“Yes. How did you know?”
“It was the name on your model ship.” She looked sheepish about breaking it over again.
“Ah. Yes—Ecclesia. Latin for ‘church.’ ”
“Clever.”
“I once thought so. But I don’t think myself very clever these days.”
Her profile was painfully familiar by moonlight as she gazed up at the night sky. He was tempted to reveal that he knew who she was, ask why she was hiding, and offer to help her. But would she be mortified to be discovered in such a humbling role? Would she thank him or curse him for exposing her?
He bit his tongue. Why should he want to help her? Had she not proven herself fickle and shallow? But somehow, looking at her now, he saw none of those traits. He saw a shadow of the loneliness he felt inside himself. A quiet desperation to fix something broken. He knew what was broken in his life—his family’s finances, his ship, his sister’s heart . . . and his own. But what was broken in Miss Macy’s life, and how did running away fix it?
He decided to bide his time. “Nora. You came to our aid—Hudson’s and mine—and I am grateful. If there is any way we . . . I . . . can return the favor, you need only ask.”
She looked over at him, pale eyes wide and silvery in the moonlight. She opened her mouth as though to respond, to confide in him, but instead pressed her lips together. Lips he had longed to kiss for years . . . and heaven help him, still did. Warmth swept through him at the thought of the kiss they had shared, at least in his dreams.
She whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Upchurch.” Once again she hesitated, then dipped her head. “And now I shall bid you good-night.”
She had forgotten to use a working class accent in her final words, but he made no comment. He liked hearing her voice. Her real voice. “Good night, Nora.”
In his mind, he added, “Good night, Margaret.”
The steward supervised the duties of the entire
household, hiring and firing other servants, paying
their wages and controlling expenditure.
—Giles Waterfield and Anne French, Below Stairs
Chapter 22
In the morning, Nathaniel stopped by Hudson’s office to speak to him. “I have a project for you, Hudson. If you don’t mind another trip to London.”
“Not at all, sir.”
Nathaniel studied his friend. “That was quick. And eager. Find the life of a house steward confining, do you?”
“A bit of getting used to, sir,” he said diplomatically. “Not that I’m complaining.”
“I don’t blame you.” Nathaniel could have gone to London himself, but he was reluctant to leave Fairbourne Hall so soon after returning. Who am I fooling? he asked himself. It was perfectly obvious he was reluctant to leave Margaret. He pulled the door closed behind him and cleared his throat. “It’s a bit of a . . . private project.”
Hudson leaned forward, interlacing his fingers on the desk.
Nathaniel began, “I want you to find out everything you can about a Marcus Benton, and while you’re at it, Sterling Benton, of Berkeley Square, Mayfair.”
Hudson did not blink a lash. “The man who came here looking for his stepdaughter?”
Nathaniel nodded.
“What am I looking for, sir?”
Nathaniel inhaled deeply. “I don’t know exactly. Financial situation, family relations, unexplained absences, anything . . . unusual.” He took another deep breath, contemplating how much to tell the man. He trusted Hudson implicitly, but there was no reason he needed to know—not yet, at any rate—just whom he had hired in the position of housemaid.
Hudson considered the request. “Do I take it you believe the stepfather has something to do with this, em . . . ?”
“Miss Macy.”
“Miss Macy’s disappearance?”
“It is only suspicion at present.”
“What about the girl? She may have run off of her own accord. Shall I investigate her whereabouts as well?”
“I don’t think that necessary.”
Hudson cocked his head to one side, studying him. “May I ask, sir, how you are acquainted with Miss Macy?”
“No, Hudson. You may not.”
Mrs. Budgeon kept a stack of writing paper in the servants’ hall, free for anyone who wished a piece or two to write home. Margaret wondered again if she ought to write to her friend Emily. A defensive measure. When she learned that evening that Mr. Hudson was returning to London once again, she saw it as a definite sign that she should.
