Page 34 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Betty tied off her thread and sighed. “Time to fetch the clean sheets from the laundry.” She propped her hands on the arms of her chair and levered herself up.

Margaret rose. “Why don’t I go? You two are busy, and this gown can wait.”

“Would you? That’s kind of you, Nora.” Betty eased back into her chair.

Fiona’s eyes narrowed, no doubt questioning her motives.

The truth was, Margaret simply wanted an excuse to leave the house and walk into Weavering Street without Betty knowing Miss Upchurch had entrusted her with the errand. She dared not, however, go without informing Mrs. Budgeon.

Margaret retrieved the clean sheets from the laundry maid in the washhouse and carried them to the linen cupboard for the housekeeper to check in. Once there, she explained her errand.

“Very well, Nora.” Mrs. Budgeon surprised her by agreeing readily. “I take it I can trust you to return directly?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Margaret gestured with her hand. “There and back.”

The housekeeper nodded.

Margaret asked, “Would you mind keeping this between us?”

The housekeeper frowned. “Why should it be a secret?”

“It’s only that I don’t want Betty to feel slighted.”

Mrs. Budgeon studied her. Margaret was afraid she’d said too much, been too presumptuous—as though an upper housemaid could have anything to fear from a lowly newcomer like her.

“Very well, Nora. I take your meaning. No use in hurt feelings if they can be avoided. But should Miss Upchurch decide to make the situation of your helping her more... official... some hurt feelings will be inevitable.”

“I am not hoping or pushing for anything official... or permanent, Mrs. Budgeon. I only want to help where I am able.”

One brow quirked. “Well. We shall see.”

A few minutes later, reticule over her wrist and bonnet tied beneath her chin, Margaret let herself from the servants’ door, up the recessed stairs, and across the drive.

She relished the rare bit of freedom, of solitude, of sunshine and fresh air.

Of not having her hands in lye or polish or turpentine.

Crunching along the gravel path between gardens and lawn, she inhaled deeply of roses and freshly scythed grass and strolled happily up the road.

She didn’t see Jester and wondered where the dog was.

She had just reached the boardwalk fronting the row of Weavering Street shops when Nathaniel Upchurch stepped from the blacksmith’s stall across the road, Jester at his heel.

Her stomach gave a little lurch. Nathaniel glanced over and frowned.

He looked perplexed, perhaps even disapproving, at seeing one of his housemaids strolling through the hamlet. She ducked her head.

If they met on the street, would he greet her? She doubted it. She was only a servant, after all. He kept his distance from the servants, except for Mr. Hudson. He seemed to treat Mr. Hudson more like a friend than a steward.

Jester had no such reservations. The dog bounded across the road, tail wagging, tongue lolling.

She patted his head in greeting and kept walking.

As she approached the chandler’s, she saw, from the corner of her eye, Mr. Upchurch crossing the road in her direction.

Her pulse pounded. She turned away, feigning interest in the display window.

For a moment, in her self-conscious awareness of being watched, the contents of the display window remained a blur, but then she blinked them into focus.

She scanned the items in the window yet again, heart sinking.

The chatelaine was gone.

Dread filling her, Margaret hurried into the shop, Nathaniel Upchurch and his dog forgotten. The thin shopkeeper looked up from his counter as she approached.

“The chatelaine, sir. Is it gone?”

“No, it’s right here. Brought it up front to display it proper.”

“Oh.” She exhaled a sigh of relief. “Good.” She hesitated. “May I see what buttons you have?”

“Buttons?” He seemed disappointed but quickly recovered. “Of course.” He pulled out a long shallow drawer filled with buttons of every variety and laid it on the counter before her.

She selected two buttons of varying shades of bluish-green.

As she held them up to compare them, the image of Betty’s grieving blue eyes appeared before her.

She blinked the image away. Lying on the counter nearby, the chatelaine beckoned her attention, but Margaret resisted, spending the next quarter hour looking not only at buttons, but ribbon trim, lace, and fabric.

In the end she selected four new buttons, a few yards of ribbon, and a length of sheer lawn from which to fashion a fichu.

Again the chatelaine drew her eye. For a fleeting moment, she thought about forgoing the falderals and purchasing the chatelaine with Miss Upchurch’s money instead.

Would Helen even notice mismatched buttons?

But Margaret quickly scolded herself for even considering the idea.

She was a vicar’s daughter. A lady. A trusted servant.

The irony of considering herself both lady and servant in a single thought struck her, and she bit her lip.

She handed over one of Miss Upchurch’s guineas and then carefully slid the smaller coins the shopkeeper proffered as change into her reticule. As she did she spied her cameo necklace nestled inside. The gift from her father. Irreplaceable. Dear. She pressed her eyes closed.

What would you have me do, Papa? She silently asked. What would you have me do, almighty God? She bit the inside of her cheek, but still tears pricked her eyes.

Heart thudding, Margaret reached in and grasped the cameo necklace by its gold clasp and slowly, reverently extracted it.

The hawk-eyed shopkeeper watched every move, his gaze riveted on the gold chain, the fine if modest-sized cameo.

She laid the cameo on the counter, its chain spiraling down beside it, her stiff fingers holding firmly to its clasp.

Two mornings later, Helen Upchurch inspected the made-over walking dress in astonishment. “Why, you did more than sew on new buttons, Nora. This is lovely.”

