Page 20 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

When they finished their duties at last, Betty walked with her up to the attic and followed her all the way to her room.

There, Betty closed the door behind them and faced her.

Her reddish-brown hair peeked out from under her cap after the long day.

Her elfin blue eyes shone with concern. Margaret expected some private reprimand, but instead, Betty said, “I saw you sleeping in your stays that first morning. Are you still?”

Cheeks heated, Margaret nodded sheepishly. “I can’t reach the laces.”

Betty shook her head and gave a long-suffering sigh. “Very well. Let’s get them off you.”

She did so, and what blessed relief it was. After wearing the garment around the clock and through unaccustomed exertion, the stays had left their mark. Betty took one look at the welts and insisted she would help her morning and night from then on.

If I live that long , Margaret thought.

Betty squeezed her arm as if reading her mind. “It’ll get easier by and by. You’ll see.”

When Margaret finally climbed into her bed after ten, she lay awake, sheet pulled up to her chin but the blanket folded at the foot, unwelcome on the warm summer night.

She had opened the small window, but not a breath of breeze stirred the air.

She lowered the sheet to her waist. Even that effort made her wince.

Never had she been so physically exhausted.

Her arms ached from strenuous effort—pushing brooms, wringing mops, scrubbing floors, brushing grates, flinging sheets and making beds, reaching high to polish windows and clear cobwebs, carrying heavy buckets of water and worse.

Her light work with a needle and her watercolors, her hours on the pianoforte, had not prepared her poor spindly arms for such exertion.

She crossed her chest, massaging each forearm with the opposite hand—hands already blistered and dry from hot soapy water, blacking, and lye. Thank heaven she had not ended up as a laundry maid or she would depart Fairbourne Hall with stubs.

Margaret rolled over. Her legs were sore as well, from climbing up and down stairs carrying buckets, piles of laundered bedclothes, baskets of small clothes fresh from the laundry, and her housemaid’s box. She would have legs like a pack mule in no time.

So tired... And yet she could not keep her eyes closed.

In her mind revolved a painted carousel of objects, duties, instructions, and warnings.

Shoe brushes, grate brushes, bed brushes.

Open shutters by seven, make beds by eleven.

Never drip candle wax. Never wax mahogany.

Always scrub hands between blacking and bed making, and whatever you do, don’t speak to the family unless spoken to.

Around and around it went. Margaret groaned.

She had never imagined the work of a housemaid could be so taxing.

She still found it difficult to grasp that she was doing such work in the manor of the Upchurch family.

How strange to be under Nathaniel’s roof.

She had seen him at morning prayers, of course, but according to first Mr. Hudson, then Betty, it was unlikely she would see much of the family otherwise, except in passing.

What would Nathaniel say to finding her living in his house, eating his food, polishing his floors?

He might enjoy the latter, she mused, but resent the former.

A good thing, then, that he was unlikely to see her.

Margaret thought about Helen Upchurch, whom she had seen at morning prayers as well.

Helen was five years older than Margaret, and the two had had only a passing acquaintance.

Still, Margaret had been saddened to hear of her disappointment in love when the man she hoped to marry died a few years before.

Apparently she had now resigned herself to life as a spinster.

There was no sign of Lewis Upchurch, the only Upchurch she thought she might turn to—had she the nerve to do so.

Margaret massaged her fingers. She heard a whine, and for a moment feared she had moaned aloud, but then someone scratched at her door. She started up in bed, reaching in a flailing panic for her wig. The door creaked open.

“Just a moment!” she whispered urgently. But it was too late. Whoever it was walked into the room, feet clicking on the floorboards. Margaret’s eyes adjusted just as a damp nose nudged her elbow. In the dim room, she reached for the wolfhound’s grey head, silvery white in the faint moonlight.

“Jester...” she scolded mildly. “What are you doing up here—come to give me another bath?” She stroked the big dog’s ears. “Your master would not approve. A beast with your bloodlines, consorting with a servant?”

Saying the word aloud gave Margaret pause. “I am a servant,” she whispered to herself, incredulous. She lay there, exhausted and sore, thinking she should just pack up and leave. Sneak out and go... somewhere. Anywhere. But at the moment she was too tired to move.

