Page 12 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

“Not much longer now, I shouldn’t think.”

The old man said, “Usually breaks up just after four. Looks like we shall have to try again next week.”

Next week ?

A matronly looking woman in a severe black dress, high white-lace collar, and an old-fashioned bonnet came striding purposely across the High Street in their direction, keys dangling at her waist. From the corner of her eye, Margaret noticed both the old cook and Joan straighten their shoulders. Margaret followed suit.

The matron stopped before the rope, her gaze skimming past the cook’s spoon and landing on Joan’s cleaning brush.

She introduced herself as the housekeeper at Hayfield and began drilling Joan with one terse question after another—how long she had been in service, where she had last been employed and in what capacity, why she had left, was she a good Church of England member, was she in good health. ..

Joan answered each question calmly, faltered slightly over why she had left her last place, and offered a letter of character by way of explanation—the reference Margaret had written for her before they left Peg’s.

“I prefer to write for my own references.” The woman eyed the folded letter with suspicion. “I warn you that I can spy a forged character a mile off. Are you certain you wish to put that letter into my hands?” One steel-grey brow rose. “I cannot promise to return it to you.”

Joan’s hand trembled slightly, but her expression remained placid. “This letter was written by my own mistress, mum. I trust you will find everything in order.”

The housekeeper held Joan’s gaze before snatching the letter from her.

Margaret had never written a character before.

Their housekeeper, or maybe her mother, must have taken care of such things.

Perhaps there were certain requirements or customary phrases of which she knew nothing.

Would the woman denounce Joan as a fraud and have her hauled in for questioning?

What more trouble would Margaret bring down on Joan’s head?

The woman unfolded the letter, took in the quality of paper, and began to read. She frowned once or twice as she did so, and Joan sent Margaret a beseeching look.

Finally, the woman looked up. “It is written in a fine hand and by an educated person to be sure. I may yet write to this lady to verify the reference, you understand, but this will suit for now.”

Joan nodded.

“Well—” the woman consulted the letter briefly once more—“Joan Hurdle. The pay is eight pounds per annum and you’ll be expected to attend church once a month in a rotation with the other servants.”

She waited for Joan’s response, but Joan did not immediately accept.

She glanced quickly at Margaret and then away.

“I am very grateful for the offer, mum. And I wonder... might you need a lady’s maid or companion?

I worked with this young woman in a former post, and she is in need of a place as well. ”

The woman’s sharp eyes shot to Margaret, took in the hairbrush, the spectacles, and the ill-fitting dress with apparent disapprobation. “I think not.”

Margaret managed a tremulous smile. “A second housemaid, then,” she suggested hopefully. Joan was on the verge of leaving her, alone, in a strange town with only a few farthings to rub together.

“I don’t need anybody else,” the woman insisted. “Nor are you allowed to have any followers, Hurdle—male or female. Now, will you take the post or not?”

Joan pressed her lips together, shooting an apologetic look in Margaret’s direction. She opened her mouth to answer, then hesitated, shoulders wilting. “Perhaps you would take her in my stead, mum? She has a fine reading voice and could read to you of an evening when her other work is done.”

It was on the tip of Margaret’s tongue to toss in a desperate “I can even arrange hair. And I’m very good with a needle.” But she refrained.

The woman narrowed her eyes at Joan. “Don’t you want to work at Hayfield? What have you heard?” She jerked her head toward Margaret. “Or is there something wrong with her beyond her weak eyes and you’re trying to foist her off on me? Is she your sister or something?”

“No, we’re not sisters. And it’s not that I don’t wish to work for you. I just thought...”

“No, Joan, you take it.” The words were out of Margaret’s mouth before she could think them through or change her mind.

The frightened, selfish child within her wanted to grasp Joan’s hand and beg her not to leave her alone, or to beg the matronly housekeeper to take them both, to confess the whole sordid situation and beseech her to help them.

But she knew the woman would not care, and would likely not hire either of them if she knew why they were there.

Margaret had already gotten Joan dismissed and had forced her to leave her sister’s before she’d found another place.

She could not, as much as she was tempted to, take this position from her now.

Joan looked at her, eyes searching. She whispered, “Are you sure, miss?”

Margaret’s knees were turning liquid beneath her baggy frock. Doubts and anxiety were rising by the minute, but she nodded and pulled back her lips in a semblance of a smile.

“Come along, Hurdle,” the woman said. “I have to stop at the chandler’s before we drive home. You may carry the sack of rice we need.”

Joan followed dutifully behind the woman, valise swinging against her leg. She looked back only once, her lips forming a silent I’m sorry.

Margaret’s heart twisted in self-pity followed by a pinch of guilt. She had never apologized to Joan for getting her into this situation in the first place and now she was apologizing to her ? If she ever saw Joan again, she decided, she would make things right.