Page 36 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Miss Upchurch looked up expectantly from her writing desk, her brow furrowed. “Oh? Why?”

With nervous energy, Margaret washed her hands, then retrieved the new fichu from a drawer. “A man has come,” she said, barely managing an accent. “A Mr. Benton.”

Helen cast her a quick look. “Sterling Benton?”

Margaret nodded, arranging the fichu around Helen’s shoulders and tucking it into the neckline of her gold day dress.

“What does he want?”

Margaret swallowed. “Says his stepdaughter has gone missing. And he’s showing her miniature and asking if anyone has seen her.”

“And did anyone recognize... the woman in the portrait?”

Margaret repinned a lock of hair that had come loose from Helen’s twist. “Only Mr. Upchurch, I think.”

“Why does Mr. Benton ask for me?”

“I don’t know, miss. To ask if you’ve seen the girl, I suppose.”

For a moment the two women looked at one another face-to-face and eye-to-eye.

Helen asked soberly, “And have I?”

Margaret pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling. Her throat went dry. She whispered, “That’s for you to say.”

Helen cocked her head to one side. “But?”

In the silence, the mantel clock ticked.

Hoping to give her a way out, Margaret stammered, “But... your brother did tell him that, your seeing... her... was highly unlikely. You not being out much in society.”

Helen frowned. “Be that as it may, I have eyes, have I not?”

Margaret lowered her gaze. “Yes, miss.”

She had said the wrong thing. Now what would Helen say?

———

Margaret followed Helen back to the stairway, staying a few yards behind her, matching her stately pace. She was reluctant to return to the hall, her every nerve pulsing a warning— Turn around, run, flee!

Instead she put one foot in front of the other and followed her mistress. Would Helen expose her? What would happen if she did? She would lose her place to live, her dignity, her freedom. Would she be forced to leave with Sterling? She had nowhere else to go.

The people on the stairs parted like the Red Sea to allow their mistress to pass between them.

Margaret resumed her place beside Betty.

“Ah, Miss Upchurch.” Sterling Benton beamed his icy, enigmatic smile. “How good of you to join us. A pleasure to see you again, even though one would wish for happier circumstances.”

“Mr. Benton.”

He handed her the portrait. “You may recall my stepdaughter, Margaret Macy?”

Helen regarded the framed image. “I recall Miss Macy, though of course she was not your stepdaughter when last I saw her in London. She was the daughter of Mr. Stephen Macy, an exceptional gentleman and clergyman, gone from this world too soon.”

Margaret’s heart squeezed to hear the words. She had not realized Helen had more than a passing acquaintance with her father.

Mr. Benton’s mouth tightened fractionally. “How kind of you to say.”

Helen inclined her head.

“You have heard, I trust, that Margaret has gone missing?”

“I did. Mr. Saxby brought the news from town a few weeks ago. Do you fear some harm has befallen her?”

“I pray not. That is why I am doing everything in my power to find her.”

“Is it?” she asked archly.

Careful, Miss Helen... Margaret thought, worried Miss Upchurch might unintentionally tip her hand.

“Did she leave alone?” Helen asked.

“As far as I know, though she may have taken her maid with her.”

“The maid is missing too?”

He shifted his feet. “She was dismissed from our employ the day Margaret disappeared.”

“May I ask why you are so concerned? The Margaret Macy I remember was young and foolish. Impulsive even.”

Margaret winced. Ouch...

“I hope you take no offense, Mr. Benton?”

“Not at all.”

Nathaniel Upchurch cleared his throat, perhaps aware of the listening ears of many fidgeting servants. He said, “Why do we not continue this discussion in the library. In private?”

Mrs. Budgeon and Mr. Hudson exchanged relieved looks. As Mr. Hudson dismissed the staff to return to their duties, Margaret felt similar relief but also dread, wondering what would be said about her when she was not there to hear.

In the library, Nathaniel leaned against the desk, arms crossed. His brain pounded painfully with Benton’s words “ her repentant future husband... future husband...”

Helen took a seat and gestured for Benton to do the same, but he refused her offer and continued to stand.

