Page 17 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Mr. Hudson cleared his throat and announced, “Mr. Upchurch has decided to reinstitute the practice of morning prayers. So please assemble in the main hall at nine sharp.”

Margaret saw Mr. Arnold send a look of surprise to Mrs. Budgeon, who ignored him, even though the surprise in her own expression was evident. Beside Margaret, Fiona grumbled, as did several others. The elder of the two footmen rolled his eyes.

“Well, I think it a splendid idea,” Betty said. “We haven’t had prayers since Mr. Upchurch senior went off to the Indies.”

The grumbling faded as they returned to their meal.

The chef was the first to excuse himself, likely having a great deal of work awaiting him in the kitchen.

A few minutes later the footmen and under butler departed to lay the family’s breakfast upstairs.

Mrs. Budgeon glanced at the clock atop the mantel, and that was signal enough that everyone else rose to return to their duties.

Margaret followed after Betty as she stopped in the stillroom to assemble a tray of tea things and a pressed newspaper to take up to Miss Upchurch while Fiona prepared a tray for Mr. Upchurch.

Fiona had already taken up cans of hot and cold water and emptied the chamber pots while Betty and Margaret were busy in the public rooms.

Upstairs, Betty gestured for Margaret to wait and then let herself in to Miss Upchurch’s bedchamber to deliver the tea and help her dress. Margaret, who had met Helen Upchurch several times, was only too glad to remain in the corridor.

Afterward, Betty and Margaret returned the tray to the stillroom. The kitchen maids passed by, clad in clean aprons, their hair smoothed back under their caps. Taking Betty’s cue, Margaret followed them up to the main level.

Betty whispered, “It’s the first time these poor girls have been allowed abovestairs.”

At nine, servants from every nook and cranny of the house filed into the front hall, with its broad entrance doors, marble floors, carved ceiling, and impressive main stairway. The staff lined up in rows on the floor near the bottom stair, waiting in fidgets and whispers.

Mr. Arnold muttered, “Didn’t know he’d become a vicar whilst he was away.”

The library door opened, and Nathaniel Upchurch entered the hall, his sister at his side. Stomach knotting, Margaret slipped a little farther behind the tall chef.

Mr. Upchurch carried a black book in one hand, his other arm still cradled in a sling.

He wore a bandage above one eye, which reminded her of a pirate’s eye patch, askew.

She wondered how badly he was hurt and why he was determined to lead prayers when he was recovering from recent injuries.

How somber he looked—little like the fierce, wild-haired ruffian who had started a brawl at a Mayfair ball.

The beard was gone. His hair groomed. The rough sea-voyage clothes replaced with everyday gentleman’s attire: coat, waistcoat, cravat.

Hesitating, Mr. Upchurch handed the book to Hudson, behind him.

Then he patted his pockets with his sound hand in vain.

Was he searching for his spectacles? He used to wear them, she recalled.

He said something in low tones to Mr. Hudson, and Hudson opened the book to a page marked with a square of paper before handing it back.

Mr. Upchurch cast a swift glance at the assembled group. Beside him, Helen Upchurch smiled up at them.

Margaret ducked her head.

“Good morning.” Mr. Upchurch cleared his throat, squinted at the book, then read, “From First Peter. ‘Honour all men. Love the brotherhood. Fear God. Honour the king.’ ” He turned the page.

“ ‘Servants, be subject to your masters with all fear; not only to the good and gentle, but also to the froward.’ ”

Around her, Margaret felt bodies stiffen, and a snotty footman muttered something she was probably better spared.

Fiona huffed. “That’s convenient.”

Margaret shushed the disrespectful maid without thinking, earning herself a glare from the Irishwoman.

Mr. Upchurch tucked the book back under his good arm and bowed his head. “Lord, help us each to serve you well this day, in whatever place you have seen fit to place us. Amen.” He nodded to the group in dismissal and turned away.

His sister offered them what seemed an apologetic smile, perhaps hoping to soften his benediction. The others began to grumble or to stonily make their way back to their posts. But Margaret stood where she was.

Had God seen fit to place her in the service of the Upchurch family? Or had she simply made a muddle of her life?

After breakfast, Nathaniel carried a cup of coffee with him from the dining room into the library. Hudson was already inside, ready for their morning meeting, but he said nothing for several moments. Nathaniel surveyed Hudson over his coffee, sipped, then lowered the cup. “What?”

