miss Nash’s room late one afternoon when their duties were done. She had one gown hanging on the dress form, two laid out on the bed, and two others spread on the worktable. She had in mind which gown would suit each woman but wanted to give them a choice in the matter.
Hester and kitchen maids Jenny and Hannah bustled in first, all giggles and eagerness, while Betty and Fiona held back, lingering in the threshold.
Hester made a beeline for one of the gowns on the bed—a sheer overgown with a silk chemise beneath, both embroidered in a lily-of-the-valley motif.
“It’s gorgeous!” she enthused, holding the gown up in front of herself. It was immediately evident that the slender-cut chemise would not accommodate Hester’s generous proportions. Her cheerful face fell.
Margaret hurried to one of the gowns on the worktable—a full-skirted cream-colored gown to which Margaret had added side and back panels of blue, trimmed with ribbon embroidery in cream to match the original fabric. “Hester, I thought this one, with its blues and creams, would look so well with your perfect complexion.”
“Do you think so?” Hester handed the first gown to slim Hannah and took the second from Margaret, holding it to her shoulders and looking down at the ribbon trim at neckline and bodice.
Margaret said, “Let’s try it on, shall we?”
She helped Hester off with her everyday frock and into the made-over ball gown. The material slid over Hester’s ample bosom and hips easily. Margaret pinched an inch of loose material at the high waist. “Why, it’s a tad big, Hester. I shall have to take it in for you.”
Hester beamed.
“You look a picture, Hester,” Jenny breathed.
“Indeed she does,” Betty said. “What a pity Connor is away in London. Why, if he saw you in that gown, he shouldn’t be able to take his eyes off you.”
Hester blushed prettily.
Margaret noticed that Fiona had disappeared from the doorway. She tried not to let it hurt her but could not quite ignore the sting of disappointment. Her offering—rejected. She forced a smile and helped Betty into a garden frock of pale green satin with capped sleeves and a hem embellished with gold fringe. The soft green flattered Betty’s coloring and dark red hair.
Fiona reappeared in the doorway several minutes later, wearing a gown of white gauze over an underslip of pink silk. “Might this do?”
Margaret stared. “Why, Fiona, it’s beautiful.”
The others stared as well, mouths ajar.
Fiona asked, “Ya don’t think I’ll look out of place—silk purse from a sow’s ear and all that?”
Hannah and Jenny shook their heads vigorously.
Margaret said, “No, you look lovely.”
“Really lovely,” Hester echoed.
Fiona blustered, “Oh, go on with ya. Sure and ya know how to embarrass a girl.”
Margaret began, “The dress is splendid. Where did you—?”
Betty pinched her elbow, and Margaret faltered. “Em . . . where have you been hiding it?”
“At the bottom of my trunk. Never thought I’d have reason to unearth it.”
Margaret stifled her questions and smiled. “Well, I’m glad you did.”
The servants’ ball was a recurring feature
of country-house life.
—Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs
Chapter 19
The date of the servants’ ball arrived at last, and very little work was accomplished that day. In some ways, it was unfortunate Miss Helen had acted upon Margaret’s suggestion and invited outside guests, because that news caused Mrs. Budgeon to demand the house receive a more thorough cleaning and polishing than usual. But the staff had finished that work the day before.
The servants’ hall was closed once the midday meal was over, and only Mrs. Budgeon, Mr. Hudson, and the hall boy were allowed in, readying the room for the night’s festivities.
Monsieur Fournier labored all day, preparing not only the family’s meals, but also a lavish buffet for the ball. But he seemed happy with the extra work, grinning and humming to himself in an amusing compote of English, French, and foolishness. His hands flew about, dusting this dish with sugar, and that with sprigs of mint.
“Tonight you shall see what you have been missing! Zen tomorrow it is back to burnt sausages and gruel. Quel dommage!”
Margaret offered to arrange Betty’s hair for the occasion, and before she knew it, she had four other women clustered around her in Miss Nash’s room, begging to be next. Margaret curled, pinned, powdered, and rouged, but kept her kohl pencil well concealed. She didn’t want to give anyone ideas.
Fiona wore her own gown but did accept a pair of long gloves and allowed Margaret to dress her hair with a comb of silk flowers. Betty, Hester, Jenny, and Hannah wore the made-over gowns. Margaret demurred when they
insisted she should wear one of them, since she had done the work, but she did not wish to draw attention to herself. Especially since she knew Nathaniel Upchurch would be in attendance for at least the first few dances. And what of Joan? She hoped her former maid would not give her away.