My dear Emily,
You have no doubt heard that I have gone away. I know that you, my dearest friend, would never assume the worst. Still, I thought I should write to you, so you will not fret about me. I did send a letter to Mamma—did she tell you? If she has not, then I fear it may have gone astray and never made it into her hands. I hope this letter fares better.
Nothing dire has befallen me. I have not been kidnapped, nor have I eloped, nor have I been compromised—even if cruel gossips are tempted to bandy such nonsense about. (Not you, of course, dear Emily.)
The truth is that I no longer felt safe living under the same roof as Marcus Benton. You know his uncle had been pressuring us to marry, and Marcus had become quite desperate to convince me or compel me by any means necessary—with his uncle’s blessing, no less. Perhaps you will not believe me, or think my estimation of my charms puffed up and my worries foolish fancy. But trust me when I tell you my fears were very real and justified.
I don’t expect you to defend me to fickle society nor to the world at large, but I did want you to know, dear loyal friend, that I am well and safely hidden for now.
Yours sincerely,
Margaret Macy
“Mr. Hudson?” Margaret’s heart beat fast the next morning when she stepped into the steward’s office. Perhaps she ought to have asked Miss Helen to act as her intermediary again, but she didn’t want to press the issue of her identity with the woman, who seemed determined to carry on the ruse for some reason of her own. She hoped Mr. Hudson would not refuse her—or worse, show the letter to Nathaniel Upchurch. He would surely recognize the name and wonder how his housemaid knew Emily Lathrop—closest friend of Margaret Macy. He might easily put two and two together and her secret would be revealed—and her safe hiding place gone with it.
“Yes, Nora?”
“I understand you are traveling to London this afternoon?”
“I am.”
“I wonder if you might do something for me. I don’t want to presume, but—”
“What is it, Nora?” His lips tightened a bit, perhaps anticipating an unreasonable request.
“I was hoping you could post this letter for me. From London.”
“I could post it from Maidstone on my way. . . .”
“From London, if you please.” She hurried to add, “It is bound for London, you see, and will arrive all the quicker.”
“Ah.” He held out his hand. “You do know, Nora, that whoever receives this letter will have to pay the postage.”
“I know, sir.” She placed the letter into his waiting palm.
He glanced down at the direction, brows furrowed, and for a moment she feared he recognized the name. Then his dark expression lifted. Had he perhaps expected a letter to a young man, and did not relish being party to some illicit communication?
He said, “I trust Miss Emily Lathrop will find the postage no hardship?”
“No hardship, sir.”
“Very well, Nora.”
Relief washed over her. She smiled. “Thank you, sir.”
Nathaniel stepped from his room, hat and gloves in hand, and Jester at his heel. He needed to go into town to take care of a brief errand. In the corridor, he saw Helen in her bedroom doorway, speaking in low tones to Margaret, who wore bonnet and shawl. He wondered idly where she had been. He skirted the women to avoid interrupting their conversation.
Helen called him back. “Nathaniel, are you driving into Maidstone?”
/> He turned. “Yes.”
“Good. Would you mind taking Nora to the modiste’s on Bank Street?”
Nathaniel considered. He had already asked for the dogcart to be brought around, so a passenger would be no problem. He enjoyed driving the small sporting carriage, harnessed to a sturdy Cleveland bay. And Jester could ride along as well, which the dog seemed to relish. Best of all, while he was in the bank, no one would be tempted to steal a carriage with a wolfhound sitting watch.
He said, “If you like. I am headed to the county bank very near there.”
“Are you?” Helen’s wide eyes were all innocence. “How convenient, then.”
Nathaniel slanted her a narrow glance. Was his sister up to something?
———
Feeling self-conscious, Margaret followed Mr. Upchurch downstairs and outside, remaining several paces behind him. A small carriage with two tall wheels waited on the drive, harnessed to a single horse.
Nathaniel said to the groom, “The housemaid is going along on an errand for Miss Upchurch.”