Hudson winced. “Far be it from me to interfere, sir. But that might not have been the best choice of Scriptures for your first shot at morning prayers.”

“Oh?”

“Consider, sir. How that Scripture might seem an... arrow, more than the gentle admonition you no doubt intended.”

Nathaniel opened the book on his desk and reread the passage. “Is that why I received surly looks? It was simply the next verse in my own daily reading. I knew it had not gone well and assumed it my delivery. I shall choose more carefully in future.”

“Ah.” Hudson nodded his understanding. “Well. I am certain it shall go better next time.”

Nathaniel regarded his steward. Robert Hudson was a few years his senior.

Although originally from England, he had spent many years living and working aboard ships before settling in Barbados.

There, Nathaniel had hired him away from Abel Preston, the neighboring planter neither man could stand.

As a clerk, Hudson was forthright and completely trustworthy.

The two men had become fast friends, their relationship more partnership than master-servant.

Though Hudson never failed to show him respect, neither did he fail to speak his mind.

When Nathaniel’s father commissioned him to return and put Fairbourne Hall to rights, he had lost no time in convincing Hudson to return with him as steward.

If Mrs. Budgeon and that coxcomb of an under butler did not like it, he did not care.

Hudson would lead them with humility and competence.

A rare combination of traits, which Nathaniel hoped to learn to emulate.

Nathaniel finished his coffee and set down his cup.

“And far be it from me to interfere with the servants, Hudson, but I am curious. Mrs. Budgeon lodged a complaint with my sister about your hiring a housemaid without consulting her.” He raised a hand before Hudson could protest. “I trust you to hire whom you like, but not two days ago you avowed your intention to leave the female staff entirely to the housekeeper.”

“I know, sir. But I found quite an unexpected gem at market yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“Remember the girl I mentioned to you? The one who warned me when I stopped to check on you near the docks?”

Nathaniel frowned at the memory. “Your wild driving knocked me from the seat.”

“Be that as it may, I saw that very girl at the hiring fair in Maidstone. Woebegone she looked too, standing there alone after everyone else had gone home.”

“You hired her because she shouted at you to move along?” Incredulity and amusement tinged Nathaniel’s words.

“You don’t remember that night, sir. Laid low with the surgeon’s laudanum as you were.

You did not see the cutthroats descending to do us a violence and no doubt steal us blind in the bargain.

She not only brought them to my attention, but she shoved a door in the leader’s face when he would have overtaken us.

The last thing I saw before we turned the corner was those three brutes trying to break down the lodging house door.

Until I saw her again yesterday, I feared she might have come to harm on our account. ”

“Is that why she left London?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Hmm... Strange that she should come here, do you not think?”

Hudson shrugged. “Not so strange. Maidstone has a regular hiring fair and is not terribly distant from London.”

“I suppose.”

Hudson grimaced and screwed his lips to one side. “Do you think I have made Mrs. Budgeon very angry?”

It was Nathaniel’s turn to shrug. “The woman is a professional. She will get over it no doubt. Assuming, that is, your girl is a good worker and knows the difference between a hairbrush and a chimney brush.”

Standing in the basement passageway, Margaret watched Betty’s stubby fingers and rough, heavily veined hands as she laid out brush after brush on the narrow worktable.

Betty turned to her. “Now, name each brush and describe its proper use, if you please.”

Margaret’s mouth went dry. Before her were brushes of every imaginable description. Long-haired, short and wiry, feather, miniature brooms, and more. She had little idea what they might be called or how each was to be used.

She began, “Well, this is a feather duster of course, and, um...” She licked her lips.

“You know, Mrs. Budgeon made it quite clear that I was not to try to do things as I did in my former place. Therefore, perhaps you had better teach me how each of these brushes is to be used here at Fairbourne Hall.”

Betty studied her a moment, then sighed. “Very well.” She picked up one bristled handle after another. “Picture brush, shoe brush, hearth brush, plate brush, flue brush, library brush, velvet brush, banister brush, carpet brush, wall broom, bed broom...”

Very soon, Margaret’s head was spinning. She hoped there would be no examination. Miss Hightower’s Seminary for Girls had not prepared her for this.