Helen asked, “So how do you know Margaret hasn’t simply gone off on a lark? A shopping trip or a visit with friends?”

Benton pulled a face. “For nearly a month?”

“Surely she had the means,” Helen said. “A girl like that always has a good deal of money in her purse, has she not?”

Benton looked away. “Actually she did not. We were... forced to stop any allowance to her. Her expenditures had become exorbitant.”

“Ah. And what of friends or family she might have gone to?”

“I have already been to see her friends and sent a man to call on her few remaining relatives. No one has seen her.”

“So you believed they had not seen her but, I take it, question my brother’s word, as you insisted on seeing me?”

Benton fidgeted. It was the first time Nathaniel had seen the man look uncomfortable. “Perhaps you are not aware that your brother Lewis danced with Margaret and paid her several calls in the past and again earlier this season.”

His sister shot Nathaniel a look. “Did he?”

Nathaniel ignored an irrational stab of jealousy and answered coolly, “Lewis dances with any number of women, as you well know. I can assure you, Benton, your stepdaughter was not alone in receiving his attentions.”

“Do you suspect an elopement?” Helen asked, incredulous. “Lewis would never do such a thing. And why would you think Margaret would countenance the notion? I thought you said she was all but engaged to your nephew.”

Sterling stilled. “I never mentioned my nephew. Who told you that?”

Helen hesitated only a second. “I... suppose Mr. Saxby must have mentioned it with the rest of the town gossip.”

Benton studied her face. “Yes, Margaret was on the cusp of being engaged to my nephew, Marcus Benton. They did quarrel, I admit. But nothing serious. He is a very forgiving young man and still has every intention of marrying her.”

Another stab of jealousy. Nathaniel clenched a fist and endeavored to keep his expression neutral. “You still haven’t explained why you are here. Lewis has gone back to town.”

“I have already been to see Lewis. Of course he denies any knowledge of Margaret’s whereabouts. I suppose I thought she might have come here to see Lewis and stayed on even after he refused her.”

“Why would Margaret hope for a proposal of marriage from my brother if she is as attached as you say to your nephew?” Helen asked.

“Who can understand women? Perhaps she seeks to make him jealous.”

Helen frowned.

Sterling ran a hand through his thick silver hair. “I am here because I am running out of ideas of where to look for her. I am growing desperate.”

“Why ‘desperate’?”

Sterling regarded Helen warily. “Do you not think me capable of concern for my wife’s children? If only we could be assured she was all right. Receive some word of her...” He handed her the portrait once more. “Are you certain you have not seen or heard from her, Miss Upchurch?”

Helen met his apparently frank gaze a moment longer, then looked at the portrait again. “A woman would not see such a lovely face and not recognize her, Mr. Benton. A man either, not with all that glorious blond hair.” She glanced up at Nathaniel. “Would you not agree, Nate?”

Nathaniel stared dumbly at her. “I... wouldn’t know.”

Helen rose and returned the portrait. “Now, will that be all, Mr. Benton? If I were you, I should not worry. I am certain your wife will receive news of her any day now and by her own hand, assuring you of her continuing health and safety.”

Slowly shaking her head, Helen gave Sterling a feline smile. “A young woman like Margaret Macy—who can guess what she might do on a whim?”

Margaret studied herself in the small looking glass in her room.

How changed she was. It was little wonder no one had linked the Margaret Elinor Macy of the portrait to the Nora Garret staring back at her now.

The hair and darkened brows were strikingly different, of course.

And the smudged spectacles did mask her eyes to some degree.

The Miss Macy of old would never have worn so dowdy a cap or a stained maid’s apron.

But the changes went deeper than that. Her face was thinner now.

After nearly a month of constant hard work, simple meals, and rare sweets, she had lost weight.

Her cheekbones were more prominent, with new hollows beneath, and her jawline more defined.

She removed her father’s spectacles. She actually saw better with them.

She had probably needed spectacles for some time but had been too vain to admit it.

Without the lenses, her eyes still seemed different.

But how, she could not say for certain. Less noticeable dark circles now that she was sleeping somewhat better? Less world weary?

And even without the spectacles, she was beginning to see herself more clearly than before.