Clive lowered the tailboard and gave her a boost up while Nathaniel climbed onto the front bench and took the reins. Jester leapt in behind Nathaniel’s seat, and off they went. How strange it felt to be riding on the back of a vehicle driven by Nathaniel Upchurch.
They passed through Weavering Street and followed the road into town. Around them, men wielded scythes in lush golden fields, finishing up the harvest. Margaret tipped her face to the mild sunshine and breathed in the crisp autumn air. Behind her, Jester took in the passing countryside, tongue lolling, eyes at blissful half-mast in the brisk breeze.
Several minutes later, they rumbled into Maidstone and turned down Bank Street. In front of the ladies’ shop, Margaret alighted.
Mr. Upchurch looked down from his bench. “How long do you need?”
“Not long. Perhaps . . . twenty or thirty minutes?”
He nodded. “I shall collect you here in half an hour’s time.”
She stepped inside the modiste’s. From the shop window, she wistfully watched Nathaniel tip his hat to an elderly matron and return the wave of a passing lad as he drove off toward the bank.
Margaret made quick work of selecting the face powder and new rouge Miss Upchurch wanted. Helen had asked her to purchase the items rather than prepare them in the stillroom. She didn’t want the servants speculating about her sudden interest in cosmetics.
Half an hour later, Mr. Upchurch halted the cart in front of the shop as arranged. She hopped up on the tailboard, reminding herself that a servant would not expect her master to assist her.
He glanced back to make sure she was settled, then told his horse to walk on.
She noticed he turned down an unfamiliar street—taking a different route home. A few minutes later, the road curved to follow a narrow mill leat. Accelerating around the bend, the cart wheel hit a deep hole, and Margaret suddenly felt herself thrust off the tailboard. For one second, a midair weightlessness tingled through her stomach. She gave a little shriek and landed in a bone-rattling thud on the hard road.
Jester barked a warning.
Vaguely she heard Mr. Upchurch call a “Whoa” to the horse some distance ahead. Blood roared in her ears and pain shot from hip to leg. She drew in a ragged breath as stars danced before her eyes.
Jester bounded over and licked her cheek.
Nathaniel jogged to her side. “Are you all right?” Alarm rang in his voice—more than the slight accident called for.
She looked up at him from her unladylike sprawl, gathering her skirts and parcels and trying to sit up.
“Wait. Be still. Jester, down.” He frowned in concern. “Is anything broken, do you think?”
“I . . .” Mentally she surveyed her body. Hip throbbing. Palm burning. Head spinning. Though the latter might be caused by Nathaniel Upchurch’s nearness.
“I’ve had the wind knocked out of me, that’s all,” she murmured. “I’m fine, really.” She tried in vain to push herself to her feet.
Bending low, he took her hand and with his other cupped her elbow and pulled her gently to her feet. Her leg tingled numbly and threatened to buckle.
He wrapped his arm around her waist, steadying her. “Your ankle?”
“Just strained, I think. I’m fine.” She had actually landed on her hip and bum, but wasn’t about to specify that part of her anatomy.
She hobbled a step toward the cart, and suddenly his arm dipped beneath her legs and the other behind her back and she found herself swept up into his arms.
“Put your hands around my neck.”
She felt her face flush, certain she was too heavy, self-conscious at having her side pressed flush to his body, his arm under her knees.
His mouth tightened and his neck beneath his cravat tensed—whether from bearing her weight or concern, she was afraid to hazard.
Reaching the cart, he set her on the tailboard. Jester barked his approval and hopped up behind her.
“Perhaps we ought to have the surgeon or at least the apothecary take a look at that ankle.”
“No, sir. Really, I’m fine.”
He lifted a hand toward her dangling limb. “The left one I believe . . . May I?”
She felt her mouth form an O, but no sound came.
He cupped the heel of her slipper and lifted it gently. His other hand grasped the toe, gingerly rotating her ankle. “Does that hurt?”
She swallowed and shook her head. Actually, it felt heavenly.
