Page 16 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

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 settingthe

brooms and brushes where they will make a mark.

— The Housekeeping Book of Susanna Whatman , Maidstone, 1776

Chapter 7

T he 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.

“I... I was dreamin’,” Margaret mumbled, trying to find the accent of her dear old housekeeper. “I thought you were my ... someone else.”

“I am the upper housemaid here at Fairbourne Hall,” the woman said, lifting her offended nose high. “And I am not accustomed to being addressed so rudely.”

“I...” Margaret could eke out no apology. She sat up on the edge of the bed, carefully nudging the wig under the bed with her toes. “How shall I address you, then?”

The upper housemaid was a short, stocky middle-aged woman. In the flickering light her coloring was uncertain, but the whites of her eyes lingered on Margaret’s stays and shift. Likely too fine for a housemaid. But apparently the woman had not noticed the wig. Nor, hopefully, any stray blond hairs.

“My name is Betty Tidy, but you may use my Christian name.”

“Betty Tidy ?”

“Is there something you find amusing about that, Nora?”

That’s right, she thought, I’m Nora. “Only the name Tidy. For a housemaid.”

Betty frowned. “There are many Tidys in these parts. It’s a perfectly respectable family name.”

“I meant no disrespect, Betty.” Margaret bit back a smirk. “In fact I think it the perfect name. The name every housemaid should have.”

Betty sniffed and stepped to the door. “I shall give you five minutes to dress.”

Five minutes? Perhaps, then, it was fortunate Margaret had not managed to remove her stays, for she would certainly not have gotten them on by herself given five hours, let alone five minutes.

She quickly washed her face, then wiped the damp cloth beneath each capped sleeve to remove the previous day’s perspiration.

She stepped into her dress, tied the ribbons, and wiggled it back to front and up over her shoulders.

Then she tied on the apron, pinned her hair, and put on her father’s spectacles.

Finally, she settled the wig snugly against her head, checking in the small mirror over the dressing chest to be sure all the blond hairs were covered before donning her cap once more.

She was glad the generous cap disguised the lump beneath the wig caused by her twist of hair.

She met Betty in the passage and followed her down one flight of stairs to the housemaids’ closet, where they retrieved two handled wooden boxes of cleaning supplies.

Palms damp, she trotted after Betty down to the ground floor, through a conservatory, and into the drawing room.

Would she really be able to manage a maid’s chores?

“First, we open the shutters...”

That she could do. Margaret made her way to a second window and unlatched and folded back the shutters. In the advancing morning light, she saw that the upper housemaid had faded auburn hair, blue eyes, and the freckles of a girl.

She followed Betty through each room, learning what would become her morning rounds—cleaning the grates, sweeping the carpets, dusting, and generally straightening the public rooms: conservatory and drawing room at the rear of the house.

Salon and library on one side of the front entry hall, morning room and dining room on the other. All before breakfast.

Margaret noticed the elegant high-ceilinged rooms and fine furniture but was too busy observing Betty to admire them. Betty worked with brisk efficiency, without wasted motion or apparent strain. Margaret wished she had a notebook. She doubted she would remember everything.

A stout, grave man in a gentleman’s black coat and trousers stepped into the library, his dark hair slicked back. Betty introduced him as Mr. Arnold, the under butler. He welcomed Nora and checked their progress, running a white glove over furniture as he went.

At eight o’clock, Margaret and Betty made their way down to the basement and along the dim passage to the servants’ hall for breakfast. And not a moment too soon.

Last night’s bread and cheese were long gone.

Margaret pressed a hand to her unhappy midriff.

The gnawing discomfort had, until recently, been a foreign sensation to Margaret Macy, one she recognized as hunger, though it was a feeling she had rarely experienced in her routine of late breakfasts, nuncheons, teas, early family dinners, and late suppers.

The servants’ hall was a narrow, rectangular room dominated by a long table with a chair at each end and benches along its sides. To the right of the door, pegs held coats and aprons. On one long wall stood an unlit hearth; on the other hung an embroidered plaque, which read,

A good character is valuable to everyone, but especially to servants.

For it is their bread and butter

and without it they cannot be admitted into a creditable family,

and happy it is that the best of characters is in everyone’s power to deserve.

At the far end of the room, several high windows emitted cheerful morning sunshine.

An oil lamp suspended from the beamed ceiling supplemented their light.

In the corner stood an old pianoforte, shrouded and silent.

How generous that the Upchurch family allowed its use by the servants. She wondered who played.

She took her place on a bench next to Betty and Fiona, the sharp-nosed housemaid who had brought her water and food the night before. Two kitchen maids introduced themselves, but their names went in one of Margaret’s ears and out the other.

On the opposite side of the table, the two handsome young footmen in livery sat sullenly, paying no attention to her or the other maids.

It was a strange feeling, being ignored by men.

The grave under butler, Mr. Arnold, whom she had met upstairs, moved to sit at the head of the table, but at the last moment he scowled and sat on the bench to the right of the chair.

Several servants exchanged wry looks, though no one dared a word.

The table was laid with silverware and china—not the finest, but china just the same.

Butter knives crossed bread plates and sturdy mugs sat at the ready.

At one corner lay a cutting board of freshly baked bread, a pot of jam, and a jar of butter, as well as a pitcher of milk.

A teapot steeped on a trivet. Another maid came in, a plump young woman with a smile as broad as her figure.

She set a basin of porridge near the foot of the table before taking her place beside Margaret and introducing herself as Hester, the stillroom maid.

A young scullery maid and hall boy scurried in with plates of sausages, sliced tomatoes, and a dish of boiled eggs before disappearing once more.

A tall thin man in a white coat—the chef, apparently—entered with the housekeeper, discussing the day’s menu.

The man’s black hair was still damp—he was just beginning his day, Margaret surmised.

The stillroom maid must prepare the servants’ breakfast, while the chef reserved his talents for the family’s fare.

Mrs. Budgeon, looking neat and rested, took her place at the foot. She glanced around the table. “I trust you have all introduced yourselves to Nora?”

Heads nodded and murmurs agreed.

Mr. Hudson stepped into the room and Betty snagged Margaret’s sleeve and all but yanked her to her feet.

She belatedly realized that everyone rose when the house steward entered—a sign of respect for the highest-ranking member of staff.

Mr. Hudson took his place at the head, sending a sheepish smile toward the under butler, who fastidiously ignored him.

Mr. Hudson gestured for everyone to sit. Then he folded his hands at the edge of the table and bowed his head. The others followed suit.

He prayed simply. “For this food, and this day, and your many blessings, make us truly grateful. Amen.”

The chef, sitting next to the under butler, speared a sausage.

He passed the basin of porridge with a scowl and instead sawed off a generous hunk of bread and slathered it with butter.

Upon this, he laid two slices of tomato, which he salted and peppered heavily.

Then he cut the sausage lengthwise and laid the planks across the tomatoes.

He set to his creation with knife and fork.

Margaret ate her porridge with creamy milk but without the sugar she indulged in at home. She sipped her tea with relish, again missing the sugar but not commenting. The warm richness of the tea with fresh milk was pleasure enough.