Page 37 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Housemaids were meant to be invisible, and all

cleaning had to be performed either before the family got up or

while they were absent. As one housemaid later wrote, “It was

assumed, I suppose, that the fairies had been at the rooms.”

—Trevor May, The Victorian Domestic Servant

Chapter 16

A fter breakfast the next morning, Margaret went upstairs to Miss Upchurch’s room with some trepidation.

She wondered if Helen would tell her what had been said behind closed doors yesterday.

What Sterling had said, what Helen had revealed.

.. or not revealed. Margaret hoped she would tell her, even as she feared what she might learn.

When Margaret entered, Helen was not sitting at her dressing table as usual. Instead she stood beside her desk, pointing down to a sheet of paper lying atopit.

“Sit.”

Margaret hesitated at Helen’s stern syllable. “What...?”

“I suppose you haven’t paper and ink of your own,” Helen said. “So sit and write your letter here.”

“Letter?”

Helen’s eyes flashed. “To your mother. You do have a mother, I trust? One who might be worrying and wondering where you’ve gone?”

Margaret swallowed. Realizing there was no longer any point in altering her voice with Helen, she said quietly, “I have wanted to write. But were I to post a letter from Maidstone, would not the postal markings divulge my whereabouts to—”

“To the evil stepfather?” Helen archly supplied. “I have thought of that. Hudson travels to London tomorrow to meet with a shipwright or some such. I will ask him to post the letter while he is there.”

Margaret marveled at her kindness. “Thank you.”

Helen gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “Your mother deserves to know you are alive and well.”

“You are right.” Margaret sat down at Helen’s desk, picked up the quill, dipped it in the ink, and began her letter home.

My dear Mamma, Caroline, and Gilbert,

I am sorry I have not written sooner. I hope you have not been unduly concerned about me. I am fine and in good health.

Pray do not worry about me or try to find me. I am content where I am and do not wish to return home for reasons you, Mamma, as well as Mr. Benton, understand.

I trust Mr. Marcus Benton will be taking his leave of Berkeley Square very soon. Do bid him farewell for me.

Attend well to your studies, Caroline and Gilbert, know that I miss you, and never forget how much I love you.

Sincerely,

Margaret

Finishing her letter, she blotted the ink, read it over, and then folded it. She fleetingly wondered if the Turkey Mill watermark—paper milled right there in Maidstone—might give her away. Thankfully, it was the most popular paper the country over.

Helen came over and set a lit candle on the desk—Margaret had not even noticed her leave the room for one. Wordlessly, she handed Margaret a stick of sealing wax. Margaret softened the stick over the flame and then applied a circle of wax to the edge of the letter.

Helen gave her a handled seal stamp. “This one is only decorative, not the family crest or anything identifiable.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” Margaret murmured, pressing the stamp into the wax and lifting it, checking to make certain the seal held.

She was glad Helen had thought of that. For though she had addressed the letter to her mother, she had no doubt Sterling would read it as well—and scour it for clues.

Two days later, on a rainy Sunday afternoon, Margaret found herself bored and with nothing to do.

Her work was finished. The mending caught up.

She had nothing new to read. She thought to have a chat with Betty, but when she paused outside her door, the sound of soft snoring told her the upper housemaid was enjoying a rare and well-deserved nap.

Feeling lonely, Margaret took herself belowstairs.

The stillroom was empty—no sign of sweet Hester.

She continued on. Entering the kitchen, she found the large room uncommonly quiet.

She was surprised Monsieur Fournier and the kitchen maids were not scurrying about as usual, preparing the family’s dinner.

Instead she found the chef alone at the kitchen worktable, feet propped on a crate, eyes closed, listening to...? She paused to listen and heard the faint sound of the pianoforte being played.

“Good afternoon,” she whispered.

The man’s bushy eyebrows shot up as his eyes opened. “Ah, Nora.” He straightened.

She glanced around. “I haven’t seen the kitchen this quiet since we were all given a half day for Miss Upchurch’s birthday.”

He nodded. “The family is dining with an uncle zis evening. So, for a few hours, at least, I am a man of leisure.” He lifted a carefree gesture with both hands.

She smiled. “Something tells me you wouldn’t like being a man of leisure for long. You enjoy your work too much.”

He pursed his lip and pivoted his hand in a gesture of comme ci, commeca.

She cocked her head to the side, listening to the distant music. “Does Mrs. Budgeon play every Sunday?”