His gloved hand worked its way up her stocking-swathed ankle in a series of tentative squeezes. “All right?”
She nodded.
“Let’s see your hands.”
She held them forth for inspection like a grotty waif. Both were dirty, but she’d scraped the left one as well, trying to stop her fall.
Mr. Upchurch withdrew a clean handkerchief from his pocket. “Stay here.”
He strode to the lazily flowing mill leat, dipped the handkerchief into the water and returned, squeezing it out as he neared. Again he held her left palm, and with his other hand dabbed at the dirt and scrape. The cool water felt wonderful on her raw, burning skin.
She felt like a child and yet like a cherished woman at the same time. Foolish girl, she told herself. He is only being kind.
He wiped the dirt from her other palm, then looked into her face. “You, em . . .” He cleared his throat. “You might want to, em, tidy your hair. Your . . . cap is a bit askew.”
Dread rippled through her. Oh no. Had her wig slipped? Was any blond hair showing? He appeared self-conscious at pointing it out but not shocked or suspicious.
“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching up to pull down her cap, and hopefully her wig with it.
He turned his back as she did so, stepped a few feet away, and sank to his haunches, studying a series of gouges in the road large enough to bury a cat.
“I attended a commissioners’ meeting, where repairs to this road were approved and funds allocated. Progress is not what it should be. I shall have to speak to the town council.” He rose. “Nora, do sit up front for the rest of the trip. I don’t want to see you knocked off again.”
Her nerves pulsed a warning—too close. “That’s all right, sir. I don’t mind.”
“Please. I insist.” He gestured toward the front bench, high over the cart’s tall wheels.
Uncomfortable at the thought, she said, “Sir. Um. I don’t know that I should be sitting up there. That is, when we reach Fairbourne Hall. I . . . think I would rather walk the rest of the way.”
“But your ankle.”
“It’s fine, sir, truly. Please.”
He gave her a knowing look. “It would not go well for you belowstairs if you were seen riding beside Mr. Upchurch. Is that it?”
“Something like that.”
“I see. Very well. But do take care with that ankle.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
As he climbed up and drove on, Margaret wondered if he w
ould have been as kind and attentive had Betty or Fiona fallen from his cart. Probably, she thought.
But she hoped not.
When she reached Fairbourne Hall and delivered the powder and rouge, Helen asked how the errand had gone.
“Fine.” Margaret answered vaguely.
Helen’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Did Mr. Upchurch . . . notice you?”
Is that what Helen hoped would happen? “Not especially. But he was very kind.”
Helen lifted one eyebrow. “Was he?”
Margaret felt her cheeks heat under Helen’s watchful gaze but did not elaborate further.
A few days later, Nathaniel sat in the library, reviewing sketches for a proposed new row of laborer cottages. But he had difficulty concentrating. His mind kept wondering, replaying the scenes from the last weeks. Dancing with Miss Macy at the servants’ ball. Standing near her on the balcony, staring up at the stars. Strolling with her along the moonlit arcade. Carrying her in his arms. . . .
A knock roused Nathaniel from his reverie. He looked up, feeling almost guilty, as if caught doing something he ought not. He was surprised to see Robert Hudson in the threshold.
“Hudson, hello. I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“Is this a good time, sir?”
“Yes, of course.” Nathaniel straightened and cleared his throat. “How did it go?”
“Very well, I think.”
Nathaniel gestured toward the chair before the desk. “What did you find out?”
“Several interesting things.” Hudson sat and pulled a small leather-bound notebook from his coat pocket. “First, Sterling Benton is indeed in financial straits, over head and ears in debt, according to a talkative banker.”
“You were discreet in your inquiries, I trust?”
“Sir.” Hudson tucked his chin, mouth down-turned, offended he even needed ask.
Nathaniel rotated his hand, gesturing for his steward to continue.
“Sterling Benton has borrowed too much, spent too much, and gambled too much, and refuses to retrench. Evidently very keen on keeping up appearances.”