“I’m glad you like it, miss.”

Margaret was very glad, because she had spent far too much time working on it, staying up into the wee hours the last two nights to finish the stitching. She had added a border of trefoils around its hem, contrasting cuffs, and a wide band of the same material at the waist.

Helen looked up at her. “You did all this with only the few coins I gave you?”

“And odds and ends I found in Miss Nash’s old room.”

Helen chuckled. “How strange to hear you say her name when you have never met her.”

“That’s what the others call the room.”

“I suppose they think it odd that I have not engaged another maid?”

Margaret shrugged. “A little.” She hesitated. “May I ask why you have not?”

Helen sat on the dressing room chair and faced her.

“You see, Miss Nash was my mother’s maid.

Mamma was very fond of her. I was happy to keep her on after Mamma died.

But when Miss Nash reached a certain age, she began to slip a little.

Mentally and physically. She began doing my hair in little girl ringlets and sewing a great many youthful frills and flounces to my gowns.

So I convinced her to retire. She will live out her life in a snug cottage on our estate.

She was loath to go, but I assured her she had done her duty by me and I no longer needed a maid dedicated solely to my appearance.

I had, after all, given up my social life.

My days of balls and routs and flirtations were over.

Betty could help me dress and pin my hair when needed.

If I hired a new lady’s maid, Miss Nash would take it as a slight, I fear.

She might come to think it was not that I no longer needed her, but that I no longer wanted her. ”

“And did you?”

Helen sighed. “You saw the condition of my frocks? They were not so much better while Miss Nash was still here. She even once scolded me for no longer fitting into my little-girl stays, as though she had only just noticed I had developed a bosom.”

“But Miss Helen...”

She waved away Margaret’s argument before she could voice it. “The truth is, I really don’t care. I have no desire to spend a great deal of time on my appearance, or the family’s money on fashion. It simply does not matter tome.”

Margaret was formulating a suitable reply, but Helen cut her off with uncharacteristic defensiveness. “On second thought, I shall wear my old grey gown again. I have no need to dress especially well today.”

“But—”

“That will be all, Nora. You may return to your duties.”

That evening, Margaret stood in her room, gently stretching her weary neck, shoulder, and arm muscles as she waited for Betty to come and unlace her stays. Behind her, the bedchamber door banged open.

“How dare you?”

Margaret spun toward the door, thankful her wig stayed in place.

Fiona stood there, hands on her hips, clearly in high dudgeon.

“Mrs. Budgeon sent me to the chandler’s this afternoon. How surprised I was to find Betty’s chatelaine gone.” Fiona advanced into the room, expression menacing. “And who bought it, I ask Mr. Johnston. And what does he tell me? A housemaid with spectacles and a great deal of dark hair.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “Ya know how much it means to her. How dare ya buy Betty’s chatelaine for yarself?”

“She didn’t.”

Both women turned. Betty stood in the threshold, cradling the chatelaine in both hands.

“She bought it for me.”

Margaret had slipped into Betty’s room that morning and left it on her bedside table, wrapped in tissue.

Betty’s eyes glistened with tears and fastened on Margaret. “Thank you. I shall pay you back when I can.”

Margaret shook her head. “You needn’t. It was the least I could do. I hope it makes up for the trouble I’ve caused you.”

Betty winked, a tear spilling over her round cheek. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Margaret smiled. The surprise and joy on Betty’s face eased her pain over the loss of her cameo. For the moment, at least.

Several mornings later, Fiona knocked on her door. Actually knocked. When Margaret opened the door to her, the maid stepped inside and thrust something into her hands.

“What’s this?” Margaret asked, unfolding a stiff white garment.

“Short stays what lace up the front. You can get them on and off yarself.”

Margaret pulled her gaze from material to maid. “You made this for me?”

Fiona grimaced. “It isn’t a gift, now is it? Those fancy stays of yars aren’t suitable for a working girl. And it isn’t fair to Betty, always having to be dressing ya morning and night. This—”

“I agree,” Margaret interrupted. “Is this the sort you and Betty wear?”

“It is. And if it’s good enough for the rest of us, it’s good enough for you.”

Margaret smiled. “More than good enough, Fiona. Why, I have rarely seen such fine stitching.”

Fiona winced and fidgeted. “Go on, that’s going it a bit brown. You’d think I’d given ya silk drawers or somethin’.” She gestured with both hands. “Now, let’s see how it fits.”

Over her shift, Margaret slipped her hands through each armhole of the short stays, which were rather like a man’s waistcoat, though not as long.

The stays were made of sturdy corded cotton with gussets, four or five pair of holes up the front, and even a few embroidered embellishments.

Margaret pulled the two sides together over her bosom, effectively lifting and supporting her breasts.

“Now take that string there,” Fiona said, “and go back and forth between those holes, like ya was sewing.”

Margaret did as instructed, then tied the string.

Fiona surveyed her work. “Fits ya rather well, if I do say so myself.”

“It does indeed. Thank you again.”

“Mind you, I only did it so ya might dress yarself from now on.”

Apparently, the Irishwoman would rather die than to be thought doing Nora a favor. Margaret grinned. “Still, I appreciate it. You might simply have told me to make one myself.”

Fiona tilted her head to one side. “Now, why didn’t I think of that?”

But Margaret thought she saw the faintest glimmer of humor in Fiona’s green eyes.