Margaret donned the blue dress she had worn at the masquerade ball, but without an apron. In place of her mobcap, she wore a wide blue ribbon as a headband—for ornamentation yes, but also to assure her wig stayed in place during the dancing.
At half past six, the first carriage rattled up the drive from Hayfield, soon followed by a wagon loaded with men young and old in Sunday best. At seven, the doors to the servants’ hall were thrown wide. The long room gleamed with candles dressed in ivy and strung with garlands of colored paper. Wooden boards had been laid over the stone floor for dancing. The buffet table boasted a centerpiece of colorful mums, fresh fruit, and fronds—which Margaret had helped to arrange. Surrounding it were serving dishes resplendent with roasted turkey, salads of every description, and the largest baked salmon she had ever seen swimming in a sea of shrimp sauce, mouth ajar, eyes glassy, curved at head and tail to fit on the platter. There were also delicious-looking desserts—miniature gooseberry tarts, blancmange, and syllabub in tall glasses. Knowing the attendees were likely to drink a little wine punch or ale, Miss Helen and Mr. Hudson had thought it wise to serve food throughout, instead of waiting for a late supper.
Margaret watched nervously as the guests arrived, waiting to see Joan. She hoped the harsh housekeeper had allowed her to attend.
Then, there she was, in the same blue dress Margaret remembered but without an apron. Instead of a cap, a string of beads ornamented her carefully arranged hair. Joan did not look her way. Was she ignoring her? Were they supposed to pretend they did not know one another, to avoid questions of how they had met? But Margaret longed to speak to her again, even as she feared it.
She waited while Joan greeted Mr. Hudson and Mrs. Budgeon, in the role of host and hostess for the evening. Impulsively, she poured two cups of punch and carried them to Joan, hoping her peace offering would not be rejected.
“Hello, Joan,” she said tentatively, braving a smile.
Joan’s eyes widened. “Miss—!”
“Nora. It’s just Nora.” She made no effort to disguise her voice with her former maid. “I’ve brought you some punch.”
Joan eyed it almost warily, Margaret realized with chagrin. Had she given her so much reason to distrust her?
“Imagine that. You servin’ me,” Joan quipped, making no move to take the glass.
“I have some experience at it now. Though nothing to you, of course. I never realized how hard you worked until I came here.”
Joan cocked her head to one side, as if gauging her sincerity. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
“Then I shall have that punch and thank you.” She accepted the glass at last and lifted it in a toast.
Margaret returned the gesture, and they both sipped.
Margaret said, “I was hoping you would be here.”
“Were you? I figured you gave up and went home since I saw you last.”
“I was tempted more than once, I can tell you. I had no idea what I was getting myself into.”
Joan shook her head in wonder. “I still can’t believe it. You . . . a housemaid.”
Margaret nodded. “Though not a very good one.”
Joan’s eyes danced. “What I wouldn’t have given to be a mouse in the corner the first time you had to empty the slops.”
Margaret chuckled. “Don’t remind me.” She bit her lip, smile fading. “I’ve wanted to tell you how sorry I am for . . . well, everything. And to thank you for helping me.”
Again Joan shook her head. “Sorry and thank you . . . I never thought to hear those two words from you.”
Margaret grimaced. “I’m sorry for that too.”
Tears blurred her eyes. And she was surprised when answering tears brightened Joan’s eyes as well.
Her former maid gripped her fingers. “Now, that’s enough of that. This is supposed to be a happy occasion.”
Margaret returned her watery smile.
A voice at her elbow interrupted them.
“And who is this pretty lady you’re talking to, Nora?” the second footman, Craig, asked, all eagerness. “Do introduce me.”
Margaret grinned first at Joan, then Craig. “Miss Joan Hurdle, may I present Craig . . . I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”
“Craig is my last name! But we already had a Thomas, didn’t we?”
“Oh. Well then, may I present Mr. Thomas Craig.”
“How do you do?” Joan dipped her head.
“A great deal better now you’re here. Say you’ll save a dance for me, Miss Joan, and I shall do better yet.”
Joan smiled. “Very well.”
How pretty Joan looked when she smiled. How had Margaret not noticed that before?
