And now the master was “within.” Perhaps Mr. Hudson referred to Mr. Upchurch senior. But Margaret was certain James Upchurch was still in Barbados. Of course, she had thought Nathaniel still there as well until the night of the masquerade ball.
She licked dry lips. “May I ask about the man I saw in the coach? Is he all right?”
“He was injured last night when his ship was set on fire.”
“How dreadful.”
He nodded. “I took him to a surgeon after it happened. I didn’t like the looks of the fellow, so after we left you, we spent the night at an inn and saw a physician this morning before we left town. Says he’ll be all right. In fact, I had only stopped in Maidstone to fill the physician’s order for salve when I happened to see you.”
She looked at his bandaged hand. “You were injured as well?”
He shook his head dismissively. “It’s nothing.”
“But you were on the ship too?”
“Yes, though regrettably of no help to him. Mr. Upchurch had to drag me from the burning ship.”
Mr. Upchurch. Her heart thudded. Then it was true. She had just been hired as a maid in the home of two former suitors. . . .
“Good heavens,” she murmured. She could barely take it in. She had planned only a few days ago to seek out Lewis Upchurch privately, perhaps even to brazenly hint they marry. Of course, seeing him so enthralled with another woman had dashed those plans. But she would never want him to see her like this, so bedraggled looking and in such mortifying circumstances.
She very much wanted to ask which Mr. Upchurch he referred to, but knew revealing she was acquainted with the family would put her at risk of discovery. As far as she knew, Lewis was no longer involved in the family business and would not have been the one dealing with Upchurch sugar ships.
Instead she asked, “Had you been overtaken by the smoke?”
“No. Wasn’t the smoke that overtook me, but a crafty scoundrel with a club to my head.”
“No!”
“Yes. You’ve heard of the thief folks call the Poet Pirate?”
“Yes. But I thought he was only a legend.”
“A legend with flesh and bones. And a grudge. Now, I best say no more. Mr. Upchurch would not want me spreading his troubles.”
Margaret remembered what Emily had said at the Valmores’ ball—that Nathaniel looked like a pirate and might be the so-called Poet Pirate himself. Clearly, Emily had been wrong.
Still, Mr. Hudson might be speaking of their father, Margaret thought, somewhat desperately. Perhaps he had returned with Nathaniel and was the man inside the coach. Maybe Lewis and Nathaniel had remained in London. She ventured, “Is this Mr. Upchurch an older man?”
“No. Not unless you call nine-and-twenty old, and I don’t.”
“Oh. You called him master, so I thought . . .”
“The father lives in Barbados, so his son is master of the place for all intents and purposes. He has an elder brother, but Lewis Upchurch spends most of his time in London. We’ll not likely be seeing much of him.”
“Surely he shall come home now,” she said, thinking of Nathaniel’s demands at the ball.
Mr. Hudson gave her a sharp look.
“I mean . . . now that his brother is home.”
He studied her a moment longer, then returned his eyes to the road. Had she already given herself away?
“Perhaps.” The steward cleared his throat. “But you, Nora, being a housemaid, will not see much of the family. Maids are to be all but invisible, I understand.”
Vaguely, Margaret nodded, but she wasn’t really thinking of invisible maids. She was thinking of handsome Lewis Upchurch.
If Lewis did come home, what should she do? Sneak off to find him, reveal herself and her situation? Even if his interest had cooled toward her in recent months, surely he might help her.
A few minutes later, Mr. Hudson turned the horses down a curved drive and reined them in with a “Whoa.” The coach came to a halt in front of a stately red brick manor house with a white front door. Tall, white-framed windows lined the first two levels, while the top floor was punctuated by smaller dormer windows. Broad chimneys crowned its roof, while a manicured lawn, shaped hedges, and flower gardens added color and warmth.
Had she not spurned Nathaniel Upchurch years ago, might this now be her home? The irony left a sour taste in her mouth.