The next afternoon, Nathaniel took himself to the library to write to his father and the family’s solicitor, apprising them both of the situation with the ship and with Fairbourne Hall.

He’d hoped to use part of the sugar profits to begin repair work on the Ecclesia , but knew he must first bring the languishing estate into order.

He and Hudson had completed an initial inspection of the place.

The manor roof leaked into the old schoolroom, several laborer cottages needed repair, the orchard had grown wild, one of the tenant farms sat vacant, a fence was down, and the list went on.

Nathaniel sighed. As much as he wanted to, he could not in good conscience funnel money into his ship. Not yet.

Through the open library door, he glimpsed his brother sweeping through the hall, unannounced. He supposed Lewis felt he needed no announcing in his own home, infrequently though he slept there.

Nathaniel added his signature to the letter, replaced the quill in its stand, and rose to find and greet his brother. He hoped to make peace with him. And to be firm about the family’s need to get their affairs in order—and keep spending in line with their reduced income.

Arnold appeared in the threshold. “Excuse me, sir, but your brother has just arrived. He did not wish to be announced, but I thought you would want to know.”

Nathaniel found the under butler’s ingratiating manners irritating, but forced himself to reply civilly, “Thank you. Where is he now?”

“The sitting room, I believe, with Miss Upchurch.”

Nathaniel thanked the man again, crossed the hall, and climbed the stairs. His family had long preferred the upstairs sitting room to the formal drawing room on the main level. As he neared the sitting-room door, he heard his brother’s booming voice and his sister’s calm happy tones.

“Lewis, you can’t know how pleased I am to see you.”

“So you’ve said. Twice. Did Nate tell you what he did to me in London?”

“Ask you to come home?”

“He punched me—right in the midst of the Valmores’ ball.”

“He never!”

“He did. Of course, I got my licks in too. Man has to stand up for himself, you know.”

“Oh, Lewie. Is that where that bruise came from? I was afraid you’d been breaking hearts again.”

“Only two or three a week.”

“ Lewie ...” Helen scolded fondly, “one of these days someone’s father, or brother, or sweetheart will do worse than bruise you.”

“Then perhaps I ought to swear off women. After all, you are my favorite, Helen, and always shall be.”

“Oh, go on. I can tell the difference between charm and a hum, you know.”

“And which has old Nate been giving you?”

“Neither. Though he has been a bit overbearing since he’s been home.”

Helen’s words stung. Nathaniel crossed the threshold in time to see Lewis rub his jaw.

“As I am painfully aware. Had I known things were so bad here, I would have come sooner.”

Helen raised one brow. “I did write to you.”

“Yes, but you are always so mincing with your words, so careful not to alarm me, that I had no real idea how bad the situation had become.”

“Servants up in arms, shopkeepers at the door, butler gone without notice... that was mincing words?”

Lewis tweaked her cheek. “Well, I am here now. Do say you forgive me. I cannot abide having both of my siblings vexed with me.”

Helen smiled adoringly at their handsome brother. “I could never stay vexed with you, Lewis.”

“That’s my girl. Now, that’s what I like to hear.”

Nathaniel cleared his throat and crossed the room. “Hello, Lewis. Glad you could come.”

“You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

Nathaniel saw the purple bruise on his brother’s jaw and grimaced. “Sorry.”

“That’s all right. I made good use of it, I can tell you. The ladies were full of sympathy and comfort, never doubt it.”

“I don’t.”

“And look at you!” Lewis gestured toward Nathaniel’s sling and the bandage on his temple. “Told you I got my licks in, Helen.”

Nathaniel and Helen exchanged a look. Deciding not to worry her with more discussions of thieves—pirates or bankers—he asked Lewis, “Would you mind joining me in the library? I would like you to meet our new steward and take a look at the books together.”

Helen frowned. “But Lewis has just arrived.”

“I am afraid several items simply will not wait.”

Helen looked ready to protest further, but Lewis patted her hand, then hauled his tall lanky form to his feet. “Oh, very well, I’m coming. Don’t knot your neckcloth.”