“Not every, but now and again.”

“Has she no family nearby to visit? I never hear her speak of children or a husband.”

He shook his head. “Mrs. Budgeon is not married. It is customary for housekeepers to be called Mrs., whether they are married or no. You know zis, yes?”

“Oh yes. I had heard that.” She regarded him a moment, then asked, “Do you ever think about working somewhere more grand? Where your skills might be better appreciated?”

His eyes sparkled. “You hope to be rid of me?”

Margaret felt her cheeks heat. “Not at all.”

He shrugged easily. “Mr. Lewis did offer me a post in London. He entertains a great deal, I understand. Many distinguished guests.”

“Why did you not accept?”

Monsieur Fournier did not answer for several moments, and she feared she had offended him by prying.

Finally he said, “You know the housekeeper remains at one house—she does not travel for the season. She stays with her maids to keep all ready for the family’s return.”

It was an odd answer. Or was it? “I see...” Margaret murmured. She did see, she thought. Or was beginning to.

He cocked his head, listening almost dreamily as another melody melted through the kitchen door. “That is a Jadin sonata. She plays it well, does she not?”

Nathaniel had remained busier than usual during the last week.

He had been obliged to attend a series of commissioners’ meetings about local road repairs and to meet with the vicar to devise plans for relief of the parish poor.

Because of his responsibilities at home, he’d sent Hudson to London in his stead to meet with a shipwright to discuss repair estimates.

During Hudson’s absence, Nathaniel was busier yet, taking on his steward’s duties as well as his own—overseeing the carpenter and slater repairing the roof and the workmen erecting a new fence.

He had greeted Hudson’s return three days later with relief.

Hudson reported that the Ecclesia had suffered no further vandalism, and that he had published the reward Nathaniel offered for the capture of Abel Preston, the so-called Poet Pirate.

Finally, Hudson handed him the repair estimates from the shipwright.

The figures stole Nathaniel’s breath. So high.

Too high. They would have to seek another bid.

Now that Hudson had resumed his normal duties, Nathaniel spent the morning catching up on his own correspondence. In the afternoon, he went upstairs to relax with Helen in the family sitting room over a game of draughts. Helen beat him handily. As usual.

Hudson knocked and entered. Helen, Nathaniel noticed, straightened her already impressive posture. His sister always seemed to stiffen in the new steward’s presence.

“Miss Upchurch. Mr. Upchurch.”

“Hello, Hudson,” Nathaniel said. “Did you need something?”

He hesitated. “Actually, I hoped to have a word with Miss Upchurch.”

Helen folded her hands primly in her lap. “Of course, Mr. Hudson. What is it?”

“It is your Miss Nash. Your former lady’s maid, I understand.”

“I know who she is.”

“Of course. I wonder...”

Helen’s expression tightened. “Has something happened to her?” she asked quickly. “Has she taken ill?”

“No, miss, it isn’t that. She seems in good health, relatively speaking. But her cottage, on the other hand, is not.”

“Well, fix it. Is that not part of your responsibility as steward, Mr. Hudson?”

Nathaniel was surprised at his sister’s almost snappish tone.

“That’s just it, miss,” Hudson said. “She refuses to allow me or the estate carpenter inside to make repairs. I only learned about the leaking roof and moldering floors when Mrs. Sackett—”

Helen’s brows furrowed. “Mrs. Sackett?”

“The gardener’s wife. She visited the old woman and was appalled at the condition of the place. She convinced her husband to report it to me.”

“I see.” She pulled a face. “No, I don’t see, actually. What has this to do with me?”

Hudson patiently explained, “When I spoke to Miss Nash, at her door, she said she was never allowed men in her rooms at Fairbourne Hall and doesn’t mean to begin now. She said you would understand and support her decision.”

“Oh dear.”

Hudson fidgeted with the coins in his coat pocket. “You see my predicament.”

“I do.” Helen considered. “Perhaps we might go and speak with her together, Mr. Hudson? See if we might make her see reason?”

Hudson’s eyes twinkled. “I’d happily accompany you anywhere, miss. But make Miss Nash see reason...? I shall leave that to you.”

———

An hour or so later, Nathaniel walked across the lawn toward the road, tossing a stick to Jester as he went. He was on his way to meet with the Weavering Street craftsman he’d commissioned to make new cradle scythes for the upcoming harvest.