The fiddler arrived late—and somewhat tipsy, Margaret surmised as he began warming up his bow. On cue, Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, Helen on his arm. The crowd instantly quieted in awkward solemnity. Margaret had been so busy helping the other maids prepare for the ball, that she had neglected Miss Upchurch. A pity too. For her hair lay flat and severely pulled back. Her face bare. Her dress . . . What a horrid old thing. Someone had taken a ball dress at least a decade old and added a new ruffled neckline and flounces in a contrasting color and ill-suited material. Still, when Helen looked around the candlelit room and the finely turned out crowd, she smiled broadly, and with that smile she was a real beauty.
“How well you all look!” She beamed.
“Indeed,” Mr. Upchurch agreed. “Now don’t stop enjoying yourselves on our account.” He nodded to the fiddler, who then struck up the notes of the first dance.
As expected, Nathaniel stepped before Mrs. Budgeon, bowed, and asked her for the first dance. Likewise, Mr. Hudson, as the top-ranking male servant, bowed before his mistress. Margaret wondered if sour Mr. Arnold minded the newcomer usurping this honor, but one glance told her Mr. Arnold was busy enjoying yet another cup of punch and liberal samplings of the tempting buffet.
The fiddler played a lively Scottish reel and a few other couples filled in. Margaret watched Nathaniel, surprised to see that he was a better dancer than she remembered, impressed to witness the warmth and respect with which he exchanged pleasantries with his housekeeper. She also watched Miss Upchurch as she danced with Mr. Hudson. They bounded through the steps in lively abandon. Mr. Hudson’s form was a bit ungainly, but he had never seemed so young and handsome as he did while dancing with Miss Upchurch. Margaret wondered if she glimpsed admiration in Miss Helen’s eyes for the house steward as well. She wished again she had taken time with Helen’s hair.
Craig and Joan danced near them in a jaunty facsimile of the steps, their smiles and shy glances more evident than skill.
After the reel “Speed the Plow” was called, Mr. Upchurch escorted Mrs. Budgeon to the edge of the room, bowed, then asked whom he should lead out next. Mrs. Budgeon looked around to locate the upper housemaid, Margaret guessed, but Betty stood behind Mr. Arnold frantically gesturing to be spared.
“Ah. Betty is occupied at present,” Mrs. Budgeon said. “Perhaps the newest member of our staff might receive the honor?” She gestured toward Margaret.
Why had she so blatantly been looking at Mrs. Budgeon, Margaret lamented. The woman must think she was begging a partner!
Nathaniel Upchurch looked her way. Did he hesitate? There was no smile on his face as he nodded to Mrs. Budgeon and walked toward her. Should she demur as well?
He stopped before her and she trained her gaze on his waistcoat, too nervous to look up at him.
“Might I have this dance, Nora?”
“Oh. I thought . . . I am hardly an upper servant.”
“Apparently the first housemaid is avoiding me like the plague. I trust you will not reject me as well.” r />
Reject me . . . Was it a veiled reference to her cruel rejection of his offer of marriage? She was imagining things. If he’d recognized her he would have tossed her out by now, demanded an explanation, or alerted Sterling Benton. But he had done none of these, as far as she knew.
She swallowed. “No, sir.”
He led her through the steps of the dance, formed those vague half smiles of acknowledgment when they faced or passed one another, but showed little of the warmth he had displayed with Mrs. Budgeon. He had known the housekeeper for years, she reminded herself. And he knew “Nora” not at all, even if she had done him and his steward a good turn that night in London.
She thought of other long-ago nights, when they had danced together at this ball or that. Then he had looked at her with admiration, nearly adoration, in his serious, bespectacled eyes. His fingers had lingered on her hand, her waist, whenever the steps and positions of the dance brought them together. Now his eyes were distant, his closed-mouth smile false, his hand cool and quick to depart. The ballrooms had been larger then, the guests wealthier, the music finer, but if he would only smile at her—truly smile—she would rate this night with this company the more enjoyable occasion.
When the silence between them became strained, he asked politely, “Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is the music to your liking?”
“Yes. Very nice.” What a ninny she was. Why could she not think of one appropriate thing to say?
He asked, “Are the others enjoying themselves, do you think?”
“Yes, sir. Very much.”
“Is this your first servants’ ball?”
“As a mai—matter of fact, yes.”
“And how are you getting on in your position here?”
“Better, I think. Thank you for asking.” She licked her lips and forged a question of her own. “And how fares your father, sir, if I may ask?”
“He fares well, according to his last letter. Thank you for asking.”
Margaret was relieved when the dance ended and Mr. Upchurch escorted her to the perimeter of the room and bowed his farewell.