A liveried footman rushed out to meet the coach. Margaret twisted on the bench to descend, but Mr. Hudson laid a staying hand on her arm.
“Not here, Nora. After we get Mr. Upchurch inside, I’ll drive you around to the servants’ entrance.”
Her cheeks burned. “Of course.” She could hardly believe Nathaniel Upchurch was in the very coach she sat atop. She shivered at the thought of what he might do if he saw her there.
The footman opened the door and let down the step.
Hudson called down, “Mr. Upchurch has been injured. Please assist him inside.”
The footman offered a hand to the occupant. The coach swayed as the passenger alighted. Margaret sat stiffly, staring ahead, face averted. She was afraid Nathaniel Upchurch might look up and recognize her and send her away before she’d even begun.
“There you go, sir. Easy does it,” the footman soothed.
“I am not an invalid, man. Let off.”
“Only trying to help.”
Margaret risked a glance and saw a tall dark-haired man in rumpled clothing shake off the footman’s hand. A bandage swathed his head, and one arm hung in a sling. A second footman ran forward to help, concern evident in his expression.
Mr. Hudson addressed the servants. “Please see Mr. Upchurch to his room and draw him a bath.”
“Yes, sir.”
Margaret watched Nathaniel Upchurch hobble to the door, shaking off the second footman’s hand as he had the first’s. He was certainly not the mild-tempered fellow she remembered from years gone by. She recalled the searing look of disgust he had shot her across the ballroom only a few nights before. It had sent a clear message—I loathe you. He would probably relish an opportunity to revenge himself for her cold refusal of his offer.
She could definitely not risk revealing herself to him.
Mr. Hudson drove to the back of the house. There, a groom came forward and took charge of the horses and carriage. Hudson helped Margaret alight, then escorted her down the outside stairs to the basement. Inside, he led her along a passage to a closed door. It took several seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Then he asked her to wait while he went alone into the housekeeper’s parlor.
He knocked, was admitted by a faint “Come,” and disappeared within, closing the door behind him.
Seeing no one about, Margaret allowed herself to lean against the wall beside the door. She was fatigued from the long, stressful day. Through the closed door she overheard the low rumble of Mr. Hudson’s voice, followed by a silence, then expressions of surprise and concern in a female voice. Unable to resist, Margaret tilted her head nearer the door.
A woman said, “I realize, Mr. Hudson, that as house steward, you have the right to hire whom you please, but I would have thought, considering you have just come into your position, that you might at least have consulted me.”
He made some placating reply, but his words were not as distinct as the woman’s, so Margaret made out only a few words, “London . . . help . . . trial.”
A trial, as in it would be a trial to have her there, or a trial period of employment? A heavy sigh followed. Whichever it was, the housekeeper was clearly not pleased by the prospect.
The door opened and Mr. Hudson appeared, grim-faced. “Mrs. Budgeon will see you now.” He added on a whisper, “Mind your p’s and q’s.”
———
The woman within was not what Margaret had expected. She supposed she’d imagined someone like the woman who had hired Joan—a gloomy-faced matron in a decorous high-necked gown and outmoded cap. The woman before her was only in her midforti
es. Her dress was black but fashionable, striped with grey and brightened by a pretty lace collar. No dowdy cap crowned her thick dark hair, which was neatly pinned back. Her eyes were brown, her face pleasant if a touch long, her complexion fair, her jawline just beginning to soften. She had been a beauty in her youth, Margaret thought. She was attractive still, except for the stern tightening of her mouth and wary light in her eyes.
“Nora, is it?”
“Yes, ma’am. Nora Garret.”
“Under servants use only Christian names here at Fairbourne Hall. Except when we have more than one Mary, for example.”
Margaret nodded.
“Mr. Hudson tells me you worked previously as a young lady’s maid. And that was where?”
“Lime Tree Lodge, in Summerfield.”
“And your employer?”
Margaret swallowed. “A Mrs. Haines.”
