Page 27 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

“But it’s a beautiful day.”

Margaret turned on the bed to face her. “Then I shall walk the grounds later. You go on. Have a good time.”

Betty shrugged. “All right, then. I’ll come by to unlace your stays before I go to bed.” She hesitated. “If you change your mind, we’ll be in the Fox and Goose. Just a half mile or so up the road.”

“Thank you.”

Margaret waited until Betty had shut the door and the passage was quiet, then rose and stepped to her open window. She couldn’t see anything, but she could hear distant laughter, whoops, and wagon wheels as the revelers departed, each to their own ideal of relaxation and enjoyment.

Margaret sighed.

Why should it sting? Why should she care?

She hadn’t wanted to spend time with servants since she was a girl.

Why should she now? She was only lonely because she missed her own friends and family.

That was all. She wished for the hundredth time she could write to her mother or sister.

But a Maidstone postal marking would reveal her whereabouts.

Margaret wandered around the corner and down the attic corridor, silent now.

Several doors stood ajar. None bore locks.

Entering the room of a servant of the same sex was not considered taboo.

The rooms weren’t theirs, after all—everything belonged to their employers.

Betty had told Nora that as the lowest-ranking housemaid, she would likely be assigned to clean the servants’ quarters one day soon.

Apparently people in service had little privacy.

A situation Margaret had not considered when she’d adopted a wig.

Margaret paused in the threshold of Betty’s room, neat as a pin as usual, with nothing on the washstand save a hairbrush and her week’s allotment of soap. The bedside table was bare as well.

She stepped next into Fiona’s room, smaller than Betty’s, but just as neat.

Beside a worn chair pulled near the window was a basket of knitting wool and needles, and on the arm of the chair, a worn copy of the novel Pamela.

Margaret grinned. Pamela was an old story about a virtuous maid who tirelessly warded off her master’s attempts at seduction until he finally married her.

It was no wonder someone like Fiona might enjoy it.

Though she was somewhat surprised to learn Fiona could read. And did.

Her conscience smarting from snooping, Margaret left the room and wandered down the many pairs of stairs to the kitchen, hoping for something to eat. She found Monsieur Fournier seated at the worktable, quill in hand and inkpot nearby, bent over a letter.

“ Bonjour, monsieur . I thought everyone had left.”

“Nora.” He straightened. “Come to steal from my kitchen, ey?”

“Yes, please.” She grinned.

He looked at her from under his great bushy black brows. And for a moment she feared he was truly angry. Then he shook his head, one side of his thin mouth quirking. “Ah, very well, ma petite. It shall be our secret, non ?”

He rose and bustled about the kitchen. In a few moments, he placed before her a ramekin and a spoon. “Now. Today I prepare zis with East India sugar. Made without slave labor, you see. Mr. Upchurch insists, even though it costs more. So. We shall eat zis in ze name of research, oui ?”

Margaret nodded and pierced her spoon through a layer of burnt sugar, dipping into a creamy custard and, at the bottom, a layer of dark chocolate. She placed the intermingled layers in her mouth, closed her eyes, and savored the rich, bittersweet kiss upon her tongue.

“Oh, monsieur. I think I am in love.”

He grinned with satisfaction and picked up his quill once more.

She wondered how he stayed so thin. She took another bite and glanced at him. “What are you writing?”

“I write to my brother. He is a chef as well, but in France. I write to him little improvements to old family recipes. Or to ask him what herbs Mamma put in her potage aux champignons ...” He lifted an expressive hand. “But I never hear back. I hope all is well.”

“I am sure it is. But with the war barely over...”

“Yes, yes. The mail is peu fiable .”

She nodded, echoing, “Yes. Unreliable, indeed.”

His head snapped up, eyes alight with surprise. “You speak French, mademoiselle ?”

Too late she realized her error. “Oh... no. Not really. My mother has a French lady’s—lady friend, and I heard French spoken now and again. That’s all.”

He studied her, his expression measuring and perhaps even suspicious.

Then he seemed to shake it off. “In his last letter, more zan a year ago now, my brother promised to send Le Cuisiniere Impérial —the very best book of French cuisine. But... well...” He lifted both hands and shrugged. “C’est la guerre.”

Margaret licked her spoon. “Perhaps you should write your own book.”

His dark eyes gleamed. “Perhaps I shall.”

