Page 15 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

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.