Page 28 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

“I’m sorry to hear it.” Guilt slithered through Margaret. “How is it working there otherwise?”

Joan shrugged. “I’ve had worse. The housekeeper’s a terror, never satisfied. But I’ve got a roof over my head. The food is decent and the others aren’t a bad lot.”

It wasn’t very convincing. “At least you’re not a maid-of-all-work,” Margaret suggested weakly.

“Yes, I avoided that fate, at least.” Joan smirked. “I suppose your place is a bed of roses?”

“Not bad, though one of the other housemaids barely tolerates me.” Margaret almost added, “She reminds me of you,” but thought the better of it.

At that moment, the stern Hayfield housekeeper stepped out of the chandler’s.

“Let’s go, Hurdle. Stop dawdling.”

Joan looked once more at Margaret. “Well, good-bye again.”

“Good-bye, Joan,” Margaret whispered over an unexpected lump in her throat.

She stood there, watching until the two women climbed in and the gig moved on. Then Margaret turned to the chandler’s window, idly wondering what the old biddy had found to buy there.

She casually surveyed the hodgepodge of wares—from cheap candlesticks to cookware to bottles of the latest patent medicines for those who did not wish to venture to a Maidstone apothecary.

She regarded the collection with some amusement and, if she were honest, condescension.

Clearly, the shop did not have the most elite of clientele.

She was about to continue on, when something behind the glass reflected a ray of sunlight, shining, winking at her.

She frowned and bent nearer, as much as her stays would allow, to view the object more closely.

Her breath caught. There beside a paltry collection of slightly dented pots and kettles lay a gilt chatelaine in a velvet box.

It could not be... Chatelaines were not uncommon, she told herself—in fact they had become quite ubiquitous.

Even fine ladies wore them, inlaid with mother of pearl and even jewels.

This one bore no jewels but a distinct engraving of a stag’s head on the body of the brooch.

Empty key chains and three tiny gilt boxes lay in a tangle beneath. Oh no...

Before she consciously chose to do so, Margaret stepped inside the shop, only distantly hearing the jingle of the bell announcing her arrival.

A diminutive man with thin hair and the bushiest side whiskers she had ever seen stepped forward to greet her, hands clasped before his narrow, vested chest.

“Good afternoon. How may I help you?”

“The chatelaine in the window...” She was tempted to ask whose it had been to verify her suspicions.

But Betty’s brother lived in the hamlet.

She did not want to embarrass Betty before her family, or for word to reach Betty that Nora had been snooping into her affairs.

“Who... that is, I don’t recall seeing it there before. ”

The man shook his head, a sparkle in his eye belying the regretful expression. “No, miss. Just come in today, it did. And a fine piece it is. How lovely it would look pinned to your frock just there.”

She did not like the man eyeing her waist. She frowned. Betty would never forgive her if she heard some Fairbourne housemaid was thinking of buying her cherished chatelaine for herself.

“I wasn’t thinking of it for myself.”

“Oh.” Disappointment etched his features, but then his brows rose. “A gift, perhaps? And a fine gift it would be, indeed.”

Margaret licked her lips. “I don’t know. I... How much are you asking?”

“For a fine piece like that? Dear it is, but worth every farthing to the lucky lady who wears it.”

A farthing she could manage, but from the gleam in his eye she guessed he was asking far more. “How much?”

“Oh...” He screwed up his face, lips protruding, as he took in her reticule, her leather gloves, her bonnet...

She knew she would not like his answer.

He named a figure. An astounding figure.

“But... it isn’t real gold, you know. It’s only brass.”

“Pinchbeck, actually.”

“Which still isn’t gold,” she insisted.

“I could let it go for a bit less, for a fine young lady like yourself.”

She huffed. “I am not a fine lady, sir. I am a housemaid.”

“You don’t say? Where are you placed? Fairbourne Hall?”

Margaret turned to leave before she said something she regretted. She reached for the door latch.

“Don’t be hasty, miss,” he called to her. “A pound, two and six. And that’s as low as I can go.”

“Did you give her a pound, two and six?”

His brows furrowed. “Who?”

“The woman who brought it in.” She swallowed and added, “Whoever she was.”

“Well, a man has to make a profit, hasn’t he?”

“From other people’s misfortunes?”

There, she had said too much. She turned and left the shop without another word, ignoring his plaintive calls to reconsider.

She stalked back down the road, back toward Fairbourne Hall.

She could not face Betty. Not now. She did not have that much money.

Nowhere near it. All she had was the cameo necklace her father had given her.

It was likely worth quite a bit more than the chatelaine, but she could never part with it.

Not the last gift her dear papa had given her.

Perhaps when all this was over and she had her inheritance, she would send Betty a new chatelaine.

Or even drive back down in a private carriage and buy back Betty’s chatelaine from the greedy little man, as much as it would gall her to do so.

In the back of her mind, a voice asked, “Will it still be there months from now?” But she resolutely ignored it.