From down the passage, the tinkling of keys filtered into the kitchen and swelled into melody. The old pianoforte being played in the servants’ hall. She looked up in surprise, but monsieur seemed to take it in his stride, listening distantly as he spooned another bite into his mouth.

“Who is that?” Margaret asked, reluctant to leave her sweet dessert to investigate.

“Madame Budgeon.”

“Really? I had no idea she played.”

“She is a woman of hidden talents, Anna Budgeon.”

Anna? Margaret mused, “I wondered if she would take the afternoon off, or do the work of all the missing staff combined.”

“She could no doubt, with vigor to spare.”

He said it with admiration, and she regretted her sarcastic remark.

“And you?” she asked. “Why are you not off at some inn with the others?”

He pulled a face. “I cannot abide English food, Nora. I make no secret of zis. English ale little better. No. I told Mr. Upchurch I appreciate his offer, but I prefer to stay and prepare something extraordinaire for Miss Helen’s birthday.

Seulement moi , in a quiet kitchen. Sweet music in my ears and sweet aromas in my nose. ”

His last word drew her attention to his abundant nose hairs, and she forced herself to look away. She guessed the scullery maid would not enjoy the mountain of dishes awaiting her return but didn’t say so.

Rising, she said, “Then I shall leave you to it.”

“If you like. Though you are pleasant company.”

“Thank you. And thank you again for the delicious pudding.”

He nodded. “Not going out?”

She shook her head. “Betty was kind enough to ask, but... I think I shall do a bit of reading instead.”

His head tilted to one side. “The new maid reads books and speaks French. Très intérresant. ”

———

Leaving the kitchen, Margaret tiptoed down the passage and peeked into the servants’ hall.

Mrs. Budgeon sat, head bent, hands spread wide, playing with abandon.

And though the instrument was not in perfect tune, the housekeeper played very well.

Hidden talents, indeed . She wondered who had taught her and guessed Mrs. Budgeon did not often have opportunity to practice and enjoy her skill.

Margaret decided not to disturb her.

She returned to her room but was too restless to read.

The warm, sunny afternoon beckoned her out of doors.

She tied on her bonnet and retrieved her reticule, which still contained her worldly treasures—her few remaining coins and cameo necklace.

Then she trotted down the back stairs and out the servants’ door.

The warm late-August air embraced her. She paused to tip her face to the sunshine, the warmth on her skin as sweet as the pudding had been. The wolfhound, Jester, appeared and trotted beside her, tail wagging.

Her half boots crunched over the pebbled drive as she walked between the kitchen garden and one of the flower gardens, surrounding her with the fragrances of comfrey, lavender, and intermingled floral scents.

She followed the hedgerow to the front boundary of the estate.

Jester shadowed her as far as the road, but there she told him to stay.

She was surprised when the dog obeyed, though he watched her depart with mournful eyes.

She would walk into Weavering Street, she decided. Whether or not she would have the courage to enter the Fox and Goose remained to be seen.

The tiny hamlet of Weavering Street was a collection of cottages and shops that had sprouted up during the building of Fairbourne Hall and continued to succor the spouses of several estate workers.

Mrs. Budgeon, Margaret had heard, did the majority of the marketing in large and prosperous Maidstone beyond.

Margaret strolled up the walkway fronting the businesses—a combination butcher shop and bakery as well as a chandler’s shop which sold a bit of everything, displaying its wares in a many-paned bow window.

As she passed, she breathed in the delicious aromas of pies and cakes, pungent cheeses, and savory sausages.

She stopped short at the sight of Joan standing beside a gig, its horse tethered near the chandler’s. A jumble of emotions crowded her throat. Nostalgia at seeing a familiar face. Shame at the weakness she had displayed in her former maid’s presence. Gratitude. And fear of rejection.

“Hello, Joan,” she said tentatively.

Joan looked over and also seemed to hesitate. “Well, well. Never thought I’d see you again.” She stepped up to the walkway. “What are you doing here?”

“I have a post nearby.”

“You? What as?”

“Housemaid.”

Joan shook her head in disbelief, then glanced toward the shop door. “Someone came along and hired you after I left?”

Margaret nodded. “Eventually.” Joan didn’t appear interested in long explanations, so instead Margaret asked, “So... are you out enjoying a half day as well?”

“Half day? Hardly.” Joan snorted, again glancing toward the shop. “The Hayfields have been in mourning for nearly a year and are broke in the bargain. So no time off, no servants’ ball, no gifts at Christmas, nothing. Several left for better places because of it, which is why I was hired.”