“Normally, I would write to your past employer to request a character reference be sent directly to me. But as Mr. Hudson has taken it upon himself to engage you, I have agreed to give you a month’s trial. Employment after that time will depend upon how well you perform your duties, follow house rules, and get on with other members of staff. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Well. We shall see.” The woman rose. “From the looks of you, you’ve had a long day already. Let’s go up and get you settled.”
Taking a candlestick, Mrs. Budgeon led the way along the basement passage. Handing Margaret the lit candle, the woman unlocked a storeroom with one of the many keys hanging from her waist and extracted a set of bed linens and a hand towel. Carrying the candle in one hand and her carpetbag in the other, Margaret followed Mrs. Budgeon up a pair of narrow stairs, through a servery on the ground floor, then up two more flights of back stairs. Margaret was accustomed to climbing stairs in the Berkeley Square town house, but not at such a pace!
“You are to use the back stairs for all your comings and goings,” the housekeeper said. “You are only allowed on the main stairs for staff assemblies or if you are sweeping or polishing the railings.”
Margaret nodded, breathing too hard to answer.
Finally they reached the attic. “The servants’ rooms along this corridor are occupied or used for storage. But there is one small chamber you might use beyond the old schoolroom.” She turned the corner and added with pride, “Each of the female servants here at Fairbourne Hall has her own bedchamber. That is something you won’t find everywhere.”
Had Joan shared a room, perhaps even a bed, with one of the other maids in the Berkeley Square attic? Margaret had no idea.
Mrs. Budgeon opened the last door, and the musty chalk smell of disuse met Margaret’s nose. The chamber was small, narrow, and paneled in white. A cloudy window offered the faint glow of evening sunlight. A cast-iron bed with a bare mattress stood against one wall, a dressing chest and wooden slat chair against the other. Shifting the linens to one arm, Mrs. Budgeon laid the hand towel on the dressing chest, frowning at the empty basin where a pitcher should have been. “I shall send someone up with water.”
Margaret’s stomach grumbled a noisy complaint, and she felt her cheeks heat.
Mrs. Budgeon glanced at her. “When did you last eat?”
Margaret set down the candle and her carpetbag. “This morning.”
“You’ve missed dinner, and supper isn’t until nine.” She sighed. “I shall have something sent up to you. But don’t get used to being waited upon.”
Too late, Margaret thought.
The woman handed Margaret the armload of bed linens. “You are capable of making your own bed, I trust?”
“Of course,” Margaret murmured. But the truth was, she had never made a bed in her life.
“In the morning, Betty will show you what is expected here at Fairbourne Hall. I’ll hear no excuses of ‘but in my last situation things were done differently.’ Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Margaret said. No fear of that from me.
———
When the housekeeper left, Margaret hung her bonnet on the peg behind the door, and set about trying to make the bed. The sheets and pillowcase were of coarse cotton—nothing as fine as she was used to but clean and sweet smelling. She spread the sheets and tucked them under the tick, too tired to care about the wrinkles. Then she covered it with a blanket of summer-weight wool and a spread of white tufted cotton.
A single rap sounded, and her door was butted open before Margaret could reply. A thin dark-haired woman in cap and apron pushed her way inside, pitcher in one hand, plate in the other.
“Oh.” Margaret surveyed the tiny room, and directed the maid toward the dressing chest.
The woman’s mouth tightened. “Yes, m’lady,” she murmured acidly. She dropped the plate onto the chest with a clunk, then shoved the pitcher into Margaret’s arms, some of the water sloshing onto Margaret’s bodice. Cold water.
“I’m not yar servant, am I?” she said, her voice lilting Irish. “I’ve already carried that up three flights of stairs; don’t be commandin’ me to do more.”
“I wasn’t.” Margaret bit her lip and set the heavy pitcher into the basin herself. She glanced back to find the maid smirking at the bed.
“I hope ya make beds better than that . . . or ya won’t last here a week.”
Margaret turned to regard the creased bedclothes.
“Well, don’t stay up too late. Five thirty comes early.” The maid turned on her heel and swept from the room as regally as any highborn miss giving the cut direct.
Margaret sat on the hard chair and ate the bread, cheese, and sliced pickles the maid had brought up. She looked once more at the wrinkled bed and thought it appeared inviting indeed. She was heavy with weariness. Emotionally drained. It was probably only six or seven in the evening, but the escape of sleep beckoned her with its intoxicating pull. Setting down the plate, she rose and stepped toward the bed, and then stiffened.
How would she undress on her own? She ought to have thought of that before the sharp-nosed, sharp-tongued maid left, though she would have been reluctant to ask the cheeky woman for any favor.
Well, she would make do. How hard could it be? Margaret stripped off her apron and hung it on the peg. She pulled the cap and wig from her head and set them beside the bed, near at hand. The gown, loose and wide necked, posed little problem. Margaret peeled it off one shoulder, then the other, then twisted the gown so that the few ribbon ties at the back were easily undone, then she slid the gown over her hips and stepped out. Nothing to it, she thought. And Joan had hinted that Margaret was helpless. Ha!
She stood there in her stays and shift. Trying the same method, she tugged at the shoulder straps of the linen stays. The very snug straps. She succeeding in wiggling one strap partway down, but the other would not give, taut as it was from being pulled in the opposite direction. She tried to reach around herself to grasp the laces up her back, but the stays limited her movement, and even if they had not, she was not contortionist enough to manage the feat. She reached around with her comb, hoping to snag the lacing, but her shoulder ached from being bent so unnaturally.
Giving up, she sat on the bed to remove her stockings. It was difficult to bend at the waist with the stays in place, the rigid ivory busk running from between her breasts to her lower belly. She managed to untie the ribbons that held the stockings above her knees, then had to lift her leg to roll the stockings from her feet. She sat back, oddly winded from the constriction of bending over in her stays.
She cleaned her teeth perfunctorily with the supplies she’d brought. Then she rinsed her hands and face in the cold water and dried off with the towel the housekeeper had provided. Transferring the candle to the small bedside table, Margaret pulled back the bedclothes and climbed in, still wearing her stays and a fine cotton shift beneath. She glanced down at the wig in a curly heap on the floor. What if someone came in? There was no lock on the door. She hated the thought of sleeping with the warm, itchy wig.
Instead, she pulled on the cap alone and tucked all of her blond hair into it. That should do. She blew out the candle.
Though mentally fatigued, Margaret tossed and turned, worried about her future, wondering how her mother was reacting, and what was happening in Berkeley Square . . . until finally, finally, sweet sleep lured her away.
The first thing a Housekeeper should teach a new servant
is to carry her candle upright. The next thing is those general
directions that belong to “her” place, such as not setting the
brooms and brushes where they will make a mark.
—The Housekeeping Book of Susanna Whatman, Maidstone, 1776
Chapter 7
The pounding. Who in the world would be pounding at this hour? London was such a noisy place. Margaret felt she would never get used to living in such a sprawling, bustling city. She had not slept well since coming to live in Sterling Benton’s house. She had barely fallen asleep and already the rapping had awoken her. She rolled over, and began drifting off once more. The pounding resumed, louder. She pulled the limp pillow from under her cheek and covered her head with it. Need sleep . . .
“You need to get up, lazy lay-a-bed.”
Why was Joan pestering her? It could not be morning yet, and Margaret often slept in until quite late, especially when she had been out the night before.
The door creaked open.
“Leave me be,” she murmured.
The bedclothes were yanked from her body, the cool morning air prickling her skin. She rolled over to face her tormentor, ready to give Joan a tongue-lashing. “What do you think you are doing?”
She froze. Candlelight illuminated not Joan’s face, but that of a stranger. The bed, the room, were not her own. Her mind whirled. What? Where . . . ?
A woman stared at her, stunned no doubt at the haughty reception. With a wave of dread, Margaret remembered. She was in London no longer.
Suddenly London seemed the far friendlier fate.